Dead of Winter (41 page)

‘The crime scene manager is already on site and I’m expecting him to report back soon. In fact, hang on …’ there was a rustle and the sound of her muffled voice.

‘Sorry about that, he just came in with a receipt from the garage that they’ve found in the boot of the car. It’s dated and timed for three twenty-two last Tuesday. He bought petrol, a few groceries … some cigarettes, nothing else.’

‘So the Mondeo’s been sitting there since and no one spotted it. You wait until I speak to Sussex RTC!’ He was walking out of
the store fast, oblivious of the curious looks around him.

‘Andrew, the car is parked behind the garage; no one could have seen it from the road.’

‘Exactly the sort of place they should have checked.’

‘You can’t expect them to search every parking space between Guildford and the coast.’

‘That’s precisely what I would have expected. Five days that bastard has on us and we’ve no idea where he went after he swapped cars.’

If Bernstein noted his proprietary interest she ignored it.

‘The Land Rover index is already with ANPR and we have a team reviewing highway CCTV footage from Tuesday onwards. We might be in luck if he went east, as the A27 has some of the most sophisticated cameras around the junction with the A26 to Newhaven; it’s considered a high-risk junction.’

‘I appreciate the call. If there’s anything at all I can do …’ Fenwick had walked back to his car while talking.

‘It’s Christmas Eve, Andrew. You have young kids. At least my mum’s at her sister’s.’

‘This is the first break in over a week, Deidre …’

‘And if the Conqueror knew you’re still hanging around Operation Goldilocks he’d have a fit.’

‘He still doesn’t know?’ Fenwick was struggling to open the hatchback one-handed. ‘Hang on a sec.’

He loaded the bags inside and opened the driver’s door, immediately switching on the ignition and slotting his phone into hands-free.

‘Back again; you were saying, Norman has no idea that we’re in touch? How did you keep it secret for this long?’

‘I have my methods, and anyway, he’s not someone people confide in.’

‘Does that mean I could come and join you and still be under the radar?’

‘Anything you choose to do in your own time is your affair so far as I’m concerned. Young Tate has asked me the same question.
He seems to have caught your bug and is as obsessed as you are.’

‘I am not obsessed.’

‘I’m only repeating popular opinion. Look, I’m going to text you where we are; what you do next is up to you.’

After he had rung off, Fenwick noticed he had a missed call and pressed redial.

‘Good morning, sir!’ Tate’s excitement was like a jolt of electricity. ‘Have you heard? I’ve just been speaking with Bazza and—’

‘Yes, Tate, I have. Good news, isn’t it!’

‘Absolutely; it’s why I’m on my way to you now. I thought maybe we could take a drive over Lewes way.’

‘Did you indeed, and where are you?’

‘Less than five miles north of Harlden, sir.’

‘Perfect, come straight to the town centre main car park, you’ll find me there.’

Fenwick locked the car, sent Alice a text and walked quickly to the church, where his housekeeper was waiting at the rear door looking concerned.

‘I have to go, Alice,’ he explained. ‘Take the children and mother home. Here are the keys and this is where I parked the car.’

He handed her the parking ticket with the floor and bay number written on it. Without letting her ask any questions he kissed the top of her head and left. As he waited in front of the car park Fenwick called Bazza.

‘Do you have the list of addresses connected with Issie’s disappearance? The ones you were rechecking?’

‘Yes; they’ve all been revisited and nothing’s come up; why?’

‘I want you to identify those closest to Lewes; go out in an expanding circle around the town and call me back.’

Tate pulled up and Fenwick jumped in with barely a hello.

On the A24 south of Harlden traffic was reduced to a single lane because of ice and snow. Bazza called him as traffic inched forward.

‘There are five addresses within ten miles of Lewes, sir. Two are
the homes of friends Issie has stayed with or visited. Both can be ruled out as the families are at home and there’s no way Issie could be hidden there, unless they were in cahoots with Mariner and that is very unlikely. One address belongs to the uncle of a friend who travels a lot and is away. The house was checked yesterday and is empty.’

‘It needs to be revisited anyway.’

‘Really …’ There was a hesitation and then, ‘Yes, of course. As for the other two, one is a centre for music where Issie sang in the county choir. It’s a sprawling country house, with a lot of outbuildings and it’s shut for the holidays. The local police say they did a thorough search but I guess you’ll want that redone also?’

‘Yes; and the last address?’

‘Issie’s grandmother’s; she’s away in Australia visiting her other daughter and family. Again, the place was rechecked on Friday but we’ll have someone sent again just to be sure.’

‘Good; can you email me the addresses?’

‘They’re on the way.’

As Tate made his way southwards Fenwick opened the maps application on his phone and entered the location of the garage where Mariner’s car had been found, then, one by one, the postcodes of the addresses Bazza had just sent him but it was painfully slow.

‘Have you got a map of east Sussex and Kent, Sergeant?’

‘No sir.’

‘Stop at the first garage and buy one, would you?’

Fifteen minutes later Fenwick had marked the garage and all the locations on a large-scale map of the area around Lewes. None of them looked more promising than the others. Bernstein rang to say that a POLSA team from East Sussex had arrived and were organising a full search of the area surrounding the garage in case Issie’s body had been dumped when Mariner changed car. An incident room had been set up in Lewes and the acting CC of West Sussex was extending every help to Surrey.

‘We’re doing a house-to-house in case anyone saw Mariner or the car. So far there’s no CCTV that’s useful. I have unlimited officers
available to do whatever we ask of them, but where to begin? Oh, and the weather forecast has changed; we’re due snow. Apparently the Met Office underestimated the speed the bad weather would hit us. That’s going to be a big help.’

‘As you have the resources, you might as well follow up on the addresses Bazza has.’

‘That’s already in hand and I’ve also got the team back in Guildford double-checking whether Mariner or his wife has any connection with this area. Where are you?’

‘About to join what looks like a horrendous traffic jam on the A272. No idea when we’ll be with you but I’ll keep you posted.’

Tate turned on the blues and twos as they forced their way onto the main road. Their speed edged up to thirty, and then forty as a path cleared. Ahead of them clouds started to appear on the eastern horizon.

The patient was tucked up in bed with a towel and bucket handy just in case he was sick, though he had eaten nothing since the previous day’s breakfast.

‘Issie!’

‘Yes, Steve, I’m here.’ Issie walked into the bedroom carrying clean bedding. ‘If you can manage to get to the bathroom I’ll change the bed. We can’t have you sleeping in it messed up like that.’

Steve flushed, whether from embarrassment or anger she couldn’t tell but that no longer mattered as he was incapable of violence. Still, she reacted as if cowed, head down, shoulders shrugged in protectively; she absolutely could not afford to be tied up, not now.

They were without electricity as the generator had just run out of diesel but so far the house was warm enough thanks to the Aga and open fire. Steve hobbled to the main bathroom where Issie had already run him a bath, topping up the tepid water in the tank with kettlefuls from the kitchen. On the chair were clean pyjamas and a new dressing gown her grandfather had never got to wear.

By the time Steve was back in the bedroom the bed was made and there were two hot-water bottles warming the sheets. The more
warm and comfortable he was the less likely he would be to get up and prowl. Steve hugged a bottle to his stomach and groaned.

‘Still bad?’

‘Cramps, all the time.’

‘Do you want to take some painkillers? Maybe a hot water and whisky would help?’

‘I’ll try anything. Just want it to stop.’

Issie brought up a hot toddy and two junior aspirins; he wouldn’t know they weren’t full strength and she was worried about giving him anything stronger. In the drink she had mixed another sleeping tablet. As he swallowed she forced herself not to stare.

‘Let’s hope that helps. Come to bed, Issie. We’ll keep warmer the two of us.’

‘I just need to have a wash and I’ll be right back.’

Outside the bedroom Issie changed into the layers of clothing she had prepared for her journey: a silk camisole; long-sleeved woollen vest of her grandfather’s that was too big but exactly what she needed. Over that went a high-collared shirt. A cashmere cardigan and fleece were hidden downstairs. She stepped into the long johns she had found; then she pulled up long hiking socks. Her only real problem was trousers. None of her grandmother’s were the right material and the best she could find were some thick jeans. If it started to snow, not that the forecast had predicted any, her legs would soon become wet and she would run the risk of hypothermia.

She looked in on Steve. He was lying on his back snoring loudly. If he was sick like that he would choke on his own vomit. Despite everything he had done to her Issie didn’t want to be responsible for his death. She knelt on the bed and rolled him into the recovery position, making sure his head was at the right angle to keep his airway open. It was time to go but she hesitated. He was sleeping deeply; his face relaxed into a half smile. Disgusted at herself, she left the room without looking back.

Outside the house Issie made slower progress than she had expected. Her muscles were sore from the beating and stiff from a
fortnight of inactivity. With gritted teeth she pushed herself to find the stride and a rhythm that minimised discomfort. It wouldn’t be for long, she told herself. According to Steve’s watch it was half past twelve when she left, later than she had hoped but she had been forced to wait until she persuaded him to drink the toddy. She wasn’t concerned. The sun was still shining despite a distant smudge of cloud; there was plenty of daylight ahead and she had known the footpath since childhood. There was a slightly shorter route north, along a narrow track that would have taken her to Alciston but she would have to navigate a steep slope down Bostal Hill, which was tricky in anything but good conditions. Looking at the snow piled high along the South Downs Way she made an easy decision to stick to the path she knew.

As she walked Issie kept an eye on the purple-black clouds gathering along the north-east horizon. This wasn’t the weather they had promised on the radio before the power cut and Issie was uncomfortable. If it hadn’t been for the blizzard warning for the following day she would have considered going back and keeping Steve drugged for another twenty-four hours, but knowing conditions the next day would only worsen she pressed on.

She forced herself up the steep slope of Bostal Hill. This would be the worst part of the journey so better to push on through it. Her legs continued to ache and her shoulders were soon sore from the backpack but she ignored the discomfort and concentrated instead on keeping the path markers in sight, her only means of finding and sticking to the South Downs Way. The snow was deep, sometimes over wellington boot height and she started to worry that her jeans were getting wet. No matter how carefully she stepped, the fabric about her knees grew damp.

The change of weather announced its arrival gently with a whispering rustle, a teasing patter of sleet against brittle branches. Issie was too intent on keeping her footing as she walked downhill towards New Pond to notice. The sun was still free of clouds, making her squint against the blinding white snow and casting disorientating elongated shadows wherever a tree or fence post
poked above its pristine purity. She paused and looked up. Heavy clouds were massing to blot out the sun. They hadn’t yet arrived above her so that she had the sense of being suspended between two worlds of chill light and dark cold.

Issie returned her eyes to the track, barely a subtle depression in the snow. She couldn’t afford to become distracted by the eerie beauty of the Downs around her. The first icy gust of wind on her cheek went unnoticed, though she pulled up the collar of the Barbour unconsciously. It was the persistent rattle that made her stop and look around; there it was again, an irritated rustle that demanded attention. Her eyes tracked the sound to its source: to the north side of the track a solitary, stunted beech was shaking the remnants of its wizened foliage at her. The shock of burnt chocolate-brown in the otherwise monochrome landscape made Issie smile with pleasure, her artist’s inspiration engaged despite her vulnerability.

‘Silly old tree.’ She reached over and patted its bark as she passed.

Twenty yards later she came across a footpath sign, one finger pointing back over her shoulder towards Bostal Hill, the other down the path she was following, directing her to Alfriston in one and a quarter miles.

‘I can manage that.’ She spoke out loud and with conviction; it made her feel better.

All the precautions she had taken: the rucksack on her back packed with first-aid kit, change of clothes, food, warm drink, water, wax-dipped matches, candle tin, kindling, pre-cut lengths of string – even bin liners against the wet – all of it banging insistently between her shoulder blades as she marched onwards would be unnecessary, she told herself. She was a drama queen to prepare like that when her goal was so close.

She was fifteen minutes into her journey already and would reach safety soon, well before the weather turned really bad. It was freezing cold, to be sure, and her nose and cheeks were stinging from the wind but it was nothing to worry about dressed as she
was. Issie took a bite of chocolate and adjusted the shoulder straps to settle the pack more comfortably. Behind her the beech leaves’ death rattle was whipped away on the stiffening breeze and she retreated into her own world.

Her toes were warm inside the wellingtons but her legs were starting to be a problem. Her jeans were soaked up to the bottom of her jacket. Despite thermal long johns her knee joints were achingly cold and the wet wool scratched the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Issie stepped carefully through a particularly deep drift as the path descended, keeping her legs slightly apart to reduce the chafing that was making her sore. Ahead of her the tops of fence posts were still visible above the snowdrifts, guiding her way. The sight should have been comforting but something about it disturbed her.

As she tramped forwards she puzzled. What was worrying her; what was wrong? When she reached the next post she paused and touched it to make sure it was really there. Any excuse to rest her legs. They were tiring quickly as she had to step so high through the deep snow.

‘No shadows,’ she said at last and looked up.

The sun had finally been swallowed up and with it the landscape lost perspective, lacking both depth and sense of distance. The clouds seemed to brush the top of the tumuli on Bostal Hill. Issie took a deep breath and set off again. Never mind the wet jeans and discomfort, she would be warm and dry soon. Alfriston wasn’t far and if she remembered correctly there was a hotel to the west before the village, close to the South Downs Way. Even if that was shut, there were other houses and the church, St Andrew’s, clustered around the green that her grandfather had always called the Tye.

Thinking of him and the church brought back memories of the midnight service with her parents and grandparents before her father had died. It made her smile even as the snow started. She stopped to catch her breath and looked behind her. The new fall was beginning to cover her tracks. If by some bad luck Steve had
woken up and decided to venture out in search of her, very soon there would be no trace left for him to follow.

For a while after the snow started Issie managed to maintain the same pace but then the fall became so dense as to almost suffocate her and she found it hard to breathe. It was driving straight into her but she had no option other than to keep going. When she tried walking backwards to protect her face from the skin-flaying wind she almost fell over and had to turn back, reluctantly, into the storm, scarf pulled up high over her mouth and nose.

The snow was settling fast, adding another layer on top of the existing covering. Black clouds darkened the day to premature twilight, making it hard for her to see and keep to the path. Should she turn back? She must be near the midpoint of her journey and to return would take almost as long as to press on. Alfriston had to be less than a mile away now. All she needed to do was keep on the track between the fence posts and she would be fine. There was no need to panic. Yet she felt a cold worm of apprehension twist in her stomach. This weather could kill even so close to safety.

‘Stupid.’ The sound of her own voice gave her courage and she straightened her shoulders ready to confront the next blast in her face. She recalled Pappy’s advice culled from his service days:
‘Do you know what the most important survival tool is?’
he had once asked her. She hadn’t been able to guess and he had tapped his head in answer:
‘This, your brain; mind, willpower, call it what you will. To survive you must first
decide to
survive.’
She was definitely going to survive!

‘Good King Wenceslaus last looked out / On the feast of Stephen / When the snow lay round about / Deep and crisp and even …’
Issie sang in a true contralto, marching in time to the verse.
‘In his master’s steps he trod / Where the snow lay
… Ow!’

Without warning she found herself twisted uncomfortably on the ground. She raised herself up on an elbow, shaking her head to clear it.

‘What the …?’ Her left foot was tangled in something that had been concealed beneath the snow, strong enough to snare her.
She sat up, feeling icy water seep through the seat of her jeans and brushed the snow clear of her trapped foot. Twisted around it was a long strand of barbed wire angry as a bramble. The thickness of her boot had protected her from its barbs but she couldn’t free her foot no matter how hard she pulled.

Reluctantly she removed her right glove and started to tease the wire away from the rubber ankle. It took several minutes and her fingers had gone numb but at last she managed to lift her foot away and stand up. She tested her ankle carefully but nothing seemed to be damaged. At least she hadn’t hurt herself, but from the waist down she was soaked through and quickly losing all sense of feeling.

The change of clothes she had with her didn’t seem so stupid after all. Issie looked around for somewhere to shelter but the wire fences offered no protection. At least she had had the presence of mind to put the bin liners on top to keep everything else dry. She pulled one of them out and placed it on the ground in the depression made by her fall. The wind whipped it away before she could catch it so she had to use a second one, planting her foot on top quickly and then the heavy rucksack. Dry jeans, long johns, knickers and socks were together in a plastic bag. She didn’t take them out in case they too blew away but sorted them into order within the pack.

She managed to pull off her boots without falling over. The jeans and socks came next. Her legs were an alarming colour, a sort of blotched scarlet that contrasted with the bleached white of her toes. Despite the cold, Issie knew she had to dry herself and used a spare shirt to do so. Her teeth were chattering alarmingly by the time she pulled on layers of fresh clothes as fast as her fumbling fingers would allow. She grew desperate as she tried to cover up quickly before the snow soaked her new clothing. The soft dry wool of the long johns was comforting; the jeans when she dragged them on blissfully warm. She managed to slide her feet into her boots while keeping the new socks dry and she immediately felt better.

Issie was bundling the wet clothes into the bin liner but then thought; why bother? They were useless now and would weigh her down.
‘Never discard clothing.’

‘But Pappy, they’re heavy.’

Still, she did as his silent urging insisted and packed them away, making sure to keep the bin liners on top. As she was about to lace up the pack she had an idea; why not use two bin liners like puttees about her knees? It took her several minutes but Issie managed to wrap the liners into eighteen-inch protective barriers from mid wellington boot up to mid thigh, securing them with some of the lengths of string from her kit.

She slung the pack on her back and squared her shoulders ready to stride out … but which way? In the confusion of the fall and
redressing
she had lost her direction of travel … and her footprints had vanished. Her schoolgirl compass was in her pocket and she pulled it out to find north. The direction finder pointed behind her but that couldn’t be right. She changed position and tried again. The pointer didn’t move and she realised it was stuck fast, useless. Issie threw it away in disgust.