The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series)

by Ross Greenwood

  Barton opened the door to the main office and stared at Strange and Zander, who were chuckling at the water cooler. The disparity between their two sizes made him think of the musclebound Trevor Ash. Could Ellen really have taken him out? He recalled a story where a man had lifted a car off a cyclist. Did superhuman strength exist? An idea leaked into Barton’s brain, and he picked up his phone again.

  ‘John,’ said Mortis. ‘I’m touched by your need to regularly hear my voice, but I do have work to do.’

  ‘How’s things?’

  ‘I’m putting the phone down.’

  ‘Last question. I’ll never bother you again.’

  ‘Deal, get on with it.’

  ‘I was thinking about who killed the three guys in that house. We imagined it was a strong man, but maybe it was a woman who, in dire need, found great power to kill and escape. But then I recalled you saying that the wine bottle used to beat Duncan wasn’t wielded with incredible force. It was more of a pulverising than a pounding.’

  Mortis hummed for a few seconds. ‘You can be a genius at times, DCI Barton. Are you referring to hysterical strength?’

  ‘Erm, maybe.’

  ‘Hysterical strength is a display of extreme strength by humans, beyond what is believed to be normal. It often occurs when people are in life or death situations.’

  ‘So, in desperation, they become bionic?’

  Barton moved the phone away from his ear as Mortis laughed his head off at the end of the line. Mortis finally calmed himself.

  ‘Thanks, John. I needed that. Let me explain it to you.’

  Barton took a deep breath and prepared to concentrate.

  ‘Human beings have two basic kinds of physical ability: gross-motor skills using large muscles, like running, thumping, and jumping, and fine-motor skills involving small muscles, like threading a needle, drawing, or tying a shoelace. Fine motor skills decline fast when we’re under pressure. Try opening a door with a key when a monster is chasing you. But gross-motor skills come into their own: the closer a lion is roaring at your heels, the faster you’ll run.’

  ‘But there must be limits.’

  ‘Yes, you’re still restricted to your body’s potential, but we are capable of much more than the normal range of power. Usually, your muscles don’t work at 100 per cent due to a built-in self-protection mechanism, so you won’t overload them and get injured. In extreme cases though, tearing your biceps is a lot less detrimental to your health than being thrown under a bus.’

  ‘In that case, a fit and healthy strong woman could really surprise you?’

  ‘Very much so. Under stress, the body releases powerful analgesics which deaden pain, which overrides the aching feeling we have through effort. Some say that the pain of muscle fatigue is more an emotion than a reflection of the physical state of exerted muscles in question. When we’re tired, there’s much more in reserve, but few can tap into those reserves on demand. Some athletes can for short periods, like roaring weightlifters, but most of the surprising cases we hear about occur during terrifying events.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Barton. ‘I think that was helpful. If Ash had used the wine bottle on Duncan, his head would have been pulp.’

  ‘Correct. One final point. Not everyone will react positively. We don’t all have such a strong urge to fight back or a need to survive. It’s perfectly possible that you could surprise or disappoint yourself in such a situation, because fear can also make you freeze.’

  76

  Acting DCI Barton

  Barton decided he needed fresh air and food. He drove to the Herlington Centre, which had the fastest Subway he could get to without the aggravation of driving into the town centre. While in the queue, he rang Sirena, who was managing the potential crime scene at Ellen’s flat.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Potentially. There are blood splatters on the kitchen units.’

  ‘Large or recent?’

  ‘Small, but it’s hard to say how long they’ve been here. I would guess fairly recently, as they show up clearly under luminol.’

  ‘Okay, I’m just refuelling, then I’ll be over. Ten minutes max.’

  Barton inhaled his Meatball Marinara melt, wishing he’d got two of them, and raced around the parkways. He stepped from his car after parking and strode up the stairs. The weather was definitely heating up as he was sweating when he reached the top floor. He stood in the doorway.

  ‘Do I need shoe covers?’

  Sirena came out of the bedroom in a full Tyvek suit. She pulled her mask down.

  ‘No, we only have the bedroom to finish. This is where the bloodstains were.’ Sirena pointed to a clean kitchen-unit door.

  ‘Ah, I assume they’ve been removed with bleach,’ he said. ‘No DNA?’

  ‘Unlikely, and there weren’t loads of splatters, anyway. If someone was stabbed to death here, it’d be a lot worse, but they could have been stunned with a heavy implement. We might struggle to get any DNA from the bathroom too, because that’s also been thoroughly cleaned recently. The bedroom, on the other hand, is like a bio swamp.’

  The gears in Barton’s brain clicked over. When he’d been in Ellen’s flat before, it had smelled clean. Had she cleaned it up to hide something? Her sister had been there, though. Surely Lucy hadn’t helped her mop up the bloodstains. That didn’t seem likely, even to his suspicious mind.

  ‘Anything in the bins, inside or out?’

  ‘Empty inside. The bins outside haven’t been collected this week, so we have a technician picking through them now, but they’re for six flats.’

  ‘Understood. Look, DC Ewing has gone missing and I’m worried about his safety. It seems he’s a bit of a ladies’ man. He may have slept with Ellen at some point, so see if there’s a picture or anything that might link them, then go over that bedroom with your tweezers, because at the moment I’ve got nothing.’

  ‘Sure thing. If he’s been in this room, we’ll know about it when the tests come back.’

  Barton frowned, knowing that by the time the results returned, Ewing’s fate would be sealed. Sirena stepped towards him with a serious expression on her face.

  ‘I need to tell you something though. We’ll be finished today, and then I’m taking an extended leave. I’m hoping to return, but we’ll see.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘My father had a bad fall last week outside his apartment in Greece. He lives alone and they won’t release him from hospital without someone to look after him. I’m going home to help him recover.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. You should have said before.’

  ‘It’s my problem, so I didn’t tell anyone. Or should I say it’s my privilege, depending on how nice a person you are.’ She grinned at him.

  ‘Stay in touch, then. I’m sure it’s the right decision.’

  Barton smiled back. Looked as if he wasn’t the only one making sacrifices for family. He had another thought and decided better out than in.

  ‘Does Kelly know you’re going?’

  ‘No, not yet. I only made my mind up a few days ago. I think it will be fine. We aren’t the perfect match. I’ll miss her, and I’ll miss you, John. There’s something about you that I find reassuring. It’s not easy to say what it is, but you are honest, supportive, and dependable.’

  ‘Handsome, chiselled, daring?’

  ‘Perhaps daring.’

  She pulled him into a hug and kissed him on both cheeks.

  ‘When I’m back, you can be my large heterosexual friend – every gay girl needs one. Now, get out of here. I’ll ring you when we’re finished.’

  Barton plodded down the stairs. Life was always changing, but sometimes those changes made you sad. He was feeling melancholy when he got back to Thorpe Wood Police Station. Leicester rose from his seat as Barton traipsed in.

  ‘Sir, I’ve found a match. The last person to call Ewing’s personal phone is a regular number on Ellen’s list. I’ve found the details. The phone is register
ed to a Scarlett Starr at an address in Stilton.’

  Barton’s meatball melt gurgled in his stomach. That was a coincidence too far. He wanted Ellen and Scarlett in the station asap, but he had a decision to make. Did he ring the number first, or go to the property? He didn’t want to spook Scarlett in some way. You always had to look at the odds. Scarlett Starr was probably just a friend or his current girlfriend. Ewing was missing though, and Scarlett knew Ellen. Was it a love triangle, or maybe women taking their revenge for being treated badly? Tendrils of real dread were tightening around his heart when his mobile phone rang.

  ‘Barton.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector. It’s Ellen Vickerman.’

  Barton paused. There was something cold and clinical about the way Ellen was speaking. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I know who has Robert Ewing.’

  77

  The Ice Killer

  I’m standing behind one of the stone posts on the road outside Scarlett’s house. When I drove up, I gasped in horror. It’s as if Scarlett did it for the world to see, especially with the gates being broken. Tim’s Audi is outside the house and facing towards the road. He is lying on top of the bonnet, arms stretched out as though sunbathing. Blood has poured down the sides and the front of the car, almost like a macabre artwork. Tim’s wearing a light green shirt with a large blackened stain on his chest, where I suspect he’s been shot at point-blank range.

  So that’s what she meant by him never coming back. I searched my feelings for the fear and worry that should have been present, but that Ellen was hiding. It’s a good time for this to play out. I’ve no doubt Scarlett is suicidal. Her life as it was is over now, but she’ll also be angry.

  She’s looking at decades in prison if she goes down one path, and she’d grass me up to align our fates. If she chooses the afterlife, I wouldn’t be surprised if she took me along there, too. I never expected to ring the police for back-up, but I find myself telling the inspector the truth that she has Robert.

  ‘Say that again,’ says Barton.

  ‘I know who kidnapped Robert Ewing, and I know where she’s keeping him.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Scarlett Starr told me she’d stabbed him and driven him to her home in Stilton. He’s going to die.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m outside her house. I received some texts from her this morning when I retrieved my phone.’

  ‘It’s North Street, isn’t it?’

  Interesting. ‘Yes, how did you know?’

  ‘Never you mind. We’re on our way. Stay away from the property.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. But I have to go in. She’s at the door now, pointing a shotgun at me, so I have no choice. I think she’s gone mad.’

  ‘Wait, she has a gun? Is it loaded?’

  ‘She’s just reloaded it. I suspect she has more ammunition, and she belongs to a shooting club.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  I cut him off. Scarlett’s not in sight, but she’ll be in the house. Perhaps she’s already dead, but that’s not likely. She’s never been the type to leave the stage gracefully. I walk up the drive bathed in bright light. The sun has real strength in it now, but something feels odd. Out here on the edge of farmland, I usually hear birdsong, but it’s deadly quiet. I suppose gunshot would warn even the most stupid of birds to flock elsewhere.

  Standing next to the car, I put a hand to Tim’s cheek. He’s cold, sunken, solid and has a decidedly unhuman feeling. I’m about to knock on the door but instead try the handle. It’s unlocked, so I push my way in. In their expansive hall, there is a large sideboard. On it sits the weapon that must have done the damage to Tim. He should have hidden that ammunition better. I pick up the shotgun and discover it has indeed been reloaded.

  Music starts from further inside the house. I place the gun back where it was and tiptoe towards the sound of Ed Sheeran’s ‘Castle on the Hill’ finishing. The same song starts up again. Scarlett is seated at the kitchen table with her head in her hands. An empty bottle of vodka is on its side next to her. Every window in the room is smashed. It looks like most of the crockery, too.

  ‘Hi, Scarlett.’

  Her head slowly rises, and empty eyes stare at me without recognition. It takes her a few tries to focus, then she jumps to her feet. She rubs the back of her forearm over her face and when those troubled eyes are revealed again, they have changed, and she is Scarlett. She attempts a smile. I expect slurred words, but they are fairly clear.

  ‘Thanks for coming. I didn’t have anyone else to ring.’

  It’s the first time I’ve seen her without make-up for ages, which is a further sign she’s given up. She looks more innocent and younger. I’m not sure what to say. An internal war rages over whether to tell her to think again or get on with it. She lurches around the table.

  ‘I can’t even get drunk. Fancy that. Half a bottle of vodka and nothing. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been so spiteful with myself for so long that I started to blame him. Eventually, I fooled myself that he was the problem, not me. Not this.’

  She grabs the empty vodka bottle and hurls it at the window. It sails right through a hole that’s already there. She giggles a little and staggers towards me. She hugs me and leans on me at the same time. Soon, I’m holding her up, but she keeps talking.

  ‘How do you live with yourself, Ellen? How can you kill and just carry on? I can’t cope. No one should be able to if they’ve taken a life.’

  Frowning, I step back so I can look at her face.

  ‘You pushed that girl out of the window, Scarlett, remember? That was years ago, and you carried on.’

  She snorts with laughter, and a stream of watery snot flies out of her nose. She chuckles again as she wipes it away.

  ‘I told you that because you wanted to hear it. Did you feel better for a while?’

  ‘Yes, I did, actually.’ I don’t know whether to believe her, but I don’t suppose it matters now she’s back to her favourite topic.

  ‘My life is dull and pointless, and it’s not going to get any better. Can you appreciate what it’s like to have everything aged ten and then spend the rest of your life watching it slip away? Do you know the terror of all your hopes and dreams turning to dust, or ashes in my case? I died when I killed my daughter. What’s followed has just been a horrible dream. It’s time for the nightmare to end.’

  She slumps back in her seat with her head lolling to one side, seemingly out of it again. I imagine Barton and his team racing here. Do they have guns? They must do. A truncheon’s no good if someone’s shooting at you. But I don’t want to die. How can I get out of here alive? I close my eyes too and run through my life since that girl died at school. Which event was the catalyst for my descent? Or was the seed of ruin planted by my father the day I was conceived? Time slows as I wonder whether this madness was my destiny. It’s a draining thought. I slump next to Scarlett, also tired of life.

  I could leave and hope Scarlett follows through on her plan before the police arrive and she drops me in it. Barton knew Scarlett’s address, so they’ve linked her to Ewing, and therefore me. Ewing’s DNA will turn up at my property. If Scarlett and I told a different story, who would they believe? A minute passes while I consider who I’d believe. Scarlett’s credibility is destroyed by having Ewing’s body taped up in her car boot, never mind what she’s done to her husband. Unless she blames both on me, and I’ve just touched the shotgun. I realise Scarlett’s watching me.

  Having left the front door open, I hear the soft distant clunk of a car door being shut. Scarlett’s head turns towards the window, then back to me. I cock my head and hear a car cruise past. The engine dies nearby. Seconds tick by while Scarlett and I stare at each other. Scarlett gets up and looks outside.

  ‘I can’t see anything.’

  I rise and edge towards the front door when a loud voice shatters the silence.

  ‘Scarlett Starr, come out with your hands raised.’r />
  78

  Acting DCI Barton

  Barton had put the phone down to Ellen very slowly. This was pressure he understood. Lives were in immediate danger. The most important fact was that the assailant was armed with a shotgun. Great for shooting pigeons, deadly and indiscriminate against humans. What would an experienced DCI do? he thought. Probably give it to Barton to resolve.

  He rang Control and recognised the voice of a woman called Ronnie who’d been doing her job longer than he’d been on the force. He gave her the bare details; she’d know what to do from her end. He found out who was on duty in the Armed Response Vehicle. It was Jules Cureton, who he had on speed dial.

  ‘Hi, Jules. Where are you?’

  ‘You walked past me about ten minutes ago at the noticeboard, and you didn’t return my hello. Could you not see me from your lofty perch?’

  ‘Sorry, we’re involved with a confusing case, which is just blowing open now. It’s lucky you’re here. We have an armed situation less than fifteen minutes away. I’ll meet you in the car park in five.’

  Barton updated Strange in the office.

  ‘Shotgun? Hang on,’ she said.

  She turned to her PC and accessed the Firearms Register. Using the address, she found a record for two shotguns registered to a Tim Ovett. The other adult at the address was Scarlett Starr, his wife. Strange printed the information off, which included a photo of him, and passed Barton two copies.

  ‘Nice work,’ said Barton. ‘Follow with Leicester, I’ll take Zelensky.’

  Barton booked a car out with blues and twos and personal protection equipment, then found the ARV team in the basement in their 4 x 4. He explained the situation as he saw it to Jules and his partner Al Smith, then gave them the sheet with the firearms details. They were experienced riflemen. It took Cureton three seconds to make a decision.