The snow lay, pristine, undisturbed by bird or squirrel or print of man. All was still. No breeze stirred the blackened snow-edged twigs of silent sycamore nor rustled the russet leaves of the beech.
The playgrounds swings, each with a thick cushion of white soft snow, stood stark against the whiteness; scratched and pitted paintwork darkened by leaden skies. The rocking-horse, rock steady and unmoving, lay beneath a snow blanket, its glassy eyes blinded by cataracts of frost…
The water, which once had bubbled and gurgled and - spluttered its way from the black basalt crags and splashed and tumbled its way down to the pool where carp slid among rock and weed, was locked into frozen stillness. Foaming knobs and folds of solid ice would have gleamed had there been light enough to be reflected. The glossy surface of the pool was hidden beneath a covering of snow, a coating that softened the edges of the sharp world. Over all the blanket of snow lay a more oppressive blanket of silence.
Ronald Swan sits motionless, petrified by the silence that wraps him round. The only movement, plumes of breath that float from his nostrils. Like the world around him his colour has almost leeched away, leaving him grey and dark. His body is hunched into a great coat that covers his knees; its collar lifted against the chill, hides a good part of his face. Sturdy boots are caked with snow and black trousers are tucked into thick woollen socks to keep out the knives of cold that would stab at his flesh. A woollen cap covers his head, pulled down over his ears and partly covering frosted eyebrows and dark grey eyes.
His nose is the most colourful part of the whole world. It is bulbous and red, raw and running. His eyes weep tears that flow in rivulets to his chin, almost becoming icicles among his grizzled stubble.
The world around Ronald is dead and cold. His dearest wish is to be the same.
Inspector Donald Coombs occupies another seat in the park. It has been carefully chosen, commanding a view of Ronald Swan's bench but is behind and slightly to the left. It would be hard for Ronald to see him without standing up and turning around.
Plumes of breath rise from the inspector's tense face as he appears to talk to himself. He is warmly dressed but the cold is constantly poking and prying, trying to find the weak spots in his thermal armour. He tries to remain still. He has the urge to stamp about and swing his arms but he remains unmoving.
The earpiece, hidden by his salt and pepper, needs-cutting-badly hair, crackles. His chapped lips move.
“Well, Jenkins, are you going to say something? I'm only freezing my bollocks off here waiting for your word lad.”
“Sorry Guv. We're still waiting. They said ten minutes but that was half an hour ago. I could come and relieve you if you like. You don't have to stay out there on your own.”
No lad, I'm not letting this chap out of my sight until I can bring him in myself. I've waited too long."
It had been eleven years to the day. She was face down in the pool, her long blonde hair floating around her head and the carp moving among it like the water-weed. The park keeper found her. It had been DS Coombs then, as eager as Jenkins was now, keen to get on, wanting to make inspector, to make his name. Alice Walters was eight years old and as pretty as a picture. They had gone through the lists and seen the usual suspects.
The evidence was too circumstantial, nothing strong enough even to think of going to trial. Coombs knew who had done it but couldn't prove it. DNA profiling wasn't accurate enough in those days, not like today. The case had lain open, as they do. In a little while the results would be through and he would put the hand of the law onto Ronald Swan's shoulder.
“Guv, the results are here.”
“Well, Jenkins, are you going to tell me or do you want to play ‘Mastermind’?”
“Sorry Guv, it's a bummer, the results were negative, he didn't do it.”
“Wrong, Jenkins, he did it, we just can't prove it. Why else do you think the bastard is sitting down there in this weather looking at where he left her?”
“Come in and get warm, Guv. I'll get the kettle on.”
“I'll be along, sergeant, I just want a word.”
The Inspector rose stiffly and stomped to the bench where Ronald Swan sat, unmoving. Through his mind went all the things he wanted to say. He was warmed now, in spite of the cold, by a sense of injustice, of impotence and frustration. He would vent his anger in hot words. He would tell Swan that justice would not be evaded, that he would bring justice for Alice Walters in the end and Swan would pay.
The words did not come. The Inspector knew at a glance they would be wasted. The tears were frozen on Ronald's face, the colour gone from his nose. Now all was grey.
“Jenkins!”
“Yes, Guv.”
“Call Doctor Sweet and then arrange for the ‘meat wagon’. Swan got away, this time for good. He has escaped earthly justice but now stands before one who doesn’t need DNA evidence to know the truth.”
“Right, Sir. I reckon he's already feeling a little warmer now then Guv, perhaps warmer than he likes. I bloody ‘ope so.”
What is truth?
The truth is that Ronald Swan died on the day that Alice Walters lay in his arms, dead eyes staring at him reproachfully. He never meant to kill such a lovely little creature. He has been dead eleven years. It has simply taken that long for him to stop breathing.
