‘Hey, it’s okay. Don’t cry.’
Her tear-stained face turns to me. ‘I’m not sorry that Quantrill got killed. He used me like every other man I’ve ever met. I wish the rest would get what they deserve, too.’
I pull her in close to me. What she’s said could have come from my own mouth. I’ve no doubt I’m on borrowed time. The police will eventually find me. It’s up to me what I do with the weeks or maybe even days that I have left. What should I do with my remaining freedom?
25
Acting DCI Barton
Barton and Zander stood outside The Hartley Almshouses in Westgate and stared up at the creaking sign. Zander had been assigned DC Ewing as his partner, and they’d been looking into Carl Quantrill’s background. Zander had found out the day before from talking to Quantrill’s work colleagues that he drank regularly in The Hartley.
Barton had offered to check it out with him that evening since Ewing had a previous commitment. He thought it’d be nice to have a few beers and catch up at the same time. They had dressed casually and decided not to approach anyone when they first arrived to suss out what kind of place it was.
‘It’s been a while since I was out in town on a Saturday night,’ said Barton, blowing into his hands.
‘The young women will be pleased,’ replied Zander, whose huge parka made him look as if he was going ice fishing.
Barton pushed the front door of the pub open and paused when he saw they had split it into two bars. The last time he had come in here was when he arrested a bail absconder nearly fifteen years ago. He chose left as he recalled the toilets being that side. Barton surveyed the scene. Only tumbleweed was missing.
The few hardened drinkers were slumped at the bar on stools. It seemed the pub catered for the older end of the market. If this was rush hour, the place was in trouble.
The landlord wiped his hands on a tea towel and stared over the pumps at them. ‘What do you want?’
‘Two pints of OB, please,’ said Zander after checking the range.
The man smirked and poured them their drinks. An elderly gentleman next to them with no teeth grinned their way. As they left, the barman hummed the theme to Magnum P.I. Barton and Zander sat opposite each other in a booth.
Barton took a sip. ‘Nice to see we’ve still got it.’
‘Yes, Secret Squirrel has nothing on us.’
‘Lively place.’
‘I can’t wait to dance.’ Zander laughed. ‘Didn’t you recognise the barman? I can’t remember his name. We sent him down for dealing, must be six or seven years ago.’
Barton leaned out of his seat and peered at the bar. The humming man gave him the V-sign. Barton slumped back. ‘I recall now he’s waved at me. Irish guy. Four years for possession with intent. He’ll give us nothing and I suspect he’ll tell everyone else not to either.’
‘Good pint though.’ Zander took another appreciative swig.
‘Tell me what you and Ewing learned at Quantrill’s work.’
‘Ewing agreed to do the talking, and he did a cracking job. Quantrill’s team leader was an attractive, frosty woman aged around thirty and Ewing had her eating out of his hand. She confirmed a picture of him that we already suspected. Quantrill was a failed rocker who never grew up, and he still took advantage of groupies.’
‘And The Hartley connection?’
‘She said he played here for a couple of years. I’m guessing she may have fallen under Quantrill’s spell while dating and got hurt because she seemed pleased nobody wanted the band any more. She had also warned him lately for being rude to people at work. He drank a lot, used women, but he wasn’t violent with her, just uncaring and obnoxious.’
‘What did she say about Trevor Ash?’
‘She didn’t know him well, but said he was trouble.’
Barton raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you get hold of the woman who accused Quantrill of sexual assault?’
‘She’s disappeared, as a lot of them do when no one’s interested.’
‘Damn. Did Malik make any progress with Graham what’s-his-name?’
‘Duncan. Yep. He’s a drunk, but not an angry one. Malik visited his parents’ house and said it was sad. It sounded like his parents had given him every chance, but he was quite happy to sit about on benefits and drink cheap alcohol. He used to have a “man-with-a-van” business, helping people move house or get rid of things for extra cash. That finished when he got caught under the influence.’
‘Quantrill and Duncan don’t seem the type to instigate a violent brawl. This other guy, Ash, must be the one who started it. Any news on the fingernail scrapings and bloody dress?’
‘No, the lab results aren’t back yet. Sirena said too much time had passed for them to be 100% about the date of the blood, so the dress could have been there before, but that’s unlikely, and it’ll be a surprise if the two DNAs don’t match.’
‘Maybe it was Quantrill’s girlfriend and Ash wanted a piece. They fought and ended up stabbing or beating each other.’
‘It’s possible. She leaves somehow, and the bloke who arrives does a runner when he sees the scene. What else do we know about Ash?’
‘Strange and Zelensky have gone to his gym to ask questions.’ Zander exhaled deeply, puffing his cheeks out. ‘Jeez, all we’ve got is guesswork. There was zero evidence on CCTV. The nearest camera had been vandalised. None of the neighbours knows anything apart from our star witness, the short-sighted, slightly-deaf Italian next door. He spotted a man in a cap leaving, but that man has disappeared into the wind.’
The toothless guy from the bar stumbled past them to the toilets. Barton cleared his throat.
‘Can we have a quick word, please?’
He stopped and tapped his veiny nose. ‘You’ll be here about those three murders in the paper.’
Barton nodded. ‘Is this your local?’
‘I’ve been coming here on and off for thirty years. The three that died were in here regular.’
‘Were you in Saturday night?’
‘A drink would loosen my memory.’
Zander stood. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Two pints of Alpine.’
‘Why two?’
‘Save my old legs going back and forth.’
Barton chuckled as the man swung himself into Zander’s vacated seat.
‘Were they in here on Saturday?’ asked Barton.
After a scratch of his grey stubble, his eyes brightened. ‘They were, you know. Normally I couldn’t tell you one night from the next, but it was quieter than usual in here. I remember because they had someone else with them.’
Barton tensed. ‘A bloke in a baseball cap?’
‘Hardly. She was a looker. You know, a dolly-bird. She had a lovely dress on, legs up to here.’ His hand shot up in a salute.
Barton deduced that she’d be about eight feet tall if that were true.
‘What was she like? Young, old, fat, thin, white or black?’
‘Everyone’s young and thin to me, son. She was English with black hair, longish in a strange style at the front. Short white dress. Nice girl, even had a joke with us old fellas. That’s why I remember her so clearly.’
Zander returned and put the two drinks down. Barton updated him. Zander squinted as he thought what to ask. ‘It has to be her, then. Would you recognise her if you saw a photo?’
‘Her legs, yes. Not sure about her face. Why? She’s not dead as well, is she?’
Zander shrugged. ‘We haven’t found her and it’s important we do. Do you know anything else we might be interested in?’
‘She smelled nice.’
‘Did they leave together?’
The witness waged an internal battle before answering. ‘I don’t usually get involved in other people’s business, but that Ash was a horrible piece of work who jumped queues and never said please or thank you.’
Barton tried to drag the man back on track. ‘What time did they leave?’
‘No idea, because I left to
buy chips from MegaBite. The cheeky idiots in there asked if I was going clubbing. You know, today’s youngsters really piss me off. I’ve got no pity for those fools. Perhaps it was their day of reckoning, but I hope the girl’s all right.’
With that, he hauled himself to his feet and grabbed his drinks. He winked at Barton.
‘I’ll take them to the bar. I don’t want to be seen drinking with your lot.’
Zander glanced at Barton. ‘Do we let him finish his drinks?’
‘No, two more pints and his statement will be one long word. Hopefully we can get someone out on call to do an artist’s impression.’
‘Of her legs?’
Barton smiled, finished his drink and stood to leave. Both knew every little piece of information would help. The key was to build a picture before something else unpleasant happened.
26
The Ice Killer
The manager smiles at me as I rush to my desk with three seconds to spare. Scarlett’s car drove beautifully on the way here compared to my own. It was a real treat, one which I’d guess she has long stopped appreciating. I usually hate Mondays, but I’m in a chipper mood. I feel eyes on me and spot Brad staring from behind his PC. He waves, not caring who notices, which is a first. I nod back and look away.
I sit down and almost remove the scarf from my head. My positivity vanishes when I remember the state of my hair. Approximately a tenth of it came out this morning and is in my bin at home. It’s no wonder I’m all over the place at the moment. I’ll leave the scarf on. Perhaps no one will comment if I keep my head down. Some Muslims cover up, as does a Jehovah’s Witness girl who works in business support. I take call after call on autopilot and try not to think about anything.
At my break time, I log out of my phone and wander to the toilet. With a deep breath, I stare at myself in the mirror and drag off the scarf. I put my hand to my mouth. There’s a monk-like quality to what’s left of my hair. When I comb it now, chunks come out, which means only one immediate option remains.
A tear wells but doesn’t trickle down my cheek. I knew this day was coming and mourned the loss some time back. My doctor spoke plainly after running tests. Many women suffer alopecia. Considering the stress I’ve been under recently and over the years, it’s not a huge surprise. The medication can make things worse. I realise I might not have taken my meds this morning and, worryingly, I can’t remember taking yesterday’s. My mum used to remind me in her daily text.
The toilet door slams open. It’s too late to replace the scarf. I stand rigid and wait for whoever it is.
‘My God, time goes so slow here. How long do you reckon I can get away with having a nap in the bog?’
Scarlett stops next to me and our eyes meet in the mirror. Her gaze drifts around my head. She gives me a tiny smile.
‘Ah, Ellen. I’m sorry.’ She pulls me into an enormous hug, the like of which I’ve rarely experienced from anyone, never mind her, and I return it with interest.
‘I knew it was inevitable. I’ll just have to shave it off and get a wig.’ A little giggle escapes. ‘Those weren’t words I ever expected to say. Who the hell’s going to want me now?’
‘Some men prefer short hair on women.’
‘Gallows humour, eh? What would we do without it? I could put on red make-up, glue little horns to my head, and look like Darth Maul.’
‘Kinky, now you’re talking.’ Scarlett holds my hands. ‘I’ve never told anyone this, but I wore a wig for a few years.’
I examine her perfectly coiffured blonde bob. ‘No way, when?’
‘Years ago. You know how I was after getting left at the altar. I barely functioned. I drank to forget, and couldn’t see the point in it all. Work got even more stressful because I was hungover every day. My hair started coming out when I brushed it. Not as much as yours, admittedly, but it was horrible, really thin and greasy.’
‘Did you get a wig on the NHS?’
‘Yes, it was okay actually, bit sweaty, but then I got with Tim. He bought me one shortly after we met that was made specifically for my exact head size. Nobody ever noticed.’
‘Was it expensive?’
‘Fifteen hundred pounds.’
‘Wow, so much. That was lovely of him. Did he mind you wearing it?’
Scarlett looks oddly confused, as though she doesn’t want to tell me the truth.
‘You know what men are like. Every hole’s a goal, even if it’s a bald one.’
‘Yuck. You’ve got such a dirty mouth sometimes. It was nice that he paid for it though, and that he still fancied you.’
‘Terrible Tim probably caused some of the hair loss.’
I decide that’s not true, especially seeing as he shelled out that much for it after just meeting her, but there’s no point arguing. Does it make it less of a gesture if you’re rich, or is that being unfair?
I run my hands through my hair and more comes out. Now that is unfair. Many people live such privileged existences and breeze through the years, whereas I’m going to end up looking like an extra from Star Trek. At least Scarlett cares, but it makes me miss my mum more than anything. What I’d give right now to be able to go to her house. Everything was plain and of another era there. Even half the food was out of date, and it smelled a little odd, but all that was reassuring. And you can’t replace the trust and comfort that your own mother provides. In a way, I’m lucky, because I knew that a long time ago when she helped me rebuild my life. I always cherished every moment with her. But that leaves a gaping hole now and doesn’t seem much of a comfort.
It’s strange, but the night of the deaths already seems distant and vague; almost as if that evening occurred in a film I watched. It’s as though the desolation of today has washed away my guilt. The more I think about it, the more I believe they deserved it. Who would defend their actions?
Quantrill also told me where to find Vickerman, who appeared in my life not long after Quantrill used me. Vickerman was the one who really broke me. What he did was worse than the rest put together. Perhaps he should pay for his actions as well. I search my feelings and realise that I would look forward to seeing him again, and not just for revenge. If he answers my questions honestly, I might even leave him be.
But only if he feels guilty. He needs to see what he created. It’s a strange thing to consider killing someone, even if you’re not really going to do it. But somehow my thoughts keep returning to how to do it if necessary, and, perhaps more importantly, how not to get caught.
I must just be confused and lost. I watch enough police shows to know it’s only a matter of time before the game is up. It’s possible I have got away with the men I killed in self-defence, but if I took more lives and was careless, I would spend the rest of my life behind bars. Imagine knowing you’d never be free again. It’d be a prison in your mind as well as your body.
‘You all right? You’re grinding your teeth,’ says Scarlett.
‘Sorry, I was thinking about my mum.’
She shakes my headscarf out and fixes it in place. ‘Come around this evening. Tim often brings Thai food home at the start of the week, although the git usually says I’ve eaten too much of it. We’ll order in otherwise. I’ll shave your head afterwards.’
‘Very kind.’
‘Sorry, honey, but yours is too far gone. I’ve still got that wig and it won’t be forever. My hair grew back when I returned to the gym, took hold of the alcohol problem, and then there was the pregnancy too.’
That seems an extremely air-brushed version of events, but I appreciate her kindness. Would it be better if I did it alone? Cutting my hair off might make me feel vulnerable, but if I want to be strong and in control, I should take responsibility. I change my mind.
‘No, it’s okay. I think that’s something I need to do myself. Could you bring the wig in tomorrow and I’ll cut it then?’
‘Sure. Here, you heard the latest on those murders? Apparently, they were brutal. Blood everywhere! I can’t wait to watch the news tonig
ht. It’s a shame they took our work Internet access away because it’s not the same on a phone screen.’
Scarlett is obsessed with watching the news on TV. She says her life is so uninteresting that she loves the drama and tragedy of it all.
‘Do you think they deserved to die, Scarlett?’ I ask.
‘Too right.’
27
Acting DCI Barton
Barton had arrived at work on Monday with enthusiasm, but they still had little to go on. Strange knocked and entered his office looking demotivated.
‘Sorry, John. The manager of the gym rang me this morning, and we learned nothing new. Ash was a known steroid abuser and all-round numpty, but it seems most people steered clear of him. The manager said Quantrill attended for a while but cancelled his membership. Other than that, Ash worked out alone. I’ve talked to Zander and neither of us know what to do next.’
Barton rubbed the sides of his head as he stared at her.
‘Do you need to ask the master for his opinion?’ he said.
‘That’s right, but yours will do instead.’
He grinned. ‘Sum it up for me.’
‘We have three unexplained deaths. The crime scene has been compromised by persons unknown. We have an unidentified male who should be able to help, but we can’t locate him. There’s also an unidentified woman involved who is probably the one they were drinking with at a pub earlier. Intel gives us nothing. Media appeals led to the usual nutcases calling in. CSI have revealed they think the semen was fresh on the dress.’
Strange took a deep breath. ‘The most likely explanation is that the three men had a drunken fight and killed each other, but the wiping of prints suggests something more sinister. A ripped dress indicates rape. The woman could have attacked them, but more likely defended herself. There might even be two female footprints, which could mean another female was involved. Or the man seen leaving the scene could have been a boyfriend and murdered one or more as some kind of retaliation for rape. In fact, it could have been any combination of those things.’
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 10