Chapter One - Early February - Saturday Night/Sunday Morning

Midnight. The soft chimes of a distant grandfather clock cut through the silence of the darkened old house as if to gloomily proclaim the demise of another day. Outside, the wind slackened and its howling voice fell silent. The sheets of black February rain which had hammered against the window panes since before dawn eased and the sharp rattle of water impacting glass faded and died. Suddenly the cold black droplets and streaks were no more. In their place, a silent flurry of soft white flakes and smudges clinging stickily and greedily to everything they touched.

A cold easterly gale had battered the cliff top for most of the previous day, but the last house in Onchan had been constructed in the latter part of the nineteenth century and had weathered such winds for well over a hundred years. It remained pleasantly cool in the hottest days of summer and comfortably warm in the coldest depths of winter. The Victorian builder had known his job and the owner, who had spent most of the evening dozing in his favourite armchair as was his custom when the long winter nights set in, was blissfully unaware of the weather outside. The chair was old and battered, but comfortable and stood in the middle of his favourite room, a large, high-ceilinged, but spartanly-furnished chamber with pastel blue walls. By daylight, the mullioned windows commanded a breathtaking panorama across Douglas Bay, but the heavy velvet curtains had long been drawn and the lights were dimmed. The embers of a coal fire burned low in the grate bathing the room and the face of the sleeping man in a dull red glow. The face like the furniture looked old and tired, set in the firelight against a background of silhouettes and dancing shadows.

A flicker of bright orange flame burst from the sleeping fire, momentarily lighting the room and revealing the collection of motorcycles which stood in the background, famous machines with pedigree and history, iron trophies brooding silently in the company of their owner, the collector. The flicker faded and the silhouettes and dancing shadows returned.

Outside, the moaning wind had died and the snow began to fall silently and heavily from a leaden, moonless midwinter sky.

Suddenly, the urgent bleat of a telephone sounded somewhere in the house, not near, yet not that far-off. The sleeping man stirred and opened his eyes. He blinked, then glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Two am. The telephone continued to ring. The man struggled to his feet and groaned; a call at that time could mean only one thing and could not possibly be ignored. The telephone was in the front hallway, alongside the grandfather clock; he slowly made his way out of the blue room and along the corridor. He picked up the receiver and answered:
"Good evening; Quayle and Son, Funeral Directors."
"Richard?" the voice on the other end of the line asked. It was the undertaker's assistant.
"Ernie?" the undertaker replied sharply, "…Yes, of course it's me. Who else d'you think it'd be at this time in the morning?…What's the problem?" The man on the other end of the line spoke and the undertaker, for once listened. As he listened, a frown passed over his face.
"Okay, sound's like there's no alternative. You say they won't wait 'till the morning?...No…I see. Leave it to me then…the old Quilleash place, you say?…and Dr MacDonald's issued a certificate?…okay you just ring them back and say I'm on my way…probably be at least an hour in this weather. I'll meet you there." He listened for a reply, but heard only the buzz of the receiver. For some reason, his assistant had rung off, either that or for some technical reason the call had become disconnected. The undertaker dialled his assistant's number, but the line was now engaged so he put down the 'phone and went to his room to change into his working clothes. Outside, the snow continued to fall.

Fifteen minutes later the undertaker, emerged from his dressing room and made his way to the large garage and workshop which adjoined the rambling house. Dressed now in a formal black suit, he stepped into the hearse and started the engine; the V-eight burst into life with a muted roar and the undertaker pressed the remote to open the garage door. It swung upwards slowly and silently and the car moved out into the cold white night.

It was rare enough for snow to fall anywhere on the Isle of Man, warmed as it was by those diverted flows of the Gulf Stream which made their way up the Irish Sea. Occasionally the summit of Snaefell, the Island's highest peak, glinted white in the cold mid-winter sun and the Mountain Road rejoiced in the lightest dusting, but for snow to fall this low down, in the coastal parish of Onchan, was almost unheard of. It was a bad sign and one which boded ill for conditions further inland. A journey at night in the snow was not one he had desired or expected, but the undertaker had his job to do and with little enthusiasm for the task in hand, he set about it.
"Bloody snow!" he swore.

There had been a death in an outlying farmhouse in the south of the Island. The bereaved family had asked for Quayle and Son. It was a natural enough request, for Quayle and Son was the oldest and best known firm of undertakers on the Island. The undertaker's assistant had taken the call that night, but he lived in a remote spot himself and the snow was now drifting deeply. He had tried to get his hearse out of his garage, but the task had proved impossible. He would be able to get there in his Landrover, but something more appropriate was needed to collect the body.

The undertaker drove slowly along Douglas Promenade. Two o' clock in the morning in early February was not a time when much traffic could be expected, but the handful of cars that would normally have been abroad had vanished and the road was deserted. The wipers worked overtime to produce a clear black arc in the white windscreen and through that arc the undertaker saw that the tarmac was already covered in a white carpet which was getting thicker by the minute. Passing the Sea Terminal, he crossed the harbour bridge and drove along South Quay, before moving off into the dark Manx countryside. The heavy snow-laden cloud cast a thick veil over the town, dulling even the twinkling street lights and, away from those reassuring sentinels of the night, the night seemed blacker than any he could remember. The headlights of the car were powerful, but that night they struggled to pick out the road through the gloom. Out in the country the snow lay deeper. After a mile or so he passed the Okells brewery, but although he was moving at little more than a snail's pace, his tyres were fighting for grip. At the roundabout, he turned left onto the main road south and wondered how much worse things would get, regretting already his decision to take the job. Visibility had fallen to little more than a few yards when he saw blue flashing lights a short distance ahead. It was a police car and was blocking the approach to Richmond Hill. The undertaker pulled up and got out, leaving the V8 still running. He walked over to the police car and rapped on the driver window; it descended silently.
"Evening Sir," the officer said, "hope you're not thinking of going south tonight; nothing's going to get up this hill at the moment and there are pretty deep drifts further on."
"What about the other roads south, I mean through Foxdale or St Marks?" the undertaker asked. The policeman shook his head.
"Dunno, no reports on those, but if the main road's out of action, I can't see it being any better out there. Where are you trying to get to?"
"Got a bereavement down near Port Erin," the undertaker replied, "and I really do need to collect the Deceased tonight." He emphasised the word "do", but he was tired and sensed that his voice lacked commitment. The policeman looked at him curiously for a second then smiled.
"Sorry Mr Quayle, I didn't recognise you…mind you hardly surprising in this, is it? Where d'you need to get to?" The undertaker told him the address.
"Old man Quilleash?" the officer retorted, "poor old sod…mind you he's had a good innings, must have been ninety…"
"Ninety two," came the reply.
"I'll see what I can do."

The policeman spoke into his radio. It was silent for a few seconds then hissed and crackled in reply. All roads to the south were considered impassable and the weather was expected to get worse before it got better. No-one should attempt to travel, even if their journey were really necessary, until conditions improved. The undertaker heard the message and smiled grimly.
"Better tell the Bereaved then, so they don't wait up," he said.
"Looks that way, Mr Quayle," replied the policeman. The undertaker returned to his vehicle and punched a short sequence of numbers on his car-phone. It was his assistant's mobile; he was somewhere out in this and the sooner he knew what was going on, the sooner they could both be back in their respective homes. His assistant knew the 'phone number of the Bereaved and he could break the news. A second or two later the number he had dialled began to ring…and ring and ring. Strangely enough the voicemail did not cut in. The undertaker rang off and shook his head in disgust.
"Bloody telephones," he swore and with some difficulty punched a text message onto the keypad then pressed the "send" button. His assistant would get the message. They would do the job later that morning. Now it was time to go home.

It was very late (or very early) when the undertaker finally reached the last house in Onchan. The journey back from Richmond Hill had been a painfully slow one and he resolved never to attempt to drive a hearse or indeed any rear-wheel drive vehicle in such conditions ever again. Douglas Promenade had resembled some sort of venue from the winter Olympics, albeit a nocturnal one. He pulled onto his drive and pressed the remote for the garage…nothing happened, so he pushed it again. Still nothing.
"Bloody electric doors, must be snow in the mechanism," he muttered to himself. He turned off the car engine, got out and made his way to the door. It was then that he noticed his assistant's battered green Landrover parked in the shadows by the side of the house. The undertaker shook his head, thinking that his assistant must have misunderstood the text. He walked over to the vehicle, but as he expected it was empty; Ernie had a key to the house; the house would be warm and only a fool would sit out in the cold on a night like this.

The key turned in the lock and the undertaker stepped into the hallway; he reached to his left and flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. He tried the switch again…still nothing. Probably the result of a power cut brought on by the snowstorm, but there was a back up generator in the workshop to keep the fridges running. Strange, though, that it hadn't come on automatically when the mains supply failed.
"Ernie!" he shouted into the darkness, "you in there?" The front door swung to behind him and closed with a heavy thud. The silence of the house was oppressive, claustrophobic even, broken as it was only by the ticking of the clock and the undertaker began to feel the hackles on the back of his neck rising.
"Come on Ernie, I know you're here, your bloody car's outside. Now stop messing about and help me get the power back on!" The house screamed silently back at him and he knew that something was seriously wrong. Returning to the hearse, he slipped into the driver seat and gathered his thoughts; the process was aided by a small bottle which made its way from its secretive resting place to the undertaker's lips. In reality, there was only one choice open to him: he picked up the torch he always kept in the glove compartment and turned it on. The light it emitted was less than satisfactory; no doubt the batteries needed replacing, but it was better than nothing so he made his way back to the house, retracing footsteps which had even in that short space of time almost been obliterated by the falling snow. Once inside the house, he tried the light switch once more; yet again nothing happened so guided by the feeble yellow beam of the torch he went in search of the workshop, the generator and his assistant.

Some time later the undertaker re-emerged from the front door; the house was still in darkness and the snow still falling, but the man seemed to give little thought to either as he lurched almost drunkenly across the driveway, opened the door of the car and fell into the driver seat. In the pale interior lighting of the hearse, his face looked waxy and devoid of expression, but his breathing was laboured and those short staccato intakes of breath were the tell-tale signs of fear. He started the engine and the car moved off.

The snow was falling less heavily now, but the wind had returned, gusting strongly and blowing the cold white powder into deep unpredictable drifts all over the Island. In the pale half light of dawn, Constable Quilliam surveyed the wintry scene from the warm comfort of his patrol car. He had parked by the roadside on Onchan Head and was contemplating breakfast; not the meagre continental version, of course, one glance at him would reassure the onlooker that croissants and fresh orange juice rarely passed his lips, but the full blown English (or more correctly Manx) dish: fried eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes…Suddenly the radio crackled and the vision was gone.
"Delta Uniform to Nineteen, come in, over." The policeman reached for his receiver, acknowledged the call, gave his position and listened to his instructions. The job sounded routine: a missing person. An undertaker's assistant who had been called out in the night and had not yet returned.
"Probably stuck in the snow," was his response, "anyway, if he told his missus he was going down south, why do you want me to look for him up here?" He then learned that the man had 'phoned his wife and told her that he had been summoned to his employer's house in Onchan. As the hours had gone by, she had grown increasingly concerned and had tried to 'phone her husband on his mobile and then on the employer's home number, but there had been no reply on either. Control wanted Quilliam to pop round.
"He'll just have stayed overnight there; more sense than to try to drive in this, probably sleeping," the policeman muttered to himself, but started the engine and gingerly moved off through the virgin snow.
He had driven past the house more times than he could remember and like everyone was familiar with its owner, the undertaker Mr Quayle. Some called the man eccentric, others used harsher epithets, but he was respected in a Manx sort of way and was rumoured to be fabulously wealthy. The house was old, sprawling and rather dilapidated. It stood in grounds well set back from the road, some distance from its nearest neighbours and clung limpet-like to the cliff top at the far end of the village. PC Quilliam pulled off the road and entered the driveway which descended steeply between two groves of tangled and overgrown trees. The patrol car's wheels slipped and spun as it made the tricky descent before finally coming to rest in a wide courtyard beside the house. The policeman opened the car door and swung round, testing the crisp deep snow with his foot before risking his weight on it; his foot sunk an inch, maybe two, but it seemed firm enough so he pulled himself out and stepped boldly forward. The test had been rather deceptive; his first full-blown step took him rather deeper and the heavily-built, middle-aged constable swore silently as several inches of his blue serge trousers disappeared below the surface, an icy wetness suddenly clinging to his legs. It was too late now to have second thoughts so he struggled on through the snow and a few seconds later had reached the front of the house; it was then that he looked around and took stock. The courtyard was empty save for a motor vehicle of some description parked by the side of the building; it had evidently been there for some time and was covered in deep drifts, but Quilliam hazarded a guess that it was a Landrover (colour unknown). Control had told him that the missing man drove such a vehicle and it was the first sign that he was on the right track. It was time to try the house.

PC Quilliam turned to the door. His preliminary inspection revealed a button on the left-hand side of the frame; he pressed it and waited. After a time, he pressed it again. Nothing stirred within so he pulled himself up to his full six foot frame, coughed and in his best official manner rapped firmly on the woodwork. The door moved silently inward; it had not been locked. It was then that the policeman's suspicions began to become aroused. He pulled the baton from his waistband and cautiously prodded the door fully open. Dawn had broken and the seagulls had begun their morning chorus, but the interior of the house still basked in a gloomy, silent shadow. Something did not feel quite right, but Quilliam was not a man to shirk his duty; he pulled out his torch and stepped forward. Inside the house, his senses seemed heightened. The door creaked to behind him, damping down the noise of the seagulls with a dusty silence, broken only by a metrononomous ticking. He panned the torchlight around and saw the antique grandfather clock and then he saw something else.

It was a line of footsteps passing along the corridor to the front door, partial footsteps, as if made by someone running, but ruddy-brown in colour and embossed on the pale wooden floor by a sole which had been dipped in blood. Quilliam felt his muscles tensing as he followed the footsteps towards their source. They led him along a tall and lengthy corridor, through an open door and concrete-floored garage to another door and thence to a broad, but windowless chamber. Quilliam flashed his torch around the room and realised that this was the place where the undertaker stored and prepared his customers. A row of stainless steel doors covered one wall and a table such as that Quilliam had seen at his thankfully infrequent attendances at post-mortems took centre stage. It was that table which now attracted the policeman's eyes, for on it lay a body, the fully-clothed body of a man; a man with a long, cruel knife protruding from his chest.