Cold as Ice

Chapter 23

The snow fell all night. It stopped just before dawn. Hampstead Heath was covered in a clean pure white icing of it. It looked like a country Christmas scene in the middle of London. Gerald Foster was just thinking that as he drove past it on his way back from having his van repaired – just a quick paint job. He had taken it to the Albanian garage behind Caledonian Road – they were cheap and they didn’t ask questions. They didn’t want to make chitchat. He didn’t feel like driving straight home so he took a detour around the Heath. He watched a woman as she came alongside the passenger window. She was jogging. Her ponytail swished from side to side; her tight Lycra trousers showed every curve. Foster tutted disapprovingly – what did women expect when they wore outfits like that? He kept his eyes on her until she dodged the snow piled at the edge of the pavement and she turned into the road that led to the Heath. Foster turned into the Lido car park and watched her run past.

The jogger passed the Lido, carried on up the path and then headed right along the perimeter of the Heath. She smiled and nodded at another jogger running the opposite way. It was funny how she saw the same people every day. The joggers were friendly to one another, just the way the dog owners were keen on anyone else with a dog but didn’t like the joggers. Or rather, their dogs didn’t like joggers.

Janet had had problems with dogs and their owners in the past. In the ten months she had been running on Hampstead Heath she’d been attacked three times by dogs. Now she tried not to feel anxious, tried not to give off the smell of fear.

Ahead of her a group of women was approaching, walking their dogs. The dog in front had broken away from the others and now looked like it was heading straight for her. She felt a surge of panic. She looked at the owner’s face. The woman was in conversation with her friend but she was staring straight at Janet. The dog had begun a low growl and was coming across Janet’s path. Janet’s heart was racing. The dog owner kept eye contact and gave a half smile that said: don’t worry, he won’t bite you – I think. Janet didn’t smile back. She was thinking: she must take responsibility for her dog now… now is a good time. Janet turned away, defeated. She didn’t want to take any risks. She stepped off the path and onto the verge. Her feet cut through the hard snow covering the ground. The cold was biting.

The dog lunged and snapped at her as she passed. The owner muttered she was sorry. Janet cursed loudly, put a spurt of speed on and powered up the hill and away from the path. Virgin snow crunched beneath her feet. She pushed hard with her thighs until she reached the copse at the summit and the trees closed around her. She had stitch now; clasping her side she slowed to a walk to catch her breath as she dragged the cold air into her burning lungs.

She moved slowly forward, stepping over the fallen branches and stopped by one of the trees to listen to the faint knocking sound of a woodpecker drilling for food or maybe it was a squirrel cracking a nut – she didn’t know which. It was a knocking sound. Her breath snorted into the air, her body was steaming. She felt the chill begin as the sweat cooled her body but she stood in the perfect still beneath the pines and listened to the knocking. Her eyes searched the copse and found the slight movement responsible, the bobbing head of a crow. She walked quietly towards it, her eyes fixed on the black shiny wings of the bird. It looked up as she approached – it was feeding, working hard at something on the ground, knocking it with its beak. As she approached it stopped and stared defiantly at her but then flapped noisily off into the nearest tree and watched her approach. As Janet stepped over the fallen branch her feet moved in slow motion as her eyes made sense of what she saw. A woman’s naked body surrounded by a shroud of the freshly fallen white snow. The woman’s face was a scarecrow mask of make-up and the skin had been peeled up from her breasts like a crimson bra. Her black empty eye sockets stared up at the crows in the trees.