‘Couldn’t you have found someone a little more normal?’
He slumped onto his seat and exhaled loudly. There’s little difference between despair and defeat. He pulled his T-shirt down to cover his pot belly and ran a hand through his lank thinning hair.
‘There wasn’t a queue forming. I’d only gone to church because I was lonely. I knew she was looking for a replacement for your father, and I never filled the role, but we had a life of sorts, although I found a drawer full of their things. You know, old photos of them together, jewellery, even an old letter that I couldn’t bring myself to read. I never mentioned it to her, because sometimes she’d cling to me at night and it was good. Certainly better than being alone. She cooked for me and washed my clothes. You know, it was company. I had our trips in the van to look forward to, and I enjoyed the allotment. It’s been okay.’
‘You didn’t mind being second choice?’
‘Not if the alternative is coming in last. She treated me well enough.’
It was an interesting insight. Some people lead unexciting lives but they aren’t necessarily unhappy. Barney looked serious for a moment. He spoke slowly.
‘It was you who I worried about.’
‘How so?’
‘Your mother had some strange ideas and views. She was always preaching to you and some of what she said was dark.’
‘I tended to ignore most of what she said.’
‘Yes, I know, but you listened more as you got older.’
‘Is that so bad?’
‘It depends. If you’re told the same thing over and over again, it can eventually sink in, even if it first sounded wrong.’
Before I had time to consider his words, he changed the subject. ‘Anyway, she loved you, of that I’m sure.’
‘She treated me badly.’
He reached over and patted my hand.
‘Your mum struggled with affection and love. Were you aware she went to a convent school?’
‘No, she never mentioned it.’
‘It was extremely religious and very strict. I think they punished the children in ways that are unacceptable now. That affected and influenced her, and, well, she enjoyed some unnatural things. I don’t think she knew how to respond to authority or religion after that, nor how to be a good parent. She was completely convinced that this life was for suffering so that you could receive heaven as your reward. They’ll take care of her there.’
I found myself whispering, ‘Amen,’ but my eyes rose to the ceiling, too. I wished I hadn’t asked because I struggled to look him in the eye for a long time after that, even though he’d done me a huge favour. As I grew older, I understood that you hold on to someone you belong with, whatever the consequences, or however hard it becomes. But you protect your soul, even if that means breaking the law.
Barney gave me his debit card and PIN, and sent me down to the corner shop for a turkey, just like in A Christmas Carol, except I only found Bernard Matthews chicken slices. It was run by a Sikh shopkeeper who opened for a few hours for others who didn’t celebrate the day. I bought a bottle of whisky, some beers, and a few bags of crisps as accompaniments.
When I returned, Barney had put the radio on and we listened to various songs intermingled with Christmas classics. We ate a Chinese takeaway later. All in all, I enjoyed a pleasant day.
Just before we retired, Barney handed me a plastic bag.
‘Your mother put it in the loft this morning. I like to think she would have returned it to you instead of throwing it away.’
Opening the bag, I revealed the contents of my secret box. I considered the motivation for what I’d done and shrugged. There were few regrets because my mother, who never fitted into this world, was now at peace. What I did was hardly a crime. Hadn’t I delivered her to where she’d wanted to be? Her mortal worries were over now, and her soul was free.
5
DI Barton
The funeral
Detective Inspector John Barton began to surface from a dream filled sleep. His mount had just jumped the last fence and galloped up the home straight in the Grand National to cheering from the heaving crowds. The images faded to the presentation ceremony where the giant trophy loomed before him.
‘Here you are, John. Now, get moving, or you’ll be late.’
He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and focussed on the cup in front of him. It said, ‘Anybody who says the police are corrupt can kiss my Rolex!’ His wife, Holly, scowled at him. His head dropped back on the pillow, as though full of cement.
‘Do I have to go?’
‘Everyone’s expecting you. I don’t understand what’s got into you lately.’
He watched her leave in a sombre suit and admired the tight but sensible trousers. Was that an acceptable thought to have on such a sad day? He considered her words and agreed. He didn’t know what had got into him lately either. The death of his colleague Alan ‘Ginger’ Rodgers had shocked him to the core, but other worries trickled into his mind too. Besides, there probably wasn’t a single person in the city that the acts of the Snow Killer hadn’t affected. As a policeman, he always assumed he could cope with anything.
He knew that his team would look to him for guidance over the next few months. An officer killed in the line of duty would drag down morale. He’d have the tough task of reminding them they had a job to do, however brutal the murder of one of their own was.
The coroner had released the bodies over a week before and, after a month, the shock of his colleague’s demise had lessened, but the gloom remained. Ginger had no close family, and when no distant relative or friend had stepped forward to organise the funeral, in the end, Barton’s wife had said she’d do it.
That was Holly to a T and was one of the reasons why he loved her. She had tolerated Ginger’s friendship with Barton. Ginger had enjoyed a joke and a drink, so most partners had considered him an all-round bad influence. They’d double-dated with Ginger and his long-term girlfriend in the distant past after Ginger’s second divorce, but the Bartons had ended up with three children, and John had been promoted. Life had changed for them and their other couple friends as they’d aged and their families had grown, but no one had told Ginger. When Holly had finally reached his partner to ask her views on the funeral arrangements, Debbie had explained that they split up years ago. Ginger hadn’t said a word to anyone.
Holly and Debbie had chosen a simple service by a celebrant instead of a religious figure. After all, Ginger’s only spirituality had come in a bottle.
Barton heaved himself out of bed and gazed into the mirror with a smile. At well over six feet tall and eighteen stone, he’d make an unlikely jockey. It would need to be some horse. Nevertheless, his colourful dreams contrasted with the dark thoughts that circled him during daylight. His mother had told him that his father had suffered from depression, so, by acknowledging the risk, Barton hoped it wouldn’t become a problem.
By the time he clomped down the stairs in his dark grey suit, Holly was at the door with her arms crossed. Barton smiled but a cracking came from under his foot. He stared down at his five year old son’s lorry, that now resembled a Ferrari.
‘Lock up. I’ll drive. We’ll go in my car,’ she ordered, shaking her head.
The kids were at school. Only the fifteen year old, Lawrence, remembered Ginger, and he hadn’t seen him for a long time. Barton had overheard Lawrence asking Holly questions concerning the recent killings. She’d given him the same explanation as Barton had: sometimes sick people got angry and lashed out.
He stepped outside and grimaced at Holly’s tiny car. While he waited for her to unlock the door, he glanced around at the area where the Snow Killer had operated. There was an oppressive feel to the air, as though there were too many big white clouds for the sky and they’d tumbled towards the earth. Perfect funeral weather, he mused.
Even the wind didn’t know what to do. Winter was over but no one had told spring to arrive. Perhaps it was waiting until they’d buried his friend.
>
Barton squeezed in next to his wife.
‘Don’t you think my car would be more comfortable?’
She couldn’t help a smile sneaking onto her face.
‘I didn’t know if you’d still be over the limit?’
‘I only had four beers last night.’
‘It’s hard for me to keep up, what with you drinking every evening.’
Barton kept his mouth shut. Management had allowed him a week off work after the end of the serial killer case. When he’d returned, he’d found himself distracted by things that had never bothered him before. It made him unfocussed and forgetful during the day, and, with gathering gloom, he struggled to drop off at night. A couple of cold ones helped with that. In the past, he’d confided in Holly when the brutal nature of policing had threatened to swamp him. He grasped, at that moment, that he had stopped doing so.
‘It’s the job.’
‘I thought you said it was slow.’
‘Not present work.’
She studied his face as she pulled up at some traffic lights. They would arrive at the crematorium in minutes. He waited while she decided whether or not it was the time to delve into a deep conversation, which they might not be able to finish. She concluded it wasn’t.
‘Don’t exclude me, John. We’ll get through this together.’
‘I know, it’s just my brain processing things.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said with a grin. ‘Peterborough rarely gets a serial killer. We should have plenty of time before the next one.’
6
DI Barton
Holly’s forehead creased as she drove in circles around the full parking bays at the crematorium. Despite her fretting, they’d still arrived ten minutes before the start. Barton spotted DS Kelly Strange and DS Shawn Zander laughing at him in the little car as they did loops hoping for a space to come free. They eventually parked on a grass verge near the entrance.
Zander opened the door for Barton. Before he could struggle out, Zander crouched and waved at Holly.
‘Will madam need the toolbox to get this creature out of the passenger seat?’
‘Hi, Shawn. You okay? He pops out if I tickle him.’
Barton shook his head. Everyone on the planet called Shawn Zander plain Zander except Holly. Zander had lost his son over a year ago through CO2 poisoning. His marriage disintegrated in the aftermath, so Holly often asked after him and invited him around, with little success. Zander had finally emerged on the other side of his pain, but experiences like that darken you forever. He was big. Similar in height and proportion to Barton, but grief had stolen his appetite. Barton used to compare him to Muhammad Ali due to his rapid banter. He regretted the loss of humanity in his friend, but who could blame him?
A large hand hauled Barton out. They stood next to each other and smiled. The case of the Snow Killer, Zander’s loss, and years of working together had strengthened their bond.
‘I’d prefer it if you two made out after the funeral, lads,’ said DS Strange.
Barton chuckled. Strange hadn’t been out of hospital long, and he’d kept away from her house so she could get her head sorted. He’d learned that she preferred to process life’s blows alone. Strange reached over and gave his hand a meaty shake. She punched Zander on the arm. Barton suspected romantic tension between them, but it was just a detective’s hunch.
They were the linchpins of his team, even though she’d only transferred up from London last year. Strange had tolerated some bullying in the capital and this had given her a tough edge. She was perfect sergeant material. In the short time she had worked in the department, she’d provided valuable insight on many occasions. Her serious nature discouraged most from flirting, and Barton admired her sparks of genius. The impressive efficiency and resourcefulness of Barton’s unit had remained the only positive to come from the shocking murders.
The Snow Killer’s end had resulted in a devastating loss for Strange, too. Ginger had saved her life by sacrificing his own. However, the trauma had caused her to miscarry. Events like these recent ones could rip a team to shreds if officers concentrated on the price they might have to pay. As they waited for the doors to open, Barton knew he wouldn’t let that happen. First, though, it was time to remember Ginger.
Police funerals were strange things. Ginger had been far from popular. His biting wit had riled many and he’d possessed an ability to find a nickname for someone that shredded them. One such victim came to talk to Barton as they waited in the spring sunshine for the earlier service to finish.
‘Detective Barton. Good to see you again.’
‘Chief Superintendent Blake Lafferty. Or may I call you Bloke on such a day?’
‘You can call me whatever you like if you fancy three years in Traffic afterwards.’
‘They will bury your nickname with him, sir.’
Lafferty stared at him without expression, before cracking a grin. ‘That cackling bastard pushed me to distraction. It drove me on, though. I wanted to get promoted so high I would never have to see his spotty face again.’
‘Are you here to make sure he’s gone?’
‘Not officially. I was visiting the station anyway, but I’ll definitely be raising a glass to him later.’
Still a dick, thought Barton, as he laughed inside at the memories. Lafferty had irritated everyone from the very beginning. He’d been desperate to climb the ladder, and his ruthless ambition had progressively worsened. One weekend, Ginger had altered his locker name card from Blake Lafferty to Bloke’s Lavatory and kept sticking home-drawn pictures of turds underneath it. For years, Lafferty had borne the brunt of puns about having stuff dumped on him. Nostalgia threatened to swamp Barton as he thought about jokes from twenty years ago.
The crematorium doors opened and he found Holly’s hand in his. People often fill the seats at the rear first, like at weddings, but Barton strode to the front. Navneet Naeem, his old DCI, and her sons and husband joined him. The Snow Killer had damaged their lives, too. Any staff that Thorpe Wood police station could spare filled the surrounding spaces and the place was full.
Barton couldn’t see any strangers, and it was only when he stood to say his words that he recognised Ginger’s ex-girlfriend, Debbie, standing at the back in between DCs Whitlam and Malik. He placed his written notes to one side; he didn’t need them. He spoke from the heart, even getting in a few toilet jokes just to upset Lafferty, until a subtle cough from the celebrant told him to wind it up.
‘DC Alan “Ginger” Rodgers won’t be remembered as the best copper the force has ever had. He won’t go down as the most reliable person to work with, either. Yet, we solved many cases because of his intelligence and experience. I was proud to call him a colleague and a friend. I’m glad he became part of my life. He died a hero.’
7
The Soul Killer
I returned to my mother’s old property and lived with Barney after graduating from university, but I would often make excuses to leave the house or find myself wandering from room to room. My emotions were conflicted. Mother had truly believed in her actions as she’d cocooned me from the world. She was dangerous, yet never deadly. Instead, it turned out that crossing me was her last mistake – but then she should never have touched my things. Any minor feelings of regret had long since faded.
I struggled to find well-paid work in Wisbech. I worked in a bakery again for a while, but I wanted a serious job.
The biggest city nearby was Peterborough. Shared living like at university did not appeal. I found a row of strange, tiny terraced houses along a decrepit, dead-end track. One big bedroom upstairs and one large lounge-diner downstairs sounds weird, but it made the place feel bigger than it was. Reasonable rent and plenty of parking near disused railway yards made it appealing, even though the dwellings did remind me a little of hobbits’ homes with thin walls. Number three became mine and, apart from the bloke two doors away from me playing his music too loud, I loved it there.
After finishing
my studies and applying all over, I got my dream role. Shift work never bothered me, and I took advantage of any overtime. I thought of my mother often with a new-found appreciation. She wasn’t the only one who thought this world was a practice ground for eternity and no rules applied. My job showed me the damage humans did to one another. People died, few cared, they were quickly forgotten. My job meant people held me in some esteem. It never failed to give me a buzz.
I joined a running club but didn’t meet a new Charlie. Many of the members were much older than me, meaning I failed to settle. Instead, I bounced from gym to gym to keep in shape. My body changed little despite my strength improving. Rarely did I arrive at a machine and need to lower a weight, but it seemed my muscles were fine as they were. That said, the world was changing and so was what people found attractive. Celebrities ate little and exercised constantly. People admired that look.
Long years passed and I feared I’d never meet my soul mate. Sometimes, I woke at night bathed in sweat; the point of life evading me. My thoughts strayed back to Charlie and the lecturer. It became a sore that I’d itch. I hated my history. All those people that had treated me badly and showed me disrespect tempered my enthusiasm for living. My past, left as it was, ruined my future.
Dating websites gained in popularity at the time. Those Internet pages seemed beyond the normal rules of society. You didn’t need the dark web when you had social media in its present form. People assumed new identities and the witless and feckless paid the price. I dabbled but decided I would not meet my soul mate that way. However, I used Tinder mercilessly. When I was a young boy, no one wanted me. When I became an adult, finding out people had swiped right at my picture became an addictive pick-me-up.
The Soul Killer Page 3