‘Your mental health has been well documented, but personality disorders are not a defence in themselves. You say you don’t recall throwing your medication away, but only you can be responsible. Regardless, in this day and age, we should show humility and understanding when others find life tough.’
The judge’s glare returned to the public gallery.
‘I struggled to come to a decision as to what I should do with the defendant until I stripped down my role to its basics. I am here to protect the public. My main concern is that Ellen Vickerman may be a few missed tablets from being one of the most dangerous people I’ve met. Anyone who could take a life in the manner you did will always be a danger. Therefore, you need to be monitored for the remainder of your days.
‘I think ten years behind bars as a minimum is just for what you did. I pass further decisions on to the mental-health experts, prison staff, and parole service, who will be better placed than I am to decide if after ten years or more you are fit to rejoin society. If they decide not, you will spend the rest of your natural life behind bars.’
94
DI Barton
Barton, Strange and Zander plodded down the steps of the courthouse. They stood in a circle looking at each other.
‘It’s weird,’ said Zander, ‘but I felt sorry for her at the end. I’ve also never considered how tough the judges have it before. I’m still not sure what I would have done if the decision had been mine. I suppose that while she’s in jail, the public are safe.’
‘Yes. Let’s hope if she gets out, we never hear from her again,’ said Barton.
‘What? You two see a pretty girl and go soft in the head. She probably killed Ewing in cold blood as well as those deadbeats. I’ll sleep safer if she spends the rest of her life doing laundry on the lifers’ wing at HMP Peterborough.’
Barton nodded. He suspected everyone would have their own view on the case of The Ice Killer.
‘You know what, despite what the newspapers say, we still make a brilliant team. I hope we have many years ahead of us,’ he said.
Strange grinned. ‘I’ll drink to that. Come on, I’ve had enough of killers, let’s move on to tequilas.’
‘And I can definitely drink to that,’ said Zander.
Strange and Zander high-fived each other, and did he detect them hold each other’s stare for a moment longer than usual?
‘There’s a pub opened in Fletton, run by an old custody sergeant. You remember Dave Williams, Zander?’ asked Barton.
‘Yeah, he was a sound bloke. We can start there, if you like.’
They ambled back to Barton’s car, and he drove them down London Road. The Wonky Donkey was one of those new micro pubs that were popping up all over, selling real ale and shunning fruit machines and music for old-fashioned chatting. Barton shook the hand of the landlord, who gave him a big grin.
‘Good to see you again, John. Have you lost weight?’
‘Very funny, Dave. I hope your beer is better than your jokes.’
‘It’s a strange coincidence that you turn up just as I put free peanuts on the bar.’
‘What beer do you recommend?’
‘They’re all excellent.’
Smiling, Barton placed the order and helped himself to a big handful of nuts while he waited. The three of them had a sip of their real ales with suspicion as they usually stuck to lager.
‘Nice,’ said Barton.
Zander, a committed Kronenbourg fan, also nodded in approval.
‘Mine tastes like it came out of the washing-up bowl after Sunday lunch,’ said Strange.
Barton pondered asking how she knew that, but decided it’d been a long enough day already. Instead, he smiled at the landlord. Dave still had a full head of hair, but it was now flecked with grey. He had some cheek, too, as his shirt was tighter across the waist than it used to be.
‘How long have you been retired now, Dave?’
‘Two years, mate.’
‘Do you miss it?’
Dave nodded. ‘Every day.’
‘You retired early, didn’t you?’ asked Zander. ‘Why not stay on?’
‘It was family. I missed out on a lot over the years and decided I was ready. You never know how long you have left with someone, so spend time with them now.’
They finished their beers and stepped outside. Barton drove them to the car park at the rear of The Yard of Ale pub.
‘You can leave the car and collect it tomorrow,’ suggested Strange.
‘Maybe. I’ve got to pick up a few things from Asda for Holly,’ said Barton.
They gave him a suspicious look. Strange linked arms with Zander as they strolled away and said something that made Zander put his head back and laugh. They would make a good couple, thought Barton.
After he’d been to the shops, he would send a text to his sergeants and tell them he wasn’t returning. He reckoned they wouldn’t mind too much. The retired detective was right. There was only one place Detective Inspector John Barton wanted to be, and that was home.
Epilogue
The thundering of feet across the landing woke Barton. Luke reached the bottom of his parents’ bed and burrowed his way under the duvet until he was between them.
‘Hey,’ whispered Barton. ‘That’s my spot.’
‘Cook the breakfast, Daddy. You promised us bacon sandwiches.’
Barton smiled as his stomach growled. He slipped from the covers, dressed, and wandered downstairs. Once the oven was on and the bacon was in, he looked out of the window at the stunning mackerel sky with the sun just rising. Autumn had arrived in a rush this year. His mouth watered at the thought of thick rashers, real butter, soft white Hovis, and his family around him. It was how he imagined heaven to be. With twenty minutes to waste, he grabbed his trainers and stepped outside to get a newspaper.
He breathed in the air and stretched. It was a relief that The Ice Killer case could now be closed, although it would never be forgotten. Barton nodded to a couple walking their spaniel down Moggswell Lane on the way to the Herlington Centre and relaxed as he admired the gold, scarlet and russet falling leaves. The lad with the pink hair was unlocking the shop door as he arrived. An old guy shook his walking stick in Barton’s direction.
‘Bloody late, again.’
‘Morning,’ said Barton, hoping that he wasn’t referring to him.
Barton grabbed a copy of The Sun newspaper and blinked at the front page, which had nine letters in bold:
WOMANHUNT
He read the article in the queue as the elderly man berated the youth at the counter for not opening up on time.
‘Sir?’ asked the youth.
Barton hadn’t noticed he was next in line because he couldn’t believe what he was reading.
Four men had been found stabbed to death in a shared house in Brooklyn, New York. The authorities were looking for the other tenant. The landlord had let himself in after reports of a disturbance and discovered a scene of total carnage.
The FBI confirmed that what exactly happened was unclear, but they desperately wanted to talk to a British student from Harrow, London. There was a picture of the person they were after. Even though Barton hadn’t met her, he knew her mother and aunt. Her name was Carrie Breslinski.
Author’s note
Thank you for reading my DI Barton trilogy. I’ve really enjoyed writing about John and his family, and that includes his police family. I had a little tear in my eye as I wrote the end. That said, they weren’t easy books to write. Even though I was a prison officer for four years, I had minimal dealings with the police. Therefore, I had to do a lot of time-consuming research and count on some current and retired detectives, such as Julian, to read the books and make sure they were procedurally accurate.
My E in A-level biology didn’t help much with the post-mortems either, so Google was my friend. I hope DI Barton never looks at my search history, or I might as well hand myself in at HMP Peterborough right now. I had to concentrate hard when I wrote them due to t
he intricate plots, which was tough with home schooling. My six-year-old boy helped by interrupting me every four minutes to tell me which Pokémon was the most powerful.
I’m going to write a standalone exciting prison book next, but do you miss Barton, Strange, Zander, Mortis, Sirena et al? In a way, you can help me decide on my next novel. I love reading your reviews on Amazon, so please head over there if you enjoyed the series and let me know if you want more.
If you want to connect on social media, please do. Thank you for your support.
More from Ross Greenwood
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If you haven’t already read it, catch up on DI Barton’s first case with The Snow Killer, available to order by clicking on the image below, or read on for an exclusive extract:
Winter
50 years ago
Chapter 1
I must have been ten years old when I first tidied up his drug paraphernalia. I didn’t want my sister crawling over it. We called her Special – a take on Michelle – because she was an enigma. Special was a term of endearment for us, funny how nowadays it could be considered an insult. She never spoke a single word and seemed more of a peaceful spirit than a physical entity. Give her a crayon or pencil and a piece of paper, though, and her smile filled the room.
I monitored my father’s habit through his mood swings or by how much time he spent in bed. The foil and needles increased rapidly just before we escaped London a few years back. I cried because both my parents left evidence of their addiction.
In many ways, my mother was as simple as Special. Swayed by my dominant father, she did everything he said, even though she had more common sense. Joining him in his heroin habit was inevitable.
Until the night we left, we took holidays and ate out in restaurants. I didn’t know where the money came from because I had no idea what my father did.
The evening we fled London, we packed our suitcases at ten at night and caught the last train to Peterborough, arriving at two in the morning. I recall beaming at my parents, especially when we checked into a huge hotel on the first night. My mum’s brother, Ronnie, lived nearby. When we eventually found him, he helped us move into a cottage in rural Lincolnshire, which was cheap for obvious reasons. The single storey building had five rooms and no internal doors. You could hear everything from any room – even the toilet.
Six months after we settled in our new home, I lay in the damp bed with my sister’s warm breath on my neck and heard my father casually say he’d shot the wrong man. The fact my mother wasn’t surprised shocked me more.
Life carried on. My parents continued to avoid reality. We ate a lot of sandwiches. Lincolnshire is only two hours north of London but it felt like the edge of the world after the hustle and bustle of the capital city. I walked the three miles to school. Special stayed at home where she painted and coloured. My mum sold Special’s pictures. She drew people and animals in a childish way, but they captivated people as the eyes in the pictures haunted the viewer.
One freezing night, my sister and I cuddled in bed and listened to another argument raging in the lounge. We had our own beds but only ever slept apart in the hot summer months. At six years old, she didn’t take up much room.
‘You did what?’ my mother shouted.
‘I saw an opportunity,’ my father replied.
‘What were you thinking?’
‘We’re broke. We needed the money.’
‘What you’ve done is put our family in danger. They’ll find us.’
‘They won’t think I took it.’
I might have been only fifteen years old, but I had eyes and ears. My parents constantly talked about money and drugs. By then, that was all they were interested in. That said, I don’t recall being unhappy, despite their problems. Normal life just wasn’t for them.
My mother’s voice became a loud, worried whisper. ‘What if they come for the money? The children are here.’
‘They won’t hurt them,’ my father said.
A hand slammed on the kitchen table. ‘We need to leave.’
‘It’s three in the morning and snowing. No one will look now. Besides, where would we go?’
‘We’re rich! We can stay where we like.’
Crazily, they laughed. I suppose that’s why they loved each other. They were both the same kind of mad.
That was the sixties and a different time. Not everyone spent their lives within earshot of a busy road. In fact, few people owned their own car. If you’ve ever lived deep in the countryside, you’ll know how quiet the long nights are. So it makes sense that I could hear the approaching vehicle for miles before it arrived. The put-put-put we gradually heard in unison that night sounded too regular for it to be my uncle’s ancient van. And anyway, good news doesn’t arrive in the middle of the night.
Mum understood and her bellow filled the cottage. ‘Grab everyone’s coats and shoes. I’ll wake the kids. Move!’
We slept more or less fully clothed due to the draughty windows and non-existent central heating. The warmth from the fire failed to reach the bedrooms. I rammed my boots on in seconds, and I slid Special’s warm feet into her little red wellies. Even at that time of night, my mother wore full make-up, but her beauty couldn’t disguise her wild eyes and trembling jaw. She hustled us kids to the back door where our jackets hung.
I held my hands out to my father. ‘Come on, Dad. Please, let’s go.’
My father peered through the window. Judging by the volume of the car’s engine ticking over, they had arrived. Then, a heavy silence. He glanced past me at my mother.
‘I’ll stay and talk to them. Get the children safe.’
Until that point, the extreme danger hadn’t registered. The expression of grim acceptance and resignation on my father’s face told me what I needed to know. I grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the window.
‘Please, Dad!’
‘Go. Don’t worry about me. See you at Uncle Ronnie’s when I get there.’
I frowned at him. If it was going to be all right, we wouldn’t need to go to my uncle’s. The loud, hard double knock on the front door jolted us from our inertia and my sister, mum and I fled through the back door.
We waited at the side of the house. Even the clouds seemed to hold their breath. The inches of settled snow cast an eerie light over the fields. I peeped around the corner at our visitors and recognised three men: a gaunt man, a fat man, and a man with weird sticking-out teeth. They’d been to our place on numerous occasions. Goofy, as I’d secretly nicknamed him, watched Special in a manner that gave me goosebumps. I always took her to our room if they arrived and we hadn’t gone to bed yet. I called the other two Laurel and Hardy for their different sizes.
Perhaps, it would be okay after all. Even though they talked down to my father, I thought they were friends. They joked that they all worked in the same line of business. Our front door opened. With the fire long dead and no electricity, the interior showed black and solid. Out of this darkness came my father’s outstretched hand holding an envelope.
A flash startled me, followed by a deafening, frightening bang. It lit my father up like a photograph. Terrified like rabbits, we panicked and left our hiding spot. Stupid, really. The cottage sat on a straight track. There wasn’t another house for miles. We ran in a line up the snowy lane towards the wood. If you run like that, holding hands, you can only go at the pace of the slowest runner. Special’s little boots slipped and skidded across the surface. She rarely went outside.
The first trees and only cover remained distant. I stole a glance back, knowing if they came after us, we would never make it. They stood in a line in the centre of the road, unmoving. Weirdly, considering the weather, they wore
similar blue suits. Each had a raised hand. They were colour on a blank canvas, and clear as if it were daylight. We were sitting ducks. This time, multiple booms crashed around our ears.
Incredibly, we carried on running. A sound not dissimilar to a whip cracking whistled by my right ear. A lone crow in front of us launching into flight seemed to be the only consequence of the volley of bullets until my mother stumbled. She dragged herself up with gritted teeth and spat on the floor. Her eyes fixed on the distant tree line, and we continued to move forward. I heard the men laughing. Another torrent of cracks echoed from behind, and my mother hit the ground face first with a sickening thump.
I crouched and scraped the bloody hair from her cheek. Blood poured from her mouth. The snow devoured the liquid even though it gushed out. Her eyes lost focus and, with her dying breath, she gasped, ‘Run.’
The men’s footwear crunched closer. I swung Special onto my back. She adored that: playing horses. She weighed nothing but could hang on like the finest jockey. I set off much faster, terror loaning speed and strength to my legs. I reached the wood and burst in. Branches rustled and scratched my face. But just the trees at the edge were thick conifers, the ones beyond only skeletons. I prayed that our hunters would give up if I put enough distance between us.
It wasn’t a forest by any means, and soon I reached the edge. A large expanse of white opened up before me. The voices behind me echoed louder and closer. Special’s soft, slow breath warmed my ear. I clung to that fact. She didn’t understand. I had no choice and fled into the snow field. Beneath the covering of white, rutted uneven ground unbalanced me. I managed twenty stodgy paces when I heard chuckling again.
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 35
