Dead of Winter Tr (8 page)

Harding passed Ebony and started to walk back down the stairs. Ebony went to follow but stopped at the landing window two steps down from the bathroom. It overlooked the garden and then in the
distance the sea stretched glittering on the horizon. She told herself Carmichael would have stopped at the same point and seen the same horizon. He would have stood here with the blood of his
family on his hands. His daughter’s body in his arms. And she knew . . . if he didn’t kill them then he would have stood here, his heart breaking, and sworn vengeance.

‘But why?’ she asked Harding. ‘What would he have wanted or gained?’

‘Money? Who knows. Madness doesn’t need a reason or a profit.’

‘Do you think this case was handled differently because Carmichael was a policeman, Doctor?’

‘Of course . . . You have the emotional attachment that so many people felt to him. Carmichael was a serving officer.
Of course
the police handled it differently.’

‘How differently?’

‘We had to weigh up the effect of it; we had every journalist camping outside the police station wanting blood, wanting it to be Carmichael who’d done it. We were trying to catch a
murderer. We had to keep things quiet while the investigation was ongoing.’

‘And from Carmichael himself?’

‘Yes . . . Details were spared from him. Plus he was a suspect. He didn’t help himself. He went into meltdown. I remember it well. Things were very difficult at the time . . .
decisions were made that maybe now seem strange. But, at the time, we did what we thought was best, Chief Superintendent Davidson included. We all tried to help him. Carmichael was his own worst
enemy.’ Harding glanced over at Ebony.

‘Do you think the Super will reopen this case?’ They walked towards the front door.

‘Davidson will do the right thing. I’ll organize a SOCO team to go through the place again,’ said Harding. ‘Plaster walls like this can hold DNA samples for many
years.’

She looked at Ebony as they stepped out onto the path. ‘You’re a good choice to look into things, Ebb. I have confidence in you. You need my help? Just ask. We’re all on the
same side.’

‘Thanks, Doctor Harding.’ She followed her out. ‘There
are
a couple of things I wanted to ask you about the autopsies. I was expecting to see a toxicology report, liver
biopsy . . . I couldn’t find either.’

Harding looked momentarily flustered but recovered fast.

‘Come to my office when we get back and I’ll give you the original autopsy reports with my notes.’

‘What was the actual cause of death, Doctor?’ They walked to the gate and stood looking back at the cottage.

‘Sophie died from a single cut to the throat severing the carotid artery. Louise died when they cut out her heart. Chrissie the same.’

‘What did you think had happened here when you came here that day thirteen years ago?’

‘I thought some mad man, or men, had come into this cottage and had subjected the women to something unimaginable, killed Sophie in front of her mother, and slowly and mercilessly cut the
women to death before removing and eating their organs.’

Ebony got a call from Carter just as Harding dropped her back outside Fletcher House.

‘How was it, Ebb?’

‘Just on my way up, Sarge.’

‘Don’t bother coming up, I need you to head down to the Tube. Talk to me on the way. How did it go at Rose Cottage?’

Ebony turned and walked back along Macdonald Road towards Archway Station.

‘As far as I can see the whole crime scene was ill managed thirteen years ago. No one took the gardener’s statement, for instance. He said he rebuilt a section of the wall that was
knocked down by a high-sided vehicle. Plus, half of the autopsy reports are missing.’

‘What did Harding have to say about that?’

‘She didn’t. She said she’d give me the full report plus her notes later on today.’

‘How did you get on with her?’

‘Okay. She’s a bit frosty, defensive even. Sticking up for Davidson. She said she thought at the time they could be dealing with a cannibal killer. No wonder they wanted it kept
quiet. It sounds like the SIO panicked.’

‘Yeah. He cared more about brushing it under the carpet than solving it.’

‘Nothing’s been really messed with in all these years. Harding agrees it would be worth bringing a SOCO team down and looking at it again.’

‘Okay, we’ll get Sandford onto it. I’ve been in touch with the owner of Blackdown Barn. The neighbours were right – he lives on Jersey. He hasn’t been there in
years. He leaves it to an estate agent called Simpsons. It’s just on the high street in Barnet, two minutes from High Barnet tube. Go straight there for me, Ebb. The owner – manager
– Mr Simpson is expecting you. I’ll see you back here afterwards.’

‘Okay, Sarge.’

Ebony came out of High Barnet tube station, walked into Simpsons and showed her badge to the first woman on a row of desks. She was shown through to the manager’s office. He had the file
already waiting for her. He handed it to her as he looked at his watch.

She took it from him and pulled up a chair.

‘Thank you, Mr Simpson but I would appreciate it if we run through this together? It’s just in case I need to query anything in it; it will save time.’

‘Uh . . . now?’ He scratched his forehead. His hair had taken on a Friar Tuck look – two long thin brown islands either side of his head, parted by a sea of baldness. Ebony
nodded. ‘I have an important meeting in ten minutes.’ He looked at his watch to emphasize the point.

‘I suggest you postpone it for an hour.’

He nodded his reluctant agreement.

He went back behind his desk. ‘What can you tell me about the tenant at Blackdown Barn?’

‘His name was Chichester.’

‘Did Chichester say he was going to live there with anyone?’

‘Occasional guests.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I never actually got to meet him – we conducted all our business over the internet. Chichester saw photos and I videoed the house so he could have a virtual tour.’

‘Have you still got that video, please?’

‘No . . . we can’t keep every bit of correspondence, but I have the photos.’ He handed her a packet of prints. Ebony took them out to look at. They were photos of each room
with dimensions written on the back.

‘Then what – after you emailed him these photos and he saw the video?’

‘He took the tenancy on for a year, paid upfront. He’d been there since January.’

‘So he left early.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he inform you of that?’

‘No.’

‘Did you think that was odd?’

‘Well I do now.’

‘But you weren’t unduly concerned?’ he shook his head. Irritation was creeping into his demeanour as he fiddled with his cuffs and looked everywhere in the room except at
Ebony. ‘What about the utilities?’ asked Ebony. ‘There must be money owing?’

‘He insisted on having meters installed in Blackdown Barn. I had to see to that before he moved in.’

They studied the photos. Ebony looked at the one of the master bedroom. ‘The carpet was replaced with lino in this room. Why was that?’

‘Chichester had very exact requirements. Replacing the carpet with linoleum was one of them.’

‘Did he tell you why he wanted the works done?’ Simpson shook his head. ‘And you didn’t think it was odd to want to put lino in a bedroom?’ He shrugged. His face
was turning red. ‘You must have had to agree the work with the owners?’

‘Well, it wasn’t always necessary to bother the owners. I have handled their properties for many years. Chichester covered the whole of the costs. I didn’t feel I needed to . .
.’

‘Can I please have a full list with all the receipts from that refurbishment.’

‘I no longer have them – I’m sorry. As I said, I can’t keep everything.’

‘Can I see Chichester’s original emails to you?’

‘Again I’m sorry. It’s eighteen months since I first received them from him. They are no longer on my computer.’

‘You seem really sure about that. What about in your Sent Items or Trash folder? Do you need me to wait whilst you check?’

‘I can assure you there’s no need to check. They are definitely not on my computer.’

‘Do you remember anything about the way he worded them that might help us find out what kind of a person he was? What about his spelling?’

‘Good.’

‘What about the way he wrote things, could he have been foreign?’

‘I have no idea.’

Ebony looked at the photos again. ‘Did you oversee these works yourself? Did you have this lino floor laid?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you make a private financial arrangement with him?’

His face reddened some more. ‘I had a lot of extra work.’

‘Is that normal practice to make a private financial arrangement with clients without informing the owner of the house?’

‘I wouldn’t say it was an arrangement. There were costs incurred. The family are more than happy with the rent they received from Mr Chichester. I don’t see why I should have
to answer any more of your questions.’

‘I suppose the thing is, Mr Simpson, at the moment you are the nearest thing we have to a friend of Mr Chichester. You got the house ready for him and a woman and her baby were murdered
there. You don’t seem overly eager to help me with this. It’s an offence to withhold information and this is a murder investigation. We can talk here or I can take you in with me now
and you can make a formal statement. I can also ask for these premises to be closed down while we conduct a search for the missing invoices. It’s up to you.’

He paled. ‘Of course. I will be happy to answer any questions.’

‘Let’s take another look at these photos and you can run through each one with me and tell me what he said he wanted to keep and what he didn’t.’

Ebony stopped off to see Harding afterwards. She looked up as Ebony came in; she was studying the diagrams from the original crime scene at Rose Cottage. She closed the file,
opened a drawer, and pulled out three autopsy reports from the victims at Rose Cottage before handing them over to Ebony.

‘On no account share this information with anyone. I trust you to be discreet. Now is not the time to make things worse. We all did the best we could; that includes me.’

Ebony looked at Harding’s face as she handed over the reports and thought she looked almost vulnerable: brittle under the hard shell. But Ebony knew very well that Harding had got to where
she was in life by destroying marriages and people and if she was attempting to show Ebony her vulnerable side there was probably a plan.

‘Of course, Doctor.’

‘Are you going to see Carmichael tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come and see me when you get back.’ Harding turned back to studying the file on her desk.

Ebony headed home on the number seventy-three. Four stops from home she managed to get a seat. She looked out of the window and watched the snow coming down. When it had first
hit it was fun – now it was a pain in the arse. The bus smelt like a wet dog basket. Outside, Christmas lights fought hard to colour up the sleet and snow.

She heard her housemate Tina’s heavy metal music as soon as she put the key in the door.

Tina’s voice came from the kitchen. ‘Ebb?’

‘Yeah, it’s me . . .’ Ebony put her coat over the banister, took off her shoes and put them by the front door.

Tina emerged stuffing toast into her mouth and wearing the maroon dressing gown that her nan had given her for last Christmas. Everyone in the house walked around in duvets and dressing gowns.
It was impossible to keep warm. The house was old and draughty and the radiators were too small and decrepit to cope. But the rent was cheap so no one dared complain to the landlord.

‘Any news?’

Ebony shook her head. ‘It’s not going to happen, Tina. I told you he has Cabrina. He’s practically married. Cabrina’s pregnant.’

‘Bollocks . . .’ Tina screwed up her face. ‘Oh well.’ She turned up the stairs and went up to her room. ‘Back to the dating sites.’

Ebony walked through to the kitchen, made herself some tea and poured out a bowl of cereal then she went upstairs. Her room was on the top floor. It had everything she needed: a bed and a desk.
If she wanted to watch telly she made herself be sociable and sit in the lounge. It didn’t come easily for her; she wasn’t used to it. That was why she’d chosen to live in a house
with three others. She wanted to get used to it.

It was a lovely room that made her smile when she went into it. It overlooked the street below and had a London plane tree right outside her window. In the spring the birds came to sit in it and
sing in the morning. It had been like a Christmas card when the snow covered its branches. But the downside of the room was that it was furthest from the bathroom, two floors up and last to get the
heat into the ancient radiators.

She set the tea and cereal bowl on the desk and took out the file. Ever since Carter had told her about the handprint match she had been talking to people who remembered the case. She phoned
Carter.

‘Sarge? I found out as much about Carmichael as I can. I talked to several people this afternoon: people who knew Callum Carmichael at that time. But I can’t find anyone who counted
him as a mate.’

‘He wasn’t that type . . . loner . . . but great boss. So frigging good at his job. He was an inspector in the Tactical Firearms Unit. Not the kind of job you make mates
in.’

‘But as a person?’

‘Can’t answer that one . . . I didn’t know him that well. I’d just joined when it happened . . .’

‘I did get a bit of back history from Sandford,’ said Ebony ‘and I talked to the local police in Kirkcaldy where he grew up and got hold of his dad. Carmichael joined the
Marines at eighteen and went to Devon to train. He was in trouble for minor offences when he was a teenager. Lucky not to get a sentence.’

‘So he might have had a little help with signing up?’

‘Yes, could have. His dad is a local publican. Well respected. Carmichael did well in the Marines. He served in the Falklands straight away. Then he was recruited into the SBS at
twenty-two. He served in the Iraq War and in January 1991 he was sent to try and rescue a previous mission that had gone wrong. He was captured and subjected to violent torture which included
burning and electric shock.’