The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series)

by Ross Greenwood

  I’ve got to get out of here. Vickerman has froth at the side of his mouth and is twitching, whereas Quinn hasn’t moved in a while.

  I try to think logically. If they survive, who’d believe them about me trying to OD them? If they die, it won’t be too much of a surprise. But it’s better there’s no trace of me to be found. I put my wine glass in my handbag.

  Popping my head out of the door, I see an empty street. I stride away, searching my brain for answers around my past. It doesn’t help. Chunks are missing. I slide into the car and smile at the still-warm seat. I turn in the direction of the Paul Pry and grin, imagining Brad not expecting me. He’s going to get the time of his life, and I speed up in anticipation. Vickerman was full of shit. I curse as I’m forced to stop at every single red light on Lincoln Road.

  It’s as if fate is forcing me to analyse tonight’s events. Vickerman can’t be right, or what the hell kind of person was I? With creeping unease, I understand Quinn’s reaction to my arrival tonight and the other night. He wasn’t nervous, he was scared of me. He always was.

  37

  The Ice Killer

  Three days have passed since I met up with Brad at the Paul Pry. I had to force myself to take slow, deep breaths when I reached the entrance of the pub that night. It’s mostly a food place now, so the bar was empty except for four of my work colleagues and a few of their partners. I shouldn’t have worried. The expression on Brad’s face was similar to someone who’d spotted a long-lost friend.

  Usually, in such social circumstances, I worry about what to say. By the time I’ve analysed my contribution, the chatter has moved on, and I’m left an observer. That night however, I wanted to distract myself from my earlier actions. Anything that came into my head, I released, unless alcohol was going down my throat.

  I received a few strange looks, but then often chuckles followed. Some of the others said weird things, and I joined in with the laughter. I felt a different kind of drunk that I’m not sure I knew existed: happy, carefree, silly even. And, just at the point when it could have got messy, it was ‘time, please, ladies and gentlemen’. We all hugged at the door like old friends.

  Brad drove me home. I’d failed to notice he’d kept sober, but I could tell he had from his lingering kiss, which smelled of peanuts and cola. I was ready to ask him in when he explained that he had football in the morning and wanted a clear head and a relatively early night. I watched from the car-park entrance as his rear lights disappeared from view, thinking how normal and sensible that was. I could do with more of that in my life. Trent’s curtains flickered as I sauntered past.

  Before he left, Brad offered to follow me to Scarlett’s house when it was time to return her car. Unfortunately, the garage rang this morning to say mine was repaired, so that time has arrived. The bill for my car will have to go on my credit card, which may push the balance over its max. I know they won’t lend me any more so I’ll need to ask for help.

  My sister can be nosey, but she has helped me out in the past with loans when I’ve been short. She checks in once a month and asks how I am. Sometimes I wish she’d visit or invite me to theirs. We’re all the family each other has left now, if you don’t include our elusive father.

  Scarlett didn’t appear at work today. Brad said she was AWOL, having failed to ring in. Her phone went straight to answer machine when I rang to tell her I’d drop her car off, but I decided to go tonight anyway. I can always just leave it if she isn’t there. Brad came around on time and we’re on the way. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I smile at him singing.

  He pulls up behind me while we wait for the gates at Scarlett’s place. They open quickly for a change, and we park outside the front door and get out.

  ‘Wow,’ says Brad.

  ‘I know. It’s quite something. They’ve got eight acres.’

  I’m not sure why I say that, not knowing what an acre is really, but Scarlett is always proud of that fact. After a few minutes of pressing the buzzer, no one appears. I try her mobile again to no avail.

  ‘She must be in because she opened the gates,’ says Brad.

  I shrug, suspecting she’ll be in a drunken mess and won’t want Brad seeing her like that. ‘Let’s go. I’ll put the car keys under the seat.’

  The door finally opens just as we’re going to leave. I’ve seen Scarlett in some states over the years, but her face is so puffy, it looks as though she’s contracted myxomatosis. Red eyes glare at Brad, then back to me.

  ‘What’s he doing here? You gave me a fright. I thought it was someone else.’

  ‘He came to take me home after I’ve left the car.’

  She tuts and wanders away towards the kitchen, so we follow her inside.

  ‘Who did you think it was?’ I ask.

  She ignores the question. I’m distracted by Brad’s wide eyes at the spiral staircase. When we catch up with her, she’s rummaging in the fridge.

  ‘Glass of wine?’ she offers.

  We both decline. I place her keys on the table. ‘Are you all right?’

  She sniffs as her trembling hand attempts to fill her glass. I step close to her and notice that even though her eyes are puffy, they aren’t unfocused as they often are when I see her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Everything. Tim and I had a big row and he’s steamed off in a huff. He told me I wasn’t allowed to go to work any more.’

  ‘No way. You said getting out of the house was the only thing that keeps you sane.’

  ‘Yep.’ Her eyes harden. ‘I wish he were dead. My life’s a misery.’

  I look away from Brad, knowing he will be amused at the thought of her luxurious hell. It’s true what they say – money doesn’t buy you happiness. I doubt I’ll ever know, but in many ways Scarlett’s life is as hard as mine, only her towels are softer.

  ‘Hey, it’s Peterborough on the television!’

  Obviously, Scarlett has been watching the news again. She grabs the remote and turns up the volume. The reporter is live at a street in Millfield. My face burns with recognition and guilt. I know the location well, after the things I’ve done there.

  ‘Earlier today, two bodies were discovered at this property by someone from the council. It seems they may have been dead for at least two days.’

  The camera pans to Vickerman and Quinn’s closed front door. A uniformed policeman stands in the way.

  ‘The police have stated that at this point all lines of investigation remain open, and anyone who has any information is to contact Thorpe Wood Police Station directly. A neighbour who asked not to be named said that “junkies”, his words, frequented the property.’

  The programme returned to the news desk.

  ‘In other, perhaps related news, the police raided multiple locations in the city in what they hope will signal the end of the fentanyl overdoses and deaths that have blighted parts of Peterborough in recent weeks.’

  The images show another police officer at the door of the semi in Mayor’s Walk where I purchased the drugs. I pour myself a glass of water from the sink with my back to them and try to remain calm. I needn’t have bothered as both of them are staring uneasily at each other as opposed to the TV. Regardless, it’s time to leave.

  ‘I’ll ring you, Scarlett. We’ll get out of your hair.’

  She glowers at us in a way I’ve seen previously and which only means trouble. I grab Brad’s hand and leave before she has anything else to say. He’s silent for most of the journey. I almost daren’t ask.

  ‘What’re you thinking about?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Very smooth, but I can’t have sex with you because I’m getting my nails done in the morning and need a quiet night.’

  He laughs while sneaking a glance at me as we approach a roundabout.

  ‘See, that’s what I mean. You’re different lately, kind of lively and exciting, and hard to pin down.’

  ‘Was I dreary before?’

  He grimaces. ‘A little. Look, I’ve always fa
ncied you. You’re beautiful and sexy.’

  ‘Right, don’t overdo it now.’

  ‘Seriously, and you seem like a nice girl. I’ve wandered over to your desk to ask you out in the past, but sometimes you came across as disinterested. Other times, you’d be chatty and pleasant, but I’d think I want someone more…’

  ‘Stimulating?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can be a bit up and down.’

  His face softens.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Scarlett said you’d had other interest. I hope I’m not too late?’

  I don’t answer, just shake my head. As we hit the parkway, he reaches over and places his hand on my leg. A brief chuckle slips out of me.

  ‘Typical bloke. I should have known that treating you mean would get you keen.’

  ‘I have a shot, then?’

  I tut. ‘Are you sure you aren’t just jealous?’

  I was starting to soften, but I tense and a wall comes down between us. He senses it too and removes his hand.

  ‘Do you want to go out again soon?’ he asks.

  ‘Look, I’ve been hoping to make some changes in my life. Focus on myself a bit more. So I wasn’t bothered about seeing anyone, but then you’ve got under my skin and I think we could be good together.’

  ‘That’s how I feel.’

  ‘I’ve got a few things to sort out first. There’s a person I have to speak to so I can get to the bottom of what happened in the past.’

  He doesn’t say anything, but I’m sure I detect a little frown. Screw him, though. I don’t need his bullshit. We pull up outside my block of flats and he slowly drives in and stops.

  I’m out of his car without giving him chance to comment.

  ‘Thanks for the lift. I really appreciate it.’

  Before I slam the door, I spin and blow him a kiss, noting his grin at the unexpected gesture. Who knew Tuesday nights could be such fun? I clump upstairs and yank the case from under my bed. My school diaries sit inside. I haven’t read them for years and can’t remember why not. Who you were is surely who you are?

  I open the last one. I skim through the pages from a few months before I finished school. It’s mostly moaning about how boring my life is. But, there’s an entry with a line in bold red.

  I felt like killing someone today.

  38

  Acting DCI Barton

  Barton rubbed the bridge of his nose. Twelve hours had passed since he arrived at 7 a.m. Yesterday’s deaths had had him fielding questions from a variety of sources. He grabbed his coat and traipsed to the front of the building. Zander wanted to chat about the interviews resulting from the drug busts and was waiting in his vehicle outside. Strange had called and said that the victims clearly overdosed. Barton didn’t need his twenty years’ experience to guess they were linked to the fentanyl cases. He opened the door to Zander’s car and climbed in.

  ‘Evening, John. You sure you want to attend the scene? You look all-in.’

  ‘Would you believe me if I told you sitting on your arse was more tiring than chasing around town?’

  ‘Erm, no.’

  ‘Well, it is.’

  ‘I’ll remind you of that in the middle of winter. Right, I’ll bring you up to speed. The first bust we did in Paston hit the bullseye. It was a proper distribution centre. We recovered drugs, scales, bags, mixing agents, you name it. We were lucky. A Syrian was there paying back a trafficking debt. He was relieved to get caught, because he had a colleague who’d died of an overdose a few days earlier. He realised it was from trying the product himself. Anyway, he gave us his contact, and he’ll talk, too, I reckon.’

  ‘Definitely the fentanyl?’

  ‘We won’t know for sure until we test the samples, but we think so. The Syrian guy had been stuck here six months. He said they told him to use the special heroin sparingly when mixing.’

  ‘Excellent. And the Mayor’s Walk place?’

  ‘It looks like poor intel. The property is clean, although maybe too empty. Bloke who owns it was a bit of a hippy and his security was full-on, which seemed odd, but there wasn’t anything incriminating. He said he works for charities and is a bit of a painter, doing commissions for people. There was some decent art on the walls and a studio. I was going to check with you and let him go.’

  ‘Damn. Does he own the place?’

  ‘No, he’s been renting it for decades. Looked like he was planning to move out, which makes me suspicious. Perhaps he got warned.’

  ‘And there are no priors?’

  ‘Nope. Not even traffic.’

  ‘CSI took samples and did a sweep?’

  ‘Yes. Quick tests showed nothing, so if he cleaned up, he knew what he was doing. Further, finer tests will show if there was fentanyl or other drugs about.’

  ‘Okay, let him go and let’s hope he doesn’t vanish. Hopefully this rocket-poison will disappear from the streets now. If we get a sniff that he’s involved, he’ll find himself under a microscope with my beady eye on his secrets.’

  ‘Rather his than mine.’

  Barton nodded, too tired to laugh. ‘Strange asked earlier whether we should bother with full CSI for the two bodies we found. What do you think?’

  Zander pursed his lips as he thought. ‘You’re always saying that we should keep costs down, so I guess it’s an option with it looking cut and dried.’

  Barton put his best Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? voice on.

  ‘I’m going to need your final answer.’

  Zander squirmed in his seat, knowing Barton had him beat. ‘Maybe do some CSI but not a complete sweep.’

  Barton laughed. ‘You mean just do one body, or one of the rooms? Come on, Zander. Save the department some cash.’

  Zander. ‘Okay, no CSI yet, secure the building. We wait for the post-mortem and go from there.’

  ‘Not bad, my friend. But wrong. Think about the situation as a whole. We know why they died, but this might be a manslaughter case. We need every angle covered for a watertight conviction. No mistakes or criminals walk.’

  ‘I thought it was really hard to convict for manslaughter from supplying drugs. After all, the victims were all addicts. They knew what they were doing, and they probably understood the risks more than anyone else.’

  ‘Almost correct. Your reasoning is that if the victims freely inject themselves, it breaks the chain of causation, so the dealer can’t be held responsible. However, fentanyl’s new. It’s deadly and cheap. If these guys wanted heroin and were therefore lied to, they wouldn’t have been aware of the danger they were in. Manslaughter or even murder are possible charges.’

  ‘Right. So full crime scene investigation.’

  ‘Correct. It’s in progress, and don’t forget this occurred a few doors from a potential triple murder.’

  ‘You think they were connected?’

  ‘All we’re doing at this point is counting bodies. God knows what might come out of it.’

  Zander pulled up behind the CSI van on the street in Millfield and they hopped out. Zander rested his hands on the roof of the car.

  ‘Wait. You kept saying remember costs and expenses. You set me up.’

  ‘Sergeants and trainee inspectors don’t need to worry about police cuts. Until you are 100 per cent sure, you always ask for everything. Let someone else who gets paid more money than you make those kinds of decisions. You’ve worked here long enough to understand that we don’t just operate a detecting business, it’s an arse-covering one, too.’

  39

  Jc

  The drug dealer stepped down the police-station steps and ran his hand through his hair. It was a little damp with sweat, but he always kept his cool under questioning. He’d spent years preparing his answers. Ellen’s visit had been the tipping point to engage the plans he’d put together over the last decade. Looked as if she’d saved his arse.

  He decided to walk home. It would only
take half an hour, and he could use the time to get his head straight. He’d led a strange life, always under the radar. Money had ceased to be any kind of problem years ago. In fact, he wasn’t sure what had kept him here. Girlfriends had come and gone, but still JC stayed. Perhaps he was as addicted to his position in society as the addicts were to theirs.

  He’d loved it when he’d started out. Being thin, nondescript, and generally a nobody, he’d enjoyed the instant status that his new career had provided. That young, disillusioned boy was long gone, and it was time for a change. Bizarrely, the painting that his lifestyle had afforded him time to develop was now bearing fruit.

  At first, he’d spent the money he made, thinking it was only a matter of time before he got caught. But he’d had a few near misses with the police and changed into a man who dealt only in cash, never on tick, always on the quiet, and he’d saved for the future.

  He smiled at the thought of Ellen. She’d been so young and wild when he’d met her all those years ago. Pretty, too. The room had fizzed when she’d entered it back then. He’d considered asking her out for a drink at the start, but she’d been too untamed and someone like her burned bright and high for all to see. Ellen and those idiot mates had shown no caution with what they must surely have known was a dangerous pastime. So, he’d kept his distance and admired her carefree lifestyle from afar, wondering whether it was fun to be so reckless, or if they lived with a sense of impending ruin, with one eye on their graves and the other behind them.

  He’d made sure the drugs he gave her were the best he had and was always pleasantly surprised when she showed up again. He’d found himself hoping each knock on his door was her. There had been a developing sadness to her with time, as though her spirit was gradually being crushed, but she’d appeared back in form the last time she’d come. He pitied and envied whoever had that tigress by the tail.