His phone remained silent, and it was a time he wouldn’t forget. No one left the house all day and the rain encouraged them to put on the fire. He could have done with a few more days like that. It was a day immersed in his role as a father and husband, and nothing else.
The next day in the office, Barton observed the others in the room. Two of the new DCs, Ewing and Zelensky, pulled a Christmas cracker in the corner. Someone dropped a cup, to everyone’s amusement. Barton nodded at DCs Malik and Whitlam, who arrived just before Cox entered.
DC Clavell, a secondment from the Wisbech office, had come in for the meeting even though he didn’t officially start until the New Year. He looked like a farmer; blond-haired and ruddy-faced, but he was getting experience before his sergeant exams and was on the fast-track. Barton wondered to whom he was related. His advancement was unlikely to do with excellent policing.
‘Morning, team,’ said DCI Cox.
‘Morning, ma’am.’
As she stated her expectations for the new year, Barton pondered on why he called her ‘ma’am’ and the old DCI ‘Boss’. As a consequence, he missed his name being mentioned. He refocussed on a sea of curious faces.
Strange whispered in his ear. ‘It’s your turn to sing.’
‘Eh?’
‘She asked you to tell us about the suicide, if you’ve snapped out of your Christmas stupor.’
Barton recovered fast. ‘Sorry, I was considering what to get you lot for Easter. A smart officer thinks ahead.’ He smiled at the chuckles and groans. ‘A sick man, near the end of life, hanged himself. It looks clear cut.’
‘Thank you, John. I received a call from head office saying this needs prioritising. I want to hear the post-mortem results immediately once they’re available.’
‘Okay, that might not be for a few days.’
‘A little bird tells me it will be this morning. Now, it’s been a slow festive spell, which is as well with how busy we’ve been of late. This is a chance to catch up on your outstanding paperwork and revisit colder cases. If I see anyone taking it easy, I’ll find something for them to do. Something unpleasant. It will be business as usual before we know it. End-of-year appraisals are first week of January. Come prepared with the paperwork complete, or it will delay me. Any questions?’
Barton recalled Ginger not being able to resist throwing a few jokes in when they had these meetings. This current crop of detectives was too law-abiding. He pondered on whether, if he’d got the promotion, he would have appreciated snide comments from the back of the room. And he couldn’t help wondering who had an interest in the case of the hanged man. The GP was probably a mason.
Despite DCI Cox saying it had been slow of late, Barton had a lot to do and when his phone rang at eleven, he felt he’d made no progress.
‘DI Barton speaking.’
‘John, it’s me.’
‘Morning, Mortis. I assume you have the results for me. Very prompt.’
‘I’m not sure I had any choice. It’s rare that I get calls asking for a favour from on high. You understand it isn’t who you know, but who owes you. I told them I was mega busy and had some out-of-town work, but I’d push them to the front.’
‘Very sneaky.’ Barton took a deep breath and concentrated. ‘Okay, fire away.’
‘The cause of death was asphyxia and venous congestion.’
‘Whoa! My blood is 50 per cent brandy sauce at the moment, so I take it that’s starvation of oxygen, and what?’
‘It’s the blocking of veins, jugular in this case, caused by the rope. Then cerebral circulation stops – no blood around the brain – which causes cellular death. Ligature marks indicate a classic hanging. The rope provided matches the marks and is sufficiently strong to hold the weight and long enough to do the job. The noose seems poorly tied but would have been adequate. The knot ended up behind the right ear as the abrasions are deeper on the other side.
‘There is blood present on the face, but that’s normal, not the result of foul play and will have come from burst vessels. That could occur regardless of his illness. There’s pooling of the blood in the legs and hands, which you’d expect as he was hanging and liquid flows down. But there is more in the back and buttocks, which indicates you cut him loose within four hours of the event. Therefore, you can work out the time of death. The hyoid bone is broken, which, judging by how wasted this poorly man was, would have led to a speedy death. No cartilage mobility in the neck and no elasticity of joints makes the likelihood of him experiencing a lingering death unlikely.
‘As for foul play. There are no fresh bruises as such on the body or marks to indicate any kind of struggle. There is a contusion on the arm, but it looks like it didn’t occur the day of his death. With the condition of the deceased, his body would bruise easily and apart from a few minor red marks there’s no sign of that. Fingernails are clean and clear, clothing isn’t ripped. I see from the report there was no disturbed furniture. In any case, homicidal hanging is extremely rare. A victim’s desperation to live makes that difficult unless someone drugged the target, or they were unconscious from other means. Tox screen results should confirm that line of enquiry.
‘It was clearly not a post-mortem hanging. I’d put money on it being a classic suicide of a dying man. He wouldn’t have suffered for long. With such a weak neck, he’d have experienced some confusion and loss of logical thought. Once unconscious, there would be convulsions adding to the blood splatter.
‘His face remains livid. The rope forces the tongue up the throat, which is displayed by the tip of it sticking out of his mouth. Respiration stops at that point, but the heart may continue to beat for another ten to fifteen minutes. Unlikely though, in his debilitated state.’
‘Brutal and informative as always, Mortis. But no sign of criminality?’
‘No, not at all. With such a cancer ravaged body, I’m amazed this man was still able to walk around.’
‘Could he have been thrown off unconscious?’
‘It’s conceivable. You’d need to be very strong though. He still weighed over seven stone. I found traces of the rope on his palms, so it looks as if he put it on himself.’
‘Perhaps he was at gunpoint?’
‘Everything is possible, John. You know that. But I don’t see the point. It would have been obvious to all that this man would be dead in a few weeks anyway.’
26
DI Barton
Barton decided to ring the daughters straight away. He considered which one to call first. He decided on the shorter one. She seemed the most upset of the two and he knew his call would sound more heartfelt the first time around.
‘Hi, Claudia Birtwistle speaking.’
‘Hi, Ms Birtwistle. DI Barton here.’
‘Good morning, Detective.’
He considered correcting his title, but decided it wasn’t worth it. She wouldn’t need much of an excuse to lose her temper.
‘We have the results of the post-mortem. It’s as we expected.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. Nothing suspicious?’
‘There’s a bruise on his right arm, but it doesn’t look like it occurred the day he died.’
‘No, he fell on Christmas Eve. I should have known he was struggling.’
‘If you want a full copy of the pathologist’s report, you can request it from the coroner’s office, but there’s usually a fee. Your GP should be able to interpret the terms for you. In the light of the results, we’ll be closing the case. I rang to explain.’
‘Thank you. We’ll get the report. To be honest, I’ve calmed down a little since the initial shock. I can accept he may have taken his own life. Our GP explained what a rotten time he was having. He told me about the pain pills he’d prescribed. They could have affected his mind. Made him angrier or impulsive, or even depressed and suicidal.’
‘I’m sorry. It must be a tough period for you. I lost my father too young.’
There was a pause, th
en she whispered, ‘Does the shock ever go away?’
Barton paused. He himself had struggled with moving on afterwards, but it wouldn’t help telling her that.
‘It’s only human to want the pain to vanish, but that’s not really the answer. If the grief faded too quickly, then we wouldn’t have cared enough in the first place. There are many stages, but eventually you’ll be capable of looking back fondly. Keep your loved ones close. Talk to each other. I found nature helped, so long walks and big silences. My mother, admittedly a straight-talking woman, asked me if my father would want me wallowing in despair, or would he prefer I wrung every last moment out of life. Everyone deals with it differently. In the beginning, to be honest, it’s sometimes a case of just enduring it. Try to get out. Spend time with your sister or your partner.’
There was a longer gap in the conversation while she absorbed his words.
‘That seems wise advice. We’re getting away for a week after the funeral. The fact it happened at Christmas is hard to bear. I – we – appreciate your efforts and the way you’ve handled this.’
‘Thank you. I planned to ring your sister next.’
‘Please, don’t. She isn’t handling it at all well. I’m at her house, and it will be better if I give her the news.’
Barton finished the call. It had gone better than he’d expected. Strange had signed on to the computer next to him.
‘Was that one of the Birtwistle family?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, Claudia. I thought she would demand line-ups and thumbscrews, but she seems to have accepted it.’
‘Suicide is always a shock because it’s often impossible to understand. What did Mortis say?’
‘He nailed it. He said there was no point in killing someone that close to death.’
They worked in companionable silence for a while until Barton’s stomach growled.
Strange’s head jolted up from her computer, and she cocked an ear. ‘What foul beast made that sound? Are we safe?’
‘Let’s offer it a sandwich as a sacrifice.’
‘How about some carrot dippers, or maybe celery and a pot of Light Philadelphia?’
‘Hmm. Unless the creature is a killer rabbit, I can’t imagine he’d be happy with that. A couple of slices of pan-fried elephant would hit the spot.’
‘We can try Sainsbury’s, although I believe they are ethically against illegal game meat. We can discuss your protein requirements on the way.’
Most officers ate at their desks, Zander included. But Strange, like Barton, thought getting out of the building was good in many ways. Barton drove as Strange brought out the big guns.
‘Being overweight is linked to depression.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘People who exercise are always happy.’
Barton laughed. ‘I never knew that.’
‘My gym, the one I haven’t been to yet but pay the monthly charge, is doing an induction morning on Saturday. No joining fee for those who sign up.’
Barton glanced over at her. ‘Now who’s got the thumbscrews ready?’
‘Come on. They offer a discount for police so you’ll be among friends. We’ll be the leanest team in the country.’
‘I doubt that, but I’ll give it ago. The second of January is the time to do it.’
‘That’s the spirit. This is going to be a great year.’
27
The Soul Killer
It’s the fourth of January, and the twelve days of Christmas will be over soon. I saw my neighbour, Robin, after his Boxing Day excursion, but I try to keep out of his way. I resisted fabricating a story about Arnold getting picked up with all his stuff. It’s better left unsaid. Robin already thinks he was leaving, anyway. If anyone comes around looking for him, I’ll know nothing. Every time I walk past his house, I imagine him under a metre of compost.
I must return to the allotment and move the remains at some point. It’s been surprisingly warm for January. Those conditions should cause a faster decomposition, but it’ll be slower until spring. Then, after three to six months, I should be able to put my hand in and pull out a skeleton, like in a cartoon. There’s no need to hurry. He’s not going anywhere, and I can’t think of a better place. Disturbing his remains if the process is unfinished would be a gruesome task.
I place the Christmas tree in its box and carry it upstairs to the loft. So much for relaxing in my lounge with my woman. Claudia has rung twice. She mentioned her holiday and I commented that I had plenty of days left to take – at which point, she fell silent. She feels like a stranger when we talk. That’s hard to handle when you know you’re supposed to be together. She said she’d ring this morning before work, but it’s gone eight now and still nothing.
At times like this, I reconsider my actions. Arnold probably deserved to die, but I knew so little about him. He didn’t seem a religious man. Did I send him to hell, or does his life just end? It’s hard to recall what my mother taught me about such things. Even the Internet can’t give me answers. It seems everyone has a different take on things. She taught me to look out for myself. That I do recall.
I’ve kept things going professionally, despite the guilty moments. I almost threw it all away with a lack of control. One colleague mentioned my quietness, but I’m not the most outgoing at the best of times. My life has reverted to what it was before: empty. I can’t even be bothered with turning the TV on, never mind exercise. Everything seems pointless. I hate the thought of splitting up with Claudia. There doesn’t appear to be an upside in continuing life without her.
I don’t know how I’ve stopped myself screeching round to her sister’s house and pulling Claudia into a huge hug. She hasn’t gone back to her own home yet. I know that because I drove past on a few occasions. It made me feel like a stalker. That means her brother-in-law, Malcolm, has influence. He’ll undermine me every chance he gets.
My phone ring volume is on maximum, and I jump as it lights up.
‘Hi, Claudia.’
‘Hiya. Sorry. Crazy morning sorting out the last few funeral arrangements. It’s on Monday, 10:30, at the crematorium.’
My eyes widen and I have to check I’m understanding what she’s saying. ‘You want me to come as well?’
‘Of course. I’m sorry I’ve been distant. Thank you for your patience and understanding. I’ve just stayed at Annabelle’s and done nothing. A kind man told me to go with the flow and take each day as it comes. He said to stick to the people I love. I think I pushed you away as I can’t believe he’s gone. Will you travel in the limousine with me? My dad fell out with his brother a long time ago, so the only relatives left are my sis and me. She’ll have Malcolm, and I’d like you to be there.’
‘No problem. I can take the day off. Shall I come to your house, or Annabelle’s?’
‘I should be back at mine by then. The car will pick us up, then collect the other two. If you arrive at my place around 9:00, we can have a coffee beforehand.’
I can’t resist a little fist pump but try to keep the pleasure out of my voice. ‘I’ll be there. You’ll get through this, Claudia. With my help.’
‘We’re going on holiday afterwards. My dad loved cruises, so we thought about scattering the ashes off the back, but I think he’d like to be buried with Mum.’
‘I agree. They should be together again.’
‘Sorry you can’t come. This is just for family. Malcolm and Annabelle paid for it.’
I might have known. ‘No problem. It’ll be good for you.’
‘That’s okay. We’ll grab a break later this year. I’ll see you next week. Take care.’
I say goodbye. I add I love you as an afterthought, but only to a disconnected line. The holiday aside, it’s a fantastic result. We’re back to having a future.
I sail through my shift at work. The energy that lay dormant reignites with a vengeance, and although I prefer to jog early in the morning while it’s quiet, the late evening can be as good, especially in the winter. At ten o’clock
at night the chance of seeing anyone at Thorpe Meadows or Ferry Meadows is slim. They are only a few miles from the town centre, but both are green, quiet areas: the first along the river and a rowing lake, the latter around some bigger lakes that are used for sailing. I decide to use the former. I pull my beanie with the built-in LED light on and sprint down Thorpe Road. This life has potential again.
The rowing lake has a path surrounding it but no streetlamps. Occasionally you’ll get cyclists who brave the dark in the winter, but apart from the odd homeless person wandering along there, it’s usually devoid of life. It’s a thousand metres end to end, so I can gauge approximately how far I’ve done, but gone are the days when I checked my times.
It’s a cloudy, wet evening without a moon. I spot no one else until my last circuit when I notice a cyclist up ahead. Whoever it is seems large on the bike. A hood obscures their head, but they aren’t going fast because I’m catching them up. Judging by the proportions, it’s a big man. He wobbles as I overtake him. I can’t help a glance behind and I stumble a little as I recognise Annabelle’s husband, Malcolm. It isn’t a complete shock because I’ve often seen him running or cycling along the river and the rowing lake to work and back, but I’ve never seen him here at this hour.
‘All right, Malcolm. You’re out late.’
He pulls the brakes and judders to a halt. A light breeze wafts a hint of alcohol over me. I also detect a lighter, fragrant smell. It’s possibly aftershave, although it could be perfume. Finding out Malcolm is a cheat wouldn’t be the greatest surprise in the world. I’ve noticed the odd glance between him and Annabelle, and once she pushed his hand away.
The Soul Killer Page 11