The Soul Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘Okay, that’s great. Have a lovely time. Off anywhere nice?’

  ‘Only a friend’s. You got anything planned?’

  ‘My friend is cooking dinner on Boxing Day. He lives in Ailsworth. I usually go for a long walk in the afternoon around Ferry Meadows, and it’s not too much farther onto his place. He’ll drop me back if it gets late.’

  I reckon his mate is his boyfriend. He is a handsome guy who I sometimes see leaving after I’ve endured deep moans through the walls. That sort of thing doesn’t usually bother me, although occasionally it goes on for a ridiculous length of time. It’s up to him if it’s a secret. I bring the conversation back to safer ground.

  ‘I heard knobhead’s music a few nights ago.’

  ‘It’s driving me crazy. I asked him to turn it down, but he told me to “F” off. I said that even you could hear it, but he just laughed.’

  ‘I don’t get it. He isn’t having parties. He lives on his own.’

  ‘That man is rude and thoughtless. There’s good news though. He reckoned he’s going to a friend’s in London and seeing a show on Boxing Day. Says he might not even come back.’

  ‘Okay. I doubt I’ll be here either. I’ll be at a party.’

  Robin is one of those who likes to air his house. The windows are always open, the doors sometimes too. Especially on a Sunday, as though he spends the weekend trumping and needs to let it all out.

  Still, he’s harmless, and I tell him to enjoy himself. I make a big fuss of putting my stuff in my car and even honk my horn a few times as I leave shortly after. Music man has the cheek to appear at his door and give me a dirty look. He should be more careful. I’m not in the mood for any attitude.

  21

  DI Barton

  Barton parked on the neighbours’ drive, blocking them in. Police tape surrounded the house with the body, and a young officer manned the cordon at the entrance.

  ‘Afternoon, sir.’

  Barton smiled until he spotted the state of the PVC door.

  He put shoe covers and gloves on and crunched through the glass into the hall. He checked behind the front door and saw the key in the lock. Expensive UPVC doors were notoriously tough to break down. Barton glared at the officer, who reddened.

  ‘Why didn’t they just smash a window?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir.’

  Barton wrinkled his nose at the smell. Crying and loud voices echoed from upstairs. He could hear Strange’s calm voice as she explained something. A uniformed sergeant by the name of Dunning stared up at a dangling body with bulging eyes. A short man in a snowman Christmas jumper stood next to him.

  Barton examined the face of the corpse. Strange was right. He was well beyond medical intervention. Barton cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Barton. Sergeant Dunning, are you in charge?’

  ‘Yes, sir. This is the family GP, Dr Roe.’

  Barton shook the GP’s hand and turned back to the sergeant. ‘Were you first officer attending?’

  The man gestured to the constable at the door before he replied. ‘The other one felt faint. He’s lying down in the ambulance. First time they’ve seen a swinger. They panicked a bit.’

  ‘It appears so.’ Barton didn’t judge those reactions. He’d blanched at his first suicide too. ‘Who’s that upstairs with Sergeant Strange?’

  ‘The family arrived just before I did. Apparently, there was no preventing them entering. Having met them, I can believe that.’

  Barton took a deep breath. Normally he’d keep the next of kin well away from a scene like this. It was guaranteed to haunt them, maybe even break them.

  ‘Bring me up to speed.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And try not to use the word swinger,’ he added under his breath.

  ‘The neighbour found a man hanging and rang it in. Our guys arrived in a response van and, thinking they could save him, knocked the door down. But when they entered, it was clear he was dead. His face was chalk white; eyes cloudy. They grabbed him to support him but, even though it isn’t cold in here, the body was already stiff and cool.’ He pointed to the black liquid dripping from the body onto the presents. ‘It’s shit from his trouser leg, not blood. The ambulance arrived a minute later. They did some checks but left him in case we didn’t want him moved yet.’

  ‘Anything suspicious? Any signs of a break-in?’

  The sergeant’s eyes strayed behind Barton to the damaged front door. ‘The back door and all the windows are still locked. There’s no sign of a disturbance. No blood on the carpets, overturned chairs, nothing like that. It looks as though he hung himself.’

  Barton squinted at the protruding wrists. ‘He’s very thin.’

  The GP nodded. ‘Yes, Donald Birtwistle had advanced terminal lung cancer. Bad luck for a non-smoker in excellent health. He had no more than a month left.’

  ‘I assume that’s a painful end?’

  ‘Not necessarily, but his cancer had spread. Every organ contained growths. Tumours in themselves aren’t usually painful. Most cancer pain occurs by them growing and pressing on bones, nerves or other organs in the body.’

  Barton grimaced. ‘Bad enough for someone to want it to stop more than anything?’

  ‘Without a doubt. Chemotherapy at this point kills you as fast as the cancer. It also causes aches and mouth sores. Diarrhoea is a normal side effect. Donald was a man of character, though. I find it hard to believe he’d do this.’

  ‘It’s difficult to put yourself in another’s situation. He didn’t have long to go, why linger?’

  ‘Because he had us, Detective.’

  An attractive, full-bodied woman who looked in her late twenties descended the stairs in dark leggings and a white jumper with a flashing-nosed reindeer on it. Behind her was a shorter, but otherwise identical looking woman, in similar attire. They both had black hair in ponytails. The only unmatched thing was their faces. The shorter one’s appeared red and puffy, no doubt from crying.

  ‘We’re twins,’ said the tall one. ‘I’m Annabelle, and this is Claudia. That’s our father.’ She pointed at his shoe, but her eyes didn’t follow her finger.

  ‘I’m very sorry. This must be tough for you.’

  ‘He did not kill himself. You never met him. He just wouldn’t. Especially on Christmas Day.’

  Barton said nothing for a few seconds to release some of the tension.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I’m here to decide the next steps based on the facts so let me catch up. How did the neighbour discover the body?’

  ‘She popped over for a sherry. When he didn’t answer the door, she looked through the letterbox.’

  ‘And there are no signs of forced entry. Both the front and back doors were locked. Your father was experiencing terrible pain and didn’t have long to live.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have done this to us.’

  Barton shrugged. It seemed clear to him.

  ‘People who attempt suicide can make the decision very quickly. Christmas in particular causes emotion swings. He could have wished to save you from seeing him suffer. What other explanation is there? That he allowed someone in his house, let them put a noose over his head, then they threw him over the bannister without a struggle. Does that sound like your dad?’

  Annabelle’s eyes narrowed. ‘I appreciate your candour. No, that does not sound like my father. But where did he get the noose from? Planning that takes more than ten minutes.’

  Barton acknowledged her astute comment with a nod. The kitchen door swung open and Sirena, the crime scene manager, came in with another white-suited investigator carrying a camera. She gave Barton a pleasant smile but remained professional.

  ‘We’ve taken photos and prints. Nothing to my eye appears suspicious at this stage. There aren’t any mysterious footprints as such, but as you can tell the scene has been compromised. The floor is otherwise spotless. There are no weapons or items which look out of place, although there isn’t a letter. The tree was leaning
a little when we arrived, which could have occurred due to a number or reasons—’

  ‘In an effort to save himself,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘If he wanted to change his mind, yes. Or it might just have toppled over.’

  ‘What about the blood drips and the spray on the wall?’

  Barton turned to Dr Roe, who smiled kindly at the sisters.

  ‘I’m sorry, Annabelle. It’s not unusual for blood vessels to break in the nose during such an event. It may have come out of his mouth or even his ears. There’d be choking and convulsions. He was considerably weakened, meaning that kind of thing would be more likely.’

  ‘He’d have told us if it was getting too much,’ Annabelle said, but was losing her conviction.

  Sergeant Dunning spoke up. ‘If you look on the kitchen table, there might be a pointer. A picture of the family has been left on it. I’ve seen it before. It’s like a note; where someone can’t find the words.’

  Tears trickled from Annabelle’s eyes but she gritted her teeth. Sobs came from behind her as Claudia broke down again. Strange had been listening from the top of the stairs.

  ‘Is anything missing in the house? Any valuables?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. We haven’t had time to check,’ managed Annabelle.

  ‘Did anyone want him dead?’

  Annabelle stepped towards the body with shaking shoulders. ‘Of course not.’ She reached up for a hand and stopped mid-air. ‘His ring. His ring is gone.’

  ‘What ring?’ asked Barton.

  ‘After my mother died, he wore her wedding ring on his little finger. He never wore jewellery before she was killed.’ She finally broke down.

  Barton raised an eyebrow. ‘Was her death recent?’

  The other daughter, Claudia, came forward. She visibly calmed herself with a deep breath now that her sister was weeping. ‘A car accident, twelve years ago. He swore he’d never take the ring off.’

  Barton inspected the skeletal hand. A ring would slide off any of those fingers. He imagined Mortis, the pathologist on call, tucking into a big plate of Brussels sprouts with a yellow paper hat on. Mortis, real name Simon Menteith, loved his job so much that he would attend any suspicious scene and had done for decades.

  ‘I’m sorry, but this has all the markings of a man taking his own life. I’ll request a post-mortem for you, even though your GP should be able to write the death certificate, but it won’t be immediately.’

  Barton stared at the swaying corpse. It was time to take it down. Claudia must have read his mind because she put a hand to her mouth. He wanted to save the victim’s children from seeing that, but they might not want to leave the scene.

  ‘Why don’t you look around with DS Strange and check if there’s anything else missing?’

  Claudia set her face. She clearly felt it was her duty to be present when her father was brought down, so Barton considered again how to get her to leave.

  ‘If you think your father’s death is suspicious in any way, that would make this a crime scene. Please give us a few minutes to complete our investigation.’

  Strange escorted the twins upstairs with a tiny smile and Barton went to find Dunning, who was inhaling through his nose out of the back door.

  ‘Sergeant. I hope you heard all that. Ring it in as a suspected suicide. Better safe than sorry though, so we’ll need a post-mortem done when possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Sirena instructed the photographer to take photos of the side of the body that had been against the wall.

  ‘You arrived quick.’

  ‘My turn this year. I’ve no family in the UK anyway.’

  Barton shook his head at the body. The ripple effect of a suicide was sometimes as devastating as the act itself. The people affected would never be the same again. Sirena cleared her throat.

  ‘That was the right call, John. Sadly, I’ve seen a lot of these. Especially at this time of year.’

  He hoped he’d made the correct decision. Whatever he decided though, the day’s festivities were over for him. At least he’d have more Christmases. This family would never enjoy another normal one. Each year would be a vivid reminder of what they’d lost. Barton shook his head at the ruined gifts. Was there a sadder sight than presents that wouldn’t be opened?

  22

  The Soul Killer

  The roads are empty and I make good time to Wisbech, arriving at midday. I park on the drive behind Barney’s campervan. Four flat tyres indicate he takes care of it in the same way as he does of himself. I have a key, but I knock so Barney can let me in. The door opens slowly and a balder head than I remember looks cautiously around the edge of it. Barney looks about as healthy as the guy I left hanging earlier. But instead of cloudy eyes, his have a tinge of yellow to them.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Barney.’

  ‘You too. I’m so glad you’re here. Come in. I’ve got a big juicy turkey this year. You won’t be calling this one roadkill. I put it in an hour ago. I’ll microwave some vegetables later. Do you fancy a drink?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Whisky, a bottle of wine, and, erm, water. Tap water.’

  ‘I tell you what, a glass of red wine. I’m celebrating the solving of a little problem I had.’

  Barney looks troubled. ‘Is white okay?’

  We watch Ben Hur on the small portable and old DVD player that used to be in his campervan. He only opens the whisky bottle twice but still falls asleep. That isn’t a good sign.

  I check the turkey and it is huge. The vegetables, however, comprise of two unpeeled carrots, four tiny Brussels sprouts, and a tin of processed peas. Locating gravy proves impossible. I wake him when it’s ready and we eat in companionable silence at the dining room table. My mind wanders to the space underneath my feet where my mother used to shove me. At least that bloody clock has gone.

  He’s back on the whisky after picking at his plate. I’ve not eaten much either. I keep checking my phone, but Claudia still hasn’t rung. They must have found him by now. After a slice of frozen cheesecake, I can’t wait any longer. I take some deep breaths as adrenalin circles my body. My call goes straight to voicemail, and I hang up.

  A vein on my head throbs stronger as each call goes unanswered. Hours pass as I stare unfocussed at the TV for a few minutes before scrutinising my phone. By 19:00, I decide I should leave a message or it might look weird. I turn the TV off, as Barney’s crashed again, and step outside to the overgrown back garden. A smell of smoke wafts over from another garden and I hear distant laughter.

  I should be having fun. My frame of mind isn’t right for a natural call, so I stretch and take some deep breaths.

  ‘Hi, Claudia. Happy Christmas! Hope you’re having fun. I’m stuffed myself. Couldn’t eat another thing. Ring if you can, or I’ll catch up tomorrow. Can’t wait to see you.’

  I return inside and find Barney still snoring. Ben Hur is on again. He must have woken up, restarted it, and fallen asleep again. The chariot race is at its climax but concentrating on it proves impossible. Hoping I’ll sleep, I climb the steep stairs using the handrail that’s now there.

  I close my eyes, but my brain rages behind them. This wasn’t what I expected. She ought to be ringing me and confiding in me. I should be comforting her. She can’t suspect I had anything to do with it. Does that mean she doesn’t need me? She must be with that bloody twin of hers. How do I come between two sisters?

  23

  The Soul Killer

  The unseasonably warm weather continues on Boxing Day morning. I lie in the musty sheets, having tossed and turned all night. Barney won’t have changed them since last year. My mind can only hold one worry, though, because nothing else matters. Why hasn’t Claudia called me?

  Barney had the right idea with that whisky. Then I could have passed out and woken much later, having not clock watched, or mobile-phone watched in this case. The silence in the house breaks at last with a beep from my phone announcing a message. My han
ds tremble as I open the text.

  I’m afraid my dad has died. We’re in pieces. I’ll ring you soon, X.

  A warmth floods through me so thoroughly, it almost feels as if I’ve wet the bed. I hop from the sheets and knock out fifty press ups. I pull on yesterday’s jeans. They hang heavy as though they absorbed the room’s turgid atmosphere during the night. I dread to think about the condition of Barney’s shower.

  I patter down the stairs with care. I smile, as I usually do when I reach the bottom, because it feels as if I’m treading on my mother’s chest. Barney’s snores inform me of his location, and, judging by the smell in the lounge, warmth flooded through him while he slept, too. The TV flickers with an old Top of the Pops programme. It must have been on all night. Slade are telling everybody to have a merry Christmas. That tune was always too upbeat for me.

  I prefer the maudlin ones like that East 17 one where he sings about suicide. I bet the twins won’t play that for a while. Shame there’s no party. It’d be fun without Donald. I celebrated after my mother’s fall, but I imagine the sisters will huddle together and crumble. Although, they should have been prepared. After all, all I did was bring forward the date of his departure.

  Claudia said she’d ring me later. That’s not the warmest of messages. I focus on the big X; two would have been better. She also didn’t apologise for not getting in touch yesterday. Barney’s snoring escalates. I pick up the empty bottle from his lap and walk out to the kitchen. The fridge resembles an arctic scene of bulging ice and a barren landscape. The bin, on the other hand, is heaving with empties and hums of stale alcohol. I can’t see any used food wrappers other than yesterday’s. The cupboards have a couple of boxes of cereal inside them. One of those has droppings next to it and a mouse size hole in the side.