The Soul Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘John, come here for a minute.’

  He stared around. Cox and Naeem summoned him over.

  ‘We’re both away now,’ said DCI Cox. ‘Work beckons for me, and Nav’s garden for her. Why don’t your team have the rest of the day off? I’m not sure those two will be much use in an hour, anyway.’

  Barton spotted Strange and Zander exploring the wine stash. At that moment, DCs Whitlam and Malik appeared and Barton gave them the good news.

  ‘It’s your lucky day, fellas. The boss has given us the afternoon off to send Ginger up the River Styx in a way he would have enjoyed.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Malik. ‘But he was rude to me most of the time. Anyway, I’ve got loads to do and can’t afford to waste the time.’

  ‘I came with him,’ said Whitlam with finality.

  Both men nodded at him and marched out in their fitted suits. They could have been twins if they’d had the same skin colour. Barton puffed the air out of his cheeks as they left. His wife and Debbie walked towards him. He could hear their conversation as they approached.

  ‘I did love Ginger. He just wouldn’t grow up.’

  ‘I know. He made his choices though.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have toughed it out. Did I give up on him?’

  ‘Don’t do that to yourself. I don’t think he’ll be too upset. He’s had a good send-off.’

  Holly and Debbie glanced around at the emptying room. Debbie began to cry, and Barton’s wife pulled her into an embrace. An attractive Greek lady called Sirena, one of a few Crime Scene Investigators who had paid their respects, tapped Barton on the arm.

  ‘I’m very sorry, John. I liked him. He made me laugh.’

  ‘Are you staying for a few drinks, Sirena?’

  ‘No. I have too much to do. Another time. I know days like these are hard.’

  She gave him a big hug. Holly cleared her throat.

  ‘Sirena, this is my wife, Holly.’

  He glanced at their faces as they shook hands. Barton detected a touch of tension between them that he couldn’t work out, followed by an imperceptible nod from Holly. Sirena rested her hand on Barton’s shoulder, while looking at Holly.

  ‘John is great at his job. You must be very proud. Lovely to finally meet you, although I’ve got to dash away now as I have an appointment. See you all soon, I hope.’ She gave Barton a huge grin and departed.

  Holly froze Barton with a look. ‘She seems nice.’

  Barton nodded, feeling as if he were in a sharpshooter’s crosshairs. ‘She’s one of the best CSIs I’ve worked with. Zander reckons she has a crush on me.’

  Holly raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m going to take Debbie home.’ She gestured to Zander and Strange. Each had an opened bottle of wine at their elbow and a full glass. ‘Looks like it’s the three amigos leading the charge.’

  ‘I’ll just have one more.’

  ‘Nonsense. He’d burst out of his coffin if you left all this booze behind. You lot have had a difficult few months. This will be a good opportunity to put that period to rest. I’ll pick the kids up. Remember where snoring drunkards sleep?’

  ‘Sir, yes, sir. On the sofa, sir!’

  She kissed him on the cheek and waved to the other two, then fetched Debbie. Debbie had recovered enough to inspect the buffet. She grabbed some serviettes and filled her handbag with enthusiasm. Barton sat with the sergeants.

  ‘Red or white?’ asked Zander.

  ‘Both?’ he replied with a grin.

  ‘I knew that. I was wondering if you’d like them in separate glasses.’ Strange laughed and poured him a glass of the claret she held. ‘It’s been a rough time.’

  ‘You can say that again. At least the Snow Killer has gone. Ginger didn’t lose his life in vain,’ said Zander.

  Barton stared out of the open conservatory doorway at the warming spring day. A young woman pushed a pram with a blinking toddler gazing amazed at a vivid world. He hoped they were signs that it was time to move on.

  ‘Would you be happy, going like he did? Look at his wake. An hour and a half since we buried him and everyone’s disappeared. It’s depressing,’ said Strange.

  Strange reminded him of his wife, diminutive and feisty, but she had a more negative view of the world. A career in the police would do that, he mused. Barton didn’t want to focus on Ginger’s life before he died, but Zander picked up the thread.

  ‘Everything’s changing. A lot of people don’t drink any more. Ginger was old school. Shit paperwork and a vodka bottle in his drawer. He was left behind. Kelly and I were just talking about it. Life can be over just like that, and I’ve been wasting it hiding away. It’s time for me to rejoin planet Earth. I miss my boy, but it doesn’t mean my life’s over.’

  Strange took a deep breath. ‘I lost something I never knew I wanted so much. Maybe I gained some understanding about the kind of person I am. Aryan refuses to talk about our loss, but I reckon he’s a little relieved. Even so, he says he wants us to be together still. If we have a future, I need to go for it. I don’t want to leave anything out there.’

  Barton smirked at the clichés peppering the maudlin conversation. ‘How much have you two had to drink?’

  They replied in unison. ‘A lot!’

  He took a moment to consider. ‘You’re right. What better time to analyse things? I’ve been drinking more than is healthy. I’m at risk of turning into Inspector Cliché. You know, the hard-boozing hungover detective. I’ll start playing Mozart in my car if I’m not careful. There will always be an element of danger with our jobs, but it’s reminded me of what’s important. That’s family and health. You two have suffered more than me, but I still lost a friend and a colleague, and I think I was already losing my mojo. Something good will come of Ginger’s sacrifice. I might even get serious about shedding a few pounds.’

  Barton reached over and unscrewed another bottle of red. He raised his glass.

  ‘To Ginger.’

  They echoed his toast.

  ‘Excuse me. Should we tidy away?’ The waiter pointed towards the buffet table.

  ‘What time is the room booked until?’ asked Barton.

  ‘It’s yours for as long as you like.’

  The three of them laughed when Barton answered, ‘We’ll give you a shout, then.’

  Zander paused until the hotel staff moved out of hearing range. ‘They usually have a big tree in here at Christmas.’

  ‘We almost had the Christmas party here last year, but it got cancelled along with the rest of the cuts,’ said Barton.

  ‘Great. I turn up and the party’s cancelled,’ said Strange.

  ‘That’s probably the end of them. Christmas parties are HR disasters nowadays. You’re guaranteed at least one claim of sexual harassment,’ said Barton. ‘Or perhaps not, with Ginger gone.’ Barton thought of his old colleague. ‘Ginger hated Christmas. He loved the staff party though. Many years ago, he turned up to the company do dressed as Rod Hull and Emu.’

  ‘Yes! I remember that,’ said Zander.

  ‘Cool, did they used to be fancy dress?’ asked Strange.

  ‘No, it was black tie. No one was safe that night. I doubt we’ll see another like him in the force. Weird to think he’s gone,’ said Barton.

  ‘Let’s make a pact,’ said Strange. ‘This Christmas, we’ll meet up here and whoever’s made the least progress in improving their work-life balance over the rest of the year settles the bill.’

  They clinked their glasses again.

  ‘Hopefully there won’t be a lunatic running around killing folk next winter,’ said Zander.

  Barton agreed. But the world was full of dangerous people. Somebody somewhere teetered close to the edge.

  11

  DI Barton

  Present day – A month before Christmas

  Barton returned from his third appointment of the day. He slouched in his chair, wondering whether he should tackle the paperwork that kept getting interrupted by impromptu meetings that he didn’t need to att
end. The open plan office stretched out in front of him. Strange and Zander had assumed a similar pose to himself. A police station shouldn’t feel like an insurance admin centre, but that was the impression it currently gave.

  There’d been no recent cases requiring the whole team to pull together. It had just been a succession of nasty assaults of all types that had been growing in popularity of late. Cambridgeshire tended to catch London’s maladies and the latest virus was knife crime. Luckily, A & E had been winning the war of late, or at least keeping it at a draw.

  At 19:00, Barton had just decided to call it a night when the phone rang.

  ‘Barton.’

  ‘John, it’s DCI Cox. I need a favour.’

  He listened and wrote down the details.

  ‘And there’s no one else?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He hung up, grabbed his jacket and stopped next to his sergeants.

  ‘I’m sure you both have a busy evening’s entertainment arranged for tonight, it being a Friday and all, but I don’t suppose either of you fancy a drive to Cambridge. Dinner and a beer’s my shout on the way back, or a twenty-four hour McD’s if we run out of time. Any kind of burger you like,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll come,’ said Strange.

  ‘It’ll be about a four hour round trip.’

  She knew that it could be less or probably more than that, but clearly had nothing planned.

  Zander stood to follow, then said, ‘Wait a minute. I’m not too proud to admit that I’ve got nothing better to do with my time, but why aren’t Cambridge dealing with it?’

  ‘They’ve got an inspector off on holiday and another with flu.’

  ‘Ah, so it’s serious,’ said Strange.

  ‘Murder,’ replied Barton.

  They strode out together. Zander signed for a pool car with blues and twos. The A14 road between Cambridge and Peterborough was notoriously bad, but sometimes flashing lights made it worse as people panicked and got in the way. He suspected they might be okay as Cambridge was the booming university town. Workers lived in cheaper Huntingdon and Peterborough and commuted in. At this time of night, the bulk of the traffic would be going the other way.

  Zander drove with Barton in the passenger seat. Strange was tiny compared to the two men. Recently, a drunk had asked her if she was a cheerleader and pulled her blonde ponytail. Zander’s laugh had fallen from his face as she’d taken the inebriated man down with a sweeping kick. But it made sense for her to be in the back if she wasn’t driving, so the men had more leg room. Barton turned the radio down.

  ‘Right, guys. I was hoping to have a chat with you about team morale. Now that you’re a captive audience, what can we do to improve it?’

  ‘I’ve tried. I arranged a night out but no one could agree on what to do. What’s wrong with bowling?’ said Zander.

  ‘Malik and Whitlam didn’t mind the bowling, but Zelensky and some of the other youngsters wanted to do something like the parkrun or a mud run. You know, some exercise and a bit of competition,’ said Strange.

  Barton knew that the parkrun was five kilometres around a park and the other was a longer run through a mud-filled obstacle course. He was with Zander. ‘Isn’t bowling a competitive sport?’

  ‘No, of course not. What next, darts? Dominos? Checkers? Armchair aerobics?’ said Strange.

  Barton was about to say he liked checkers, although he called it draughts, when his phone rang. It was Cambridge with the details.

  Strange leaned forward as Barton finished his call.

  ‘What’s the score, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Initial reports state a man has been stabbed outside his house during a robbery. The wife found him when she was going out. He’d been dead a while.’

  ‘No suspects or witnesses?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Are we keeping the case?’

  ‘Nope, we hand it back tomorrow. They’re holding the scene until I arrive.’

  A scowl emerged on Strange’s face. ‘Wait a minute. Cambridge has loads of experienced sergeants. Some are even as old as Zander. Why aren’t they dealing with it if we aren’t keeping the case?’

  ‘Their DI is back tomorrow. There’s no point in us travelling to Cambridge from Peterborough every day if it’s straightforward.’

  Strange’s expression indicated she still didn’t understand.

  Zander chuckled. ‘I may be marginally older than you, Kelly, but I am wise. Let me guess, it’s something to do with the university.’

  Barton gave a grim nod. ‘Yes, it’s outside one of their buildings. The victim lived in that building.’

  Zander looked in the back of the car. ‘The university has a lot of clout in the city. They will be demanding that Cambridge Police send the best they’ve got. A weathered sergeant won’t do the trick. They’ll want at least an inspector.’

  Strange sat back. ‘Ah, I see. Cox sends you, John. She makes it look like we’re doing everything we can. This way, if any mistakes are made, she’s covered.’

  Barton didn’t need to reply that if there were mistakes it would be his reputation at stake. Were there worse words than I need a favour?

  ‘The university passes a brick every time a student dies. It doesn’t look good if you want to attract the best to study there,’ said Zander.

  ‘Actually, it’s worse than that,’ said Barton. ‘Someone’s killed a lecturer.’

  12

  DI Barton

  They made good time. The journey back would be a nightmare judging by the queues on the other side of the road. It started to rain, too, frequent heavy showers that would snarl everything up. Zander used the lights to clear his way through the crowds of students when they got near the incident. They took a couple of wrong turns, which added to Barton’s annoyance. He’d worked in Cambridge as a constable for six months, but since then they’d expanded the one-way systems and even installed rising no entry bollards.

  ‘Blimey. Look at this lot,’ said Zander.

  A huge group dressed as vicars and tarts staggered into the road in front of them. Some of the tarts had hairier legs than Zander, which was saying something. A couple of them were bigger, too. A group of American ex-presidents went past, two hookers seemingly from Pretty Woman, unless of course they were hookers, and a multitude in Bart Simpson masks. Barton reached over and stopped Zander giving the siren a blast.

  This lot would have been drinking since noon. He didn’t want them turning their ire on them. Even when faced with uniform, the odd one might start shouting ‘Nazi baby killers’ and guffaw in a cut-glass accent. If you nicked them, they had a surprising habit of getting released in the morning without charge. Daddy could be anyone. Back in the day it had been quicker and more educational to give them a solid whack and send them on their way. That way, you had no paperwork and they learned a valuable life lesson. CCTV and mobile-phone videos had put an end to that style of policing.

  Finally, they saw the cordon ahead. It was on the edge of a row of old buildings. The police had done a good job. The road was secure and there were bodies in high-viz all over the place moving people along. A man with a clipboard, who looked younger than the revellers, came to the window.

  ‘What’s your business, gentlemen?’

  Zander popped his large black head out of the window. ‘Crime solving.’

  The man stepped back and crouched. His eyes widened at Barton. ‘I know who you two are. Wait while I raise the barrier.’

  ‘There’s a Sergeant Strange in the back, too,’ said Zander.

  The constable obviously couldn’t see past the men or through the condensation on the window, but didn’t want to check. He smiled and raised his hand to a man in a dark-blue poncho. The barrier was raised.

  Zander parked up. It was obvious where the incident was as two police vans had their lights pointed at a stone archway. An ambulance sat behind them. Two female officers with grim stares stood together under the arch, preventing access. They parted to let
out a stooped guy wearing a battered leather jacket. He had a grim expression too, but Barton knew he woke up looking like that.

  ‘Tapper! Long time.’

  The man limped over. ‘Battering ram Barton. It’s been a while. Zander, you still driving this lunk about?’

  They all shook hands with gusto. Tapper Turner had been the one to show Barton the Cambridge ropes all those years ago. The Tapper nickname was due to him tapping his fingers on his head while he thought.

  ‘What happened to your leg?’ asked Barton. ‘Did you hurt it chasing students?’

  ‘It’s a touch of gout, you cheeky sod. I’d still leave you for dust though.’

  Barton laughed, thinking it was probably true. ‘This here’s Strange,’ he said.

  Tapper smiled at her. ‘You’ll get on well in Peterborough.’

  Strange gave him a cold smile. She’d had grief over her name her whole career.

  ‘CSI are finishing up through there. They’ll have a look out here over the next few hours, drains, bushes, you know the score, but this looks like a professional hit.’

  ‘You think a hired assassin did it?’ asked Strange.

  Tapper turned to Strange and widened his eyes. ‘That’s right. There was a box of Milk Tray on the victim’s back. The perp’s probably inside in his dinner suit drinking a Martini. Shall we go and get him?’

  Barton grinned. The sergeant had spoken to him like that since he’d first met him twenty years ago. He was sound, though. A man you’d trust with your life.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Tapper. ‘You don’t need to put covers on.’

  They walked under the arch to see a prone body in a dated suit lying in a small puddle of blood. A CSI was next to the tent with his arms crossed. Tapper beckoned him over.

  ‘CSM Tim Jones, this is DI Barton and his team. The inspector has driven here from Peterborough with his top guys so we can tell the university we’re doing everything we can. His ass is on the line, so even though you and me have been through it all already, I’ll run through it with him again. You add anything at the end.