The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series)

by Ross Greenwood

  I can’t believe he’s really here. It’s a long way from Wembley or Glastonbury or wherever he reckoned he’d be headlining.

  My confidence drains away with the last of my drink. Rarely does anything good come from reopening old wounds. I stand, pull on my coat and head for the door.

  ‘Don’t you want to say hello before you leave, Ellen?’

  I’m glad my back is to him. He won’t have seen my wide smile.

  ‘Quantrill? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes, it took me a few moments to recognise you. I don’t remember you looking like that at school. You know Trevor, and this hairy creature is Graham Duncan, or Drunken, as we call him. The boys out on the beers as usual.’

  ‘Wow, you’ve all changed.’

  It’s not true. Ash has, probably through a love of steroids, but Quantrill could have been in stasis. That is until I see his teeth. They’ve time-travelled back to the Middle Ages.

  ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ he says. ‘I know what you like.’

  Ash stares at my knees after Quantrill heads to the bar, while Duncan drinks an entire pint in three huge gulps. Quantrill returns with half a cider for me. That was what he bought me the night he took what he wanted behind the shed and I haven’t been able to drink it since. It makes my teeth itch. Still, I’ll make the effort seeing as he’s trying.

  ‘What you up to now, Quantrill?’

  ‘Kicking back. Work are hinting at promotion. The band are finally coming together. We’re going to make some moves this year.’

  ‘Do you remember your old band, The Craven Crew? Remember everyone laughing that time you played at assembly?’

  His face falls. ‘The Brazen Crew. That’s who I’m talking about. People respect us now. Hotpoint sponsor us and give me time off for gigs.’

  As we chat, Ash and Duncan join in more. Ash has been out of work for six months, and Duncan, who apparently was in the year above us, seems never to have had a job, which he seems very proud of. I buy myself another half a lager in a pint glass and pour the cider in.

  The evening passes quickly. It’s fantastic to have living proof in front of me that there are those who’ve made more of a mess of their lives than I have. It’s good to reminisce, even if there’s a blurring of the truths that come with time. I’m steaming when the bell rings for last orders. We have a shot for the road and the night takes a downward shift. Ash goes to the toilet and leaves his hand on my shoulder for a few uncomfortable seconds. A Chinese guy comes in selling plastic roses. Duncan and Quantrill go halves on one.

  ‘You should come back to ours,’ says Quantrill.

  I compare my options. Is the right decision to walk away to an empty flat? They’ve been competing for my attention. For a few hours, I’ve known what popular feels like. I came looking for answers about why he treated me as he did but it’s not the type of discussion to have in front of his mates. Perhaps I can get him alone and ask him. With that in mind, I stand and make my choice.

  ‘Okay, but not for too long.’

  My voice slurs and I have to put my hand on the wall to steady myself.

  ‘Let’s go,’ says Ash.

  It seems they’re in a rush to leave.

  ‘Shall we catch a taxi?’ I ask.

  ‘No, Drunken’s van is over there,’ says Ash with a smile.

  I assume that Trevor will drive as he hasn’t drunk much and Duncan can barely keep upright. I walk next to Ash, who has mentioned numerous times he’s training for something. For what, he’s never said, but he rambles on about diet and supplements. I hear Quantrill behind me saying London’s beckoning. It’s all a load of vague BS from a trio of losers, but it’s better than being alone.

  ‘We’ll get in the back. There’s a bed for when he’s really drunk,’ says Quantrill.

  ‘He’ll lose his licence,’ I say.

  They chuckle at that.

  ‘You can’t lose what you’ve already lost,’ states Ash, who sniggers. The others laugh at that, too.

  Duncan drops the keys next to a large white Transit van which makes them laugh even harder. I shut my eyes and steel myself to leave. Quantrill climbs in the back, says my name, holds out his hand and I find myself taking it and he pulls me up. We sit on the bed. He doesn’t let go of my fingers and I daren’t look too close at the sheet underneath me. I’m holding the plastic rose as though it’s a magic wand. If only. Duncan swings the van out of the car park and I almost slide onto the floor. Quantrill puts his arm around me.

  A few minutes later, we pull up outside a dilapidated terrace in the roughest part of Millfield. It’s not far from my own house. Alarm bells ring a little louder as I notice the dark, quiet street with many broken streetlamps, but the warnings are dulled by the buzz from the alcohol. We walk to the door in silence, my limp hand still seized by Quantrill. I hope I haven’t made a mistake in coming here. I focus on them being old school friends. I’ve enjoyed catching up. If the mood changes after I ask my questions, I can just leave and run home.

  14

  Acting DCI Barton

  It was 8 p.m. when Barton arrived home. Luckily, he had remembered to ring Holly, or he’d have been safer sleeping up the road at the Holiday Inn. There was an obvious smell of perfume when he walked through the front door. He was just pondering whether it might be air freshener when Holly strode into sight. She wore a white polo neck above tight jeans and high heels, and her hair was up. It was his favourite look on her. Her made-up eyes sparkled with mischief.

  ‘I heard your car arrive.’

  She handed him a glass of something bubbly, while his mind raced into overdrive at what special date he might have forgotten. He had one sip, then she took the drink from his hand and placed the glass on the window sill. Grabbing his tie, she pulled him up the stairs. At their bedroom, Barton asked about Luke.

  ‘In bed,’ whispered Holly.

  ‘And the other two?’

  ‘Both out, but Layla is due back at half eight. I’ve just slipped the shoes on, but I’ve been wearing the rest since lunchtime. I had planned to surprise you then. I told the kids I had a date with my friends later, so they didn’t vomit at the truth. Now, you’ve got ten minutes.’

  Five minutes later, Barton snuggled up to his wife, but she slid from the sheets and started pulling on her scruffs.

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’

  ‘I’ve got two more loads of washing to put on.’

  He laughed. ‘Not that I’m complaining, but that’s not how I’m usually greeted at the door.’

  ‘Don’t get used to it. It’s been nice having you here recuperating, especially the last few weeks. It seems regular sex can become a habit.’

  ‘Shall I jack my job in?’

  ‘Hell, no. Six weeks of you cluttering up the house and having to tidy up around you and behind you is quite enough, thank you. That’s not to mention your ability to strip a fridge in a matter of minutes like an enormous ravenous woodpecker. Tonight was a reward for getting through a tough experience and returning to work with enthusiasm. But from now on, it’s back to normal.’

  Barton found his mind wandering to the events earlier.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Holly.

  ‘Nothing really. We had a sad case today. A mental-health thing where there isn’t the right support out there when people need it. People end up isolated and alone.’

  ‘I’d jump at the chance to be alone,’ said Holly. ‘I haven’t browsed the aisles in Primani for something to catch my eye in years. Sometimes I dream I’m in a cosy chair with a large glass of white wine and a thick book. Instead, I have someone yanking my chain every two minutes.’

  Barton pulled the covers over his head, then Holly dragged them down.

  ‘Get downstairs and stop that bloody kitchen door squeaking. You said you’d fix it when I was last pregnant.’

  Barton climbed out of bed and grabbed an old pair of jeans. He knew Holly wouldn’t trade the madness of family life for anything. Wasn’t that what Twelvetrees w
as desperately trying to reclaim? Loneliness could be a dangerous thing.

  15

  The Ice Killer

  There are huge split bin liners at the front door spilling out rotting waste. I can’t make out if it’s a shadow or a rat that disappears underneath them. If possible, the inside is worse.

  ‘Is this a squat?’ I ask.

  No one replies, and the bonhomie of earlier vanishes the moment the door is locked.

  Duncan barges past me. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

  ‘I’ll get my whisky,’ says Ash.

  That leaves Quantrill and me in the lounge. Although another mattress lies behind the sofa, meaning it must double up as someone’s bedroom.

  ‘Sorry it’s a bit messy. We had a party last night. You know, band stuff.’

  ‘Sorry, but I think I’m going to go.’

  ‘Just stay for one drink. I’ll ring for a taxi after.’

  He smiles mischievously. It’s the same expression that I fell in love with at school. A mix between geek and pop star. Sadly for him, it’s too much of the former these days and he’ll never be famous. It’s been nearly twenty years since we last met. I don’t know who he is, and I realise that I didn’t even all those years ago. I decide to ask him.

  ‘Why did you have sex with me and ignore me afterwards?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I remember that. We were young. It was just some fun.’

  ‘Being cold-shouldered after wasn’t enjoyable. You told everyone as well. I gave you something of value and you didn’t appreciate it.’

  His face drops. He is hard to read. Is it shame or regret that I see? I detect a flash of anger in his flint eyes. It’s pity, but not for me. His life is pathetic. Deep down he knows that. Their lives are as squalid as the room we stand in. They cling to this embarrassing existence because admitting the truth would break them.

  They are too far along the track to turn back, even though it leads nowhere.

  ‘Come on, Ellen. It was only a shag. You should be pleased. Loads of girls were after me.’

  Ash returns, drinking straight from a bottle of Bell’s. He sweeps a pizza box and a dirty tea towel off the sofa and sits down on one end. Quantrill takes the other end. There’s a shiny place between them that they’ve left for me. Ash uncorks a bottle labelled Red Wine and pours me a glass. I grimace at its foulness. Quantrill pulls me into the space between them.

  ‘Put our promo video on, Drunken. You’ll love it, Ellen,’ he says.

  Duncan grabs a DVD from on top of a table with a wink. Watching it is obviously a regular occurrence. He presses play, then takes a seat on a battered recliner next to the sofa.

  Ash sits with his legs unnaturally wide and I can’t keep a gap between us. I shift my bum forward in the seat, pretending to focus on the old TV. The DVD of their band starts. It’s clearly been filmed on a phone in a sparsely populated pub. The juddering images and poor sound can’t blunt out the pathetic lunges and sneers of Quantrill as he crucifies ‘Paradise City’. I’d laugh if my situation weren’t so precarious.

  ‘I bumped into someone you know,’ says Quantrill with a leer.

  I say nothing, but I can’t help being curious.

  He grins and sings his name. ‘Vickerman.’ After a few nods, he continues. ‘He told me a lot of interesting stories about you. Tales about what you like to do.’

  ‘Oh? I’d hoped he died.’

  ‘Alive and well, actually. Now that man is squatting, and only ten doors up from here. So perhaps not that well. He said you were a fun girl to know.’

  I jump to my feet and rush to the door, forgetting it’s locked. I turn around. Quantrill and Duncan sit quietly in their seats. Ash gets up and steps towards me with a key in his hand. I let out the breath I’m holding. After sliding the key onto the window sill, he stands in front of me and lays his big hands on my shoulders. Whisky fumes pour over me.

  ‘It’s not going home time.’

  16

  The Ice Killer

  I regain consciousness but know to keep my eyes closed and not move. It’s quiet; the only sounds reverberating around the room are deep drunken snores. Last night’s events assault my mind like camera flashes. Ash, standing naked, with a large flaccid penis. Quantrill undressing his lower half but putting his shoes back on. I remember thinking the carpet can’t have known the caress of a hoover for many years. Duncan watched, sweating despite the cold, with his hand down his trousers.

  A draught from somewhere chills the exposed skin on my back where my dress used to be. Ash’s raging hands had ripped my dress off and forced my mouth open while Quantrill assumed the position I experienced years before with him. Resistance was futile.

  Now I move each part of my body and find little external soreness. I pull a piece of shattered crockery out of my knee. I’ll live if I can get out of here. I swing my still-booted feet off the clammy mattress and stand. Duncan sags to the side in the recliner, drool running from his mouth. One of his hands clutches my knickers, the other hand part of my ripped dress. Ash is clothed again and lying along the sofa breathing abnormally fast; probably another symptom of the steroids that dented his performance.

  The floor is an obstacle course of broken glass, newspapers and even the ashtray has been upended. No wonder Quantrill kept his shoes on. What does that tell you? It resembles a scene from a violent orgy but that wasn’t what happened here.

  I slide my coat on as quietly as I can. I’m almost at the door when a loud crunch echoes from under my foot. Glancing behind, I see Ash’s eyes flicker open, and a large hand shoots out and seizes my calf. He yanks me towards him, and I drop to my knees and gasp with pain. He exhales heavily, eyes blinking.

  ‘Ready for round two?’ he asks.

  As I push back, I feel an object under my hand. I seize it and thrust it at his leering face. His right eyeball comes away with the tip of the withdrawing corkscrew. His remaining eye blinks twice. I ram my weapon back and forth, time and time again, hard, knowing my life is on the line now. I focus on his neck. Warm liquid squirts over my hand and arm and sprays my legs. The glaring eye dilates and closes.

  ‘Jesus.’

  I spin around to see Duncan staring open-mouthed at me. The only other thing nearby is the wine bottle from earlier. He puts a weak hand up, which I hit first. Aiming for his head then, I count to ten with my teeth bared until he stops moving. Then a floorboard creaks above me. I tiptoe through the litter on the filthy brown carpet into the kitchen, spotting a knife block on the work surface. I slide the remaining blade out of it and check its keenness. It’ll do.

  Heavy feet plod down the stairs. I stand out of sight and follow Quantrill after he turns and walks towards the lounge. He stops dead at the gruesome scene. I imagine his stunned expression.

  ‘Quantrill.’

  The moment he faces me, I ram the blade into his stomach and upwards. There’s a brief glimpse of the bitterness I recognised earlier, but, as the handle hits his chest, his eyes empty like a TV having its plug pulled. He crumples to the ground and is still. Nothing feels real. I sit on the bottom step with my brain throbbing. What have I done?

  17

  The Ice Killer

  After a while, the cold drives me to move. I stand in the doorway of the lounge and gasp. The scene hasn’t improved with time and smells far worse. I should ring the police, although it will take some explaining. Would they believe me?

  I read a newspaper article where a husband raped and beat his wife for years and she eventually snapped and stabbed him twenty times while he slept. The judge said that even though there were extenuating circumstances, she could have just left the house. He sent her to prison for fifteen years.

  I won’t do a day inside for these losers if I can help it. The realisation of my predicament stirs me and self-preservation kicks in. Nobody knows I was here. I don’t know anything about genetic material or fingerprints except what I’ve seen on TV, but I assume mine will be everywhere. With modern techniques, I suspect I could clean this
place from top to bottom and still leave traces. I should focus on the most important parts. After all, incredibly after what happened, I’m not on any database. Evidence of my being here will be present, but it won’t lead the police anywhere.

  I glance up and even see red liquid on the ceiling. I pull open my coat and look in the cracked lounge mirror at my small bruised breasts splattered with blood. I look like I’ve staggered from a high-speed train wreck. There’s no way I can walk home in this state.

  My phone is still sticking out of my coat pocket. Wiping blood off the screen, I can see a text has arrived. It’s from Brad Averescu.

  Hey. Been thinking about you. I could pop around.

  It was sent at 3:06 just after the nightclubs must have closed. It’s been a while since I had a booty call. Depressingly, a small part of me is pleased to have received it, even after what’s happened, although a bigger part is happy that I wasn’t able to respond. Let’s see how he enjoys being ignored.

  I need to act before my brittle control shatters and I fold in on myself. Using some oven mitts and a shirt from the back of a chair in the kitchen, both of which smell like they’ve been used to wash the deceased already, I wipe clean the corkscrew, wine bottle and knife. I then place each item in the hand of one of the dead men. Only Graham is alive. His gargling breaths are shallow but regular, despite the blood oozing from his head. What do I do?