Twelve Days of Winter (2 page)

Billy reached out and lifted the painting off its hook, not even daring to breathe as he lowered it into the unfurled holdall. It almost hurt to zip it up.

There was a clink from the sideboard. ‘Now that’s more like it!’ Twitch stood up, clutching four bottles: Bombay Sapphire, Smirnoff, Talisker, and Courvoisier, wiggling his hips. ‘We’re on the bevy tonight.’ He gyrated to a halt. ‘What? You look like someone’s crapped in your porridge.’

‘Nothin’.’ Billy picked up the holdall, clenched his jaw, ground his teeth. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ It wasn’t fair – why should Dillon get the painting? What the hell did
he
know about art? Nothing, that’s what. Sweet bugger all. Dillon wouldn’t have a clue how to appreciate something that beautiful. Dillon was a wanker with a line in drugs and violence.
Billy
had a GCSE in art – got a ‘B’ too – by rights the painting should be his.

He followed Twitch out into the hallway. Yeah: should be his. . .

Suppose he just kept it? Suppose Dillon didn’t get the real painting, suppose Dillon got a fake instead? Billy’s sister Susan fancied herself as a bit of an artist, she was always doing those ‘paint by numbers’ things.

Nah, it was a shite plan. That picture she did of some penguins looked more like vultures in dinner jackets. She’d just screw it up. Susan was stupid.

The television was still blaring away as they passed the huge Christmas tree – Twitch helped himself to a couple of the presents underneath it, slipping them into his backpack.

Maybe. . . Maybe Dillon could have an accident? A smile split across Billy’s face. Yeah, Dillon has an ‘accident’, their thirteen grand debt suddenly disappears, and Billy gets to keep Monet’s
The Pear Tree
. Put it up on his bedroom wall, smoke some weed and look at the colours.
Sweet
.

He followed Twitch up the stairs. What kind of accident should Dillon have: car crash? Down the stairs? Back of the head caved in with a claw hammer? Claw hammer was probably best, that way Billy could just nip around to Dillon’s flat,
pretend
to hand over the picture . . . and BANG! Soon as his back’s turned. Maybe there’d even be some stuff lying about? Big bag of weed and a wad of—

A plummy, public-school voice bellowed out from the foot of the stairs. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Twitch Froze. ‘Fuck!’ Then they legged it, hammering up the stairs two at a time.

The old bastard ran after them. He was one of those smoking jacket and silvery hair types, but he could move. ‘Come back here!’

Billy nearly lost it on the last flight of stairs, but somehow managed to scrabble upright, bashing into the faded wallpaper, puffing and wheezing. Twitch screeched round the corner into the room with the stuffed black bear and the African masks.

A hand wrapped itself round Billy’s arm and he squealed, span round and flailed out a fist. Pain sparked across his knuckles and the old guy grunted. Falling back. Giving Billy just enough time to scarper through the door to the room they’d broken into, with all its boxes of junk. Billy shoved the stuffed bear, sending it clattering against the door. He leapt a cardboard box full of creepy china dolls and jumped for the window.

Bang!

He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wondering why everything hurt.

Bloody idiot: the painting’s frame was too big to go through the gap straight on.

The door rattled. Billy struggled with the large, painting-filled holdall, working it round onto the diagonal, easing it through the open window. ‘Andy!’

Twitch froze, halfway down the oak tree outside, glower-ing up at him, black eyes glittering in the Christmas lights. ‘Don’t use my real name!’

‘Catch!’ Billy swung the painting out and let go. It got halfway. There was a loud ripping sound as the holdall caught on a branch. A huge triangle of fabric tore free. The holdall dropped four feet, snagged on something, and hung there, swinging. The pear tree glowed through the jagged-edged hole, thirty foot over the frosty ground.

A loud thump from the hallway and the black bear lurched. BANG: it lurched again. One more time and the door crashed open. The old guy charged across the room. ‘Bring back my bloody laptop!’

Billy crawled out onto the ledge and jumped for the nearest branch, just as a hand grabbed his ankle. Caught half over the gap, Billy twisted, didn’t quite make it, banged his chin on the branch. He bit a big chunk out of his bottom lip; blood filled his mouth.

He scrabbled for purchase on the rough wood, but it was too late: he was falling, tangled up in the Christmas lights. The cold, thick, plastic wire wrapped around his throat. ‘Ullk!’

Billy’s fall came to a sudden halt, two storeys off the ground, legs kicking, jerking on the end of the electrical cable. Twisting. Spinning.

His chubby fingers clawed at the folds of fat on his neck. Can’t breathe. . . Get the wire off. . . Oh God, oh God, oh God. . . CAN’T BREATHE.

White lights sparkled all around him, the bulbs breaking under his fingers, slashing his skin, leaving it slick with blood as he twisted and struggled.

And struggled.

And struggled.

And. . .

The last thing he saw before everything went black was the pear tree at sunset, hanging in an oak, lit by Christmas lights. Still beautiful.

A Christmas tree lurked in the corner of Oldcastle City Mortuary. Just a cheap artificial one – covered with brightly-coloured tinsel, blinking lights, and little plastic angels – but it lent the dissecting room a slightly festive air. They’d even managed to find a big star for the top of the tree: a nodding Elvis doll that twitched and lolled every time a refrigerator drawer slammed shut. All shook up.

It wasn’t exactly Santa’s grotto, but at least they’d made the effort.

Sandra leaned back against the sink, mobile phone jammed between her ear and shoulder, eating a Chicken-and-Mushroom Pot Noodle. ‘Kevin? Hello? You there?’ Pause two, three, four. ‘Pick up, OK? Kevin?’ The answering machine went bleep. She glanced at the pale mass of flesh on the cutting table, body cavity hollowed out and empty. ‘Kevin? I’m gonna be late, OK? We’re up to our ears in some fat bastard got himself hanged. I won’t be round till later.’ Sandra shovelled a forkful of noodles into her mouth and mumbled her goodbyes. ‘Love you.’ Then hung up.

She was just sooking the last of the juice from the carton when Professor Muir muttered his way back from the toilets. He took one look at her and sighed. ‘I wish you wouldn’t eat those things in here: the smell upsets Elvis.’ He pointed at the King, who jiggled and nodded his agreement as the mortuary door banged shut.

‘I’m finished anyway.’ She tossed the empty container in the bin and pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves. ‘You want me to do the spine?’

‘Please.’ Professor Muir went back to the mounds of offal piled up on the gurney next to the cutting table.

Sandra pulled out the bone saw.

Click
and the vacuum
whummmmmed
into action, ready to whisk away any particles of blood and bone. Another click and the saw whined into life, the vibrating blade making her fingers tingle. ‘You want the chord on its own, or attached to the brain?’

‘Surprise me.’

She smiled behind her mask – that was a challenge. With all the insides scooped out, the body cavity was a purple and red void, lined with shorn ribs where Sandra had popped his ribcage off like the bonnet of a car. He was a huge fat bastard, so big she could almost crawl inside and pull the lid back on. The perfect hiding place. Who’d look?

Grinning, she went to work on his spine, making the saw shriek.

She was bagging up the internal organs when the phone went: Oldcastle Force Headquarters, letting her know another pair of bodies were on the way. She slammed the phone down. ‘Arrrgh. . . It’s the same thing every sodding Christmas.’

Professor Muir looked up from his preliminary report. ‘Let me guess: suicide?’

‘
Two
of them. Antisocial bastards.’ She slipped the guy’s lower intestine into a clear plastic pouch, sealed it, then hurled it into the open body cavity. ‘Like we’ve got nothing better to do than piss about here dissecting them.
Some
of us had plans for tonight!’

‘Don’t sweat it. We’ll process the paperwork tonight and carve them tomorrow. Consider it a Christmas bonus.’

Sandra stuffed the last of the bags into place, jammed the ribcage back on, then rolled the fatty skin back over the top, sewing it up with angry blanket stitches. She checked the clock on the wall: Six fifteen. She was already late, and two sets of paperwork were only going to make it worse.

Elvis danced for her as she wrestled the body back onto its refrigerated shelf and slammed the stainless steel door shut. She grabbed her mobile and stomped off to the viewing room to call Kevin, away from the professor’s big hairy ears.

The little room was practically empty: just her; a vase full of artificial lilies; and the table they stuck dead bodies on. The families would troop into the soundproofed room opposite, look through the curtained window at what was left of their loved one, cry a bit. . . Then someone would say, ‘sorry for your loss’ and the dearly departed would be wheeled away so Professor Muir could gut them like a fish. All very tasteful.

‘Kevin?’

The telltale
click-hisssssss
of the answering machine
picking up, then it went into its pre-recorded routine: Kevin singing a bit of Pink Floyd’s ‘Comfortably Numb’, only with different words. Asking her to leave a message. ‘
Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. . .
’

‘Kevin? Look I know I’m late, but I’ll make it up to you, OK? Ewan’s pulling a green shift, so I’m yours
all
night. Better make sure you’ve got some baby oil in, cause I’ve got a surprise for. . .’ A clunk on the line. ‘Kevin? Kevin, is that you?’ And then a metallic voice thanked her for calling, and hung up. ‘Shite.’

Maybe he’d gone out? Flounced off in a huff because she was late? No, Kevin wouldn’t do that to her, not when she’d blown forty quid on a kinky French maid’s outfit from the Naughty Knicker Shop on Barnston Street at lunchtime. He’d
definitely
want to be around for that.

She stuck the mobile back in her pocket, rearranged her underwear, looked up. And nearly wet herself. There was a man on the other side of the observation window, staring in at her. . .

Christ sake: it was Ewan with his face pressed up against the glass, leering. She slammed her hand against the window, making him flinch back. ‘You scared the life out of me!’

He was wearing a yellow high-viz jacket over the top of his police uniform, the peaked cap speckled with raindrops. Not bad looking in a thin, George Clooney kind of way. Well, George Clooney crossed with John Cleese. He grinned like an idiot, mouthing something dirty at her through the glass, even though he knew the room was soundproofed.

She marched back into the cutting room.

DI ‘Stinky’ McClain – a hairy wee man with a face like a used condom – stood with his back to the wall of refrigerated drawers, sharing a joke with Professor Muir. ‘So the receptionist pulls up her knickers and says, “It’s
never
done that before!”’ He laughed, jowls jiggling. ‘“It’s never done that before.” Get it?’ Then waved at a tall, old, grave-looking man from the local funeral directors. ‘Come on, Unwin, haven’t got all night.’

Mr Unwin raised an eyebrow as he wheeled a stainless steel coffin in from the loading bay. ‘Patience is a virtue, Inspector. The dead will not be rushed.’ He activated the trolley’s brake with a shiny black shoe, then headed back out for the other body.

This would be their double suicide then.

Sandra followed the undertaker out into the hallway.

Ewan was leaning against the wall, waiting for her. He grabbed her, planting a big wet kiss right on her mouth. ‘What you still doing here? Thought you’d be home with Emma by now.’

Heat bloomed across Sandra’s cheeks. She pulled herself free. ‘Mum’s looking after her. And I’d be home by now if it wasn’t for you and your bloody suicides.’

He shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, that’s Christmas for you. Listen, I was thinking. . .’ He grabbed her again, wrapping his hands around her buttocks. ‘If you’ve got nothing on for the next fifteen minutes, maybe we could find a nice quiet room and—’

‘No you bloody don’t! Randy sod.’ She backed away. ‘You and your gonads can. . .’

Mr Unwin reappeared in the hallway, the wheels on his gurney squeaking as he pushed it through into the cutting room.

‘Look, I got to go, OK? Sooner we get started on this pair, the sooner I get home.’

A playful smile sneaked its way onto his face. ‘Maybe when
I
get home. . .?’ Ever the optimist.

‘Fat chance! Some of us have to get up for work in the morning.’

The smile vanished. ‘How’s Emma ever going to get a baby brother if we never do it? I could dress up: would that help? You know, be a fireman, or a doctor, or something?’

Change the subject. ‘So, what we got – pair of oldies?’

‘Naw.’ He took her hand and led her back towards the dissecting room, where Professor Muir and Mr Unwin were hefting a dark-blue body-bag onto one of the mortuary’s examination tables. ‘Quite romantic really: man and woman, both early twenties, found holding hands on the bed. Painkillers, sleeping pills, and a big bottle of milk.’

‘What the hell’s romantic about that?’

‘Decided they just couldn’t live without each other. If one of them was going to die, they were
both
going to die.’

‘Oh yeah?’

Professor Muir unzipped the bag, revealing a pretty blonde woman. Upturned nose, small overbite, and bright-red lips. Her face was plastered with make-up, hiding the bloodless yellow waxy pall of death. But from the neck down she was all corpse. And not a natural blonde either.

‘So which one was dying? Let me guess, she–’

‘It was him. We found a letter from the hospital: test results. Turns out his HIV just got upgraded to full-blown AIDS.’