‘It wasn’t really planned. In fact, I didn’t know if I was going to keep it until now.’
The sonographer rested her hand on Strange’s shoulder. ‘There’s a lot of literature in the waiting room. Grab yourself some leaflets and have a read. You’ll need to book in for a twelve week scan because we can’t do the nuchal fold test until that point.’ At Kelly’s blank face, she checked her watch. ‘Are you in a rush? Because I finish my last appointment in half an hour and can answer any questions you might have then.’
Barton couldn’t help a glance at his own watch to see a time of 16:45. He didn’t want to look up afterwards.
‘Go, John. I’ll be fine here. I want to read everything they’ve got and I’m sure I’ll have loads of questions. It will be time well spent getting my head around it all. There’ll be cabs outside.’
‘It’s okay. I can wait.’
They both still held hands. She gave his fingers a firm squeeze and let go.
‘John, I’m pregnant, not dying. Get out of here.’
Barton thanked the sonographer and grinned at her.
‘Make sure the taxi driver is careful. The roads will be bad.’ He paused after standing and said, ‘Good for you, Kelly.’
As he closed the door behind him, the sonographer whispered, ‘Men!’
34
The Snow Killer
I glance at the clock and see the time is approaching five. My body has calmed down, and I am strangely cool headed. The news had nothing of any importance on it, local or national, so I’ve decided to strike now if possible. Big Chapman often leaves the office around this time. I remember her father lording it from that office while his children ran riot outside, taking things from unlocked cars and terrorising the shoppers. It’s no wonder Britney runs part of their business out in the open.
My clothes have dried and I slide my arms into the white coat. My jeans are stiff coming off the radiator, but only the wellingtons have any dampness. The drawer on the sideboard is stiff, and the pistol rattles inside when I manage to yank it open. I keep it loaded, just in case. It holds six rounds. I used one of them making sure it still worked, and to see how loud the bang was, but five bullets should be more than enough.
I’ll need my head visible for this if it’s going to work. Stepping outside the front door, I gasp at the weather. It’s like being hit in the face with tiny ball bearings. I pull my hood up, lean forward into the wind, and with short, careful steps, walk up the path.
Baggswell Lane, the route to the shops, has many tall trees and fences along it, and I’m protected from the worst of the conditions. I only meet one other person; a lunatic on a push-bike. A balaclava cocoons his head, and I can’t make out any features. The lights are on at the shops, and I’m disappointed to see the units so clearly. The odd person scuttles from doorways with their heads down but they disappear as quickly as they emerge.
A few vehicles are stationary with their headlights on. I recognise the expensive behemoth that Big Chapman owns. The strong beam from its lights displays the blistering hail to good effect. She’s parked it up in the far corner near the building that holds the dentist’s. I shuffle forwards with the wind directly in front of me. It whips the air away so fast that I struggle to breathe. I hold onto both sides of my hood to keep it in place.
A car drives out of its space, causing me to stop. It glides past within touching distance, but I can’t recognise any features through the windows, and it’s unlikely they would see me either. It is now or never. I grab the handle of the pistol in my big side pocket and step forward as though I’m heading to the dentist entrance. A gust blows my hood off and whips my hair around.
I stagger a little, edging towards the driver’s side door of the huge vehicle. A hand wipes the side of the frosted window and a brown face presses against it. She’s seen me. I expect the car to roar away. Instead, the door clicks open and she pushes it wide.
Big Chapman stares at me like I’m insane. The inside light reflects off her leather coat. Her lopsided smile is amused. I detect kindness and genuine concern. A question flashes before my watering eyes. Do I kill again?
35
DI Barton
Barton made his way to the exit uplifted, as he often was by his experience of the NHS, despite another late running appointment. Few of the staff didn’t go the extra distance every day. It had been an emotional moment for him too, so it must have been a roller coaster for Kelly. He smiled at the recollection of her peaceful face when she said she planned to keep the baby. That was the right decision for her, and he was sure she wouldn’t regret it. He laughed and got an odd look from a passing porter. For sure there would be tough times, but a baby might be all she needed in life. After all, plenty of parents raised them on their own.
Barton inserted his ticket into the machine and paid the fee after double-checking the outrageous price. He was wondering if it counted as a claimable work expense when the freezing rain reacquainted itself with his face. His only thought now was getting to the car with his eyesight intact. If anything, the rain came down harder now. Angry, grey clouds boiled above, and the gloom that threatened earlier had arrived with gusto.
He cursed at the line of traffic out of the hospital. He was minutes ahead of rush hour, but everyone wanted to get home early. He could rat-run on the back roads to beat the queues, but once you were on the parkways around Peterborough, it was usual to maintain a decent speed. He chose the latter and was wrong. Tonight’s weather broke the rules. He found himself drifting along at twenty miles per hour. There were no blues and twos fitted to his car but maybe that was just as well, he thought. Abandoned vehicles littered the side of the road as though giants had thrown them there. People’s lives changed in conditions like this.
The song on the radio finished. Barton’s concentration on the traffic conditions meant he hadn’t heard a word. The presenter took over.
‘Take care on the roads tonight, all you commuters. We’re getting reports of terrible conditions, and most of the routes around the city are barely moving. Keep your distance. The council tells me the gritters are struggling as the grit won’t stick on the surface and is just getting washed away. Then more ice forms. It’s a no win situation. In the US, this freezing rain is known as an ice storm.’
Everyone else must have been listening, too, as Barton’s speed dropped to ten miles an hour. He cursed but then steadied his breathing. Celine Chapman would still be there if Brick hadn’t turned up. She was clever enough to know the weather might delay him.
He joined the slip road to Orton Malborne and the shops, and got stuck in another queue. It wasn’t usual to meet a known felon to discuss their worries about a different criminal matter, but he had the strange feeling that Celine wanted to help. A detective’s job had never been straightforward. At some point in the future, he hoped they’d arrest the Chapmans. Someone close to them would get caught, and loyalty was easily discarded when heavy sentences became a real possibility.
At the roundabout, he swung onto Malborne Way. He’d be there in less than a minute. His gut tightened without warning.
36
The Snow Killer
There’s no time for thought and reflection. That should have taken place fifty years ago. They’ve buried the fat lady. The choir has sung. After all, I saw it leaving the church. I’m too old and too cold for change.
‘What the hell are you doing out in this weather at your age?’ shouts Big Chapman.
I put a hand on the top of the car door to steady myself and reply.
‘Cleaning the streets.’
An act of kindness by her doesn’t negate the lives she’s ruined with drugs. Stealing those people’s futures means you must forsake the right to one of your own. My father accepted that. The men who killed him understood it. And as the smile drops from her face, this lady knows it too.
She still cries out in defiance, ‘No!’ but the wind screams louder. The bang of the Webley pistol isn’t loud. What sound there is get
s blown into the clouds. I blast her again in the side, reach over, and turn off the car ignition. She attempts to lean over to the passenger seat but her insides are already ruined, and she slumps back into her seat. Her eyes slant right at me in shock and shame.
I pull the screwdriver from my other pocket and show it to her face. Her gaze follows the point as it moves towards her neck. I rest it against the skin.
The car door is heavy as I slam it shut. I pull my hood up again and hold it in place. The wind rips at it as I leave the lee of the vehicle. I glance up to see a young lad staring over in the distance. It’s too late to run or hide.
I need to walk near him to escape into Baggswell Lane. As I approach, he backs away and sprints across the road, past the chip shop and the bookmaker’s, and through an underpass. I turn into the entrance to the lane and notice a familiar car, driving too fast for the conditions, screech and slide into the top of the street that leads to the car park. Fear stirs my legs. I find a semi-jog I’m pleased I still have the ability to achieve, and the policeman’s vehicle slips from view. The gravel slides under my feet, but it isn’t treacherous.
I slow when I arrive at our cul-de-sac and walk to the end. My vision blurs as I approach my home. My strength empties out as though a gasket has blown. The last few strides are almost impossible. I cry as my key drops from my fingers. The back door is unlocked, I recall, and, using the fence as support, I stagger inside.
The heating turning itself on stirs me some time later. I must have collapsed fully clothed on the sofa. Even my wellingtons are still on my feet. The room warms up fast. The bungalow has long radiators and small rooms. Sleep is coming and I won’t resist. My final thought as my eyelids close and the world dims is that this could be it. But there’s just one loose end to tie. Only one more lesson to give. One last wrong to make right.
37
DI Barton
A desolate, urban landscape greeted Barton. Grey, watery light blurred the streetlamps and headlights. Frantic windscreen wipers revealed people huddled in shop doorways and making breaks to the bleak housing estates through layers of spitting rain and sleet. He hammered his brakes as a car pulling out of the car park swung too wide, then edged in.
The traffic had melted some of the snow during the day, and it’d become an icy slush. It crunched in places and slipped in others. Soon it would be a hip breaking glacier full of ridges and crevices. There was no mistaking the Chapmans’ Porsche. He noticed the vehicle vibrate and smoke poured out of the exhaust as though the engine had just started. Checking his watch, he realised he was fifteen minutes late. Maybe she’d given up waiting.
Barton drove to the right to cut her off. He expected the big car to swing past the dentist’s but it crept forward and picked up speed. There was something unnatural and jerky about the movement. The car struggled and then revved. It did head towards the dentist’s, but instead of stopping, it accelerated. Barton slammed on the brakes, dashed from his car, but could do nothing to stop the Porsche smashing into the thick brick posts at the entrance.
The engine roared and stalled as he arrived at the driver’s side. He yanked open the door, and a horrific scene greeted him: Celine Chapman slumped over the steering wheel with a screwdriver sticking out of the side of her neck. Her eyes opened a fraction.
Twenty years of training clicked into place, and he immediately grabbed his phone and dialled 999. There was no point ringing Control because they could take a minute to pick up and time wasn’t on Celine’s side. The wind curled over the roof of the car and blew the smell of cordite and fresh blood into Barton’s nose. Harsh, biting snow blasted it away. He crouched to speak.
‘DI Barton. Herlington shops car park. Outside the dentist. Ambulance needed. Heavy blood loss. Life in danger. Police needed. Notify command chain. Attempted murder.’ He cut the line.
At that moment, Celine dropped back off the steering wheel and into her seat. Her hand came up to the tool in her neck. There wasn’t actually an enormous amount of blood pouring from the wound so he hoped that meant the weapon might not have penetrated the main veins and arteries.
‘Don’t touch the screwdriver, Celine. Leave it in place. The medics are coming. Breathe slowly.’
Celine tried to speak but only a gargled sound came out. Her right hand dropped off the wheel, and she managed to pull her coat back. Barton peered down and couldn’t prevent himself saying, ‘God,’ at the blood that oozed rapidly from her side.
‘I’m going to get a towel from my car to stop the bleeding.’
For the second time within an hour, a hand hovered in front of him. He took it.
‘N-n-n-n-n-o,’ she said.
He let go of her hand, pulled his jacket off and then his jumper. He made the latter into a pad and pressed it hard against the two close-together bullet holes.
‘You’ll only need to hold on until the medics arrive.’
He felt a faint pressure on his hand, and she twisted her head slightly towards him. A small smile lifted her cheeks. She didn’t believe that. Her body convulsed, and she gurgled. ‘Ahh-h-h,’ came out, and blood trickled from the side of her mouth. Her eyes stayed on his. She squinted. There was determination to talk.
‘O-o-o-o-l-l-l-d,’ she gasped.
‘What do you mean? You want me to hold you? I can hear the sirens, Celine. They’re almost here. Hang in there. Stay awake. Keep those eyes open.’
He realised he sounded like someone who had watched too many Vietnam war films when the helicopters came in to rescue the wounded. Her eyes bulged, but lost their focus. A large breath, more a release than anything, pushed more blood from her shredded lungs. The gasp tailed off and the mist it created, and Celine’s life, disappeared.
The police and emergency vehicles poured into the car park. Zander prised Barton’s fingers from Celine’s grasp. Paramedics lifted Celine from the seat, placed her on a stretcher, and quickly shunted it into the well-lit interior of an ambulance. Barton watched through the back door as they inserted an airway. A female paramedic shook her head and closed the door.
One explanation occurred to Barton on this professional hit. It was a sign.
38
DI Barton
DI Barton woke the following morning at 8:00. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept for ten hours. After nipping to the toilet, he slid himself back into the warm sheets. A lukewarm cup of tea sat next to the bed. He decided to let yesterday’s events wash over him.
Once the body had been removed, the crime scene felt strange. A bitter day with a crumpled car and a bloody seat didn’t seem dramatic enough. The vehicle was so well made that the brick post had come off worst. Zander had put Barton’s coat back on him and guided him to a patrol car, where he shivered uncontrollably despite the heater blasting out warm air. Barton had seen people die before, most police had, but it was different when someone familiar died before their time. He had some affection and respect for Celine, even if she lived on the wrong side of the law.
Zander returned from the shops with a coffee and asked the constable driving the response car to drive them home. Barton protested half-heartedly, but he was emotionally drained. The driver tried to make small talk for a while. It wasn’t often he had two men from CID with reputations like theirs in his car, but Zander eventually told him it had been a long day, and he got the hint.
Holly and the kids were finishing dinner. She knew the look and drove the children into the lounge with promises of ice cream from the freezer. Zander remembered where they kept the whisky. He poured them both half a tumbler and sat opposite Barton at the table.
They talked for a while. Holly quietly came in and cooked a frozen pizza for them, which Barton didn’t touch. Baby Luke said he could smell it and ran off with the biggest slice. Zander probed around the hospital visit with Kelly but remained tactful enough not to ask for details. He asked Barton for a run through of the events leading up to the murder as a message confirmed Celine’s death on arrival at the hospital. He made
notes in Barton’s pad for him while events remained fresh. Zander then went into the hallway and Barton heard him talking to a person he assumed was the boss, DCI Naeem.
Zander informed him there was a meeting for everyone at 10:00 the next morning. CSI were all over the crime scene, and any PC or DC who answered their phone was being sent to the area to look for witnesses.
Zander received another call half an hour later. Apparently, Britney Chapman had arrived at the scene. The scene guard ended up tussling with her as Britney refused to take no for an answer. They don’t teach you street fighting at training school. In true Britney style, she wasn’t happy with just getting through. She had to go too far. Luckily, DC Ginger Rodgers arrived and threatened her with a dose of PAVA spray and a whack from his baton. Zander and Barton were amazed that Ginger had been wearing his holster. Luckily, there was still an ambulance present, which took the officer to hospital.
Ginger arrested and cautioned Britney, and drove her to the station in his car where all her fight drained away on the news she’d spent a lifetime dreading. In a way, Britney being arrested worked out nicely as at least she remained safe in custody and could be questioned in the morning. Barton noticed Zander hadn’t drunk his whisky, so he had his glass, too.
When Zander left, Barton climbed the stairs, took off his clothes and dropped into bed. He dreamt of blood and snow.
39
DI Barton
The Snow Killer Page 13
