Barton noticed a slight eye-roll from Zelensky. Many worried that signs of weakness would go on their permanent record.
‘You get on with DC Ewing, don’t you?’ asked Strange.
Vivid red blossomed in Zelensky’s cheeks. ‘Yes, we joined on the same day. We’ve had a few dates over the years, but I’m focusing on my career. I want to be like you, Sergeant.’
Strange also blushed. ‘I struggle as well with the things I see. Everyone does because it’s a tough job. The bodies won’t stop coming, but alcohol is a short-term solution. Eventually it becomes a bigger problem than the sleepless nights. Stick with Ewing, just as close friends if that’s all you need. Your colleagues understand and might need the same support from you. It really does help to know you aren’t going through this alone and your feelings and thoughts are normal.’
‘I understand, but Ewing’s not suitable boyfriend material.’
Strange smiled. ‘What man is? And remember, you must have a life outside this job, or you’ll become a clichéd statistic and burn out.’
Barton had detected a barb in Zelensky’s last comment.
‘Focus on doing healthy things like regular jogs, walks or family visits,’ he said. ‘A planned holiday to look forward to is how many cope, including me. I hear skiing is fun. DC Malik is at the gym most nights. I’ve retired from that injured, but he’s always looking for workout buddies. You need to do simple things with friends, or you just spend your life dealing with criminals. Most people in the city are grounded, helpful, friendly, law-abiding and nice. If they weren’t, it would be total carnage out there, and we’d have to police a war zone.’
Zelensky leaned back in her seat and relaxed. ‘I’m not getting a warning?’
‘No, we think you have a promising future,’ said Barton. ‘But take this chat seriously. Remember, if you’re not at your best, it’s not just you who could be in danger.’
‘I understand. Thank you, I won’t let you down.’
Barton shook Zelensky’s hand as she left, but he shared another look with Strange after she’d gone. They both knew not everyone survived a career in the police.
32
The Ice Killer
I’m going to see Quinn and Vickerman on Saturday night after all. I want them to know what happened to me. Maybe they can give me some answers about that lost time. They need to understand what they did, even though I bet they don’t care. I’ve also had a horrible thought. Back then, I complained to Vickerman about how Quantrill took my virginity. Vickerman’s addled mind hasn’t clicked, but it might. I need to know if he’s recalled that information. If he does, it’s a worry.
It’s not like me to be this purposeful. Normally, I struggle to decide what to have for breakfast and end up having toast for the fifth day in a row. I feel more alive somehow, yet also a little out of control. I’m not used to being so upbeat.
I tossed and turned last night thinking about my father. It doesn’t seem right that he has a life and I’m not part of it, even after what he did to us. I’ll meet him again and try to persuade him to be closer to me. Like my dad, I had long ago decided I was better off on my own and gradually cut myself off, even when my therapist had said that it was hazardous for me. Perhaps I should start my sessions again, but I genuinely thought I could cope.
Scarlett, the scatter-brained cow, forgot to bring the wig in on Tuesday, so I’m driving to collect it now. I don’t mind as I have little else to do and it’s a reason to drive her Qashqai. The psychiatrists encouraged me to spend more time with other people. However, I’m pretty sure they didn’t mean someone as morally corrupt as Scarlett.
There are tyre tracks across their lawn and through a flower bed. I half expect to find Scarlett’s Evoque upside down in the pond, but it’s in front of the garage. Tim answers the door and has a big grin for me.
‘Come in, come in. How’s things? It’s good to see you. Scarlett looks forward to your visits. She struggles out here with all her friends living in the city.’
What friends? I smile and bite back the comment. ‘Why don’t you move, then?’
‘We love it out here. The Little Man has so much space.’
Little Man Dwayne has more than outgrown his nickname. ‘Where is the terror?’
‘He’s returned to boarding school. Didn’t Scarlett tell you that he started last September? She was keen for him to get a good education.’
I detect his lack of enthusiasm for the idea. He also looks perturbed that Scarlett hasn’t told me.
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ he asks.
Here we go. ‘Why?’
‘A few of the guys at the clay-pigeon shoot took a shine to you and asked.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘These are decent men. Bankers, lawyers, accountants.’
‘They sound smashing. Where’s Scarlett?’
‘In the garage.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Don’t ask.’ He smiles, though.
When most people say garage, they are usually talking about a thin building that the family car won’t fit in and is therefore full of crap awaiting a trip to the tip. Scarlett and Tim’s, however, could accommodate a couple of buses. The raised area in the corner even contains a gym. I assume she’s there. Instead, I find her cursing at the washing machine.
‘I didn’t realise you knew how to work one of those,’ I say.
‘Bloody thing. I couldn’t open the door and thought I would have to take a crowbar to it. I unscrewed something at the bottom and a load of water poured out. There are so many programmes. Which do I choose?’
‘Doesn’t your – now, what is it you call her? – housekeeper do that?’
‘Maid, she was our maid, and yes, she did. She’s left.’
‘Wow, another one. You’ve been through more servants than the Queen. What this time, stealing again?’
‘She shouted in my face that she wasn’t a slave and stormed off. Next thing I know, she’s driven through the flower bed and disappeared. Nothing was missing, so I wasn’t too bothered. She left an enormous pile of washing on the floor, but it smells funny.’
‘Eh?’
‘Yep, I reckon she pissed over it.’
I can’t help laughing. ‘Sorry to hear that, but can I distract you from your terrible rich-person problems? My dad showed up.’
‘No way. I thought he was dead. That is juicy news. Come on, let’s get out of here. Men like playing with machines, so Tim can sort this out.’
As we are about to leave, I spot the shotguns hanging against the far wall.
‘Aren’t they supposed to be locked away?’
‘God knows. I reckon Tim enjoys looking at them. They’re unloaded. He keeps the cartridges hidden under the sofa in his office, thinking I don’t know where they are. Maybe he’s worried I’ll grab the gun when he’s being an arsehole.’
‘Things aren’t that bad, are they?’
She ponders that for a second, which is worrying. ‘Sometimes.’
I suspect Tim wouldn’t be familiar with the washing machine either, so before we leave I pick a sock off the pile and give it a cautious sniff. It smells more like lavender to me. I wonder briefly why people like Scarlett always assume the worst. We walk through the rear door and into the kitchen, where she listens to my news in amazement.
‘Let me get this right. Your mum and your sister lied to you all these years about him being dead when in fact he was in a loony bin.’
‘Yes, it’s hard to believe.’
‘Why didn’t he visit or write? He can’t have been in one all that time.’
‘He reckons he was really ill and they wouldn’t release him for ten years. Although he said that my mother was in touch with him.’
‘That’s mental. And now he doesn’t want any contact because he’s not worth knowing?’
‘Correct.’
Scarlett plays with her fringe for a few moments. ‘That doesn’t ring true. Tell me exactly what he said.’
&nb
sp; I repeat his words as close to how I remember them. She clicks her fingers.
‘You’re not being suspicious enough. Those places can’t keep you in if you want to leave, not for that amount of time, I’m sure. You checked out of your hospital when you felt ready, even though they said you should stay longer.’
‘What if he was proper bonkers, and the courts sent him?’
‘That’s more likely, but not for exactly ten years. That sounds like a sentence. Maybe he’s not worth knowing because he did something terrible.’
To my horror, and for obvious reasons, that makes sense. We turn and stare at her laptop.
‘What’s his full name?’
‘Ted Deacon.’
‘Not the same surname as yours?’
‘No, my mum said they were never married. I had her last name growing up. That’s a bit odd, too. Don’t they usually use the father’s surname for the children, in the expectation that marriage will follow?’
She shrugs and enters her password. I pause while she taps away. I have a sinking feeling my life is about to change.
‘No, nothing.’
‘Phew.’
‘Wait, what does Ted stand for?’
‘Theodore.’
Scarlett hits the keys again. She lets out a little gasp.
‘Holy shit, your dad was a bad man.’
She spins the laptop so I can read the screen. The letters are large and bold.
Double killer, Theodore Deacon, sent back to Rampton psychiatric hospital.
33
The Ice Killer
Scarlett reads the rest of the article. She shakes her head.
‘Wow, he was scary. It says here that Theodore Deacon stabbed a woman in the homeless hostel he was staying in after she spat in his face and attacked him with the knife which he ended up using on her. When they entered his room afterwards, his cupboards had defaced photos of her on them. They’d been dating but recently split up. During questioning by the prosecution, he had a complete psychotic episode, and the judge declared him unfit for trial. He was released after ten years, seemingly well again.
‘Some time later, a burglar broke into your dad’s apartment through an open window. He woke up, disturbed him, chased him down the street, and strangled him to death. Apparently, two neighbours tried to pull him off but were unable to do so. Deacon only let go when the police sprayed CS gas in his eyes. Again, while on trial, he displayed manic mood swings and hallucinations.’
‘It appears my dad didn’t take kindly to being hassled.’
Scarlett almost lets something slip but manages to prevent the words from forming. Just as well – that will be about the other thing we agreed never to mention again.
‘Got anything to drink?’ I ask to change the subject.
‘Of course! We had a delivery from Naked Wines, so take your pick.’
We settle in front of the TV in her snug. We never go in the lounge because Tim’s always watching sport in there. She leaves it on the news. After a load of political rubbish, there’s a report on the local bulletin about a deadly batch of fentanyl that’s doing the rounds. The police are appealing for information. A raid in Birmingham recovered over ten thousand pills. They believe a similar amount is in the Peterborough area.
‘I should slip a few of those in Tim’s Horlicks. I checked the will, and I’ll be more than fine.’
I glance over to see if she’s joking, but she’s expressionless. She tops her glass up for the second time. I’ve had one sip of mine. I’m not in the mood for her drunken bellyaching about what a git Tim is, so I make my excuses. She’s still in the happy stage, so I endure another sloppy kiss through the window and I’m told not to worry about returning the car to them in any hurry. She’ll use the Evoque. Somehow she remembers the wig and leaves me pondering her words as she goes to fetch it.
When she returns with a victorious smile, I decide to warn her against any crazy drunken behaviour, especially now I’ve heard where the ammunition is for those guns.
‘If you killed Tim, you’d go to prison. It would be very different from this,’ I say through the car window, while waving my hand around at the house and grounds.
‘I think I’d like it.’
‘How so?’
‘More sex. Admittedly, non-consensual from the prison bullies.’
‘Ah, I see. You’re harbouring lesbian jail fantasies.’
‘Don’t we all?’
I smile and decline to answer. I had an experience when I was receiving my treatment. It was fun, but the thing I missed most was hanging onto broad shoulders.
‘I prefer men,’ I reply. ‘If I got sent to jail, I’d have to get a butch partner. Tell her to fart and burp a lot and keep messing the cell up after I’d tidied it.’
She snorts, another sign of impending drunkenness. I’m surprised I’ve said such a thing out loud. That’s not the kind of comment I’d make usually. Besides, maybe it wouldn’t be too terrible behind bars. Maybe I’d have more friends inside. There’d be no more money worries, and no more endless days in that godawful call centre. I drive off and toot my horn at the gates.
On my own, though, my mood darkens. Everything that’s occurred suddenly becomes real. During the drive back, I realise I’m different since Mum died. The person I created after my breakdown all those years ago has crumbled away now I’m completely on my own. I used that person as a shell of respectability to protect me from the world, and the world from me. My mother was part of that cocoon, and she’s gone. I had hoped to be something new and shiny, but what’s emerged is unstable and angry.
I felt invincible earlier, and I liked it, but that seems a distant memory now. Instead I feel an approaching storm inside. The temperature has dropped, the wind has changed, the day has darkened and the first squall has arrived, but the hurricane isn’t here yet. Let’s hope it passes me by.
As I approach home, I drive past Sweet Millie’s, the charity shop. It’s Thursday, the night of her stock check. The angel on my shoulder wins, and I pull up outside and park. The door’s locked, but I can see a light on in the back. After a brief wait, she smiles broadly and opens up.
‘Hi, you came.’
‘Yes, sorry I’m a bit late, but I hated the thought of you tackling that room on your own.’
‘You’re too kind. I’ve mostly been staring in awe at it because it’s grown since you were previously here.’
I catch her looking at the scarf on my head. Last time, I had hair. Like my manager, she doesn’t mention it though.
‘Shall we have a coffee first? I could do with a boost,’ she says.
I give her a thumbs up. It’s a phrase my nana used. I’m so reminded of her – they even look similar – that a lump has formed in my throat. Soon, we’re ripping open bin bags and laughing our heads off at the unusual contents. She swings the biggest bra I’ve ever seen in my life around her head as if it were a sling. It’d be some weapon with a ten-pin bowling ball in it. She has a great eye though and pulls garments out that should fit me and look nice. An hour flies by, and the powerful emotions that threatened to swamp me fade away. Talking to her is like chatting to a counsellor.
We walk through the shop at the end, having carried on until past 9 p.m., both carrying bags with a smile.
‘Hang on,’ she says, and walks back to the counter to remove a box under the till. ‘Do you want these?’
I open the flaps and think for a moment it contains guinea pigs.
‘Take them home, try them on. You already know people give everything you could imagine. Some will be cheap dressing-up stuff, but we get expensive ones, too. Cancer is the end for many of us. My sister had a lovely wig before she died.’
I’m not sure what to say, but don’t feel like talking about it. I bob my head.
‘Ellen, things will improve, trust me. One of my friends had an awful pregnancy. Most of her hair and some of her teeth fell out, but she lived a full and happy life.’
‘Did they grow back?’
<
br /> She chuckles. ‘No, neither of them did, but she had a cracking set of falsies.’
I smile. ‘Thanks. I do appreciate it.’
She puts an arm around my shoulder. ‘Thank you. Clearing that room is usually a terrible job, but I had fun tonight. You know, loneliness is a killer as well.’
As I lean into her, I think how right she is.
34
Acting DCI Barton
Zander and Strange barged into Barton’s office without knocking. He was debating if it would make him look like a dictator if he made them go back outside when Strange spoke.
‘The DNA test for the semen on the dress matches Quantrill. They picked it up off the bed in the van, too. The DNA of the blood which we assume is from the owner of the dress doesn’t give us a name.’
‘Right. So what’s with the wide-eyed enthusiasm?’
‘But that DNA matches a case from years ago, and that murder has similarities.’
Barton squinted. ‘Eh?’
‘A man was murdered over fifteen years ago, but the case was never solved. There was blood and skin cells under the victim’s fingernails. The detective on the case never located the woman they belonged to, nor the murderer, assuming it wasn’t the same person. We’ve had a flick through the notes. It seems they made little progress.’
Barton steepled his fingers. Fifteen years was long before his time as a detective. ‘Who was the victim?’
‘An Alan Mason, aged forty-six,’ said Strange.
Barton shook his head.
Zander grinned. ‘Also known as Wee Jock.’
‘No way,’ said Barton. ‘How many times did we arrest him over the years?’
‘At least twenty. I recalled he’d died, and I remember us discussing it. We were still in uniform and not involved. We assumed it was over drugs. From the file, they pulled the usual suspects in, but nobody talked.’
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 13