The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series)

by Ross Greenwood

  The moment she’d left with the fentanyl, he’d known that he’d been blinded by his affection for her. But he had realised with a jolt that at least she’d been honest with him, even if it had been cryptically. People were going to die and he hoped they deserved it, but the game was over. JC hoped Ellen realised that too. He smiled at passers-by, even stroked the neighbour’s dog, and, for the first time in a long time, he breathed the air.

  When he arrived at his address, the house he’d lived in for so long seemed different. There was little of his stuff there now. It was all in storage. He’d grab the last few bits and bobs, his easels, and pack a bag. He had money secreted all over the world. His life in the UK was over now, and he would never be back.

  South America beckoned first, and he realised he couldn’t wait, because he was finally free.

  40

  Acting DCI Barton

  Barton spoke to the scene guard when he arrived at the house where the overdoses had occurred and knocked on the door. Strange opened it in full CSI outfit and stepped outside. Before the view disappeared, he observed two investigators, also in full suits, picking over a coffee table with tweezers. He imagined that they would have been doing the same thing to the human remains at the mortuary. A pool of dried blood caught his eye on the frayed carpet.

  ‘Checking up on me, boss?’ asked Strange.

  ‘That’s right. We’ve had reports of laughter on the job. You know nobody’s allowed to enjoy themselves. I take it Mortis was all over the bodies.’

  ‘Actually, he didn’t come yesterday.’

  Barton raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I know,’ said Strange. ‘He said he was on his way. Then I got a text from him saying he wouldn’t make it and to take the bodies to the mortuary. I’ve had a look around and we might not find much. There’s little more than a few bits of furniture, some clothes and a couple of mattresses.’

  Barton thought of the pathologist with concern. He couldn’t remember Mortis missing something like this ever.

  ‘Have we identified them, and do we know them?’

  ‘Yes, and yes. James Vickerman, addict with multiple custodial stays for shoplifting and commercial burglary. Magnus Quinney, AKA Quinn, known addict and occasional dealer, record as long as your arm, the worst of which is GBH, for which he received five years.’

  Barton knew them both. Vickerman and Quinn sounded like a firm of solicitors, but they were on the wrong side of the law. He’d arrested Quinn for the GBH. It was still sad, though. At one point in their lives, they would have been innocent children. It was no way to end up.

  ‘Wait. That’s the second time I’ve heard the name Vickerman recently.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘I read the case file last night for Wee Jock’s death and Vickerman was questioned.’

  Zander shrugged. ‘Most of the addicts know each other and would have hung out at some point.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s another link. I’m getting a nasty feeling in my stomach about this.’

  ‘Well, try to keep it together. You wouldn’t want to use the toilet here,’ joked Strange, but Barton was wracking his brain for the connections.

  ‘No signs of a struggle?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing. Looks like they sat down for dinner, and by that I mean a nice syringe-full of drugs each, then conked out. That blood pool drooled out of Quinn’s mouth, but there were other spots of blood elsewhere. Could have been from poorly addicts coughing, or maybe another person was here. Perhaps one who left the scene.’

  ‘Nasty way to go,’ said Barton. He had a thought. ‘How tall are these two?’

  ‘Both around five feet seven unfortunately,’ replied Strange.

  ‘Damn.’ He paused for a moment. ‘So Vickerman could be linked to Wee Jock’s demise. The missing woman links to Wee Jock and the murders up the road. Maybe the woman is connected to this incident as well. Could she have been here?’

  ‘I had a thought about that,’ said Zander. ‘Let’s say Wee Jock raped her, and he was killed. Then there was a gang rape by those three further down the street, and they were all killed. Perhaps she’s a prostitute with a ruthless pimp. He strangled Jock, then went Quentin Tarantino on the others. He’s this tall guy seen fleeing the scene.’

  ‘Not bad, but it doesn’t help us locate either of them, and there’s a massive time gap between the incidents,’ replied Barton.

  ‘Precisely, that’s what I reckoned,’ said Zander with a wink. ‘These events happened over fifteen years apart. What’s the chance of the same pimp or boyfriend being around?’

  Zander hummed to himself while they caught up.

  ‘Shit, that is brilliant,’ said Strange. ‘People kill for love, but it’s not just partners, it’s family. What about a brother, then?’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ said Zander.

  ‘But how does that help with locating them?’ asked Strange.

  Barton grinned at Zander’s fine work and explained it for Strange.

  ‘The DNA matched the two scenes but gave us no identities. These are vicious crimes. It doesn’t get more brutal than stabbing, bludgeoning and throttling. Whoever killed Quantrill and his mates was an extremely violent person, and it’s unlikely this was his first crime. It’s possible that person was responsible here, too, protecting a sister, perhaps. Zander here is guessing we might have this brother on our records. It’s certainly worth a look.’

  ‘I read about that,’ said Strange.

  ‘Yes, software now allows us to compare one forensic profile to everyone on our database to generate a list of those offenders already in the system that are most likely to be a close relative. It’s called familial DNA searching. With a bit of luck, in a week or two, assuming our man’s been in trouble, we’ll know who our person of interest’s brother is, or maybe even her father.’

  41

  Acting DCI Barton

  Barton and Zander returned to the car after surveying the scene. It had told them little they didn’t already know.

  ‘Fancy a beer?’ asked Zander. ‘This new technology makes your head spin. It won’t be long until we scan the body, touch a few options on the screen, and the name and address of the perpetrator will pop up.’

  ‘Probably with a 20 per cent off voucher for Deliveroo. Actually, that sounds pretty good.’

  ‘Shooting fish in a barrel is boring.’

  ‘Great for crime stats?’

  Zander grinned. ‘Terrible for waistlines.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about being made redundant. Take cyber-crime. The criminal methods develop faster than our solutions. Devious ways of using new technology appear daily. For every Sherlock Holmes, there’s always a Moriarty.’

  ‘At least we have an angle now.’

  ‘Let’s hope we get lucky. Not everyone has a relative on the system. I’m more concerned by the fact that most of the people who know anything are dead. And folk like that can’t confess or answer questions.’

  Zander was frowning. ‘In other news, it’s not like Mortis to miss a crime scene.’

  Barton had been thinking the same thing. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Mortis picked up.

  ‘John, what is it now?’

  ‘I just fancied hearing your voice. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in the mortuary. I’ve had a glance over the bodies, and they have all the signs of overdoses.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can tell from what drug?’

  ‘Not at this point. It’s nearly always heroin combined with something else.’

  ‘Could it be fentanyl?’

  ‘Easily. I did a girl’s post-mortem not so long back. She had surprisingly little in her system.’

  Barton had an unusual thought. ‘With an overdose, how quick is it? Could someone get help if they suspected they’d had too much?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t have thought so. It’s rare for a person to die immediately from an overdose. But when people survive, it’s usually because somebody else was there to respond.’
/>   Barton strained his ears. He could definitely hear what sounded like sobbing.

  ‘Mortis, what’s wrong?’

  Barton heard sniffs and wipes.

  ‘Talk to me.’

  After a few moments, Mortis came back on. ‘Just life, John. My wife’s ill. We found out today that it’s cancer and quite a nasty one. I’m a doctor and I’m all too aware of what happens next. At least in her case it will be quick if we don’t beat it.’

  Barton let out a gasp of shock. He didn’t know what to say, not having met Mortis’ wife, or even knowing her name. But he had real affection for the pathologist.

  ‘Why are you at work, then?’ he asked.

  ‘She wanted to rest and said I was unsettling the peace in the house. That’s her all over. I’m coping. I’ve seen enough of Death’s indiscriminate ways not to be completely shocked, although I have no idea how I’ll cope if she doesn’t make it. I’ll speak to you tomorrow after I’ve examined the bodies. Put the phone down and spend time with your young family. Cherish every moment because things can change so fast.’

  Mortis cut the call off as Barton arrived at his house.

  ‘Is he okay?’ asked Zander, with the engine idling.

  Barton knew that Mortis wouldn’t want anyone knowing.

  ‘He’ll tell you when he sees you. Come on, have a beer inside. The kids will still be up.’

  They stepped through the doorway and shock lit up their faces.

  There in front of them was a masked gunman pointing two pistols their way. He had a mean sneer on his face. Eyes narrowed. Both index fingers twitched menacingly on the triggers.

  ‘Freeze, fools, now hands up,’ said the villain.

  Barton and Zander put their hands in the air. Luke pushed the brim of his cowboy hat up with the barrel of the pistol in his right hand. The other pistol flicked between the two men.

  ‘Which one of you two’s been rustling sheep?’

  Zander was too fast. ‘Your dad’s always been partial to a pretty sheep.’

  ‘Zip it, dummy. I tell the jokes,’ said Luke.

  With a crazed grin, Luke pulled both triggers repeatedly. Caps fired off with loud bangs, and filled the varmints with imaginary lead. He ran away hollering and whooping.

  Barton ambled towards the kitchen where his wife was waiting with a smile.

  ‘May I die with a beer, ma’am?’

  Holly laughed and opened the fridge.

  ‘Luke’s been doing that all day. He called me prissy knickers earlier and shot me in the back. What have you been watching with him?’

  ‘I think he finds stuff on Netflix, but that’s my boy. Chip off the old block.’

  She kissed Zander on the cheek and hugged him.

  ‘Good to see you, Shawn. Hungry? I grabbed fresh bread from the supermarket.’

  They settled in the kitchen. Lawrence was out, but Layla came in and chatted for a while. Barton and Zander had a beer and a sandwich each, the latter being as wide as encyclopaedias. The three of them talked about Barton’s mother’s dementia.

  ‘We’re going to ask her to move in with us,’ Holly explained to Zander. ‘Assuming he isn’t working every day!’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can get time off for that,’ said Barton. ‘I’ve just been snowed under.’

  Zander pushed his empty beer bottle across to the middle of the table.

  ‘I’ve got loads of free time. Now I’m doing John’s job, I see that he’s been pulling our legs about how much work he has to do.’

  ‘I’m going to borrow Luke’s guns,’ said Barton.

  ‘Is it because you’re unfamiliar with the position, or will you always be this busy?’ Holly asked Barton.

  ‘I haven’t even taken on the whole role yet. There’ll be disciplinaries and training, community relations, resource planning, and expenditure reviews amongst other things. They’ve organised some training for me, which is much-needed.’

  ‘Oh, dear, you look knackered already.’

  Barton pulled himself to his feet and grabbed another drink. ‘I’ve got no time for tired. Who knows what’s around the corner?’

  ‘He’d be livelier if he were at less crime scenes,’ said Zander.

  Barton lowered his bottle, guiltily. ‘I know I should stick to the office, but we’re short-staffed. Another beer?’

  Zander stood and stretched. ‘No, I’ve got an exciting book on the go, and I can’t be bothered to walk home.’

  Holly followed him to the door. ‘It’s always nice to see you, Shawn. You look well. Do you have a new lady friend keeping you happy?’

  ‘I’m free and single, getting to the gym, eating healthy, life’s good. Although I am a bit worried that John’s caught TBV. That’s probably why he’s so tired.’

  Holly’s face dropped. ‘What’s TBV?’

  ‘It stands for The Bear Virus.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s pretty prevalent in men when they pass forty-five. The symptoms are generally the same. Once infected, the patient tends to get heavier and clumsier. Even though hair falls out on the head, it sprouts feverishly over the rest of the body, almost like fur. Libido will lessen to a degree where it’s barely present, much the same as with giant pandas, and, like them, eating becomes the focal point of their day. Irritability is common, as is terrible flatulence. The weight gain can accelerate at an incredible rate.’

  ‘Is there a cure?’ Holly laughed.

  ‘Few cases have a successful conclusion. It’s as though the victim is going to hibernate for the winter. John is one of the worst instances I’ve seen. Most of those subjects explode.’

  Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Barton swiped the mushrooms and peppers out of the way, so he could get to the good stuff at the back of the fridge. He heard Zander chuckling as he left, and Holly laughing her head off as she ran up the stairs.

  A growl rumbled from within while he continued to forage.

  42

  The Ice Killer

  I stay up all night and read my diaries. It’s hard to believe what’s inside them. I must have written down dreams and other things I imagined. Paranoia seems to have plagued my final years at school. There are gaps after I leave. The biggest in them was when I was with Vickerman and heading off the rails. I kept a diary when I was in hospital, but stopped when I got out. The therapist told me to stop reading them; it was time to move on.

  I’m not surprised she said that, as it still makes me furious to think of the three men who messed me up. Quantrill, Vickerman, and the other, a man called Hofstadt. There’s a policeman who can also join the list, but for slightly different reasons. Once Hofstadt’s image appears in my brain, I can’t shake it out, and prowl the flat thinking of how he cruelly dismissed me from his life. It’s been over ten years now. Even so, I think it’s time we caught up.

  He hurt me in the coldest way. I did everything he desired, like having sex in car parks and public toilets with no concern for anyone else who might be around. We were together for years, but he was slippery when I asked where it was going. Even though I lived at home, I spent a lot of time at his place. He made me feel like his housekeeper, yet he gave me just enough love to keep me there. Near the end, I paid for us to go on a romantic holiday with a hot tub. It was only a week at Center Parcs – I bought a daily newspaper for two weeks just to get the vouchers – but I hoped it would lead somewhere.

  He cut me off dead a month before we were due to leave. A disconnected phone, an unopened door, and no response to my texts, emails and finally letters wore me down and unsettled my equilibrium. The final occasion I arrived at his house, he stared impassively at me from an upstairs window and shook his head. I don’t recall what I did afterwards. Did I lose control again? My past seems distant and unimportant since my mum died, but it’s what made me who I am.

  My phone rings after I spent most of my day off in bed, and my sister’s name appears on the screen. Our monthly chat must be due. We have a strange r
elationship. Sometimes she genuinely seems worried for me and quite a caring person, but she never invites me to her house. In fact, I can’t even recall where she lives. I think it’s Harrow, but it might be Harlow. I don’t feel like talking to her, but I’m skint and sometimes she offers to help if I’ve had an unexpected bill. Occasionally, I don’t even need to repay her. I press answer.

  ‘Hi, Lucy.’

  ‘Hi, Ellen.’

  She always pauses at this point. She expects me to start the conversation, even though it’s her who rang.

  ‘How’s things?’ she eventually asks.

  ‘I’m lovely. The job’s great. My flat’s tidy.’

  She mentions the weather and her kids. It’s banal stuff and I comment in the appropriate places. I realise I’m meandering through the call. There doesn’t appear to be any substance to it, nothing for me to cling onto. It dawns on me that I haven’t challenged her about my father. With everything that’s been going on, I’ve forgotten the terrible deceit my mother and Lucy maintained for all those years. It has to have been him, as he knew too many intimate details, although my birth certificate has a space where the father should be. I cut her off mid-sentence.

  ‘Lucy. Can you tell me about our dad?’

  This time the silence is deafening. Seconds draw out, each one damning confirmation of her treachery.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘The normal. What was he like? I remember being sad in a corridor, which I assume must have been the hospital. What are your memories of him?’

  ‘I can’t recall much. I was only young…’

  ‘When he died?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You were practically a teenager. You must be able to remember loads.’

  Another pause. I can almost hear her brain frantically trying to unscramble the years of lies.