‘Would you like some advice?’
‘Of course, your opinion is well respected.’
Barton choked down a laugh. Cheeky little twat. ‘I’m impressed, but do you realise you upset people with your brusque ways?’
‘I’ve found suspects generally respond to my direct manner.’
‘I was talking more about how you spoke to your colleagues.’
Clavell cracked a smile. ‘That may have popped up in my last appraisal. I’ve been working on it. It’s greatly improved.’
Barton grinned. It was no wonder Wisbech station were keen for him to get experience elsewhere.
‘Policing is dealing with the public. Promotion is politics. People have to respect you, even like you, or they won’t perform for you.’
‘Be nicer?’
‘Not necessarily. Tone down your ambition. If you’re too serious, you’re no fun to be with. Nobody likes over-confidence or to feel as if they’re doormats for your own lofty hopes. A wise politician once spoke some appropriate words. He warned about choking on your aspirations.’
Clavell nodded with understanding. ‘Thanks for the advice. Who said that, Margaret Thatcher?’
‘No, it was Darth Vader.’
43
DI Barton
They arrived at a terraced property with a huge pool of thick black water on a cracked, crumbling driveway. They skirted the puddle with suspicion. The peeling windowsills and yellowing curtains gave the impression of a similarly unloved interior. There was no bell. Barton lifted the rusty knocker and let it fall. He half expected the door to split in two. No one answered. A passage at the side separated it from the neighbour’s house. They stepped over abandoned tools and pots to the rear.
The overgrown garden resembled wild countryside. Dirt covered the windows, stopping anyone from seeing inside. Cobwebs hung around the top of the door. Paint peelings littered the floor. They returned to the front.
‘Perhaps he died,’ said Clavell.
Barton rattled the knocker again. The lounge window opened next door, and an elderly man scowled out of it. Barton’s glare and size removed that expression quickly.
‘Does Barney Trimble still live here?’
‘Yes. I saw him a week ago going to the shop to get supplies.’ He mimed putting a bottle to his mouth.
‘Thank you.’
At that moment, a bolt clanged across inside and Barton was reminded of a dusty tomb in a horror film being slid open as the warped and ill-fitting door moved away from them. A small guy in dirty clothing peered at them with the yellowest eyes Barton had ever seen outside animation.
‘Yes.’
‘Barney Trimble?’
‘Yes.’
They showed their warrants. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Barton. We have some questions for you – can we come in?’
‘Yes.’
The officers exchanged a glance. Clavell stepped in first. Barton glared at the neighbour until he removed his head from view. When Barton entered the lounge, Clavell stood against the fireplace. The room smelled strange. There was a hint of sweetness to the stale odour Barton had expected. Barton understood why Clavell hadn’t taken a seat on the sofa because there was every chance he’d have been sucked into it and not seen again. Clavell took his notebook and pen out.
‘Take a seat, gentlemen.’
‘It’s okay, we won’t be long,’ said Clavell.
‘Do you mind if I do?’
‘No, of course not. Make yourself comfortable.’
Trimble slumped into a chair. Barton expected a thump, followed by a billowing of dust, but neither came. It was as if the man were a ghost. Barton nodded at Clavell to begin the questions.
‘Mr Trimble. You had an allotment until fairly recently on the road out to Leverington. Can you tell me why you returned it to the council?’
Trimble’s breath wheezed out. Barton knew plenty about death and could tell when it was getting near. The old man moistened dry lips with his tongue.
‘The council took it back, saying I hadn’t been using it. They’d been threatening to do it for years.’
‘Why did you stop going?’ asked Clavell.
‘Why do you think, son? I’m old. I’m ill. They told me I should go into one of those hostel places soon.’
Barton blinked. ‘You mean hospice?’
‘That’s what I said, didn’t I? It doesn’t matter much. I’m ready.’
‘Do you live alone?’ Barton continued.
‘It seems everyone has forgotten me. I’ve lived here a long time, but I don’t speak to anyone for weeks on end. My partner died over ten years ago.’ He tried to rise from his seat. ‘Excuse my manners. Would you like a drink? I can’t vouch for the milk but it’s probably okay.’
Barton’s eyes widened. ‘We’re fine. When was the last time you worked on the allotment?’
‘Who knows? Christmas rings a bell.’
‘The last one?’ asked Clavell.
But Trimble was miles away in his head. ‘Yes, I recall that earthquake had just happened. Loads of people died.’
‘The Indian Ocean one on Boxing Day?’
‘No, don’t be daft, not back then. The one in the Caribbean. A bloke I know told me his daughter was there on holiday. I’ve always remembered that. Must have been a terrible time of worry.’
Barton couldn’t help himself. ‘Was she okay?’
The man chuckled, temporarily lighting up his face. ‘Yes, the stupid old fart had the wrong island. She visited Cuba not – now what was it – Haiti?’
Clavell took his phone out. Ten seconds later, he read out the information. ‘Haiti earthquake. Catastrophic, magnitude seven, twenty-five kilometres south of Haiti’s capital Port-au-Prince. 12 January 2010.’
‘That’s the one. That’s when the council noticed I hadn’t kept the allotment shipshape. I popped over there to see what state it was in. My other half had been dead a while, and I’d given up on it. I felt lonely and lost, I suppose. Gave up on a lot of things. I don’t know why. It doesn’t make sense as I could have been with my friends down there.’
Barton rubbed his temples. ‘You haven’t been since your partner passed a decade ago?’
‘That’s right.’
Clavell frowned. ‘Is she buried around here?’
Trimble grinned. ‘If I’m honest, I’m enjoying the company, but why so many questions? Is it about the skeleton at the allotments?’
Barton jerked his head back from gazing at the swirling dust above the TV.
‘Yes. They found it on your old plot.’
Trimble shrugged. ‘You don’t say. Well, it wasn’t my partner, if that’s what you’re thinking. We cremated her years ago. Have you asked the new owners? I can’t explain it.’
Barton’s mind raced while he checked out the room. This might be their last chance to speak to this guy. No pictures adorned the walls or fireplace. That was unusual if Trimble had lived there for years.
‘No kids or grandchildren, Mr Trimble?’
‘No. I’ll die alone.’
Barton shook his head. ‘Okay, we’ll get going. Is there anything we can do for you?’
‘Let yourselves out. It’ll take me a while to escape this chair.’
Barton asked Clavell to drive again on the way to the station. Clavell was silent and clearly not one for idle conversation. Barton recalled the young detective’s style.
‘You can take this any way you like, but I’d have said you were a little abrupt back there. I know you want to be super-professional, but we’re dealing with real people. You must always remember that. We could have stirred up some bad memories for him back there, and then we’ve left him on his own.’
‘We all have our ways. You might like to keep things lighter, but I prefer not to let mistakes slip in. Look at DCI Cox. She’s serious.’
Barton frowned, feeling outmanoeuvred. ‘She can be charming when she wants to be. If people are relaxed, they talk. You could argue that getting suspects and
witnesses to open up is one of our most important skills.’
Clavell nodded but didn’t look convinced.
‘When we get back,’ said Barton, ‘make sure you update the system. I’ll check and see if the missing persons search has found a match.’
‘No problem, sir. I type fast.’
Barton picked up his phone and rang Cox. He wondered if Clavell would prove too smart for his own good. He had a lot to learn about people.
44
DI Barton
Barton headed for DCI Cox’s office when they returned. He knocked and received a beckon through the glass.
‘Any fresh news?’ he asked.
‘The incident room is ready. You’ll have a HOLMES operator by tomorrow morning. The nationals have been given enough rope so that most of the country will be gossiping about it. We’ve released a phone number for those with more information. No hits yet from the mispers, but they’ve only contacted half of them. We’ll try again tonight.’ She flexed her fingers. Barton noticed a white stain on her suit jacket. It was probably from one of the yoghurts she loved to eat. He’d seen it on the suit the day before, which was unlike her. She seemed to visibly steel herself to concentrate.
‘So, definitely not the man who had the allotment prior to the current owners?’
‘If Mortis is right about the age of the skeleton, he couldn’t have done it. Not without help. I believed him because he looked like he’s been ill for years. I don’t even think he’d have been fit to assist someone, never mind do it himself. That said, a person close to him might know that he didn’t use his allotment, and therefore the remains wouldn’t be disturbed. If Trimble knows anything, he’ll take it to the grave. He’s very poorly.’
‘Hmm. What’s your plan?’
‘I intended to chat to the team today, but they have interviews, statements, exhibits, you name it, to sort out. Let’s get all the paperwork entered and everything on HOLMES and the other IT systems. We’ll have a meeting tomorrow at midday. Hopefully someone will contact us in the meantime. Mortis’ post-mortem might shed some light on the circumstances. Although, he said getting a specialist to look at the bones will take much longer.’
‘Good idea. Initial thoughts?’
‘Seeing as it’s out in the Fens, it could be anyone, but I’d put money on it being a foreign national. However, the body hasn’t got any signs of damage on it, except for an old break. That muddies the water because it rules out guns, knives, RTCs and fatal beatings. I suppose it’s possible he crawled in there to keep warm and suffocated.’
‘I didn’t think of that. Maybe not a murder.’
‘No, but unlikely. Let’s find out who he was. Then we’ll have something to go at. If we know where he lived, we can see how near it is to the allotment, speak to his friends and neighbours, talk to his work colleagues. I reckon it’ll be straightforward then.’
‘They chose a clever place to hide the body. Do you reckon that narrows down the culprits?’
‘Again, it almost creates more suspects. Gardeners understand how fast things decompose in a compost heap, but so would a scientist. Maybe they planned to conceal it there the whole time. Just as likely, it could have been a person who lives nearby who had an inspired moment. I’ll sleep on it. But I reckon we met the killer or a person who knew the killer today. Someone somewhere will be shitting themselves now we’ve found the remains. Allotments don’t figure in most people’s worlds. It might be one of the gardeners or a relative, or even someone who walks past, but the night they buried him wasn’t their first night in there.’
‘Clever, you’re right. Talking of which, how did you find Mr Clavell?’
‘Impressive, ambitious, and abrasive.’
‘Yes, he reminds me of someone.’
‘Hannibal Lecter?’
‘Very funny. Although, his last boss described him as being rather serious to the point of darkness. Think closer to home.’
Barton scowled at her. ‘Surely not me?’
‘Of course not. I’m referring to me. I possessed that same drive. Work with him, please. He can be your project. Shave down some of those rough edges. Results are everything and, if he is as good as I’m led to believe, our chances of success are much higher with him involved. I’ll be at your meeting tomorrow.’
DCI Cox turned, stared at her computer and began typing.
Barton had seated himself at his desk by the time it registered that she’d insulted him. Strange and Zander returned a few minutes later. They dropped into chairs near him.
‘Anything?’ asked Barton.
‘We’ve got a lot of information and I’m not looking forward to sieving through it. Those old folk love to chat. There’s nothing obvious though. No one knows of anyone that went missing. There are plenty of gangmasters in Wisbech with a lawless approach to HR, and it isn’t easy getting much out of that community.’
‘Okay. No problem. Let’s get it typed up. There’ll be a wash-up meeting at midday tomorrow. We’ll pool what we have so far then.’
‘What are you doing tonight?’ asked Zander. ‘Fancy a beer?’
‘I’m going to the gym at eight, if you’d rather?’ said Strange.
Barton stared from good to evil, and back again. ‘I don’t know what it is about a tricky investigation that makes me want to drink neat alcohol, but I’m going to resist. I’ll see you on the cycling machines. We can go out on the booze when this has been solved.’
Strange laughed. ‘I’ll put it in the diary for Christmas.’
Zander growled at Barton. ‘You’ve changed.’
45
The Soul Killer
I closed my eyelids last night but didn’t sleep. I don’t think it was anything to do with Stone being found, because I’ve made my choices in that respect. If the police are better, well, I bow to their superior skills. It’s Claudia. She’s back to not replying to my calls or messages: three of the latter yesterday and nothing in return.
This morning I lay in bed and remembered when I knew, without doubt, we were the perfect match. Her sister had invited her to an end-of-season hockey awards presentation. Annabelle had been voted players’ player of the season. She wanted her father and sister to be there. Seemed fair enough to me. I guess it’s a big deal to be admired by your fellow players. Claudia wanted me to come. I heard her arguing with Annabelle, who was saying it was just close family because it was a small hall. Claudia stood her ground and said she wouldn’t go otherwise.
It was a warm night, but Claudia’s hand shook as we walked towards the Bull Hotel in town. She stopped before the function rooms and pulled me into the quiet bar area.
‘Wait a minute, let me prepare myself.’
I didn’t recognise that version of Claudia. Nothing else seemed to faze her. She took so many deep breaths, I was concerned she might be struggling to breathe.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Get me a vodka, straight.’
When I came back from the bar, she was sitting in a quiet corner, but she’d calmed down. It’s a pleasant upmarket place and the carpeted floors and wood panelling gave a secluded feel. I sat next to her and waited.
‘I know all these girls from school. They were the popular ones who were good at sport. Annabelle was brilliant at every game she played. I tried out for the team but wasn’t good enough. They put me in defence and I kept making mistakes. Annabelle was on my team and she shouted out, “For God’s sake, Blobbia,” and the name stuck at school for a bit.’
‘What a bitch!’
‘It was kind of her pet name for me when we were growing up, because I was a bit chubby, well, fat’s probably closer. She said it just slipped out because she was frustrated at losing.’
I sipped my drink, unsure what to say. There had always been a barrier between her sister and me. It sounded as if Claudia would be better off without her, but I needed her to work that out.
‘I hate bullies.’
‘Me, too, but we were only twelve and it only laste
d for a few years, but I never felt comfortable around that group. It didn’t matter as we got older because I was much more studious. I wasn’t always this much fun, you know!’
She reached across and intertwined our fingers.
‘I’m here for you. It’ll be fine.’
‘I know, I’m just being silly. For a moment, I just felt a bit like a thirteen year old girl being called names as I waddled around the field or the dinner hall.’
‘Didn’t Annabelle stick up for you?’
‘We weren’t always as close as we are now. She’s struggled since we left school. Everything came so easily for her back then, but life can be hard for people like that when they leave full-time education. They haven’t learned how to really work for things, so don’t think badly of her.’
I looked away to hide the sneer on my face.
‘Come on, let them see what you’ve blossomed into. No one will be mean tonight.’
She downed her drink with a grimace and we linked arms, arriving at a function room. There were plenty of spare chairs and tables. I watched Annabelle get her reward and thank her father, but that was it. Claudia chatted to everyone there, and they loved her. We had a couple of slow dances where she made me feel as if I’d had my prayers answered. I must confess to struggling to relax as I kept looking for insults. Nobody seemed to come close to us when we were together.
Claudia chatted to her sister and congratulated her. I didn’t bother because she seemed to be pleased enough as it was. There was a strong bond between them, but the healthiness of it concerned me. Deep down I’ve always understood that it would come down to a choice between her sister and me. The odds were stacked towards her twin, but I think Claudia and I saw Annabelle for the person she really was that night. I was pleased as I knew it might help with tough decisions in the future.
Recalling that night makes me want to take action to keep things heading the way I want, but today is a pivotal one. I do some stretches to find some peace and drive to work without managing any breakfast.
The Soul Killer Page 17
