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

filling. I remained at the window for one last second.
    And there she was. Unmistakable against the backdrop of white. A solitary figure in the park, wearing long, loose robes of black, on the exact spot where the man had died. I only saw her for a few seconds before the lights flicked on, but I could tell that she was both tall and slim, and, even standing statue-still, she gave the impression of both poise and grace. At the same time, her bowed head, her clenched hands, spoke of terrible sadness.
    I don’t believe in ghosts. The world we know has more than enough to scare us, without us conjuring up imaginary fears of our own. But there was something about the sight of her that struck me hard, causing an almost physical reaction. I was conscious of a constriction in my chest, a trembling in my hands, the slightest feeling of breathlessness.
    I made my excuses to the elderly couple and ran back down to the street. Whilst I had no real reason to connect the woman in the park with the crime, something about the graceful but slightly shapeless way the robes had hung around her body had made me think of the burka. And her head had been indistinct, as though a loose headscarf covered it. I was pretty certain she was a Muslim woman come to grieve alone at the spot where someone close to her had died. And that might not go well.
    Just over a week after the murder, the public mood remained highly volatile. There had been several racially tainted incidents, insignificant in themselves, but worrying in their number. Flowers had been left at the park for the man who’d died. And those same flowers had been pissed on by the less sympathetic. I really didn’t fancy the chances of a Muslim woman on her own, confronted by a few of our local yobs. I stopped at the park gates. After the murder, the Parks Department had increased security to the tune of two heavy-duty chains, secured with padlocks, around the gates. They were still in place.
    So how had my quarry got in? Climbing railings wasn’t too tricky – I was about to do it myself – but in an ankle-length robe? And, more to the point, how had she got out? Because she wasn’t there any more.
    I stepped closer, almost touching the cellophane-wrapped flowers that lined the railings. Still no sign of her. I found a crossbar on the gates that would give me enough height and scrambled up, swung both legs over and dropped to the ground.
    I was probably imagining the smell of petrol and charred flesh that still seemed to cling to the foliage in the park, but the footsteps that I could see ahead of me were real enough. She’d walked through the snow, the hem of her robes trailing wet and sodden, but she hadn’t entered the park via these gates.
    Getting edgy now – I really didn’t like this park – I stepped forward on clean, fresh snow until I reached the spot where Aamir Chowdhury had died. The woman had come from beyond the children’s playground. I could see her steps leading towards the spot and away from it again. I could also see the indistinct sweeping marks her robes had made as she walked here.
    Should I follow her or not? Her misery had been apparent, even from the top flat of a house yards away. Why would I intrude on the grief of a mother or wife? Except Aamir hadn’t been married, and the mother I remembered was much smaller and squatter than the figure I’d just seen. A sister seemed most likely. Or girlfriend. But Muslim women wearing burkas didn’t usually have boyfriends.
    And how often did you see a veiled Muslim woman out alone at night? I wasn’t sure I ever had before. These women were protected, guarded closely. Independence of movement, especially at night, was largely denied them.
    The park was long and narrow, with dense planting lining its perimeter. To my right, behind a curving wall of laurel bushes, was the young children’s play area. There were swings, a roundabout, a large tree-house complex with slides and stepping-stones. The eastern side of the park was aimed at older children and teenagers. There was a skateboard ramp and a BMX track. Ahead of me was a circular structure of sheltered seating.
    Without the snow, it would have been impossible to know where she’d gone. With it, I knew exactly where she must be; I just wasn’t sure whether I was going to follow her.
    And as though my thoughts had the power to conjure her out of the ether, she appeared. She must have sidestepped from behind the children’s slide, but to my