Snow Storm Read online

  137

  Snow Storm

  Robert M G Parker

  Copyright © Robert M G Parker 2014

  Acknowledgements

  Firstly I’d like to thank my wife Caroline, who not only puts up with me on a daily basis but managed to see me through the writing of this novel. Why she does all this, I’ll never know, but I’m quietly grateful.

  I’d like to thank my mum for at different times nagging, cajoling and persuading me into getting on with it. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’d also like to thank Monica for the same, and for editing and proofreading this, without which, it’s doubtful anyone would be able to make sense of it.

  Thank you to my friends and family and to my esteemed colleagues, the fraud crew, without whose ridicule and bad chat on a daily basis I might get ideas above my station.

  It feels good to cross the finish line.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Prologue

  “You must have known this couldn’t go on forever.”

  It was true. Deep down the feeling had been there all along; the knowing that all good runs must come to an end. But not like this. Even in his worst imaginings he hadn’t pictured this, hadn’t accepted the possibility if he was honest, not even now.

  “Did you think I would just let this go on? Let you carry on with your games, let you desecrate what was mine?”

  He had.

  “It’s all about one of the fundamental laws of the universe you see. Every action, no matter how small, has an equal and opposite reaction. That’s how it works, and yet you somehow thought you could, what, circumvent physics, avoid paying the piper? Thought you could just keep taking without giving back? It doesn’t work like that.” The figure glowed in the firelight, a demonic presence, taunting him, the grin turning up at one corner of the mouth more than the other. Twisted. Sneering. The features flickered as the flames rose. If only it was just an apparition, a hallucination, some kind of nightmare he could wake from.

  He saw the glint before he realised what it was, considered it with only child like curiosity before it dawned on him with its full consequences.

  “You are the devil,” he said, without realising.

  His captor laughed manically, throwing his head back. “No, not quite,” he said as he approached, the sneer returning to his face, “but you can say hello to him for me.”

  The pain did not register at first. Not until he knew what was happening. And then, it was all there was.

  1

  They were having the discussion they normally did on a Monday morning, despite this being Friday; the one about avoiding the bumps on the road. It didn’t help that his head hurt more whenever she drove over one of the many potholes Edinburgh City Council had seen fit to nurture while ploughing their resources into their bottomless money pit of a tram system. It was the discussion that revolved around the consequences of hitting every drain cover and blemish on the road, the damage to the cars tracking, the resulting tyre wear and the unshakeable feeling he had regarding the likelihood the bottom was about to fall out of the world while they simultaneously expired in a ball of fire.

  He was a defeatist. He’d long since given in to that.

  They bounced and chicaned their way down the hill and onto Carrington Road, pulling in between the Lothian and Borders Police Headquarters, the Hogwarts-esque Fettes College and the determinedly modern Broughton High School.

  “Ah well, time for my morning exercise” he groaned, as he prepared to exit for his hike across the park to work. He kissed her on the cheek to avoid the lip balms stickiness and she laughed and pretended to fan away last night’s alcohol fumes.

  He opened the door and caught site of a plastic sports bag hanging by its strings from a lamp post.

  “Do you think there’s a head in there?” he asked her.

  “You’re a sick man” she replied and shook her head again as he walked away.

  By Monday morning it was still there. By Tuesday his curiosity got the better of him and he had to have a look.

  He would spend years wishing he hadn’t.

  ********************

  Burke got the call just after eight, after a fitful night’s sleep on account of Rachel’s tossing and turning with the bump. He was in the middle of a delicate operation, trying to extricate some toast from the toaster using a butter knife. If the toaster wiped him out she would simply view it as an acceptable loss in the larger picture, which at this stage was dominated by a craving she had for sardines on toast. Pregnancy had exposed her ruthless streak.

  At first he thought the dispatcher was joking. Then he remembered the time of year. Of course, the festive season could always be relied upon to bring out a nutter with a chip on their shoulder or just a desperate need for attention.

  He made Rachel’s breakfast then headed across town to the scene of crime.

  Uniform had already cordoned off Carrington Road and both schools staff were in the process of sending any early arriving kids home. A tent had been set up around the lamp post where a nosey passer-by had discovered the contents of the bag and subsequently dropped them unceremoniously on the pavement making a bit of a mess. For this reason he’d opted to wear his second favourite boots.

  The SOC team, along with some lucky officers had been drafted in and were combing the area for evidence.

  Burke showed his warrant card to the uniformed foetus standing by the tent and entered, rousing Dr Brown from his intense scowling at the battered looking somewhat smelly decapitated head of a middle aged man which had come to a halt face down on the pavement. Various fluids seemed to ooze from what looked a lot like an Edinburgh Marathon finishers’ goodie bag.

  “Jim,” was all the coroner said, before resuming his contemplative pose, like a craggy faced Scottish version of Rodin’s Thinker with less hair, more gut and a redness of face only a love of good wine could provide.

  “Any idea as to the cause of death?” Burke asked.

  “Well the milder weather of the last couple of days and the resulting thaw meant that he was in a bag of his own decomposing bodily fluids so drowning is a possibility,” came the reply. “Though in all seriousness it looks like he was probably dead before they hacked him up. We’ll know more once I’ve had a closer look back on the slab.”

  “Look familiar in any way? Anything you’ve seen like this before?”

  “Nope. Clearly a statement if ever I saw one though.”

  “Any ideas as to the time of death?” Burke asked feeling like it was a long shot.

  “Well the change in weather allows for more of a margin of error but a head in this condition, temperature below zero, four days,” Brown replied without batting an eyelid.

  “How do you know that?” Burke scoffed.

  “There are body parts in body farms in the most unlikely places just decomposi
ng away and all so I can tell you it’s been four days. You don’t automatically end up in a lecture theatre when you donate yourself these days Jim.”

  “Noted,” Burke replied, suppressing the urge the farmer’s son in him had to ask if there were diversification grants available for that sort of thing.

  He made his way to the station in Gayfield Square, succumbing to the urge to pick up a triple espresso and a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel. After destroying that, he fired up the e-cigarette Rachel had given him -or rather forced on him- inhaling the clinically clean vapours and the accompanying sense of hollow disappointment at the lack of burning in the back of his throat. Then he polished off a crème egg. Nothing was ever enough anymore.

  This development was frustrating. He could feel a migraine starting to take shape at the corner of his left eye.

  ********************

  The phone rang, disturbing Petr as he made coffee. He wasn’t one of life’s multi-taskers and resented the interruption to his routine. The boss must still be in the shower, unable to answer, no surprise given last night’s session and the fact he’d taken enough hard liquor to put a rocket in orbit.

  The caller had an accent corrupted by time spent in the west and announced himself vaguely as Oleg. He didn’t try to keep abreast of the boss’s contacts, didn’t really care as long as the money kept rolling in and if he thought about it, didn’t really want to know.

  The boss looked like a man with heavy cares these days. Just went to show, money wasn’t everything.

  He climbed the marble staircase and made his way through the gold encrusted master suite, taking care to knock on the en-suites door and wait for the customary “yes!” that indicated his employer wasn’t in too compromising a state, and entered.

  The boss stood in the middle of the tiled floor engulfed in steam, a normal size bath towel barely concealing vast rolls of flab. Petr had long suspected he would one day meet his end at the point of a harpoon.

  The hooded bloodshot eyes glowered questioningly and Petr handed over the phone.

  “Oleg” was all he said as the boss nodded in knowing appreciation.

  As he exited he heard some mumblings followed by an almighty high-pitched crash. He turned to see the cause was the crystal bowl that normally housed the bath oils making sudden contact with the mirror and the glass sink below.

  The boss looked at him and shrugged breathing heavily. “Clear this up if you would. Oh and pack a bag. I’m leaving for Edinburgh at noon.”

  Petr sighed. It seemed nobody cared for his routine this morning.

  ********************

  Burke knocked on the DCI’s door and upon hearing the entry granted grunt made his way inside. DCI Gray sat at his institutional MDF desk surrounded by institutional MDF shelves containing his various institutional trinkets; the pictures of the kids, a golfing trophy, a suspiciously masonic looking plaque commending him for something or other and a photo of him with Teenie and Tynie the Hearts mascot tigers.

  Gray focussed on the wide screen in front of him and motioned for Burke to take a seat, his eyes never leaving the display as he worked the mouse back and forth irritably. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this is a right royal pain in the arse Jim,” he said, finally giving him a cursory look in the eye before flitting his gaze back to the screen.

  “No sir. Potential nightmare,” was all Burke could come up with.

  “There’s nothing on any of the press sites so far but there have been phone calls and not just from the press.”

  “I see.”

  “Ah but you don’t. Obviously there is the fact this happened right under our noses, right outside headquarters and right next to two schools. That’s bad enough once it hits the press but the real kicker is the fact the Divisional Commander’s kids just happen to be Fettes students. Fan-fucking-tastic. So he’s undoubtedly getting grief from that lawyer missus of his who just happens to be on the board of governors and of course the kicks are getting fed back down the line.” He stopped, took off his thick framed specs and began rubbing his temples. “December: it’s bad enough I have to try and get my hands on this tablet my son wants that nobody seems to have. Have we got any leads?”

  “None so far sir.”

  “And the guy who found the head?”

  “Looks like just a passer-by who got nosey. He was too freaked out to get a proper statement according to the guys on the ground at the time. I’ll try to speak to him later on today.”

  “Ok.” Gray nodded to himself. “Going forward I want you to keep me in the loop as and when developments occur. I really feel like I’m fire-fighting here with the media and everything else. It’s important we’re all singing from the same hymn sheet. Right?”

  “Right,” Burke confirmed, wondering at the same time precisely what it was he’d agreed to.

  He made his way back to his desk and found he had two missed calls, one from Rachel asking him to pick up some milk on the way home as she had acquired a craving for macaroni and cheese and another from Dr Brown asking him to call back.

  He called Brown back first, telling himself not to hope too much. It rang out as it always seemed to when he thought about it too much so he picked up a copy of The Metro and had a quick look at the stories of the day. They predicted a big freeze which under further scrutiny wasn’t exactly all the story it was billed as, with the met office predicting temperatures may well drop as low as minus five. Strange that such a thing could happen in winter. Slow news day. Tomorrow wouldn’t be. He booted up his PC and had a look at the BBC and Sky News web sites. He went on the theory that somewhere in between these two lay the truth. Again, nothing eventful was happening in the world at large. He was just about to start a Sudoku puzzle when the phone rang. It wasn’t a number he recognised but it was an Edinburgh land line.

  “Ah Jim.” It was Brown, instantaneously recognisable for being the only person Burke knew who seemed able to snore and talk at the same time.

  “Doc, what’s the latest?” he asked holding his breath.

  “Well it would appear it was actually a case of off with his head.”

  “That doesn’t sound fun.”

  “No, not my idea of a good time either but it doesn’t look like he’d have known much about it. There doesn’t seem to have been too much movement involved. Whoever did the chopping had a good go at it with a non-struggling target which it looks like they would have needed under the circumstances.”

  “How so?”

  “Well rather than cutting at the neck with a sharp blade hostage execution video style or using a chainsaw, they appear to have used something a bit heavier. Judging by the number of cuts and the thickness of the blade I’d say a machete rather than a cleaver, something longer, but rounder at the end so he couldn’t get a square cut and had to hack at the loose skin on the exit side of the neck several times.”

  “Nice.”

  “Indeed. Other than that I’d say between 45 and 50, probably obese judging by the subcutaneous fat levels on the jowls alone, heavy smoker and drinker going on the stained teeth, and the fatty build-up in the carotid arteries along with the broken veins around the face. He was also fond of cocaine it seems. His nose and in particular septum show signs of the kind of degeneration associated with that particular hobby.

  “We’re looking at the missing persons register but obviously there are a few missing middle aged men, although none in the past three weeks. Doesn’t exactly sound like he was living rough or on the run though.”

  “No. If anything I would say he was living a bit too well.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, there is one other point. Pink tooth.”

  “Pink tooth?”

  “Yes. It has been known to turn up in autopsies or in this case partial autopsies before, notably following the Boxing Day Tsunami in 2004. However in this case only one tooth was affected.”

  “Interesting. Meaning?”

  “It can happen as a result of an in i
njection of Arsenic Trioxide into the root pulp of a tooth prior to root canal surgery.”

  Burke realised he was rubbing his jaw at this point, the memory of a recent root canal treatment still a bit too raw. “I suppose we’ll be cross referencing dental records anyway.”

  “Ah yes, but in this case, should you draw a blank, they don’t use this procedure anymore. It had a tendency to cause Periodontal Tissue Necrosis and it was linked to Osteomyelitis.”

  “I see.” Burke said trying to second guess the good doctor and failing miserably.

  “My point is it was only ever in common use in the former Soviet Bloc.”

  Burke was now very awake and it wasn’t the espresso.

  2

  As he woke he realised he couldn’t move. He struggled against it but something restrained him at the feet and the wrists, even, could it be, the neck?

  He could remember the pub, the drinks. Most of them he’d chucked aside or hidden when no one was looking. So why was his head so fuzzy? He’d met… but that couldn’t be right, could it?

  There was a lot of background noise, loud metallic banging and heavy machinery. He must be on an industrial estate. Had somebody spiked him? Was that it?

  “Ah, back in the land of the living,” boomed a voice behind him, causing his heart to pound. “I’m impressed. You do seem to have a high tolerance for your tranquilisers. But then I seem to remember you always did.”

  It was. How could this be possible? And why?

  “What is this?” His words were slurred - the effects of whatever chemical was doping his system. “Why?”

  “For the greater good I’m afraid.”

  “But…”

  “You got in the way, that’s all. Don’t think of it as personal. This is merely a business transaction and you unfortunately are collateral damage. You of all people should understand that.”