LITMIR.BIZ

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      Fry watched the pathologist taking a temperature and examining the corpse’s skin for lividity. The dead man was dressed in a dark suit that bore the marks of the snowplough blade where it had gouged into him and tossed him on to the roadside verge like a sack of rubbish. The blue overnight bag that had been found with him stood a few feet away. He could almost have been a passenger stranded at a snowbound airport, sleeping uncomfortably on the floor of the terminal as he waited for a flight that would never leave.

      Murfin surreptitiously chewed something and swallowed. When he opened his mouth, Fry imagined she could see tiny particles of chocolate hanging in the cloud of his breath, perhaps a sweet-flavoured mist that drifted and dissipated in the sharp air. ‘I think I’ve got it, sir,’ he said.

      ‘Yes, Gavin?’

      ‘The snowplough driver is a vampire. He sucked all the blood out of the body, and he never left a drop.’

      Fry turned away so that they wouldn’t see her expression. She felt the irritation turning to exasperation, and she had to take a few deep breaths of the ice-cold air to control it. She wanted to slap DC Murfin round the head a few times, but she couldn’t do it with the DI present. Worst of all, she knew that Murfin would be hers for the duration of the enquiry.

      ‘Well, well,’ said Hitchens. ‘Our first vampire killer in E Division. That’s going to be a tricky one to do the paperwork on, Gavin. I don’t think we’ve even got a form for it.’

      Murfin grinned. His lips began to move, and he patted his pockets, seeking something else to eat – a Snickers bar, a packet of sweets, there would be something there. Fry could see that he was thinking. His brain was occupied with a difficult challenge, and it wasn’t the detection of a crime.

      ‘Everybody has their cross to bear, sir,’ he said.

      Mrs Van Doon turned, distracted by the chatter. ‘If you really want to know, this man’s heart had long since stopped,’ she said. ‘No heart pumping means no blood. Your corpse was already quite dead when the snowplough hit him.’

      The pathologist began packing her bag. Fry wanted to help her. In fact, she wanted to go with her, to get out of the atmosphere here and into a nice warm mortuary, among peaceful company that didn’t crack stupid jokes or leave prawn crackers trampled into the carpet of her car. Mrs Van Doon looked tired. Like all of them, she was overworked at the moment.

      Fry did one more stretch, inhaled and exhaled deeply, and felt her body tingle with the extra oxygen.

      ‘I dunno about that,’ said Murfin. ‘I still like the vampire theory myself.’

      ‘Excuse me,’ said the pathologist. ‘I think I’m finished here for now.’

      Fry had to stand back out of the way to allow her past. She wanted to exchange a look, to share a little sympathy. But the woman’s head was down, and she didn’t look up. There were tired lines around her eyes and blue patches under them. Fry recalled that, according to the gossip at divisional headquarters, their old DCI, Stewart Tailby, had once had a personal interest in Juliana Van Doon, but nothing had come of it. Tailby was soon to make the move to an admin job in Ripley. Now Mrs Van Doon looked as though she had seen too many dead bodies.

      ‘You see, I reckon I know that bloke who was driving the snowplough,’ said Murfin. ‘And I’ve never seen him out in the sunlight.’

      The pathologist walked back to her car and began stripping off her suit. Fry picked up Mrs Van Doon’s case and held on to it for a moment as the woman reached out to take it from her. Their eyes met, but neither of them spoke.

      ‘What do you think, Doc? Should we take a blood sample from him?’ called Murfin. ‘I don’t mean the dead man, I mean the undead one, so to speak. We might get a cross-match.’

      Murfin barked with laughter. It was a very realistic bark, like the ‘arf-arf’ of a fat King Charles spaniel. It echoed off the banks of snow on either side and caused little avalanches on to the roadway. Mrs Van Doon took off her overshoes, piled her gear into the back of her car and drove off without another word, spraying a gallon of slush on to Murfin’s fur boots as she accelerated away.

      ‘Was it something I said?’ asked Murfin.

      ‘Oh no,’ said Hitchens. ‘You’ve been eating garlic for breakfast again.’

      Ben Cooper found the CID room icy cold and deserted. Obviously, the central heating radiators on this floor weren’t working again. He could smell food. Tomato sauce and garlic. So Gavin Murfin hadn’t been gone all that long. At any other time, Cooper would have opened a window to let in some fresh air, but his fingers were already starting to go so numb that he could barely hold a pen.

      There were files piled on his desk, with yellow notes stuck all over them. It looked like a crop of daffodils had suddenly bloomed, despite the chilly air. He saw that one of the notes was much bigger than the others and was written in black marker pen of the kind used for exhibit labels. He didn’t know what to do with it, or whether he should even touch it. For all he knew, it might be vital evidence in a forthcoming prosecution. All it said was: ‘We’ve got our heater back, you bastards!’

      Cooper rang down to the control room.

      ‘DC Cooper here. Can you tell me what’s going on?’

      ‘DC Cooper? We’ve been trying to contact you since seven forty-two.’

      ‘Well, I’m here now. What’s going on?’

      ‘You were supposed to be on duty at seven.’

      ‘Yes, I know. You must have a record of the way I was left stranded with a prisoner on Hollowgate for half an hour waiting for a pick-up that never came? I had to walk up Spital Hill and meet a PC who couldn’t even stay on his feet for thirty seconds. He looked like a reject from the Northern Ballet Company. Since I got here, I’ve been processing the prisoner through custody.’

      There was a pause as the operator consulted somebody in the control room. ‘We’re a bit stretched at the moment,’ she said.

      ‘Tell me about it.’

      ‘There are several messages from DS Fry,’ said the operator accusingly. ‘Three of them are marked urgent.’

      Cooper sighed. ‘So where am I supposed to be, apart from three places at once?’

      ‘The body of an unidentified white male was found on the A57 Snake Pass, two hundred yards west of the Snake Inn,’ said the operator.

      ‘Is the road clear?’

      ‘According to our latest information, it’s passable with care.’

      ‘OK, I’m on my way.’

      ‘Er, we do have some later messages,’ said the operator.

      ‘Yeah?’

      ‘I could probably just skip to the last one. It says: “Don’t bother.”’

      ‘What does that mean?’

      ‘I suppose it means they’ve managed without you, dear.’

      Cooper blinked. Suddenly, the control-room operator sounded like his mother. Or at least, like his mother used to before she became ill.

      ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said, and put the phone down. He looked again at the files on his desk. It seemed he was muggins again, the sucker landed with the work that nobody else wanted, not when there was something more interesting to do. And it was all because he had set off for work early and found Eddie Kemp in that café. Next time, he would know better. Next time, he would pretend he hadn’t recognized the suspect, as ninety per cent of his colleagues would have done when they weren’t officially on duty. That’s exactly what he would do next time. Maybe.

      Cooper slouched across the room to see if he could dredge any warmth out of the radiator. As he moved, his left foot squelched.

      Frank Baine banged the bell for

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