The Dead of Winter Read Online Free

the heavy door for Vanier. It was cold inside. The waiting area was unheated and, even though it was sheltered, the concrete floor and walls radiated damp cold as the wind howled through the doors. But, despite the constant circulation of cold air, the place still stank of alcohol and urine.
    The body was tucked under a concrete bench with an empty bottle of wine at its head. Another cocoon wrapped against the elements, hoping to preserve some warmth at the centre. Vanier nodded at the two officers protecting the scene. The photographer was repacking his equipment, getting ready to leave.
    â€œWe’ll have head shots of all of the victims ready first thing in the morning,” he said to Vanier, lifting the strap of his shoulder bag.
    â€œThat’s great. Much appreciated,” said Vanier.
    Neilson knelt down to begin his work, peeling the blankets away. Another weather-beaten face lined by deep wrinkles. A man, perhaps in his forties, perhaps younger, the street ages people quickly. Vanier looked at the body and wondered how you could retain heat on the concrete floor in the freezing Montreal night. Even with all the layers, the newspapers closest to the skin, covered by a shirt and pants, a sweater and an overcoat, all wrapped in dirty blankets, eventually the cold would seep into the core of the body. How long could you sleep like that, without the cold waking you? Alcohol might buy you some time, but after a few hours the cold would take over, forcing you to wake up or die.
    Neilson talked into a hand-held recorder. Vanier looked around but could see nothing unusual, just another victim who went to sleep and never woke up. He turned away. There was nothing he could do.
    â€œUnless you need me, Mr. Neilson, I’ll be off. When you’ve finished, tell these men they can close up the scene.”
    As he turned to leave, Vanier had a thought. “Mr. Neilson, did you see the body at the McGill Métro?”
    â€œYes, Inspector. That was my first stop tonight.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThere’s not much to say. Much the same as this situation, Inspector. A man sleeping rough. No signs of violence, looks like a peaceful end to a hard life. Nothing suspicious, except for the number of them. Could be a bad coincidence. Maybe they all realized it was Christmas Eve and couldn’t take it anymore, but that’s unlikely. I don’t suppose you survive on the streets by being sentimental. Hopefully, the autopsies will tell us something.”
    â€œMaybe,” said Vanier, almost to himself as he turned to leave.
    â€œHave a good Christmas, Inspector.”
    â€œYou too, Mr. Neilson. Merry Christmas.”
    Vanier walked out of the death-cold building into the colder night, got into his car and headed home.
    Twenty minutes later he stood at the window in his living room looking down over the city with a fresh glass of Jameson in his hand. Hot air from heating systems rose straight up from rooftop vents to condense into white vapour in the cold, like the smoke from so many campfires. He took in the city below him down to the river and beyond, to the endless blanket of white and grey stretching to the horizon. It would be cold again tomorrow. Yesterday’s snow had given way to clear skies that were expected to last for several days and the temperature would fall to a punishing deep freeze. There would be sunlight without heat. Montreal winters are unforgiving, a relentless cold tempered by snowstorms that allow the temperature to rise by a few degrees, then clear skies, and cold again.
    He wondered how many people slept outside in weather like this, and what madness drove them to it? And if someone was killing them, why stop at five?

THREE DECEMBER 25
    8.25 AM
    The jangling phone woke Vanier from a fitful sleep on the couch. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œC’est moi, Papa. Joyeux Nöel.”
    â€œÃ‰lise, ma belle. How are you? Merry