Dead Of Winter (Willis/Carter #1)(4)

As he walked through the kitchen he pulled the pot of stew from the top of the Aga and left it to one side. He knew he should eat but he hadn’t the appetite. Instead, he walked through to the sitting room and took his Steyr Scout rifle from the gun cupboard, opened it and inserted a magazine. Then he locked it and left it leaning against the doorframe.

Logs were burning in the Inglenook fireplace. It must have burned the same way for three hundred years.

Carmichael went to the dresser, picked up the bottle of Scotch and carried it across to his desk and then he opened his laptop, waiting for it to fire up before he clicked on his music library. It had been a long time since he had listened to any music. Too many memories; too many feelings. Green Day blasted out. It made him smile. He could see his wife Louise’s face now as she’d pretended to hate it. She’d left him in the lounge with his music and his glass of red and she’d come back with Sophie; both of them wearing earmuffs. He smiled at the memory. He hadn’t allowed himself even the good memories for a long time . . . he didn’t know why they were coming back tonight. Something in the weather or the world was overpowering him. It was going to be a long night. He poured himself a few fingers of single malt. It melted in his throat and burned as it slid downwards. Standing on the broad hearth he nudged a half-burnt log with his foot, sending up a spray of sparks. His face was bright from the fire, his dark hair wet from the snow. He picked up the photo of Louise smiling at him, Sophie in her arms, and took it over to sit in front of the fire and sip his Scotch. The bridge of his nose burned as his eyes filled. He ran a finger across the photo and held it to his chest as he sat back and listened to the crackle of the fire, felt its warmth through to his bones. He heard his Jack Russell terrier Rusty sigh from his basket as it watched him. Carmichael didn’t even realize he was crying.

‘Enough,’ he said out loud, stood, drank the whisky down, and called for Rosie as he pulled on his overcoat.

The bitter wind sliced his face as he opened the back door and walked back up to the barn. He switched on the light. The barn was musty with the smell of lambing. He couldn’t see Jumper. He walked through the barn slowly, as if walking in tar. In the orange hue the sheep’s eyes stared at him as he passed. The lambs stopped suckling to watch his slow progress. Carmichael kept walking; kept moving one heavy foot in front of the other. Walking in a dream, in a memory. His mind was spiralling back thirteen years, to the day he had walked towards the open door of a small holiday cottage where his wife and child were staying for the weekend. His breathing quickened until it wheezed in his chest as he stepped inside a world that should have been filled with the sound of laughter and chatter and heard only the droning of flies. He turned his head to look at the ewes but instead he saw his wife Louise looking at him, her face splattered with blood. She reached out a bloody hand to him. A cry caught in his throat; the ewes heard it; they turned their heads to listen. The noise jolted him back to the barn and Louise was gone. Jumper was on the floor of her pen. He could smell the stench of the lamb. Its body half out, stuck, breach position. It had died inside her womb and turned toxic and now she could not be rid of it. He ran back to the house and pulled out the box of medical supplies from the tack-room cupboard . . . he cursed as he searched for the antibiotics he needed and found just a small amount. She needed a big dose to save her. He had barely any. The vet hadn’t had any on him the last visit and then the snow had come. He picked up the supplies and carried them back to the barn then he knelt beside the ewe and injected what he had into the muscle in her leg before starting to cut out the lamb. For three hours Carmichael worked with the stench of the lamb in his nose . . . By the time he finished the task Jumper was dead.





Chapter 4


‘You alright, Ebb?’

She nodded but her eyes stayed focused on the house. They were sitting in his car at the edge of the driveway, still waiting for permission from the SOCOs to go inside. The first lot of furniture had been loaded into a van and was headed back to the lab. Ebony hadn’t said much since the discovery of the baby. Carter looked at her profile. ‘Not nice,’ he added. She shook her head but didn’t speak. ‘Those tyre prints, Ebb? Someone must have noticed a big vehicle sat on the driveway. Must have been at least the size of a pick-up truck. Surely the neighbours saw what cars were parked here. Did they know who lived here?’

‘They keep themselves to themselves, Sarge. I went round to speak to them after the gardener left. They never saw anyone move in or out. They had no idea who lived here.’

‘So much for people being friendlier in the country. If this was in the East End the neighbours would know everything.’

Ebony watched curiously as Carter squished the old piece of nicotine gum back into the empty space in the packet and popped a fresh one in his mouth.

‘Does that stuff help?’

‘I hope so. Tried cold turkey but couldn’t hack it. Trying to give up . . . you know . . .’ He glanced across at her. ‘For the baby . . . My girlfriend’s pregnant.’

‘I heard. Congratulations. Is she feeling alright?’ Ebony had never met Cabrina. It felt strange asking after someone she hadn’t met but Jeanie the Family Liaison Officer had told her all about it and Ebony had listened politely. Jeanie sat opposite her in the office. Jeanie and Carter used to be an item.

Carter sighed. ‘She’s okay . . . I suppose . . . She’s back living at home with her parents.’ Ebony glanced across to see if she had heard right. Carter leant back against the headrest and stared out of the windscreen at the sky. The night was losing its grip and making way for dawn. A tinge of purple was creeping into the sky. Carter had a boxer’s nose. It had been broken so many times that the cartilage had been removed to allow him to breathe. Now it was straighter but flatter than it was designed to be. He cared more about his hair than he ever let on; it was thick and black, a heritage from his Italian mother, cut in a Tintin quiff at the front. ‘I used to think she was bad enough once a month. Once a month I could cope with: knew what she needed . . . knew how to make her happy. Now I have no frigging idea what she wants. Whatever it is, it’s not me at the moment. It’s all talk of her and the baby managing.’