Cold reckoning, p.1
Cold Reckoning, page 1
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For Mrs High, who was my Mrs Peters
first frost
Edith Darke pushes her hands deeper into her fleece against the cold, exhales a cloud of water vapour, and crunches her way down the snow-covered bank, stumbling onto the narrow path round the lake. A startled moorhen flaps its way across the ice and disappears into a dark thicket.
Edith smiles.
She’s the first human to tread here this morning – not surprising given the hour – and her size-five Caterpillars leave patterned tracks behind her in the almost perfect snow. Almost perfect because, though she may be the first human being to pass this way, she’s not the first creature. The sharp, pronged prints of birds crisscross the path ahead of her, lit by the glacial light of an almost full moon. And something larger. A fox, maybe? Or a small badger. Something with fat padded paws that have left deep imprints in the snow. She slips her phone from her pocket and snaps a quick pic so she can look it up later and add it to her diary. Maybe she’ll ask Mrs Peters if she recognises it.
Her hands crackle in the biting cold, and the three metal studs in her right ear are aching. She’s beginning to regret shaving her head quite so thoroughly yesterday. She prefers to keep it as short as possible, less hassle that way. Less chance Alice Clitherow can attach chewing gum to her in Economics and, of course, cheaper than going to a hairdresser. But maybe she should have settled for the number three guard this time, at least until the weather gets warmer. She tucks her hands back into her pockets. She could do with some gloves, and a hat maybe. But there’s no way they can afford that at the moment. She moves on along the path.
When she walks, it’s for the sake of walking, and she varies her route with her mood. She sets out early, sometimes 4 or 5am, and enjoys the way the landscape wakens with the dawn. Sometimes she heads west towards Bradfield. Or, if she feels like going the full distance, she’ll follow the River Don as it winds its way north and west through Deepcar and towards Penistone. The river’s a constant companion, stretching away towards its source deep in the Pennines. She never has the time to go all that far but one day she will, she promises herself. There’s something about moving backward along the flow of a river that makes her feel as though she’s travelling through time, walking into history, greeting the water as it barrels towards her on its endless journey.
This morning though, she settles for a quick circuit of Damflask Reservoir. She’s been here a lot lately but given the snow will slow her down, it makes sense to pick a shorter route than some of the others she could choose. She can’t afford to be late to school. Not again. And there’s the dark to consider. The reservoir is better lit than the river, the silvery moonlight reflecting off the vast expanse of water and the cold blue blanket of snow.
This is her time. The small part of the day she carves out for herself, away from responsibility. For the rest of the day, people will want things from her. Her mother, her teachers, even Alice Clitherow. She has many roles to play and she knows them all well. But this short window of opportunity at the start of each day is just for her, a couple of hours before her mother wakes and calls out in pain – real or imagined, Edith isn’t sure anymore.
Now she’s off the main road though, she’s beginning to rethink her choice. It’s becoming a chore just to lift each foot and put it down again in front of her. She doesn’t think she’ll get much farther before she’s forced to turn back.
The gunshot, when it comes, cracks loudly across the lake, startling a number of birds into flight. Edith stops still, the hair raised on the back of her neck and arms, her heart beating in her chest as she listens to the echo fade. Birdsong slowly returns to fill the empty space left behind. She knows what a gunshot sounds like. She has grown up around farms. It has a distinctive, deep crack, not at all like a car backfiring, like they’re always saying on those old cop shows her mother watches all the time. Edith’s not even sure what a car backfiring is. No, it was a gunshot, she’s positive. She glances round, unsure which direction the sound came from. It could be a hunter, she supposes, but people don’t hunt at the reservoir. Do they? Still, if it is a hunter, she doesn’t want to be mistaken for a deer. She quickens her pace a little and decides to head back to the main road above, rather than finish circumnavigating the lake as was her original idea.
The path opens out before reaching the main road, and there’s an abandoned boatshed here, with a concrete slip leading down into the half-frozen water. In the summer, it’s busy with canoeists and sailors, and all those people who seem to love messing around on the water. But this morning the area’s empty. This particular place is the reason she comes here so often. It’s where she feels closest to her father. She knows it’s silly. After all, she’s never met the man, doesn’t know anything about him. Except that he was here once. A long time ago. And that tiny piece of information gives this place a special hold on her heart.
Edith’s almost level with the boatshed when the man steps out and stops, staring straight at her. There’s a bare bulb hanging above the door and her own pace slows as their eyes lock in the eerie orange light. There’s something about the man, or perhaps it’s the sound of the gun still echoing inside her mind that makes her instantly wary. It’s early enough that there’s no one else around, not so much as a lone car passing on the road above them. Still he stares and Edith’s pace slows further. He’s slightly ahead of her but the path to the road branches off here and the ground beneath her feet is already rising. A few more paces and she’ll be properly ahead of him.
The man raises a hand in greeting and says something. She can’t quite make it out and yet his intent seems clear. Hey, can I trouble you for a moment? Or, Morning, you couldn’t just give me a hand…? His body language is open, friendly. He just needs a moment of her time. Edith finds herself slowing further, unwilling to fully commit to stopping but too polite to ignore someone who’s addressing her directly. But then she notices his eyes and they say something entirely different. She’s seen that look before, or something like it. It raises her hackles, provokes some primal instinct that she has long been in tune with. She runs.
She’s past him quickly as the path turns away from the boatshed and angles up to the road, but even from the corner of her eye she sees him break after her and this spurs her on even more. She’s a fast runner, often in the top five at cross-country, and now she’s running faster than she ever has before. She doesn’t look back, just pushes on, her progress hampered by the thick snow. It occurs to her that he won’t have that same problem, following in the tracks she’s leaving for him.
Even as she thinks it she stumbles, her feet catching on something hidden but her body continuing forward with the momentum. She falls, pushing her hands out to brace herself and landing with a soft thump, her face dipping into the ice-cold snow. She pushes herself up, convinced she’s about to feel his hands on her shoulders at any moment. She doesn’t stop to look but stumbles on, ignoring the cold wet crystals encrusting her fingers, ploughing on up the hill.
A few more seconds and she breaks free of the trees, skidding out onto the tarmac. The snow’s less deep here and she has a split second to choose a direction, left towards the village, the closest sanctuary, or right towards Sheffield. Either way leaves her dangerously exposed. She’s younger than him. Fitter. But that gunshot still reverberates in her head. She’ll be an easy target, the sole traveller in a pristine white landscape. All this goes through her mind in nanoseconds and her feet never slow. She leaps into the treeline on the far side of the road and careers down the bank, bare branches and twigs slapping and tearing at her face and clothes. Still she doesn’t stop, hurling herself through undergrowth she hopes will hide her tracks. On through the trees and bushes.
Time passes. Minutes that feel like hours. The cold air burns in her lungs and throat. Still she hasn’t looked back. He could be right on her heels or she could have lost him ages ago. The trees end suddenly and she bursts out into an empty field, changing direction without slowing, cutting diagonally across the corner towards the next copse. Her feet are betraying her, leaving their tell-tale marks in the snow.
And then, all at once she finds herself back in civilisation, emerging onto a housing estate she knows well. There’s a man de-icing his car for the morning commute. He frowns as she passes him at full tilt. It only occurs to her afterwards that she might have stopped and asked for help. She’s too intent on getting away, putting as much distance as possible between her and that man.
Finally, her lungs give out. She turns even as she slows and stops, but there’s no sign of him. The road behind her is empty. She pants out the crisp morning air, her heart hammering in her chest, every part of her burning and freezing. Adrenaline, she thinks, or what’s left of it. Her science teacher, Dr Erikson, would be pleased with her. The sticky sweat on her forehead and neck begins to chill and she starts to wonder if she imagined the whole thing.
And only now does she realise her mistake. She has led him back to her home. Or near enough. He didn’t need to chase her. He can simply follow her tracks. It has been snowing for days; why did it have to stop today?
Edith trots up some steps onto th
She tells herself she’s being stupid. She imagined it all, surely? Why would this man want to do her harm? But there are people like that, aren’t there? Her mother’s always warning her about strange men. And Mrs Abassi, the newsagent; she’s always telling her to be careful as well. But she always thought they were just worrying about her. It’s never occurred to her before that there might actually be someone out there who would want to seriously hurt her. Not like Alice and her gang, throwing snowballs with rocks in, tripping her up in the street. No, that everyday cruelty she’s used to. This was something else. Something… cold and dark and pitiless. Something she’d glimpsed for a moment in those eyes.
Edith lets herself in through the front door and closes it firmly behind her.
‘Edith? Is that you?’ The familiar voice travels down the stairs.
‘Yeah, Mum. I’ll be right there.’
‘I need you.’
‘Yes, I’m coming.’
Edith shrugs herself out of her fleece and unlaces her boots while sitting on the floor. Within minutes she’s consumed with her mother and the daily routine. So much so that she pushes the thought of the man with the cold eyes to the back of her mind. She says nothing to her mother. After all, it would only worry her.
But it comes back to her later, no matter how hard she tries to forget. Long after she’s bathed her mother and combed her hair, and made sure there’s a sandwich prepared for her for lunch – Not corned beef again, Edith, Jesus Christ! – and remade it. After she gets a telling off from Mrs Khatri for being late, and a more serious rebuke from Dr Erikson for not having completed her science homework. When she’s sitting in Miss Foster’s class, trying to concentrate on the English Civil War while simultaneously trying to ignore Alice Clitherow making farting noises behind her and giggling with her gang. Edith feels something hit her in the back and there’s another round of tittering from Alice and the girls.
Then someone whispers, ‘Freak!’ a bit too loudly, and Miss Foster stops mid-sentence, plainly aware something’s got out of her control, if not entirely sure what. The chatter dissipates and Miss Foster goes on, but for some reason Edith’s heart has started pounding again. It’s not the threat of Alice Clitherow though, nor the objects and insults they throw at her. She can deal with all that.
No. It’s the memory of that man’s hateful eyes that sends a chill down her spine, and the thought of what he wanted to do to her.
day one
The ICER recordings #112
(Archivists’ note: Voice analysis would indicate this is a voice not previously heard on any of the earlier recordings. As such it is labelled: Unidentified Caller 4. Investigations continue as to the identity of this caller [03/05/18])
Call received: 20:18 Friday 2nd Mar 2018
Duration: 2 minutes 49 seconds
Partial Transcript:
ICER Go ahead.
Unidentified Caller 4 (clearing of throat) Is this…? I… I was told to call this number.
(Recording is silent for 4 seconds, some audible sound of breathing)
We have a problem. I was told you… you could help with… unusual situations. (pause 2 seconds) This is the Emergency contact number?
ICER This number is out of service. I’m retired.
UC4 Yes, I was told that too. But… under the circumstances, it was hoped you might… reconsider.
ICER What circumstances?
UC4 Well… this problem, you see… it’s potentially… that is to say… this might be a problem for you as well.
ICER I don’t respond well to threats.
UC4 No, no, no, no! I didn’t mean to… that is… Shit! (Inaudible speech 1 second) What I mean is the… the problem that needs sorting is connected to a previous problem that you… sorted for us. A while ago. If you remember the name of the guy was—
ICER No names. Give me the file number.
UC4 Oh… sorry… just a minute (pause 3 seconds) Case number zero zero zero one. Oh! I guess that was the first one?
(recording is silent for 4 seconds)
ICER That was a while ago.
UC4 Anyway, someone’s given a folder of information to the police – we think we know who, we’ve had our eye on him for a while now – but the bigger problem is that Stevens… Shit! Sorry, I mean, our man on the inside had to take… shall we say… precipitate action, and it’s left us vulnerable. (pause 1 second) It’s left us all vulnerable.
ICER So you’re asking me to clear up your man’s mess and deal with the leak?
UC4 A sort of two birds, one stone approach, if you catch my drift. (laughter)
ICER Double the usual fee.
UC4 Double?
ICER There’s no negotiation here. Take it or leave it.
UC4 Can you just hang on a minute? (Recording is silent for 9 seconds. Sounds of mumbled conversation, content inaudible) Yes, that… that will be fine. So… how do we finalise the details?
ICER I need full names and recent photographs. Use a messaging service that can’t be traced. If I agree to the job you’ll receive the bank details for transfer. Payment in full, in advance.
UC4 That’s… fine. Er… there’s a possibility we may need… one other problem dealing with. We think the informant might have been talking to someone else as well. Someone with a familial connection to case zero zero zero one. We were wondering, would you be prepared to…?
ICER (pause 3 seconds) Yes, yes I would. In fact, I’d be delighted.
Call ends 20:21
The man with the scar on his cheek treads carefully up the steps built into the side of the hill, the biting wind forcing its way up and over his collar, sending a chill down his back. His shoes crunch through the deep snow, the noise louder than he might have expected. There’s that dull flatness to the air that heavy snowfall creates. The white fields around him reflect every sound, every glare. It’s dazzling.
Near the top of the hill he turns and looks back across the city below. Sheffield is blackened and dull, its usually distinctive sandstone buildings blanched of colour by the grey sky hanging heavy overhead and the impenetrable banks of white surrounding it. At least it’s stopped snowing. For now.
He walks on, turning left and working his way towards the towering expanse of the Park Hill Flats. An elderly man totters towards him across the icy pavement, leaning heavily on a walking stick. A gang of kids, six – no, seven of them – are gathered at the top of the overgrown path that leads back down to the station. One of them spots an opportunity and points, and soon all seven are peeling away from the path, crossing the road, heading straight for the man with the stick. One or two fall behind the pack as they stoop to gather fistfuls of snow but the three in the lead stay on target, closing the distance until they are alongside the man. They walk with him, chatting amiably at first.
The man with the scar on his cheek quickens his pace.
The elderly man senses danger but can do no more than politely field their enquiries. His own pace quickens, and he starts to take risks with his footing. One of the stragglers lets loose a snowball that hits the man low on his overcoat, a shot across the bow, as it were. The boys snicker. They’re all boys, the man with the scar notes, most of them barely into double figures. One of the ringleaders, the youngest-looking, perhaps only seven or eight, jostles the man slightly and he stumbles.
‘Hey!’ shouts the man with the scar, but the boys are still too far away and if they hear him they don’t acknowledge it. They have the scent of blood now, the victim displays ever more vulnerability as he raises his stick in a useless but provocative gesture.
The man with the scar begins to run but he knows he’s too late. One of the pack leaders pushes out a leg while another barks in the old man’s face, causing him to flinch and step back. He trips on the outstretched leg and two more snowballs make contact in quick succession, one to his abdomen, one glancing off his ear. The old man goes down.
