Snow Kills (23 page)

Shaun glanced at Jen as she stood in the doorway. She looked at Shaun. How could he act as if nothing had happened?

Dylan smiled at Jen. ‘Yours are in the oven love, warming,’ Dylan said, through a mouthful of food.

‘I think Max has found a new friend there?’ he said indicating Max sat firmly at Shaun’s feet.

Jen opened her mouth as if to say something. Shaun’s eyes met hers and she closed it again.

‘Sorry love, you’ve met Shaun haven’t you?’ Dylan said.

‘Yes,’ was all she could manage before heading for the kitchen to pour herself a large glass of chilled white wine from the fridge, with a trembling hand.

Dylan shrugged his shoulders at Shaun. ‘Women?’ he mouthed with a grimace. ‘I’m late again.’ He stood and carried their trays into the kitchen.

Shaun Turner sat alone in the lounge with a coffee in his hand. He stroked Max’s head and the outside of the mug he was holding. The mugs that had been an engagement present from his parents. He looked around the comfortable home Jen had created. Her mobile in a bright flowered case was on the hearth to his right and he picked it up and tossed it about in his hands, flicking through her photographs.

Jen stood at the butler kitchen sink, deep in thought. Dylan approached her, unheard.

‘Not hungry?’ he said tentatively, placing the dirty dishes on the draining board before stopping to drop a kiss on her cheek. Jen didn’t look at him but he felt her freeze at his touch.

‘Oh, come on,’ he said wearily, standing with his back to the units. He felt irritable and tired. ‘Okay, I’m sorry I’m late, again, but it wasn’t my fault – I really couldn’t get away. Don’t be like this,’ he begged. Seeing her face soften he turned to her and slid his arms around her waist.

The plate she was washing slipped through her fingers and smashed in the basin.

‘You’ve no idea what you’ve done, have you?’ she said, looking into his tired eyes.

‘Look, I know it’s hard for you.’

‘Hard?’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Just go, go and see to your... your new matey,’ she spat, picking the pieces out of the soapy water and lying them gingerly on the worktop.

Maisy slept through the night without waking. Dylan was annoyed with Jen for sloping off to bed without as much as a by your leave, and his head was fuzzy with the amount of drink he and Shaun had managed to consume. He didn’t remember Turner leaving – funny that, how alcohol had a way of switching his mind off, relaxing his body and blotting out the things that seem all too troublesome at the time. But drink had a habit of biting back at him the next morning. ‘Ouch,’ he moaned, putting his hand to his brow as he turned on the light. He had slept in the spare room. Shaving in the semi-darkness of the en suite, he stared at the gash under his chin. Bloody hell, how had he done that? He gathered his clothes and was at work for 7 am without waking Jen. To his surprise, he saw Shaun’s car tail lights heading out of the nick’s car park. He must have been OPL last night, and probably still was this morning. Hey, he wasn’t his concern. The DI was old enough to know what he was doing.

‘Something we said?’

‘Huh?’ Lisa said, looking up from her typing as he walked in the office.

‘Did I just see Shaun’s car leaving?’

Lisa looked at him puzzled.

‘Turner, has he gone?’

‘Yes, he said something about doing what he had come up here to do,’ she said looking at him with alarm. ‘Looked as though he’d slept on a park bench all night. Must be a long drive for him though,’ she said slowly, brow furrowed.

‘Yeah, it is. Not surprised – we had a skin full. You okay?’ he asked, ‘You look peaky?’

‘Yeah, I will be,’ she said. ‘A late night with a bottle of red and another man who was sadly only after what he could get.’

‘Mmm..,’ he said. ‘I know the feeling.’

‘Huh?’ she said for the second time, frowning.

‘The bottle, not the love rat thankfully,’ he said. ‘Black coffee, paras’ he said, reaching into his desk drawer.

‘Mmm... You’re a life saver,’ she moaned as she fumbled the tablets out of the palm of his hand. He took two, she took two.

‘Guess it’s about the only way I’m going to get any work out of you today.’

She smiled wanly ‘I’ll get the coffee,’ she said, groaning. ‘I need to move myself. What’ve you done to your face?’ Don’t tell me you were in a fight again last night? The last person who did that to you ended up committing suicide.’

‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ Dylan said. ‘At least I don’t think so...’ he added, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

By half past Dylan had the full list of Council workers and drivers that the Council hired on an ad hoc basis, and a large mug of black coffee on his desk.

‘Thank you Lisa,’ he said as she headed for his door. ‘I didn’t realise there would be so many, nearly three hundred,’ he said with a long, low whistle as he flicked through the pages of printouts.

‘That’s the whole of West Yorkshire – and not all of them were working that night, obviously – but they use anyone available with flat back wagons and tractors on twelve hour shifts in extreme weather conditions too, I’m told. No doubt it’s a good earner for the farmers in the region,’ she smiled weakly.

‘I want the team out on these enquiries today,’ he said firmly.

‘There were only two Council gritters and an ad hoc covered the Manchester Road area that night, you’ll be pleased to know,’ she said.

‘A good starting-point to trace, identify and eliminate the drivers.’

Lisa nodded.

‘I reckon we can do those interviews today if we get our skates on, don’t you? We’ll get the others moving as soon as they come in.’

DC Vicky Hardacre was down to work with DC Andy Wormald, and by half past eight they were speaking to one of the council operatives at the depot when the other drove in. He halted his lorry in the space directly in front of them and turned his engine off. The cabin door opened with complaint and the rotund driver breathlessly clambered down. Both men looked similar, with rugged faces and cheery smiles. Joe Davis stepped to the side and leant heavily on the door of his mate’s lorry.

‘Yes, I was on the night shift that night with Bert. We were driving the vehicles with ploughs in front that night, weren’t we Bert?’

His friend looked puzzled.

‘They’ve come to talk to us about White Wednesday.’

Joe lifted his chin with a grimace. ‘Shall we go up for a brew?’ he said, indicating the way to the canteen.

The four drank tea from big white pint ceramic mugs as they spoke.

‘It was the worst weather I’ve seen for near on twenty years,’ said Joe.

‘The roads were totally gridlocked at one point,’ said Bert. ‘Our job was to keep the main arterial route open, at our side of the County. I even had to give Joe a tow, didn’t I mate?’ he said, loudly, pointing his finger at his friend and laughing heartily.

‘We are very concerned about the young girl who got stuck on Manchester Road. As you are probably aware, she hasn’t been seen since,’ said Vicky.

‘Her little pink car was parked that night at the side of the road nearest to Ivy Cottage,’ Andy said. ‘Did you see it?’

The pair shook their heads from side to side. ‘Can’t say it rings a bell with me, does it with you?’ Bert said.

‘Did you see anyone acting suspiciously that night along Manchester Road?’

Again the pair shook their heads.

‘The speed the snow came down, that night, meant all we could do was go backwards and forwards on the main road best we could, as far as we could, for abandoned vehicles. The windscreen wipers could hardly cope with the downpour. All the vehicles were covered in snow. I couldn’t tell you what colour or make they were. They were all white! I don’t know about you Bert but it took me all my time to make out where the road ended and the pavements started.’

‘Aye, it was so bad that they had to bring in one of blokes with his lorry onto Manchester Road. A chap called Barrowclough. I don’t know what time he started, maybe dinnertime, I believe he gritted the roads from town to over the border into Lancashire too,’ Bert said. ‘I wish I could help you love, I really do, but it were blizzard conditions,’ he added, shrugging his broad, plump shoulders.

 ‘Well you did an excellent job by all accounts,’ Vicky said looking down at her list. ‘Barrowclough, yeah, he’s on our list of people to see. We’re off to see a Mr Paul Barrowclough next,’ said Vicky.

 ‘That’s him. He’s a self employed bloke, in his fifties I’d say. We’ve used him before.’

Andy took Vicky’s lead as she stood to leave.

‘Before you go,’ Bert said. ‘I’d better confess that I’ve been in trouble with you lot before.’

Vicky and Andy raised their eyebrows.

‘A bit of a bad lad I was when I was a youngster, burglary and the like but no more.’

Andy smiled. ‘Thanks for being up front mate. It saves us a lot of time, we’ll be doing our research,’ he said.

The detectives were escorted out of the building.

‘The next statement might prove more difficult,’ said Vicky, mobile phone to her ear. ‘Mr Barrowclough isn’t answering his phone.’

‘Let’s go to the address, it’s on our way back anyway, so we’ve nothing to lose,’ said Andy, steering the CID fleet car out of the yard. They drove down the unmade track to The Railyard. The approach was unkempt, furrowed and had deep potholes. Tucked away at the bottom was a ramshackle building next to the disused railway line – hence its name, no doubt. It was like an old scrap yard. There were bits of vehicles, metal poles, frames from old chairs and picture frames. Wooden pallets were stacked ten foot high and there was also countless big rusty barrels with heaps of old tyres. The car crawled slowly forward as Andy looked for a suitable place to stop and park up but within seconds a German Shepherd dog, fur unkempt, came lunging menacingly at the vehicle with bared teeth. He slammed on the brakes. Vicky shrank back in her seat, but suddenly, just before it reached her door the dog came to an abrupt halt. It was fastened to a thick, rusty chain that in turn was attached to a wooden kennel in bad need of repair. The dog reminded her of a bear, except its legs were long and thin. It ran anxiously back and forth, barking incessantly, before coming to a standstill with its feet in its metal food-encrusted bowl and scum-filled water container.

‘Poor thing,’ she said. She could feel her heart beating frantically.

Andy chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t have said that if you had been standing out there. I just hope that chain is as secure as it appears. That animal looks mighty hungry to me.’

 The pair sat for moment looking about the yard, watching a few hens and an odd scraggy cockerel that crowed relentlessly. Suddenly Vicky let out a piercing scream, cowered in her seat and covered her eyes. Swallowing hard Andy looked aghast as a fox, ran swiftly past the front of the car and snatched the cockerel. All was suddenly quiet. The large wooden doors of big barn to the right juddered slowly open. Vicky looked through splayed fingers and gulped. Nudging Andy, she pointed to the giant of a man in a cloth cap, wearing blue, stained overalls under a worn, dirty jacket, who wiped his foul and slimy oil stained hands on a filthy rag, as he emerged.

 ‘Gerr!’ he roared at the dog as he half-heartedly kicked out with his boot. The animal’s dark eyes never left his master. Immediately its ears dropped. It lowered its belly to the floor and it slunk into a dark corner. ‘Useless swine,’ he called out.

Feeling somewhat safer now the dog was out of harm’s way, Andy opened his door and Vicky followed, digging deep in their pockets for identification. The man continued to come towards them dragging his steel toe-capped boots on the flagstones. ‘They’ll be no more fucking chicks this year until I get another,’ he mumbled to himself, brandishing the big metal ratchet he held in his hand. ‘Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any. Clear off. Don’t you know you’re on private property?’ he said.

‘Mr Barrowclough, Paul Barrowclough?’ Andy said.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘DC Andy Wormald, Harrowfield CID,’ he said, holding up his warrant card.

‘And DC Hardacre,’ Vicky said, with a glare.

‘What do you want?’ The man was so obese; his neck reminded Vicky of a pair of hotdogs. The stench came from him like a force field, pushing her backwards. She tried to raise a confident smile but struggled to find half a grimace.

‘January 7
th
you worked for Harrowfield Council, helping them grit Manchester Road in the heavy snow, that right?’

‘That’s right darling’. Not a crime is it? Hey, Tell you what, coppers are better looking now than they were in my day,’ he said, turning to Andy.

‘And wagon drivers get uglier in my experience,’ Vicky muttered under her breath.

‘A sense of humour too. I like that,’ He held his hands out. ‘Cuff me now. I’ll admit to anything sweetheart.’

‘We’re speaking to drivers who were out during the evening of White Wednesday Mr Barrowclough, to see if they can help us with our enquiries,’ Andy said.

Barrowclough cocked his head.

‘A young girl parked her car, a pink Ka, near to Ivy Cottage on Manchester Road. She hasn’t been seen since.’

‘Well, that’s the vehicle I was using that night, in there,’ Barrowclough said, nodding towards the open wooden doors. ‘Brake drums seized, probably all that bloody salt. You want to go in and have a look?’

‘Should we?’ said Andy.

‘Thought that’s what you lot did, nosey around?’

‘We just want to know if you saw the car or a young girl walking alone on Manchester Road that night, or anything else that seemed out of the ordinary that you think might help in the investigation into her disappearance?’

‘I saw a lot of bloody cars that night and a lot of bloody people walking in the snow too. Ivy Cottage? Yes, I know the place. Nelly’s brewed up for us many a time.’

‘Did you go there on White Wednesday?’ said Vicky.

‘No, too busy,’ he said.

‘Did you see this girl or the car?’ Andrew pressed on, showing him a photograph of Kayleigh.

‘No. But I did see some young lads larking around a car. They’d gone by time I headed back to the depot. Can’t say I blame them. Nobody in the right mind would stay out in weather like that.’