‘Not a guy to get on the wrong side of.’
‘No, there’s a diagnosis of real psychosis when he was hospitalised after both court cases, which is worrying. I haven’t had time to study everything, but even though he has been fine with us for years, I should mention some comments to you from when he was first sectioned.’
Barton and Zander exchanged a glance, knowing unwelcome news was coming.
The manager put his glasses on and read from the file.
‘This is the doctor’s comments when he was committed the second time. He’s a changed man, but I think this is worth telling you. “Theodore Deacon has not settled well and we struggle to find the right balance of medication. Provoked, he can rapidly display phenomenal rage. He’s a thin man but, riled up, he proves incredibly powerful. Approach with caution at all times, this person is as dangerous as they come.”’
45
Acting DCI Barton
They took a note of Deacon’s address and left the building. Barton was a little more cautious after what happened with The Soul Killer, but Ted Deacon was fairly old and complied with his probation terms. He came in weekly and they’d only seen him yesterday, when he’d been fine. If Zander and Barton couldn’t cope with him, then perhaps they were ready for desk jobs.
‘You’re not allowed to say crazy now?’ asked Zander as they approached the address.
‘Nope. You must empathise and acknowledge that the person is a person first, not a permanent psychiatric diagnosis.’
Zander nudged Barton and smiled. ‘Did you read that today?’
Barton laughed. ‘A few days ago. It makes sense, though. Loads of people experience mental distress and it might only be a temporary “problem”, not necessarily a chronic illness.’
‘I heard about that DI in Norwich who almost got demoted for using the expression “bloody junkies” at a meeting. What’s the phrase to use now?’
‘A person who injects drugs or a person with addiction.’
‘Fat people?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘How about a person who likes McDonald’s?’
‘I like McDonald’s.’
Their chuckles tailed off as they surveyed the area. Most of the cars had long since given up their grip on life. A thin trail of smoke seeped from a burned wreck as though it had only recently been put out. Barton felt eyes on him, but the surrounding street appeared empty. Two kids with suspicious-looking roll-ups rose from behind the car, gave them the finger, and ran off laughing.
There was a locked communal door to the block of flats. He pressed Deacon’s number. Waiting, they turned round to monitor their vehicle.
‘I’ll give you five-to-one if it’s gone when we get back,’ said Zander.
Barton scratched his chin. ‘Right, I’ll have a pound on that.’
‘Last of the big spenders.’
‘That way, if it’s been nicked, I can spend my winnings towards a taxi.’
‘Clever.’
‘You, meanwhile, will have to walk.’
After a few attempts at the door, Zander lost his patience and pressed the buzzer on the other five flats. Finally, an old woman popped her head out of a top floor window. Thirty seconds later, she limped towards them without expression. She opened the door a crack.
‘Are you two Mormons?’
‘No, we’re police.’
Judging by the curl of her lip, the latter was worse. Barton put his foot in the door. The lady looked down at it before limping back to her flat and out of sight. A baby was crying in one of the upstairs flats. They could hear a male voice bellowing for it to be quiet. It didn’t sound good. Zander was up the stairs in a flash, hammering his fist on the door.
A callow youth opened the door. Barton couldn’t quite make out Zander’s question, but he could detect the threat in the tone. Zander beckoned Barton up. The lad showed them into the flat where a bonny baby lay on the carpet in just a nappy. The room was tidy, and the baby clean, but it was very unhappy. The detectives approached the child. Zander crouched and put a hand to the child’s forehead. Frowning, he turned back to the lad, who had gone. Barton heard a door slam and looked out of the window to see the lad sprinting across the car park. Barton shook his head at Zander.
The two big men crouched over the tiny child. Barton opened the nappy to reveal what resembled a ploughed field. In unison, they leaned away from the stench.
‘Shit,’ said Barton.
‘Yes, and a remarkable amount from something so small,’ said Zander.
The baby girl let out another piercing scream as though her soul were being ripped from her body.
‘Do we change her?’ asked Barton.
‘It might leave us open to all kinds of allegations and complaints.’
‘We could ring for a female PC.’
‘Hmm, that would probably get us more allegations and complaints.’
The baby whimpered and released an exhausted gasp. Holding their breaths, they cleaned the child up with some wipes they found on the table. Sore nappy rash appeared to be the reason for the baby’s cries, but the baby girl had settled now she wasn’t dirty and was regarding her visitors with wide-eyed suspicion. Barton stood and stretched his legs. His right knee clicked.
Zander was familiarising himself with a nappy when a scream behind them made them jump. An attractive girl around her late twenties was standing in the doorway with her hand to her mouth. She charged in.
‘What the fuck are you doing? And where’s Michael?’
‘We heard shouting and crying. I assume it was Michael who let us in and ran away. We’re detectives,’ said Zander as he moved the nappy behind his back. She looked unconvinced until Barton showed his warrant card.
She released a tired breath. ‘I’ll kill Michael, but I’m not surprised.’
She pulled a pot out of a carrier bag and explained while she got to work. The baby had woken up crying in the morning, and she’d run out of E45 cream. Her brother had agreed to look after the baby, while she ran to her friend’s to borrow a tenner and carry on to the chemist, with the father having deserted her long before the birth. Her brother had only left prison a few weeks beforehand, hence no wish for the company of any authorities.
She assured him that he was a good person really, who’d just made a silly mistake. Much like herself, she added with a rueful glance at the baby. The woman was polite and seemed educated. Barton asked if he could use the toilet, and scoped the rest of the flat. It was much cleaner than Zander’s place. He had considered ringing social services, but it wouldn’t be helpful if she was doing her best. You can’t help who your family are, and they can be the only ones left to rely on. It hurts when they let you down, too.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked him when he returned.
‘No, we’ll leave you to it. We wanted a quick word with the man in number one. Do you know him?’
‘Ted? Yeah, he’s under me. Good luck getting him to answer the door.’
‘Do you know if he’s in?’
‘He’s really quiet. I see him once a month, maybe less. Occasionally, I hear him shouting. I guess at the TV. Irritates me too sometimes. I don’t say anything, because nobody does around here. My little girl cries and he doesn’t complain.’
‘No unusual behaviour?’
She rolled her eyes at Zander. ‘Define unusual.’
They spotted a glimpse of the personality that responsibility was keeping repressed. People had hard, lonely lives. They were decent folk hoping for a break that might not come. Barton caught Zander leaving a twenty-pound note on the bookshelf in the hall as they left. Many would frown on that nowadays, too. But it was small things like that that helped keep your humanity intact.
‘Are we getting soft?’ asked Zander.
‘Maybe a little. Perhaps that’s progress.’
Zander nodded. ‘What did Obama say? The world has changed and we must change with it.’
‘Yeah, but he wasn’t police. Life is
complicated.’
They returned to the bottom flat and a surprisingly modern UPVC door. The flat they’d just been in had the original paint-stained wooden one. There was no bell, so Barton gave it a couple of thumps with his fist.
‘Are you getting déjà vu from when we knocked on that last killer’s door?’ asked Zander.
Barton grinned, even though he’d ended up in hospital.
‘Let’s look at the facts. This guy is related to the victim. Nothing more. It’s highly probable he wasn’t present at any of the scenes, especially seeing as he has a perfect alibi for the first crime. All we need to know is the name and address of any living relatives. I was hoping he had a daughter.’
‘Can’t we check the birth register?’
‘Yes, but it’s likely we’re dealing with people from low socio-economic backgrounds.’
Zander gave the door a meatier whack while raising an eyebrow at Barton.
‘You have definitely changed.’
‘Senior management love those terms at their weekly meetings.’
‘I assume it’s DCI speak for feckless men who don’t register themselves as the father?’
‘I hope so, or I missed the point of that meeting. If he’s not on the birth certificate and hasn’t mentioned it to anyone, how would we know? It was nearly thirty years ago when he first went away. The file won’t be as watertight as they are now.’
‘Damn. Look, he isn’t answering. I don’t fancy our chances with this door either. Twenty years ago, I might have been leaving my telephone number upstairs as opposed to money, and you’d be down here using your boot to make a new cat flap.’
Barton tapped the solid door with his size twelves. ‘Come on. We don’t have due cause for that, and you’re too old for the other. We’ll wait. He’s expected at the probation office in six days and has never missed an appointment. You can see what he has to say then.’
He handed Zander his losing-bet money after they’d got back in their still-present car. Barton had a last look back. A light flickered in the man’s lounge and he wasn’t sure whether it had been on when they’d first arrived. His mind whirred as they pulled out of the estate. A lot could happen in six days.
46
The Ice Killer
Friday rolls around again. Last night, I had the choice of sex in some new lingerie with what might be my boyfriend, or trawling through old underwear at the charity shop. Brad won. I wore the red wig again as I’d told him I’d coloured my hair. At least it fits nicely. I tensed when he ran his hand through my locks, but he didn’t seem to notice. Soon I’ll need to explain to him why I wear scarves at work.
Men really are simple creatures. Although, I don’t think I’ll ever understand relationships because the rougher and wilder I am with him, the gentler and more intense he is with me. The pizza I was cooking ended up burnt, but I enjoyed myself and I’m sure he did, too.
My shift finished at four today. I’m bored and restless back in my flat. At 5 p.m. I decide to act. I choose the blonde wig that Scarlett lent me and black jeans and trainers. A large, warm hoodie I also found at the charity shop will do for cover. Hofstadt lives in walking distance, assuming he’s still there. I bought a little penknife during the week and slip it into my pocket, just in case.
The cemetery next to my house closes soon. I ask a man at the gate if the other end is open. He nods, and I wander towards the garden of remembrance where my mother told me Dad’s remains were scattered. The graves flick by on the way, slow enough for me to read the names on the headstones. Do the dead have it easy now, or would they give anything to breathe the air again?
I’m not too worried about being locked in here because I know where to climb over the wall so I sit on the bench in the memorial garden and stare at the stone cross in the centre of the small lawn. I used to be able to block out the world on this seat and think of my dad, but now I can hear car beeps, shouts from the road, and a person walking in heels in the distance. Even a tweeting bird distracts me. There’s no peace here any more, and I leave thinking of my mother instead.
She lied to me, but I understand the reasoning behind it. I don’t think less of her now, or my sister. Once you’ve told a tale like that, you can’t easily take it back later, and they were only trying to protect me.
My feelings for my father are harder to pin down. He seemingly wasted his life and took the lives of others, but how can I judge him if I’ve done the same? Am I destined to repeat his mistakes? I’m not sure that I would have cared a few weeks ago, but everything’s different now. I’m calling the shots in my relationship with Brad. He’s waiting on my phone calls, and that’s a good feeling. I want it to continue, and losing control is not going to help. There is an itch to see Hofstadt, though. I have to scratch it, but I’ll be careful, and no more violence.
There’s a rubbish bin at the exit to the cemetery. Removing the knife from my pocket, I slide it through the rotting flowers and hear it clunk at the bottom. I stop next to the praying angel statue and place my hand on her arm. The connection there has gone, too, and so I bid her farewell. She’s not me any more. I want to live, not merely survive.
I met Hofstadt not long after I left the private hospital my mother had put me in. You can imagine how delicate I was. I yearned for someone to look after me. They would need to be solid, consistent, balanced and steady. I couldn’t cope with volatile. Most of all, they had to be kind. I’d taken a job in a café to boost my benefits, and he popped in one day and read the paper while enjoying a coffee and a cake.
I had to have my hair up at work for hygiene reasons. My mum enjoyed combing it for me and jokingly gave me pigtails, but I left them in. I giggled with all the customers that morning, and he must have picked up on it. He departed with a wink and said there was a tip for a black-haired Barbie. His gratuity was twice the value of his order. A serviette lay under the money with a telephone number on it.
Hofstadt spoiled me rotten at the start, adoring me both in and out of the bedroom. It was fantastic for my self-worth, and I was happy. We discussed kids, and he said he wanted as many as possible. I had concerns due to my mental health. I didn’t want to pass on my flaws, but I thought we’d be a good team. He enjoyed spending time with children and often bought ice creams for the kids who played in the street outside.
But as I fell in love, he drifted away. His sexual preferences decayed into weird dressing-up games and role-playing. He wanted my pigtails back and bought a too-small school uniform and a Dorothy dress to go with them. I endured, and still he became distant without any reasonable explanation.
His house is on Vergette Street. I smell the aroma of Wei Fung’s as I walk by and remember our first takeaway. His Victorian building looks the same, but on closer inspection isn’t. The front garden has been patioed to provide off-road parking. Planters decorate the edges. Glancing up, I see the curtains are yellow and pink. An elderly black woman answers with a huge smile.
‘Can I help?’
‘I’m looking for Sam Hofstadt. He lived here some time ago.’
Her smile drops, and the door closes showing only half of her face. ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘Has he gone? Do you know where?’
A hard eye dismisses me. ‘Speak to next door if you must.’
I step back from the slammed door and look into the window of the next house. An old lady, who looks vaguely familiar, glares at me. I shrug, open her gate and knock. She opens up but doesn’t speak.
‘Sam Hofstadt. I assume he moved away.’
‘Not far enough.’ I suspect if she hadn’t been in her own house she would have spat on the floor.
‘I knew him years ago. I wanted to talk to him.’
‘I recognise you from way back. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘He was. Then he treated me badly. I suppose you could say I’m here for closure.’
‘I’d forget him if I were you. You’re well rid of that pervert.’
At my confused expression, she s
norts. ‘You don’t know? He interfered with a child from this very street. Under our noses. It makes me furious just thinking about it.’
‘Who was the child? Tell me it wasn’t a little girl who often played here. He sometimes invited her in to watch TV.’
Sharp eyes peer over her glasses. ‘Long dark hair, around thirteen?’
I nod.
‘That was the one. It was a girl who was being fostered up the way.’
The energy trickles, then vanishes from my legs. The woman surprises me by gripping my arms hard.
‘Are you okay? You’ve gone awful white.’
I attempt a reassuring grin, but my stomach isn’t fooled. Managing to turn my head, I’m sick beside us. She keeps hold of me, despite it splattering our ankles.
‘Aye, that’s what I did when I found out. Told me that it was his friend’s daughter and she had to work a lot. He didn’t like the thought of her out on the street at all hours.’
I find a tissue in my coat pocket and wipe my mouth.
‘Is he in prison?’
‘Not any more, the shite virtually got away with it. The police arrested him for rape after someone made an anonymous complaint. Us neighbours made statements, but the girl disappeared just before the trial. She’s not been seen since. He said she stole from him and made up a story, but they still found him guilty of a lesser crime.’
I recover my equilibrium and apologise for the mess. She remains riled up, and continues to vent.
‘I saw him a week ago, bold as brass, working in a carpet shop in Millfield opposite Morrisons. I hope he burns in hell.’
‘That seems suitable punishment.’
She finally cracks a smile.
‘Working in a carpet shop or hell?’ she asks.
I give her a little grin. ‘Both.’
‘Will you be all right, love?’
I bob and shake my head at the same time in my need to get away. I cut through the nearby park where children laugh on the swings. I carry on towards Millfield, knowing I can be opposite Morrisons within an hour.
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 18