The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series)

by Ross Greenwood

  My phone tells me it’s nearly 5 a.m. I should escape before the world awakes but leaving an eye witness doesn’t make sense. But there’s lashing out in the heat of battle, and there’s killing in cold blood, and I’m not sure I can do the latter.

  Giving myself time to think, I climb the stairs to the bathroom, wincing at the pain in my groin. The filthy mildewed shower reminds me of the pod they found Ripley in at the start of Aliens. Blasting freezing water sparks me to life. The stubborn dried blood forces me to remain until my bones are numb. I’m the same height as Quantrill, so I take some jeans and a jacket from his wardrobe and pull them on over one of his band T-shirts.

  I shake my head at the drum kit in the corner of his room. People must love living in the same street as these idiots. I put my foot through the bass. I reckon the neighbours will be ecstatic when they find out what I’ve done until I realise the drummers are dead.

  Strangely, there’s a pair of women’s slip-ons amongst a huge pile of shoes on the other side of the bed. I think of my cowboy boots and their distinctive soles. Most of the place is carpeted, but I’d better check. I grab a rucksack and stuff in my clothes, including my boots. Downstairs, I walk around in the woman’s shoes, then put on an old pair of trainers I find in the corner of the lounge and smudge any incriminating prints I can see.

  It’s time to go. I find a small sharp knife in a kitchen drawer and stand in front of Duncan.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t have a choice.’

  His neck would be the deadliest target. I place the blade against his Adam’s apple and prepare to shove. This isn’t me. I imagine myself staring down from the ceiling, watching. Stepping back, I bite my lip. I return the point to the soft spot and notice his breathing has stopped. There’s a greying pallor to his face that wasn’t there before, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding as he’s clearly died. Would I have found the strength to do it otherwise?

  One last look at the scene has me removing Ash’s baseball cap. He won’t need that where he’s going; his horns will be in the way. My white rose, spattered with blood, lies on the coffee table. I place it in my bag, recalling that Valentine’s card all those years ago. Who’d have thought it would end like this?

  Blowing out my cheeks, I open the door with the key holding some tissue paper. I step outside, briskly walk up the road, but suddenly stop. My purse fell under the table during the attack. I’ll have to go back.

  I keep my head down as a car door slams nearby. I sneak back inside and crunch my way through more glass. It takes a few minutes, but I finally find the purse under a cushion. I’m beginning to shiver, through cold and shock, draining the energy from my legs. I must get home before daylight. There’s no time for feelings.

  I stride into the salt-and-pepper dawn morning. The blood-speckled white rose appears in my mind as I focus only on walking fast. I use the image as a beacon, and stagger through the empty streets a different person. I’ve been many things but, as of tonight, I will always be a killer.

  18

  Acting DCI Barton

  Barton leaned back in his chair. The new role was challenging him, but he found that, after twenty years in the police, most answers lurked in his past somewhere. Meanwhile, Zander and Strange had restarted their studies for their inspector exams. There was a healthy competition between them. He smiled as they approached his office and each tried to enter before the other. Zander won.

  ‘Take a seat, you two. Both are the same, before you try to decide which one is bigger or better.’

  ‘He pulled my hair,’ said Strange.

  Barton opened a packet of digestives and slid them across the desk. The easiest way to quieten children was to fill their mouths.

  ‘Thanks for coming. We’ll have this meeting at midday every Wednesday from now on, roles permitting. It’s your half-hour. We can discuss whatever you like. I suggest you talk together beforehand to get the best use of it. This is for your development. You’re studying for your exams but on-the-job learning never stops. Zander?’

  ‘I’m busy with quite a few cases, but it’s humdrum stuff. That brawl outside the pub had hundreds of witnesses and entering statements has been so time-consuming. I’m doing long hours and find I have little energy left for revising at the weekend.’

  ‘Is that the same for you, Kelly?’

  ‘Affirmative. I appreciate you giving us some of your paperwork to do as training…’

  Barton chuckled, but he’d barely given them the frost from the tip of his iceberg.

  ‘You know the saying.’

  ‘Shit rolls downhill?’ asked Zander.

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines of no pain, no gain. But trust me, there’s plenty of both to spare. Look, guys. When you’re in situations, even doing the mundane stuff, think about what you’re doing and compare it to the DI role. What might a DI consider that a sergeant might not? What do they have to do that you don’t?’

  A knock on the door interrupted them.

  ‘Come in.’

  DC Zelensky entered. Barton thought for a minute she was going to salute.

  ‘Sir, they’ve found some bodies at a house in Millfield.’

  Strange and Zander leapt to their feet.

  ‘Who’s on scene and is it protected?’ asked Strange.

  ‘What’s the address?’ asked Zander.

  Zelensky retreated towards the doorway.

  ‘Hold your horses, you two. Great questions, but you’re missing the most pertinent one,’ said Barton.

  Zander responded first. ‘Thank you, Maria. How recent were the deaths?’

  ‘The bodies have been there a while. Days. That’s all I know.’

  ‘There’s no imminent danger to the public?’ asked Zander.

  ‘No, Sergeant.’

  Barton cleared his throat.

  ‘Thank you, Constable. Sergeant Zander will be with you shortly. Please shut the door as you leave.’ Barton paused while she left. ‘Take your seats. Always best to find out if there’s a human killing machine marching down Lincoln Road with an Uzi. Zander, you’re going to be acting SIO. What do you do first?’

  ‘Contact whoever’s at the location. Make sure the scene is protected. Go from there.’

  ‘See? It’s not hard. The remains could be historic. It might be old people, or carbon monoxide…’ Barton’s eye widened as he realised his faux pas. Zander had lost his son to CO poisoning.

  ‘Don’t worry, John. I can cope,’ said Zander.

  ‘Good. And what’s one of the first things you learn at training college?’

  ‘First officer attending duties,’ said Strange.

  ‘Correct. Trust in your fellow officers. The scene should already be secure. They’ll have notified Control. CSI and the pathologist will be present or en route if required. It’s only ten minutes’ drive, so I wouldn’t even call anyone. Grab a couple of DCs and get down there. Off you go and relax. You can do this.’

  Strange and Zander stood.

  ‘Not you, Strange. We don’t need both of you there at this point. If the Terminator isn’t on the rampage, then we have some time. You said you had something on your mind.’

  19

  Acting DCI Barton

  Strange gave out a big sigh when Zander had gone.

  ‘The DI role involves more responsibility than I imagined. How do you know when you’re ready for such a jump?’

  Barton considered her question. ‘Part of it is a maturity thing. You notice that newer detectives naturally ask for your advice and experience. They also stop including you in their youthful gossip and banter.’

  Barton’s phone rang.

  ‘Barton.’

  Strange stared as her superior listened. He winked at Strange.

  ‘Fine. See what you can do. Involve the other parties and decide on a way forward. They need to understand that further incidents of similar antisocial behaviour will have meaningful repercussions. These events easily escalate to serious violence. I’
ll leave it in your capable hands.’

  Strange grinned as he disconnected the call. ‘I get what you mean about promotion being a natural progression.’

  ‘Actually, that was my wife. Allegedly, Luke and another boy bit each other at school. My comments were just an in-family joke that she’ll sort it without involving the police. Now, was it DC Zelensky you wanted to talk about?’

  Strange leaned back. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Call it intuition. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Zelensky’s one of our up-and-coming DCs. She’s motivated, conscientious and reliable.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘She’s had two Mondays off sick recently. I had a word with her, and she said it wouldn’t happen again. But she was late this Monday. DC Leicester called her Sicknote in the locker room. DC Ewing stuck up for Zelensky, who shouted at him that she could look after herself. Zander got in the middle before it overheated.’

  ‘Mondays, eh? What are you thinking?’

  ‘Usually it’s people pulling sickies after a heavy weekend. I did smell alcohol on her one morning but haven’t since. She doesn’t seem the type though. I wouldn’t want to report her, but it can’t continue.’

  ‘What will you do, then?’

  ‘I’m not completely sure. Talk to her again, but she didn’t tell me much last time. I’d hate Professional Standards to get involved.’

  Barton held up his hands in submission. ‘I don’t think we should call for the Spanish Inquisition just yet. If we sacked people for smelling of drink on the odd occasion, we’d spend all our time recruiting new staff. It sounds like you’ve had a nice chat. Now for the nasty one, but be supportive.’

  Strange nodded but didn’t comment.

  ‘Send her in. I’ve got a good idea what the issue is. We should be able to give her some helpful advice.’

  Strange returned a few moments later. ‘She went with Zander.’

  Barton’s mobile beeped. The message from Zander was brief.

  ‘Get over here!’

  20

  Acting DCI Barton

  Strange and Barton left the building in her car and continued to discuss Zelensky as they drove. She raised an eyebrow at him as they arrived near the location in Millfield. They’d had investigations there many times before. Narrow Victorian houses without driveways meant cars had been seemingly deserted in every available space. A couple of times a year, the police would turn up with low loaders and haul away the untaxed and unroadworthy vehicles, and Barton suspected half of the city’s illegal landlords operated in these streets.

  Strange had worked in Peterborough long enough not to attempt to park nearby. She drove onto a disused garage forecourt, and they walked the rest of the way. Barton glanced around for CCTV cameras without hope. It was a miserable day with heavy, swirling, grey clouds. Rain had threatened all morning but never arrived. With the gusting wind, the deluge would be biblical when it fell.

  Barton tutted at the small outer cordon that had been created. They found a constable surrounded by people in the middle of the road. The small crowd were shouting at each other in a variety of foreign languages. The emergency vehicles’ flashing lights lit up the animated faces in the gloom, while honking horns jarred Barton’s brain. He strode to the young officer.

  ‘Everything okay, PC Brown?’

  Normally Barton would address him by his first name, but he hoped to remind the edgy crowd of the officer’s authority as his wild eyes gave away his lack of control.

  ‘Neither of these men want to give way in the street. It’s caused more congestion. This gentleman seems furious but doesn’t speak English.’

  Barton glanced along the road at the line of traffic and clapped his hands. When all faces had turned to him, he announced the news.

  ‘There’s been a murder. We’re about to close the whole road and start questioning everyone here. Several of you will need to come to the station. The vehicles that are present will have their registration documents checked on the police database.’

  Strange smirked as the men quickly retreated to their cars and began to vanish. Anyone actually involved in the incident would have long since disappeared.

  ‘I’ll help Brown get the area clear,’ she said. ‘We’ll cordon off the bottom of the road and take this end a further twenty metres up. Brown, where’s everyone else?’

  ‘There’s a big domestic occurring two streets away. Someone’s set fire to a bin behind the Royal Mail club, some eight-year-olds have climbed through a hole in their school fence in Woodston and are nowhere to be seen, and there’s a three-car pile-up on Fletton Parkway.’

  Barton left Strange and Brown to it. They’d earn their money today. Zander stood next to a rickety gate with the Crime Scene Entry Control Log in his hand. Barton noticed the terrible state of the front garden. There were at least three different companies’ pizza boxes strewn amongst the spilled refuse.

  ‘All hands to the pumps?’ asked Barton.

  ‘Yes. I’ve got Zelensky escorting people to and from the houses. Sirena and her team were at the station and came straight away. Mortis has just arrived. They told me not to enter, but that’s fine. I had a look and no one would choose to be in there.’

  A pungent waft of decaying flesh blanketed them when the door to the property opened and the pathologist, Mortis, stepped out in protective overalls. Multiple flashes went off behind him. Zander and Barton blanched at the smell as Mortis pulled his mask down to reveal a rictus grin.

  ‘Now that’s what I call a crime scene.’

  Mortis was close to retirement but had a love of his job that made Barton suspect he’d never leave. That was a good thing because his diligence regularly led to rapid progress in an investigation.

  ‘You were here quick,’ said Barton.

  Mortis smiled. ‘For the first time in thirty years, I didn’t have a post-mortem lined up. I was walking out of the department for a Costa coffee when I received the call. That’s the beauty of our line of business. There’s always fresh work.’

  ‘Quite. Can I have a look?’ asked Barton.

  ‘Sirena wants the door closed and as few people as possible in there for the moment. It’s a rubbish tip, and this wind is moving things around. One of the technicians will be out with a video to show you the scene.’

  ‘There’s no urgency?’

  ‘No. I’ve only had time to check the condition of the three bodies and make superficial judgements. My guess, with the putrefaction, is they’ve been dead for three days.’

  ‘All three are murders?’ asked Barton.

  ‘Most definitely. One’s still got a knife in his chest, another has a bludgeoned skull, and the third one is missing quite a bit of his Adam’s apple and an eye.’

  ‘First thoughts?’ asked Barton to Zander.

  ‘As I said on the phone, it’s a mess. If this isn’t a squat, then whoever lives here doesn’t believe in wasting time on cleaning. The lounge looks like a scene where kids have a party when their parents leave town. Only it goes viral and two hundred people turn up and trash the place.’

  ‘Apart from the dead bodies?’ said Barton.

  ‘Well,’ replied Zander. ‘They do look a little like remnants from a hedonistic party. They’re slumped as if they’ve passed out as opposed to having been murdered. The two in the lounge don’t seem to have put up a struggle.’

  ‘Who were the first officers attending?’

  ‘PC Rivendon and PC Brown. I sent Rivendon to the domestic. He said that the neighbour here rang in saying he could smell dead bodies and the house was weird.’

  ‘How does he know what a dead body smells like, and what does he mean by weird?’

  Zander shrugged and pointed next door. A curtain moved at the window.

  ‘He lives there, but I told him to go back inside. There’s no damage to the door or windows of the crime scene, but the front door was unlocked. My initial guess is they let in whoever it was who murdered them. That narrows it down a l
ittle.’

  ‘Mortis?’ asked Barton.

  ‘It’s an intriguing scene. There’s a lot of debris on the floor, which could show signs of a struggle, but the two victims in the lounge almost look like they were killed as they slept. That’s purely conjecture, of course. It might be that the third victim attacked them and got knifed. He made it to the kitchen before he died. Or there could be any number of other perpetrators. The post-mortem and scene investigation will tell us more but, I fear, not everything.’

  Sirena, the Crime Scene Manager, had appeared with a male technician and shut the door behind them.

  ‘Hi, John. You well? Here’s the recording of the scene.’

  Barton winced through sixty seconds of close-up footage.

  ‘Brutal. Is that an eyeball under the table?’

  ‘I agree, and yes,’ said Sirena. ‘All I can hazard at this stage is guesswork. I would say a disagreement led to the killings, and a deadly brawl ensued. The perpetrator is unlikely to be a woman due to the extreme violence used. We’ve found a bank card on one victim and a wallet on another. There are pictures of the three of them on the wall in some kind of music group, so identifying them should hopefully be easy enough.’

  ‘Do you think anyone else is involved?’

  ‘It’s a mess. You could probably find the DNA of half of Peterborough in there somewhere. I agree with Mortis though. There’s something unnatural about the way the bodies are situated.’

  ‘People who live down here and exist like this are likely to have been put on the Police National Computer at some point,’ said Zander.

  Barton took a deep breath. ‘We can’t do much at this stage until we know who they are and exactly how they died. How long for PMs, Mortis?’

  ‘Late tomorrow at the earliest for all three.’

  ‘How long here, Sirena?’