The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series)

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘Be a human and see if he’s okay,’ I tell the officer.

  I get in the smooth interior of the Bentley and we pull away. I glance over my shoulder and see we’re being followed. Carson speaks to me as though he’s giving orders to a valued staff member at his stately home. He looks like a smaller version of George Clooney. It’s reassuring, but I’ve no nerves, even though I could be walking into a prison sentence.

  As we near the police station, I open the glovebox and place my phone inside it. Carson watches me do it, but keeps quiet. We park in the car park outside and walk to Reception. We’re ten minutes early, but the inspector from yesterday is there already. There are a few other unlucky souls in the waiting area. They stop talking as I pass and stare at my head. Barton opens a door for me.

  ‘Thanks for coming back, Ellen. Let’s get to the bottom of this and we’ll be able to put these terrible events behind us.’

  I give him a bright smile, even though he’s wrong. The nightmare for him has just begun.

  73

  Acting DCI Barton

  Barton and Strange guided Ellen and her solicitor into the interview room, completed the legal warnings, and got the tape running. Her new solicitor had a capable air about him.

  Despite her involvement in numerous deaths, Ellen hadn’t told them any obvious lies, or at least they’d found no evidence to the contrary. Her phone records didn’t contain any numbers of the three men who died so violently in their house. The two overdose victims had mobile phones on their persons and Ellen’s number wasn’t present there either. Hofstadt’s phone only had five numbers stored, which didn’t include Ellen’s. And they also knew she wasn’t on Ewing’s list of callers because they’d checked last night.

  None of the drug dealers recognised a picture of Ellen, and Barton had even sent Leicester back to speak to the man who’d been at the house where the fentanyl tip-off had been wrong to see if he knew her, but there had been no answer. It was a long shot, and Barton’s rising concern was the fact Ewing was still missing.

  Ewing lived with a flatmate on David’s Lane in Werrington, but nobody had answered when Malik knocked. Zander got hold of his sister and she confirmed he was supposed to visit yesterday afternoon and hadn’t turned up. She said she never met any of her brother’s girlfriends, saying only that she guessed there were many.

  Barton decided that he’d speak to Ellen this morning, then they’d get serious about locating Ewing. Hopefully, he’d walk into the station beforehand and be surprised at all the fuss. From what they’d been learning about him, he could easily just be with one of his many women.

  Barton had spent quite some time thinking about Ellen the previous evening. There was no reason to suspect Ewing’s disappearance was connected with the spate of deaths, but Barton still asked Strange to search Ellen and Ewing’s social media for connections. There were none and, seeing as they hadn’t been in contact on the phone either, there wasn’t an obvious link. Uniform were walking the area where he was last seen with a recent photograph and they were now analysing the rest of Ewing’s call records.

  ‘Right, Mr Carson. What we want from Ellen today is detailed statements around her relationships with the six men who are deceased. I’d like to know when she last saw them, how the relationship was left, and anything else that may be of interest to our investigation into the premature death of these six men. We also need more details on her relationship with another deceased from a long time ago with the nickname Wee Jock. Ellen’s skin was found under his fingernails.’

  ‘I see. Anything else you want?’

  ‘We want to take a look at Ellen’s phone.’

  ‘Right, and that’s it?’

  ‘I have questions about Ellen’s mental health and I’d like access to her medical records.’

  ‘I understand. Now, we’re happy to help, but we have a few conditions first.’

  Barton stared at him. ‘We’re usually the ones who state the conditions.’

  ‘My client has been more than helpful so far. It seems to me what you’re interested in is her incriminating herself. Are you charging her with anything?’

  ‘Not at this point.’

  ‘My client is free to go?’

  ‘Ellen said she’d come back and assist us.’

  ‘Do you seriously expect Ellen to answer these questions when you are looking for evidence to implicate her?’

  Barton didn’t like the way this was going. Carson was after something, but Barton couldn’t work out what it was.

  ‘If she has nothing to hide,’ he said, ‘surely, she’d prefer to remove herself from the suspect list.’

  ‘It won’t matter what she says here today, you would still be suspicious. Am I right?’

  Barton sighed. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Ellen has agreed to do the statements for you, but they will take time. She’d like to do them elsewhere, at home preferably. She’ll bring them in tomorrow. I have advised her not to bother doing them. However, she wants to help. She will also be able to bring her phone in for you at the same time, as she thinks she knows where it is. She will then give you permission to view her medical records. Are we in agreement?’

  ‘Why can’t she write her statements here?’

  ‘If you keep her here, she’ll write nothing at all. You will have to charge her or let her go. You’ve asked for her records, so you are well aware Ellen has mental-health issues, and you know she’s in mourning. Police stations affect the most balanced individuals, never mind those with anxiety. What seems to be the problem?’

  Barton decided to lay his cards out.

  ‘Ellen, are you on medication for psychosis?’

  Ellen had been looking down at the table. She raised her head and fixed Barton in her stare. The green eyes of yesterday had changed. They were harder now, hawk-like. He had the strange feeling of being prey.

  ‘I’m on a variety of tablets. To save you looking them up, I’ll tell you. Some of them are anti-psychotics, others for schizophrenia. They’re used for anxiety and depression. Most patients need a balance, so two prescriptions are rarely the same. Are you asking if I’m mad?’

  ‘I was wondering what you’d be like if you stopped taking your medication.’

  ‘I would struggle, but I bet half your staff are on antidepressants.’

  ‘Do you have murderous urges?’

  ‘Do you think I killed all these people?’

  ‘I believe you’re more responsible than you’re telling us.’

  Carson let out a short brittle laugh and interrupted.

  ‘Frankly, Mr Barton, I don’t care what you believe. I’m only interested in what you can prove. Which appears to be nothing. You can’t arrest her for bad luck.’

  Barton leaned back in his seat. ‘Fine, I agree to your terms. However, Ellen will have to be somewhere other than her flat, as I’m ordering a full CSI today.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence at all against my client, or are you just fishing?’

  ‘We don’t have many people to question apart from Ellen. That’s because everyone else is dead.’

  Carson smiled. ‘It’s a pity that dead men don’t tell tales, isn’t it, Inspector? Our jobs would be much easier.’

  Strange had only spoken to caution them at the start of the interview, but now she leaned forward with purpose.

  ‘How do you feel about the deaths, Ellen? These were ex-boyfriends and school friends. Are you sad?’

  Ellen’s piercing gaze turned to Strange.

  ‘It’s a shame.’

  Strange waited for Ellen to say something else, but it appeared she had finished.

  Half an hour later, Barton watched Ellen and her brief leave the building. It was the link to her father that was playing on Barton’s mind. He returned to his desk, knowing just the man for a quick opinion. Mortis picked up after a few rings.

  ‘Are you back at work?’ asked Barton.

  ‘Aye,’ replied Mortis.

  ‘Everything all ri
ght?’

  ‘Ask your question, John.’

  ‘It’s around mental health. I know that’s an interest of yours. I’m curious as to the likelihood of a parent passing on their illnesses to their offspring.’

  ‘Go on. At one point, I wanted to be a psychiatrist.’

  Barton quickly updated Mortis on the case.

  ‘Ah, I see. You’re wondering specifically if it’s likely that the father’s propensity to kill has been transferred to his daughter.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘The simple answer to that is maybe. Research is progressing on the subject, but human brains are complicated. No two are the same. I read some research a little while ago that said your lifetime risk of developing schizophrenia was about one in a hundred. If one of your biological parents or a sibling has it that rises to around one in ten. The stats are similar but with a bigger range for SMIs such as bipolar or personality disorders.’

  ‘SMIs?’

  ‘Serious Mental Health Issues. But remember that people with SMIs are rarely dangerous to anyone but themselves, and the chance of them being a murderer is remote. Around 10 per cent of the population will have an SMI in their lifetime. And one in five of us will experience suicidal thoughts at some point. It’s incredible that we as a nation are only just waking up to these facts. That’s millions of people and we only have around seven hundred murders in England and Wales each year.’

  ‘Right, I agree, they’re shocking statistics, but I’m not sure how much help they are to me. What about if both parents had issues with their mental health?’

  ‘Again, there is a lot of variation depending on which research you use, but some reports have stated it could be as high as a one in two chance you’ll inherit your parents’ conditions.’

  74

  The Ice Killer

  Carson drives me back to my flat. He parks a little way down the road, as if he knows that I’m going to sneak into my car and drive away. I’m free as long as I return in the morning, so I can go where I please, but I’d rather not be followed. I take my phone from the glovebox but resist the urge to turn it on. It must hold many desperate messages waiting. Before I get out of the car, I thank Carson for being there for me. I have no idea who he is, or where he’s come from, but I suspect he doesn’t race to Peterborough at the drop of a hat for anyone.

  ‘I appreciate your help, Carson.’

  ‘No problem. I’ve represented your mother and father for years.’

  I step outside and slam the door but linger. It’s a strange turn of phrase that he’s used. Why would they both have need of a criminal solicitor? I make a mental note to ask my sister. The passenger window winds down. Carson leans over and looks up at me.

  ‘Don’t do those statements, and I’d disappear for a bit if I were you, too. As for your phone, I’d lose it permanently, whatever’s on there. The police don’t have anything on you at the moment, or they would have arrested and charged you. Eventually their resources will be dragged elsewhere, and the crimes will be forgotten. After all, no one innocent has died. I know a smart detective when I see one, and Inspector Barton is close to making a decision. We don’t want him finding out the truth. Remember, I’m only a phone call away.’

  Carson has driven off up the road before it registers that he’s told me he knows I’ve killed people. Does that make him a bad person? Is he motivated by loyalty or money? Suddenly, it feels as if the world is full of corruption. What’s the point of our existence if we just do terrible things to each other? Carson said to vanish, but I don’t have the funds for that. I also know that my time in Peterborough isn’t over.

  There’s a small Police Scientific Support Unit van parked outside the front door of the flats. A uniformed policeman standing there glares at me as I slip into the driver’s side of my car. I accelerate away and join the traffic into town. I’m starving and drive down Oundle Road to Woodston Chippy. It’s midday and hard to believe yesterday was so arctic because the sun has melted the frost that froze everything in its spot.

  The radio cheerily explains that even though tonight will be cold, the chill will depart tomorrow when a warm front pushes in from the Atlantic. In two days’ time, we’ll be free of the depths of winter. I park next to the chip shop, enter, and ask for my order to be open. With loads of salt and vinegar on, it smells heavenly. I stand outside, burning my tongue as I shovel fuel into my mouth. Sweet Millie’s charity shop is next door to the chip shop.

  I’d forgotten about Millie. I can see her eating an enormous bag of crisps. She must feel my eyes on her because she looks up. Her chubby face bursts into a huge grin. It warms me even more than the sun. I push the door open and approach the counter.

  ‘Fancy a chip?’

  ‘No, thanks, love. I had some yesterday. It’s deadly working so close. I was thin when I first opened the shop.’ She winks at me. ‘Well, not really thin.’

  I laugh, which makes me wonder when I last did. She talks nineteen to the dozen about a load of stuff I have no interest in, but I relax. It’s normal, and wasn’t that what I wanted to be? There’s no point hiding from my problems, so I turn on my mobile. It erupts with beeps.

  ‘Ooh, you’re popular,’ says Millie. ‘Sometimes I don’t receive a message for days and think I’ve forgotten to turn my phone on, but I haven’t.’

  ‘Millie, can I tell you something? It’s not good.’

  ‘Sure, get it off your chest.’

  I look at her earnest face and shake my head. ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘Ellen, please. A problem shared and all that.’

  ‘I killed a man.’

  ‘So it was you that I saw on television. That wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘I’m talking about someone else. He wasn’t a decent person, but he didn’t deserve to die. I think I should confess.’

  Millie’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything for a while, just munches her crisps.

  ‘What will owning up to it achieve? It won’t bring him back, but you’ll ruin the rest of your life. Do you think you’ll get away with it?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe, maybe not. It’s all such a mess. I hoped to be happy and have someone special of my own. Surely that shouldn’t be too much to ask. Although I’ve been feeling so up and down of late, and often out of control. Perhaps prison is the best place for me.’

  ‘You know what, if you’d asked me years ago, I’d have said do the right thing and confess. But life has taught me that nice people come last. Don’t admit to anything. Be lucky, but learn from it, and live your life with gratitude. Ellen, I know you think you’re lonely now, but you aren’t, not really. You’ve so many years left with no responsibility and so many possibilities. Don’t throw the opportunity away. You could get a passport and be backpacking around India in a few weeks. I’d even pay for your ticket if that’s what you want to do.’

  I move around the counter and hug her. Again, I’ve been so swept up in my own problems with isolation that I haven’t considered others who must be going through the same thing. I make a promise to myself that I will see more of Millie, although the future looks grim if my freedom relies on Trent and Scarlett keeping their mouths shut. It’s placed me in a weak position.

  ‘What are you saying? Be mean and horrible, and I’ll win?’ I ask.

  Millie wipes her eyes. ‘Just look after yourself. No one else will put you first, you have to do it yourself.’

  I give her a guilty smile. She doesn’t know the half of it.

  ‘I’d better go. I’m going to have a drive. It’ll be a chance for me to think about things and make some tough decisions.’

  Although, the harsh reality I find myself in already has my full attention. The chilling focus that trickles into my veins shocks me. I attempt a winning smile at Millie, but it reaches nowhere near my eyes. She doesn’t seem to notice and gaily replies.

  ‘Okay, don’t forget stock check next Thursday.’

  ‘Only prison bars would stop me.’

&nbs
p; She laughs and waves me off. Outside, I throw the empty chip wrapper into a bin, get in my car, and look at my phone. There are texts from both Trent and Scarlett along with missed calls from Brad and work. There are four voice messages, one of which is from my sister. Lucy’s says to head to her home in Harrow, even though she’ll be at the hospital. Brad’s message is casual but keen. Clearly his mum didn’t tell him that I knew about his other office chum. Trent’s call is raging and demanding, whereas Scarlett’s is frantic and doesn’t make sense. The last text is from her. It reads:

  I can’t take any more. I’m going to end it all. Tim told me this morning that he was leaving me. Now he’s gone, and he’ll never come back, and it’s all my fault. Please come. I don’t want to die alone.

  That message could mean a lot of things. More danger for me, or perhaps one of my problems solved. My fingers swiftly type out a reply.

  I’m on my way.

  75

  Acting DCI Barton

  Barton stared at his inbox. He was getting heat from his supervisors about the mysterious deaths. Ewing still hadn’t appeared, although Malik had been back to Ewing’s house where a neighbour said she thought she’d seen him last night. If Ewing just had a personal problem, it’d be better off dealt with by Barton. He didn’t want to escalate the search unless absolutely necessary. That would involve the national and local news, and it wouldn’t look good for the police if they couldn’t locate their own people. Especially if he appeared a few hours later.

  Barton steepled his fingers and tried to think outside the box. He’d already sent Zelensky out to search for Ewing at the haunts she knew he frequented. His gut was yelling to him that Ellen Vickerman was involved in some way, but there was no evidence.