‘Okay, I hope you get better, Donald. If you need anything, Claudia, please get in touch.’
I leaned over to kiss her goodbye, but she was checking him over, leaving me to press my lips on the top of her head. I stepped outside. My legs struggled to keep me upright. The sensation in my stomach was something I’ve never encountered before, even under my mother’s rule. I wondered if he’d be well enough for his annoying party on Boxing Day. I stayed on the doormat until my breathing returned to normal and my legs recovered their strength. A neighbour’s car roared into life and made me flinch.
I went to leave but couldn’t stop myself. Crouching down, I gently lifted the letterbox. I heard muffled talking, so I nudged the second insulating flap open. Their voices reached me so clearly that I could have been in the room.
‘Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?’
‘No. In the scheme of things, a bruise is nothing.’
‘Do you want me to stay?’
‘Your weirdo isn’t expecting you later?’
‘Dad! You never have taken to him, have you? In fact, you’ve disliked all of my boyfriends.’
‘That guy you dated after your A levels was great.’
‘Yes, but we had three meals and he dumped me, remember?’
‘I only want you to be happy. This guy’s way too serious. You need to have someone you enjoy a joke with. You’ll know when you meet the right one because you’ll have fun doing mundane things.’
‘We were bowling.’
There was a pause, then a definite chuckle from them both.
‘I bet you were a little pleased to get away.’
The laughter returned. ‘He can be overbearing. I should have been clearer with him about my priorities at the moment.’
‘Dump him, bury me, then play the field. Enjoy yourself. You’re only young once.’
‘Dad, you’re so funny. Let’s get you that drink. I’ll stay for a while but I’ve got a full load of washing to get out.’
The voices and laughter faded as a door shut.
She found him amusing, but I did not.
16
DI Barton
Present day – Christmas Eve
Barton sneaked a peek into the lounge on his way out of the house. His son Lawrence was fifteen years old, but the magic of Christmas shone in his eyes as he gazed into the tree lights. He was Holly’s from a previous relationship but Barton considered him his son. Lawrence had been quieter of late and Holly worried about him, but Barton suspected he was just growing up. In all honesty, he needed to. The Snow Killer’s rampage in the local area had affected his age group the most. They were the ones who had ventured out on their own at night. Their carefree days had ended abruptly.
Tonka Truck Luke snuffled on the sofa, the anticipation of the day finally exhausting the five year old. Even ten year old Layla had stomped downstairs. She burrowed in the Christmas chocolate tin as if she expected to find gold until she spotted him looking over and scowled her finest you are evil look.
‘Hey! Who’s eaten all the hump-backed ones?’
‘I don’t think you need to contact the Major Crimes Team for that one.’
In the corner, Holly lifted the newspaper to cover her reddening face. Barton smiled. We all had our poison. Holly’s came in a purple wrapper.
Layla turned back to her father. ‘Do you have to go out? Jumanji with Robin Williams is on later. We want to watch it so we can see the new one with Dwayne Johnson at the cinema. I’ll even eat the strawberry creams.’ She pretended indifference, but Layla still cherished Christmas together.
‘I’ll tell you what. Finish the coffee creams, and I’ll take my coat off now.’
The glare returned. ‘Have a good night, Father.’
Lawrence grinned at him. ‘You look a bit like a pasty Dwayne Johnson. Fatter obviously, but a similar size.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘Don’t drink and eat too much at the pub. Or you might get stuck in the chimney later.’
Barton waggled a finger at him. ‘Shush, you. Non-believers get nothing. I won’t be late, so we can all kick back then. If I see Santa on my travels, I’ll update him on your recent behaviour.’
Before he left, he popped over and gave Holly a kiss. He pecked Luke on a hot cheek and ruffled Lawrence’s hair. Layla got up and wrapped her arms around him, giving him a huge hug. ‘Love you, Daddy.’
Barton stepped from the house and almost bumped into a middle-aged man walking his terrier.
‘You must be the detective.’
‘Maybe. Who are you?’
‘Ernie Hobbs. I’ve just moved into number nineteen.’
‘Excellent.’ He wondered if the man knew about that house’s history.
‘I know what you’re thinking. Does he know what the Snow Killer did? It’s just bricks and mortar to me. I might even quite like the drama. I’m a heating engineer by trade. Pop over if your boiler breaks and I’ll call you if there’s any more murders. Merry Christmas.’
As he strolled down the road, Barton acknowledged he was destined never to have normal neighbours. The area was changing. The other houses that were left vacant after the recent deaths had been filled with people younger than Hobbs. How long would it be until Barton was one of the oldies? He pushed the thought away because he had much to be grateful for. Not everyone gets a family Christmas and he hoped for many more ahead of him. His mother, the sole remaining grandparent, was due to arrive the following morning and it pleased him immeasurably that they all knew her worth. Even Holly had stopped trying to do the lunch her way and left her mother-in-law to her own devices.
His youngest, Luke, continued as his usual innocent boisterous self, but the other two changed almost daily. Layla couldn’t decide if she loved her father, or hated him, and mentioned both on regular occasions. Lawrence had become serious and sensible, which was a little concerning. Barton wondered if he’d finally noticed girls. He had wanted to buy Lawrence a ‘birds and the bees’ book but Holly put the kybosh on that, saying embarrassing the boy wasn’t the answer. Barton joked that it would be funny, until Holly suggested they should also get Layla a copy. Luckily, the local criminals weren’t generally as clever as his wife.
Barton generally avoided going out on Christmas Eve, but it had been insanely busy since Ginger’s funeral. Any plans for a Christmas party had never got off the ground and he’d hardly seen anyone away from work. Strange was still dating DCI Naeem’s son, Aryan, on and off, but Barton had stopped asking about it of late as she clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Zander was seeing the Slovenian woman he had met near a suspect’s house, and Barton had his family.
No one had enough time for socialising away from those commitments. However, they had agreed to keep the arrangement they’d made after Ginger’s funeral. Tonight had been the easiest night for them all. Barton had resisted initially, but Holly said not to be silly and to go. She’d spend the whole day cleaning anyway, and if he was out of the house, then he couldn’t make a mess inside it.
Sweat stood on his brow by the time he arrived at the Ramblewood Inn, which was the pub attached to the hotel where Ginger’s funeral was held. Two men smoked cigarettes outside in nothing more than T-shirts. So much for a white Christmas. He had more chance of heatstroke.
The pub catered for the hotel traffic and the higher-end market. The prices reflected this and it was never insanely busy, even on Christmas Eve. He saw a few men he knew at the end of the bar and nodded. Barton sensed the collective anticipation of the imminent celebration.
The others hadn’t appeared yet, so he got them all a pint and carried them to the end of the bar. He reckoned he’d lost the bet they’d all made after the wake. A few days ago, he’d accused Holly of washing his jeans on too hot a wash. That could only mean one thing. And to think he was supposed to be getting fit.
Zander scowled when he arrived. Strange came in a minute later with a long face. Barton had requested the day off as he had volunte
ered to be on call on Christmas Day, whereas the other two had been at work.
They sipped their pints. ‘Merry Christmas,’ Zander said, without enthusiasm.
The others looked as if they could do with a seasonal moan, so Barton teed them up. ‘Good day at the office?’
Strange could barely control herself. ‘It’s been a nightmare week. So many Christmas parties have ended in brawls this year. I was forced to buy all my presents on Amazon.’
Barton gave her a puzzled expression. ‘Is there any other way? They even arrive wrapped if you pay extra. How about you, Zander?’
‘I’m taking my parents out to The Boathouse for dinner tomorrow. That’s my gift. They don’t care about presents at their age unless they can eat it or drink it. They’re just glad to have me back to normal. Not that I’ll be much company.’
Barton and Strange shared a look. Barton tried to make light of it.
‘Are you on Santa’s naughty list?’
‘Katrina, the woman I’ve been dating, dumped me last night. Said I lacked commitment.’
‘Do you?’
‘A little, but it’s been mental at work. You know that. She told me she’s hooking up with the postman.’
Strange choked on her lager. ‘Words you hoped never to hear.’
‘Damn right.’ Then Zander laughed. ‘Ah, my pride’s more wounded than my heart. I enjoy Christmas. Both my parents have been ill, so I’m happy that they’re still here. I can’t believe we haven’t been out for a few since the funeral. Do my tales of woe mean it’s me paying tonight?’
‘I put on over a stone in the last year,’ said Barton. ‘You could slice my chest up and sell it off as memory foam. The only exercise I’ve done is carrying weighty takeaways from the front door to the lounge. I spent thirty quid on a new cap and running sunglasses to go jogging in and forgot about them. I noticed Lawrence putting them on yesterday. Reckons he’s been wearing them for months. Kelly?’
‘I joined a fitness club and failed to attend the induction appointment. Maybe I’ve got that new sickness, gymtimidation. I argued over nothing with Aryan and never rang him. He didn’t ring me, either, and that was a month ago. Two weeks back, I knocked a tin of paint over on my lounge carpet and haven’t got round to replacing it. I’m looking up at rock bottom hoping it doesn’t drift higher. My only achievement was to increase my body weight by twenty per cent.’
‘Few winners here. Shall we buy rounds?’ asked Barton.
‘No way,’ joked Zander. ‘You two have done much worse than me.’
Barton enjoyed the craic and they managed to grab a free table. It’s hard to beat the atmosphere of a British bar in the early evening before Christmas. As it got to eight o’clock, the place emptied. Sensible people avoided a hangover on the big day. Many, such as Zander, had car journeys in the morning and didn’t want to be over the limit. Others, like Barton, had families waiting.
‘Right, guys. I’m off.’ Zander kissed Strange on the cheek and Barton fended him off from doing the same to him.
After he’d gone, Barton pondered on the lives of those remaining in the pub. He sensed many of them had nothing to go home for. Tonight, the bonhomie of a warm bar represented the highlight of their festive experience.
‘One for the road?’ asked Strange.
He smiled at her. ‘Sure.’ When she returned, Barton probed her arrangements.
‘Going to your parents’ for Christmas?’
‘No, I offered to be on call at work.’
‘I thought you usually saw your folks at Christmas?’
She fiddled with a beer mat but didn’t reply.
‘What happened?’
‘They’ve gone on a cruise.’
Barton failed to prevent a chuckle sneaking out. ‘Northern lights?’
‘Caribbean.’
‘Nice. But I bet it’s not as warm as here. If you’ve got no plans, come to ours. Twelve o’clock. Please bring earplugs and eggnog. We have everything else.’
‘No, John. I’m okay. My family have never been big into Christmas.’
‘I insist. If Holly found out you were on your own and I didn’t ask, I’d be another yuletide domestic statistic.’
‘That doesn’t roll off the tongue after a night in a bar, but great, okay, I’ll be there.’ She blushed at her fast answer.
‘I want you to come, too. Besides, I’m also on call. Hopefully there won’t be any major dramas.’
‘Someone’s bound to have something sad happen to them.’
Barton drained his drink and put on his coat. ‘Let’s make sure it isn’t us.’
17
The Soul Killer
Christmas Day
It’s a bright, sunny dawn. The odd cloud drifts by in the sky. It’s not Christmas weather to encourage fireside gatherings. But it also isn’t the type of morning for ultimatums. However, after what I heard yesterday, I’m forced to act. When I returned to River End, I analysed my options and a plan formed. Luckily, I had the item necessary and practised for hours. It’s risky. I must be careful, but perhaps I won’t need it – he still has a chance.
I cycle along the River Nene. Even the ducks know it’s Christmas and a time for family. They take turns honking in a line as I pedal past. The British Sugar housing estate heaves with cars from people home for the holidays. They cover the roadsides and verges. What kind of company builds five bedroom houses and gives them a single drive? I resist the temptation to smack the wing mirrors as I pass the vehicles lined up on the pavement. Once, as a teenager, I did just that to a van, not knowing it contained three blokes. I had to throw my bike and myself over a wall to escape.
This particular street is extremely popular with young parents. The windows shimmer with sparkling lights and heavy wreaths adorn the expensive doors. I bet the houses are already full of excited kids but outside it’s peaceful at this early hour.
Donald told me that he and his wife bought this big place because they wanted the extra rooms for when their two beautiful daughters come to stay. He’d laugh and say there were extra ones for grandchildren if anyone was so inclined. Then he’d pause, as though he didn’t want to give me ideas, because he prayed that I wouldn’t be part of that. If he craved grandkids so much, he should have kept his nose out of my business. I pump my legs faster as I recall his mocking face.
I glance around for potential witnesses, find none, then scoot to the rear of the property. Quietly, I unlock the rear gate by reaching over the top and easing the bolt across. After a peek to see if Donald is in the conservatory, I wheel the bike in and lean it against a wall. He’s in his knocked-through kitchen. Even I have to admit it’s an amazing space. His children tend to enter his house through the back as he often reads on one of the comfy sofas and he’s sitting there now with a newspaper. I slip my shoes off, knock on the window with a gloved hand, and watch him frown with recognition. He turns the key and opens the door but stands in the way to prevent access.
‘What are you doing here? Is something wrong?’
That’s a charming way to greet someone. Don’t I deserve a ‘good morning’ like everyone else? ‘I’d like a word, please.’
The stupid sod wages an internal battle. But his entrenched manners win over the urge to throw me over the decking and into the ornamental pond.
Obviously, he couldn’t do that now. The man is a complete shadow of his former self. He frightened me when I first met him. His intensity and lust for life made me doubt myself. Trust the woman I love to have a father who retired and took up squash and golf because football had become too much for him. He riled me and provoked me. He belittled me in front of her, often in subtle ways so it was hard to notice his undermining quips. He reminds me of the boy at school who did that to me before. I will not tolerate it again.
‘Of course. I am sorry. Please, come inside. What with my health, I’m wound tight.’
I leave my shoes at the door as he shuffles backwards to allow me entry. It’s incredible how fast a sick
person can deteriorate. A sixty year old boasting a golf handicap in single figures, with a slimmer waist than a hula girl and shoulders from a swaggering rodeo bull, has been reduced to this little man. He must only weigh six or seven stone now, including his walking stick. This makes my task easier.
It’s cosy inside and the perfect place to drink percolated coffee and read thick broadsheets. I wonder what the girls will do when they inherit the house. Claudia should move in. We could definitely raise a family here, or preferably a nice bouncy puppy.
‘Would you like a cappuccino, or an espresso?’
‘No, thanks, this isn’t a social call as such.’
He bares his teeth as he lowers himself onto the sofa. A little grimace sneaks out, which he tries to hide.
‘How’s the pain, Donald?’
‘Terrible at times, bearable at others.’
‘Good, good.’
His eyes narrow. ‘What do you want?’
‘That kind of depends on your answer.’
‘Get on with it.’
‘I hope to marry Claudia.’
I can see my news is an even bigger shock than when he was told his diagnosis. His cough turns into a choking splutter. There’s blood in the spit that dribbles from his mouth.
‘Over my dead body.’
‘That doesn’t sound unreasonable.’
‘You’ll have your wish shortly, you piece of shit. Unless I persuade her not to marry you, of course. I’ll give it my best shot; you see if I don’t. There’s still time.’
‘I suspected you’d say that. Therefore, you’ll just have to die today.’
‘I’ve got a month, or more. There’s fight left in these bones.’
‘No, you misunderstand. It’s happening now, and I’m here to help.’
He blinks rapidly, then glances at the phone on the kitchen worktop. There is no chance of him making it. The house contains no security: no CCTV, no alarms, because Mr Big Time here said if anyone broke in, they’d regret it. Obviously, that was before lung cancer robbed him of a future.
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