The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series)

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘Those two sisters are coming down the station with us shortly, but I’ve a mind to let them talk first,’ said Barton.

  ‘Why? So they can get their stories straight?’ asked Zander.

  ‘I’m not 100 per cent sure Ellen is the enemy, and I’m pretty certain Lucy isn’t. Let’s look at the facts. There’s the strangulation of that man twenty years ago, who had Ellen’s skin under his fingernails. She may be tall, but he was a nasty criminal. Would she be capable of that? Those three deaths could be many things, but a lone woman super-killer seems unlikely, even if they did rape her. The overdoses are a little suspicious, but the only thing we really have her for is throwing Hofstadt under a bus. With the eyewitnesses and his history, no jury would convict on that.’

  ‘That showed some strength even if he was an oldish man,’ said Zander.

  Barton scratched his neck. ‘True. Fear makes you stronger.’

  ‘Actually, you’re right. It’s worth waiting for a bit to see what they do. Anyone normal would be panicking if they’re guilty. They might do something incriminating.’

  ‘We get a lot of people who fail to report rapes at the time. What’s your feeling?’ asked Barton to Zelensky in the back.

  ‘I’m not sure. The public don’t have 100 per cent belief in the police getting it right. If you’d killed the perpetrators, you’d worry that it was you who’d end up in prison. Why don’t we arrest and charge her?’

  Barton nodded at her perceptive reply.

  ‘Remember double jeopardy. The CPS and I don’t think we have enough at the moment. If we take her to court and she walks, we don’t get to have another go. This is going to be a case where what we think will be unimportant. We must focus on what we can prove.’

  ‘I thought the double jeopardy rules were watered down, so you could try one more time.’

  ‘That’s only in extremely rare cases and usually through advances with DNA evidence. That doesn’t apply here because we know she was present. She’s the last person to know what happened. I fear Ellen’s unstable, even though she is intelligent, so she may unravel. Or we’ll get the information from her. This is the toughest part of the job. Sometimes we have to let them make a mistake to make sure we get the right verdict at trial.’

  ‘Think of Twelvetrees, that Royal Marine with the postwoman. He’s unbalanced and would be safer receiving the right treatment at the right place. Instead, we’ll probably see him again at the scene of a crime.’ said Zander.

  ‘Let’s hope it isn’t the scene of a murder.’ said Zelensky.

  Barton stared at his white knuckles on the steering wheel. Was that what they were waiting for? They’d up surveillance now, but Barton could sense that a resolution was coming. Ellen was also a victim and not a hardened criminal. He would find a way into the truth, as long as she talked to him.

  ‘Let’s give them half an hour,’ said Barton. ‘If we stomp in as soon as she arrives, they’ll know we’ve been tracking Lucy. If we go in guns blazing, she’ll tell Ellen to say nothing, which doesn’t help our case.’

  ‘What about the mental-health angle?’ asked Zander. ‘What if she inherited her father’s psychotic rage? Who else might she have harmed?’

  ‘What if she did kill the three rapists?’ said Zelensky. ‘You could argue that she struck out in self-defence. Those men were pretty worthless creatures. Who knows what they did to her? A jury wouldn’t convict for murder, no way.’

  ‘The prosecution will have a different view of things if she killed them,’ said Barton. ‘The law is only on your side in that regard if you have no other options. It’s hard to prove you needed to kill someone if you could have run away.’

  ‘Maybe she couldn’t have escaped?’

  ‘Three times? I doubt it.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Zelensky clenched her jaw. ‘If Ewing turns up, he can go in first. He could do with some summary justice.’

  Barton smiled, but his mind was on what was occurring in that top flat. He recalled the warning from Mortis. He needed this Ellen to talk, or they might never know what happened, because dead men don’t tell tales.

  63

  The Ice Killer

  I remember watching an episode of Criminal Minds that had the police looking for signs of blood spillage. I frantically pull out the multitude of cleaning products I seem to have accumulated over the years. There are two types of bleach, good old washing-up liquid, and I even use the steam cleaner afterwards. I sit back on my heels and stare at the rest of the small lounge-diner. The furniture looks unkempt, frayed around the edges and worn. It’s like me – unloved. And lonely.

  My ears twitch at the sound of a big car pulling up, then I hear someone else climbing the steps. It’s a rarity for anyone to lock that communal door at the bottom. Trent leaves it open, or otherwise people tap on his window. The rap at my own door is light and fast. Do the police knock like that? At least it’s secured now, so they’ll have to kick it in. While I wait for the thin wood to splinter, it finally sinks in what I’ve done. How have I come to be casually cleaning the surfaces of blood from a man I murdered? Should I be pleased there are people helping me clear up the aftermath, or just horrified?

  ‘Ellen, let me in.’

  As soon as I hear her voice, I wrench the door open in relief. Lucy bites her bottom lip as her eyes roam over my haunted face.

  ‘What is it? What happened?’ she asks.

  I reach for her but my hands freeze and shrink back towards my body. My mouth makes a sound, but it turns into a wail. It’s a cry for what I’ve become. Deep down, there’s even a sense it was my destiny. She takes off her handbag, closes the door, and envelops me in a hug.

  ‘Talk to me. I saw what happened to you on TV, but my husband’s ill with this flu going around. I came as soon as I could,’ she says. ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’

  She looks close to tears. I barely know her husband, Greg, but try to sympathise. I’m tempted to tell her about Robert’s drooping eyes as he died, but the intelligent part of my brain is still running in the background. That needs to be my secret. It’s time I spoke to a professional and got back on track to where I’m not a danger. In the unlikely event that I get away with everything, that is. I open my mouth, but can’t think of where to start. Lucy smiles and sees the sink full of water and the marigolds on the side.

  ‘Come on, let’s clean and talk.’ She slips off her two-inch heels and pulls on the gloves. ‘You dry.’

  As we work, I tell her the rest. She knows Vickerman was my boyfriend back then and that I took his name. I mention Wee Jock’s death all those years ago and how I think it might have been me who killed him. She frowns, hesitates, then seems to change her mind. She finally talks.

  ‘After you disappeared, we hired someone, and they found you outside an address near the town centre. You’d had some kind of episode. We drove you straight to a doctor that Greg knew from university and he said you needed residential care. We wanted to help you.’

  ‘By putting me in a mental asylum.’

  ‘It was a private hospital, and very expensive. Greg and I paid for it, not Mum.’

  ‘Did you know they found someone dead in the back garden of that address?’

  ‘It was a rough area, any number of people could have done that, and it’s time to move on. That was a long time ago and is best forgotten.’

  She answers too fast, and it doesn’t ring true, but I’m distracted by the revelation of their kindness. If I’d known it was them and not Mum who put up the money for my healthcare, maybe I’d have been nicer to her. But if she wanted to help me, why was she so distant when I recovered? My ongoing care was with the NHS, not someone like BUPA.

  ‘Why did you keep me at arm’s length for all these years? I’ve been so alone.’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘You were supposed to continue with your appointments. You attended sporadically, at best. We couldn’t afford to carry on indefinitely. We registered you with a GP but by then you were displaying the sam
e commitment to taking your medicine as you were the appointments. You turned up at our house once, but luckily we were out.’

  ‘You should have helped me.’

  ‘I had two children. We had to put them first. They were toddlers, and I couldn’t cope with anything else.’

  I’m ready to argue back, then see how wrong I’d be. I shouldn’t be around children. Perhaps I should be alone, just like my dad.

  ‘Didn’t you miss us, though, Lucy?’

  ‘Of course, I thought about you and Mum all the time. But we were so busy with the kids and the business. Greg’s parents had died and you know Mum rarely went outside, so we had to do everything ourselves.’

  That was true. Mum was agoraphobic. I used to believe that meant she was afraid to leave the house, but it’s actually a type of anxiety disorder where she feared being in places from which escape was difficult. Home was the only place she felt safe. Once supermarkets started delivering groceries, she rarely set foot outside the front door again. If I wanted to see her, I usually had to go around her house. An alarm bell rings in my head.

  ‘Wait a minute. You said that Mum continued to visit Dad even after he was sent down. How did she manage that with her condition?’

  ‘I challenged her on it. She said our father had a strange hold on her. Even after years had passed, she felt compelled to help and stay in touch with him. That urge to remain part of his life, even in a small way, was strong enough to override her irrational fears. You know there were no more men in her life. Even though in the end they only communicated by letter, she died still loving him.’

  It sounds odd to me, but then maybe our entire family is mental. I wonder what’s wrong with Lucy, although it would have to be pretty bad to be worse than Dad and me. Cutting your family out is cold, though. I get the impression she doesn’t have much of a life of her own.

  ‘Did you know I used to visit where Mum told me that Dad’s ashes were scattered in the cemetery to be close to him?’ I say. ‘I would chat to him about my problems, and it made me feel better. It was as though I had someone who understood me and didn’t judge. Like he was a presence in my corner when things were tough.’

  Lucy takes my hand. ‘I’m so sorry, but I’m back now. My children are at university, with Carrie studying in America, so I can be here for you. We’ll get you right. Our practice is doing well and we will pay for whatever needs doing. Please finish your story.’

  I stare at my hands. She apologises for the years of hurt and deceit in the same manner as someone who is ten minutes late for a meeting, but I continue with my tale. I tell her that my life was empty, and I hated myself. That I visited The Hartley pub to find answers and ended up back at Quantrill’s house. I explain how they attacked me and describe how they died. Her considerate expression drops, so I rush on.

  The urge for honesty wavers as I see how deadly my life has become. I say how I headed to Vickerman’s place two weeks later, which was only a few houses up from Quantrill’s, yet can’t bring myself to mention what I did to them. Instead, I pretend they wanted to take this new drug, but I declined and left. She doesn’t look overly bothered hearing about their overdose. I finish by telling her how I bumped into Hofstadt in the street, who lost it and tried to kill me. She knows how that ended.

  She hugs me again, although not as tight as before. That’s a lot of rotten luck for one person, even if she believes what I’ve said, and I haven’t mentioned Robert. I don’t hug her as hard in return, either. It’s as though my lies have weakened me. I’m sick of the deceit. Her mind struggles to process all she’s heard, and she looks out of the window at the cemetery. The lines on her top lip and cheeks are highlighted. They’re fine, but it could almost be our mother standing there deep in thought.

  ‘It’s only a matter of time before the police find me. What should I tell them?’ I say.

  My sister is quiet as we move into the bathroom and start cleaning in there. I’m embarrassed by how filthy it is. Then she talks as a solicitor would, and I listen. She makes me repeat what she’s said. She questions me and goes over it again. She takes my arm.

  ‘The police came to see me at my house. I told them I didn’t know where you were, but I don’t think they believed me. My first thought was to come here, but I suspected they were parked down the street and waiting for me to leave. That’s why I didn’t ring and waited. If they ask, I haven’t seen you since we spoke briefly at the funeral.’

  I raise my eyebrows. The police can track cars nowadays. If they were suspicious, they may have tracked her today. I get my sister to collect all the cleaning material and put it in a carrier bag, while I walk to the bedroom, the only room we haven’t cleaned, and look out from behind a curtain. The street seems normal. I grab the bag from Lucy and open the lounge window. I lean out and swing it back and forth. When it has enough momentum, I let go, and it flies towards the cemetery fence and precariously sits on top of it. With my heart in my mouth, I watch the contents settle and gasp as it slides over the other side.

  I decide to go downstairs to see if there’s anyone in the car park. If not, I need to get out of here and find time to practise my story. Should I hand myself in if they don’t arrive? The car park is clear. I’ve almost pulled the door closed when I notice two large men, one black, one white, and a small blonde woman leave a car in the distance and march in my direction. As an afterthought, I remove my phone, turn it off, post it through Trent’s letter box and run up the stairs.

  My sister has the kettle on.

  ‘They’re here,’ I say.

  ‘Everything will be all right, Ellen. Remember what I said. Our father cursed us with many things, but he gave us intelligence. Together we can get away with this.’

  It’s another strange phrase, but this time the knock on the door makes it vibrate in its frame.

  64

  Acting DCI Barton

  Barton sent Zelensky around the back of the flats to make sure there was no fire escape or another way out. When Zelensky returned to confirm there wasn’t, she, Zander, and Barton, went inside and up the stairs. Zander gave the door a firm rap. They weren’t expecting Lucy to open the door and ask them to come in. Barton hadn’t met either sister, but the family resemblance was obvious.

  ‘Hello, Lucy,’ Barton said. ‘I see you managed to find your sister after all.’

  Lucy stepped forward and put her hand out. He contemplated it for a second and decided manners cost nothing. She raised an eyebrow at him. She had sharp green eyes like her father that spoke of a quick mind. They weren’t too far from the level of his. He resisted the urge to look down as he’d heard the click of her high heels.

  ‘This is my sister, Ellen, Inspector Barton. The one you’ve been looking for.’

  The detectives entered and saw a noticeably younger woman in the kitchen. She was also thin and tall, even in trainers. Her expression as she shook their hands was similar to her sister’s but harder. The green of her eyes was a lighter, almost unnatural shade that Barton found hard to pull his gaze from.

  ‘We’ve been searching for you. Didn’t you see the TV appeals?’

  ‘I haven’t seen any, but that’s probably because I haven’t been well. The bus attack was traumatic. In fact, there’s been a lot of shocking incidents lately, and I’ve struggled to cope. I have some issues with my mental health, which has even stopped me going to work. We lost our mother recently, too.’

  Barton probed for an undercurrent of deceit but couldn’t detect one. There was a seriousness around both women that was unsettling. He had a sense of not having the upper hand and so he sought to regain it.

  ‘Let’s start with Lucy not informing us of Ellen’s whereabouts. That’s an offence in itself.’

  ‘I feel it’s fair to warn you that I’m a solicitor, Mr Barton,’ said Lucy. ‘Not a criminal one, but the basics are taught through university, and I am well read. I don’t recall your officer ordering me to reveal her location. Even if you did, the police have a terrible r
eputation for dealing with people with mental-health issues. I’m sure I could find many examples of you locking them in cells with no support or medication. I suspect there have been suicides in such cases.’

  Barton didn’t know exactly what questions Strange had asked her. To a certain degree it was immaterial. Getting a prosecution for it would be unlikely, especially since Lucy was correct.

  ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘Ellen hasn’t been charged with a criminal offence, or any offence for that matter. She has a clean record. The newspaper reports of the incident with the bus include eye witnesses that will say it was self-defence.’

  ‘There’s been more than one incident,’ said Zander. ‘I find it hard to believe that Ellen wasn’t aware of the deaths of the other people she was acquainted with.’

  ‘She’s told you she doesn’t watch the news and has been housebound. Do the CPS have a new category of offence called burying your head in the sand? However, she wants to help as much as she can. I was about to give you a ring to see how we could assist your enquiries.’

  Zelensky let out a ‘hmm’ and was silenced by a stern glance from Barton.

  ‘There are many questions we have for both of you,’ said Barton.

  Lucy gestured to the table with a hand. ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’

  Barton hid his smile by gazing around the room. They were dealing with someone bright and trained in the legal profession. He checked the living area to see if anything looked unusual. Nothing did. It was clean and tidy and smelled fresh. The washing up next to the sink was considerable, as though it had been left to pile up or multiple people had eaten.

  ‘Do you live here alone, Ellen?’

  ‘Yes, she does.’

  ‘I think Ellen can answer for herself.’