‘No one’s ever paid me for sex!’ shouted Marissa. ‘Ask Don!’
He turned back with a look of sadness. She wasn’t sure if he was sad for his alcoholic wife, or himself. He helped Jeanette to a car by the kerb, easing her into the passenger seat. As they drove away, Marissa closed her eyes at the memory of him. The times when he knocked on her door late at night, when her mother was asleep, and they stole up to her bedroom. The feel of his warm body against her skin as they made love...
When she opened her eyes again, she saw the last of the passengers had dispersed into the surrounding streets, and she was alone. Snow was falling heavily, and it caught in the arcs of the bright lights around the station concourse. Marissa emerged onto the station approach, and took a right down Foxberry Road. Christmas trees glowed in the windows of the houses, and the crunch of her feet on snow broke the thick silence.
The end of the road turned sharply to the right, and became Howson Road. She hesitated. It stretched away in darkness. Several of the streetlights were out, leaving just two to illuminate a five-hundred-yard stretch lined on each side with terraced houses. She had wanted to walk this with the other commuters from the last train; there were always at least a couple of people who took the same route, and it made the walk feel safer. However, Jeanette and the two creeps at the station had put paid to that.
Marissa hurried past shadowy alleyways and dark empty windows, speeding up to each pool of light. She was relieved when the Coniston Road came out of the darkness, it was brightly lit thanks to the school at the end. She turned left, and walked past the playground, before crossing the road to her front gate. It creaked as she opened it. The windows were all dark, and the tiny front garden was bathed in shadows. She had her keys ready, and was about to put them in the lock, when she heard a soft thud behind her.
‘Jeez! You scared me, Beaker,’ she said, seeing the sleek, dark body of the cat sitting on top of the wheelie bin beside the gate. She went over and scooped him up. ‘Come on. It’s too cold for us both to be out roaming.’ Beaker purred and looked up at her with intense green eyes. She put her face against his warm fur. The cat seemed to give her a moment’s grace, then squirmed in her arms. ‘Alright, you little crap bag.’ He jumped down and darted off through the hedge to the next garden.
Marissa reached up to put her key in the lock, but the gate creaked behind her. She froze. There was a faint scrape, and then a crunch of feet on the snow. She slowly turned.
A figure in a long black trench coat stood behind her. Its face covered in a gas mask, with a hood made of shiny black leather, tightly enveloping the skull. Two large round glass eyeholes stared blankly, and the drum, or breathing apparatus, elongated the face down to where it hung just above the chest. The figure wore black gloves, and in its left hand was a long, thin knife.
Marissa scrabbled to get the key in the lock, but the figure rushed at her, grabbing her shoulder, and slamming her back against the front door. There was a flash of silver, and blood sprayed across the glass eyeholes of the mask.
Her vanity case fell to the ground, and she reached up to her neck, only then feeling the terrible pain of the deep slash across her throat. Marissa tried to scream but there was only a gurgling sound and her mouth filled with blood. She put her hands up as the figure staggered and swung the knife, slicing through two of her fingers and the material of her coat into her forearms. She was unable to breathe and gasped for air, gurgling and spraying blood. The figure grabbed the back of her head and dragged her along the path, slamming her face first into the brick gate post. Pain exploded in her face, and she heard a crack of bone.
Marissa heaved and retched, no longer able to breathe air into her flooded lungs. She watched, almost detached, as this strange figure struggled to drag her across the ground, away from the gate post to the middle of the tiny garden. The figure tottered, and looked as if it was about to fall, but kept balance. With both hands, it brought the knife back down, slicing and stabbing at her throat and neck. As her blood pumped out over the blanket of snow, and the life left her body, Marissa thought she recognised the face through the large glass eye holes of the gas mask.
Two
Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster’s alarm went off at 7 a.m., and from the depths of her bedcovers and blankets, a thin pale arm emerged and switched it off. Her bedroom was dark and chilly, and the streetlights shone through the paper-thin blinds that she’d been meaning to change for three years, but had never got around to asking her landlord about. She rolled over and pulled the covers off, then padded through to the bathroom, where she took a shower and brushed her teeth.
It was only when she had pulled on her clothes, pocketed her phone, wallet and warrant card that she remembered it was Christmas Day, and she was invited for Christmas lunch at Commander Paul Marsh’s house.
‘Shit,’ she said, sitting down on the bed. She ran a hand through her short blonde hair. ‘Shit.’
Most police officers would have seen this as a coup, an invite to spend Christmas lunch with the borough commander and his family, but for Erika, her relationship with Marsh was… complicated.
Erika had just completed work on a harrowing case, involving a young couple who had committed a string of murders. As part of their sick game, they had abducted Commander Marsh’s two small girls, and Marsh’s wife, Marcie had been attacked during the abduction. It had led to a fully-fledged man-hunt. Erika had been responsible for rescuing the girls, and she understood that Marsh and Marcie had invited her to say thank you, but she just wanted to move on.
Erika got up and opened her wardrobe, staring at the sparse rack of clothes, of which almost all were for work. Rooting through the neatly hung black trousers, sweaters and white blouses, she dug out a blue sleeveless dress. Turning to the mirror above her dressing table, she held the hanger up under her chin. Erika stood six-feet tall in bare feet. She had strong, high cheekbones, large brown eyes, and short blond hair which stuck up in wet tufts. ‘Jeez, I’m scrawny,’ she said, moulding the dress to her body, where once she’d had curves. She looked at the photo of her late husband, Mark, on the dresser. ‘Who needs Lean Cuisine, eh? Being a widow does wonders for your waistline…’ The bleakness of her humour shocked her. ‘Sorry,’ she added.
Mark had also been a police officer. Erika, Marsh and Mark had all trained together, but Mark had been killed four years previously, during a drugs raid. The photo of Mark was taken in the living room of the house that he and Erika had shared for fifteen years in Manchester. The sun streamed through the window, catching in his close-cropped blond hair to create a halo of gold. His face was handsome, his smile warm and infectious.
‘I don’t know what to say to Marsh and Marcie… I just want to turn the page and move on, without any fuss.’
Mark grinned back.
‘Bah, humbug, eh? Is it too late to think up an excuse?’
Yes, his grin seemed to say. Come on Erika, play nice.
‘You’re right, I can’t cancel… Happy Christmas.’ She put a finger to her lips and pressed it against the glass.
Erika went through to the small kitchen/living room, sparsely furnished with a little sofa, a television, and a half-empty bookshelf. Perched on top of the microwave was a tiny plastic Christmas tree. It sat on top of the telly in years gone by, but since the advent of the flat screen, the top of the microwave was the only place it could go without looking ridiculous. She switched on the coffee machine, and opened the curtains. The car park and the road beyond were under a deep carpet of snow, glowing orange under the street lights. There were no people or cars, and she felt like the only person in the world. A gust of wind blew across the ground, skimming a dusting of snow across the surface to join the banked-up drift by the car park wall.