Short Story Sunday: Ice in Winter [Part One]

The office was buzzing with cops trying to outdo each other in a race against the clock. The brief was simple: find the funniest cat video on YouTube and share it before anyone else had the chance. Neville was using his detective skills to home in on a clip of a feline appearing to say “Why me?” when his boss thwacked a folder onto his desk.

 

          “Busy, are we?” He smirked as Neville and his colleagues sheepishly shut down their browsers. “A new case has arrived for the Supernatural Division. I’d like you to read over the notes and meet me in twenty minutes so I can deal with the FAQs and your modus operandi.”

          The room was quiet, apart from the solitary call of a desk phone.

          “Somebody answer that.” The chief’s good mood evaporated. “And get back to work.”

          Snodgrass waited for their boss’s office door to close. “Some lookout you are, Phillips.”

          “I was on to something really funny,” said Mtuba.

          “Better luck next time, boys.” Neville signalled the end of the banter. “Let’s get back to the stuff that really gets us going: finding criminals.”

          “I don’t know, guys. My case here seems pretty clean cut. I’ve had a call from Mrs Bucket again.”

          The men groaned.

          “What’s it this time? Someone scuff her post box while delivering mail?” Phillips howled with laughter.

          “Or maybe her favourite scarf was gobbled up in the washing machine, and she needs you to investigate?” said Jefferies.

          “Actually,” said Lauffett, “it’s her husband who has been missing for six hours. I phoned the Flanagan Pub and found him. He made me promise to let him stay missing a while longer.”

          “Poor bastard,” said Neville. He turned to the folder on his desk, ignoring the commiserations behind him. On the inside cover was a photograph of a woman with the strangest nose he had ever seen. It looked as though two different noses were fused together on her face. He scanned the pair of profile shots below the main image. Depending on whether she was viewed from the left or the right, Neville saw two different women – such was the power of her nose.

          “What’s the chief lumped you with?” Snodgrass’s breath smelt of coffee.

          “Look at her face.”

          He leant closer. “Geez, she looks like something out of a comic book movie.”

          “Exactly.”

          “What’s her crime?”

          “I’m about to find out.”

The chief’s office had the best view of Misery Lake. When he started on the beat twenty-five years ago, Crispin had made his name when he stopped Serial Susie, a madwoman who dumped the bodies of her victims in the lake, from slaying her ninth target. Now he had the top job and office, and a daily reminder of the value of good police work. He moved away from the window and tried to ignore the replicating emails demanding his attention. There was a new case that required his focus because the suspect bore an alarming resemblance to Serial Susie. Although Susie’s case had brought him fame, it was not a time he ever wished to relive. He still got nightmares on occasion. Just last night Mary had woken him mid-scream. So, the best way for Crispin to keep his eye on things without becoming involved was to delegate to Neville Bloom. He recalled the first day he met the young detective.

          “Morning Sarge,” he’d said. “Might I ask you what colour my shirt is?”

          “Is this some kind of joke?”

          “No, sir. I’m colour blind. I don’t want to show up on my first day with the wrong shirt.”

          “And if your shirt was the wrong colour?”

          A duffel bag materialised. “Well, I was hoping you would help me out.”

          From that day on, Crispin had a soft spot for Neville, but he was careful not to show it. Police work might be dangerous, but nothing compared to the competition between men for recognition. He suspected it had something to do with the fact that celebrity cops often got the best and most interesting cases. Poor Lauffett was a textbook example of someone who wanted to move on to bigger and more exciting things. The photo frame on his desk glinted in the glare. Besides, being famous wasn’t all bad. In his case, it led him to happiness – and Mary.

Neville snapped the folder shut. He was going to need about a gallon of coffee to help him process what he had just read. Although he was still basking in the glow of the successful conclusion of the long-running Daughters of Lilith case, the dossier he’d been given was unlike anything he had seen before. It would be much harder – impossible even – to crack this one.

          He walked to the kitchenette and made a mental map of what he had learnt. Audrey Valentine, mid-thirties, attractive and deadly. The last three victims had died from multiple stab wounds, but no weapon could be found. And, the only thing that tied her to the last crime was a message in the dust on the floor that said “Aud Valen”. Neville looked down and saw his coffee on the counter. He had no memory of making it. Behind him, he heard the chief’s door open.

          “Neville, don’t keep me waiting.”

          “Sorry Sarge.” While they both knew that the chief was higher up in the ranks now, the nickname from their first meeting stuck. Once Neville was inside, Crispin closed the door and gestured for him to sit. Neville took the chair across from his boss. “Quite a character, this Audrey Valentine.”

          “Yes. We don’t have much to go on. So, shoot.”

          Neville pretended to draw his weapon and realised Crispin was not in the mood for jokes. He cleared his throat. “I am struck by her nose.”

          “It’s quite distinct.”

          “And the file says the only link between her and the last victim is the cryptic dust letter.”

          “You’re telling me what I already know. Start thinking deeper.”

          Neville sipped his coffee. “I am interested in how she is killing. There is a lot of damage but no murder weapon in sight.”

          “That’s the right question. How are you going to do the investigation?”

          “I think I need to meet her.”

          “Could be dangerous.”

          “I don’t fit the description of any of her victims. Besides, I’ll go in plain clothes.”

          “Take back-up. I’d recommend Lauffett. He could use a break from Mrs Bucket’s foibles.”

          “Will do.” Sensing the meeting was over, Neville stood.

          “Where are you going?”

          Uh oh. “Cramp. Sorry Sarge.” He sat.

          “Neville, I want you to remember that this is not going to be as easy as the Lilith case. You’ll have to keep your wits about you.” Crispin looked at the picture of Mary. “You remember the story of Serial Susie?”

          “If I ever forget it, send me to the loony bin.”

          Crispin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That case almost broke me. Women like Susie Havers and Audrey Valentine get under your skin. They’re intoxicating in the worst sense and once you dabble with them...”

          “Sarge, your colour is wrong. Can I get you some water?”

          Sweat necklaced his upper lip and forehead, but Crispin made a dismissive gesture. “What I am saying is: be careful.”

          Neville masked his panic. “Don’t worry about me, Sarge. If I can survive a near-poisoning from the Daughters of Lilith, this case will be a piece of cake.” He leant forward in his seat. “But if I get spooked, you’ll be the first to know.”

          Crispin nodded.

          This time, when Neville stood, he knew the chief wanted to be alone. He pulled the door closed behind him and went to Lauffett’s desk.

          “Anton, fancy a date with a devil in a blue dress?”