Dead Of Winter (Willis/Carter #1)(24)

He knew that she was looking at it. ‘What do you want to ask me?’ He began cracking small twigs for kindling.

‘In the last twenty-four hours there’s been a murder on the outskirts of London. We found a print that matches one at the cottage where your wife and child were killed.’

There was a pause of several seconds. Carmichael began constructing the fire: stacking the kindling against paper rolls.

‘Do you have a name?’ He reached to his right and pulled a long spill from a holder.

‘No . . . We just have a match.’

‘Where?’ He picked a lighter from the dresser and lit the spill.

‘Northwest London.’

‘I said where?’ He paused and half turned towards her but did not look at her.

‘A converted barn near Totteridge.’

He lit the tight wads of newspaper beneath the kindling and fanned the flame, then he picked up two large logs from the side of the massive grate and propped them against the kindling. He rested an elbow on one knee as he watched the growing flame. The light from the fire cast harsh shadows in his lined face. For a big man his body moved gracefully. His hands were precise and quick as they moved to catch the flame and fan the fire. Ebony noticed that kind of thing. She was the opposite: always clumsy. She always felt awkward. Her bones were big, gangly. Her hands and feet were large. Her broad shoulders were too wide for summer dresses and petite pretty clothes. She should have been a runner. She should have been a basketball player; her dad was athletic. Her mum was academic. But her mum hadn’t been clever when it came to choosing men and her dad hadn’t run away fast enough.

‘How many bodies?’

‘Two . . . a woman and her baby.’

He moved the smouldering sticks into the flame. She had read his file: there was nothing Carmichael hadn’t seen in the world; there was no nasty experience he hadn’t been through. He was a methodical killer, a man who could kill to order. He could go into a frame of mind where he felt nothing for anyone. She saw the scars on his arms. There were white raised lines made by something she’d read about when she’d researched him. What did the term ‘violent torture’ mean? Amongst other things, it meant ‘the scalpel’. Its knife-like electrode that cut, burnt and cauterized. She knew he would have suffered more from wounds that couldn’t be seen on the surface. Ebony watched his movements and it struck her how gentle he was.

Carmichael sat back to give the fire a chance to take hold. He turned to look at her.

‘Tell me about the victims.’

‘The mother was mid-twenties, Caucasian, healthy, and had been pregnant before. The baby was about thirty-six weeks. The umbilical cord was cut. But it never took a breath.’

‘No “missing persons” answering?’

She shook her head. ‘Chief Superintendent Davidson is concentrating resources on finding that out.’ She watched him prickle at the mention of Davidson’s name.

Sparks sprayed out like fireworks and a burning scrap of wood landed on the rug in front of the hearth. He squashed it between finger and thumb.

‘How was she killed?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘I want to see the forensics report.’

Ebony didn’t answer. She knew he wouldn’t be allowed to.

‘The man who we believe carried out the murders went under the name of Chichester. Does that mean anything to you?’ Carmichael shook his head. ‘Can you tell me what you remember about that day at Rose Cottage?’

He shook his head again. ‘I try and remember as little as possible.’ He looked away for a few minutes. The silence resounded round the room. He looked back. He searched her face. ‘What does Davidson expect from me? He mishandled it from day one. He followed the wrong lines of enquiry. Whoever did it was long gone by the time he got his head out of his arse.’ Carmichael raised his voice but then it softened just as quickly. ‘Has he reopened my case?’

She shook her head. ‘Not yet, but we are pushing for it. There is a lot of respect and loyalty for you in the department. People will do everything they can to get a result this time.’

He prodded the logs with the poker. ‘I won’t help Davidson just so that he can get a lucrative fucking retirement deal after he leaves the Force. Come back to me when the case is reopened.’

Ebony sat on the sofa, hugging her legs in close to keep warm. Bridget came in and stood in the doorway:

‘I’ve finished feeding the animals. Does tha want me to stay?’

‘We’ll manage, thanks. How are you getting home?’

‘I’m staying with my dad tonight; haven’t been able to get to him for three weeks; I’ll drive tractor across the fields.’ Her eyes went back to Ebony . . . ‘I’ll be back tomorrow, in the morning . . . early . . .’

‘Okay.’

Carmichael thanked her and then turned his attention on the catching fire. Bridget took a last look at Ebony and was gone. A draft of arctic air came around the room as the door swung behind her. Ebony shivered. Carmichael stood and went to a box chest at the far side of the room, opened it and pulled out a shawl. ‘Here, put this round yourself.’

‘Thanks.’ She took it and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘It’s beautiful.’ It was hand crocheted. The intricate weave looked like thick lace.