Barton nodded. ‘What do we have that’s concrete?’
Strange frowned at the ceiling as she thought. ‘Nothing, really. Just three stiffs.’
‘Is there anything else we can do?’
‘I’ve got Zelensky still chasing phone records and bank accounts. A & E records have been reviewed, and no women were admitted with injuries that match. There are a few people who we haven’t got in touch with, so she’ll chase them. I double checked with the owner of The Hartley that the CCTV hasn’t worked in months, and he confirmed it. We did catch Graham Duncan in his van on CCTV. We have an image of him and a large man, clearly Ash, driving in the direction of their house at 23:30 on Saturday night.’
‘Just the two of them?’ asked Barton.
‘Yes, but we’d impounded the vehicle, and I had a look inside. It contains a bed in the rear.’
‘Maybe Quantrill and the girl were making out in the back.’
‘Or they could have gone for a kebab and went to hers.’
‘True, but this is dodgy. Someone’s trying to hide something. Have you checked the bed for DNA?’
‘Waiting for the results.’
Barton stared into the distance, tapping his finger on his table, wishing the results came back as fast as they did in the movies.
‘What are you expecting from those results?’
‘That the DNA from the bed will match Quantrill and the bloody dress.’
‘Anything else you should check?’
Strange rolled her eyes. ‘Check where they were sitting in The Hartley? CSI might be able to find a match and at least we know it’s the same person.’
‘That’s a bit of a longshot and doesn’t really help our case.’
‘I give up.’
Barton smiled. ‘Don’t be afraid of doing nothing for a few days while you wait for results to come in. This isn’t TV where we solve a crime each week. Lab results may break this case. Meanwhile, we work in a revolving world with new cases every day. I’ve just received reports of six overdoses from fentanyl in the Ortons.’
‘Someone finally moving into the Chapman sisters’ old area?’
‘Perhaps. It’s been quiet over there. The Snow Killer left a warning for those who break the law. It might be an up-and-coming entrepreneur buying chemicals from the dark web, some Chinese lab maybe, and knocking them out. The real problem is this drug is incredibly strong. Two of the victims flatlined, luckily when they were already in hospital, and the medics got them back. You and Zander leave the Millfield murders for the moment and work on catching whoever’s responsible for the drugs, hopefully before the weekend and party time. A couple of the overdoses were kids. They roll over straight away when they’ve almost died, and the parents will be looking for someone to blame.’
Strange rose from her seat. ‘Great, I’ll leave Ewing and Zelensky chasing any loose ends and wait for the test results. With any luck we’ll get a break or someone will have a brainwave over the next few days.’
‘Correct. Good job, Kelly, you’ve done all you can at this point. Somebody knows something out there. My guess is that the three victims fought, probably over the girl, and she somehow survived. Maybe she was the last one alive and left. I think the man arriving and leaving came in, saw the horrors, and just vanished. People who’ve seen or done such gruesome acts will struggle to process it all. We could get a confession or further information. They may be considering coming to the station to talk right now. Guilt and shock do strange things to people.’
‘Unless they fit the worst scenario.’
‘Which is?’
‘The perpetrator murdered those three in cold blood. They don’t feel guilty, and, at some point in the future, they’ll kill again.’
28
Acting DCI Barton
Barton tried to get home early one evening a week, so he could eat with Holly and the kids. He entered the house on Wednesday night to a scene from a Dolmio advert. His wife was placing a huge bowl of spaghetti bolognese on the kitchen table. Layla, Lawrence and Luke sat around it with expectant faces.
‘Hi, Daddy.’ Little Luke was the only one who rose from his seat to give him a hug.
‘This is a nice surprise. We can be like a real family. You know, ones that talk and eat together as opposed to food-shovelling TV-watching zombies.’
Layla tutted. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. This is a one-off. Mum said we needed to have a family discussion and we’ve agreed.’
Lawrence rolled his eyes.
‘Hey, I saw that,’ said Holly.
Barton grimaced.
‘And that!’
Family discussions usually involved a demand for a fairer distribution of housework. Holly would be the only person who benefitted and not for long. Barton flopped into a seat at the end of the table.
‘Tough day?’ Holly asked him.
‘I never realised how much time the DCI spent with meetings and phone calls. Sometimes both combined. It’s interesting work, and I’m enjoying it, but I feel sedentary. Unless something really serious happens, it’s basically a desk job. Even though dramatic things are happening, it doesn’t seem that way when you’re so distant from them.’
‘I understand completely. What you need is an exciting holiday.’
Loud bells clamoured in his head. It was a four-pronged attack. His brain screamed retreat as Holly ladled a huge portion of pasta onto his plate and passed him the Parmesan. He was tempted to push it away, so he wasn’t outmanoeuvred, but his belly won, and he started wolfing it down.
‘I vote for Australia,’ he spluttered as he burned his mouth.
He’d wanted to go Down Under for years. Many of his school friends had travelled after they finished their education, but he’d worked from an early age. Escaping the British winter to a Sydney summer sounded brilliant. Opera House, Harbour Bridge, beaches, barbecues: it all appealed. Perhaps he could visit the Neighbours set, or was that Melbourne?
‘We could hire a campervan and drive the Great Ocean Road. Miles and miles of nothing except kangaroos and sandy snoozes,’ he added between mouthfuls.
‘No way,’ said Lawrence. ‘I don’t want to sit on a plane for twenty-four hours and beaches are boring.’
‘What’s it to you? Didn’t you say no more lame family holidays?’
‘It depends.’
Barton eyed his stepson suspiciously. Barton had been Lawrence’s father for all intents and purposes for years, so, now he’d just turned seventeen, Barton could read him like a book. In fact, the four of them were looking sheepish.
‘What about you, Layla?’ he asked. ‘You’re always saying how cool visiting Australia would be.’
‘I want to go backpacking there with my friends, not see the sights stuck in a cannister full of your farts.’
‘We’re going skiing, Daddy,’ said Luke.
‘What? People my size don’t ski. I’d never be able to stop.’
Holly came around to hug him from behind. ‘It’ll be great. The kids can learn a skill and do something healthy. There’ll be amazing views and you can just chill if you don’t want to ski. We might even find a hot tub big enough for you. You don’t need a flight to the other side of the world after your operation and think of the fondue.’
Barton ignored the grinning faces of his elder children. ‘This is what you wanted to discuss? It doesn’t feel like a discussion, more a statement of facts.’
‘No,’ said Holly. ‘We decided on skiing before you got home. It’s your mum we need to discuss. She’s called me twenty-seven times today.’
With that, Holly’s phone rang. She checked the screen, picked up a pen and marked another line on the shopping list whiteboard attached to the fridge.
Barton put his fork down. He understood what that meant. His mother had acted oddly at Christmas. While he was recuperating from his injuries, Holly had taken his mother to her GP and she’d been referred to a clinic to confirm Alzheimer’s. Holly had listened during the tests and knew it was a fore
gone conclusion. His mum seemed to be deteriorating fast with her short-term memory being appalling, and she lived too far away for them to visit easily. Holly squeezed his shoulder.
‘Kids,’ she said, ‘your nanny is getting old and confused. She has dementia. It’s a normal process of ageing, but soon she won’t be capable of living on her own.’
The children looked at each other.
‘What’s demonshire?’ asked Luke.
‘It’s when ancient people go mad and behave like toddlers,’ said Lawrence.
‘No, it’s not. Elderly people just get frail and forgetful and need looking after more,’ said Layla.
‘What do we do?’ asked Luke. ‘Do we have to give her pocket money now? She can have some of mine.’
Barton smiled at the workings of a young boy’s brain. Barton and Holly had already chatted about the topic and were of the same mind.
‘We aren’t close by,’ said Barton. ‘So, we need to look at getting people to visit her each day, or maybe choose to move her into a care-home.’
Layla stood. ‘That’s not fair. Why can’t she live here?’
‘Yes,’ said Lawrence, also standing. ‘Although she’s not having my room. We can turn your office into a bedroom.’
Luke rose too. ‘That was easy to fix. I thought I was going to have to give up my room.’
With that, the three kids picked up their plates and headed towards the lounge.
‘Hey,’ said Barton. ‘What are you lot doing?’
‘Meeting’s over,’ said Lawrence. ‘There’s an Avengers movie on.’
Holly sat on Barton’s lap, and they smiled at each other.
‘We have fabulous kids,’ she said.
‘Skiing, eh?’
‘Yes, and soon. I’m taking your mum to her GP tomorrow to talk about options. If she moves in, it will be tough for all of us, her included. There’ll be no more holidays for a while, and there’ll be no happy ending.’
Barton gave his wife a kiss. He thought of the unsolved murders and feared the same could be said for them.
29
The Ice Killer
When work has finished for the day, I stride from the building with a purpose. I’ve spent the whole afternoon ruminating over how I’ve ended up working in a call centre, living alone, and going bald. I planned to cut my hair off last night, but I didn’t feel strong enough as I examined myself in the mirror. Tonight, I’ve decided to be proactive.
Quantrill told me that the man who is largely responsibility for my predicament lives ten doors up from him. The traffic is light as I drive through the streets. Rush hour in Peterborough is pretty much over by 6 p.m. I slow Scarlett’s car as I pass the property where Quantrill died. There’s tape on the door, but no sign of the police. I count the houses to the right and stop. A young Asian family are leaving the tenth house. The houses either side, judging by the curtains of one and a pram outside the other, also contain children. I pray that Vickerman never had kids.
After a three-point turn, which is tricky in the narrow road, I return and count the other way. The tenth house is plain. It doesn’t resemble what Joe Public would think a junkie’s home would look like, but heroin addiction is misunderstood. I should know. It’s his house, I’m sure of it. There’s no space to park, so I stop at the end of the street and walk.
My mind wanders back to those first few months after I finished my A levels. I was already adrift from life. Everyone had left school and started university or apprenticeships, and I sat at home. My mum didn’t push me to do anything. I thought she didn’t care, but she knew enough not to heap pressure on me. Later she told me she’d known something was wrong, but getting me to talk had proven impossible. Six months passed by and I struggled to get out of bed before midday, even if I went to bed early.
I met Vickerman walking past the Old Guild Hall a few days before Valentine’s Day, funnily enough, on my way to sign on. He was smoking cannabis openly while sunbathing on the steps of the building. He was five years older than me, skinny and tanned; heroin chic in the summer. I thought he was so cool, even though I declined his offer of a smoke, but we got chatting. He joked that I could be his Valentine if I didn’t have one. A few days later, we were a couple.
He looked a little Jaggeresque with big features, but he wasn’t unattractive. His long hair was his crowning glory. He’d have a ponytail at the back and a fringe hanging over his eyes. Then he’d push the fringe to one side, his dopey expression would smile my way, and my stomach would flip.
I’d smoked weed while at school. It had taken the edge off everything and left me unthinking. I could focus on schoolwork then to a reasonable level, whereas before I hadn’t been able to concentrate or see the point in anything. After a while, though, the paranoia had outweighed the relaxation and I’d quit. Vickerman got me back on it.
A short while later, his parents had gone out, and we sat bored in his lounge.
‘Fancy trying something different?’ he asked with a wave of his hand.
‘I told you I’m not into weird stuff.’
‘It’s called brown. We can smoke it.’
‘Then what?’
‘It’s amazing.’
I couldn’t remember the last time I did anything that could be described as amazing.
‘Do we have to go and get it?’
‘No, I’ve got some here.’
‘Well then, why not?’
And that was it. Heroin is something else. Not a dragon that you chase, more a beautiful snake. Once it bites and infects you, you fall into an all-consuming love story. The aroma was familiar. I realised too late that it was a scent that already clung to him. A kind of burnt-brown-sugar aroma. I’d thought he smelled of cheap washing powder. My descent was rapid. Vickerman was well down the slide. He wouldn’t have rushed if he knew what was at the bottom.
It meant we disappeared from our homes before anyone realised something had changed. Turns out you don’t even have to smoke the drug. There’s a faster way.
Addiction costs money though. He stole for us at the beginning, while I tidied the dosshouse we were living in. You see, if you’re clucking, you need to distract yourself and housework can help. When you’re high, some, like Vickerman, go on the nod and slip into a monged-out state. I enjoyed doing little innocent things such as dusting or even painting. There was just you and the joy of the job in hand. It pulls at me still, that contentedness, despite looking back from so far away.
But habits escalate. His thieving couldn’t keep up, and he sold the only thing we had of any value, and it wasn’t his to sell. I’m breathing heavily as I stamp along his street with my head down, remembering what he did. I knock at the door and wait. When it opens, it isn’t Vickerman, it’s one of his old drug dealers, Quinn. That’s weird.
‘Yes?’
‘Is Vickerman there?’
‘Yeah, he’s reading. Is that you, Ellen?’
I nod.
‘What do you want?’
‘Does it matter?’
He steps back. ‘I guess not.’
The house is clean and empty. The walls are clear, as is the TV stand when I arrive in the lounge. Vickerman is sitting on the sofa and doesn’t register my arrival. He has so many layers of tatty clothing on that it makes his head look too small. Even the beanie looks oversized. He’s turned into Beetlejuice, with his once beautiful long hair now lank and thinning. Quinn has a thick duffel coat on that looks so filthy I wouldn’t wash my floor with it.
‘What are you reading?’ I ask Vickerman.
Blank eyes flicker up. He unconsciously picks at a scab on the back of his right hand. ‘1984.’
‘Again? Has it improved?’
His gaze focuses on me and a half-smile rises on his face. ‘Ready to be turned, Ellen?’
He was always complaining about the power of the state. Although, he was one of the ones who genuinely believed what he said, as opposed to using it as an excuse to avoid getting a job. Quinn sits next to him. He als
o looks ill and shivers. The energy companies disconnect the electricity and gas when nobody pays the bill, but these two would have sold the pipes and the boiler ages before that happened. The TV and microwave were usually the first things to go.
‘You two get married, then?’
Vickerman grins, but Quinn’s head jerks up. The sadistic look that ran his business is a mere spark now, and the wide muscled body that protected it is long gone.
‘We both live here. Moved in a year ago. We made it nice,’ says Quinn.
Nice and bare, perhaps. ‘I heard you lived here from a friend. There were some questions that I wanted to ask you.’
‘Like what?’ asked Vickerman.
‘About how you treated me.’
Vickerman looks serious.
‘I treated you good, and I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to, if that’s what you’re thinking. When did I ever threaten you or be violent?’
It’s nice to see him, but any compassion abandons my heart. An icy focus compels me to lay out why I’m here.
‘You turned me into a whore.’
Vickerman returns his gaze to the scab. I step closer to him.
‘You made me have sex with strangers, so you could get high.’
‘You got yours, too.’
‘You pimped me out when I was nineteen. And you got me hooked on heroin. I was a silly young girl and you should have known better.’
Vickerman frowns at me. He has no answer to that.
‘Clear off, Ellen. I’m not interested in dragging up the past, however you remember it.’
Quinn gets to his feet, eyes twitching, and lurches towards me. He grabs me hard on the upper arm, as he did once before.
‘I remember it different, too,’ he says.
‘I nearly died,’ I reply.
Quinn lets go but leans into me. ‘We thought you were dead. We searched for you because we missed your company, but you’d vanished.’
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 11
