The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series)

by Ross Greenwood

  His reply was almost a sob. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Open the door, please.’

  Twenty seconds passed, and Barton heard the key turn and a bolt slide across. Barton still spoke through the letter box.

  ‘I’m coming in. DS Zander is with me, is that okay?’

  ‘Is he the big black one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, only you.’

  Barton and Zander had worked together so often that they didn’t need to talk. Zander edged out of view, and Barton opened the door. He stepped inside and closed the door quickly, hoping Twelvetrees would forget to lock it again.

  ‘Where’s Sue?’

  Twelvetrees’s sallow, haunted face seemed almost doll-like. He scratched the side of his face hard under a surprisingly thick head of blond hair and drew blood. He pointed into the messy lounge where a fleshy middle-aged woman in a Post Office uniform sat on a sofa, visibly shaking, surrounded by ripped paper. Twelvetrees remained standing next to him. He looked so weak that Barton’s concern dropped a notch, especially because Twelvetrees was unarmed and wearing nothing more than jogging bottoms.

  ‘I need to stay here in case my wife comes back,’ said Twelvetrees.

  ‘I know, but Sue doesn’t have anything to do with it. We have to let her go.’

  Twelvetrees stared at the ceiling, head wobbling from side to side. Barton pressed his advantage.

  ‘Once she’s gone, I’ll look at the paperwork.’

  Twelvetrees’s head shot back. ‘I have to stay in the house.’

  Barton beckoned Sue to walk out of the house behind him. She hesitantly rose from the seat with her eyes on Twelvetrees, but he only had eyes on Barton, and she scuttled out of the door.

  ‘Help me,’ begged Twelvetrees.

  Barton had spoken to the wife after Twelvetrees had been recalled to prison. She’d asked him to confirm his release date and she’d had no intention of being anywhere near the family home when her husband was released next time. Looked as if she’d been true to her word.

  ‘Okay, show me the correspondence.’

  Twelvetrees frantically scrabbled around in the piles of letters. He managed to find the enforcement notice a few seconds later and thrust it under Barton’s nose. Barton read it without saying anything. After no response to any previous correspondence and the non-payment of accrued rent, the High Court had authorised eviction. It was for today’s date.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom. This has gone too far. They’re coming today.’

  Twelvetrees snarled his reply.

  ‘There will need to be a lot of them to get me out of here.’

  Barton heard Zander talking in a low voice outside, even though he couldn’t quite make out the words. Brabbins might look to storm in now the woman was safe, but Zander would be telling him to wait. It was a dangerous moment, but Barton suspected honesty was the best route out of this.

  ‘Look, you need to get some things together. Personal items and important documents. We have no choice but to take you to the station. What you’ve done with Sue is extremely serious.’

  ‘They’ll change the locks while I’m away. All my stuff will be here.’

  ‘You can’t change that now. The bailiffs aren’t allowed to throw anything away, so you can come and get it later, but take your valuables. I’ll give you a few minutes.’

  Twelvetrees rubbed tears from his eyes. Then he ran up the stairs and Barton heard crashing and banging for a while. Twelvetrees returned holding a full rucksack and wearing a thick jumper. He looked around the place, as if for the final time. It reminded Barton of Cox as she’d stared around her office before leaving.

  ‘I just want my wife and child back,’ said Twelvetrees.

  ‘I understand. Let’s go back to the station and sort this out.’

  Barton put his arm around Twelvetrees’s shoulders and guided him out of the room. The front door was open and Barton could see hordes of police and flashing lights at the edge of the front garden, but Twelvetrees’s eyes were down. When they got to the doorway, Barton hustled the man onto the front step. Twelvetrees leaned back when he noticed the welcoming committee.

  A tensed Twelvetrees glanced round at Barton. His expression shifted and Barton saw a flash of the marine Twelvetrees once was, then it was gone. Zander stepped into view, and grabbed Twelvetrees’s right arm and Barton took his left, while removing the rucksack from his grip. They moved his hands behind his hips and Zander slipped some cuffs on. Twelvetrees sank to his knees and sobbed.

  After uniform led him away, Zander and Barton exchanged another glance without words needing to be spoken. They might charge him with false imprisonment. A postal worker was classed as a public servant, which aggravated the crime, but it would be a waste of time. CPS were unlikely to want to take this to court.

  It was the worst aspect of policing. Many served their country and returned changed. Twelvetrees would get away with a caution. They’d keep him in the station until this evening, so he couldn’t return to attack the bailiffs, but he’d be free. The authorities didn’t like to focus on the fact he desperately needed help, because there was none available. People like Twelvetrees deteriorated in prison, and they couldn’t cope outside, despite wanting to lead a normal life. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that eventually someone would get killed.

  12

  The Ice Killer

  I blamed my impromptu exit from work on grief when they called me to hear why I’d left the office without telling anyone. I suppose it wasn’t a lie. Sweetly, and surprisingly, they told me to take as long as I needed. That took the sting out of my anger, and any feelings of revenge faded as the weekend approached.

  I used to spend Sundays at my mum’s but there will be no more of them to look forward to, and tomorrow looms large as a lonely pitfall. I’ll return to work next week, even though my job sucks, because I’ll go mad on my own. That obviously makes me pathetic. How can I moan about work when I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than go in? At least keeping busy might stop me considering my forlorn existence. In the meantime, I hope weekend TV will fulfil the same task.

  I rattle around my flat until lunchtime. I clean in the afternoon and the place has never been so spotless. The azure dress Scarlett gave me hangs on the back of my bedroom door. I stroke the sheer material often as I do my housework. It feels wonderful, and that’s how I felt wearing it. Brad hasn’t rung or texted all week, but I’m fine with that. The woman who wanted him unconditionally has gone. I’ll be a doormat no more.

  Looking back, from the start of school, I was eager to please – the teachers and other pupils. I’ve always been motivated by that. Back in junior school I can even remember being called onto the stage and being confident enough to give a speech. Where has that girl gone? How has she turned into me? My mum used to introduce me back then as her whip-smart daughter. Now I’m what the Aussie’s call a drongo.

  But the fact people take advantage is my fault. I’ve let myself become drab and weak. Would I want a date with me? There were two men who sent me hurtling into the destructive lifestyle in which I find myself, and a couple of others who haven’t helped since. I have to return to how I was. I want my confidence back. No one else can do it for me.

  But I also need to understand so I don’t make the same mistakes. Why did those men hurt me? What did they see in me that made me worthless?

  I decide to attack my wardrobe and cupboards. There are loads of items I haven’t worn in years. Other items of clothing make me wonder what I was thinking. And I’d need to be in a coma for six months to fit in the rest. Instead, I’ve been rotating a few boring baggy browns and shapeless greys.

  I fill a huge bin liner with clothes. I’m brutal. To my surprise, some things I had, which I thought were crazy, suit my present mood. They aren’t so different from Scarlett’s dress. I’ll drop the rest at the charity shop and see if they’ve got any other stuff that might suit this new upbeat me. At their prices, it won�
�t hurt to try them out.

  I haul the bag to the car and drive to my favourite charity shop on Oundle Road. It’s a local one called Sweet Millie’s. They aren’t a national chain, so they focus on turning the donations over. Everything’s a pound. I recall I’ve bought a lot of grey and brown stuff from there. The bin liner splits when I get to the till. An elderly lady laughs from behind the counter, which causes her chins to wobble.

  ‘That was good timing,’ she says.

  ‘You don’t know what I’ve brought.’

  ‘Chuck it over here for me, please. I’m getting weak in my old age.’

  She looks as if she could lift me, never mind carry them. I gather the items and wait as she opens a door behind her. There are twenty similar bags in a storeroom.

  She shrugs. ‘I’m too busy to sort it all out. Even though this is a working-class area, people are generous.’ Her eyes linger on me a little longer than is normal.

  ‘You’ve been here before, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve picked up some lovely things over the years.’

  ‘If you find anything out the back here, you can have it for donating your own stuff.’

  A tinkle sounds at the door and she leaves me. I rummage through a few bags. One smells as if it contains the contents of the donor’s dog’s basket. I blow my cheeks out. I need to empty everything on the floor and be methodical. She returns from serving a customer.

  ‘It’s a big job, isn’t it? And we shut in a few minutes.’

  I glance up at her kind face. She reminds me of my long-gone nana.

  ‘Yes, but I could do with some new clothes. There’s bound to be something nice here.’

  ‘Do you fancy helping? It’s not paid or anything. Every Thursday night at six for two hours, I do a stock check. If you want to drop by and help whenever you’re free, do so. I could do with the company, and maybe you could, too. You can take what you like afterwards.’

  I seize the offer, immediately grasping I’m doing it for interaction as well as clothes.

  ‘It’s a deal. I’ll come to one soon.’

  As I step past her, she reaches under the counter and hands me a plastic bag.

  ‘I found this a while ago. My daughter is a similar shape to you. She said she’d visit this week, but didn’t. She doesn’t want for much, not even my company. You have it instead. Get yourself out tonight and enjoy being young. I’ll hopefully see you next Thursday. It’s my shop, so you know my name.’

  I’m tempted to kiss and hug her, like I used to with Nana, but I manage to resist. I walk to my car feeling a little giddy. Impulsive, unexpected acts of kindness turn your day around like nothing else. They should teach the benefits of them at school.

  Trent, my ever-present neighbour, washes his car every Saturday afternoon. He takes forever over it. It’s a feat of modern engineering that the bonnet still has any paint left. Fair enough, you might think, but he only has a Vauxhall Corsa. He leans against it with a James Dean frown.

  ‘Hi, Ellen. Getting chilly. Fancy coming in for a hot chocolate?’

  I shake my head. Ten out of ten for persistence, but eleven for annoyance.

  ‘Tempting, Trent. However, I’ve just bought some self-massage oil and I’m keen to get started.’

  I step inside my flat, laughing. If any more blood had flowed to his face, it would have ruptured like a water balloon. But when I shut my door, my shoulders droop. It’s no use being on form on your own. I quite fancy a frothy hot chocolate. The new me takes control and I return outside, but he’s gone. The peeling front door of his flat makes me chuckle as I knock on it. Scarlett reckons a dirty front door is evidence of a nasty back door.

  ‘Hi, Trent. Have you got marshmallows?’

  He stammers a few unintelligible words and backs away into the kitchen. The lounge isn’t too terrible, but I smile at the frantic sounds of moving crockery and cutlery. He’s a systems analyst for a top supermarket. They would be freaked if they realised what an oddbod he is.

  I realise I’m still holding the bag from the shop. It contains a white lace tunic dress, which I remove. I can’t wait to put it on. Trent returns and gives me a chipped mug containing a suspicious viscous mahogany liquid. He grins and wipes his hands down the front of his trousers. He seems to be trying to think. Staring at the dress in my hand, his brain engages.

  ‘Pretty outfit.’

  ‘Isn’t it? A lovely lady gave it to me.’ I know I shouldn’t but it’s a day for impulsivity. ‘Shall I try it on?’

  His eyes bulge, but I decide what the heck. Whoever said that the kitchen contains the most germs in a house hasn’t been in Trent’s bathroom. Nevertheless, I’m only in there a minute. The mirror isn’t big enough, so I sneak into his bedroom. You’d think Trent would have satin sheets on an airbed, but it’s remarkably normal apart from all the computer equipment, which includes a keyboard on one of the pillows. When we did the dirty deed a year ago, it was at mine.

  After a few spins, it’s me that has the rush of blood. With a pair of cowboy boots, I will look awesome.

  When I return to the room, Trent has removed his shirt. I tut.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just thought…’

  ‘You’re a strange boy. I’ll let myself out.’

  ‘What about your drink?’

  ‘Varnish your door with it.’

  13

  The Ice Killer

  I was right. In my boots and ‘outfit’, as freak boy called it, I feel almost as good as I did in Scarlett’s dress. Different though, sassier. I wouldn’t be able to control myself if ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ was played. A depressing evening of TV quiz shows doesn’t appeal. I pace from the lounge to the bedroom and back again. My thoughts return to the men who helped create the victim I’ve become. The first one was Carl Quantrill, who stole my virginity when I was eighteen.

  It was the Valentine’s Ball during my final year of sixth form. Nobody asked me to go as their date. Instead, a group of us misfits went to The Hartley pub in town. Everyone had too much to drink and arrived loaded at the school hall. I had a denim skirt on, which kept riding up my stomach, and I spent the whole evening pulling it down on the edge of the dance floor. Quantrill was friendlier than he’d ever been, popping over to chat more than once and even bringing me a strange-tasting apple drink. I appreciated it as no one else wanted to talk to me. Later, he didn’t want to dance but suggested we go outside even though it was a grim night.

  I can still recall the heavy drops of rain on my arms and face. He gave me his coat as we slipped out of the hall. It began nicely enough, with gentle kissing, but soon I was steered behind the maintenance shed. His coat came off and up went my skirt. I lost my virginity the same way an animal does. When he’d finished, he took his coat back and left me kneeling in the mud.

  I’ve tried not to think about that night over the years. It doesn’t make me feel good even now, but what was worse was the worthlessness that followed when he ignored me in The Hartley over the next few Saturdays. I gave him something important and got nothing in return.

  I wonder what he’s doing now. He didn’t go to university. I know that as I bumped into one of his thick mates, Trevor Ash, a few years later. He said they were working together at Hotpoint. So much for being a rock star.

  I have a flash of inspiration. If I want to rediscover myself, I should start at the beginning. I’ll see if I can make myself up as Scarlett did, and I’ll go and have a few drinks at that pub. It’s still there and open. It used to be banging. Well, that was Quantrill’s description, not mine. To be fair, you often couldn’t move in there. Smoke stung your eyes, and the general volume made your ears ring. No one will know I’m on my own. If Quantrill’s still in Peterborough, it’s possible he’ll be in there. If he isn’t, who knows what the night might bring?

  It’s a shame to put a coat on over my dress, but I don’t want to pay for a taxi. I get a text from Scarlett saying she’s bored. I reply, and, after a
few seconds with no response, give her a ring. She’s hammered and not making much sense but I chat to her as I walk, which distracts me from my cold knees. Town is empty despite it being nearly 9 p.m. I suppose the horizontal rain would deter many. Of the bars I pass, only the Wetherspoons has more than a few people in. Perhaps they’re all at The Hartley!

  My steps shorten as I approach. Taking a deep breath outside, I shove open the heavy black door. There are two further doors, left and right with glass panels. They’ve split the place into a bar and a lounge since I was last here. I turn to the left, push open the bar door and force myself towards the counter even though I can only see four old men in the long, narrow room. I stand in front of the barman. We both look as surprised as each other.

  ‘All right, love. You lost?’

  ‘Half a lager, please.’

  A man on a barstool unashamedly leers at me as I wait. Perhaps he’s never seen a woman this close in living memory. I turn with my glass and realise that The Hartley has become the type of establishment frequented by people after forty years in prison. It’s a place to drink alone with your memories, whatever they may be.

  There are two booths in the middle of the room. I can hide in one and finish my drink. But both have single old fellows in them bent over newspapers, so I attempt to coolly stroll to the far end near the toilets, which still has an open fireplace. There’s only a solitary log burning, but it warms my hands. It’s quiet and secluded up here. Two men in heavy-metal T-shirts, who were out of sight behind the booths, are the only other people present.

  They also stare at me as if I’ve materialised out of thin air. They are an unusual pair who are dressed similarly. One has a grungy deadbeat look about him, which suits his clothing, but the other could have stepped from a fitness magazine. He has a New York Metz black baseball cap pulled low. Hard eyes sit under it.

  I remove my coat and notice their expressions change, but I hide my grin. Nevertheless, I chug half my drink back. There’s something familiar about Mr Muscles. It’s only as the men’s toilet door opens and Quantrill appears that I realise it’s his friend, Trevor Ash, with the impressive physique. We used to pull his leg by calling him Treevor at school, but I wouldn’t want to upset him now. He’s twice the size, and I only saw him a couple of years ago. Quantrill gives me an appreciative once-over as he passes with no flicker of recognition. I’m not sure if I should feel good or bad about that.