The Soul Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  I walk into the incident room early and find a seat in the corner, which is perfect. I’ll need to see who, if anyone, is a threat. Despite what the papers tell you, the police solve most serious crimes. We don’t have time to deal with burglaries and petty thefts, and cannabis prosecutions are a joke. But as the office fills up I comprehend why murders are different. It is the ultimate crime.

  When you kill someone, it’s decisive. Once you’ve taken that person out, there’s no coming back. My mother, the lecturer, Donald, Malcolm, and that arsehole, Stone, can never interfere again. I’ve beaten them. They cannot harm me any more.

  People recognise that finality. Everyone’s here with determination in their eyes, unable to step back from the irresistible lure of the drama of death. Sure, rape is a terrible violation. Offences against children are worse, but it’s not the end. Lives are ruined by such actions, but they aren’t over. Only a person who is prepared to kill invokes the strongest emotions, but catching me, one of their own, won’t be easy.

  DI Barton arrives and heads to the front of the room. I can’t help but respect him. He’s an officer with a sense of fair play. I think that deep down he’d empathise with my actions, even if he wouldn’t condone them. There’s a strong team here. Zander is not a guy to mess with. He’s been to the bottom, just as I have. We could have been friends under different circumstances. I love Strange’s peppery personality, too. She sometimes reminds me of that feisty Charlie from university.

  The temperature of the room slowly rises because of the amount of people present and I notice that upstart, Clavell, is sweating like a cheap burger. Barton clears his throat.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for getting here on time and for your hard work yesterday. I’m here to tell you we’ve received a lead. An hour ago, a woman in North Yorkshire rang the helpline after seeing the BBC news about the body found in Wisbech. She thinks her son vanished in the New Year. DCI Cox has the information. Ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you, John. I also appreciate all your efforts and first class work. DC James Clavell, in particular, impressed. Mrs Cynthia Stone reported that her boy in Peterborough disappeared without a trace. He was never much for keeping in touch but would visit once or twice a year. She feared the worst when her mobile phone stopped working in February, because he paid for it so they could stay in contact.’

  ‘And the teeth?’ asked Strange.

  ‘Confirmed. He had an unusually narrow upper arch, meaning there wasn’t enough space for all the teeth to come through. She said the schoolkids picked on him mercilessly about it. I called her. She paints a picture of a bit of a sad loner. Even though an earlier assessment proved inconclusive, she suspects he had Asperger’s. Arnold Stone, age twenty-eight, had no friends at school as far as she could tell, and this continued into adulthood. He was awkward with people he didn’t know.

  ‘This meant he kept away from others for fear of being misunderstood. As if the poor man didn’t have enough problems, he also struggled with deafness. The schoolkids were cruel about that, too, meaning he hated anyone knowing. He owned hearing aids, but was extremely adept at lip reading and often didn’t wear them. When he listened to people talking, he would always stare at the speaker’s lips, which some people found unsettling. His last known address was 1, River End.’

  Things have moved faster than I expected. I raise my hand but Malik beats me to it. ‘Hey, Whitlam. Don’t you live at River End?’

  46

  The Soul Killer

  The whole place turns to me in unison. I will need a Robert-De-Niro-standard performance, but I’m ready.

  ‘Yeah, I’m at number three. Did you say Arnold Stone?’

  The room stares back to DCI Cox, and I take a deep breath.

  She looks my way and takes a step towards me. ‘Correct. Do you know him?’

  ‘That’s weird. He was on my list yesterday to ring and the name looked familiar. The telephone bit tallies as well because the number she left had been disconnected. A bloke who lived two doors away from me left abruptly at Christmas. I think I only ever talked to him three or four times. I went in his house on a couple of occasions to carry a delivery in for him but never visited socially.’

  ‘Is the property still empty?’ asked Barton.

  ‘Not any more. It’s been empty for a while as a couple backed out at the last minute, but a new family moved in a week or two back.’

  ‘There goes the crime scene. What was Stone like?’ said Cox.

  ‘I don’t really know. He seemed odd the few occasions I talked to him. When I took the last parcel around, he was on the phone. He told me to bring it in and put it on the sofa for him. Not asked, ordered. When I spoke, he stared hard at me. I thought he was rude. But if he lip read, that would account for that. Actually, the guy who lives in-between us was always complaining about the music from next door. The walls are thin, so the sound passes through them. I often found myself humming along to it in the street.’

  ‘There’s a possible motive there,’ said Clavell. ‘Looks as though we ought to be having a word with your neighbour.’

  A hubbub of chatter broke out as people discussed the case with those sitting near them.

  ‘That’s a valid point. I don’t suppose the guy who lives between you is a shaven headed psychopath?’ asked Cox wearily.

  ‘Robin? No. He’s pretty quiet, but the music drove him to distraction. Not long before Stone disappeared, Robin said he couldn’t stand it any longer.’

  47

  DI Barton

  Barton clapped his hands twice.

  ‘Okay, everyone. Calm down. This clearly sends the investigation in a new direction. We’ll need to visit this Robin Rowe asap. Does he work, Whitlam?’

  Whitlam appeared very relaxed for someone whose neighbour had been found dead in a compost heap. Saying that, he wasn’t a man who got too excited or emotional about anything. Barton didn’t know Whitlam that well. He was very much the type who came to work and did a professional job but had little interest in most social activities. That said, Barton knew he could rely on him if they were dealing with the more shocking cases.

  ‘Yes. His car is usually back by the time I get home at six.’

  ‘Do you know where he works?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘And the family who’ve moved in?’

  ‘I’ve only seen a woman and a baby. The houses are small. I’d guess at her being a single mum with one child, so she should be there during the day.’

  ‘Right. Jobs, people. Arnold Stone’s mother is in a wheelchair so she won’t be coming in to see us. Whitlam, go with Sergeant Strange and talk to her. Liaise with North Yorkshire’s family liaison team and see if they’ll meet you there. It’s a sparsely populated area, so please do the visit yourselves otherwise. You both know what you’re doing. I want to move fast because the person responsible might be panicking.

  ‘Don’t tell her that you were neighbours, but we need as much background information as possible. Ask for an up-to-date photo and take a picture of it. If he didn’t have friends, he may have had enemies. Clavell, ring CSI, and send them to River End. Malik, check Stone’s social media footprint. Zander, grab a DC and return to Wisbech and the allotment. Maybe the gardeners will remember someone who looked like that. A current photo will help with questioning when it’s available.’

  ‘We won’t get much from his house after so long and especially now another family has moved in,’ said Clavell.

  ‘That’s what I’d have thought, but I had coffee with Sirena, the crime scene manager, and—'

  Barton waited for the good-natured cheers to die away. 'Quiet, children, please. I talked to her about just that. Apparently, you’d be surprised. CSI techniques advance daily. The team can enter a house years later and pick up minute traces of DNA from people who’ve been in the property in the past. It’s called low grade or low template DNA.

  ‘This is where the problems with DNA stem from. It’s too good in some respects. If
I shook your hand and then got a pistol and shot my wife, they’d probably be able to match you to the handle of the gun. Maybe even put you at the scene. Therefore, it isn’t always admissible. Having said that, it helps with the big picture.’

  Barton noticed that Clavell nodded appreciatively. He wanted to learn.

  ‘Let’s get to it. We’ll all meet back here tomorrow at the same time unless you hear differently. By then, we should have pictures of the victim, an idea of his social and working circle, have spoken to the landlord, and checked out what the neighbour has to say. Perhaps he’ll confess, and I’ll bring in cakes for everyone.’

  Barton observed them as they filtered out. Most had been fired up by the news. Clavell had also held back and watched the others leave. As the last person left, Barton realised Clavell observed Whitlam with narrowed eyes. He would discuss that with him later.

  48

  The Soul Killer

  Strange and I are off to a place on the outskirts of Skipton in the Yorkshire Dales to see Arnold Stone’s mother. Strange has volunteered to drive, which is fine by me. She has an unusual style. Even though it’s one of the older pool cars, she accelerates rapidly with fast, firm gear changes. There’s a hint of rally driver about it. It’s another tick in her box.

  The family liaison officer couldn’t make it until the morning, so we’ll deliver the news. Most officers are well used to giving such bad tidings. For many it’s the worst part of the job. I don’t mind doing them because someone has to do it. It’s usual to go in pairs, one of each sex. Compassion is called for, but there’s no point in being vague or delaying. The facts won’t improve.

  As death messages go, delivering one to a mother is always difficult even if, as in this case, they are expecting the worst. Even though Arnold was nearly thirty, his mum would see him through the prism of being a parent. She’d remember him as a baby.

  How much time is spent raising a child? It’s a lot of lessons over decades: so many hours, so much commitment. For most mothers, obviously not mine, losing your children is like an artist having their life’s work ripped up. There’s no starting again. It’s simply too late, and impossible to comprehend. People like Zander, who learn to function again, are to be admired.

  It’s interesting what they said about Arnold being deaf and a person with a disability. It explains a lot, and I do regret killing him, but I think that’s more because my time as a policeman is coming to an end faster than I envisaged. The developments in the case mean I’ll soon have to play one of my final cards.

  Strange eases back as the traffic thickens on the A1. I pretend to check something in a folder on the rear seat and sneak a peek at her profile. She’s understated and cool, much like myself. She has the same detachment and bearing as if she’s not quite being involved in the world. She’ll make someone a good wife. The kind you could drive to the seaside with, park up, watch the tide come in, have chips out of paper, enjoy an ice cream, and not have to say a single word. Because you’d know.

  That’s what Claudia and I had. Yet, it slips through our fingers. Is she the one after all? I’d be surprised if I was wrong about her. In some ways, she feels like my life’s work. I don’t want to start again. She’s been strong up to now, but I suspect this latest news will break us apart. I hoped never to have to admit to what happened, but I may have no choice. Better to confess than for them to come for me when the evidence points in my direction.

  I pick up my phone and give her a ring, not expecting her to pick up, but she does.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi, Claudia. I’m free for a chat if you’ve got a few minutes.’

  ‘Sorry, David. I’ve just got Annabelle settled back at home. One of the neighbours rang to say she’d been walking around the street in her nightie. He said she’d been looking in people’s bins.’

  I can’t help a little chuckle at the thought of Annabelle looking for her family amongst the trash. She really has begun to crumble. ‘Perhaps it’s time for her to get serious medical help.’

  ‘I won’t give up on her. It’s just so hard when I’m so busy at work. I can’t be here for her.’

  Admirable sentiment but foolish. I’ve found a lot of women lack basic common sense. Sticking with evil men, letting thieving junkie children back in the house, and sometimes just doing the right thing. Life’s simpler than they make it.

  ‘Perhaps you could get someone to live in until you’re home from work. A carer.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t tolerate a stranger in the house.’

  I smile again. I knew that. ‘How about a stay in a residential place? It wouldn’t be for long.’

  I enjoy the silence, knowing full well that it’s simple to enter those places, but not so easy to leave.

  ‘I’ll think about it all. Work have given me a few days off, but I can’t keep expecting them to do that.’

  Claudia should stop thinking. Her default decision should be to accept whatever I say. I’m rarely wrong. Let me take these choices from her and take the strain. It will be for the best.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing. It just needs to be me and her for the moment. I’m sure you understand. I’ve got to go. I can hear her crying again.’

  I attempt to distract myself with the fantastic scenery once we leave the main roads. It’s the kind of place where you could disappear, or easily hide a body. Perhaps I should have thought of somewhere like this. There’s a heavy drizzle making the roads slippery, but we meet little traffic as we follow the signs. It’s weird to see the houses built on hills, especially coming from somewhere so flat.

  ‘Okay, turn the satnav on. We can’t be too far away,’ says Strange.

  We pull up outside some retirement housing. A dirty plaque announces it as Happy Memories Court. It’s not too shabby, but it’s getting old, and there’s an unloved feel to the place. Even though many people must live here, we don’t see a single soul.

  ‘Let’s be courteous and go to the reception,’ says Strange.

  We walk through a deserted outside seating area, which is reminiscent of Chernobyl. I open a sliding door to what looks more like a kitchen than an office, but there’s no one around. I stare at the poster pinned on a cupboard.

  Happy Memories.

  Non-resident management staff and Careline Alarms service. Lounge, laundry, garden. Whole site accessible by wheelchair. Regular social activities include: weekly coffee morning. New residents taken from 55 years of age. Cats only accepted but not replaced when gone.

  It should say welcome to hell. Bring your happy memories because you won’t make new ones.

  A purple haired lady shuffles in on a walker. ‘If you’re looking for the manager, let me know when you find the useless git.’

  I laugh. ‘Okay, we’re after a Mrs Stone. Shall we just go to her apartment?’

  The woman chuckles a surprisingly dirty chuckle. ‘If you mean her poky bedsit, it’s down there on the right.’ Her smile slips away. ‘You’re here about the son, aren’t you? He was an odd bugger, but this’ll devastate her. I’ll wait here. Let me know when you’ve told her.’

  We wander down past some small units. The final one has a wheelchair parked on a narrow porch. Strange taps her car key on the glass. A shaking hand pulls back a curtain, and I catch a glimpse of grey hair. The door slides open and we hear, ‘Come in.’

  ‘Ladies first.’

  Strange puts her palm on my shoulder and shoves me in. ‘I’m no lady.’

  We enter a reasonable-sized bedroom with a tiny kitchen attached. A slight whiff of tobacco hangs in the air.

  ‘Take a seat, please.’ A lady with only wisps of hair on her head points to what might be a rickety sofa but could just as easily be something the Spanish Inquisition designed. The woman sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Was it him?’

  She’s staring at me, so I nod. People react in various ways. This woman is a weeper. We sit quietly and try not to fidget on the uncomfortable seat.

 
She’s still looking at me when she recovers. Old school. She thinks I’m in charge. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘His skeleton was found in a compost heap in Wisbech. We believe someone hid the body there. The post-mortem has come back inconclusive. There’s no noticeable damage apart from the historic upper-arm break you spoke about over the phone. No knife or gun wounds. It’s still possible he died of natural causes.’

  The woman gasps but her expression changes. ‘I only talked to him on Christmas morning. How comes he’s already a skeleton?’

  ‘Organic material decomposes fast with heat and bacteria.’ I pass her a photograph of the teeth in the skull. It’s brutal but best all round if we’re sure immediately. ‘His smile is unique.’

  She’s more rueful than upset. That happens. The journey of acceptance can be a short one if life has been tough. ‘Yes, they’re his all right. He didn’t have the best start in life. In some ways, he never stood a chance. His disadvantages made him spiteful and aggressive. He hated sympathy.’ She wipes a fat tear from her cheek with her arm. ‘Arnold tried to be good to me, though. He loved Amazon. I’d get gifts and things sent from them regularly.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies?’

  Her mouth twitches with a hint of a smile. ‘He annoyed everyone he met but not enough to be killed. Well, I don’t think so. I’ll be no help to you. The only thing I know of him recently was that he found a group he connected with. It seemed they were strange people, too.’

  ‘Are we talking loners or some kind of cult?’ I say.

  ‘That’s what I asked him. They were just a bit odd. Fancy being interested in wizards and things at their age.’

  I nod with respect at her stoicism.