Chapter Sixteen Winter Song
Chapter sixteen
Winter Song
The snow was fucking relentless.
It hadn’t snowed at Christmas in England since Aaron didn’t know when.
And even when it had, it was usually more slush than storybook.
Snow came in March, if it came at all. When everyone dared to believe in spring, out came the bastard freeze.
Coats packed away, boilers gone to shit, public transport crippled. Typical.
But now? Now it fell like penance.
Thick. Unforgiving.
Drowning the island in white when darkness lurked in the bushes.
Curled in the passenger seat of Kenny’s car, engine purring, heaters on full blast, Aaron watched the windows clear in gradual streaks from the inside out.
Beyond the glass, Kenny was a dark figure in the snow, scarf pulled high, loose hair catching in the flurries, as he carved a path down their driveway.
Solid. Steady. A fixed point against a world reduced to white smears and bone-black hedgerows.
And murder.
Behind them, Chaos pressed to the hallway window, ears high, paws braced, tail a metronome of protest. He’d whined when Aaron shut the door. But he couldn’t bring him. Not to this.
When Kenny finally slid in beside him, the cold came with him and he shook it off like a man stepping out of a storm, clapping his hands to life.
“You sure?” he asked, breath frosting.
“Don’t ask again.” Aaron kept his gaze forward. “Just get there. Someone has to humanise her before they sterilise her down to a fucking headline.”
Kenny hesitated. Then, “If you need to lea—”
“I will say the fucking word. Drive.”
So he did.
The journey through the island’s backroads was slow.
Careful. The snow thickened as they climbed into the hills, hedges sagging under white weight, trees bowed in mourning.
The roads were empty, eerily so, the world muffled beneath a hush that only snowfall brought.
The windscreen wipers whispered, heat blowers masking any need for talk. Neither of them filled the silence.
Eventually, they reached St Joseph’s. Both a church and a primary school.
It should’ve been peaceful. Instead, it was lit up like a crime drama.
Floodlights washed the snow in hard white glare, turning the graveyard into something bleached and false.
Barrier tape crisscrossed the lychgate, anchored by high-vis officers.
A white forensic tent had been pitched over the north side of the building, its plastic walls vibrating with wind.
Figures in Tyvek suits moved inside. Faceless. Sterile.
This was where Skye ended.
Aaron stepped out into the cold. The air hit like punishment. Wind scoured his cheeks raw. His boots sank into untouched snow. Every breath hurt. Somewhere beneath the freezing hush, the island held its breath.
She’d deserved warmth. Someone holding her hand. Deserved better than this fucking tent and paper suits and numbered placards stabbed into the ground like accusations. But this was what death looked like. What it always looked like for him. Evidence. Murder. Someone making the call.
He stared too long, the inside of his chest crawling with something brittle and breathless. If he spoke now, he’d unravel.
So he didn’t.
He let Kenny take charge. As he always did.
And he gave Aaron a small nod as they moved towards the cordon.
Aaron didn’t hear the officers chatting to each other over the static of radios.
All he could register was the sound of his own heartbeat, hammering behind his ribs.
Beyond the police tape, a single string of fairy lights blinked weakly from the schoolyard fence, hung for Christmas Eve Mass.
Blue. Red. Green. Gold.
They flashed obscenely behind the white forensic tent.
Festive. Cheerful.
As if any of this could be fucking holy.
DS Parry stepped into view, dressed in a white Tyvek suit, hood pulled back, powder-dusted gloves already on. Among the snow, she looked more like a ghost than an officer.
“Dr Lyons.” She nodded in recognition.
“DS Parry.” Kenny exhaled, breath fogging as he rubbed his gloved hands together.
“They’re finishing scene photography. I can give you access. Just you.” She glanced at Aaron. “He’ll need to stay behind the line.”
Kenny turned to him gently. “You can wait here.”
“The fuck I can. If she tried to reach me before she ended up here, then I’m going in. If even to prove, at least to myself, that I got here. For her.”
Kenny held his gaze for a moment, then turned back to Parry. “Get him a suit. I’m not going in without him.”
Parry glanced between the two of them. Then took a breath. “Actually…well, I’m sure you understand that at the moment he’s our first line of enquiry. So I need a verbal statement. For the record. Of his whereabouts.”
Aaron scoffed violently. “Are you fucking joking?”
“We’re not making assumptions,” Parry replied evenly.
“But she reached out to you. Or at least tried. You could’ve been the last person she saw.
So we’ll need to account for your movements.
To rule you out. Estimated TOD is between one and six a.m. pending pathology.
If you can tell us where you were around that time? ”
Aaron glanced up to Kenny. He gave a subtle nod. Cooperate. Please.
So Aaron huffed. “Last night? One a.m.?” He gestured lazily at Kenny. “In bed. With him. Think that was somewhere between orgasm number five and me trying to remember my own name.”
Kenny pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ.”
“Blasphemy, lover. Though you did have me calling to Him last night.” He smiled at Parry. “Might wanna check if God logs witness statements?”
Parry blinked.
“And if that’s not enough to clear me, feel free to run the numbers on my blood sugar.
Estimated fluid loss. Check for signs of strenuous exertion followed by total upper-body failure.
Pretty sure I couldn’t have twisted the cap off a tube of lube, let alone the neck of a girl half my size after he was done with me. ”
Parry’s mouth twitched. “Right. Well. That… clarifies things.”
“I can clarify more—”
She raised a gloved hand. “That’ll do.” She turned to the nearest SOCO officer. “Get them both suited.”
Parry sauntered off.
Kenny turned to Aaron with a death glare.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Aaron folded his arms. “You know I deflect. I’m growing the prickles back. You said you love me even when I’m like this. My prickles slot right into you, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t wish you’d tone it down at a fucking murder scene.”
“That’s when it comes out more! Fucking hell, you know that. You probably have a diagnosis for it!”
“Maladaptive coping mechanism. Humour as shield. Trauma linked hypervigilance with oppositional reflex. Classic defence pattern.”
Aaron narrowed his eyes. “That’s very wordy for ‘doesn’t cope well with being blamed for murder.’”
“They’re not blaming you, baby. They’re doing their job. Due diligence. Imagine if they skipped over the obvious connection because the main suspect claimed he’d been too thoroughly fucked into a mattress for four straight hours to commit homicide.”
“I mean…fair. But you’ve got to admit, it’s one hell of an alibi.”
“It’s also an overshare.”
“Says the man who just diagnosed me out loud like I’m a fucking patient.”
“My patient.”
“You better be kidding.”
Kenny snatched the white Tyvek from the passing SOCO and handed it over. “Put on the damn suit.”
They suited up by the car, wind and snow biting around them.
Aaron tugged the hood into place, already regretting every word he’d said.
The deflection was reflex. He couldn’t stop it any more than he could stop himself from lashing out.
Shouting at walls. Kicking at the corners of a world never giving him space to breathe.
But here, it felt shameful. With Skye lying a few feet away.
Cold. Still. Stolen by the same brutal tide he was born into.
“Do you think people see it in me?” he asked as Kenny zipped him up.
“See what?”
“That I’ve got serial killer blood in my veins.”
Kenny froze. A heartbeat of silence. Then he stepped in and pressed a kiss to Aaron’s temple, his gloved hand firm at the back of Aaron’s head. “The only blood in you is yours.”
“Factually inaccurate but emotionally moving.” He kissed Kenny, lax and sweet. “Now let go before we give the crime scene crew a show. Orgasm number whatever is currently: never.”
Kenny released him with a sigh. “Don’t tempt me with long games.”
They stepped back towards the cordon. DS Parry lifted the tape after having signed them on the scene log and giving Kenny a nod as they ducked under.
“Appreciate the cooperation,” she said. “Scene’s been secure since 06:23. Victim ID pulled from the phone left on scene. Skye Addams, seventeen. Listed resident at Tollgate Youth Home. Reported missing multiple times. Known for running. Struggles with identity.”
“She/her,” Aaron cut in sharply.
Kenny glanced his way, a small smile ghosting his lips.
Parry nodded. “Noted.”
“Make that front and centre on the database,” Kenny added.
“Already logged.” Parry approached the tent. “Prelim pathology puts time of death between one and six a.m. Ligature marks present. No obvious signs of sexual assault. Cause of death likely asphyxiation, pending autopsy. No sign of struggle, no defensive wounds.”
The boards laid out to preserve the scene muffled everything.
Every crunch of Aaron’s boots felt like an intrusion, too loud in the stillness of the churchyard.
The nativity scene glowed with weak light, string bulbs threaded through plywood figures, halos flickering over plastic lambs.
Baby Jesus had a crack along his cheek. The Virgin Mary leaned slightly to one side, as if even she couldn’t bear to look.
Aaron held a hand over his mouth.