Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | A Killing Frost

A Killing Frost
Margaret Haffner


Desperate to escape Kingsport and its horrifying memories, Catherine Edison arranges a sabbatical in southern Ontario. Atawan seems to be a friendly village, and she and her daughter settle quite happily into a big old house there. But why was the rent so cheap? And why does everyone shun the pleasant auto mechanic who fixes her car?Anxious to keep a low profile, Catherine tries to ignore the disturbing undercurrents of Atawan, but gradually she and her daughter get dragged into the whirlpool of intrigue. For beneath its calm surface Atawan seethes with hatred and deceit, and has done so ever since the brutal murder of a local woman and the acquittal of the man the locals believe to be guilty.When Catherine and her daughter befriend the wrong people, she finds herself asking questions that somebody doesn’t want answered. Little by little her circle of inquiry tightens until Catherine finds herself at the very centre, and to find the truth, she must put her own life on the line …







A KILLING FROST






Margaret Haffner












COPYRIGHT (#ulink_d69681d4-4d73-5329-8970-ad1010dba10d)

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperFiction

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Collins Crime Club

Copyright © Margaret Haffner 1994

Margaret Haffner asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780002324991

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2017 ISBN: 9780008252717

Version: 2017-03-28




DEDICATION (#ulink_c55322d9-a2c9-518e-a292-ae30e1e67a99)


For Simon, Carl, and especially Doug

for their patience and support




A KILLING FROST


Desperate to escape Kingsport and its horrifying memories, Catherine Edison arranges a sabbatical in southern Ontario. Atawan seems to be a friendly village, and she and her daughter settle quite happily into a big old house there. But why was the rent so cheap? And why does everyone shun the pleasant auto mechanic who fixes her car?

Anxious to keep a low profile, Catherine tries to ignore the disturbing undercurrents of Atawan, but gradually she and her daughter get dragged into the whirlpool of intrigue. For beneath its calm surface, Atawan seethes with hatred and deceit, and has done ever since the brutal murder of a local woman and the acquittal of the man they believe to be guilty.

When Catherine and her daughter befriend the wrong people, she finds herself asking questions that somebody doesn’t want answered. Little by little the circle of inquiry tightens until Catherine herself is at the very centre, and to find the truth, she must put her own life on the line …




CONTENTS


Cover (#uaaf6379b-ba4d-56c7-b602-5af6cce0ed24)

Title Page (#u9df39732-3089-5aed-af81-65335f21a69c)

Copyright (#ulink_37199025-b9c3-5e56-b9bf-e14686cd3d00)

Dedication (#ulink_7ef28a10-fe3e-51f8-91e2-8461e3e81cc1)

Prologue (#ulink_b070754a-e85f-5e10-87ae-618ea7596a5d)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_dca87e2a-0c07-5511-9ba3-9ec23229968a)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_33e1e6fe-15e7-5156-975a-62655b3c6a17)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_81a94352-2382-5520-a746-cd64b7d9eb64)

Chapter 4 (#ulink_21cafe80-f8e1-54b8-aecc-96fb8c037f71)

Chapter 5 (#ulink_0b685357-2a1f-5ac9-9b5e-8bead1ef9834)

Chapter 6 (#ulink_7d444b73-abbc-5430-8fc8-9ed880076596)

Chapter 7 (#ulink_b97f998c-f0b2-56e3-8b98-7afd1e8df286)

Chapter 8 (#ulink_03744721-2e6c-5891-9378-4062fea26a59)

Chapter 9 (#ulink_3b4b78ec-d818-57ef-b5ae-cdaf03d17879)

Chapter 10 (#ulink_7e008916-c56c-5816-a672-434e254bddfd)

Chapter 11 (#ulink_81557e76-3c2d-5f4f-b38d-a4f8537ff8d1)

Chapter 12 (#ulink_3783bfd5-21a5-59dc-a68b-6e72fc3d5c2e)

Chapter 13 (#ulink_4a59e582-3d10-5d54-ad5a-88b5fcc24571)

Chapter 14 (#ulink_18664708-e36e-5853-974d-e87b2587c2a6)

Chapter 15 (#ulink_e32b4db8-614b-55a7-a9e6-ac48ec0474bf)

Chapter 16 (#ulink_377bf82b-5650-5bc7-9492-75af16aadbe8)

Chapter 17 (#ulink_8874cca0-56a2-55d4-979e-ee645a34005d)

Chapter 18 (#ulink_4f626b6b-3df0-5523-962a-528777d07581)

Chapter 19 (#ulink_be84a46a-9322-5d0e-a272-133afef466ab)

Chapter 20 (#ulink_34f3d1dc-f5cf-5763-861c-4050c468daf4)

Chapter 21 (#ulink_5a62262f-9109-5ca0-a867-e5340b6ed083)

Chapter 22 (#ulink_fb467d3d-83b2-5fbc-ab20-29cfb108f3c3)

Chapter 23 (#ulink_502795a3-eeb6-56bb-b333-7c72ea2598d5)

Chapter 24 (#ulink_80ca2ae6-b909-5e18-acf1-55e0d0416c2f)

Chapter 25 (#ulink_409367ca-333d-5712-a421-13b28549fe42)

Chapter 26 (#ulink_dce1792c-37fb-579e-b9a0-a95b23afef29)

Chapter 27 (#ulink_e36aca0e-24db-5069-a8fc-d414f771e071)

Chapter 28 (#ulink_d671567c-b7ef-5a59-9e1f-9299f2a6921c)

Chapter 29 (#ulink_6984eccd-27a6-5f11-94c7-6169233ce9f9)

Keep Reading (#u5dd72d00-53f4-5e7b-a3b1-79846beeaa56)

Other Books By (#ulink_912665b1-9867-5785-8231-983266559dfe)

About the Publisher




PROLOGUE (#ulink_e56adb55-3801-5470-9a43-96efe41925c9)


Tracy Tomachuk heaved a sigh of relief as she shut the door behind Michael and Darryl. ‘Thank you, Edna.’ She whispered a prayer of thanks to Darryl’s mother. Out of the blue, the woman had offered to take Michael for the night. The two nine-year-olds would be up till all hours playing Lego and Nintendo, but it was Edna’s problem, not hers.

As she turned away from the door, Tracy’s eye caught her reflection in the mirror over the hall table and she paused. Yet another wave of annoyance washed over her as she brushed ineffectually at the brown coffee stain on the pocket of her blue dress. Look what Ed had made her do – and it was her favourite dress. The saleswoman had said the colour complemented her eyes.

She scowled at her reflection. Tonight, the most noticeable aspect of her eyes was the matched set of bags under them. God she felt old! When she’d hit forty at her last birthday, it was as if her warranty had run out. Her back ached, her joints creaked and overnight grey hairs sprouted like mushrooms. At least they didn’t show too much in her blonde hair.

She flopped down on the chesterfield in the living-room. Maybe she shouldn’t have been quite so stubborn with Ed – eligible men were as rare in her life as ten-carat diamonds. Still, he wanted to run her life, and that temper of his … Men.

She picked up the remote control, switched on the television and scanned through the channels. Junk. As usual. She snapped it off again and jumped up to circle the living-room restlessly. Men. She’d been having her problems with them lately, that was for sure. First her boss, then Ernie pestering her, and now Ed. Of their own accord her eyes strayed to the buffet. Don’t be silly, she told herself. The papers are safe. Now all you have to do is decide what to do with them.

Stretching out on the chesterfield, she turned the television on again. She didn’t want to think about anything. A vacuous sitcom was all she could handle right now.

Tracy woke with a start. The television still blabbed in the corner, but she knew that wasn’t what had awakened her. Shivering, she wrapped her arms about herself and staggered up from the couch in confusion. When the doorbell rang again, it took her a few moments to figure out what it was. ‘What the hell … ?’ She stumbled forward, checking her watch. Who would be calling at midnight?

Opening the door, she stared in annoyance at her visitor. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again,’ she said rudely.

‘May I come in?’

‘Do you know what time it is?’ she demanded.

‘I need to talk to you.’

Hand on hip, she stood blocking the entrance. The chill November wind whipped around the hem of her dress, transmitting a wave of goose bumps up her legs.

‘Just five minutes, that’s all. I promise.’

Reluctantly, Tracy stepped aside. ‘Five minutes. Say your piece and then go.’

Once inside, her visitor seemed to fill the small foyer. ‘Have you thought about what I said?’

‘I haven’t changed my mind, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

‘But you must.’

A hand was laid on her arm but Tracy shook it off. ‘Keep your hands off me!’ she shouted. She knew she was overreacting, but she felt disoriented from being suddenly awakened. Taking a deep breath, she moderated her tone. ‘I told you my decision. It’s final.’ She reached for the door handle. ‘You might as well go home and get some sleep.’

‘Not so fast …’ Strong fingers grasped her wrist and pulled her hand from the doorknob.

‘Let me go!’ As the grip tightened, a finger of fear traced her spine. ‘You’re hurting me. You have no right …’ Indignation and apprehension sent her voice shrieking upwards. The grin that her words elicited chilled her. ‘Come on, this isn’t funny. Be serious,’ she coaxed, straining to break free.

‘I am serious. Deadly serious.’

Tracy squealed with pain as her arm was twisted behind her back. Cold eyes, empty of compassion and reason, stared into hers.

She shuddered when the gaze shifted, releasing her from her paralysis. As Tracy struggled to free herself, she saw her assailant’s other hand snatch up her new red scarf from the hall table. Before she could even guess the reason, the scarf coiled around her throat.

Her two hands suddenly free, Tracy scrabbled at the choking tie. She struggled as cords of pain tightened around her convulsing lungs. Desperately, she kicked at her attacker’s shins, but she might as well have kicked a mountain. She tried to speak, to say she’d changed her mind, but the tongue protruding from her mouth couldn’t form the words. Red haze misted her sight as her knees buckled. In this world, utter terror was the last thing Tracy felt.




1 (#ulink_effeca7d-7d91-5f15-938d-a94cec956358)


Ed Royce sat in the courtroom with his head in his hands. Beside him, bored but still alert, his guard kept a wary eye on him. At a scarred table in front of him, his lawyer shuffled papers and tried to conceal her anxiety as they waited for the jury to file in. Ed tried to blank out all thoughts and focus on nothing, but pictures kaleidoscoped in his mind. Tracy’s nude, sprawled body … Her distorted and protruding tongue … The colourful splash of the blood red scarf tightened like a garrotte around her slim neck. Handcuffs around his own wrists. His son’s white, agonized face. The quivering jowls of the relentless prosecutor. The revulsion on the faces of the jurors. Dear God, they were going to convict him! He’d never make it in prison. Being kept in gaol while he awaited trial had been bad enough, but the stories he’d heard about the federal prisons … He clenched his teeth and gripped his hair until his knuckles whitened.

He knew he’d blown it in the witness box. He should have heeded his lawyer’s advice and refused to take the stand. Until he’d lost his temper, all they had was circumstantial evidence. He groaned. He’d have plenty of time to work on his self-control while serving a life term for second-degree murder.

Ed shifted slightly in his seat so that he could see some of the spectators filling the rows of seats behind him. Since all the ghouls come out for murder trials – especially ones with a hint of sex – there were only a few empty seats. Even those people talking with their neighbours periodically glanced at him, the accused. He wondered why they bothered. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, not even odd-looking. Without putting his hand to his head, he knew his wavy blond hair looked uncombed – it always did. And his glasses had slid down his nose again. Although he’d lost his incipient paunch in gaol, he still didn’t look like either a hero or a villain. He hated the stares, but the armed policeman by his side ensured he stayed on display like some exhibit in a freak show. Step right up folks! See the two-headed monster, the dog-faced boy, the strangler. He couldn’t bear to see the blood lust in their eyes so he turned back to face the judge’s bench.

Again his thoughts returned to his own testimony. He’d proven the reports of his lightning temper, but at least he hadn’t admitted having a fight with Tracy the night she died. Even under oath he’d denied it and the only person who could have contradicted him was a senile old man who wouldn’t swear the male voice belonged to Ed. Ed sighed. It wasn’t the words he’d said in court, but how he’d said them. His vehemence had made him sound belligerent and unconvincing and the more nervous he got, the more strident his tone became. He buried his head in his hands. What would happen to his son?

Ed’s head jerked up. He hadn’t heard the jury arrive, but there they were, twelve of his peers, solemnly staring at him. He tried to read the verdict on their faces but he couldn’t tell. No one smiled at him. The judge examined him over the frames of his gold-rimmed glasses, then addressed the jury.

‘Foreman, have you reached your verdict?’

The foreman, a stout middle-aged woman sporting a black mole beside her narrow mouth, rose and cleared her throat. She turned her flinty face towards the defendant and Ed saw tombstones in her eyes. He ran a finger under his collar and licked his parched lips as he waited the eternity until she spoke. ‘We have, Your Honour.’ Her voice grated like a rusty padlock in Ed’s ears.

‘And how do you find the accused?’

‘We find the accused not guilty, Your Honour.’

Ed heard the words but they didn’t register until Sue Weldon, his lawyer, squealed with delight. The haggard, hunted look which had inhabited his features for months melted with the dawning of his huge smile. Even before the judge retired, Ed lifted Sue off her feet and swung her around. She giggled as he finally put her down.

‘Where’s Jason?’ he asked. His searching eyes found his fifteen-year-old son struggling through the crowd. Dancing with excitement, Ed waved. ‘Jason, I’m free!’ Jason’s smile mirrored his own as they found and hugged each other.

‘Oh, Dad … it’s over. At last it’s over.’

Ed closed his eyes, absorbing and magnifying Jason’s delight. When they finally eased apart, they glowed.

‘Congratulations, Ed.’ Jason’s grandmother extended her hand but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She’d always been a little wary of her dead daughter’s husband.

Ed touched her fingers. ‘Thank you, Vera. Thanks for looking after Jason.’

The smile finally kindled in her eyes as she put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I’m always happy to spend time with my Angela’s boy, even under difficult circumstances.’

Ed’s attention was captured by the jury foreman. ‘Congratulations, Mr Royce.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Fitch. Thank you.’ He kissed her cheek. That mole of hers was quite attractive after all, he thought. Wonderful woman. Very perceptive. He wallowed in happiness and relief. Even the sun chose to break through the clouds at this moment, its beams streaming through the window on to the celebrants.

The crowd thinned, leaving only a few people in the courtroom. Ed scanned the faces, ready to share his elation, but his grin froze in place as he caught the eye of Paul Desrochers. The man glared at him and shook his fist. Ed turned away – he didn’t want to deal with the representative of the dead woman’s young son.

Jason tapped his father’s shoulder. ‘Dad? What about that dinner you promised? Can we go celebrate?’

Ed laughed, tilting his face to the sunshine and letting his joy bubble out. ‘You bet. The biggest steaks this side of Alberta.’ He threaded his arms through those of his mother-in-law and his lawyer. ‘Coming, ladies?’

Ed could hear the regular breathing of his son in the other bed as he lay awake in his hotel room. His euphoria had worn off and, while he was still a happy man, he’d come back down to earth. Tomorrow, he and Jason would be returning to Atawan where many of the villagers were convinced he’d murdered Tracy – one of their own. Would they accept the verdict?

He threw off his tangled blankets and got up. By the dim light of the city filtering through the curtains he made his way to the bar fridge and poured two fingers of rye. He took a sip, savouring the burn on his tongue. Alcohol hadn’t been allowed in the gaol where he’d languished for ten long months awaiting trial. Again he cursed the judge who set the bail at two hundred thousand dollars. Even if he’d sold his garage business he couldn’t have raised that much. He took another sip, a bigger one this time, and sighed. At least his mother-in-law had taken Jason to her home in Toronto so the boy wasn’t around to hear the town try and convict his father before Tracy’s body was even in the ground. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Let them eat crow. He was returning a free man and they couldn’t do anything about it. They couldn’t hurt him now. Ed’s gaze found the shadowy outline of his son and his satisfied grin faded. He just hoped the people of Atawan would be kind to Jason whatever they thought of him.




2 (#ulink_7b75c6e1-d2df-5777-a98f-2de2ab771f32)


Catherine Edison took off her glasses, swept her shoulder-length chestnut hair out of her grey eyes, and rubbed a soiled hand across her damp forehead. ‘Enough is enough,’ she panted, flopping on to the bare mattress and letting the cleaning rag drop to the floor. She’d always hated moving. Not that there had been many things to move this time – it was a furnished house she’d rented, but it had been vacant almost a year and the grime had built up. She turned her head sideways and blew at the dust on top of the night table. It eddied in the hot glare of the sunlight, making her sneeze. Who am I trying to impress, she asked herself? I’ve never been a clean freak – dirt’s healthy and builds up the immune system.

She heard a clatter on the stairs and then a dimpled fifteen-year-old face appeared in the doorway. ‘Caught you in the act,’ the girl declared. ‘You’re lying down on the job.’

Catherine glanced up at her daughter. ‘Take a break. The dirt’s not going anywhere.’

‘Move over then.’ Morgan collapsed beside her mother and they lay in companionable silence. The house stood on a quiet street at the edge of town and only the faintest hum of traffic reached their ears. They listened to the dust settle.

Catherine looked at her daughter and smiled. Morgan didn’t have as much of a tan as she usually had at the end of August but the light golden colour suited her. She’d lost the unhealthy pallor her mother still displayed. Catherine mussed Morgan’s curly hair. ‘Well, honey? Do you like the place?’

‘It’s not what I pictured …’ Morgan answered diplomatically.

‘It’s exactly as I described it,’ her mother protested. ‘It’s brick, three-storey, a hundred years old and in a secluded area.’

‘This isn’t secluded, Mom. It’s nowhere. We’re beyond the fringes of civilization … where no man has gone before.’

Catherine smoothed down the curls she’d messed up. ‘We agreed we wanted to move to a small town.’

Morgan grimaced. ‘Small, yes. Microscopic, no.’

‘Come on, honey, there aren’t many jobs for me outside cities. This private agrochemical company seems ideal for a sabbatical.’ She rolled over to face her daughter. ‘Do you really hate it here?’

Morgan propped herself on her elbow and shook her head. ‘It’ll be OK. Anything’s better than Kingsport for the moment.’ She chewed her already short fingernails. ‘Are you sure they’ll have forgotten about us when we get back?’

‘I’m sure.’ Catherine sighed. ‘Something else will happen to take the spotlight away from us.’

As Morgan turned away to hide the tears in her blue eyes, anger burned again in the pit of Catherine’s stomach. Damn them to hell. How could people be so cruel? Catherine hugged her daughter and stroked her shining hair. How many gallons of tears had the two of them shed in the past five months? No one in this village of Atawan knew anything about them. Maybe here they’d have the chance to heal. Nothing horrible could happen in this dull, rural countryside.

Morgan blew her nose noisily. ‘How about spaghetti for dinner, Mom?’ She bounced up and pasted a determined smile on her lips. ‘I know how you love my famous spaghetti.’

Catherine returned her smile. ‘I think there’s a can of sauce in the pantry. While you heat it, I’ll make up our beds.’

When Morgan had disappeared, Catherine struggled to a sitting position. She looked at her surroundings. Except for the air of neglect, the house wasn’t bad and although old, it hadn’t fallen into decay. But why had a four-bedroom, well-furnished house rented so cheaply? She fluffed the dust out of her hair. Maybe way out here in the agricultural belt real estate prices were depressed.

She rummaged in a box for sheets and surfaced with a striped set she had brought from Kingsport. Flapping the sheet over the bed, she raised more dust and doubled over in a paroxysm of sneezing. When finally her fit ceased, Catherine leaned on the doorframe. She’d have to find the vacuum cleaner as soon as possible, she decided, sniffing and wiping her streaming eyes. The dust wouldn’t wait after all.

‘Tomorrow, we’ll go over to the high school and register you,’ Catherine said as they ate dinner. ‘We have an appointment with the vice-principal at nine-thirty.’ Noticing the frown on Morgan’s face, she reached out a comforting hand. ‘I know it’s tough to start at a new school, but at least it’s the beginning of the year. There’ll be lots of new kids.’

‘In Atawan? They were probably all born here. Who would move to a place like this?’

‘We would. And so would the other staff at Agromics … and their families. I’m sure Atawan is more dynamic than it looks.’

‘That wouldn’t be hard.’ Morgan got up and started clearing the table. ‘Are you going to work tomorrow?’

‘Just for the afternoon. You can go for a walk or something.’ She pointed out of the kitchen window. ‘There’s a belt of trees behind the house that looks worth investigating.’

After their gourmet dinner, Catherine decided to look for the vacuum cleaner while Morgan washed the dishes. The only part of the house she hadn’t yet been in was the basement. At the top of the steep stairway she flicked the light switch. Nothing. ‘Damn,’ she hissed in exasperation. She hated dark, musty places. Where had she seen a flashlight?

Carrying both a flashlight and a new light bulb, Catherine carefully negotiated the open staircase. She directed the wavering circle of light towards the ceiling, illuminating the open rafters and cobwebs and then at last a naked light bulb hanging from a frayed cord.

She stood on a rickety chair and stretched to twist in the new bulb with her right hand. She leaned her weak left arm, injured in a car accident two years before, against the back of the chair for an illusion of security. When the bulb blazed into life she squinted and turned away. Even with the light, most of the basement still lurked in shadow. When she had agreed to rent the house, Catherine hadn’t bothered examining the cellar – furnaces and plumbing were unknown territories for her. Now, as she looked around, she wished she’d taken the time. The age of the house showed all too clearly down here.

By the stairs, a relatively new washer and dryer were paired with the laundry sink and the hot-water tank. The rest of the space between the bare rock walls was dotted with the accumulated detritus of years past. Catherine skirted an old baby carriage and the cannibalized corpse of a bicycle to examine the deep shelves on the far wall. They were lined with preserving jars – a few of them looked full. She ran her fingers over the dusty labels. Strawberry jam. Peach chutney. Chilli sauce. Lifting one jar she examined the seal. It looked intact. ‘I wonder if I should use this stuff?’ she murmured. She turned the jar in her fingers. ‘How old is it?’ She shrugged and put it back as another container caught her eye. It looked like a jar of grey dirt. Picking it up, she peered at it in the dim light. It resembled the samples she took to collect certain species of soil fungi. The handwritten label said: ‘Sample sent to Colton Laboratories, October 7’. The next line gave what looked like a lot and concession number. As Catherine returned the jar to the shelf she couldn’t help wondering about the previous inhabitant of the house. Another scientist?

Turning away from the shelves, she noticed the small window above her head. Outside, the dusk had deepened to night and presented a dark backdrop to her pale reflection. She reached up and felt the window frame. It was soft and rotted. She shivered. She didn’t need any visitors sneaking into her house – she’d had enough unpleasant surprises in the past year to last a lifetime. She’d have to have her landlord secure the opening as soon as possible.

On the far side of the furnace, she at last found the vacuum cleaner. It looked old and heavy but the agent had insisted all the appliances worked. She lugged it upstairs, plugged it in and got to work, forgetting all about the window.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/margaret-haffner/a-killing-frost/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.