It seems the drugs have ruined their minds as well as their bodies. I look to see if Vickerman has anything else to say, but he coughs and coughs. It starts Quinn off. He slumps back next to Vickerman on the sofa. I shake my head.
‘It’s a shame we lost touch, what with you two doing so wonderfully for yourselves.’
I’m surprised by my boldness in risking Quinn’s anger, but he’s not the force of old.
Vickerman wipes his mouth with his sleeve. ‘We’re getting clean. Have you got some cash? Only we’re waiting on a cheque to clear and haven’t any food.’
It’s the biggest lie since Adam and Eve said, ‘What apple?’ My arm aches where Quinn grabbed me. ‘My money and cards are at home, so no.’
‘Come back at the weekend, we’ll have some fun like old times,’ says Quinn.
They sit there nodding and smiling at that. It’s the exact image of when they told me what I had to do all those years ago. I knew I didn’t have a choice. The next few months were a rabbit hole I never want to end up down again. I plumbed new depths, and they held my hand and forced me to carry on. There’s no regret from these two, and there never will be. These men are spent and worthless, and I need to hurt them.
‘I’ll come back Saturday night with some money. It’ll be like old times.’ I wink at them. Quinn’s face is hard to fathom, but Vickerman returns my gesture.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Did you hear about what happened down the street?’
I feel myself tense. ‘Yeah, wasn’t you two, was it?’
Quinn sneers. ‘Bunch of dicks deserved it.’
‘I never knew their names, but Quantrill sounds familiar. I can’t remember where I know the name from.’ Vickerman smiles as he seems to look at me properly for the first time. ‘What’s with the scarf?’
‘My hair’s falling out.’
He removes his beanie. ‘Mine, too.’
I leave quietly laughing to myself, but stop outside. I wouldn’t normally chuckle at someone else’s misfortune, even if he did resemble that guy in the wheelchair from Little Britain. Screw them, anyway, they’re only after what they can get out of me. I walk back to the car and slam the door shut. Those itching, gurning peckerheads will climb the walls when I don’t turn up on Saturday night. There’s nothing worse than waiting for drugs that don’t arrive. They deserve to suffer.
I put Scarlett’s car through its paces on the way home, and I’m grinning when I pull into the car park for my flat. My grin fades when a man in a suit steps towards my vehicle. Trent, standing beside him, waves and disappears inside. There’s something familiar about this tall man’s face and walk, yet I’m pretty sure I don’t know him. I’d suspect a debt collector, but he’s nervous. His mismatched grey trousers and brown jacket could have been chosen for anonymity.
‘Ellen?’
‘Who are you?’ I smile, which puts the man at ease, because he stops fiddling with the trilby hat that he holds.
‘I came when I heard about your mother. I’m sorry I missed the funeral, but I’ve been ill for a long time.’
‘She wouldn’t have minded.’
‘No, perhaps not, but I should have been there, for your sister and you.’
Close up, he’s taller than I realised. His facial features remind me of my sister. He has her nose and the same dark-green eyes.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m your dad.’
30
The Ice Killer
I step back in stunned surprise, then stare into his eyes for signs of deceit. They implore me to believe him, yet they seem shaded. He drops his gaze to the floor. Is it weakness I detect, or shame?
‘Do you mean stepfather?’
‘No, I was there at your birth. I held you while they cleaned up your mother. I hated the name Sue Ellen because it morphed into Swellen. Eventually it became just Ellen. Your mum was the only one who kept calling you Sue Ellen, and in the end only when you were naughty. Don’t you remember being called Swellen? I suppose you were pretty young.’
‘Anyone could know that story.’
Despite my words, Swellen registers deep inside my brain even though I’ve been Ellen for as long as I can recall. His deep voice is familiar, too.
‘Forgive me for doubting you, but my father died decades ago.’
I glare at him, and now it’s him who backs away. He stops and stands straighter.
‘Please, give me ten minutes. I should have been here for the funeral, but I choked at the last minute. Did it go well?’
‘As well as those things go. You could say it was a nice one.’
I look him up and down. He seems scared of his own shadow. I don’t feel as if I’m in any danger. In fact, after the time I’ve had recently, it’s him who should be worried.
‘Are you for real?’
He nods once, firmly. I shrug and beckon him to follow me. He keeps a respectful distance between us as we reach the top floor. I usher him in and watch as his eyes flash over my pictures, photographs and ornaments. I wonder if he’s scoping the joint until he turns and smiles. ‘May I?’
He stops at a picture of my mother and frowns.
‘Pamela was a beautiful woman.’
I stand next to him, needing to peer up into his face, and for the first time I sense a wiry strength. My sister’s nearly six feet tall and we were both the tallest in our classes for a long time until a few of the boys overtook us. My sister and I towered over my mother. She was a quiet, consistent type, who wanted a peaceful life. I search my mum’s expression in the photo for signs of sadness, but there are none. It’s strange to think of her as a young mother with the man standing by my side.
‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘No, it’s okay. I won’t take much of your time and then I’ll get going.’
My mouth drops open again.
‘The least you can do is stay for a drink. You’re not turning up here, saying you’re my father, checking out the photos, and clearing off. It doesn’t work like that. Where the hell have you been?’
He sits at my small kitchen table and covers his face with his hands. I’m not sure if he’s crying. I fill the kettle and get two cups out. The water boils and I make us two milky coffees, which I place on the table. I decide I don’t care if he likes his with sugar or not. I scrape the chair back opposite and sit down.
‘Well?’
His eyes are red. ‘I was sick. Suppose I’ve always been a little that way. I have serious depression, and I hear voices sometimes. They tell me to do unpleasant things, but I don’t. I just have to concentrate really hard to stop myself, and I can end up in a kind of trance. The doctors call it a catatonic state. I can be in it for ages, months once.’
‘What are you saying – that you’ve been in an institution all this time?’
He smiles and his eyes shine in the same way as Lucy’s. ‘We like to call them psychiatric hospitals, but some of it, yes.’ I detect a glimpse of my sister’s dry humour there, too.
‘Why didn’t Mum tell me? Mental illness affects most families. I needed a father, even if he wasn’t there all the time.’
He struggles with what he has to say. He spits it out. ‘I did bad things.’
I lean away. ‘You hit us, hit Mum?’
‘No, never!’
‘What, then?’
‘I would sink into a black rage and no one could talk to me. I’d stomp around the house and frighten everyone. Your mum threw me out. I had to live with strangers, and my grip on reality slipped. They sectioned me. I didn’t know what was going on.’
His answer seems contrived. My mum wasn’t the type to throw anyone out.
‘You could have written, paid the odd visit. Just knowing you cared would have helped.’
‘I spent ten years in one place. They wouldn’t let me go. Said I was too sick. I did come back home once though. It took me a while to find you after so long as you’d moved house. I chose a dreadful moment because when I turned up it was the morning your sister was
getting married. Your mum pushed me out of the door. Shouted how dare I turn up on her special day.’
I also missed my sister’s wedding, which wasn’t fair of me. Vickerman had me hooked on drugs and living a desperate life by then. I have consoled myself with the fact that I would only have ruined it, and I was sick, but isn’t this what my dad is saying?
‘Did you speak to my sister?’
‘No, she was getting her hair done at a neighbour’s.’
‘Did you ask after me?’
‘Of course. Your mum cried. They didn’t know where you were. You’d gone missing six months earlier. They’d looked all over, put posters up and been on the radio, but nothing. She begged me to leave you alone. Pamela said she told you that I was dead, and it was best to keep it that way.’
‘Surely my sister wanted you in her life?’
The shame I detected earlier surfaces. He whispers, ‘She was older than you. She remembers my…’ he searches for the right word ‘… behaviour.’
It’s a lot to take in. We sip our drinks in silence. I hate to think what his behaviour might have been, but my mother’s dead and my sister is a stuck-up judgemental type whom I never see. We all act differently when we’re not in our normal mind. I’ve been in one of those hospitals myself. Maybe he and I could build something together, yet I can’t help lashing out.
‘Well, you missed the wake. What do you want to do now? Take me to McDonald’s? Do some jobs around the flat for me? I’ve had no offers for Christmas this year.’
And there’s the guilt again as he rises from his seat.
‘I should go. Look, I’m not a good person to know. I’m still not completely better. Finding out one of your daughters was missing and the other one was going to walk down the aisle on her own was too much to bear. I lost control again, and they sent me back to the hospital. You’re better off without me in your life.’
‘Why did you come to my flat, then? How do you know I live here?’
‘The people at Pamela’s old house had this place as a forwarding address. I always wanted to hear how you and your sister were. Pamela used to keep me updated occasionally, but obviously the letters stopped when she died. I suppose I have no right to know about your lives.’
‘No, you don’t. I can’t believe this. My mum told me you were dead, yet she was still in touch with you. Did you never consider what my life was like?’
He moves quickly and pulls the front door open. I think he’s going to flee down the stairs, but he stops. He grimaces as though in pain. The words when they come are spoken slowly.
‘You’re right. I’m a selfish man. It was a mistake to come, I understand that now, but I have little in my life. It’s a poor existence. I sometimes consider ending it but, honestly, I can’t be bothered. Dying seems too dramatic. I kind of hoped that perhaps we could send birthday cards to each other and the like, keep in touch a bit. Maybe pictures of grandkids, or holidays. Apart from my children, my existence will have been for nothing.’
Unbelievable. He needs to get out before I throw him out.
‘Brilliant. You rock up after all this time, then say goodbye, because it’s too much trouble to be a proper part of my life.’ Suddenly, I’m exhausted. ‘Just go.’
He places his hat on his head and shuffles backwards out of the door, seemingly also wearied, and I hear his slow footsteps on each step. I don’t know why, but I follow him down the stairs. I stop at the entrance and watch as he hobbles across the car park.
‘Dad! Wait.’
He turns with hope.
‘Christmas and birthdays. You write first.’
He beams, and the years drop away. Perhaps he grinned like that as he named me Ellen. He tilts his trilby and there’s a definite spring in his step as he departs from view.
I shake my head. Can today get any weirder? It would help to chat to someone. I hear the TV blaring from Trent’s flat and can’t think of anyone else. He rarely locks his door because he never goes anywhere.
When he doesn’t reply, I assume the TV is too loud and walk in. Trent is sitting on the sofa, manhood in hand, trousers next to him, intently staring at the TV, and furiously pleasuring himself. He rolls off the sofa in a vain attempt to turn the TV off as opposed to covering himself up. Nothing could shock me further today. I approach his struggling body and check out what was so enticing on the box.
‘Have you been watching Dempsey and Makepeace again?’
‘I was thinking of you. You remind me of her.’
‘Rubbish, I look more like him. Put your trousers on and fetch your hair clippers.’
He walks naked to his bathroom, returns with his clippers and passes them to me, still with no trousers. It’s lucky the clippers need to be plugged in or I’d be tempted to turn him into Action Man. I walk out of his flat, shaking my head, and leave his door wide open. Hopefully a neighbour will look in and call the police. Or maybe not.
Back on the top floor, I close my flat door and look in the cutlery drawer. I have the sharpest bacon scissors on the planet. It doesn’t take long to trim my hair down to stubs. It looks weird in the mirror, as though I have male pattern baldness as the crown is so thin. With an understanding of why men shave their heads, I do the same. I look so much younger, almost innocent. Without the hair, it’s hard not to focus on my eyes, which have a cool glare to them. I suppose that’s not surprising, but it’s unnerving. I’m not sure I like what I see.
From the side, my head resembles a near perfect egg. I hope that’s apt. Today, and all its strangeness, can be a new beginning.
31
Acting DCI Barton
Barton observed DC Zelensky through the blinds as she flew into the office towards her seat. Checking his clock, he saw she was three minutes late. Winter hadn’t loosened its grip, but the forecast snow hadn’t arrived, so she’d need a better excuse than traffic. Strange sat steely-eyed at her desk. Zelensky perched on a chair at a corner table and exhaled long and slow. Even from his office, he could detect the sheen of moisture on her forehead. He picked up his phone and rang Strange.
Strange, on the other hand, entered his room with a spring in her step. He commented as such. She beamed at him.
‘We’re cracking the drug case. I received a call this morning from one of the parents of the kids who overdosed. His daughter nearly died. She’s told him everything, who she got them off, who he got them off, and so on. Zander extracted something similar last night from a known user in Werrington. Sounds as if Zander crossed a few lines, but if the info matches, we’re closing in.’
‘I saw from the analysis that it wasn’t a Chinese lab.’
‘No, they think there’s an Indian lab in Birmingham. I’ve got a call booked with Balsall Heath station at eleven. They’ve had three deaths over there and nearly twenty ODs, but they think they’re close as well.’
‘Excellent. I noticed your bouquet arriving. I picked them from my own garden.’
‘Very funny. It was a making-up gesture from Sirena. We had our first row.’
‘That’s good. Holly and I are only communicating when we’re shouting.’
Strange didn’t even smile. ‘We’ve been getting on well, small steps, but we got onto the topic of marriage and children. She’s not interested in either.’
Barton raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, the dreaded questions that come to most relationships, often after around six months, so you’re early. It’s the point where you jockey for position, some even call it a power struggle, and decide if what you have could be forever.’
‘You’ve been married for years. How do you make it work?’
‘Wanting the same things is important. Then it’s often about not giving up.’
Strange’s face dropped. Sirena and she had a big hurdle approaching. He wondered if they could jump it together.
Strange changed the subject. ‘I take it you want a chat with Zelensky.’
‘Almost. I want you to speak to her. I’ll be here to help.’
Stran
ge rang Zelensky’s desk phone. She arrived with a pinched face and brief eye contact. She attempted a smile, which showed lipstick on her front teeth.
‘How are things, Maria?’ asked Strange.
‘Fine.’
‘Everything okay at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know why we’ve asked you to come in for a chat?’
Zelensky glanced up, close to tears. ‘My timekeeping? I was barely late. This job is my world, so please don’t give me a warning.’
‘How would you describe your performance at work recently?’
‘Not bad. As good as most.’
Strange gently rested her hand on Zelensky’s arm. ‘But you could be better than most.’
Zelensky crumpled, and she sobbed with her head bowed, shoulders heaving. Barton nodded to Strange as she held Zelensky’s hand. Nothing like a compliment to undermine a determined defence. At that moment, it was hard to believe there were only six years between the two women in front of him.
When Zelensky had pulled herself together, she spoke as if relieved to get it off her chest.
‘I reckoned I’d seen it all as a PC, but I hadn’t. I saw The Snow Killer’s victims and thought I could handle it, but as a detective you’re around the bodies longer and need to keep looking at the images. They stay with you. The Soul Killer appeared in my dreams. Post-mortem faces remained in my head when I woke up. Sleeping became something out of reach, and I started having a few drinks to drop off, which helped at first. I was busy during the day, worked long hours, and then passed out at night. Now nothing helps.’
‘You won’t be the first or last officer to use alcohol to forget.’
‘How do you guys cope?’
‘DCI Barton spends every spare minute practising t’ai chi.’
Barton did his finest spiritual pose from behind the desk. Zelensky gave a little smile, and some colour returned to her cheeks.
‘Exercise will help,’ continued Strange. ‘But the best way is to talk about it with others. You can always speak to either of us, or Occupational Health if you want someone out of the department.’
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 12