If Snow Hadn't Fallen (a Lacey Flint short story)

would be too hard. But I had a perfect view of the park. I watched a dog, sniffing frantically the way they always seem to do in the snow, dragging its owner around the perimeter. I saw two teenage boys, hoods covering their faces and jackets pulled up around their ears, jog across the recreation ground and disappear into the distance. I watched headlights continually criss-crossing the city’s roads until I was so mesmerized I could barely blink.
    I think I’d fallen into a cold-induced stupor when she finally appeared. I must have watched her for several seconds before it dawned on me that she was actually there. I pushed myself up from the chimney. My watch told me I’d been waiting an hour. I hadn’t noticed her arrive, or slip into the park between the railings. I just saw her flowing black robes moving over the snow towards the place where Aamir had fallen. She reached the spot and crouched low like someone doubled up in pain. This was grief, plain and simple. This was grief so painful she was having difficulty functioning. This woman, whoever she might be, had loved Aamir Chowdhury, was devastated by his death.
    She stayed still for long minutes. Long enough for me to take several photographs, although I had no idea how well they’d come out. Long enough for me to focus the binoculars, although even with their help I couldn’t see much more than I already knew. Young, tall and slim, graceful. I couldn’t decide whether to run down in the hope of heading her off, or wait and see what she did. When I was just about to leave, she moved. Faster this time, but not heading for the way out. She walked to the covered seating area and then to the waste-bin fastened to one wall.
    I watched as she peered into the bin. She seemed to be moving the rubbish around, to be looking for something. I adjusted the focus on the binoculars and saw her lift something out. She held it to the light, then raised her veil and pushed it beneath. Movement beneath the veil made it pretty obvious what she was doing. She was eating whatever she’d just taken from the bin.
    The woman in black was starving.

11
    I WASN’T WORKING the next day, which was lucky, because DI Tulloch would never have given me permission to do what I planned. My first stop was at St Thomas’s hospital. I found Mr Induri, explained that the visit was in connection with my work rather than his, and he was happy enough to walk me to the cafeteria and introduce me to some of his younger colleagues, who’d also known Aamir. I talked to them for as long as they could spare, and as subtly as I could kept turning to the subject of Aamir’s love life. Did he date anyone on the hospital staff? Was there anyone he was particularly friendly with? When I came across a young, good-looking woman, I paid particular attention. Women in love have a habit of giving themselves away.
    After three hours, I was getting suspicious glances from hospital security and I’d learned nothing. Aamir had been universally respected and valued as a young doctor, but nobody had befriended him. Not because of anything they didn’t like, they added quickly, but because he had given so little of himself away. Those who knew anything about his background and culture told me that it would have been highly unusual for him to have a girlfriend. There would probably have been an arranged marriage in line for him: a young girl of good family, perhaps born and brought up in Pakistan, waiting somewhere in the wings.
    From the hospital, I went to the Islamia girls school that Aamir’s sister Amelia attended. I watched several dozen girls leave the premises and managed to spot her as she walked past me.
    ‘Hello, Amelia. I know this is distressing, but I really want to find out what happened to your brother,’ I said.
    After the first shock of recognition, she refused to look me in the eye. ‘We know what happened to my brother,’ she replied to the air just to the left of my shoulder. ‘And we know at whose hands. You simply do not have the competence to prove it.’
    According to the file, this girl was fourteen.
    ‘I just want to find out a bit more about his life,’ I tried again. ‘Siblings often confide in each other. Tell each other things they wouldn’t tell their parents.’
    A shudder seemed to run through her entire body. ‘Dutiful sons and daughters keep nothing from their parents,’ she told me.
    ‘Can you think of anyone I can talk to?’ I asked. ‘Anyone he was friends