Dead of Winter (33 page)

Fenwick drove away from Guildford slowly, feeling the pull of the case at his back. After two miles he had to stop. He stopped in a lay-by and, on impulse, pulled on his boots to go for a walk through woodland along a footpath deep with snow. His body virtually ached with yearning to turn around, confront Norman and demand to be allowed back on Operation Goldilocks. No matter how hard he tried to divert his thinking, his mind was crowded with action plans for follow-up on the estate agent lead that he had left with Bernstein.

As he walked, he checked his phone every few minutes in the hope that she had called but it remained stubbornly inert. It would take at least a day for the DNA analysis of Issie’s T-shirt to be completed, even supposing it was hers. He blessed Tate for linking the evidence to Flash Harry, at least that way he would be informed immediately the results arrived. It was growing dark. Time to acknowledge there wasn’t going to be a miracle summons for him to return to Guildford. With a sigh he returned to his car and took the road to Harlden.

When he arrived at his house he was shocked to see a foot of snow in the drive, broken only by a narrow beaten path to the
porch. He parked carefully, making sure not to block Alice’s Fiat but it looked as if it hadn’t been driven for days, judging by the snow that had accumulated around and on top of it.

It was only a short walk to the front door but by the time he reached it his fingers were numb. He fumbled with the key and let himself in. Warmth, light, the smells of baking and Bess’s strawberry bubble bath engulfed him. Ivy had been woven inexpertly along the length of the banisters; the holly he usually cut from the ever-fruitful tree in the garden already bedecked the top of picture frames and the hall mirror. He was suddenly engulfed with gratitude that they were all here, alive, waiting for him. Inexplicably he felt like crying.

‘Bess you’ve been in there an hour and Chris needs his bath. What are you doing?’

His mother’s words carried down the stairs. He could hear the television in the living room; Chris must be enjoying a delayed bedtime as his sister monopolised the bathroom. Fenwick opened the door soundlessly and gazed at his son as he lay on the rug in front of the fire, engrossed in a nature documentary about polar bears rather than his usual cartoons. He sneaked up behind him and bent down swiftly to gather him about the waist.

‘Gotcha!’

‘Daddy! Daddy! You’re home.’ Chris twisted in his grasp and threw his arms about his neck, hugging him so that he could barely breathe.’

‘You’re choking me!’

Chris didn’t care. He was overjoyed to see him.

‘Are you here for tonight?’

Fenwick managed to smile back.

‘All night and for breakfast tomorrow morning.’

‘Yay! That means you can help with the Christmas tree. It
still
isn’t decorated because Alice refuses to put the lights on until you’ve checked they won’t burn us to death in our beds.’

‘I’m sure she’s quite capable of looking at them herself.’

‘Oh no I’m not, Andrew. They need a man’s touch, and before you say it, Christopher, you are not old enough yet, my boy.’

‘I’ll look at them before dinner. Just let me get changed first.’

Chris hung on his father’s arm as he climbed the stairs. Fenwick’s mother was waiting at the top, looking older than he remembered and with a spectacular black eye.

‘I know, I look terrible but it’s all show and doesn’t hurt.’ He bent down so that she could peck his cheek in her customary greeting. ‘But you’re nay picture yourself. And
what
have you done to that hand?’

Fenwick was overcome with self-consciousness. He hadn’t looked at himself for days, other than shaving in the tiny hotel mirror. His left hand slipped behind his back out of sight.

‘Just a small accident; my way of getting out of the Christmas washing-up!’ His mother frowned and didn’t return his smile. ‘I’ll be down in a minute. Chris, go and unwind the lights would you please, carefully? Oh, hello Bess.’

His daughter was in her dressing gown, her hair damp and half its normal volume.

‘Oh, it’s you; hi.’

She walked past him and into her room, closing the door. Fenwick raised his eyebrows.

‘At least she spoke to you,’ her brother remarked, ‘you’re lucky. Most of us have to make do with a grunt.’

‘Chris.’ The warning tone in his mother’s voice brought back memories and Fenwick put a finger to his lips behind her back to encourage Chris to silence. ‘And I saw that.’

He changed into thick dark-brown chinos, a brushed-cotton heather shirt and a cream jumper that Monique, his late wife, had bought him. Dressing proved somewhat difficult but there was no way he was going to ask for help. Downstairs he noted that the table had been reset for three, the children already having been given their supper, and there was a mug of strong tea waiting for him. His eyes drifted to the wine rack.

‘I’ll open a bottle with the meal,’ his mother said, placing three wine glasses on the kitchen table, which surprised him as she rarely drank.

He could hear Chris running his bath and singing a pirate song.

‘He had a solo in the school pantomime,’ Alice said, beaming proudly.

‘Aye, a pity you couldn’t make it, Andrew,’ his mother finished for her.

Fenwick retreated to the sitting room where the Christmas tree stood naked in the bay window. The lights worked perfectly first time and he wound them around the tree with practised care, leaving a cluster at the top to illuminate the angel. He sensed a change in the air behind him and turned to see Bess sitting on the sofa opposite the fire.

‘Could you put on a Christmas CD, love, please?’

‘Which one?’

‘Your favourite, of course.’

Ever since she was a little girl, Bess had been enchanted by a Kings College choir’s arrangement of carols. With the opening verse of ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ issuing from the speakers he lifted the lid off the first box of tree decorations.

‘Want to help me?’

Bess started to place the ornaments on the coffee table, laying them carefully in order: angels together, then the soft toys, baubles, stars, some unfortunate glittery doves that should have been thrown away but were special because Monique had bought them for her when she was three years old. Then very carefully, as if it were the most precious of icons, the angel she had made with her mother the year before she became ill. One of the wings hung at an angle.

‘Oh!’ Bess dropped her head into her hands and burst into tears.

‘There, there, love, we can fix that easily. Don’t worry.’ Fenwick wrapped his arms around his daughter’s shoulders but she continued to sob disconsolately.

‘Ssh, it’s OK.’

‘But it’s not OK. Everything’s going wrong; nothing stays the same. It’s all horrible.’

Fenwick rocked her to and fro, as he used to when she was little,
at a loss to know what was making her so sad or what to do to make her pain go away.

His mother walked into the room, sat down in the armchair closest to the fire and took out her knitting.

‘This is a lovely CD,’ she said, as if her granddaughter wasn’t distraught on the sofa. ‘We should play this again on Christmas Day. Fifteen minutes to dinner, Andrew. Will you be doing any more of the tree before we eat?’

She looked at him calmly over the top of Bess’s shaking shoulders and gave her small, tight smile. Fenwick gestured to Bess with his chin as if to say
what do I do
? She mouthed, ‘Let it be.’ He didn’t know what that meant but after a moment, the crying eased and he heard Bess sigh.

‘So, Bess, bring the angel through and I’ll find the glue we need to fix her.’

Amazingly, the pragmatic suggestion was rewarded with a nod. As he had expected, the decoration was easily mended. Bess smiled as the injured wing was arranged into place.

‘I wonder whether we should repaint her smile; what do you think?’

‘No! Mummy did the smile. You’d never get it the way she did.’

‘You’re probably right. Come on, you can help me put her on the tree.’

‘And me too, Daddy!’

Chris had finished his bath in record time, evidenced by the soap suds still in his hair.

‘You can do the doves and the polar bear, Chris. Remember the bear protects the angel so you have to put him in the right place.’

During supper, which fortunately was shepherd’s pie and peas so he could eat with just a fork, the children were allowed to stay up and watch the end of a Disney film. School had finished so there was no need to worry about one night’s short sleep. Afterwards he went to finish decorating the tree. Chris was asleep on the sofa before long and Bess was not the best helper, dropping one bauble so that it shattered, but it wasn’t a special one so no one really minded.

Fenwick carried Chris upstairs and laid him in bed, kissing the top of his head before going to Bess’s bedroom to tuck her in. There was a new poster on the back of the door. The lead singer’s thrusting pelvis made him shudder.

‘Story?’ she asked in a voice so small she could have been five again.

‘It’s gone ten-thirty, love. You’re almost asleep.’

‘Story,’ she repeated and handed him a battered copy of
The Wind in the Willows.
Sight of the familiar cover made him wince. Before Toad could even get into his car Bess was fast asleep. Fenwick decided he would follow her example, explaining to Alice and his mother that he was almost asleep on his feet. As he went to switch off his mobile phone he noticed a missed call from Bob Cooper but it was too late to ring back tonight. There was no message.

He stood under the shower until his skin glowed, his injured hand resting on the wall outside the stream of water in a vain attempt to keep the dressing dry. Then he wrapped himself in his dressing gown as an easier option than trying to button his pyjamas. Outside, a rising wind buffeted the window finding a gap in the frame that puffed out the curtains. Fenwick felt exhausted but far from sleep. Details of the hunt for Issie flickered into his mind and vanished before he could focus on them, and all the time, running beneath the surface, was the sostenuto of his night at Lulu’s and, for some reason, his last conversation with Nightingale.

Fenwick didn’t want to think about it. He was ashamed of his behaviour, embarrassed every time he recalled it. He groaned in the empty room and bit his lip, attempting to block out an overwhelming sense of guilt. As a distant church clock struck eleven he stared at the darkness of the ceiling and reached out his left hand to the cold empty sheet by his side.

Cooper opened the front door and tiptoed into the darkened hall. Without turning on the light he eased off his shoes; he wasn’t about to add ruining the carpet to his other crimes. He had promised to be home by the time Fred and Marjorie arrived and he had failed.
Even worse, he hadn’t turned up for dinner. He was starving and hoped Dot had left something he could microwave.

He crept along the hall and into the kitchen, surprised as he opened the door that the light was still on. Dot was sitting at the table in her thick winter dressing gown reading.

‘Oh, er … hello, love.’ Cooper made a show of looking for his slippers, not sure what sort of greeting he was about to receive.

‘Hello, Bob, are you hungry?’

‘Starving; is there anything left, look I’m sorry it’s so late …’

‘Hush up; wash your hands and get yourself some bread and spread. It’s steak and ale pie with swede and carrot mash; and there’s a glass of red wine left from the bottle Fred brought, if you fancy one.’

Cooper couldn’t believe it and cut some bread as directed. He was about to add butter but thought that would test Dot’s patience and used the good-for-him spread instead.

The food appeared quickly and he ate while his wife watched in silence. When he had finished she poured him the last of the wine.

‘Tell me about the investigation, Bob, and why you’re so obsessed with it.’

‘I wouldn’t say I was obsessed, it’s just …’

‘Stimulating, exciting?’

‘Well yes, I suppose it is.’

‘That’s what I thought. You’ve had more spark in you the last two weeks than in the previous six months. Oh, I know you like the free time but you can’t deny sometimes you find retirement a bore.’

She was smiling as she said it and Bob decided he had to be honest. Dot listened carefully as he spoke and then made them both a cup of tea.

‘And what’s so compelling about this investigation? You can share with me now that you’re no longer in the force, can’t you?’

‘I suppose so. Well, for a start I have to help the Saxbys find their daughter alive or dead – the uncertainty is killing Jane, her mum. She’s skin and bone and she doesn’t sleep. It’s terrible to see her shrink and age. And Bill, Lord Saxby, is almost as bad. I have
to help them, Dot. I helped to identify Mariner and then I found someone at the Bull and Drum who led Andrew to the woman who knew about the place they’d been hiding away. They missed them by hours. If I’d only found that bloke earlier, Issie would be home safe and sound by now.’

Dot reached out and held his hand.

‘That’s not your fault, love. You can’t blame yourself.’

Cooper looked away, blinking.

‘But what if it had been our Maggie at that age? How would we have coped? She’s made us grandparents – so much love …’ His voice caught. ‘It’s not
right
, Dot. It’s bloody well not right that their daughter’s been snatched away like this.’

Dot stood up and stepped around the table to cuddle his head against her comfortable bosom.

‘I know, Bob, I know,’ she said, rocking him gently.

‘Here.’

She passed him a piece of kitchen roll and he blew his nose noisily.

‘Thank you,’ he sighed. ‘This isn’t doing anyone any good is it?

I’m ashamed of myself. I was never like this when I was in the force.’

Dot was perhaps too diplomatic to answer and went to fill the kettle.

‘I think we’ll have camomile tonight.’

Bob came up behind her and hugged her around the middle.

‘I love you,’ he said into her hair.

‘I know, and I love you too. Now go and have a shower. I’ll bring up the tea.’