The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series)

by Ross Greenwood

  There was also a nagging thought at the back of Barton’s mind. While the rest of the station was pleased justice would be done for the death of Ewing, the pointless demise of Trent Anderson didn’t sit well with Barton. If Ellen had killed the other men, she had done so for a reason. The harsh would say rational ones. The pitiless killing of her neighbour didn’t fit that. Barton had suspected Anderson might not be an innocent in all this. After looking around Anderson’s flat, he’d called in the experts.

  Still, they had Ellen for a senseless murder right in front of their eyes, whatever she said. She wouldn’t escape justice for that crime. Barton cracked on with the paperwork. It wasn’t easy with the lack of corroborating facts, but he knew that his job was only to present as much evidence as possible to the Crown Prosecution Service. It would be up to them to decide what they would prosecute her for at Crown Court.

  A knock came at the door. The force’s new IT guru, Barry Tomas, smiled from the doorway.

  ‘Come in, Baz. Was I correct about Trent?’

  ‘You were right, John. You are a clever boy. Sorry, it’s taken a while.’

  ‘Did you have trouble bypassing his security?’

  ‘Hell, no. His applications were tight, but it’s easy nowadays when you have the hardware. The only worry I had was if he’d set up a “delete all files” command if the firewall was breached.’

  ‘And he didn’t?’

  ‘Nope. The stuff on the PC was too important to him. It took ages because of the volume. This guy was very, very sick.’

  Barton put his face in his hands. ‘Tell me,’ he said through his fingers.

  ‘Let’s start with the great news. He had CCTV all over his flat, multiple cameras, one looking out of the lounge window, even a concealed one in the toilet, which obviously isn’t normal. First thing I checked, of course, was his murder. As I told you in the week, we have a crystal-clear recording of her stabbing him to death.’

  ‘Okay, what’s the problem, then?’

  ‘This guy had been on the edge for days. You can see him prowling around in the flat, talking to himself, furiously masturbating at the TV, singing, you name it. Manic behaviour. When Ellen gets there, they clearly have a row. But it’s him that makes the first move. He attacks her.’

  ‘Bollocks. Why?’

  ‘Who knows? They struggle and they’re going for it. Then you guys turn up and they stop. That’s the weird bit. It’s like they’re both weighing up the odds. You come crashing through, and she stabs the hell out of him.’

  Barton considered the evidence. ‘We still have a chance of a murder conviction. The police were there, and she was in no danger. She could have stepped away. No one had to die.’

  ‘I agree, 100 per cent. It gives the defence a little wiggle room, though, especially when you combine it with the other… things.’

  ‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’

  ‘I’ve seen plenty in my time, but this guy took stalking to the next level. He has files and files on Ellen. Most of which were taken by his surveillance cameras, but he’s written poems and all sorts. There’s sick stuff where he’s superimposed her face onto hundreds of porn images. There’s so much of it, he categorised it by year and month. But the most damning piece is a recording from a few days before he died. It’s of them having sex, but it isn’t a leap to say he violently raped her.’

  90

  The Ice Killer

  It’s been a strange six months. Inspector Barton came to the prison to see me. He tried to persuade me to be honest about everything that had happened. Apparently, I owed it to the victims’ families. Carson was present. He just shook his head at me. Part of me wanted to come clean, but I don’t think anyone would understand.

  Carson was shocked when I told him the truth, and he thought he’d heard it all, but he said it was his job to defend me. I asked him why he helped our family, when it was clear we were capable of such violence. He said when he first met my sister, he felt compelled to help her, and that the feeling had never gone. Carson joked that men are defenceless against the combined power of beauty and danger. I’ll never ask, but I suspect, from hearing the way he talks about her, that Lucy and he were occasional lovers.

  We concocted a story that was close to the truth for the death of Detective Robert Ewing. I said that I bumped into him in the street and took him to my flat. Then Scarlett turned up, and they rowed. I left and thought no more of it, later finding out that she had murdered him, and Trent helped her move the body.

  I laid it on thick with Trent’s death. The evidence they found on his computer was helpful. I said he’d been abusing me for years. I lost control for a moment and stabbed him, only to hurt him, after Trent threatened to say it was me, not him, who helped remove Ewing’s body when Scarlett killed him. Unless I submitted to his sick demands. This was the big hole in my defence as Carson couldn’t prove that Trent and Scarlett knew each other. They had his email and phone records and she didn’t appear on either. The search history from his computer helped. He’d checked the maximum sentence for illegally disposing of a dead body. Apparently, it can be punished by a maximum sentence of life imprisonment, an unlimited fine or both. No wonder he lost it.

  Unfortunately, quite a bit of my evidence sounded lightweight, but my container of shame was helpful in gaining sympathy. More than one jury member wept when they heard the details of my foul gang rape and saw my shredded dress and gruesome injuries. Carson and his team have thrown everything into it. He skimmed over my mental health. Obviously, he didn’t want them thinking I was a psychopath. The prosecution went at that hard, even bringing my dad’s criminal and medical history into it. The judge made no apology for hearing from all witnesses and professionals, however relevant. It would be for the jury to make a decision.

  I was also charged with the murder of Quantrill, Ash and Duncan, but the judge dropped the cases after Carson made the jury shake their heads at the inadequacy of the Crown’s evidence. As for the other two charges, Carson said it was in the lap of the Gods. Twelve normal men and women, people like me, would rule on the rest of my life.

  I’ve just heard that after nearly an entire week of deliberation, the jury have come to a majority verdict as opposed to a unanimous one. Carson hoped that was encouraging, as it meant that not everyone agreed. They’ve brought me to the dock. A hush settles over the packed gallery as the court usher sweeps to the front.

  ‘All rise, this court is now in session. The honourable Judge Arkwright presiding.’

  It seems I care about the verdict after all because my knees tremble as I stand. Tears blur my vision. In a few moments, I’ll know if I will spend the remainder of my days behind bars. Imprisonment has changed me. They dosed me up to the eyeballs in healthcare when I first arrived, but my case interested the prison psychiatrist. Over the weeks and months, he found a balance that worked. I then took my sister’s advice and got healthy.

  Ironically, prison suits me. There’s no alcohol to self-medicate with. I have a girlfriend, too. She is a boisterous creature whose family hails from Trinidad, but she’s eternally upbeat, and I love that. I eat well. Virtually none of the other prisoners eat their salads, so I can have extra. The gym is well equipped, and I feel good. The doctor has dropped my medication further now, and, after sessions of therapy and support from other prisoners, I find being behind bars comfortable and secure. Obviously, no one gives me any shit.

  The judge enters from a rear door. I unclench my fists. Is this how real people are: nervous but controlled? I do feel regret and remorse now, but I know not to beat myself up too much either. It’s life. Carson asked me to smile more at the start, but I found it hard and unnatural. He later told me to stop because I was scaring him, never mind the jury.

  ‘Would the defendant please remain standing?’ says the judge. ’Everyone else may sit.’

  The judge talks about the case and the clear verdict he expects to receive. He reiterates that in the forty years since he took his oath, he ha
s never come across anything like it. As he speaks, I catch my sister’s eye in the public gallery. She does a little wave, just a few fingers, and I do the same.

  She has been my rock. Her visits keep me grounded. I want to get out of jail because I have something to go back to. Halfway through the trial, my father started coming as well. I have found his presence reassuring. He’s conquered similar demons, or at least learned to control them.

  ‘Would the foreman please stand?’ says the judge.

  A sharp-faced woman who must be well into her sixties gets to her feet. She seemed puritanical at the beginning, but I saw her shed tears on many occasions.

  ‘Do you have a majority verdict?’

  ‘We do, Your Honour. Ten of us are in agreement.’

  ‘Very well. In the case of the Crown versus Vickerman, please announce your verdict clearly when asked, so all may hear.’

  The foreman swallowed, then raised her chin and nodded.

  ‘To the charge of the murder of Robert Ewing, how do you find?’

  ‘Not guilty.’

  ‘And to a lesser charge of manslaughter?’

  ‘Not guilty.’

  The public gallery erupts with anger. Cries of quiet from the usher eventually regain order.

  ‘To the charge of the murder of Trent Anderson?’

  ‘Not guilty.’

  An audible gasp fills the courtroom. The judge presses on.

  ‘And the lesser charge of manslaughter?’

  ‘We find the defendant guilty.’

  There is more confusion than outrage at the last verdict. I let out the breath I’m holding. Carson told me this was possible, and the judge would ask for pre-sentencing reports. He does just that and announces that, due to the seriousness of the crime, I will be remanded again to appear in a month’s time.

  The baying crowd have their voice now, and it’s a relief to return to the peace and silence of the cells. Carson said the judge has an enormous sentencing range with manslaughter, from a few years to forever. I have a month to wait, but at least I have hope.

  91

  The Ice Killer

  It feels as though I haven’t slept for a month, but, despite that, the day has come. I can sense the entire court’s eyes on me. We get the newspapers in the prison library, and I watch the news. It seems there are many who support me as well as those who have decried the verdict. That said, one red top called me The Ice Killer, due to my cool demeanour under questioning, and it stuck. To be fair, the article was balanced. The judge has a tricky task with much to consider.

  Prisons are full of men and women with mental-health problems who’ve broken the law and damaged other people’s lives and possessions. What’s the answer? Should they all be punished, even though surely you could argue that some are out of their minds when they commit crimes? Or is the humane thing to give people the support and therapy they need? I can’t help my nature. It’s the way I was born.

  Life’s not simple. Robert Ewing’s family hoped for answers, and I gave them nothing concrete. They will also want vengeance, and who am I to argue against that?

  Lucy and my father sit beside each other. Brad is next to them, too, and Millie next to him. They’ve all said they’ll visit, however long I get. Brad writes often. I thought about mentioning the secretary from work, Grace, but decide it doesn’t matter. If he can forgive a little killing, then I can absolve him of some minor deceit. Typical, just when I find my family, I could be taken away from them forever.

  I’ve had a lot of time to look inward. I like to think I’m a good person, just capable of bad things. But with the right help and support, I can be a valuable and decent member of society. Hopefully, the judge will give me that chance today. I wonder if someone reading my thoughts would agree.

  I will accept the judge’s decision and move on. I’m balanced now, and I understand the perils of being from a family like mine. I must take my medication religiously because if I don’t, I become the worst of them. And, once again, I will be the angel of death.

  92

  DI Barton

  Barton knocked on DCI Cox’s open door.

  ‘Enter,’ she said.

  ‘No, it’s okay, I just wanted to say we’re glad you’re back.’

  She raised an eyebrow at him.

  ‘Pop in for a minute, will you, John?’

  After he’d sat in the chair opposite her, she smiled at him in a way he couldn’t recall her doing before.

  ‘I think we’ve all learned a lot about ourselves in the last six months or so. I’ve discovered that being a full-time mother is fabulous, but not for me. I missed my job. My partner has happily agreed to be a househusband. Let’s hope he finds it more rewarding than I did, although I suspect he’s in for a big surprise.’

  ‘Very much so.’

  Cox paused for a moment.

  ‘Do you resent me taking my job back?’

  ‘No, of course not. I bet the management are pleased you’ve returned.’

  Cox snorted. ‘Rubbish. The chiefs have worked their way up. They understand what police work entails, and in particular how tough some cases can be. I know they hung you out to dry by saying that a more experienced Chief Inspector would have done a better job, but the public wanted a scapegoat, and you were inexperienced. Did the senior management give you any help during the case?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Next time you’ll learn to ask, then it’s their arses on the line. I knew you’d struggle to adapt to what’s fundamentally an office role, but who’d have thought such a case would come along? If it means anything, I think you did a great job. I’ve worked with many detectives of all ranks over the years, and I can honestly say you are the best of the best. I mean that. Don’t worry, I won’t be doing this job for long. I have a son to support now, and my ambition is endless. I’ll drag you in my slipstream.’

  Barton stood to leave. ‘I hope that’s better than it sounds, but do you know what? I don’t want your position, not yet. I enjoy being a DI. I’m a man who likes to get in the trenches from time to time.’

  Cox reached over and shook his hand.

  ‘Good for you. Now, I hear that Strange, Zander and you are going to Crown Court for sentencing. Take them for a meal or a few drinks afterwards, on me. They did well, too.’

  Cox sat down, and her chair gave out a pained croak. Barton received a dirty look.

  ‘God knows what you’ve done to my chair. It’s like an elephant’s been using it.’

  Barton got back to his desk and found a new mop leaning against it. On the handle was written, ‘This is the property of John Barton.’ Strange and Zander came and stood next to him.

  ‘We knew you were getting demoted, we weren’t sure how far,’ said Strange.

  ‘Very funny, but you need to be careful. I’m a master delegator now and someone needs to clean the toilets. I’ll buy you both a toothbrush for tomorrow.’

  They headed to the basement, and Barton drove them to the car park on Oundle Road near the courts. It was an overcast day with a swirling wind and they were subdued as they were searched as they went into the court building.

  There were no seats left, so they strained their necks at the rear of the gallery. Zander found Strange a chair to stand on. Barton listened to the surprisingly short preamble with interest. The judge said he would explain the reason for his sentence afterwards.

  Barton thought Ellen Vickerman stood proudly in the dock, even though she had two large members of court security either side of her. She had worn a simple cream suit, and her hair had grown back a couple of inches. It was cut into an elfin style that suited her. Every eye in that room was on her face. An unexpected wave of emotion engulfed Barton. He wondered if she’d suffered enough.

  ‘Ellen Vickerman,’ said the judge. ‘I sentence you to life imprisonment.’

  93

  DI Barton

  It took nearly ten minutes for the court staff to regain a semblance of control. The threat of removing all spectator
s finally got the place in order so the judge could return. Barton kept his eye on Ellen. She flinched when she heard the verdict. She searched for her family in the gallery, and then she cried. Barton wiped a stray tear away when her shoulders heaved. Never did he think he’d feel compassion for someone he suspected was a ruthless killer.

  The judge cleared his throat and addressed the court.

  ‘This is your final warning, please stay silent. The sentence is life, but I am only imposing a minimum term of ten years. This may seem harsh or lenient depending on your viewpoint, but I suspect we will never see a case such as this again in my court in my lifetime. I pray that we do not. We must remember that people have lost their lives, and their families have lost loved ones, but, as with most things in life, nothing is black or white.

  ‘I bow to the jury for reaching a judgement in a complicated matter. The Crown’s case was weak at best in many aspects of these deaths. I’m pleased that a not guilty verdict was returned on the other charges because there was simply not enough proof. Suspicion, hearsay and feelings are not enough to convict for murder in our legal system. Apart from the defendant, the only people who know exactly what happened in these cases are the deceased, and they do not speak.’

  He turned to Ellen.

  ‘That brings me to Ms Vickerman. As a person, you seem cold and unthinking. Your evidence has been unreliable and you are not a credible witness, but you’ve often been the only witness. There is no doubt, however, that you killed Trent Anderson and assaulted two officers as you tried to escape. Whatever provocation there was is immaterial if the police have arrived. You were safe at that point, and there was no need to do what you did. The courts serve justice, not you.