The Soul Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  First things first though: Barton was due a chat with Whitlam. The two suits from Professional Standards departed without giving Barton any information about their discussion. Cox and he sat opposite Whitlam, who sat upright in his seat with his shoulders back. Barton, on the other hand, felt frazzled. He’d dressed smartly for the interviews, but his tie had now come off.

  ‘David, we’re recording this interview because some evidence has come to light linking you with the Somerville investigation.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Cox paused and scowled. ‘Right. Have you been in either Robin Rowe’s or Arnold Stone’s house?’

  ‘Let me think. Rowe, yes. I’ve had coffee on the odd occasion at his. He’s a quiet lad, a little needy even. He gave me a lift into town once when my car wouldn’t start, but then he got a bit too friendly. You appreciate what this job’s like. I have enough involvement with the public at work. When I arrive home, I very much keep to myself.’

  Barton shrugged in agreement. ‘How about Mr Stone’s?’

  ‘Once, actually, or maybe twice. Both times for parcels. He used to get quite a bit of stuff delivered; said it was role-playing outfits. Not entirely certain what he meant by that. I wasn’t sure if he was referring to wizards’ cloaks or gimp suits. A couple of occasions he asked me to carry them in for him because he was on the phone. He was rude once actually. He was finishing a call and as I struggled with the heavy box he just watched me. Didn’t I mention that at the meeting when we realised Stone was the victim?’

  Cox squinted at Barton as she tried to remember. He nodded in confirmation that Whitlam had done exactly that. She bluntly stated the facts.

  ‘Your DNA was found in Mr Stone’s house, Mr Rowe’s car and under Malcolm Somerville’s fingernails.’

  ‘Really? That’s weird. Well, not the house and car as I’ve been in both of them, but definitely the fingernails.’

  Barton stared hard. Whitlam smiled back. He didn’t give any sign of being a person who had been rumbled.

  ‘It’s definitely yours. You know there are no mistakes. It was poor quality and only one locus matches, but it can still only be you or someone related to you,’ said Barton.

  Whitlam didn’t seem fazed. ‘I’ve no idea how, then. I haven’t got any living family.’

  ‘Did you and Somerville fight?’ asked Cox.

  Whitlam clicked his fingers and grinned. ‘Well, kind of. He could have scratched me when I struggled to pull him out of the water. I told you that he dragged me in on top of him, and it felt like he tried to drown me.’

  Barton and Cox shared another look.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ said Whitlam, with a chuckle. ‘You think I killed Malcolm and was involved in Stone’s death? That’s crazy. I’m a policeman. Why the hell would I want to hurt those two?’

  Cox tapped her pen on the table. ‘You had nothing to do with either of their deaths?’

  ‘Of course not. All the evidence points to Rowe. He’d have told you by this point if I had any involvement. This is beginning to feel like a witch hunt.’

  Barton exhaled deeply. ‘David, you know we have to investigate every angle.’

  ‘Fair enough, but let’s not lie to each other. It’s obvious that Professional Standards will hear about this, too. Any chance of me getting my job back now is zero. Tell me that’s not true.’

  ‘This interview is now over.’ Cox rose and turned off the recorder. ‘Off the record, your career finished when you lied to us.’

  68

  DI Barton

  Barton drove Clavell to HMP Peterborough. It was only mid-afternoon, yet he was already daydreaming about pulling his duvet over his head. He wished Clavell would stop complaining about Whitlam. He was starting to feel murderous himself.

  ‘I can’t believe it. Whitlam said what? That he got his skin under Somerville’s fingernails trying to save him?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And that his DNA turned up in Stone’s house from carrying parcels in for him?’

  ‘I’m glad you listened.’

  ‘And you don’t think that sounds dodgy?’

  ‘It’s more plausible than the alternative.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘That he pulled an aggressive eighteen stone man out of the river, dragged him a mile along a path and threw him in the rowing lake. Remember, there were no wounds on the body. After those exertions, he and Rowe then killed his neighbour and buried him in Wisbech.’

  Clavell stared hard out of the window as they parked outside the prison. ‘This imbecile in here better start talking.’

  Barton turned off the engine. ‘Listen, simmer down. If you’re too wound up, perhaps you should wait until I come back.’

  But Clavell answered by getting out of the car. As the two men walked towards reception, Clavell grimaced. ‘I hate these places.’

  ‘You mean the hopelessness of it all. Lives ruined and futures lost.’

  ‘I was referring to the smell.’ He smiled. ‘But that, too.’

  Barton spoke through the grille.

  ‘We’re here to interview a remand prisoner.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  Barton showed them his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Barton and DC Clavell, Peterborough Major Crimes.’

  ‘You’re not on the list.’

  ‘I should be. Control said they’d ring it in. It’s for Robin Rowe.’

  ‘Your name’s not down.’

  Barton rolled his neck to let the steam out of his collar. ‘I’m not on the list, so I’m not coming in? What is this, a nightclub? We will wait there.’ Barton pointed at two seats through the security door and scanner. ‘Ring Security. Tell them I’m here, and I wish to speak to an inmate immediately. He will contact the VP wing and get them to escort Mr Rowe to the interview rooms, where I will be waiting.’

  The gate staff worker didn’t reply, but the door swished open behind them.

  Thirty minutes later, Barton and Clavell were waiting in a stuffy room for Rowe to appear.

  Clavell paced the floor.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

  ‘I think better on my feet.’ Regardless, he sat in the seat opposite Barton. ‘Why did they search us so thoroughly? We’re the police.’

  ‘He probably did it to piss us off. It’s actually good practice. Who knows what you might have stuffed up your arse?’

  Clavell shot him a dirty look but started laughing. ‘It would have been a bad moment if he’d asked me to remove my trousers and squat. Crazy case, eh? I’m really enjoying it, and I’ve picked up loads of great practice from watching you.’

  ‘What have you learned so far?’

  Clavell stood again with enthusiasm. ‘The way your brain works is intriguing. It’s different. I’m looking for a result all the time. I want to know who did it, charge them, and move on to the next case. You don’t do that. For you, it’s more about trying to understand a story. You strive to identify everyone’s part in it. Eventually, it knits together.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I’ve seen how easy it is to jump to conclusions. DCI Cox is the same as you. There’s no emotion involved, it’s about the facts. Franco’s holiday preferences are probably not important. Solving the case is. I know detectives should be patient, diligent, have excellent record-keeping, and check every angle, but I’ve really observed it here.’

  ‘Still want my job?’

  ‘No. I want to be your boss.’

  Barton smiled as a tiny female prison officer ushered Robin Rowe’s solicitor into the room. Her name badge said Di Matteo, but she didn’t introduce herself. The brief slipped into the chair Clavell had vacated and the temperature in the room rose with an extra body. ‘Afternoon,’ said Burke. ‘Warm day.’

  ‘Thanks for coming at short notice.’

  ‘You said you had news that affects my client’s defence.’

  ‘Yes, very much so.’

  ‘I will advise him to make no
comment, you understand. Is this official?’

  ‘We want Mr Rowe to finally reveal the truth about that night.’

  ‘Interesting. I know it’s not usual for a solicitor to say this about a client, but I don’t think he did it, and, if I’m not mistaken, I would wager you agree.’

  ‘He’s all we have.’

  ‘He has an alibi.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  The female officer returned with Rowe, who had visible marks around both eyes and a cut on his chin. He wore a prison issue T-shirt. Barton suspected the clothes Rowe was incarcerated in had blood on them.

  ‘Do you require me to stay?’ she offered with a blank face.

  Barton contemplated the trembling individual that had slunk onto the seat next to his solicitor. ‘I think we’ll be okay.’

  She pointed at the alarm on the wall with the merest flicker of a smile. ‘In case he overpowers you.’

  Barton pressed a button on his recorder once the officer had closed the door on them, and then re-cautioned Rowe.

  ‘Mr Rowe, have you had a change of heart about what you’d like to tell us?’

  Rowe’s eyes narrowed. He rocked slightly in his seat.

  ‘We’ve spoken to the man you said you were with on the night of the murder, a Mr Alun Franco. He returned to the country yesterday.’

  Rowe’s head snapped up. ‘See, I told you he’d be back and say where I was.’

  A wave of sadness washed over Barton. Even though Rowe had potentially been involved in a serious crime, it was clear he lived an empty life, seemingly devoid of friends. Not one person had given a damn about him so far. The news Barton had to impart would devastate him.

  ‘Mr Franco acknowledged that he knows you as a friend, but nothing more. He also confirmed your presence at his house for an hour or two on that Boxing Day. That’s it.’

  ‘I stayed for more than a couple of hours.’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter. We suspect his involvement in the murder of Arnold Stone, but suspicions are all we have. We have nothing solid on him at the moment.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That means we only have you.’

  Barton expected anger or tears but, instead, a weary resignation passed over Rowe’s face. ‘I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Tell us who did, then,’ said Clavell.

  ‘I don’t know. I honestly thought Stone had done a runner.’

  ‘There’s indication that there has been a dead body in your boot. You know it’s likely that his DNA will be found there. We also found black plastic caught on an ice scraper. It looks like the victim was wrapped in a bin bag and transported in your vehicle.’

  ‘That’s impossible. I know nothing about it.’

  ‘Is this your car?’ Barton slid over the still of Rowe’s vehicle showing a man with a white cap in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that you at the wheel?’

  ‘It’s hard to say, it isn’t very clear.’

  ‘Do you own a cap like that?’

  ‘I did. I haven’t seen it for ages.’

  ‘You don’t have to answer these questions, Robin.’

  Rowe turned to his solicitor, and they all jumped as Rowe roared in his face. ‘How is keeping silent helping? Look where I am. A place where rapists say they’ll kill me for things I didn’t do.’

  ‘This car was clocked on Boxing Day night driving to and from Wisbech around 9 p.m. Is that you in the photo?’

  ‘If this picture is from that night, then it must be someone else.’

  ‘Wearing your cap?’ asked an incredulous Clavell.

  ‘I was with Alun. Why would he say I wasn’t?’

  His solicitor cut in. ‘Mr Franco is very wealthy, almost as rich as the brief he has defending him. He will distance himself from all of this. I think you can probably forget about any support from his quarter.’

  ‘So that’s it? I’m guilty of murder?’

  ‘You’ll go to trial,’ said Clavell. ‘What about your other neighbour, David Whitlam?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Perhaps he killed Stone and drove him in your car while you were out.’

  ‘Where would he get my keys, and why would he do that anyway?’

  ‘Was your house ever broken into? Did you lose a set of keys for a while?’

  ‘No, of course not, or I would have said.’

  ‘Then trial it is.’ Clavell considered his words. ‘There’s something else. We’ve been led to believe men visit your residence, for short periods.’

  ‘Eh? For what?’

  ‘We assume for entertainment.’

  Rowe snorted. ‘I’m running a male brothel now! Really? You’re all mad. This is insane.’ Rowe’s eyes bulged further. ‘Take me to court. Surely the judge and jury won’t be as nuts as you lot.’ His wild expression focussed. ‘Alun Franco will have to testify if you tell him to, won’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’ll have to admit the truth. I’ll make him. I know things about him that he won’t want told. He’ll back me up.’ Rowe dropped his face into his hands. The other three sat quietly for a few moments.

  Barton stared at Rowe’s solicitor. ‘Are you going to explain?’

  Rowe raised his head. ‘Explain what?’

  The solicitor shrugged and kept silent, but Barton thought it only fair that Rowe knew.

  ‘Franco’s solicitor is going to know everything. He will be well briefed and pre-warned. Even under oath, I expect Franco to lie through his teeth and turn it all on you. He’ll accuse you of being a liar. You’ll be implicated with the same things that you accused him of. The jury will be disgusted with both of you. And at the end of the day, it’ll only be you standing trial for murder.’

  Rowe stared at each of them in amazement. He scraped his hands down the sides of his face, drawing a thin trail of blood on each cheek. Then he burst forward, and screamed a few inches from Clavell’s nose. ‘Screw you.’ Clavell flew backwards off his chair. Rowe leapt from his seat and hammered the yellow alarm button. His snarl turned into a snivel and he backed up against the door.

  Barton slowly rose and stood in front of Rowe. No one moved until Clavell got to his feet and gingerly rubbed the back of his head. Barton expected to hear a siren blaring out. Instead, after a few seconds, they heard the patter of a light pair of approaching boots. Officer Di Matteo checked the scene through the plastic window in the door and opened it.

  ‘Sit down, please, Mr Rowe.’

  ‘I’m leaving. Let me out.’ Any bite had gone from his words, leaving only a childlike whine.

  ‘Okay, go and stand next to the exit. I’ll be there in a minute to arrange an escort.’ Rowe left. Di Matteo asked, ‘Everything all right?’

  After three nods, she spoke into her radio. ‘QV, Officer Di Matteo, Mike eight, Legal room four. That’s a false press. I repeat, a false press. Stand the alarm down.’

  ‘Mike eight, this is QV, we need confirmation from another call sign.’

  ‘QV, I’ll get them to give you a ring if they turn up. Mike eight over.’

  She released the talk button on the radio. ‘I see your meeting went well.’

  69

  The Soul Killer

  After the Professional Standards interview and the discussion with my superiors, I cruised back to Wisbech with a sense of satisfaction. Barney had rallied after I returned to live with him, albeit from a low ebb. I told him to pack his things before I left this morning. It’s time for a final trip. I hope his heart holds out long enough. He was confused and exhausted yesterday, despite only walking down the stairs and outside for a few gulps of fresh air.

  These days, I’ve taken to wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses at all times so I think the bloke in the petrol station thought it was a hold-up as I stepped from the cab. I filled the tank from empty and nearly had a heart attack at the cost. Daylight robbery, and the man in the kiosk wasn’t even masked.

  I j
oked to Barney that we’d have to make a run for it, but he didn’t get it, gave me his debit card and insisted that he’d pay. Funds are plentiful, apparently. Barney hadn’t changed his pin number from when I used his card at Christmas and said to treat myself to whatever I wanted, but I felt uncomfortable. That said, money must mean little when you’re on borrowed time.

  It’s lucky they suspended me on full salary because money has been tight since I met Claudia. Looking good and looking after her is proving tricky. I remember another officer under investigation being on full pay for three years. It was a standing joke. He kept cancelling meetings and missing the rescheduled ones. He changed his representation twice and his address a couple of times. Then he went off sick with stress. Kicking the can down the road is the expression and I plan to do the same. It’s only August now, but I deserve one more Christmas with the woman I love. I’ll need more money, though, to win her back.

  We approach the turning to West Runton, so I give Barney a nudge.

  ‘Hey, is there anything you want to do?’

  He turns his face towards me, grins, and his head drops to his chin so I turn the radio on for company.

  It’s five o’clock in the afternoon and I’ve not eaten since this morning’s bowl of cornflakes. I miss the West Runton turn and carry on to East Runton where the fish and chip shop was that Barney took me to all those years ago. I park outside and stare at the sign. Will’s Plaice. Barney used to joke it was our plaice.

  The guy serving would have been wearing nappies when we last came in, but he’s friendly enough. Fish and chips are expensive now. Once I’ve bought dinner, I get in the cab and drive back towards West Runton. There aren’t many happy memories from my youth, but I cherish the few I have. I head down Water Lane, which leads to the cliff tops and the sea. At this point, Barney would always say, ‘Almost there.’ There are even three tall sunflowers swaying in the gentle breeze at the entrance to Lavender Caravan Park, as there are when I dream of this place.