Snow Light Read online

  Snow Light

  Danielle Zinn

  Copyright © 2017 Danielle Zinn

  The right of Danielle Zinn to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  For mum and dad.

  Bound by love.

  ….and for a special friend Pob Bendith

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  A Note from Bloodhound Books:

  Acknowledgments

  1

  NATHANIEL Thomas was walking home from the cheap Christmas party at Homicide Headquarters. It was the same every year. In September, big plans for an opulent dinner party were made, only to fall victim to lacking responsibility and the general year-end havoc. Chinese food was ordered and washed down with flat champagne served in plastic cups. The same Christmas CD that had been played when his father had been in the force dutifully reminded Thomas of driving home for Christmas.

  He did not mind the school-party-like atmosphere though, as he could finally enjoy some downtime with his team after having wrapped up yet another challenging year. When at the late hour, after too much booze, the embarrassing part started, he quietly picked up his parka and left the huge glass building through the revolving front door.

  In an attempt to sober up, Thomas took the longer route home through the park. It was a mostly clear and mild winter’s night — too warm for mid-December. The ground was not even frozen. A huge, round full moon cast a soft light across the deserted grounds, wooden benches, and leafless trees.

  He loved this stillness; he felt as though he never got enough of it. This was his quiet time — a time when he could bin old thoughts and fill a fresh, blank page in his mind with a new to-do list. He liked arranging his ideas into lists and then ticking off the finished items.

  Absorbed in his thoughts, Thomas was suddenly ripped out of his daydream. A bloodcurdling scream pierced the night, making him drop his list. His heart was beating fast before his mind could fully catch up with what was happening.

  Off to his left, beyond the gravel path, stood a long hedge of evergreen bushes separating the pathway from a children’s playground, which was modelled like a huge pirate ship. He often walked through the park in all seasons and weathers, and he knew the layout by heart. A slight movement near the shrubs indicated that he was not the only one out at this time of night.

  Thomas walked quietly towards the shrubbery. It was too high and thick for him to look over, but the sound of short, quick breaths produced a cold sweat on his forehead. He turned and briskly walked the last stretch around the bushes.

  There, a dark figure was kneeling over a young woman no older than sixteen, pushing her back down onto the mossy grass. In the moonlight, Thomas could see that her eyes were wide with fear. Her long blonde hair looked dishevelled, and small twigs and leaves were embedded in it. The perpetrator had pressed his hand over her mouth, but the muffled noises she made told Thomas that she was not voluntarily spending her night behind these evergreen bushes.

  “Police! Get up immediately and let her go… now!” he shouted.

  Startled, the head turned around, and Thomas looked into the smirking, grubby face of a man roughly his own age. He was dressed in a dark jumper, baseball cap, worn sneakers, and tracksuit bottoms that were pulled halfway down. He did not take his hand off the girl’s mouth.

  “Too late, Officer. But I’m sure this sweet sugar here has some energy left for you. Watch out though,” he sneered, “she claws.”

  In one swift move, Thomas hit the man in the side of the throat with his outstretched hand, causing him to gasp for air and roll sideways to the ground. The girl scrambled to her feet. She was wearing only a thin, but expensive-looking dress, and no shoes. Thomas wanted to take her hand and assure her that everything would be all right, though he knew it would never be all right again, but she turned suddenly and ran towards the playground.

  “Wait! I’m Detective Inspector Thomas! I’m here to help you!”

  Clouds started blocking the moon, and a black darkness fell over the grounds. Thomas felt a hard kick in the back of his knees. As they gave way, he tumbled head first into the thorny shrubs, scratching his face and hands, and ripping his parka. The guy had quickly recovered from the blow to his neck and was darting after the girl.

  Blood trickled slowly down the side of Thomas’s face where the thorns had marred his skin. He wiped the blood away with his sleeve before heaving himself up. His first New Year’s resolution was to ultimately lose weight and get fitter. Next year, I’ll really stick to it, he thought… just like he had told himself for the last couple of years.

  Squinting into the darkness, he tried to determine the direction in which the two had vanished, and he ran after them as fast as his legs could carry his enormous body. All too soon, his lungs began to burn, his heart beat heavily in his ears, and a stinging sensation, like a knife being lodged in his side, announced the end of his stamina. That horrible feeling of weakness and the resulting shame were two reasons he avoided the police gym like the plague.

  The sand on the surface of the playground made running even more difficult; one step forward caused him to slip half a step back. It felt like walking on ice.

  At the bow of the pirate ship, he spotted the guy searching for the girl. The ship was a huge, wooden, two-storey structure with built-in swings, ropes, slides, and monkey bars. Kids could walk through its hull, climb up on the inside, and slide down at the other end.

  Thomas was standing at the entrance of the hull when he heard soft footsteps and the crunching of sand on the floorboards overhead. He had been inside the structure a few times before with his five-year-old nephew. Every time the little boy had looked up at him, clearly disappointed that his uncle could not follow his swift moves through the pirate ship, Thomas had felt ashamed for letting the little fella down.

  Thomas groped around for a way to get to the upper floor, but all possible entrances were just not made for his size. There was a climbing wall with small, colourful plastic knobs that would not support him; a slippery climbing pole that he could not pull himself up on; and a web made of ropes, where he had to crawl through a hole at the other end to get to the upper deck — through which he would barely fit.

  Realising that
he had little other choice he crawled up the web, trying in vain to hide his whereabouts, but his breathing resonated like an oncoming steam train.

  Thomas took out his mobile to get some light from the display: two twenty-three a.m. A few yards away to his right, he again saw the smirking face of the man, who was now climbing up the pole as if he had never done anything else. In the poor light a knife blade flashed briefly. Sheer horror made Thomas’s hairs stand up and his palms turn sweaty. He knew he was not supposed to be scared, considering his occupation, but generally when he arrived on the scene the victim was already dead — no weapons or defence techniques required. Here, he was right in the middle of the fight.

  Above him, the footsteps of the attacker resounded on the planks while Thomas still hung in the ropes a deck below like a fly caught in a spider’s web.

  Utterly exhausted, he let go of the rope and started his descent — a disappointing total of two feet.

  Outside the hull the clouds had disappeared, and the moonlight revealed a six-foot-high harbour wall and a red and white striped lighthouse, some fifty yards away. The wall was fitted with colourful plastic knobs, and the girl had already made it halfway up.

  Thomas crept forward, when suddenly a baseball cap landed in the sand at the bow of the ship, followed by a dark figure. Both men raced towards the harbour wall, and with several quick moves, the assailant reached the top of it, swung his body over, and landed with a soft thud in the sand on the other side just yards away from where the girl was sitting with one leg slung over each side.

  Thomas had managed to climb up a good foot as well and tried to grasp her arm. But his huge belly was pushing him back from the wall, his hands too pudgy to hold onto the plastic knobs. He felt his last bit of strength drain away.

  Immobilised by horror and panic, the young woman looked blankly into Thomas’s eyes. He tried desperately to get a hold of her hand, but at that moment her body was yanked back violently from the other side, probably by her foot, and she vanished in slow motion, silently swallowed up by the darkness.

  Thomas let go of the knobs, realising with a piercing pain that he would never be able to make it over the top. Frantically, he searched for a way around the harbour wall when a muffled scream, followed by a slashing sound, rang through the night.

  2

  THE vibrating sound of his mobile on the bedside table yanked Thomas from his nightmare. Beads of sweat were running down his face. His blanket and pillows were spread all over the bedroom floor. He felt sick and shaky, and with a jolt he realised, like every other night, that his dream would always be his reality. The slow motion of movements that dreams enforce on you had truly happened and left him paralysed with helplessness.

  The caller was merciless. Thomas picked up the phone without looking at the display. “What?” he barked.

  “Good morning, Detective Inspector. I knew you would appreciate this call.” The raspy voice of Superintendent Graham Sexton was barely audible, even in the quiet bedroom. Too many years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes had long taken their toll on him.

  “Good morning, sir. I hope this was not the only time slot you had available for a chat.”

  They shared a deep mutual respect, however, this did not hinder them from ragging each other given the opportunity.

  “I thought about whether to call you or not… We have a murder case.”

  “So? Why are you calling me?” Thomas slowly got up, knowing his head would not hit the pillow again that night.

  “’Cos you’re still on the bloody payroll for catching those bastards! Not for telling off kids who stole a lollipop or for making neighbours hug and say ‘I love you’ after a fight over who pinched the apples off the tree! You’re a homicide inspector who got a well-deserved break — too long for my liking, mind you — and now I need you back on board.” When provoked, Sexton’s early years as a street kid showed their legacy.

  “Okay, you do realise, though, that I no longer live anywhere near to headquarters, but two hours away in the mountains, where the snow is currently as high as the first-floor window?”

  “What’s the name of that sodding village of yours?”

  “Turtleville.”

  “Brilliant, then you’re right in the middle of it,” Sexton sneered.

  “Someone’s been murdered in this village?” Suddenly Thomas was wide awake, his recent dream merely a misty cloud in the back of his mind.

  He had left Turnden and headquarters behind after the incident with the young woman in the park, which had happened around a year earlier, and he had not been in touch with homicide since then — besides on TV and in books. It was a very calming and refreshing experience. The only events that demanded his attention here were some pub brawls, runaway teenagers, minor car accidents, and disputes between neighbours, as Sexton had correctly guessed.

  Thomas had not been in contact with any of his colleagues except the superintendent, who had encouraged him to take up the position of ‘Turtleville Constable,’ as he mockingly called it, when former Chief Constable Robert Myers had retired and the mayor was looking for a temporary replacement.

  Turtleville and the surrounding small towns and villages had been utterly peaceful — at least until now. Thomas was not sure whether or not he was ready for his first body after the incident in the park. But not going there would be like a hairdresser avoiding his scissors. He took a deep breath. He had no choice.

  “Where did it happen?” he asked carefully.

  “Right in the middle of the market square, I was told. Your mountain tribe have a sense for drama. But you should see for yourself. I have sent DS Ann Collins for your support. She needs a change of air. Should be another good hour, though, until her arrival. Not sure if the snow-clearing and gritting folk have already dragged their bums out of bed.”

  “I can do without her, thanks. And this isn’t my mountain tribe,” Thomas mumbled.

  Ann Collins of all people. He could not stand her snappy attitude and utter lack of tact. She always needed to have the last word and questioned her superiors’ orders. In short, she was a pain in the neck.

  “Ring me when you have news.” The line clicked dead.

  Thomas got up, took a shower, and put on his skiing underwear and two more layers of warm clothing. He then picked up his pillows and blanket from the floor and put them back on the bed before walking over to his bedroom window, which faced the garden. All he saw, however, was darkness and his own reflection in the glass.

  The groggy, pale face of a man in his late thirties was staring back at him. Even though he still felt exhausted from his dream, he had no circles under his gentle, hazelnut-brown eyes. His short, black hair was easily put into the right position for the day by simply running his fingers through it; but today his hand rested a moment longer than usual on the prominent two-inch scar on his temple — a physical mark left by the prickly shrub he had fallen into a year earlier. His oval face sported stubble, but there was no time to shave.

  Looking further down, his eyes came to rest on his inherently broad but strong shoulders, which looked even bigger when wrapped in thick clothing, as if he was wearing a Tudor king’s robe. He took a deep breath and straightened his back, looking indestructibly out into the dark and moonless night. But a slight smile and the soft lines playing around the corners of his mouth gave away a different side of him.

  Frozen ground, covered with several feet of snow, lay outside below him — the grand opposite of the previous year. He did not have to see it to know it was there.

  Back then, he had been responsible for a murder being committed; this year, he would be responsible for a murder being solved.

  Thomas opened his bedroom door and stepped onto the landing, which was constructed like an indoor balcony overlooking the downstairs lounge, dining area, and open kitchen. To his left were three more bedrooms and a bathroom.

  When he had moved into the house barely a year earlier, he had removed all the internal walls. Only beams supported th
e structure of the building, thus creating a huge open living area. Tiny rooms and low ceilings made him feel like a caged animal. He was not exactly claustrophobic, but standing nearly six-feet-seven-inches tall, Thomas enjoyed walking around his lounge without needing to duck through door frames that were too low for him.

  The centre of the lounge was taken up by a soft, cream-coloured leather couch covered with blankets and pillows, and a modern TV set sat opposite it. The open fireplace in the corner still radiated some warmth from the previous evening.

  Behind the couch, large French windows opened to the patio and the garden beyond, where a shed held his supply of firewood. Hopefully enough to last me through the winter, he thought.

  The walls downstairs were elegantly decorated with expensive Turner and Kandinsky replicas. Thomas was a great fan of art and a gifted artist himself. His works were still stored at his mother’s house in Turnden, but in the spring, he would finally fetch them and put some of them up in the upstairs bedroom and in his office — which was the only room downstairs fitted with a door, for the sole purpose of keeping prying eyes from the confidential documents that he occasionally needed for his job.

  Next to his office was a highly contemporary kitchen, and in the middle sat a bright maple wood island that had been made by a local company.

  Just as he enjoyed organising things in his head, he took pleasure in keeping his house neat and tidy, and so everything had its place. He loved the simple Asian-inspired approach to furnishing a home, and his home brought a sense of calmness with its minimal interior design.