The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series)

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘Come on, get the plates out.’

  He kisses me on the cheek, and I’m relieved to say he smells of aftershave rather than alcohol. Three bottles don’t bode well. Either he’s got a problem, or he thinks I have.

  I pull a chair back. ‘Do you want to eat at the table?’

  ‘No, we can have it on our laps. I brought a movie you’ll know. Shawshank Redemption.’ He waggles the DVD at me. ‘It’s a modern classic, and I thought we could kind of watch it and natter at the same time as I bet you’ve seen it loads, too.’

  He must have asked Scarlett what my favourite film was. Smooth move, I like it! While I get two plates and the cutlery, I sneakily check my phone to reread the message where he asked me out. It says;

  How do you fancy a Chinese meal on Valentine’s?

  Trust me to think I was getting the nine course tasting menu at the Jade Emperor instead of a greasy bag of pork balls on my own sofa.

  But I choose to enjoy the night and go with the flow. Brad chats away to me while the movie plays. His humour is not bad: a little childish, perhaps. First dates aren’t the time for burps, whatever he might have eaten. We end up drinking the dregs from my wine bottle as well. He tells me he’s parked around the corner. That’s a sign if ever there was one.

  I tidy up as the film finishes and consider my options. He appears at my side and helps with the washing up.

  ‘You look great in that dress.’

  And that’s it. We’re kissing, and soon we’re shagging. It’s okay. I’m stuffed and bloated, and he isn’t particularly gentle. It’s too porn-like for a first time, and I even catch him looking at himself in the mirror. I suspect he has a routine of positions. My phone rings during the act and I ignore it, leaving voicemail to answer. There hasn’t been much romance at my place, so I don’t interrupt his performance. It’s nice to be desired, though. Afterwards, he rolls behind me for a cuddle. His hands are soft and gentle. There’s potential here. I feel cosy and drowsy, and we’re asleep in seconds.

  I forget about the missed call.

  5

  The Ice Killer

  It’s a car backfiring that wakes me. I sense I’m alone. Two bottles of wine thud in my brain, as you’d expect. I hear someone – I assume Brad – brushing their teeth. I cringe as I don’t recall him bringing his toiletries. My dressing gown found its way into the wash at the weekend, which is a relief because it was minging, and I pull it out of the pile on the chair in the corner. At the toilet doorway, I’m relieved and shocked to see he brought his own toothbrush with him. Talk about confident, or do lots of them do that nowadays?

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’

  He looks at his watch. ‘Sure, quick though. Black, please.’

  He wanders past me and begins picking his clothes up off the floor. He’s in better shape than I remember, although he also has a really hairy back. You’d think I would have noticed that last night.

  He comes out of the bedroom and takes his DVD out of the player. I receive a smile when I pass him his cup.

  ‘How did you know The Shawshank Redemption was my favourite film?’

  ‘Isn’t it everyone’s?’

  He slops the top third of his drink down the sink and fills it back up with cold water. I had already put some cold in. He downs it in one go and grimaces.

  ‘Right, I’d better go.’

  ‘Sure.’ I shouldn’t say anything else, but I can’t help myself. ‘I had a nice night.’

  He stops at the door. ‘I’ll text you.’ That’s it, he’s gone. He’ll see me in the office in three hours. I decide I’m not going to over-analyse last night’s conversations, although it’s partly because they’re a bit hazy.

  I pick up my phone to check the time and remember the missed call. It’s from my mum. She’s been needier of late. I suppose that’s understandable with her advancing years and declining health, especially living alone.

  I dial the voicemail and listen in.

  ‘Hi, pet. It’s me here. Could you give us a ring, only I’m not feeling so good? Nothing in particular. I just have a bad sensation, like something terrible is going to happen. A friendly voice will perk me up. I’ll get an early night, so if you don’t hear this soon, we can chat tomorrow.’

  I immediately call her back, even though it’s only 6 a.m. No answer. Grabbing my car keys, I realise I am way over the limit and can’t risk losing my licence. She’s only about half a mile away. I will have to run.

  6

  DI Barton

  Zander was as good as his word and came to pick Barton up a few days later when the hospital doctors had agreed he could go home. Zander rushed in, grabbed Barton’s case, and stood next to the door.

  ‘Is the hospital on fire?’ asked Barton.

  ‘No, Kelly is parked in one of the ambulance bays.’

  Barton raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Just kidding. She’s circling the car park so she doesn’t have to pay for parking. Let’s get outside. You know how snippy she can get.’

  Barton stepped to the door. He gave the room a last look, smiled, and walked gingerly down the corridor.

  ‘Are you scared of her?’ asked Barton.

  ‘No more than is necessary.’

  Outside, Barton half expected Strange to be waiting in a joke vehicle like an ice-cream van, but he recognised her car as she swung round the corner. Barton lowered himself into the front seat, which had been pushed right back.

  ‘How you feeling, boss?’ asked Strange.

  ‘Tender, but pleased to be going home.’

  Peterborough looked the same as she drove through the morning rush-hour traffic, but he realised that he looked at the streets nowadays as scenes where crimes had taken place. Whereas once, he’d looked at them as places he’d frequented as he grew up. Leaving hospital with a healthy prognosis, though, was a happy day, so he smiled and cracked the window to let in some non-hospital air.

  ‘Did they say how long you’d be at home for?’ asked Strange.

  ‘Four to six weeks.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Zander. ‘I didn’t realise all you had to do to get extra holiday was nearly die.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. How’s work?’ he asked.

  ‘Cox is pushing hard to get us all into shape for when she’s on maternity leave. She keeps asking if we’re ready to put in for our inspector exams.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Getting there,’ they both chimed.

  Even through the fog of his pain medication, his suspicions were raised. They pulled up outside Barton’s house. The three children and his wife were all frantically waving at the lounge window.

  ‘Coming in?’ he asked his sergeants as he got out.

  ‘No. Crime doesn’t sit at home and watch boxsets. We have jobs to do,’ said Strange with a scowl as she took his case out of the boot and put it next to him. ‘And we’d already planned to go for a fry-up before work. Enjoy every minute, John. We’ll see you soon.’

  Barton waved them off as his family came running out of his house to greet him. It was good to be home.

  7

  The Ice Killer

  It’s a grey morning. A thick fog has blanketed the streets, bringing visibility down to twenty metres. Orange streetlamps are the only sign that I’m not about to disappear into the middle of nowhere. It feels like 2 a.m. as opposed to a little after six. My mother doesn’t live far away, but I’m no runner, and the streets are slippery, which causes me to slow down.

  Halfway there, as my tongue searches for moisture in the chilly air, I curse my choice of footwear. The driver of a car that’s creeping along the road gives me a strange glance as he studies my old-lady-shuffling technique in my flat shoes. What’s waiting for me at my mum’s house? Should I worry?

  I’m light-headed and stumbling by the time I arrive. A milkman next door gives me the look he probably reserves for when he sees a suspected burglar. The lounge curtains are drawn but I can tell the light is on, which is unusual. My mother’s on
ly flaw is a determined tightness over electricity consumption. She’ll give food to the homeless and put cash in collection tins, but the thermostat doesn’t go over twenty-one, and leaving a room without flicking the light switch off is a crime worthy of a firing squad.

  My concern ratchets up a notch, and my legs wobble as I stagger to the rear of the house. That could be from the run, the alcohol, or worry. I take the key from under the watering can and let myself in.

  ‘Mum! Mum, where are you?’ Silence.

  It’s been a quiet house for many years. Apparently, my dad was a noisy man with a deep laugh and a love of rock music, even first thing in the morning. I recall him in the kitchen rapping his hands on the work surfaces when a song reached its climax. Well, I think I remember that, because I was only five when he died. Are my recollections of him my own, or my mother’s? Whatever, I miss him, or at least the idea of him.

  He went to the doctors with a mild complaint and discovered he was riddled with cancer. Three weeks from diagnosis to death. If I try to recall that time, all I have are memories of anger. I guess that’s normal. Dad was one of the good guys. I suppose most people think of their father in that way, because fathers hide who they really are from their kids until they’re no longer children.

  Thank God I still have my mum. She’s been my anchor to sanity throughout my turbulent life. Even though she couldn’t do anything for me after the incident, she gave her fragile daughter a safe place after they fixed me.

  A few hours of moping at her house and listening to sound advice gave me a fresh perspective on many occasions. You need love to survive in this world. I’ve always had enough from her to sustain me. There are no secrets between us. I become a child again when I’m here and the future disappears from my mind.

  Obviously, losing him affected her the most. She lives a simple life and rarely leaves the house. It’s a relief to find her in the lounge. I stare at her in the armchair and notice how old she looks. Her phone is in her lap and she’s still. Yet, I can see her cardigan rising slightly. I release a long breath.

  ‘Mum, wake up.’ I squeeze her hand, and it’s freezing. She’s deaf, so I shout. Nothing, then her eyes open a little. They struggle to focus.

  ‘My chest hurts,’ she whispers.

  My mobile isn’t in my pocket, so I grab hers, ring 999 and tell them heart attack. The first-aid course I did five years ago lurks in my knowledge. I consider putting her in the recovery position, but she seems comfortable in the chair even though her breathing is shallow.

  How long does it take for an ambulance to arrive? I check her pulse using her wrist. The beats are slow and erratic. What to do? I stroke her arm, and the words fall over each other.

  ‘Don’t leave me, Mum. You’re all I have and I love you so much. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. I’ve tried to be a decent daughter, and I’m sorry about not giving you more grandchildren, and the stuff at school, and costing you money.’

  I ramble on, apologising and begging. Sirens sound in the distance and rapidly become louder. I feel pressure on my hand and see her eyes have opened again. I can just make out the words as she says them. ‘Don’t worry. Your sister will help.’

  I open the door and the paramedics stride in. They are brilliant: polite, efficient and competent. After checking her signs, they stretcher her to the ambulance and we’re tearing through the streets. They take her away when we arrive at the hospital and I’m left in a waiting area next to a nurses’ station with a cup of coffee between my feet.

  A nurse comes over to say my mother is poorly but stable. She offers me a sandwich, but I only manage a single bite. It’s late morning before a doctor appears to speak to me.

  ‘Hi, I’m Dr Olafemi.’ She sits next to me and rests her hand on my arm. ‘Your mother has been taken to Intensive Care.’

  ‘Is she going to be okay? Can I see her?’

  I’ve seen kind smiles like the one she gives me all my life. I know when I’m about to be let down gently.

  ‘Your mother is very ill. I’ve read her notes on the database. There’s a whole catalogue of problems, many of which involve her circulation.’

  ‘What do you mean? She’s healthy.’

  ‘She was diagnosed with faulty, leaking valves last year, and her heart is enlarged.’

  ‘Can’t you fix them?’

  ‘We could, if she was younger. There are other circulatory issues present, too. I would give her a zero chance of surviving the operation.’

  ‘What can you do?’

  She takes my hand. ‘We’ll make her comfortable but I’m afraid we’ll have to accept that she’s dying. It’s just old age. Her kidneys are failing as well. She could go at any time.’

  ‘But that’s not fair.’

  It’s a stupid thing to say. Her kind eyes remind me my mother is seventy-five next year. It’s not a bad age. Many never get anywhere near that. I’m not surprised to realise that, yet again, Mum has tried to protect me and kept the diagnosis to herself. It’s kind but stupid. I didn’t want to lose the chance to spend time with her. I think of the nights I’ve lain on my sofa and got pissed watching pointless quiz shows, while my poor mum was sitting at home on her own coping with all manner of horrific news.

  ‘Is there anyone you’d like to tell?’

  ‘How long does she have?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. Maybe just a few minutes, or a couple of days at most. Come, I’ll take you up there.’

  We wander through a maze of corridors. We clean our hands at the entrance to the ICU. It’s quiet inside after the hubbub of the nurses’ station, just whispers and beeps. I sit in the seat next to the bed, but it’s too low to see her face. The ICU nurse tells me she’ll be at her desk if I need anything.

  There’s so much tubing helping her breathe that I struggle to recognise her.

  ‘Mum, it’s me.’

  I stop talking. When we rode in the ambulance, I sensed my mum was still there. The body in front of me seems empty even though the slow, constant beeps indicate otherwise. What will I do without her? Her texts every morning were often the highlight of my day.

  I ring my only remaining relative, my sister, Lucy. She never picks up her phone to me. Not after my bad spell. She’s seven years older and we’ve never been close. She moved to London very young and never came back. Well, perhaps twice a year. My mum proudly shows me pictures of her house next to a stream and the odd article about her genius. It’s funny because I used to joke about becoming a lawyer, and she’s now a solicitor. I do love her kids, though, but that’s all we have. I leave a message on her mobile.

  I consider who else to ring. There’s no one. Scarlett has never formally met my family. My mother’s friends don’t need to know right now. It will only be the two of us until the machines are quiet. Then it will be just me. I rest my head on the bed and sob.

  8

  The Ice Killer

  In the end it took thirty-seven hours for my mother to die. I was there for each one of them, even though she never regained consciousness. My sister, Lucy, blustered in on the second day and stayed for an hour. She asked the right things, but we didn’t touch the entire visit. When she left, she kissed Mum on the forehead and said to keep her updated. She blew me a kiss as she went out of the room.

  Nevertheless, my heart shrank over those hours at my mum’s bedside, until it felt as if I weren’t human any more. I foolishly checked my phone for messages from Brad. There weren’t any. The only person I rang was Scarlett. I asked if she could bring me some spare clothes because I stank. She said she was really busy but would pop in that night. When she didn’t arrive, I called again. It went to voicemail.

  When I spoke to Lucy to tell her the news afterwards, she said her husband had someone who would sort out the arrangements for the funeral. Delegating that seemed cold, but they did a good job when my mum’s crazy sister, Aunt Dora, died a while back. Anyway, what do I know about that kind of thing?

  The funeral was a very small af
fair. People attend the funerals of those who’ve mattered to them. They’ve touched them in some way. My mum must have preferred her own company most of the time.

  A friend of my mother’s arrived after the service and hugged me. She said my mother was always talking about her family, and that I was a wonderful daughter. I wept again.

  Today is my first shift back at work. I haven’t seen a soul since I left the hospital other than at the funeral. My only communications have been through Instagram and Facebook. The only human contact I had was HR ringing to offer me a week off for compassionate leave. It doesn’t seem much time for something so life-altering. Not that I’ve done anything but lie in bed or on the sofa; not even get drunk. I’m just so lonely.

  I sneak a glance at Brad as he walks in with his friends. They talk animatedly. No prizes for guessing what the topic is. I try to drag my eyes from him with my last remaining gram of self-respect, but fail. To my surprise, he looks over and waves. I watch him say something to his mates, who all laugh, and he swaggers over.

  There’s a radiator next to my desk, and he leans against it.

  ‘Hi. I heard what happened and just wanted to tell you I’m sorry for your loss. I’m close to my mum and would really struggle if she died. When you’re ready, we’ll have a drink or something.’

  ‘I thought you’d be in touch.’

  ‘I assumed you’d want to be with your family.’

  ‘I could do with some company. How about tonight?’

  He looks pained. ‘Erm…’

  ‘Or tomorrow?’

  What have I become? He doesn’t care about me, and still I clutch at him.