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

Tulloch.
    ‘OK, I know I shouldn’t have done it, but it worked,’ I said. ‘We all know the investigation had stalled. I kick-started it.’
    Anderson got up too. ‘Ma’am, do you need me to organize getting them picked up?’ he said.
    ‘In hand,’ replied Tulloch. ‘They’re all on their way to Lewisham. From what I’ve heard, though, they were all tucked up in their own beds when our chaps came knocking. It won’t be easy to shake them.’
    ‘Two of them will be covered in petrol,’ I said.
    ‘They weren’t last time,’ replied Tulloch.
    ‘I rattled them,’ I said, with increasing confidence. ‘The fact that you’re not ripping my head off means you know I’m right. They panicked, and if we can make them do it again, they could give themselves away.’
    ‘The fact that I haven’t yet ripped your head off doesn’t mean I won’t,’ snapped Tulloch. ‘First, I want to know who you’ve had sleeping in your shed. Lady in black garments, by any chance?’
    Shit! She’d come back. Before locking the flat last night, I’d taken a spare duvet and pillow and more food out to the shed. If the woman in black had been found by the gang – I was up, heading out. Tulloch put up a hand to stop me.
    ‘Stay where you are,’ she told me. ‘And talk.’
    I talked. No point not doing.
    ‘This is a friggin’ mess,’ said Anderson, when I’d done. Tulloch showed no sign of disagreeing. Nor could I, in fairness.
    ‘It’s obvious what we have to do next,’ I said, as Mizon, pink-faced from her encounter with the burly fireman, came back. ‘Surveillance on the park to find the burka woman before they do. And we have to rattle them some more.’
    ‘And we do that how, exactly?’ asked Tulloch.
    ‘We have to make them think we have something on them and that I’m the key. They’ll come after me again, and next time, we’ll be ready.’
    Tulloch and Anderson looked at each other and shook their heads in disbelief. If they’d practised the move before coming out, it couldn’t have looked more coordinated.
    ‘The security on this flat is first rate,’ I said. ‘Scotland Yard installed it. So we reactivate the surveillance equipment, and next time they come calling, we have them.’
    ‘So you’re suggesting you make yourself bait?’ said Anderson. ‘Again?’
    I shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve had some experience,’ I said.
    Tulloch was shaking her head.
    ‘Three killers were in my garden tonight,’ I reminded her. ‘Another two at my front door. The footprint will confirm that. It took nearly twenty years to bring Stephen Lawrence’s killers to justice. Do you really want a case like that on your CV?’
    Tulloch dropped her head into her hands. ‘Mark will kill me,’ she muttered.

19
    I’M NOT A good sleeper at the best of times, and this was hardly one of those. After everyone left I dozed, had a few odd, short dreams, and time after time found myself staring at the ceiling, listening for movement outside. At around half past four in the morning, I heard it. The door to the shed was being pulled shut.
    I got up and tugged on clothes and trainers, surprised at how calm I felt, but somehow I didn’t think it was the masked men out there. My first move was into the living room to make sure the letter-box was holding firm. It was. A peek through the curtains told me that no one was at the front door. In the conservatory I held my breath to keep the glass from steaming up. Nothing in the garden that I could see. I had my torch. Before venturing out, I was going to shine it into every dark corner. I also had a very sharp knife, the best impromptu weapon I could find. Then the shed door swung open and there was the woman in black, spinning on the spot in a slow, lazy circle.
    I watched for a second or two. She hadn’t switched on the shed light, it was almost impossible to make out what she was doing. Twirling? Dancing? The open shed door seemed hardly to bother her. I risked the torch, sending a long white beam across the garden to focus on the rotating dark figure. Whose feet weren’t touching the ground.
    I reached her in seconds, but it took valuable minutes to cut her down. She’d lifted the punchbag off its ceiling hook and tied a length of strong, nylon rope in its place. The other end of the rope was tight around her neck. If she’d had some experience of making nooses, I’d almost certainly have been too late. Her neck would have broken the second her body fell. At it was,