47
The Ice Killer
The day darkens as evening approaches. Sleet has arrived and swirls around me. I’m glad I put a hoodie on even though the flakes are light. I walk up and down the street, spotting only one carpet shop: Windmill Furnishers. The surrounding businesses on the parade clearly struggle for trade. It’s a shabby row of buildings, little more than converted houses, opposite the flash multinationals of Marks and Spencer and Morrisons across the dual carriageway. Sam’s shop looks empty, although if he works full time, the chances are that he’ll be there.
A boom of thunder overhead warns of worsening conditions and, sure enough, heavy rain and sleet fall simultaneously. I step into the phone booth outside Windmill Furnishers and pick up the handset to pretend I’m mid-call. The precipitation hardens and hammers at my glass shell. I don’t recall a sleet storm before. I can’t see anything, so edge the door open a little and stare past the discount banners stuck to the windows.
Hofstadt appears from a back room and walks towards the front window. It seems as though he’s staring right at me, but he looks up at the weather. He frowns at the black clouds and shivers. His hair, once flecked with grey, is almost white now. In my mind, he was in his late forties still, but he can’t be far off sixty, and that time would have included hard, anxious, stressful, long days under lock and key. His cheekbones jut from his face as he scowls and retreats into the shop.
He must hate his new career. Before, he was on incredible money as an anaesthetist. He had respect, status and, I realise with a sickening jolt, incredible power. His job was riddled with temptations for a sex offender. Did he steal drugs from work? What foul, depraved offences has he committed on unconscious people? Is there a more vulnerable moment than being sedated for an operation? I shiver as I think of the thousands of children who had been under his care over the years.
It rains solidly for thirty minutes and I’m not disturbed in my phone booth. Few venture out on such a dark, foreboding evening. Just before six, I step from the booth in the expectation that he may finish soon. The dual lanes behind me surge with rush-hour traffic. A trundling cement truck splashes water over my legs as high as my knees. I barely notice because I’m looking at the shop exit and my ex is leaving.
‘Sam. Sam Hofstadt.’
He flinches and only cocks his head in my direction. There’s a cornered snarl to his top lip. Eyes narrow as he tries to place the blonde lady in wet clothes.
‘It’s me, Ellen.’
His first reaction is to smile and stride towards me, but concern halts his steps as he, I imagine, remembers the details of our parting.
‘Nice to see you again,’ he says.
He shuffles away, an old man.
‘Wait. I want…’
My mouth closes. What do I want? I came with questions, but I’m not sure I want the answers. This man’s life is ruined. Short of physically torturing him, it would be hard for him to suffer further. Yet I need to hear his words, if only to take some control of the past. Maybe to tell me I was worth something.
‘Why did you reject me? Why was I so easily discarded?’
He stops and speaks, but the din of roaring cars snatches his words away. I stand in front of him, ears straining. A break in traffic means I only catch the last line.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he says.
‘Try me.’
‘I was protecting you.’
And suddenly, I do understand. He got rid of me just as justice trapped him. They’d charged him already. He knew he would face the truth in court and there’d be no way back. But I don’t believe he was trying to protect me. It was because I could confirm the allegations. He wanted me gone. No one else knew my name because I lived a hollow existence where I barely mattered, even when I was with him.
What had he done to that girl? Where did she end up? What was he capable of? Memories breach the walls I’ve made and the truth pours in. I recall a tired child on his bed under a blanket, and many images of a sleeping girl on the sofa with tousled hair. But maybe not exhausted as I remember, perhaps only drugged.
My face must have been a film of the past as I grimace in revulsion at what he did. I shake my head. ‘You sick, sick disgrace.’
The ‘meek old man’ act is over. He’s always known that I’m proof of his lies. He seizes my shoulders and shakes me back and forth, spitting the words into my face.
‘Ellen, you’re mistaken. And don’t think you can tell anyone about it. I’ll say you were involved as well.’
My fists clench, then I try to push him away. He shoves me backwards, and a rage floods through me.
48
Acting DCI Barton
Barton blinked at the screen and blew out his cheeks because his email box had gone mad again. He wrestled with a myriad messages: filing them in folders and sub-folders, forwarding some, deleting others. It was more like a tedious computer game instead of police work.
He let his mind wander a little as he stared at the pictures of his family surrounding his PC. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? More money and responsibility, and less shoe-wear.
He had thought that as he approached fifty a great maturity would descend on him, but it wasn’t like that at all. He still laughed at the same jokes, still took life with a pinch of salt. Maybe he wasn’t as fast and fit as he once was, and his energy levels were lower, but nothing major. There was something, though, perhaps best described as a stillness. He didn’t react like a youngster any more because his impulses were controlled by years of policing.
That was what this new job required – someone with an ability to process an enormous amount of information and sieve it through the mesh of their experience. He had that skill; to strip situations down to their basic components and build them back up again. But sitting in an office, doing this, he would always be a step away from the action.
Another email came in, this one from Mortis at the mortuary asking Barton to ring him when he got the message.
‘Mortuary.’
‘Hi, Mortis, it’s John.’
‘Great to hear I’m not the only one who hasn’t gone home yet.’
‘Good to hear from you. How are things?’
‘Busy, and that’s just what I need. I’ve received the toxicology results back from the PMs we did on those bodies. It confirms the physical signs. That is to say, both men’s hearts stopped after massive overdoses. There was both fentanyl and heroin in their systems, but mostly the former.’
‘Thanks for that. The investigating team discovered nothing suspicious in their backgrounds either. They were two hopeless individuals with years of addiction and criminality behind them. We also haven’t found anyone interested in paying for a funeral for either of them. There were no eyewitnesses to visitors, although a joker rang in saying he’d seen a flaming angel that night. I guess we can put it to bed.’
‘I’d say so, but there is one thing. This fentanyl is incredibly dangerous. If it hasn’t been cut, it’s easily fifty times more powerful than heroin. Just a few grains might be a deadly dose for some people.’
‘Yes, it’s scary, but we think we have the dealers and the majority of the batch in our possession. Uniform say that the message is getting out there and addicts are thinking twice as they load up their syringes.’
‘That’s pleasing news, but that’s my point. The amount of fentanyl injected into these two men was phenomenal. There’s an old saying about a dose like that dropping an elephant, but you could have tranquillised an entire herd with that amount.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Well, even if they thought they were injecting heroin, it would still have been a considerable quantity.’
‘Are you implying someone could have given them a deliberate overdose?’
‘It’s possible, or they may just have been heavy users. Who knows? It could be a double suicide. Or made to look like one.’
‘I can do without any more of those after the last murder case, but
it’s noted. I’ll chat to you soon.’
‘Hang on. Have you heard the news?’
‘Regarding what?’
‘I’m listening to Peterborough Community Radio. There’s been an incident on the carriageway near Morrisons on Lincoln Road.’
‘What kind of incident?’
‘A woman rang the traffic line a few minutes ago as she was just behind an accident. It looks like someone’s gone under a double-decker.’
‘Dead?’
‘The caller said the bus ran straight over the person, so that’s usually the outcome.’
‘Tell me it wasn’t a child.’
‘They haven’t given further details, except that there’s been a collision on the other side of the road.’
‘Bloody rubberneckers. When will people ever learn? That’ll be a nasty job for uniform and traffic.’
‘Sorry, I’m not being clear. They said it wasn’t an accident. The person was pushed.’
49
Acting DCI Barton
Barton called Control, who confirmed they were already responding to multiple 999 calls. He made for the coat stand. With a wry grin, he peeked into the detectives’ room, but couldn’t see his sergeants. He returned to his desk and rang Strange.
‘Hi, Kelly. Where are you?’
‘Stuck in traffic. I finished at six and Malik was driving me to the mechanics on Bourges Boulevard.’
‘There’s been a civilian run over further along the carriageway outside Morrisons. Can you get there?’
‘I doubt that. The traffic isn’t moving, and it’s his own car. I’d need blues-and-twos to clear a route.’
‘Damn. It might be a murder. It’s possible the victim was pushed.’
‘Okay, no worries. I’m only about five hundred metres away. I’ll leave Malik and jog. I’ll give you a bell when I know more.’
Barton cut her off, dialled again and caught Zander in the car park. This wasn’t the time for training. He explained the situation and gave orders.
‘Zander, call Control and find out who’s at the RTC. Ring them and make sure no witnesses leave the scene. Then get there as quick as you can. You’ll need lights to get through the traffic. Ring me if it was deliberate.’
Barton put the receiver down and stepped out of his office. Ewing and Zelensky were having a full-on row. Luckily for them, they were the only ones in the room.
‘That’s enough, you two. See if you can get hold of CCTV from the traffic cameras on Lincoln Road outside the business park. It could be the scene of a murder.’
He returned to his desk with his brain churning. Maybe he would like this role after all. Although waiting and not doing anything soon jarred. It didn’t take long for his mind to wander to the suspicious incidents of late. He clicked his fingers and made another call to his old boss, DCI Naeem.
‘Hi, Nav. How are you?’
‘Business or pleasure?’
He could almost see her smile at her end of the line.
‘Business. Do you recall a case you worked years ago where the guy, a Mr Ted, or Theodore, Deacon broke down under questioning and was sectioned?’
‘Yes, of course. I was in the viewing gallery to watch it. He completely lost the plot and needed to be restrained. They were shocking scenes. Incredibly, it took about five members of court security to restrain him.’
‘That’s the one. He’s been linked to what we think is a rape victim. Do you recall if he had a family? We don’t have a record of any.’
‘He had an ex-partner and kids. I remember it well as his partner came to the station to talk with me. Due to his behaviour, they’d split up years before, but she still cared for him. They had two daughters, but I don’t know for sure if they were biologically his. Funnily enough, I think they named them after characters from Dallas.’
‘The TV programme?
‘Yes.’
‘And their names were?’
‘Now you’re pushing it.’
‘Shame. Right, better go. We should catch up soon.’
‘Definitely. I must admit I detected a buzz of energy there. It’s made me a little jealous.’
Barton laughed. ‘Did you miss the action when you became a DCI?’
Naeem had always been astute. ‘Ah, the dilemma of the newly promoted. I was much older than you when I got that role. I knew I could make the most contribution as DCI, so I was ready.’
Barton’s mobile in his pocket rang. ‘Thanks, Nav, let me know if you recall the names.’
‘I have kept bits and bobs from the big trials over the years, things like cuttings from newspapers. They’re in the loft if you’re desperate.’
Barton laughed, but there was more than an inkling of truth in her comment.
‘If you could, I’d appreciate it. People’s lives may depend on it.’
50
The Ice Killer
My sister, Lucy, is parked outside my flat when I return. She jumps in her seat when I crouch next to the driver’s side window, as though an alien has appeared beside her.
I last saw Lucy at the funeral, but I didn’t really study her. It’s easy to get so swept up in your own grief that you don’t notice others. She was close to my mother, before she left home. Their relationship was different, more one of equals. Mine always remained that of parent to child. Heavy bags under tired eyes and prominent cheekbones indicate the loss of our mum is weighing heavy on her still.
My reflection in the glass shows someone from another planet. The wig has been pulled to one side and make-up streams down my face. A wild-eyed expression completes the crazed clown ensemble.
Lucy steps out of the vehicle as though approaching an untamed and cornered animal.
‘Ellen, what’s happened? Come here.’
She pulls me into an embrace despite my soaked clothes. I tremble as tears threaten to fall. The tussle by the roadside already seems years ago, so why do I want to weep? I squeeze Lucy hard in return. It feels good.
‘Let’s get you inside. You’re shivering.’
Trent places his hand on his window as we pass and mouths, ‘Are you okay?’ I nod.
With the radiators soon filling the small rooms with warm air, I quickly recover. We sit with mugs of hot chocolate at the kitchen table. I don’t feel like discussing our father, but she doesn’t visit often. She has the answers I need to understand myself. We might as well get started.
‘Our dad’s not dead, then.’
‘No, he’s not. But I sometimes wish he had died.’
‘Would that make any difference? He’d still have been our father. It’s not as though his actions were a reflection on you.’
She finishes her drink and places it gently on the table. ‘Mum said never to tell you. She didn’t think you’d understand. That comment proves that you don’t.’
‘I read he killed people, but he was also provoked. What else is there to know?’
‘You’ll see. It’s my decision now Mum’s gone, and I’m going to explain what happened. Will you listen until I’ve finished without interrupting?’
‘Yes,’ I say with a wobble in my voice, knowing I may never recover from what I’m about to hear.
‘Our parents loved each other, but our father was a troubled man. He struggled to cope with normal life. Mum tolerated his strange behaviour and the ridiculous purchases over the years because they were often funny. She said that she knew on some level that they wouldn’t stay together long-term, but she could never bring herself to split up with him. He’d lurch from job to job, but we had a house, enough food, and plenty of affection. What more is there?’
‘Nothing that matters.’
‘Exactly. I’m nearly seven years older than you so I remember the day they brought you home. Dad was between jobs and in the house most of the time. I swear he sickened before my eyes. It was as though the extra responsibility was too much for him to bear. He became possessive, paranoid and aggressive.’
‘He hit you?’
‘No, but he
did others. He’d walk you in the pram, glaring at those he passed. Instead of seeing everyone’s normal interest in a baby, he saw danger. People were afraid of him. Mum and I feared his moods.’
‘Was he all bad?’
‘No, a lot of the time he was quite the opposite. Loving, affectionate, kind and considerate. He was all of those things as long as he didn’t feel threatened. And he was so intelligent and loyal. He loved you and wouldn’t leave your side. Mum struggled to take you off him.’
‘Was I scared?’
‘No, you were just like him. You must have heard of the terrible twos and threes. That was nothing compared to your behaviour. Kids lash out, bite wildly, and break random objects. Instead, you fought with a purpose, struck to hurt, and wrecked things of value with a calculated goal. But Dad stuck up for you. There were incidents at playgroups and parties, and the police were even called. Mum couldn’t cope and asked for help. Somehow, social services got involved and, to cut a long story short, our father moved out.’
‘I don’t suppose he liked that.’
‘No, but he kept in touch. It might have been all right, but he started drinking and would turn up with this strange look on his face. We tried to get him treatment, but he wasn’t interested.’
‘Did he still see me?’
Lucy doesn’t answer straight away. The guilt is still there. The secrecy was as much her decision as Mum’s.
‘Yes, until we moved house.’
‘And you didn’t tell him?’
‘No.’ Her reply is a whisper, mine is not.
‘You threw him out with nothing. He loses his family, all of us, in one go, and then you disappear. No wonder he went mad. Your behaviour was worse than his.’
Her chin is set. ‘We discussed it, but they were mum’s choices to make, not mine. I was still at school. You said I could finish.’
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 19