‘Fingers burst from the letterbox, tiny fingers...’ Out in the Cold, by Stuart Johnstone, Part 1

A dropped 999 call introduces us to probationer PC Don Colyear in the first of four extracts from Stuart Johnstone’s debut crime thriller Out in the Cold

Former police officer, crime writer and dog shop owner Stuart Johnstone

CHAPTER ONE: Gut Feeling

John tried the letterbox again. He let the flap fall, sending harsh metallic claps both inside the bare-sounding flat and all around the stairwell, knowing half the building had probably been awoken by our now-lengthy efforts. Five seconds of silence. Ten. Nothing. At John’s request I held the flap open while he shone his torch through.

‘No carpet,’ he said, ‘no light bulbs even; is this definitely the right address?’

Out in the Cold

I checked the message on my radio screen and confirmed it was.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘You’re asking me?’ I laughed.

He had been doing this more and more. I enjoyed the responsibility implied, though not so much the pressure that came with it. John began rapping the butt-end of his torch against the door. The sound was piercing, and I resisted the urge to plug my ears with my fingers. The door to the flat behind us juddered open, the scowl on the man’s face turned to apologetic surprise and the door closed over. John was sniffing through the letterbox now.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘Just checking,’ he said. ‘I think we’re going to have to put the door in.’

‘I’ll get it from the car,’ I said.

I made my way down the stairwell, watching my feet carefully as the orange haze from the buzzing communal stair-light failed to penetrate the gloom efficiently. Three certainties in life, John would say often, too often to forget he’d said it to me before. Death, taxes, and they’re always on the top floor. Today he was right enough. He had a lot of these little sayings. I wondered if they were his, or if he’d learnt them from his tutor and, if so, whether I was doomed to inherit them someday.

I held the ram out to John by its crude handles, my arms shaking with the weight of it. He just gave me a trademark look and I knew I was doing the swinging. He was squat, middle-aged and out of shape, but his shoulders were better equipped for this sort of thing than my slight frame. I pulled the ram up to chest height and opted for the pendulum approach. If John hadn’t been there, I would probably have voiced the and-a-one, and-a-two, and-a-threeee out loud. When I reached the count of two, fingers burst from the letterbox, tiny fingers.

‘Jesus!’ John spluttered, drawing away from the wriggling digits. He shone his light through as the hand withdrew.

‘Hello,’ he said with a small voice, ‘is your mummy or daddy there, can you get them? A wee girl,’ he said to me ‘can’t be older than three. Where’s your

mummy? Can you open the door?’

John continued with the girl. She said something in reply I couldn’t hear. I crouched down next to John and saw the dark-haired girl shielding her eyes from the torchlight.

‘Can you get Mummy to come to the door, sweetheart?’ I asked.

‘Asleepin’,’ she replied.

‘Did you call us? Can you open the door? Do you know where the key is? Does Mummy have it?’ I asked.

‘Mummy asleepin’,’ she repeated.

‘OK, honey, I need you to stand back away from the door now, can you do that?’

John gave me a nod and I lifted the ram once more. He held his hand up as I approached.

‘Do you have a dolly, a baby?’ he asked, a moment of inspiration. ‘You do? Could I meet her, could you go get her for me?’

John’s flat stop-hand turned to a go-point. I planted my feet and swung at the Yale lock and the ram battered through, taking part of the doorframe with it.

John’s torch lit the dark-haired girl standing in the carpetless hall in pyjama bottoms and a grubby vest top. A grim-looking doll wearing only a blue bonnet hung from her hand. The astonished look on her face quickly dropped, as did the doll, as she began to sob. I dumped the ram and approached cautiously, trying not to frighten her any further. The smell from the flat was stifling. I flicked my sleeve over my hand and held it to my face...

‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’ My voice came out funny from my reluctance to breathe through my nose, so ‘name’ sounded more like ‘dame’.

I pulled her hands from her tear-streaked face, but she didn’t reply. I lifted her and asked again. Her hands moved to my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length, though she didn’t

otherwise resist. She looked at me for the first time. Her wet eyes scanned my face in the gloom. They were quickly drawn to the yellow light beaconing from my radio. She ceased crying now that she had found this wondrous toy on my shoulder.

‘My name’s Don,’ I said to her, ‘and that funny man over there is John. What’s your name?’

‘Carly,’ she said, more to the radio than to me.

‘That’s a pretty name. Where’s your phone?’

I was still hoping that this was to turn out as nine out of ten dropped calls did; an accidental or mischievous dialling of treble-nine. This hope was growing thinner with every passing second.

‘Mummy’s room.’

‘Is Mummy there too, can you show us?’ I asked.

She pointed down the hall where John’s torchlight bobbed and spun.

Carly pointed to the furthest away door, closed over.

‘Better stay there,’ said John.

I nodded and began asking Carly about her nursery. John returned to the hall. I raised my torch to see him shaking his head, a foreboding expression on his face.

Mummy wasn’t asleepin’…

Tomorrow: The horror unfolds

Out in the Cold, by Stuart Johnstone, is published by Allison and Busby

A message from the Editor:

Thank you for reading this article. We're more reliant on your support than ever as the shift in consumer habits brought about by coronavirus impacts our advertisers.

If you haven't already, please consider supporting our trusted, fact-checked journalism by taking out a digital subscription