Dead of Winter by Elizabeth Corley Read Free Book Online Page A

van was bearing down on him fast, wheels sliding on the icy tarmac, the back slewing as Dan brought it back under control and put his foot down.
    Steve managed to roll to one side into a space between two parked cars, headache forgotten. The van sped by him less thana yard away and he had a brief glimpse of Dan’s white face and staring eyes.
    ‘You could’ve fucking killed me!’ he shouted into the exhaust fumes. ‘Bloody idiot!’
    ‘Are you all right?’
    A lady in her seventies, in a thick tweed coat and woollen hat, was standing over him.
    ‘I have his registration number, you know, and I saw him drive at you after you’d fallen over. I would happily be a witness should you wish to call the police.’
    That was the last thing Steve needed. After years of avoiding the attention of the law he didn’t want it to start now.
    ‘No, thanks, love, I’m OK.’
    ‘He really was driving most dangerously. I feel we should alert the police in case he does some damage. Maybe he had been drinking.’
    ‘He hadn’t. I know him, see, and he’s not a drinker. He was upset; been visiting his mum, like, and she’s not well. I don’t think he even saw me.’
    ‘Well, if you’re sure …’ the lady said, perhaps softened by the idea of a distraught son.
    ‘Really,’ Steve smiled at her. ‘No harm done.’
    He walked back to his car slowly, deep in thought. He really was very worried about Dan.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Fenwick’s regular meeting with Acting Chief Constable Alastair Harper-Brown was on the first Wednesday of the month at nine o’clock. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Today’s discussion would be dominated by Harlden’s lack of progress in tracking down the sex pest turned rapist, Flash Harry, and the need for MCS to assume responsibility for the investigation. Fenwick should have called Alison Whitby a week ago but he had been reluctant to trample on Nightingale’s patch. Her prickly response to his phone call made him uncomfortable whenever he thought about it.
    Harper-Brown would argue that it was beyond Harlden’s ability, which might be true but if the case was going to be moved Fenwick would rather it were transferred to the specialist sex crimes unit. Harper-Brown was nothing if not a logical man and Fenwick was rehearsing his arguments as he packed his briefcase and left home, running to the car because it was starting to snow.
    Fenwick had allowed time for a coffee and stopped at his favourite provider, a supposedly Italian café in Harlden. Run by two Polish brothers, one of whom had done time, it served the best espresso in town and he indulged in two each morning. Fenwick declined ‘Luigi’s’ offer of complimentary biscotti, pulling his coat collar up as he left.
    It would take him an hour to reach HQ on roads made dangerous by fresh snow over ice. If he had wanted, Fenwick could have asked for a driver, but on Wednesdays he preferred to look after himself. It gave him complete privacy to think. How much room to negotiate would Harper-Brown give him? Not a lot but more than when he had first become head of MCS. Since taking over two years ago he and Harper-Brown had come to respect each other, despite their very different approaches to detective work.
    Fenwick still believed in the hard graft of policing, with science and profiling as aids to, not substitutes for, brains, legwork and proper-sized teams. Harper-Brown was a modernist, eager to embrace each new management technique thrust onto the force by consultants, encouraged by civil servants who sought improved efficiency and reduced costs without their ministry appearing weak on crime. Their different philosophies led to conflicts and the men would never like each other but Fenwick’s detection rate was one of the highest in the south of England and the statistics he had to submit at tedious intervals helped Harper-Brown’s averages.
    Fenwick was stuck in a traffic jam when his mobile rang. It was Dawn, Harper-Brown’s