‘It’s been staged to look like a fight but the perpetrator has escaped.’
‘Correct. Also, Mortis confirmed that Ash was indeed on steroids. I read an in-depth, and in my opinion unnecessary, description of the man’s shrunken plums.’ Zander paused for the laughing to stop. ‘Mortis has examined Mr Duncan’s head wounds. He seems to think the skull was pounded many times.’
‘Didn’t he say the guy on steroids was likely to have done that?’ asked Strange.
‘That’s what he thought, but, judging by the size and strength of that man, the damage would have been much worse. He thinks someone weaker did it as the skull was more or less intact. The swelling killed him, not trauma to the brain.’
‘It could be any of them then, or a person we don’t even know about,’ said Ewing.
Zander nodded. ‘Correct. The violence indicates a male because these are ruthless close-up kills. It might even be someone who’s been trained to kill. A man was seen leaving the scene, but he might not have been the first to leave that house. He could have arrived after or before the event. There are no other fingerprints on the weapons apart from those present, and no prints on the front door handle, which backs up the idea of a fourth party covering their tracks.’
Ewing put his hand up. ‘There could have been a fifth party or even a sixth.’
Zander smiled. ‘That’s certainly possible. It’s a bit of a nightmare at this point. All we have is a poor description of a man rapidly leaving the property. He could have come to chat, or to score or sell drugs, but there is no evidence of substance abuse. No one in their right mind would hang around if they opened a door to that. It’s possible they wouldn’t report it either.
‘The last piece of muddle stems from the scene. CSI have picked up multiple footprints in the house which don’t match any of the victims. Before you say it was the man leaving the scene, these seem to be from a smaller shoe. Perhaps some kind of woman’s loafer.’
Again, Zander waited for the chatter to stop. ‘There’s also the print from a boot that appears to have left the odd bloody mark throughout the house.’
‘John, how did the neighbour describe the man fleeing the scene?’
‘Tall.’
‘Sirena guessed, and she reiterated that it was only an estimate, the shoesize of that boot would be approximately a six or seven. Few tall men take a six.’ Zander rose to his feet and crossed his arms. ‘The HOLMES manager has allocated roles. You’ll work in pairs. Each couple gets a victim. We’ll meet each afternoon, assuming we don’t get a break that changes our direction of focus. I want to know everything about these guys. How long they’ve worked where they did, who their friends are, the places they drink, current girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, look at their records, you name it. These people were killed for a reason. Someone out there knows what it was. Maybe more than one person does. Any thoughts or questions?’
Barton watched the confused faces and felt much the same way. Zander had performed well, but Barton wanted to ram home the severity of what had occurred. Zander had also failed to focus on the importance of the dress that had been found, which Barton believed might solve the case. He gave Zander an appreciative nod and turned to the room.
‘The post-mortem turned up one final clue. Quantrill and Ash both had skin under their fingernails. That’s a common occurrence in a desperate fight. Remember, CSI found parts of a ripped dress with blood on it. I’m going to guess that when we get the DNA results back from those fingernails, they will show it was the skin of a female. It will be an exact match to the blood on the dress.’
Barton waited for that to sink in.
‘We need to get in touch with every A & E and night shelter to see if anyone fits the bill, or hope that CCTV from the surrounding routes gives us something. An abused, scared, injured woman left that house. We need to find her.’
24
The Ice Killer
My eyes itch through lack of sleep as I stare through the cracks of the blinds and wait for Scarlett to arrive. It will be a long time until I dare peek through the slats and not expect to see the police. I’ve existed this last week as though in a waking coma. I had to get out of the house, but I can’t remember a call or conversation I’ve had at work all week. No one mentioned my distant state. It’s as if I’m invisible. For a few days, all I could eat was soup and cereal, then just bread and butter, and finally nothing. It feels as though everything sits in my stomach, as if it’s waiting for a sign to carry on.
I’d started to think they’d never find them. In the dark hours before dawn each morning, I even imagined that I’d made it up. Yet the scars remain, both physical and mental. I took pictures of the scratches on my back and thighs. My entire chest was a range of blues by Monday and livid finger marks appeared on my neck, which I hid with a roll-neck jumper. I’m glad I remember so little.
After printing the images out on my PC, I placed them in an old Quality Street tin that my mum used to bring cakes around in. My ripped underwear went in there, too. As did what was left of my dress. My container of shame lives under my bed. I know that if bad things happen to you, it’s best to lock them away and ignore them. Time doesn’t heal, but you can forget eventually. Especially if more horrible events occur. On this occasion though, it’s me that’s also done something terrible.
I don’t feel particularly distressed by the attack. I’ve been raped before. Is it possible to get used to things like that if they occur often enough? I just feel lucky to have survived the experience, and I’m pleased that those responsible didn’t.
If I’m being sincere, over the years, part of me has quite enjoyed playing the victim. If I can blame life for being unfair, then I don’t have to shoulder total responsibility for my pointless existence. But now, for whatever reason, I can look back with clarity. I’m at fault. I’ve wasted my life. Am I worse now, or better, after what I’ve done? I’m a murderer. I’ve killed three people, vile rapists admittedly, but humans all the same. It’s a lot to take in.
I pored over the newspaper each morning while holding my breath, and waited dry-mouthed for my picture to appear on the TV screen. It wasn’t until Thursday that there was any mention of my crime. Details were sketchy. The bodies had only been found the day before and the victims had been dead for days. It was the lead story yesterday. The police were asking for witnesses or any information that could help their investigation. In particular, they wanted to speak to a guy in a baseball cap who was seen leaving the scene around the time of the murders.
Scarlett’s SUV pulls into the forecourt of my block of flats. As I lock my front door and patter down the stairs, I allow myself a slight grin. It seems the authorities know nothing. That man they are searching for is me.
I slide into Scarlett’s Nissan Qashqai. She calls it her old car despite only getting it new three years ago. The smooth ride soothes me. It always feels as if I’m in a steamroller when I get back in my Focus. She says nothing and I detect tension, so I attempt some small talk.
‘Morning. Sorry I couldn’t drive, but my battery died. I had to accept a lift to work yesterday from my weird neighbour.’
‘No worries, sweetie. Did he miss the gear stick by mistake and touch your knee?’
‘I stabbed him with a pen, so he only did it once.’
‘Men, eh? They’re all scumbags.’
Scarlett’s always slagging men off, especially her husband, who she calls Terrible Tim. She reckons he stops her going out and doesn’t let her have any money. Seems to me with two cars and a black credit card, she doesn’t need any cash. Apparently, he checks her spending and gives her grief for anything he deems unsuitable.
‘Nice to see you’ve put make-up on.’
I check in the mirror. Apart from lipstick, I haven’t. I’m just ghost-white. Weirdly, my skin has cleared up though. Perhaps murder agrees with me, although more likely it’s to do with not boozing as much.
‘Thanks for taking me out, Scarlett. I need the distraction. Did you say on
the phone we were going shooting?’
‘Yes. Clay pigeon. What a pointless way to ruin a bright Saturday.’
Scarlett says her husband is new money, so he’s always trying to look like old money. Hence the country pursuits. She often takes me along; I think to show off to me. But I’d never get to do anything interesting like this otherwise, so I don’t mind at all. We went go-karting once. I loved it, and there was a superb BBQ afterwards.
We trundle down miles of quiet lanes and arrive at Bourne Shooting Lodge. The gravel parking space must hold a million pounds’ worth of cars, despite there only being eight vehicles. Ours is the worst of the lot, so perhaps Scarlett was right.
‘You should have brought the Evoque.’
‘I didn’t want to get it dirty.’ Her narrowed eyes indicate regret. Scarlett has a posh car, which she keeps for best. I’ve only ever seen her in it a few times. It’s a tough life.
I plod after her to the reception desk, mostly with my head down. There are about ten men chatting good-naturedly next to the counter. Some women chat together in the corner of the room. I expect scathing glances to come our way, but they don’t seem interested in our arrival. Scarlett grabs two bottles of water from a table.
‘We’ll wait outside,’ she says to me.
Through some double doors, her husband waves to us from a group of laughing men holding shotguns as casually as if they were books. He doesn’t come over. The view of rolling countryside is incredible. It’s freezing cold, yet clear and windless. I detect the first snowdrop tips poking out of the manicured beds. The trees and even the grass have a sharp edge to them. A perfect day for shooting, I would guess. It’s so peaceful that I relax further and begin to forget my worries.
‘What are you grinning at, Ellen? You look simple.’
‘It’s beautiful here.’
Scarlett grunts in reply.
‘Scarlett, why do you bother coming to these things?’
‘He makes me.’
‘Why do you bring me?’ The question slips out before I realise I’ve said it. Perhaps it was a combination of relaxation and exhaustion. But I already know. I’m here for support. She doesn’t fit in here any more than I do. A woman in a waitress outfit hands some small glasses from a tray to the men. Scarlett’s husband says something I can’t hear, but all the men laugh.
The waitress walks over to us, rolling her eyes. I smile and take a glass. Scarlett does too. We clink them and down the contents. I expected sherry, not whisky, and almost spray it back into Scarlett’s face. Judging by the expression on her face, she almost did the same. We giggle. Maybe it’s the instant warmth of the alcohol, but I’m glad I’m here. In a way, Scarlett and I only have each other now.
A bald man called Peter arrives and runs through a safety talk. He stares at me throughout, so I assume the rest have heard it before. I catch the odd appraising glance from the others present, but they aren’t unkind. They’re dressed similarly. There must be an outfitter where they all go.
We wander to a field, and the shooting begins. A cloud comes overhead, which darkens Scarlett’s mood.
‘Are you happy?’ she asks.
‘I never expected life to be like this, if that’s what you mean.’
I’m not sure she’s listening until I see a cheek twitch.
‘Nor me,’ she says.
‘I thought I’d have more friends.’
We both laugh, but tail off as she says, ‘Me too.’
I turn to her. ‘It’s crazy, but I kept thinking that once I sorted a man out, you know, got married, then the rest would come. I’d build my social life around us as a couple. With that mad thought in mind, I desperately threw myself into destructive relationships and ditched anyone who was boring, even if they were kind. I should have built my life around myself and my friends. Then the men could come to me. I’ve been a fool.’
A tear trickles down Scarlett’s face. ‘Me, too.’
Scarlett removes a hip flask from her pocket and takes a glug. She offers it to me, but I shake my head. My brain’s still fizzing from the nip we had earlier. Scarlett has my ration. Looks like I’ll be driving home. The instructor points at us to let us know we’re next.
‘Ready, ladies?’
‘Sure,’ Scarlett says, knocking another mouthful back. ‘Come on, let’s show these pansies the art of warfare.’
We approach the metal frame that people are shooting out of and watch. Tim is inside one. An orange disc rises from behind a tree and arcs through the air. It disappears intact, then another safely follows it, despite the sound of gunshot.
‘Aren’t they supposed to be trying to hit them?’ I ask.
‘You made me nervous,’ jokes Tim.
‘Perhaps you’re firing blanks,’ says Scarlett.
We giggle as he misses again, but then he gets six in a row.
‘It’s funny,’ I say. ‘I knew they weren’t real pigeons, but I thought they’d at least look like them.’ The giggles become open-mouthed guffaws.
Tim steps back with a raised eyebrow. ‘Think you ladies can do better?’
‘Too right, come on, Ellen. You go first.’
‘Have you done this before, Ellen?’ asks Tim.
‘I’ve played Space Invaders. Surely it’s the same idea.’
He smiles. It’s an oddly warm smile, without the leer I sometimes observe. For the next few minutes, Tim shows us what to do, starting with our dominant eye, and then following the target in an arc before pulling the trigger. Tim is a trained instructor. Even so, it’s bloody confusing. As he holds my arms and moves the gun through the motion, I detect a firm thing pushing against my arse. Typical. I turn around with a scowl.
‘Is your little friend pointing me in the right direction?’
He reddens, looks down, and raises his binocular case. I blush and jokingly grimace at him.
‘Scarlett, you kind of know what you’re doing. Go first. We’ll do ten in a row for a bit of fun. I’ll release the clays when you say either ready or pull. Choice is yours.’
I whisper a comment to Scarlett as Tim steps to the side and picks up a box with three buttons on it. ‘He’s in a pleasant mood.’
Scarlett tuts. ‘He’s showing off to his friends. Last night, he wanted sex and half-strangled me during it. Bastard.’ She grabs the shotgun from me and steps towards Tim, who passes her two cartridges. She takes aim. ‘Ready!’
A target comes flying out from the same place behind the trees. The trap must be in that spot. I wait for the bang, but there’s an eerie quiet. Scarlett rubs her eyes and turns back to me.
‘I could see three of them.’
‘You remember what Uncle Paulie said in Rocky? Hit the one in the middle.’
She hits two of her ten. She stands to the side and watches Tim load the gun for me.
‘Did you see three blokes got murdered?’ she asks me.
‘I saw some of it on the news. Do they know what happened?’
‘They don’t appear to have much idea, but they named the victims.’
Tim interrupts. ‘Try to remember what I said, Ellen. Don’t aim, just look. Follow the flight of it and try to hit the bottom right edge. Chin closer on the stock and relax. Ready?’
‘Ready!’ I trace the arc, close my left eye and squeeze. I lower the gun to see a cloud of dispersing dust and cracked clay in the air.’
‘Shot!’ says Tim.
‘Nice!’ says Scarlett. ‘One of the dead was Carl Quantrill. Didn’t he take your cherry?’
I clench my teeth. Why ask this now? Is she trying to distract me?
‘Ready!’ I raise the barrel too fast and jerk the trigger. I miss by miles.
‘If I’m honest, I was a willing victim of his, too,’ she says. ‘I fell for his I’m-going-to-be-a-star patter, although he was very considerate, if you get what I mean.’
Tim reloads the gun while giving Scarlett a dirty look. ‘Talk to her afterwards or she won’t be able to concentrate. I don’t want to hear it, either
. Relax, Ellen. That first one wasn’t a fluke. Follow the clay and squeeze the trigger.’
‘Ready.’ I unclench my jaw, steady my breathing, and blast the target to smithereens. It’s a thrill, and I smile. I turn to Scarlett, who’s ignoring Tim. She’s staring at the sky with a sneer.
‘Quantrill wasn’t nice to me afterwards though,’ I say.
‘Well, most men are arseholes. Feel free to accidentally miss and hit Tim instead. Aim for his binocular case.’
I laugh so hard I pull the trigger before the clay pigeon is in sight. Tim tuts next to me but takes it in good humour. Scarlett stays quiet, and I finish my ten. I slip into a zone and find it straightforward.
‘Well done, Ellen. Six out of ten for your first time is amazing. Come and meet the guys in the tent. They don’t get to meet many Lara Croft types.’
‘Actually, we’re off, hubby,’ says Scarlett. ‘Ellen’s going to try women from now on.’
She grabs my elbow and steers me away after I give Tim the shotgun. The men and women are in a group as we walk past. One of them waves, and I see some of the men look shy and bashful as they nod in our direction. A woman who looks a bit like Joanna Lumley gives me a thumbs up. Nice people, I think, and rather wish I weren’t leaving.
Scarlett falls into a drunken stupor when we get back in the car. I suspect she must have had a drink before she picked me up. Is being lonely worse than being stuck in an abusive marriage? I drive her home where she plants a slobbery kiss on my cheek before she gets out.
‘Keep the car, Ells. Bring it back when yours is fixed.’
She wobbles away, dropping her handbag at the door. I can’t help but smile until she slumps to the floor. Her shoulders shudder and she places her head in her hands. I run over and put my arm around her.
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 9