‘That’s right. I have other ways to help, too.’
‘You take them down if probation visit.’
Deacon nodded.
‘What happens if you do forget?’
Deacon’s eyes narrowed.
‘I won’t, because of these methods. I began putting these up years ago, just to be certain.’
‘We know what happens when you’re ill, Mr Deacon. People die, isn’t that right?’
Deacon’s expression hardened further. ‘I suppose so. Try not to worry, you’ll be one of the first to know. What’s this got to do with Ellen?’
‘She’s been involved in multiple deaths. A man was pushed under a bus, others were stabbed or strangled, and she was at a scene with a murdered detective in a car boot.’
‘I’m sure there’s a rational explanation.’
‘You mean like your killings were explainable? I think Ellen has the same problems you have. CSI found drugs that had been thrown away. That dead detective disappeared near your daughter’s home.’
‘That doesn’t mean it was her. Those flats and that area are full of odd people.’
‘There was blood on Ellen’s kitchen cupboards.’
‘I don’t want any involvement in this. My hands are clean. Besides, I don’t care what she’s done. She’s my daughter and my loyalty is to her.’
‘Obstruction of justice will have you back inside.’
‘I’ve told you. I don’t know anything.’
‘Where were you yesterday afternoon?’
‘I attended an anger management course, which probation had arranged.’
Barton swore under his breath and stormed out. It felt as if he was the one who was out of control, but grieving for a fellow officer would have to wait. Strange drove on the way back to Peterborough while he gathered his thoughts.
‘What exactly are you thinking?’ asked Strange. ‘That Ellen and Scarlett killed Ewing in her flat, then dragged the body to the car, before driving it to Scarlett’s house.’
‘Something like that.’
‘We should speak to all the neighbours around there. Ewing was a solid unit. Two women would struggle to drag him down those stairs. You know how heavy and cumbersome dead bodies are. Perhaps Scarlett’s husband was involved. Then they argued when they got back home and she shot him.’
‘That’s a fair point. It’s conceivable someone else helped them. Wait, didn’t Zelensky say that she spoke to some weird characters in the downstairs flats? That chimes with what Deacon just said about there being a load of odd people around there. Let’s swing by and talk to them, maybe apply a bit of pressure. One of them might have seen something.’
They arrived in Peterborough and drove straight to Eastfield. A uniformed officer, PC Rivendon, was standing next to a sleeping man curled up on a piece of cardboard. There was a framed photograph of a couple and their child next to the wall behind him.
‘Everything all right?’ asked Barton.
‘Yeah. I’m trying to get him to move, but he keeps going back to sleep.’
Barton looked at the matted blond hair and filthy face.
‘Leave him be.’
Then the eyes opened and the man pulled himself up into a sitting position. He stared at Barton with recognition and then looked away. Barton did a double take, but it was definitely him: the ex-marine who’d pulled the postwoman into his house.
‘Twelvetrees?’
‘Yeah, but I’m trying to sleep.’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘What do you think happened? I lost my house. The police took me to the station but couldn’t get me any help with my mental health. They kept me in overnight and released me the next morning with a caution and an appointment at the hospital that morning. I went home first, but it was boarded up with all my stuff inside. There was a number to ring on the door, but no one ever answers. I’ve been sleeping rough ever since.’
Barton’s face flushed.
‘God, I’m sorry. I thought they’d make sure you were okay. I’ll get your things back for you.’
‘There isn’t much point. What the hell would I do with it all? I can’t drag a dishwasher and fridge around with me.’
They all heard the furious shout from the flats behind them. Barton grabbed Rivendon’s arm.
‘What’s been going on in there?’
‘That’s the first sound I’ve heard.’
Barton and Strange exchanged a glance.
‘Anyone else been near? No sign of Ellen having returned?’
‘No, nothing.’
Barton turned to Twelvetrees.
‘Stay here. I know a guy at The New Haven hostel. We’ll get you off the streets.’
‘Don’t worry about it. There are more generous, kind people about than I imagined. To be honest, it’s not been too bad, apart from the cold. Apart from the copper here, people leave me alone.’
Another bellow came from the flats.
‘I’ll get going,’ said Twelvetrees. ‘Looks like you have your hands full.’
Barton watched him grab his meagre things.
‘Wait for a moment,’ said Barton. ‘This argument in the flats might be nothing. Let me at least take you for a burger and chips around the corner.’
Few men can resist a free burger. Twelvetrees nodded with a slight smile.
‘I’ll stay for a few minutes.’
‘Excellent. Rivendon, ring this in, then cover the entrance to the flats and listen out. It might just be a domestic.’
Barton and Strange were outside the front trying to judge which flat the shouting was coming from, when a pained howl came from the bottom-right flat. It didn’t sound like a domestic, it sounded like a war.
87
The Ice Killer
My sister drops me at the Tube station and I’m soon heading back out of London. I carry on through Huntingdon, even though my ticket is only to there, and alight at Peterborough. I have a story ready about wanting to buy the extra distance, but the barriers are up and I simply walk through. It’s tempting to stop for a bite to eat, but I’m surprised by how nervous I am.
I’m not sure how Trent will react to what I have to say. He’s a strange lad, but he’s a long way from being stupid. He holds my freedom in his hands. Would it be so bad being his girlfriend? At least he’s keen. The problem is that I can be two separate people, depending on my state of mind, and, unfortunately, neither of them wants to be with him.
I’m guessing the police have a person on the front door of the flats still, or at least parked in the car park, so I head to the cemetery. The gates are open, and it seems so different from how it was on that freezing-cold night. The angel stares benignly over me as I pass. Even the drunks on the benches are in good humour. One has a tray of food from a takeaway.
‘Fancy a portion, darling?’ the filthy individual shouts, waving a sausage at me.
‘I’m not hungry, thanks, but I’m happy to slice it up for you.’
They laugh, and I suspect for a moment they’re content. Who am I to judge? They choose how to progress through life and I will decide on my path. I reach the fence and fiddle with the screws on the other side. It’s tricky not being able to see what I’m doing, but easier than when I had frozen fingers.
Something makes me pause as I’m about to head through. There’s light noise all around me. Singing birds, the reassuring hum of a lawnmower, the warm breeze through the trees seems gentle and friendly, and even the smell in the air hints at new beginnings, perhaps freedom.
With a smile, I slip through the fence and tap my fingers on Trent’s back window. As I suspected, he’s there in seconds. His ghoulish face stares at me with unconcealed anger.
‘Get inside,’ he hisses. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’
I pull myself in. ‘Calm down. What’s wrong with you?’
‘Are you kidding? There’s been police outside my place for days. I’m running out of food. They know.’
Trent is close to l
osing any semblance of control. We communicate in angry whispers.
‘Trent, they know nothing, or they’d have pulled you in.’
‘I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to confess.’
‘Just sit tight. They’ll leave soon, and you can go back to normal.’
‘This isn’t fucking normal. Stay and help me.’
‘I can’t stay here. My sister said she’ll have me until it blows over. The police will want to question us both but, as long as we say nothing, I don’t think they have any concrete proof.’
‘No way. You’re staying with me.’
‘Please, keep your voice down. Look, I can’t hide away, or I’ll look guilty. Living with you would connect us. It will already seem suspicious that I ran when they shot Scarlett, but I can tell them I panicked.’
I realise my error immediately. Trent can’t have seen the news. He does a strange tormented dance and begins to whimper.
‘Jesus Christ, Ellen. They’ll shoot me too.’
‘You idiot, she was waving a shotgun at the police. If they question you, just keep quiet. My sister will get you a brilliant solicitor.’
Nothing’s helping calm Trent down. His mind is overloading with the pressure. He’s puffed himself up and paces back and forth, gulping in air. His hands rake his hair.
‘I’ve got to leave, Trent. I’ll ring you in a few days.’
He stops pacing and murderous eyes bear down on me. He takes two steps to the side and grabs something out of a toolbox. It’s some kind of thin, sharp screwdriver, long enough to impale me and stick out the other side of my back if it was jabbed in my direction. He takes two steps backwards and locks the door. Then he bellows, phlegm flying in my direction.
‘I did you a favour, so now you’re mine. You will stay here with me.’
‘I can’t. Don’t blow it now. I’ll get everything sorted and you can come and stay wherever I am. Surely you don’t want to hurt me.’
He scrunches his eyes repeatedly, causing tears to slide down his cheeks. I edge towards the bedroom, but notice his jaw bunch just in time as he thrusts the screwdriver at me.
‘Bitch!’
I catch his hand and manage to push it down. He forces so hard that the point drives deep into the wall between my legs and a lump of plaster drops off.
‘Argghh!’ he roars.
With his spare hand, he backhands the side of my head, sending lights flashing in my vision.
I cling onto the screwdriver, pulling his arm away from his body, but his free hand searches for my eyes. Sensing the surge of energy before it races through my body, I snarl and stamp on his left foot. With him unbalanced, I place a hand on his right hip and, roaring at full volume, throw him sideways into a big pile of cables, keyboards and computer parts.
He clambers up, shocked by the ferocity of my onslaught. It feels as though my eyes are going to burst from my face. He tries to step away, but his feet tangle in the cables. He knows what I’m capable of, because he carried the evidence. Whatever his hopes were, they are dashed now. Too late, he sees my power. I pick up his weapon. The rage I feel is blinding, then there’s a heavy knock.
Even through the thickened storm of anger, I know to freeze. Trent’s eyes look to the door, then to his screwdriver in my hand. He sees danger on one side and safety on the other. I put my finger to my lips, and try to whisper ‘shh’, but it comes out as an evil hiss.
‘Help!’ he screams.
I step towards him. The door smashes and splinters behind me, and a big foot smashes out the panels. A shaven head and broad shoulders crash through, filling the doorway, hands smashing the wood out of the way. It’s Barton. I turn back to Trent.
‘Don’t move!’ demands Barton.
Moments can define a life. Simple decisions change futures, yours and others, and a second is all it takes.
88
Acting DCI Barton
Barton had raised his meaty paw to hammer on the door again when a strangely high-pitched cry for help came from the flat. He checked the strength of the wood by rattling the handle, stepped back, lifted his leg and struck the centre of the door with his heel. The cheap material split and his foot knocked a panel out. He pushed his head through the gap, knocking the surrounding pieces out with his shoulders, and climbed through, shouting, ‘Don’t move,’ while he stumbled into the room.
His eyes quickly passed over the scene. It resembled an electronic workshop with paraphernalia over every surface. Red lights bleeped and flashed. Even the kettle seemed futuristic.
A thin man with glasses was against the window with his hands raised in self-defence. Barton recognised the back of Ellen. Her arm pumped backwards and forwards, four, five, six times, and the man collapsed onto her. She let him slide off to the floor. It was Ellen’s face that turned to him, but she was different, almost unrecognisable. Strange clambered through the gap in the door and edged towards Ellen.
‘He was trying to kill me.’ Ellen spoke quietly.
‘Drop the weapon,’ ordered Strange.
Barton’s arms reached out to pull Strange back. Now he understood. The hard-faced killer in front of them would have no mercy and was as deadly as they came. Dispassionate eyes calculated Strange’s approach. Ellen dropped the screwdriver and took a step forward.
‘No!’ Barton roared.
Strange thrust out a fast right, which headed towards her attacker’s chin, but Ellen swatted it away. She grabbed Strange by the throat with one hand and her ponytail with the other, yanked her past the sofa, and slammed her forehead into a computer screen on a crammed metal bookcase. Before Barton could move, Ellen had repeated the move, dropped Strange onto the floor, and pulled the bookcase on top of her.
She turned to Barton with cold-hearted purpose and stamped towards him. Barton had never seen such an expression of malice. The strength leaked from his body and out of his legs. Remembering Mortis’s words about such a situation, he took a step back to balance himself. He didn’t want to hit her in the face, so he hurled a crushing blow from a huge left hand straight into Ellen’s stomach. She crumpled to the floor and writhed around in silent, breathless agony.
Barton stepped over her to Strange, reached down and heaved the bookcase and its contents off her back. She gasped and opened an eye.
‘Are you okay?’
Strange nodded, but then her eyes widened and she stared behind him. Barton sensed movement behind him. He slowly turned, expecting the screwdriver to arrive in his back.
Ellen had pulled herself to her feet. She stared icily at him as Rivendon arrived in the broken doorway. With a scream, she ran towards Rivendon. With an almighty shove in the chest, she blasted him back through the doorway where he banged into the opposite flat door and crumpled to the floor. Barton scrambled after her as she climbed through the broken door. He ran into the car park feeling out of breath and eased up with a wheeze. He hadn’t been out of hospital that long. There was no chance of catching her.
Ellen was fleeing towards the exit, where a figure stood in her way.
‘Stop her,’ shouted Barton.
Instantly, he recognised the danger in asking a trained killer to confront a psychotic killer. Twelvetrees shrugged the sleeping bag from his shoulders and stepped towards the running figure. Twelvetrees had no qualms about where to hit, and he smashed a fist straight under Ellen’s chin, lifting her clean off the ground. She lay motionless at his feet.
89
Acting DCI Barton
A week later, Barton leaned back in his groaning chair and flexed his left hand. He’d strained something thumping Ellen, and it still ached. Poor old Strange was signed off with a fractured skull, though, so he’d got off lightly in comparison. Especially considering Trent Anderson’s bloody demise. Mortis said that Anderson would have been dead before he hit the ground.
Ellen Vickerman didn’t regain complete consciousness until she was cuffed to a stretcher in the back of an ambulance. Barton felt little guilt for her serious concussi
on considering what she’d done to Strange. After the paramedics had checked her over, he’d charged Ellen with the murder of Anderson and the GBH of Strange. She’d stared dispassionately at him as he’d cautioned her and merely nodded when he’d finished.
He’d wanted to charge Ellen for all the other suspicious deaths, but even knowing she was likely responsible hadn’t made it any easier for him to be able to prove anything. And Ellen was the only one left to give an explanation.
Zander had arrived soon after and driven Twelvetrees to the station to make a statement. Twelvetrees had been told about the sleeping spot by another tramp who favoured it because it was out of the wind. As promised, Barton took Twelvetrees for a burger and chips, then found him a place at The New Haven homeless hostel, but the manager rang Barton a few days later to say he’d taken his meagre belongings in the middle of the night and left. Barton wished Twelvetrees well, but without much hope.
The next day, the magistrates had asked Ellen how she pleaded to the charges. She had again been represented by the same solicitor, who had explained she would only answer to confirm her name. The bench hadn’t even bothered to confer, and she had been remanded in custody. In the dock, Ellen’s face had again displayed no emotion as the door behind her had opened and a security officer had led her away into the dark.
Barton considered himself lucky that he hadn’t been suspended over some of his unconventional techniques. Perhaps he should have waited for back-up at Scarlett’s house. Maybe he should have arrested Ellen and Lucy sooner. He pushed the thoughts aside. He’d been doing the job long enough to know that not everything in life was clear-cut. You did your best in difficult circumstances, and the police carried the burden of proof. There was no point in being right if the guilty evaded justice.
Barton’s supervisors had materialised after there had been a result, but the press had picked up on the confusing elements. Right-wing papers were demanding an inquiry into the police investigation, whereas one left-wing paper had already blamed the authorities for not giving Ellen any support after a multitude of terrible experiences. Barton shook his head. They didn’t know the half of it.
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 33