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“Shit!”
She jogged back to the door. Rattled the handle. Tugged at it. The damn thing wouldn’t give. She tried to quell the panic. Most walk-in freezers had an emergency release fitted so they could be opened from the inside. It was a health-and-safety regulation. But then this was a place that stored dead bodies in its kitchen freezer. Health and safety weren’t exactly top priorities here. Barbara ran her flashlight over the thick metal but couldn’t see any kind of release mechanism. Just scratched and dented steel. And suddenly she remembered Nicholls’s words.
“The townsfolk wanted to keep the body somewhere more secure.”
More secure. Fuck and dammit. This wasn’t just a place to store meat, it was a place to make sure the meat didn’t get up and walk out. Okay, think. Maybe there was an alarm? She scanned the walls with her flashlight beam, fingers tingling with cold, but she couldn’t see one.
What time was it? Maybe 4 a.m. by now. It would be at least another four or five hours before anyone came to look in here or heard her calling out. She was only wearing pajamas, a sweater and boots. Would she make it that long? She had no idea. Certainly, without gloves to insulate her fingers, she was in danger of frostbite. Hypothermia could creep in gradually. Shit.
She started to pace, clapping her hands together. Try and keep warm. Try and keep calm. Did someone really intend for her to freeze to death in here? Maybe the door had swung shut on its own, although that was unlikely, as it was heavy and stiff. Maybe whoever shut it hadn’t realized she was in here. Or that she couldn’t get out. Maybe it was a prank and they were still out there, congratulating themselves on scaring the crap out of her.
Barbara turned back to the door, raised a fist and thumped on the freezing metal.
“HEY!! Is anyone out there? You’ve had your fun. Now, can you open the door?”
She waited. Nothing. She hammered on the door again.
“HELP! Please. I’m going to freeze in here. Just let me out!”
She pointed the flashlight around the small room, skimming over Marcus’s body and trying to control the irrational feeling of jumpiness every time she did. He remained stiff and silent, cocooned in the black body bag.
She paused. The body bag. Designed to keep the body preserved. Could it also help her preserve much-needed warmth? The idea was hardly appealing. The last thing she wanted to do was wrap herself up like a corpse. But if she didn’t, she might join Marcus in becoming a corpse.
Barbara walked toward his body. With numb fingers she fumbled with the zipper. It was stuck, frozen in the cold. She tugged and tugged, ripping one of her nails. Finally, she felt the zipper give. She yanked it down. Marcus’s white, frozen face looked back at her, sunken eyeballs gray beneath his half-open lids.
Hadn’t his eyes been fully closed before? Perhaps she was misremembering. Often, the eyes of the dead didn’t stay closed. Morticians used special contact lenses with small spikes to keep them that way. She was probably just being stupid. Crazy. And yet, Barbara felt an overwhelming urge to be away from Marcus’s body, and out of this freezing cell. She glanced back toward the door. Maybe she should try calling for help one more time. She backed away then turned and thumped on the door as hard as she could.
“HEY!!! HELP! LET ME OUT!”
Still nothing. She leaned against the metal. This was hopeless. Futile. There was no one—
A clunk from outside. The door suddenly swung open, dumping her in an undignified heap on to the floor.
“Ow. Shit.”
Barbara had never been more relieved to land flat on her face. She lay there for a moment, shivering, disorientated. A pair of dainty feet drew into view, toenails painted black. She squinted up. Long, bare legs. A baggy sweatshirt. Tousled red hair.
“Mayflower?”
“Detective Atkins?” Mayflower stared down in concern.
Barbara struggled into a sitting position. “W-what are you doing here? Did you lock me in?”
“No, ma’am.” The girl’s eyes widened in horror. “I thought I heard a noise—and then I came down and heard you calling.”
Barbara frowned, brain struggling to catch up. “Came down. From where? What are you doing here?”
Mayflower looked awkward. From the bar, the sound of a chair clattering to the floor. Someone else was here.
“It’s—” Mayflower started to say, but Barbara was already on her feet and pushing past her.
“Stop!” she shouted, bursting out of the kitchen door, hand reaching for her gun.
A tall figure sprinted toward the exit.
“I said stop, or I’ll shoot.” And to prove her point, she fired a shot into the ceiling.
A light exploded, showering down glass. The figure ducked and stumbled into a table, crashing over it and landing on the floor.
