Blood Runs Cold

Copyright

This 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.

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008

Copyright © Alex Barclay 2008

Cover design layout © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Lyrics to ‘Kiss Me, I’m Shitfaced’ Used by permission from Dropkick Murphys/Boston Scally Punk © Dropkick Murphys 2003.

Lyrics to ‘Hello in There’ by John Prine © Walden Music Inc. and Sour Grapes Music Inc. Used by permission from Alfred Publishing Inc.

Lyrics to ‘She Is My Everything’ by John Prine © 2005 TommyJack Music. Used by permission from TommyJack Music.

The Author and Publishers are committed to respecting the intellectual property rights of others and have made all reasonable efforts to trace the copyright owners of the poems reproduced in the Prologue and Chapter 64, and to provide an appropriate acknowledgement in the book.

In the event that any of the untraceable copyright owners come forward after publication of this book, the Author and Publishers will use all reasonable endeavours to rectify the position accordingly.

Alex Barclay 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 e-book 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 e-books

Source ISBN: 9780008180867

Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007287260

Version: 2016-05-13

Praise for Alex Barclay

‘The rising star of the hard-boiled crime fiction world, combining wild characters, surprising plots and massive backdrops with a touch of dry humour’ Mirror

‘Tense, no-punches-pulled thriller that will have you on the edge of your deckchair’ Woman and Home

‘Explosive’ Company

‘Darkhouse is a terrific debut by an exciting new writer’ Independent on Sunday

‘Compelling’ Glamour

‘Excellent summer reading … Barclay has the confidence to move her story along slowly, and deftly explores the relationships between her characters’ Sunday Telegraph

‘The thriller of the summer’ Irish Independent

‘If you haven’t discovered Alex Barclay, it’s time to jump on the bandwagon’ Image Magazine

Dedication

For Sue Booth-Forbes

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Alex Barclay

Dedication

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Part Two

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Alex Barclay

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

In the lights of the police cruisers, her face was a strobing image of pain and fear. But she was still, to the child in her arms, a haven. She ran as fast as her violated body would allow, pressing his head to her cheek, his hair soaking up their sweat, blood, spit, tears. A terrible, ruined stench rose from them in the damp heat.

She staggered on, flinching at the stones and branches underfoot, her shoes long lost, too beautiful for the night. The trees swayed toward them and away, and when they gave enough shelter, she stopped. She prised the tiny hands from around her neck, breaking the dead-man’s grip of a seven-year-old boy. She tried to smile as she lowered him to the ground. Black pinpricks of gravel shone from her lips.

‘Do not make a sound,’ she said. ‘Not a sound.’ Her voice was edged in nicotine.

The boy quickly clamped his arms around her legs. She shoved him sharply backward, away from her wounds. He fell hard. She watched without feeling. He got up and moved toward her again, tears streaming down his face.

‘No,’ she hissed, shaking her head. ‘No.’

She crouched down. ‘You have to hide, OK?’ She pointed to the scrub close by. ‘Go. I’ll be right here.’ She squeezed his hand as she released it.

He did as she said. She moved a few steps forward into a clearing, cracking the forest floor. Her face was in darkness. But in the faint glow of a flashlight, relief swept over her features; a picture, flashing like a warning.

The man walked from the trees. He looked at his wife – bloodied and soiled, her hand gripping her ripped-open blouse in what dignity she could find. She slumped against him, the sounds she made raw and disturbing.

The little boy watched.

As I was walking up the stair

I met a man who wasn’t there

He wasn’t there again today

I wish, I wish he’d stay away

‘Mira, Domenica,’ said the man. Look.

Domenica turned to where she had run from. Beyond the trees, a fire raged and smoke filled the sky. She was transfixed.

‘Hellfire,’ she said.

But her eyes shone with something more than flames.

1

Rifle, Colorado

Jean Transom woke to the glow of her desk lamp and the feeling that someone had laid a trail of explosives under her world while she slept. Two work files lay in front of her – brown manila folders, the pages inside clean, neat and annotated. The top file held no photographs, but was open on a drawing – a basic floor plan, the benign geometry of rectangles and circles and squares coming together on a page to represent a space that had been so malignant. Jean inhaled deeply, but what followed was a broken breath. She pressed her hands on the desk and stood up.

She took a shower, rubbing a bar of soap briskly over her body under the hot jets. She dressed in a white shirt, tan tapered pants and soft leather shoes.

‘Come here, baby,’ she said, smiling as she walked into the kitchen. She hunkered down and reached out a hand. ‘Come here, McGraw, you sweet little boy.’

The shiny black cat stared her down.

‘That’s why it’s called a catwalk, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You know how to move, don’t you? And you know how to look at me like you are fabulous and I am not. But I can be fabulous, you’d be surprised to hear. Yes I can.’ She laughed as he turned his back, raised his tail, and made his way slowly to his bed in the corner.

‘Lazy, baby,’ said Jean. ‘I have a lazy man living in my house. And if you’re not going to talk to me …’ She reached over and turned on her old black stereo. For a few seconds, Jean Transom sang along to the music, gently and off-key.

She ate her breakfast – oatmeal, honey and fruit. She filled the dishwasher, wiped down the counters and folded the tea towel by the sink.

As she walked out of the kitchen, carrying a cup of decaf back to her office, pain and sorrow swelled again inside her. Everyone is born with places to hide secrets; mind, heart and body. A family can spread the burden along the branches of its trees; some shatter in the storm, others survive the most relentless assaults.

She sat down at her desk and stared at the diagram – years old, preserved in plastic, drawn in blues and greens by a child’s determined hand. It was a diagram that Jean Transom could trust, a child she knew had screamed in the night with the visions. She put it in her work file and went into the hallway.

Her hand shook as she picked up her purse and pulled out her FBI creds. She snapped them on to the right inside breast pocket of her jacket and walked out the door.

Golden, Colorado

Ren Bryce woke to white porcelain and the feeling that someone had laid her free weights on her head while she slept. She reached a hand up to take them away, but her knuckles hit the underside of the toilet bowl. She opened her eyes wider and saw splashes of what had surged from her stomach at four a.m. Red wine. She rolled on to her back. Her blue dress, beautiful and complimented twelve hours earlier, was open to the waist, limp and stained. She turned her head slowly and saw her stockings in the corner by the toilet brush. She closed her eyes again.

She dragged herself slowly upright and was soon hanging over the bowl, heaving nothing, but hit with the smell of her previous efforts. She retched until silver stars burst before her eyes. She hauled herself standing and turned on the shower, spending ten minutes washing her hair and body with six different products.

From her bedroom, her iPod alarm exploded full volume with Dropkick Murphys.

Let’s finish these drinks and be gone for the night

Cos I’m more than a handful you’ll see

So kiss me, I’m shitfaced …

Ren jumped from the shower and ran naked to turn down the volume. She dried herself with a towel from the floor, then threw on pink lace boy shorts, a matching bra, a black fitted shirt, black bootleg pants and black heels. She walked past her dressing table, a wave of nausea sweeping over her at the thought of makeup. But she gave in. Her day was already going to be bad.

She grabbed a clip with one hand, twisted her wet hair with the other and pinned it up. She sat down at the mirror and moisturized in slow motion. Her face was a blank canvas; dark skin, pale green eyes, high cheekbones. Somewhere in her past, there was Iroquois blood. She dragged her makeup toward her and applied a calm surface to the choppy waters.

Vincent was downstairs on the sofa reading the paper.

‘Hi,’ said Ren.

‘Appropriate song choice.’ His voice was flat.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sorry about the volume.’

‘The volume?’ said Vincent, looking up.

Ren stared at him from across the room.

‘Is that it?’ he said.

‘Is what it?’ said Ren.

‘Have you nothing to say for yourself?’

Ren kept walking into the kitchen. She poured a mug of black coffee.

Vincent came in behind her. ‘Can you explain your behavior at least?’

‘OK,’ said Ren, turning around, ‘you’ve just used three sentences – in a row – that my mom used to say to me when I was, like, seventeen.’

‘Stop with the whole mom thing.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s true. That’s what you sound like. I’m sick of listening to you treat me –’

‘No, no, no. I’m sick. Of all of this.’

Ren opened her mouth.

‘Listen to yourself,’ said Vincent. ‘You are thirty-six years old and you sound like a child.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Ren.

Vincent held up his finger. ‘I can’t do this any more,’ he said. ‘You were way out of line last night.’

Ren put her hands to her ears. ‘Shut up. I don’t want to know.’

He pulled her hands gently away. ‘I know you don’t. But you went ballistic.’ He shook his head. ‘I tried everything.’

Ren remembered the start of the evening, her nice dress, her perfect makeup, her pinned-back hair, Vincent’s smile when he saw her walk down the stairs.

‘Did you see a work file around here anywhere?’ she said. ‘Did you tidy anything away?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Shit.’ She put her mug down and strode around the living room, opening drawers and lifting up cushions. ‘Shit.’

‘It’s not there, OK? I cleaned the entire place this morning. Can we talk about last night?’ He was close to grabbing her wrist.

Ren glanced at her watch. ‘Shit. Sorry. I just don’t have the time.’

‘Tonight?’ she called after her as she ran into the hall.

‘No,’ said Vincent, following her. ‘No.’

‘OK. What did I do last night?’ she said, turning to him. ‘Tell me.’

‘It was more what you said.’

‘I was drunk. It doesn’t count.’

‘Yes it does,’ said Vincent.

‘Jesus, why can’t you just get that I say things I don’t mean when I’m drunk?’

‘Because it hurts, Ren. It fucking hurts, OK?’

‘But if you know what I’m saying is not true, how can it hurt you? I mean, that’s like me getting offended because you call me, I don’t know … something I’m totally not.’

‘Great, Ren. We’ve been over this before. You have a very simple way of looking at it. You think you can say what you like to me and I’ll be fine. But what happens is you totally hook me into your bullshit. You are so convincing. The way you say everything, I believe you. It’s like every time, you’re having an epiphany.’

‘Well, if you know it’s every time, why don’t you ignore it?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Ren, that’s just not how it works. Do you even remember what you said to me last night?’

Ren said nothing.

‘Well, at least I’m seeing the glow of pre-emptive shame,’ said Vincent.

‘That’s mean.’

‘Try this for mean: “Vincent, you’re dull is your problem. You’re conservative and stifling. You want me to be someone else. You can’t accept who I am. You stand there, you righteous prick, and try and tell me what to do? Fuck you, Vince. Fuck you, because you have no idea how to live. None. You court the sameness of life because it is safe. And you like safe.” All this, Ren, because I refused to buy the drunken lady here another vodka.’

Ren paused. ‘Well, it’s not like you are the most spontaneous guy in the world.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Vincent. ‘See? This is what I mean! This is why I believe you! Because in all sobriety, however many hours later, even you find the truth in what you were saying. At the same time as trying to claim you were drunk and senseless.’

‘I was senseless.’

‘What, but now you see the merit in your ramblings? Oh God, how many times have I had this conversation with you? It is so fucking painful.’ He stabbed a finger her way. ‘This is dull, Ren. This. You accuse me of being dull –’

‘Get some perspective –’

‘Me? Me? Jesus Christ. That’s it. I’ve had it. I cannot do this any more. I can’t. I give up.’

‘What do you mean, you give up?’

‘Exactly that. I’m out of here. I’ve had too much of Ren Noir.’

She tried to smile. ‘You like Ren Noir. She keeps things interesting.’

‘Right now? I think she’s a bitch.’

Tears welled in Ren’s eyes.

‘And,’ said Vincent, ‘I’m all out of sympathy.’ He walked up to her and kissed her on the head. ‘Look after yourself. I won’t be here when you get home.’

Ren stared at his back as he walked away through the living room. Fuck him.

Her hand shook as she picked up her purse and pulled out her FBI creds. She snapped them on to the right inside breast pocket of her jacket and walked out the door.

2

Breckenridge, Colorado

Downstairs at Eric’s was dark, packed and loud. The hallway was filled with kids in snow boots and giant parkas pounding pinball machines. By the entrance to the restaurant, two groups of schoolgirls stood hanging from each others’ shoulders, waiting for a table. Half of them were Abercrombied, the other half Fitched. Inside, skinny blondes too old for braids leaned against the wall by the kitchen, flashing the restaurant logo on the backs of their T-shirts: Downstairs at Eric’s: Because Everywhere Else Just Sucks.

Sheriff Bob Gage sat with a beer in one hand and a clean fork in the other.

‘Damn, where is my pizza?’

‘On a little yellow piece of paper,’ said Mike Delaney.

‘Hours from registering on my weighing scales.’

Mike rolled his eyes. ‘Can forty-six-year-old men be body dysmorphic?’

‘If I knew what that was, I’d love to tell you,’ said Bob.

‘You know – when you see yourself different to how everyone else sees you. Like you, for example, think you’re fatter than you actually are.’

‘Really? Are you kidding me?’

‘No,’ said Mike. ‘You’re a reasonably tall guy, Bob. You can carry a few extra pounds.’

Bob gave him a side-glance. Mike used to be a tanned, blond ski bum. Now, at thirty-eight, he was a tanned, blond, ski-bum Undersheriff, his eyes always a little red, his skin a little burnt, his lips pale from sunblock. Bob had choirboy styling – polished skin, neat side-parted brown hair, conservative clothes – but it couldn’t quite hide the crazy. Most women were attracted to both of them, for different reasons.

The first night they worked together, they’d gone on a domestic violence call-out and the woman had told them she’d like to be ‘wined and dined with you, Sheriff, so’s you could laugh me right into bed with your pal, blondie, here.’ Bob had looked at her and said, ‘Didn’t Blondie sing “I’m gonna getcha”? Yeah, well, gotcha! And probably gotcha for another twenty years for beating the shit out of that poor husband of yours.’ She had looked at him and said, ‘I would never lay a finger on you, cutie. Can you smell my breath? It’s Wintergreen. Winter in my mouth, but summer in my heart.’

Bob had shot a glance at Mike. ‘What you have is Seasonal Affective Disorder,’ he said, struggling to cuff her.

She made a grab for Mike’s crotch, but he blocked it at the last minute.

‘Yes,’ Bob said, ‘you’re clearly very SAD.’

A waitress walked toward them, raising, then lowering Bob’s hopes.

‘I have not eaten since breakfast,’ he said to Mike. ‘I shouldn’t feel bad about this.’ He raised his cellphone, showing Mike a screen that told him Bob had fifteen missed calls or messages. ‘Do you see this shit?’ said Bob. ‘Half an hour I want – of peace – after everything. Just thirty minutes.’

The Summit County Sheriff’s Office shared a building with the jail and the courthouse. A riot had stolen his previous three hours.

‘You need to keep some beef jerky in your drawer, some trail mix, anything,’ said Mike.

‘Gross,’ said Bob.

Mike started to speak, but both their phones began to vibrate. The calls were from Dispatch.

‘Look, let me take mine at least,’ said Mike. ‘Something is going on.’ He pressed the Answer key and held the phone to his ear.

‘Mike Delaney,’ he said, then paused. Bob could hear a woman’s voice talking quickly at the other end. Mike gestured to a waitress for her notepad. He scribbled across the page, nodding as he wrote. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘Me and Bob will be along right away.’ He hung up.

‘No, no, no,’ said Bob. ‘Bob doesn’t like “along”.’

‘Ooh,’ said Mike, ‘Bob is about to go up a mountain on the coldest January day Breckenridge has seen in about fifty years.’

‘Oh, dear God, no,’ said Bob, checking his watch. ‘It’s three fifteen. I’m almost home and dry. Why?’

‘Search and Rescue got an anonymous tip-off. It all sounded a little bullshitty to them, but they checked it out and, sure enough, they found a body.’

‘What?’

Mike nodded.

‘Holy shit,’ said Bob, his eyes wide. Mike turned around to where Bob was staring.

‘It’s my pizza!’ Bob grabbed the waitress’s arm. ‘In a box, sweetheart. And I love you right now. You have no idea.’

Quandary Peak could breathe with the breath it stole from your lungs. Stony and chiseled, it could turn on you before you had the chance to conquer it. The sky overhead showered unpredictable snow and rain, beamed surprise sun. Two-hundred-year-old miners’ cabins hid in the lodgepole pines that marked the timberline before the peak grew bare and rocky up to its full 14,265 feet.