The Soul Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘Eleven next month, but I agree. It’s worrying.’

  Barton ate the tenth of December as well.

  ‘You know, some families get such bad luck, while others sail through lives of privilege with barely a scratch,’ he said.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘The Somervilles.’ At Strange’s blank face, he explained. ‘Annabelle’s father, Donald, had cancer and killed himself. Her husband drowned in the rowing lake.’

  ‘I know, she must wonder “why me”. Don’t tell me something else has happened?’

  ‘Yes. That was Norfolk police. Someone reported a car seemingly abandoned at a car park in Overstrand on the Norfolk coast. The driver’s door was left open despite torrential rain. When the police ran the plate, the owner was Annabelle Somerville.’

  ‘Has she turned up?’

  ‘No, and she might not. The police searched the area and found a pile of neatly folded clothes next to a breakwater held down by a big rock, including shoes and pants. A photo album and her mobile phone were at the bottom. No sign of her, but it had been a foul night with a strong offshore wind. The tide conditions mean that if she swam out far enough, it’s possible the current pulled her out to sea.’

  Strange grimaced. ‘You think she killed herself?’

  ‘It certainly looks that way. We received a call last night from her sister, Claudia. She’d been working late, and when she got home the house was empty.’

  ‘Why’d she ring us?’

  ‘She said her sister hadn’t left the house in months and wasn’t of sound mind.’

  ‘Oh, dear. That doesn’t look good, then. Why did Norfolk ring you? I’d have thought uniform would deal with it.’

  ‘They checked the computer and found the case and my name. I said I’d go around and talk to Claudia.’

  ‘You want me to come?’

  ‘No, it’s okay. She’ll want to get involved in the search. I won’t be able to persuade her otherwise. I’ll get uniform to drive her to Overstrand if she hasn’t got anyone else to go with her. I’d do it, but it’s nearly two hours away. It’s terrible how suicide can have such a ripple effect.’

  ‘I couldn’t end it like that. It wouldn’t be fair on everyone else.’

  ‘I think that’s the point. Mental health issues are irrational and hard to understand. Complicated things, brains. That’s why Zander’s lucky he doesn’t have one.’

  Strange laughed at Zander, who’d just walked in. He frowned.

  ‘That’s weird. I came in here to see if my friends wanted a beer on Christmas Eve, seeing as it doesn’t look like there’s going to be a work thing. Yet, I see no mates, just a pair of gits. I must have come to the wrong place.’

  ‘This git is definitely up for it. I enjoyed last year.’

  ‘Count this git in as well,’ said Barton. Holly had instructed him to invite Strange on Christmas Day again. He kept forgetting but thought he’d be better off doing it when it was only the pair of them.

  ‘Right. I’m off to break some bad news.’

  Zander sat in the seat he’d vacated. The last thing Barton heard as he left was, ‘Man, you’ve definitely got issues if you’re unable to control yourself with an advent calendar.’

  73

  DI Barton

  Barton dawdled on the way to Annabelle’s home. He tried to think of what he could say to ease Claudia’s pain, but there wasn’t anything. He slowed when he turned into Cherry Orton Drive and let a black and white campervan pull out ahead of him. The man hunched over the wheel under a low cap. His speed made the tyres squeal. He’d be lucky if he didn’t kill himself driving like that.

  Two cars were in the driveway. If Annabelle’s was in Overstrand, then hopefully that meant Claudia had a friend over. Calls like these were a part of a detective’s life, but they were never easy. In some ways, this one would be even worse than normal, as there would be a glimmer of forlorn hope.

  They didn’t really know what had happened to Malcolm; no one did. He wondered what the twins had said when Whitlam told them the truth about what happened the night Annabelle’s husband died. Whitlam must have been given his marching orders.

  Barton’s fist was raised for his second knock when Claudia appeared with a face flitting from concern to optimism. She paused with her hand on the lock before she opened the door and stared at Barton. A visit from the police wasn’t always bad news, but maybe she had hoped for him to bring Annabelle back, like a lost child. Besides, she probably realised that if it was positive, the police would have rung straight away. Claudia crumpled to the floor. Barton could hear her sobs from outside.

  A man came out of the darkened room behind her, knelt down and kissed her head. Barton rubbed his eyes. What the hell was Clavell doing in the house? It was Clavell that opened the door.

  ‘Boss. Is it bad?’

  ‘We think so. Shall I come in?’

  ‘You know where the lounge is.’

  Barton sat opposite the hand holding couple feeling uncomfortable. It was hard not to focus on this unexpected relationship instead of the devastating news he had to deliver.

  ‘There isn’t any easy way to say this. We found your sister’s car, seemingly abandoned.’

  Claudia’s snivel turned into a strange keening sound.

  ‘Where was it?’ asked Clavell.

  ‘Overstrand.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s a small Norfolk village up the coast from Cromer and East Runton.’

  ‘And Annabelle?’

  ‘No sign.’

  ‘Maybe she’s not dead, then?’ Claudia gasped.

  ‘We found a pile of clothes, a mobile phone, her shoes, and a photo album of your family in a heap near the sea.’

  ‘But you don’t actually know she’s not alive?’

  Barton paused. Hope could be an awful thing. ‘No, but the prevailing conditions meant that if she had gone in the water and not come out, she may well have disappeared into the North Sea.’

  ‘My God! Are they looking for her?’

  ‘The coastguard is searching the area. People can drift quickly at this time of the year, or they can sink.’

  ‘There’s no chance?’

  ‘It is possible that she changed her mind, but unlikely, I would have thought. A healthy person with some body fat might last half an hour before hypothermia set in.’ Barton didn’t see the need to labour that point. Annabelle wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.

  ‘I hope you understand but there are some questions I have to ask because it could help us in our search. Was your sister mentally sound, in your opinion?’

  Claudia wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, smearing mascara across her face. ‘Are you asking if she was suicidal?’

  Barton nodded.

  ‘Yes, she was. Very. Annabelle lost her husband, as you know, while we were already grieving for our father. Our lives have been turned upside down. It’s been too much for her. I got a call yesterday telling me they had accepted her at a mental health care home. That should answer your question. I’ve let her down, and now I want to kill myself.’

  She banged her fists on the sofa cushions, jumped to her feet, and stomped to the door. Clavell rose to follow, but she held up her hand. ‘No, talk to him. I’m getting ready for the journey to Overstrand.’

  Clavell sat back down. ‘When’s this all going to end?’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you two been dating?’

  He reddened but looked Barton in the eye. ‘A few weeks. I came to speak to her about Whitlam, and we got along. The final time I returned, it wasn’t to discuss him. Instead, I asked her out.’

  ‘Did you see much of Annabelle?’

  ‘A bit. She slept most of the day though, only getting up for dinner. She’d come down and rant about Whitlam being an evil demon who killed her family.’

  Barton smiled. ‘Isn’t that what you think?’

  ‘I’m sure he was involved. Do you remember me
saying something felt familiar about him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I only just realised, but it might be the way he talks.’

  ‘What, you mean his accent?’

  ‘It’s not as strong as mine, but there’s a slight element of the Fen dialect to his speech. He once said tret as opposed to treat.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘She tret that man badly. People from the Fens, places like Wisbech, talk like that.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘It gives him a link to Wisbech. Do you know where he’s from? Where he was born? His past was a mystery even to Claudia. If he came from Wisbech, or nearby, he might be familiar with the allotment. Robin Rowe had no connection at all. Could you speak to HR, find out where his next of kin lives?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure he’s an only child and his parents are dead. I thought that explained why he was so quiet and shy.’

  ‘Just before I left, I took a sneaky picture of Whitlam on my phone. I went and knocked on the door of the guy who had the allotment until recently. Perhaps he knew Whitlam or recognised him. I’ve been twice, but there’s never anyone in.’

  ‘He’s probably dead. He wasn’t in great shape.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I reckon. I haven’t given up yet though.’ Clavell stood and offered Barton his hand. ‘Thanks for coming to do this. I know this isn’t your remit. Don’t worry about her getting to the coast, I’ll take her.’

  He rose to walk Barton out. Sobbing echoed from upstairs. Clavell stopped a few steps from the door and turned around.

  ‘You’re a good man, John.’

  ‘Thanks. Don’t worry, I’ll look into Whitlam for you.’

  Barton let himself out. Sitting in his car, he considered how Whitlam would feel if he knew Clavell was shagging his ex-fiancée. Love can make you reckless. Clavell was a brave man if he suspected Whitlam of being a killer.

  74

  The Soul Killer

  I have a plan, and now I’m really looking forward to Christmas. Only two days to wait, then Claudia and I will enjoy one final uninterrupted day together. Hopefully, when she sees that everyone else has left her, I’ll be back in favour. But there’s a niggle in my head. It hints that I’ve lost sight of things; that I’ve stopped seeing the world as it is. I suppose self-doubt is natural.

  My thoughts stray to my mother, and her gradual detachment from reality. Am I destined, pre-programmed even, for the same fate? The question of sanity is only an opinion. At some point in our lives, we all struggle. Who knows what His plan is? My mother taught me to look out for myself. I think I understand her sermons now and must trust in my decisions.

  If Claudia decides we have a future, we should move miles away. There are too many hidden crimes here and, after what I plan to do tomorrow, some that will soon be discovered. By the time they connect the dots to Cambridge, we will be far away, and hopefully at peace. I hope Inspector Barton has forgotten about me. I’d hate to bump into him and get his brain churning.

  I’ve spent a lot of time outside Clavell’s bedsit. I tried not to consider where he was at night because he wasn’t home very much. I’ve seen his car at hers on a few occasions. Does Claudia deserve me if she’s fooling around with him? But no, I can’t believe she’d do that. He must just be comforting her as a friend. But that should be my job. At least when he’s gone, there’ll be a vacancy.

  I rub my temples. There seems to be a permanently present dull thud of late to accompany my inner critic. It stops me from thinking straight, and it makes me tetchy. I jolt awake from troubled dreams filled with my mother’s rantings. Now I have time to consider her words, I’m inclined to agree with her. There’s too much pain and suffering in this life. Is it all a test before something better? It’s made me remember the church. A visit there is long overdue.

  I stretch my body to warm it up. I’ll be too strong for him, but I don’t want to risk an injury, not with all my plans. I turn the engine off and look at my watch. He should be here at his place very soon. Clavell wouldn’t make it in the secret service because it didn’t take long for me to deduce a pattern. Leave Claudia’s, or wherever he is, and come home to get dressed for work at 6:30. Same thing now for a few days. But this time, I’ll be waiting to meet him.

  I put on the woolly hat that Annabelle wore all the time to keep warm as her weight plummeted. I glance in the mirror. I have done a terrible job with the lipstick, but I still shudder at the realisation I resemble my mother.

  I can just fit in Annabelle’s jacket. She must have bought it before all this happened. I also found some big sunglasses in her room before I left. If they find any grainy CCTV of her car on the way to Overstrand, they’ll see her driving. I took a train back. No doubt my DNA is present in her car. If they check that, I really am screwed.

  As I watch Clavell park up, it dawns on me that I’m not bothered. ‘I don’t care if I die.’ I chant the words a few times. Maybe I am going crazy. Why aren’t I scared? Do I have so little to live for? I’ve lost my job, my girl, and even Barney drank himself to death. That seems a slow way to go. One thing I do know is that when I leave this unloving world, it will be on my terms.

  I step out of the van. The path to Clavell’s house has a big concrete ball on a pillar post. I slouch to disguise my height. Clavell stops behind me, and I turn to him. There’s a satisfying huge intake of breath. Confusion reigns until realisation dawns. I growl the words to him.

  ‘James Clavell. Or I think you used to prefer Jimmy.’

  His mouth is still open as he hits the pavement. There’s nothing that says screw you quite like a baseball bat around the head. I bench press more than this moron at the gym. Throwing him in the campervan is no problem. After taping his arms behind his back and putting a strip over his mouth, I cruise along the empty street. They’ll be looking for a six foot drag queen if anyone noticed anything.

  I drive out to a quiet country lane I know and stop. He’s beginning to stir. A shattered right knee wakes him fully.

  ‘Remember me, Jimmy?’

  He rocks from side to side in the little kitchen area where I put him, his face pinched in silent agony, sweat beading his brow. I tap his knee again, rip the tape from his mouth, and, finally, his howls satisfy something primeval in me. He eventually stills and scowls through slit eyes.

  ‘It’s you. The weird kid from our first year at senior school.’

  ‘That’s right. You probably never knew my name. Too busy making everyone laugh. I thought I recognised you, although you’ve changed. You’re still small, though.’

  ‘You’re sick in the head. I guessed you were involved. There’s no chance you’ll get away with it.’

  ‘I’m not even sure I want to any more.’

  His predicament finally sinks in. He frantically glances around for help. ‘It’s not too late to hand yourself in.’

  I laugh in his face. ‘We both understand that’s not true.’

  He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Please, don’t.’

  ‘It isn’t easy killing people and evading justice. You’d think I’d know that. There’s CCTV, DNA, witnesses, alibis, number plates, post-mortems, and good old police savvy getting in the way. I’ll get rumbled at some point. Everyone does. Hopefully, I’ll be gone when the time comes.’

  He lets out a whimper. Whether that’s from pain or self-pity, I’m unsure. Perhaps it’s regret for his promise that will now be unfulfilled. Well, he shouldn’t have touched my woman.

  ‘You must be pleased your intuition didn’t desert you. That’ll be a nice thought for your soul to take to hell, you vicious, bullying bighead.’

  I can’t resist a slap across his face. I want him begging. He needs to feel real fear, just as I did at school. I punch him hard on the nose. He rocks back and his voice slurs as blood pours down his face.

  ‘Don’t, David. Think about it. Show mercy.’

  I thrust my knee into his chin and he falls back. He scrabbles back to face me, no do
ubt hoping that eye contact will jolt some humanity loose in me.

  ‘Please,’ he gasps.

  ‘Do I look the merciful type? And why should I be? Don’t you remember your jibes, your cruel lasting taunts? You left that school but I had to stay for another six long years. You tarred me in those first few months. You made me a victim. Kids grow up, but they don’t forget. From those days forward, they saw me as someone to pity and keep at arm’s length. You destroyed me.’

  I realise I’m shouting at him, and it’s now me who wipes a sheen of moisture from my head.

  ‘I–’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t try to explain. You’re too late. On my very last day, one of your friends called me Shitlam. That’s the school memory I took for the future.’

  I tap the bat into my hand. ‘Well, there’s always a price to pay for cruelty, and you will settle your account today.’

  He weeps at his end. ‘I was just a child.’

  ‘Does that negate your actions? I suffered, and you must experience the same fate.’

  ’I’m sorry.’

  They are the last words he utters as I wield the bat. I plan to kill him slowly. I don’t want blood everywhere so I try not to break the skin too much, but something takes over. I wipe my face afterwards. The walls and ceiling run with red. The curtains hang heavy with moisture. I open a storage box under the seats at the back of the van. He’ll fit in nicely after I’ve removed the blankets. I use them to clean away some of the blood and put on my old clothes.

  I fire up the engine. There’s no time for dawdling seeing as I haven’t fed Annabelle today.

  75

  The Soul Killer

  Christmas Eve is the perfect day to wipe the slate clean and Orton Longueville church is just the place. Barton said the vicar there was a bit odd when he talked to him about the Snow Killer. Perhaps he absolved the murderer’s sins before the dramatic end.

  I drive over the town bridge towards the cathedral. It looms large over the city and adds much-needed elegance to it. It’s too big and impersonal for me. The men who run it are no doubt busy and would struggle to find time for my affairs. I need to talk to someone who will hear me out.