The Soul Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  I admire places where no cars are on the road because everyone has their own driveway. This place fits the description. DI Barton has done well for himself. Those lovely kids and a beautiful wife must be a joy to come home to. I deserve the same, although I bet it isn’t cheap to live around here.

  It’s a shame Barton is involved with the cases. I’d be confident otherwise. We all know his reputation for tearing apart alibis and exposing the facts. Modern forensics might be the undoing of me. Mortis will have taken fingernail scrapings from the deceased at the rowing lake, and even though they didn’t send them for testing, they’ll be on file.

  When people join the police, they provide elimination DNA and fingerprints. Modern forensics is so efficient now that even hairs from officers at the scene can blow onto evidence and then appear during testing. Obviously, they need to disregard those on most occasions, but I am walking a tightrope. Once the finger of suspicion points in your direction, it can take some removing. Still, despite what you see on TV, no one has ever been convicted on just DNA evidence.

  It’s becoming a strategy game. Not a child’s puzzle but a battle. Barton is Napoleon to my Duke of Wellington. I need to plot one step ahead. More, actually. At the end, I will be victorious for my Queen.

  Barton has left the house and leans against his gate. He gives me a thumbs-up as I pass. I like him and think he’s a good man. It was him who suggested to Claudia that she look to her friends and nature to help her through this. That’s why she suggested going to a farm this afternoon. I don’t care what we do, as long as it’s together. It’s time she accepted that we belong with one another.

  Hopefully there will be no further lines of enquiry about Malcolm and Donald and we can put it all behind us. I hope our paths don’t cross. Barton might be old, but he’s a big unit. I’d have to take him down quick. Perhaps I should refresh myself with those martial art videos.

  I turn out of Black Ermine Street and marvel at the impressive vista of the bigger homes on the village road. The houses rest on huge plots and are set back. Thatched roofs abound. Claudia deserves something like this. I can imagine her pulling up to one of the houses in a little convertible.

  The traffic lights change and I turn left to the next village along – Orton Waterville – where Claudia now lives with Annabelle. It’s only a few minutes’ drive and has the same country feel to it. Instead of Claudia moving into her father’s place on the British Sugar estate, they’ve put it up for sale. I suppose it would be hard not to picture the hanging body every time you went up or down the stairs. I imagine my mother’s corpse when I see where she died.

  Four hundred grand is a lot of money, so the twins will be rich when the house is sold. Maybe Claudia and I could afford something in these villages with her deposit and our combined wages. Finally, it’s all coming together. It’s no less than we deserve.

  I honk my horn when I pull onto their driveway. We agreed to save her sister having to see visitors if she wasn’t feeling great. That suits me, as there is a strange atmosphere in the house every time I visit. Annabelle needs to pick herself up. Her dad was living on borrowed time anyway, and she’s better off without that pecker, Malcolm. A few of the blokes from work are single – she could do worse than them.

  Claudia appears at the doorway in a summer dress. The breeze rustles her hair. She looks so beautiful that my breath catches in my throat. Both sisters have lost weight, but Claudia had more in reserve. Still, her legs actually look a little too thin now. Understandably, trips to the gym and fine dining have little appeal when death visits your family.

  It’s strange to see how it’s affected them so much. I wonder if my life would have been different with supportive role models. Such strong bonds create advantages and shortcomings. Despite the loss of their mother, the stability their father gave the twins through money and love made them free. They could branch out and try new things. Risks weren’t so scary with a safety net, because ultimately, they had a home to which they could return. There was always a safe place. But once that sanctuary and security have gone, like now, they are weak. They doubt themselves. They’ve never learned to depend on just themselves.

  Annabelle, in particular, can’t see that she should be pleased that she ever had that safety. All she can focus on is her loss.

  At some point, people realise they need to put down new foundations. Add extra ballast to their existing relationships. To be fair, Annabelle is all at sea because she’s lost both pillars to her life. Maybe it’s no wonder she can’t get out of her pyjamas.

  Claudia gives me a peck on the cheek when she gets into the car. It’s soft and almost not there, but she lingers close to my face and gently kisses me again. I stare out of the windscreen and grin. You see, that’s where I come in. Annabelle might be wallowing in self-pity and shock and the only person she has is her sister, who is grieving as well. Claudia, though, has me. I will give her strength. Carry her if necessary.

  We arrive at Sacrewell Farm after a twenty minute drive out of the city. I pick up a leaflet in the queue. Apparently, there’s a whole range of animals, from traditional farm stock such as pigs and sheep to the more unusual alpacas. I show her the peacock on the front. She leans in, hugs me and smiles.

  ‘Let me pay. You spend too much on me as it is. I don’t expect presents and gifts when I see you. Just your company is enough.’

  I shake my head at her and nod at the lady at the till.

  'Fourteen pounds, please.’

  I scramble in my pockets and settle the entrance fee. It’s a little expensive to stroke a few creatures. We wander around. It’s not quite what I expected. The entrance fee is working out at about one pound per animal until we get towards the fields behind the water mill. Nevertheless, Claudia is relishing the distraction.

  ‘Look at the size of those horses,’ she says.

  The paddock contains four of the biggest horses I’ve ever seen. The sign says they are Sussex Punch draught horses. An older mare wanders over and makes a beeline for Claudia. Claudia and the horse gaze at each other and I find myself edging away to take a photo. She’ll love that. It’s as though she’s drawing strength and happiness from those huge brown eyes and shiny muscles. After ten minutes, we stroll over to the donkeys and sneak them a polo each.

  The picnic area is empty at this hour, and we tiptoe through the grass towards the bird hide. We watch the swans, herons and moorhens for a while, and, holding hands, meander along to the rickety bridge over the stream. There’s nobody in hearing distance, but I wouldn’t care if there were. It’s perfect. This is our destiny.

  I stop strolling and gently tug on Claudia’s sleeve. She turns with a contented smile and I drop to one knee. My voice doesn’t waver. ‘Will you marry me?’

  Her eyes fill with tears. She wipes them away and stares across the tilled fields. It’s spring, and birdsong fills the air. Why is she pausing? Her soul should soar and readily accept the inevitability of our union. Finally, she turns to me with a sad smile.

  ‘Yes.’

  37

  DI Barton

  Three months later

  Barton grinned as his daughter, Layla, jumped higher than anyone from the rebound and snatched the netball. He reflected on the gobby mare who had been giving him backchat only a few months ago. What had happened? He’d expected Layla’s new attitude would escalate, and so would the door-slamming and screeching, but instead she had come back to him. Holly said it was the calm before the storm of the teenage years.

  He recalled the little girl who loved spending every moment she could cuddling her ‘Dadda’, as she used to call him. She’d only been about nine when she’d first called him horrible. His wife had prepared him for the hormonal onslaught but it had arrived earlier than they’d expected. He’d laughed it off and chastised himself for being stupid, but it still hurt. As usual, it was Holly who pulled him through.

  ‘We don’t want her staying a little girl forever, do we?’ she said.

  Life mov
ed on, he knew that, but he mourned that innocent stage. It was only last season that Barton had offered to support her team in a cup final and she’d looked at him as though he’d said he was planning to turn up naked. ‘Erm, no, thanks, Dad.’ Dismissed, he hadn’t mentioned it again after Holly had let it slip that they got thrashed. A year later, they’d reached the final again, but this time, Layla asked him if he’d come.

  Strange used to play at a good level in London and offered to tag along to see if she could offer any hints or tips. Again, the younger Layla wouldn’t have been having any of that. Yet, here they both were, cheering her on. The two teams were evenly matched and both edged ahead at various points, but the opposition boasted two willowy girls in attack. As the match wore on, Layla’s team slowed from all the leaping and blocking, and the chances of victory slipped away.

  She came off at the end smiling.

  ‘You were great,’ Barton and Strange said.

  ‘Well, we were better. At this rate we’ll beat them when I’m sixty.’

  They drove Layla and her teammate, Terri, home afterwards. Barton offered a fast-food treat as he neared Boongate – the area where Pizza Hut, McDonald’s, Frankie & Benny’s, and all the other places of temptation plied their trade – but the girls said not to bother. He exchanged a glance with Strange but didn’t comment. Lawrence had asked for healthier meals recently as well.

  Holly always told Barton not to make jokes about fat or thin people as the children grew up. She was painfully aware of Instagram and Facebook’s impact on adolescents, and she uncomplainingly cooked them dinners from fresh and accommodated both of the older children’s short-lived vegetarian phases.

  Terri and Layla laughed in the back seats.

  ‘Terri said you can donate that money to a homeless person.’

  ‘No problem. Perhaps you’d like to spend Saturday outside the supermarket with a tin collecting for them?’

  Barton glanced in the rear view mirror as they pouted at each other and then burst into giggles. He stopped at Terri’s house on London Road and double-checked that her mum had agreed to drop Layla back after they’d eaten.

  After Terri had got out, Layla reached into the front and squeezed her dad’s shoulder.

  ‘Thanks for coming, both of you. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘How come I’m flavour of the month?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve finally grasped that you only get one father. You might be a little useless at times, and reasonably smelly at others, but you mean well.’

  Strange choked next to him.

  ‘Very kind of you to say so. Will you be doing more chores around the house now to help out?’

  ‘No way! Should I waste the best years of my life on menial tasks?’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Terri’s dad moved out a while back. Her parents are divorcing, and she wishes she hadn’t been such a cow recently. I reckon she thinks it’s her fault. I want you to realise I appreciate everything you do for me. You know, the lifts, cooking, tidying. Please maintain that level of service.’

  Strange couldn’t help herself from guffawing this time, and Barton good-naturedly joined in. His mobile rang as he started driving again. He reached into his pocket and passed it to Strange. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Control.’

  Barton checked the time on the dashboard: 20:00. ‘Answer it, please.’

  Strange spoke on the phone and took the details, and it was clearly an unusual call, judging by her frown. They were at Strange’s place when she hung up.

  ‘Someone’s uncovered some remains.’

  ‘Great. I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned being on top of my workload. Is it a murder?’

  ‘It might be hard to tell.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It’s a skeleton.’

  38

  DI Barton

  Strange waited while Barton rang DCI Cox. After he’d finished, he slowly turned to her as he processed the facts.

  ‘This is going to be different,’ he said.

  She nodded in agreement. ‘Too right.’

  ‘Let’s summarise what we know so far. A man took over an allotment recently. It hadn’t been worked for years, and he spent ages clearing it ready for planting. He put a fair number of cuttings and the like on a huge compost heap and turned it over with his pitchfork. It stuck in something heavy. He reckoned on a branch. Instead, his prongs had wedged in a ribcage.’

  ‘Gross. And quite a moment, I would think.’

  ‘Yes, I bet. Uniform said all the bones are visible and it could have been there years. Anyway, it’s our investigation. There isn’t any point in going tonight. They posted some poor sod to protect the scene. Cox spoke to Mortis, and he’ll be there at eight in the morning. As you might expect with a nickname like that, he is overcome with enthusiasm. CSI will attend at the same time.’

  ‘You know we could go and have a look now?’

  Barton laughed. ‘Looks like it’s got your interest, too. It’s in Wisbech, so not worth the effort of a two hour round trip.’

  Strange had just completed on a small house in Stagshaw Drive and, although he’d forgotten the exhilaration of owning your first home, Barton was pleased to see Strange in such good form again. The best he’d seen her for ages, in fact.

  ‘We haven’t had anything juicy to get stuck into since the Snow Killer,’ she said.

  ‘Is a skeleton juicy?’

  ‘Okay, we can be like dogs with a new bone.’

  ‘Gross, but it doesn’t have to be murder.’

  ‘What? Hiding a body in a compost heap?’

  ‘Funerals are expensive nowadays. It might be a DIY one.’

  ‘Is that legal?’

  Barton squinted for a moment. ‘On an allotment, no. You’d need permission from the freeholder. I think we can agree they wouldn’t consent. A Certificate of Authority for Burial is necessary, too. It has to be done before the burial takes place.’

  ‘So, it’s definitely a crime. Shall we go together tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure. Actually, take Zander. I’ll bring the new lad, Clavell. It’s his turf, so he could come in handy, and having two cars is helpful.’

  ‘Good idea, although I’ve found Clavell hard to warm to.’

  ‘Yeh, he’s a bit shy, I think. I usually get a read of people within moments of meeting them, but this guy puzzles me. I didn’t want to ring his old boss to get the lowdown as that’s not really fair. Tomorrow will give us a chance to chat to him properly and see what all the fuss is about.’

  Strange opened the car door. ‘Do I need to bring my wellies?’

  ‘Definitely. There’s the risk of rain tonight.’

  ‘No problem. Catch you tomorrow. My money’s on murder.’

  Barton liked to keep an open mind, but tomorrow looked set to be an interesting day.

  39

  DI Barton

  Barton rang Clavell when he got home and told him to be ready for a dawn pick up. He was waiting outside his house in a pair of walking boots when Barton pulled up at 7:15 the next morning.

  ‘Morning, Clavell. Not too early for you, is it?’

  ‘Farming stock, sir.’

  Barton had given up asking people to call him John by that point. Some of them did it naturally, others kept things formal. He suspected Clavell preferred the latter. A car journey was a great opportunity to get to know someone, so Barton had turned the radio off when he arrived at Clavell’s place. How would Clavell handle the silence?

  After ten minutes of quiet, Barton broke first.

  ‘You have an unusual surname.’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  Barton waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.

  ‘Where does it originate from?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘How are you enjoying working in Peterborough?’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s busier.’

  ‘How much busier?’

  ‘Wisbech had four hundr
ed crimes last month. Peterborough had two thousand.’

  Barton thought for a moment. ‘Doesn’t Peterborough have five times the staff, though? By that rationale, you’d be just as busy in both places.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Barton was about to put the radio back on, when Clavell began to double-check the facts about the uncovered remains. He listened intently to Barton’s replies, then sat quietly as they left Peterborough. It was dual carriageway up to Thorney but single roads the rest of the way. Weak June sunshine already lit up the scenery. This part of the world was so flat that you could see for miles. Peterborough sat on the edge of the Fens, but Wisbech nestled in the centre. The view of lush green fields stretched beyond sight. He’d always imagined there’d be loads of people buried out here, especially with all the recent migrants who were ripe for exploitation.

  The Fens produced over a third of the UK’s vegetables. In their search for cheap labour, the companies brought in thousands of Portuguese, Polish and other Eastern European workers. Most barely spoke a word of English when they first arrived. Such a massive influx had led to a big jump in violent and sexual crimes. Barton decided to have another go at opening up Clavell.

  ‘Any ideas on what we’re about to find?’

  ‘A murder victim.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Clavell paused for a few seconds. ‘I went back into work last night and I’ve been running through all the likely scenarios since I heard the details. You haven’t told me anything new. It’s a strange place to bury a body. Bodies decompose fast out here anyway, so to put it somewhere like that means they’ve thought about it. Looks like foul play to me. It will obviously depend on the condition of the corpse. There might be bullet holes in the skull.’