‘Who ran the investigation?’
‘Our old boss, DCI Naeem. Mortis did the post-mortem.’
Barton continued to fight to get his head around it.
‘Study the case files further. Look for anything that might help.’
When they’d left his office, he picked up the phone to the hospital mortuary and smiled as the assistant said she would fetch Mr Menteith. Everyone had called him Mortis for years due to his fascination with the stages of death.
‘Inviting me out for cream tea, John?’
‘Of course, but first, can you remember Alan “Wee Jock” Mason?’
‘Gosh, that is going back. Asphyxiation, I think, and never solved.’
Mortis had great recall of all the murder cases he’d had involvement in.
‘That’s it. You found DNA when you scraped under the fingernails. They never matched anyone on our database and the murder remained unsolved.’
Mortis’s end stayed silent for a few moments while he tried to remember the details.
‘I assumed that he was raping a woman and got disturbed by the victim’s boyfriend and killed. It was strange that we found neither person.’
‘Well, get your head around this. The ripped dress from the Millfield killings scene has been tested. The sample recovered matched that of the one from under Wee Jock’s fingernails. Are you following?’
‘Let me try to summarise. A woman was assaulted by Wee Jock, fifteen years ago, and vanished. She may have killed him. That same woman was raped by Quantrill, Ash, and Duncan, and disappeared again. The men are also deceased. That’s one unlucky woman.’
‘Not as unfortunate as the men who are dead.’
‘Ah, I see. You’re wondering whether the woman was responsible for their deaths, as well as Wee Jock’s. That would make her rather deadly.’
‘That’s right. They attacked her and, in self-defence, she killed them.’
‘Hmm. This last case involved three violent, drunken men. Was Wee Jock a known rapist?’
‘Not that we know about, but he was a bully and exploited vulnerable types. There’s violence on his record.’
‘I don’t like a woman for these deaths, especially with Wee Jock’s death.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I’d guess whoever committed that crime was a strong, angry and determined man. He didn’t just strangle Wee Jock. He crushed his throat.’
35
The Ice Killer
I wake up on the floor of my bedroom on Saturday morning. A dry mouth hints at a hangover, but I didn’t drink anything last night despite it being a Friday. My head isn’t pounding either. I climb back into my bed and pull the sheets over me. They are cold and clammy. When I close my eyes, my mind returns to the dream.
In it, I’m stuck inside a billowing cloud, neither rising nor sinking. There’s so much noise and anger, shouting and screaming outside the cloud, but the whiteness muffles it away. Time means nothing, yet I’m aware it passes. Hands arrive through the cotton wool, poking, probing, wanting. Those fingers are over me, inside me, holding me. And there are tears, from my eyes? Is that touch my own? Those hands are familiar and then I feel wet tears on my cheeks. There are gasps, from abusers maybe, but there’s rapture too, so maybe those sounds are my own.
I jerk upright, swing my legs from the bed, and leave the room. Hot water showers the memories away. As I dress, I recall the gradual emergence from that cotton wool nothingness. I remember knowing it was time to leave that place. The hospital staff had concerns but I wasn’t a prisoner. They waved me off with advice and prescriptions and sorry glances. I left with no thoughts of shame or feelings of false imprisonment. They’d made me better. I was much improved from the wretched animal that had arrived there.
When I left that day and reached the road, I turned and stared at the whitewashed building. I believed the sickness remained behind those high walls. I was grateful: one of the lucky ones. A girl who I’d become close to inside had lived there for five years. It was clear many of the other inhabitants would never leave. Even so, the group discussions we’d shared made me see I wasn’t alone. I heard worse stories than mine and wondered how much trauma the human brain could take before it changed forever.
The past is gone and can’t be changed. Was it a doctor who said that, or my mother? Or was it neither? Maybe it’s a rule I imposed on myself. Usually I can shove away thoughts of years gone by, but it seems that lately they are more persistent. I stare at my alarm clock in a daze. It’s a shock to see it’s already the afternoon. Can I really have been in bed for twelve hours?
I have plans and skip breakfast, or maybe that should be lunch. For once, Trent isn’t hanging around outside. I drive fast through the streets to an area called West Town, stopping once for the cash machine, putting myself near my overdraft limit, and once at Waitrose for some beers. The guy I’m after lives on Mayor’s Walk. He could have moved away, but I have a feeling he won’t have.
Shortly before I bought my flat, I had a wobble and visited my old dealer, JC, to score some weed. He grinned when he opened the door and was pleased that I wasn’t after the hard stuff. The dope was too strong after so long without it, and I only had one spliff and threw the rest away.
JC was one of those drug dealers that liked to say he’s only providing a service. Without his wares, addicts would be forced to trade with hardened crooks selling substandard products.
Obviously, that’s a load of rubbish. He was in it for the money. As a business plan though, it made sense, because abstinence made him reliable, which was a rarity in that line of work. Quinn was the opposite. The rule was if you grassed, JC would know and cut you off, so nobody did. That’s why I hoped he might still be around. Those who sampled their own goods often had their life expectancy measured in months rather than years.
I knock on the door. It’s a plain semi-detached property. You would imagine the owner worked a couple of manual jobs and had little time or money for home improvements. The doorbell is one of those gadgets where the resident can see who’s outside on their mobile phone. I smile into the eye. After an entire minute, a man in just a towel opens the door. Moisture pours down his smooth skin. He must be pushing fifty, but he’s in good nick.
‘Hi, Ellen.’
‘Hi.’ I don’t know his name, never have. I follow him into his front room. That’s always been as far as I’m allowed. He locks the door behind him and pulls a heavy bar into position. It resembles a doctor’s waiting room with a few chairs and blank walls.
‘How can I help?’
‘I’m looking for some fentanyl and a little bit of heroin. I heard there’s some good stuff in town.’
‘I see.’ He runs his hand through his straggly wet hair. He always made me think of an anglicised version of Jesus when I scored off him before. Maybe it was his gentle ways and quiet voice, but it was probably the drugs. We nicknamed him JC but never called him that to his face. He’s one of those people who command respect.
He pauses while he processes my last sentence. He doesn’t care about what drug he sells; everything has its price, but he expects his customers to understand the risks.
‘And who told you that?’
‘The news. There are middle-class kids overdosing at the moment, and you know how that upsets the politicians. Strong is good as long as you know what you’re doing.’
He tells me the price and leaves the room. Vickerman used to say he had a police radio, so they couldn’t surprise him. We used to see JC a lot. One occasion, I asked him what he did with his spare time. He said he did a lot of yoga.
I loved that, thinking it was trippy. I reckon the original JC enjoyed a bit of spiritual stretching too. Vickerman laughed his head off and said he was taking the wazz. He said all dealers slept with whores, and that was a proven fact. I didn’t know who was taking the wazz most, but I recall them now as good times. I may have been at the bottom of society, but I wasn’t alone.
Vickerman was good to me then.
He’d surprise me with the odd gift like a dog-eared paperback. We’d discuss some of his left-wing beliefs, and he’d think he was converting me. I’d then wind him up by standing to attention for the National Anthem and using the covers of his precious books for roach paper. I respected his mind, though. Vickerman said there were enough words in the English language without resorting to swearing.
The relationship was never particularly physical, especially when we were addicts. But I do recall feeling as though I was part of a team, and that’s why I’m now Ellen Vickerman. He wanted to get married but we couldn’t afford it. So I changed my name instead. He loved that, but my main motivation was that I hated Toole. Life’s hard enough without a surname like that.
We were happy, until he sold me like a piece of meat.
JC returns and hands me a small bag filled with white tablets and one of powder. ‘Careful with the pills. You’re playing with recreational dynamite. One mistake can be fatal.’ He scratches the stubble on his chin. ‘You don’t look like you’ve been partaking of late.’
He tried to dissuade me from buying the weed last time. Does he ask through good motives, or does he know there’s no changing your mind at this point in the proceedings? You can’t sell Slimming World products in the queue at McDonald’s.
‘I’ll see you next time.’ Smiling, I stand to leave.
Again, he considers my answer. ‘I wouldn’t recommend anyone using this product. I was about to dispose of it and disappear. I wouldn’t have let many people in today. There’s heat from the police over these overdoses. Whoever supplied them could get a life sentence. You know what you’re doing though, just be extra careful.’
I nod. ‘I would say you need to be careful, too.’
A minute later, I’m a hundred pounds lighter in the pocket and he’s closing the door in my face. As always, it’s been a weird experience. He seems to think his non-committal answers will protect him as he never says anything obvious. Who knows? He’s still here when most aren’t. The dealing business is a strange one. If you strip it down, dealers are peddling death and disease, but they expect to be treated as if they’re doing you a favour. He gives me a final warning about the perils of mixing fentanyl with anything else.
I smile sweetly back at him. ‘Don’t worry. The pills aren’t for me.’
36
The Ice Killer
I decided to drive to see Vickerman and Quinn tonight. It was tempting to wear the dress Scarlett gave me. I could have worn her shoes and wig, too. That way, if anything went wrong, she’d be the prime suspect. I only considered it for a second though. That really would be unfair. Instead I settle for the tightest jeans I have and a slim-fit shirt. I take my time with my make-up and I look nothing like me. The red wig will knock them dead. I smile at my choice of phrase.
I crush the pills and mix them with the heroin. My phone beeps as I’m leaving. I return to the table and there’s a message from Brad asking if I want to go to the Paul Pry pub tonight. There’s a few from work going to have a couple of quiet drinks. No doubt it’s a load of his mates and they’re looking for someone to take the brunt of their jokes. I almost put my mobile in my pocket, but throw it on the sofa, as I don’t want that being tracked.
I drive fast, still unable to get enough of Scarlett’s car. I’ll be gutted when I have to hand it back. This must be how rich people live. I thought one car was much the same as another but I buzz with adrenaline every time I drive it. I park a few streets away to be safe and take a few deep breaths to calm myself. A chill settles over me, and I leave the beers in the car.
The walk there cools me further. It’s got to be below freezing, and the pavement is slippery. A man whistles as I pass him in a street near their house. It drags a memory up of being whistled at before with this colour hair. I shuffle away as fast as my wedges will allow. It feels as if I’m gliding to my destination. There’s a lightness in my head that rests at the edge of insanity.
I knock and wait for them to answer. My little internal voice begs me to go home but too late as Quinn answers the door.
‘Ellen, come in. We weren’t sure you’d turn up.’
Vickerman and Quinn have attempted to make the place look more homely, and they’ve even put on semi-decent clothes. There are a few night-lights burning around the sides of the room in saucers. One of them contains jasmine, I recognise the relaxing aroma as soon as I walk in. We sit down, and Quinn pours the wine. The candles’ flames show the smudges in the glasses. There’s a more cautious edge to him I didn’t sense a few days ago. He can’t sit still, but it’s Vickerman who stands and disappears out the back without explanation.
Quinn rambles on about music and other stuff that I have no interest in. It’s clear he’s nervous. The alcohol mellows me out as he talks.
‘Seeing you looking like that has made me come over funny. You’ve hardly changed after all these years. Do you remember dyeing your hair red before? It ended up a wild pink colour. I found it sexy.’
My mood changes fast. The memory of the whistle was from a passing car on a street corner. Kids messing about, but I was working. Quinn remembers our relationship as though we were friends. Vickerman comes back looking shifty and smelling of smoke.
‘Where have you been?’ I ask.
‘Outside for a fag.’
‘Really? Are you worried that your squat will smell?’
They both frown. ‘The council gave us this and told us to look after it,’ says Quinn. ‘We’d been in supported accommodation together on Oundle Road, and this is so much better. We don’t want to lose it.’
I’m not sure if they’re lying or not. Everything feels false. Vickerman scratches his leg, then his foot. Has he gone outside and shot up?
‘What have you got for us, then?’ asks Quinn.
‘I thought we were having a drink.’
‘You wouldn’t come empty-handed.’
Veins pound and twitch under the tight skin on his head. What a world they live in still. I came here for answers and there’re only inevitabilities. Even so, do I want revenge? Vickerman clicks his fingers.
‘I remembered where I knew the name Quantrill. It was through you. Wasn’t he your first boyfriend? You hated him. Sure it wasn’t you that killed him?’
He and Quinn laugh, and I do too, but I’m the first to stop.
‘I’m off if you two aren’t going to be friendly.’
Quinn is up and edging around the table as though he’s circling a loose chicken.
‘Don’t go,’ he begs.
‘Just kidding. I got you a present.’
They stare at the plastic bag in my hand, slow smiles rising. They mutter insincere thanks.
‘Sweet.’
‘Nice one, Ellen. Powder, too.’
‘If you fetch your works, I’ll sort you out.’
As I expected, Vickerman sprints out of the room and comes back with a tobacco tin. Quinn reaches under the sofa and pulls out what looks like a pencil case. I watch him sneakily remove his own pouch of drugs and put it in his top pocket. I say nothing and get to work.
For some addicts, preparation is half of the pleasure. I can’t really remember that period in my life, but I know my habit took over. Pure luck kept me from contracting a serious disease. For many, though, it’s time that does the damage. Heroin is highly addictive and withdrawal extremely painful. It quickly breaks down the immune system, and it’s that which leaves you sick, bony, empty and, ultimately, dead.
Fentanyl is fifty times stronger. The amount I suck into their two syringes would stun a brontosaurus, never mind a human heart. Vickerman takes his sock off and hunts for a vein. Quinn’s habit must be more recent as he examines his arms. I can’t watch.
‘I’m just nipping to the toilet.’
When I return, Quinn looks asleep in his chair. Vickerman is still on the hunt for a suitable injection point.
‘You were always a wild one. You not having any?’ he says.
I sit up and lean forward, f
orcing the words out. ‘You got me hooked.’
‘What? You were as bad as we were. I reckon it was you that kept me on it. Then you disappeared. They tried to pin the murder of that Scots bloke on me.’
Another flashback shows me an image of a small Scottish man with terrible skin.
‘Wee Jock,’ I say, not having thought of the name for years.
‘That’s it. You’d started hanging around with him a bit. He was a right prick. Luckily I had an alibi from my sister’s funeral.’ He grins. ‘The police didn’t have a clue. We were pleased as he was stealing from everyone. Quinn reckoned you killed him, but then he was the one who found Wee Jock and took his stash before the police turned up.’
All of a sudden, I’m lying on cold concrete on a rear-garden patio. Wee Jock is on top of me, holding me down with one hand, removing my clothes with the other. Then a flash of pure burning white, but I don’t remember killing him. I didn’t even know he was dead. Vickerman snaps his fingers in my face, then sits back down.
‘You okay, Ellen? You were in a trance. Look, nobody mentioned you were spending time with him to the police. We were just glad he was gone.’ He places the empty syringe on the table.
His gaze wanders to his friend, who coughs and gurgles. Vickerman shrugs and slowly turns his focus to me through drooping eyelids.
‘You still have your gloves on. Aren’t you staying?’ He waggles his fingers at me.
For a moment, I wonder what he’s referring to. ‘I have eczema. The gloves stop my skin getting irritated.’
‘No worries,’ he whispers.
‘Vickerman, why did you and Quinn put me on the game?’
He attempts to pull himself up from his slumped position, but it’s beyond him. His voice is slurred, but clear enough.
‘What are you on about? It was your idea.’
I spray my wine over the table. ‘What?’
But I’m too late, nobody’s listening here any more. The whole evening has made no sense. I hoped to resolve the past, not hear made-up stories. Events are in motion, though, and they’ll either live or die. I’d prefer the latter, or they might mention my involvement with Quantrill or Wee Jock to someone in authority.
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 14