Scarlett has her own dressing room, and there are three outfits on display. I can see straight away two of them wouldn’t reach my navel because I’m over half a foot taller than her. Is she drunk or does she just not care?
I slide the blue one off its hanger. ‘This looks nice.’
‘That old thing. It’s a bit dowdy and doesn’t have the oomph factor. I want my assets seen.’
I haven’t got time to consider her words, so I ignore her and strip off. Scarlett has never said anything about my physique. I’m what they call up-and-down. Food has only ever been fuel to me, so I’ve never had to worry about my weight. I stare in the mirror and beam. It’s as if they made the dress with me in mind. Just above the knee, with a split up the side to show off my long legs. There’s even a ruffled top to disguise my lack of cleavage.
‘I hope you’re doing something with your hair.’
‘Yes, I’ll do it at home.’ It’s a lie. I’ve already done it. I put my woolly hat back on while giving her my most winning smile. She scowls in mock disgust.
‘Here, try these. They’re Louboutin’s, very expensive. I spilt oil on the toe, so I was going to throw them out, but they’ll do for tonight.’
‘You’re too kind.’ Weirdly, we have the same size feet, but she rarely lends me her shoes. She reckons she once caught a verruca from shoe swapping. I think she doesn’t like to acknowledge we both take size sevens. That must be why she was so good at swimming.
I see my reflection and catch my breath. Admittedly, I’m too tall for her mirror and the image finishes at my unmade-up chin. I notice a spot on it. It’s rubbish having bad skin at my age. My medication doesn’t help. She stands next to me with tears in her eyes and lifts my hat off my head.
‘Wow. You look lovely. Sit, and I’ll do your make-up.’
That’s why I keep at our friendship. Sometimes she forgets who she’s trying to be.
She’s brilliant at the layers and shading. I have a slightly thick nose, but with her contouring it shifts focus up to my grey-green eyes. Afterwards, I air kiss her. She sits on her little stool in front of the mirror as I wave goodbye. The tears are back, but they are for her.
I’ll have to put my trainers on to drive home, but I shimmy down the stairs as if I’m the belle of the ball. Her husband opens the front door for me with his jaw on the floor. I give him the finger on the way out.
3
DI Barton
Barton closed his eyes after DCI Cox walked away from his hospital bed, but his mind churned over her words. When he’d joined up, there had been no plan. It had been a wage slip and a job he’d found interesting. His career had progressed naturally. Uniform had suited his nearly six and a half feet frame, then becoming a detective had been a natural progression when he’d searched for new challenges. Passing the exams had been hard work, but he’d got there. He’d assumed DI was as far as he would go, and that was fine.
Now he had the chance to move up to the next level, he worried if it was what he wanted. His last two DCIs had ridden their desks hard. They had usually been in their offices before he’d arrived and still there when he left. Detective Inspectors tended to have bouts of crazy hours during major investigations, but other times he’d attended the kids’ sports days and concerts with no problems. Barton didn’t like the idea of giving that up. He’d never met anybody who wished they’d missed more of their children’s youth.
Yet, it was a fantastic opportunity to cover Cox’s role while she was on maternity leave, and she’d mentioned that she might not return. Part of him needed to be stretched. There was always a bigger picture in policing, and he wanted to see it. But there would be a price to pay in family time, and he was unsure if the cost was worth it. Life seemed easier when you only had yourself to think about. Now every choice carried a risk of regret.
Barton smiled. Holly would know what to do. He had great confidence in his wife’s common sense. If they made the decision together with the family in mind, then it’d be the right one.
With that, his eyelids drooped from the pain medication that they had given him for his wounds. It had only been a few days since The Soul Killer’s actions had left him with a painful scar on his chest. Barton drifted off to the rhythmic beat of the heart monitor. But he still sensed the swoosh of the door and the giggles as people neared his bed. He recognised Strange’s, ‘Shhh,’ but kept his eyes closed.
‘Is he alive?’ asked Zander.
There was a brief pause.
‘It doesn’t smell like it,’ said Strange.
‘What does the beeping mean?’
‘It sounds every time he farts.’
‘What does it mean if it stops?’
‘You need to press the red button for the laundry room.’
Barton laughed and gasped in agony with the same breath. ‘Very amusing, you pair.’
Zander’s black skin didn’t show the bruising in the same shocking way as Barton’s chest, but the eye above his injured jawbone was a ball of fire. They’d taken The Soul Killer down, but it had been a close-run thing. Only Strange had escaped serious injury. A short blonde, she had transferred from the Met over a year ago, and proven hard-hitting and likeable.
Zander, on the other hand, had been policing Peterborough almost as long as Barton and was a similar size. Zander rested a large box of Milk Tray on the bed. He and Strange sat in the two seats on either side of Barton.
‘Good to see you both. Are you going to be all right, Zander?’ asked Barton.
‘Yep. I was lucky to escape with a mild concussion. Kept me in to be safe but now I can go home and rest.’
‘Cox said to have the afternoon off.’
Zander chuckled. ‘She’s gone soft.’
‘It’s her maternal side coming through,’ replied Barton. He explained about Cox’s maternity and grinned at his two sergeants’ faces as they processed the fact that if Barton got promoted, he’d leave a vacancy, and they were each other’s competition.
Zander attempted to play it cool but couldn’t help himself. ‘There’ll be some staff moves, then.’
‘Who knows? This is the police, remember. They’ll probably give me a mop and tell me to keep on top of the cells at the same time.’
‘Yeah. I recall the good old days when they paid you for the job you did,’ said Zander.
‘I bet you both miss cycling around the neighbourhood too,’ said Strange.
‘With all your jokes, you’d think there were thirty years’ difference between us, not ten,’ replied Zander. He turned back to Barton. ‘What’s your prognosis?’
‘The operation went great and the rib break was clean. I should be back at work in about six weeks.’
‘They might want someone to cover as DI until you return,’ said Strange.
‘Yes. I mentioned to DCI Cox that Huntingdon Station had a really promising sergeant.’
Zander grabbed his box of chocolates and ambled to the door.
‘It’s been nice chatting, John. We’ll see you in a couple of months.’
‘Just kidding, guys. Cox said she’ll visit me when I’m discharged. Hopefully, they’ll offer both of you the opportunity to gain some experience.’
Zander slid the Milk Tray back on the bed. ‘Call if you need anything. Text me with any news, and we’ll collect you when you’re ready to leave. Holly can focus on the kids.’ He smiled. ‘We’d better let you rest.’
Barton guessed they were heading to the pub to discuss matters. He overheard their comments as the door closed.
‘Perhaps we’ll have to arm wrestle for promotion,’ said Zander.
‘More likely they’ll just give it to me for saving both of your lives.’
‘We had it under control.’
‘Bullshit.’
Grinning, Barton picked up the Milk Tray box. He opened it up to find most of the contents and all of his favourites had gone.
4
The Ice Killer
Scarlett and Tim’s driveway slopes down to
the house and I over-rev the engine of my blue Ford Focus pulling out. I daren’t stall the car because it probably won’t start again. On the road, I tut as there’s a delay before it responds to my instructions to speed up. A sense of impending financial doom hits.
It’s a desperate time of the year if you’re already feeling gloomy. A thick layer of cold-looking mist lies over the land, lending it a haunted feel. BBC weather said a polar vortex may be approaching. Scarlett’s been calling it the polar express after the animated film, but it’s no joke as they cause extreme conditions, which is dire news for my heating bill.
My place is ten minutes from Scarlett’s country mansion, but the neighbourhood is different. I live where you end up if you’ve made mistakes. It’s a small, functional, top floor flat in a block of six at Monument Square. My insurance customer service agent job means I can just afford the mortgage. I had a plan that when I got married, I could keep the flat and rent it out while I moved into a family place with my husband. That was seven years ago and there’s still no husband.
I’m pleased the tramp who has been languishing near the entrance of the car park has gone. The stone gates curve, giving him shelter from the wind and some cover from the rain. It’s not a night to be out in the open. I took him some warm soup a few evenings ago. I think he slurred thank you, but the soup was half frozen in the bowl the next morning. When I got home from work that night, I had to clear up the broken pieces of porcelain. Judging by the bits of carrot on his sleeping bag, he’d rolled in it. It was annoying as it was from the matching set my mother bought me last birthday. My fault for not using plastic, but I thought he’d enjoy it more out of a real bowl.
Trent Anderson, the arsehole from the bottom flat underneath, has parked in my space again. He was Valentine number eleven. I’m sure he parks there so I have to ask him to move. I drive into his space instead, although in the morning, he’ll wait for me to leave for the office and come out at the same moment even though he works from home. For about the fiftieth time he’ll point at our cars and say, ‘What does it mean, what does it mean?’ He’s the only person I’ve ever met who’s more stalkerish than I am.
His behaviour is only just on the border of acceptability. When I told him to stop annoying me, he said he was just being neighbourly. He steadily chips away at any happiness in my life. There’s little for him to go at. I keep my head down as his curtain twitches.
Letting myself in, I see I have fifteen minutes before date time. I take a moment to stare out of the lounge window. I viewed this place once before buying it. They had the blinds drawn. What kind of person spends all that money and only sees the building the one time? I even looked at my car twice and that’s shit. When I moved in and pulled the blinds, I found my view was directly into the cemetery. I knew it was there, so it wasn’t a complete surprise, but I’m so close I can read a few of the residents’ names on their gravestones.
My dad’s in there at the far corner. He doesn’t have a grave, but my mum said he asked for his ashes to be scattered in the memorial garden. I often sit on the bench and wonder what could have been if he hadn’t left us. Sometimes I go through a gap in the fence behind the flats and sit in the dark with him. There’s a statue of an angel nearby which always catches my eye. It feels as if she’s looking over him.
Scarlett reckons it’s creepy to live that close to a cemetery, but that’s not what I think. I’ve never seen any ghosts. I have spotted our car park sleeper sitting on the benches with his friends with a different kind of spirit. The caretakers usher the drunks out at nightfall and lock the gates, leaving it pitch black, but I like the idea of my dad nearby even if I don’t remember loads about him.
I was more positive back when I first moved in. I used to look out at the graves when I was getting ready for work and think, I’m going to have a better day than you lot, no matter how bad it is. But that isn’t always true. Nowadays, I occasionally think they wouldn’t have far to drag me if I hurled myself from my window. I put the radio on to drown out the Friends episode that is actually coming from the deranged woman two flats underneath me, and remove my hat.
I brush my hair slowly but still more comes out. My mood drops further. When I’ve been down in the past, I’ve often thought at least I have good locks. The only thing I can do is add water, put mousse on, and blow-dry it up to create volume. I find a YouTube video on the best method and copy it by creating bangs to hide my high temples. I hope the Chinese restaurant is dimly lit or I’ll dazzle him.
Saying that, it’s more likely that I’ll need shades. Number twelve, tonight’s date, Brad Averescu, has a similar hair loss problem. His is beyond help as well, and he hides it similarly. Perhaps we can compare techniques.
He’s one of those blokes in their mid-thirties who has never grown up, but I’m still excited. For him, football is for watching on a Saturday, playing on a Sunday and discussing all week. He’d better not arrive wearing a Manchester United shirt. Saying that, I can forgive him most things just for his name. He could be an Italian gigolo, when he actually comes from Burnley. Although Ellen Averescu sounds like something you catch from mosquitos.
Still, Brad’s in great shape and could pass for a young Jude Law. He’s worked in our department for years. I’ve always thought he was a bit of a player with women as well as sport, but Scarlett said he’s been keen on me for a long time. The fact she wants me to date someone she calls Boring Brad says it all. Apparently, she’d heard he was great in bed. It wouldn’t surprise me if she knew first-hand.
Scarlett has a nickname for most people. Once she called me Crazy Ellen, but I gave her such a look that she never mentioned it again.
I open the fridge and remove a bottle of white wine. I had a glass earlier to calm my nerves. What was I worrying about? He’ll either like me, or he won’t. I take a big gulp from the bottle. It’s cheaper to preload. Wine in restaurants is so expensive. I learned that to my cost when Valentine date number nine left the swanky pizza place we were in to get some money out of the bank and never came back.
I think the man should pay for the first meal, especially if he did the asking. My beau tonight was the instigator even though he communicated by text, which isn’t super-romantic. Especially as he only sits about twenty metres from me at work.
A beep informs me I have a new message. Never a good sign ten minutes before the arrival of your date. My mobile is in the bedroom. I stand in front of my own full length mirror where I can see my eyes. They look sad. They know the dress, shoes, immaculate eye shadow and expectation have been a waste of time. I take a bigger glug from the bottle and enter the code on my phone.
Running a little late, should be there in fifteen.
That’s unexpected. I skip to the fridge in the lounge-diner and put the wine back. Pacing myself is important if I don’t want to fall over in Scarlett’s shoes. I slide the high heels on. Damn, they make me feel good.
I decide to nip out for more booze in case he’s a no-show. This end of Eastfield Road is a rough place at night. There’s still plenty of people hanging around in doorways and sitting on car bonnets despite the cool wind and swirling mist. I smile at the guy behind the counter of the off-licence. I’d hate his job. It must be a constant battle against the shoplifters, but I feel safe inside the shop with all the security cameras, and it’s warmer than my flat.
After perusing most of the range, I purchase my usual cheap bottle. It tastes fine if it’s freezing cold, otherwise it makes me gag. I step outside and pet the shivering wee spaniel tied against the bin. It’s called Pebbles or Peebles. The elderly owner is Scottish and talks fast. As I step away, a group of young lads appear around the corner with an enormous dog, whose heavy breath steams in the air. It pads along, muscles rippling under the damp fur. It’s immediately clear who’s taking whom for a walk.
I step back and look at the vulnerable Pebbles, who’s seen the threat. There’s nothing he can do. He whimpers and accepts his fate. I’m not shocked either. It’s the way it
is around here. Survival of the fittest and law of the jungle, although usually the violence is between men. The boy holding the lead has sensed the danger. I pray for the Scotsman to leave the shop.
‘Woah, Ace. Stop, stop. Shit!’ panics the dog walker.
The rottweiler easily pulls himself over to the bin and stares down at a crouched-in-submission Pebbles, and opens his mouth. Butting in around here doesn’t pay. Ace isn’t hungry, he’s showing his strength. I don’t want to be his focus or attract the attention of the gang, but as Ace’s head lowers, I whistle. He stops and turns his huge head in the direction of the sharp sound. Empty eyes study me for a few seconds while he considers if I have anything of interest.
I can almost sense his brain processing centuries of breeding, which tell him humans are his friend. He returns his gaze to Pebbles, who is not human. Sensing Ace’s body tensing to strike, I whistle again, but this time Ace only blinks in reply.
‘Help me, you twats,’ the desperate boy shouts at his mates as he tries to pull the beast back. At that moment, the Scotsman steps out of the shop, unclips Pebbles and whisks him away, carrying him down the street. He doesn’t look around and his expression doesn’t change. He’s lived here long enough to know the rules. I leave swiftly, too, and quickly forget.
Back home, I sit on one of the stools at the kitchen pull-out table. This is the part I enjoy most: the anticipation of the date. At this point, it’s all excitement and nervousness, although as the years have passed, I’ve felt less of both.
Nevertheless, I find myself humming the song about going to the chapel, and going to get married, when the doorbell sounds. A deep breath, then I let him in. When I open the door, I actually bark the beginnings of a howl of laughter before I prevent the rest of it falling out.
He doesn’t notice because he breezes past me with a bag containing clinking bottles and another that leaves a waft of Chinese food in its wake. He spots the kitchen, takes three bottles out of the bag and puts them in the fridge, despite two of them being red wine.
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 2
