‘Look, I had an enjoyable time but I’m not in the market for a relationship. I’ve got a lot on at the moment, with the team and stuff. If you want to hook up like last week then that’s cool. I’d better go and log on. Catch you later.’
I watch his snug trousers as they weave between the chairs back to his desk. How sweet. He’ll pop around, get lashed, and shag me if I like. Fucking bastard.
I sense a presence next to me. It’s Scarlett.
‘Hey, sorry I didn’t come to the hospital last week. My idiot husband got drunk and hid the car keys. We had a big row, but I couldn’t escape. I hope you’re all right. Do you fancy going out at lunchtime? I need to buy a frock for the races at the weekend.’
She leaves without waiting for an answer, safe in the knowledge she is more important than me.
My phone beeps and I take a call from a furious person. She’s mid-rant about the loss adjustor turning up late to assess her burglary when I notice it’s the third claim for stolen goods she’s made in the last two years. Something stirs inside me and I slide my headset off, retrieve my coat from the back of my seat, and stride out of the building.
Even though I drive home, I arrive back remembering so little of the journey that it scares me. I stare through the window into the graveyard. It looks cold, damp and sinister out there.
I turn on the CD player and flick through my collection. I wonder if I’ll lose my job. The firm I work for can be ruthless, whatever the circumstances. My dreams of owning an iPad in the future will have to remain just that. ‘Tears in Heaven’ by Eric Clapton will be perfect. It’s such a beautiful song, and I’m glad he made his way through his grief, but I’m not sure I can.
The deep, hot bath is ready. I drop in a bath bomb and climb in with a carving knife. I have a moment’s worry about being found naked but decide I’ll be beyond caring. As I relax into the warmth, I gasp at how good it feels. The smells fire up my brain. I check the packaging and realise the bomb contains invigorating eucalyptus. Maybe that’s why the thoughts that bubble up aren’t suicidal. They are angry and vengeful.
I place the knife on the side and sink beneath the surface.
I’ve always been the victim. Why should I be the one to die?
9
DI Barton
As Barton left his house, he grinned at the ‘get well soon’ cards. The cards surrounded the mirror he was using to check for toothpaste from kissing the children goodbye. Luke had insisted they have them up until he went back to work, or he reckoned it would be unlucky. Barton felt fortunate. He’d survived The Soul Killer when many others hadn’t, and even the police had lost one of their own.
Six weeks at home after being discharged by the hospital had been lovely once the pain had subsided. Especially when the children were at school. He and Holly had reconnected in every way, and it was nice to spend relaxed time with the kids when they came home from school.
However, he was getting bored. Retiring wasn’t for him just yet. He missed the team and couldn’t wait to start learning the DCI role. He’d popped into work a few times to re-acclimatise himself and he had a meeting with DCI Cox first thing.
Holly had said she’d take the cards down tonight, so he had a last look at his three favourites. The first was from his six-year-old, Luke, although he guessed twelve-year-old Layla had written the words. It said, ‘Get better because I want you to take me to McDonald’s’, above a picture of a demented clown. Lawrence, who was seventeen, had drawn him an impressive picture of a fat Robocop, with the caption, ‘Come quietly or there will be… trifle’.
The third was from Mortis, the pathologist for the city, and had a teddy bear with a sling on the front. Inside, Mortis had written, ‘Chin up, or chin down,’ and there was a handmade voucher for a free post-mortem.
Barton pulled his coat on and left the house, chuckling. He fired up his Land Rover and drove down The Village road. He loved Peterborough, perhaps because it was so familiar, but large parts were altering fast. He’d read in the local paper that Peterborough was the UK’s fastest-growing city by population through a combination of immigration and births.
The rougher areas of the city were getting rougher. Crimes were changing. Violent incidents, which would have raised both eyebrows years ago, were accepted as commonplace now. The world had become an angrier place. Peterborough was no exception.
He knew the moment he stepped back inside the station and put his coat on the back of a chair, he would be right back in it. A smile crept on his face as he wandered through the desks. The only detectives present were DS Zander and a recently trained detective, DC Leicester. It sounded like the latter was on the phone to his mum.
‘Where is everyone?’ Barton asked Zander.
‘A few are at court. Strange is on a long weekend break with Sirena. Ewing and Zelensky had a date last night, and Ewing dropped a bowling ball on his foot. She took him to A & E this morning for an X-ray as last night’s waiting time was six hours.’
‘I didn’t know they were dating.’
‘I think he’s keen. She’s like a mini-Strange; very focused on her work. Cox said to go right in when you arrive.’
‘She must be keen to pass on her wisdom.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that.’
‘Eh?’
‘Looks like she’s packing.’
Barton strode to her office and found the door open. Sure enough, Cox whistled a jaunty tune while throwing things haphazardly into a big cardboard box. She had a proper bump now, whereas previously she’d just looked as if she’d eaten a big dinner.
‘Don’t tell me it’s your last day,’ he said.
‘It seems that you’ll be getting the same induction training as I did.’
‘Which is?’
‘A handshake.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Did you expect more?’
Barton pondered the question. Naively, he had.
‘I’ll leave you the chair.’
Barton spun the seat a full turn and slumped in it. He glanced around the room, then out of the window. Stark office blocks loomed opposite. Still, it would be nice not to hot-desk any more. Cox removed the top drawer from her desk, emptied it into the cardboard box, and slid it back. She removed a picture from the wall and put it on top of the other items. Barton made a mental note to bring a family photo in.
Barton leaned back. ‘Looks like you don’t expect to return.’
‘Who knows how I’ll feel? What I do know is that I can’t leave anything drinkable, edible or useable behind, as it’ll be gone before I’ve driven out of the car park.’
Barton held his hands up in mock surrender, even though he already had his eye on her fan.
‘Don’t be glum, John. You know what you’re doing. Be yourself. The super is a good man. He’ll help all he can.’
‘If I can find him.’
She chuckled. ‘You’ll see him when some shit needs shovelling downwards.’
‘What about a DI to cover my role? Or are the sergeants acting up?’
‘You know the budget for extra staff is non-existent until next year, or you will do when you start doing my job in five minutes.’
‘Strange and Zander are hungry for promotion.’
‘Not that hungry.’ She gave him a cryptic smile and shook his hand. ‘Good luck.’
‘Before you leave, what’s the first thing I should do?’
‘Finish up your paperwork on The Soul Killer. He’s in a semi-vegetative state now and out of ICU. We may have a trial yet.’
She took one last look around, grinned at him, and carried the box from the room. Barton steepled his fingers and called Zander’s number in the office. When Zander arrived, Barton was spinning around in the large office chair.
‘Cool, can I have a go?’ asked Zander.
Barton shot him a disappointed look, then relented and smiled. ‘Sure.’
‘Congratulations. Does this make you a bigger cheese now?’
‘I’m
only acting as a medium Cheddar. In true police fashion, it looks like I’ll be doing this job and my old one until she comes back.’
‘It’s always the way, but you know how it works. Show them you can do the job and it’s yours. I take it you’ll be in Huntingdon at HQ a fair bit.’
‘Yes. I’ll be counting on my supermotivated sergeant team, who have been focused on passing their inspector exams.’
Zander stopped the chair. ‘Ah! About that. I can’t get motivated. If we pass the board, they’ll probably move us back to uniform as inspector. Neither of us want to do that.’
‘I assume it’s you and Strange you’re talking about. Pass the exams and go from there. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You could revise together. I’m sure you’d enjoy that.’
Zander raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He joined Barton at the window and they looked out.
‘We’ve come a long way. Hard to believe it’s twenty years,’ said Zander.
‘Can you remember the nervous excitement when we first started? You’d receive the call from control and grin as you hurtled towards the unknown.’
‘I don’t feel like that any more.’ Zander’s head drooped. ‘I miss it.’
‘That’s because we’ve seen it all, and we know as a team we can handle it all. If you feel like that in your role, it’s time to move on. I’ll be nervous in senior meetings, and that’s going to make me feel alive.’ Barton put his hand on Zander’s shoulder. ‘Study for your exams. I’ll give you the experience needed for the next step.’
Zander took a deep breath. ‘Agreed. We’ll be running the force before you know it. All we need is a huge case that covers us in glory.’
DC Leicester interrupted them.
‘Sorry, sir. There’s been an incident at the bottom of Padholme Road near where it meets Eastfield Road.’
‘What kind of incident?’
‘A kidnapping.’
‘Of a child?’
‘No, a postwoman.’
10
Acting DCI Barton
Barton checked his watch. That hadn’t taken long. He smiled at Leicester.
‘Find out the details and ring me. You can hold the fort.’
He nodded at Zander. ‘I’ll drive.’
Barton took his own car as he had promised Holly he’d try to be back for lunch. Peterborough’s road system used to be fantastic, but the influx of people – unofficially fifty thousand in the last twenty years – and all the construction work meant that the town centre was slowing. It seemed they were building everywhere. Barton drove around the parkways instead. It was twice as far as the direct route, but at seventy miles an hour, he’d arrive sooner.
Zander put the phone down from Leicester’s call giving them the latest as they arrived in the Eastfield area. The police did a lot of business in these streets. Barton could remember two hold-ups at the bookmakers in the last year. Zander gave him the address on Padholme Road. Details were sketchy, but it seemed a man had pulled a postwoman into his house and wouldn’t let her out. A passing driver noticed and rang the police.
The traffic was already backed up along Eastfield Road, letting Barton guess that the road ahead had been closed. Instead, he drove up Whalley Street, through Charles Street, where they could see the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles.
Barton parked up, and they got out.
‘Haven’t we been to this address before?’ he asked Zander.
‘I thought it sounded familiar. What was that ex-squaddie’s name, Sixtrees or something?’
‘Twelvetrees!’
They exchanged a curled lip as they simultaneously remembered the case. Twelvetrees was a troubled man. He’d returned from active service with PTSD. The armoured vehicle he’d been driving had overturned after a landslide, not his fault, but one passenger had died and another had ended up in a wheelchair. Barton knew Twelvetrees would have seen terrible things in the Middle East because the Royal Marines had been in the worst of it. Maybe the accident had been the final straw as they’d discharged Twelvetrees within a year.
He’d returned to Peterborough with his wife, but the man who’d left had never really come home. What had returned was a shadow, and a dangerous one at that. His wife had taken the brunt of his illness. Despite him refusing help, she’d stuck by him for years, always declining to give evidence against him. Then something had happened two years back, and she’d asked for a divorce. Twelvetrees had smashed up the Prince of Wales’ Feathers pub after hearing the news. Barton had got involved due to the seriousness of the crimes alleged against the ex-soldier, which included racially aggravated threats to kill the Asian owners of the establishment, criminal damage of twenty thousand pounds, numerous common assaults, and a few others besides. Zander and Barton automatically thought of other similar cases as they neared the scene and knew the dangers.
They arrived, negotiated the barriers, and found the officer in charge, Chief Inspector Brabbins. He’d been involved in the case of The Soul Killer too.
‘Greetings, John. I see you’re inching up the slippery pole.’
‘Not a phrase I expected to hear this early in the morning, sir.’
Brabbins smiled. ‘Just Frank now, seeing as we’re sitting on the same perch. Are you here to take over?’
Barton laughed. ‘No, this is your show for the moment. This is my first full day back, so I thought I’d come and help. Is it Twelvetrees?’
‘Yes, you know him?’
‘Yeah, I got called when he wrecked that pub a few years back.’
‘I’ve heard about his past but haven’t met him in the flesh. We had a brief chat through the letter box. He reckons the postwoman, a lady named Sue, is working for the High Court. Apparently, she’s answering his questions now, and he won’t hurt her or anyone else as long as we don’t force entry. We’ve got a negotiator on the way as well as the armed response, ETA thirty minutes. We’ll sit tight until both of them arrive unless it escalates. What do you reckon? Is he likely to harm her?’
Barton thought back to the case. Twelvetrees had calmed down by the time Barton had become involved. He’d pleaded guilty to everything at the first opportunity, even when his solicitor was telling him to be quiet. When his many years of exemplary military service had become known, some charges had been dropped and a few of the witnesses had disappeared. A kindly judge had accepted the diminished responsibility plea at sentencing, but he’d still committed serious crimes.
The fact he’d told the judge he wouldn’t attend any courses or submit to a community order was surely proof of his poor mental health, but there was such a shortage of beds on psychiatric wards in the UK that to be sectioned you needed to be frothing mad and naked. Twelvetrees hadn’t been, and the judge had felt only a custodial sentence would suffice. He’d sentenced Twelvetrees to two years. When Twelvetrees had been released at the halfway point, he’d returned to this house, thereby breaching the restraining order, and got sent back to prison to serve the other half. He must have only been out a few months.
‘I don’t know, Frank. He was messed up, and two years in jail won’t have helped his mental state,’ said Barton.
‘Bloody typical. I’m on holiday tomorrow.’
‘You’re all heart.’ Barton rubbed his chin as he thought. The main risk here was to the woman. Getting her out was the primary goal. Barton had connected to Twelvetrees in the custody suite two years ago. He knew how to talk to men his own age.
‘He’s not armed or agitated at the moment?’
‘We don’t think so, and, no, pretty calm.’
‘Now might be the best time to speak to him, then. He might be steaming mad in thirty minutes. I reckon he’ll let her go now with the right persuasion.’
Brabbins stared at him for a few moments, seeing a quick end to proceedings, but he was a professional, loath to cut corners.
‘You’re going to swap yourself for her.’
‘Correct. Then he’ll walk shortly after, and we ca
n cuff him the moment he gets outside. Be careful though, he is trained to kill. I’ll judge his responses at the door first. If he’s lost it, we wait for the negotiator and the shooters. Otherwise, I’ll calm him down.’
Brabbins looked away as he ran through the options. Getting the woman out would defuse the situation, and Barton knew what he was doing. Everyone on the force understood that.
‘Okay, no hero stuff. We’ll be ready.’
11
Acting DCI Barton
Barton and Zander walked to the door. A fierce wind whipped at their suits. Barton regretted not taking his coat in the rush to leave. He pushed the letter box open.
‘Mr Twelvetrees. It’s Inspector Barton. You remember me?’
Barton’s ears strained for sounds of crying, but all he could detect was heavy breathing. Twelvetrees must be right behind the door.
‘No, who are you?’
‘I’m John Barton. I was the one who questioned you two years ago after the pub incident.’
There was a pause. ‘Tall, fat, white guy?’
Zander smiled next to Barton, who replied, ‘That’s right. Although I prefer the term big-boned.’
‘Yes, I remember. What do you want?’
Barton shook his head in disbelief. ‘Let Sue go, Tom. You’re getting yourself into a lot of trouble.’
‘She’s lying to me. Reckons she doesn’t know anything about a repossession.’
‘Why would she lie to you?’
Another few seconds of silence followed. ‘I’m not sure. My wife always paid the bills on time.’
‘Maybe she had money worries.’
Barton listened as the man whispered the word ‘fuck’ repeatedly under his breath.
‘Let me in, Tom. I’m experienced in these matters. I can see if there’s anything I can do to put the eviction off, but every minute that Sue is in your house means more time in prison. Release Sue now, and things will look much better for you.’
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 4
