The Soul Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  Thorpe Wood police station was getting its first customers when Barton and Strange arrived. An officer mopped a claret coloured liquid off the reception floor. They proceeded to the incident room, sat down at adjoining desks, and fired up the PCs. Barton logged onto his email and checked to see if he had replies regarding ANPR or HR. Both were there.

  ‘The emails are here.’

  He opened them and scanned the results.

  ‘Well?’ asked Strange, who’d got up to stand behind him.

  ‘Whitlam’s been that way twice in the last year. Once last Christmas Day, returning on Boxing Day. He was back in Peterborough when Stone disappeared.’

  ‘Interesting. Who do you visit on Christmas Day?’

  He said the obvious out loud. ‘Family.’

  ‘What did HR say?’

  ‘Hang on, they scanned his application for me. No next of kin on the form.’

  ‘Damn, although he could have lied about that.’ Strange widened her eyes. ‘Maybe they are a family of pyschos?’

  ‘Let’s hope not. I hoped to be back for turkey sandwiches.’ Barton clicked his fingers. ‘Bingo. Here’s his previous addresses. Oh, no!’

  Strange looked over. ‘Bad news?’

  Barton gawped at the screen in horror. ‘One of his previous addresses is 499 Norwich Road.’

  Strange blinked and then it dawned. ‘The same house as Barney Trimble?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘What does that mean? Was he a lodger there or something?’

  ‘Oh, fuck. It gets worse.’

  Strange knew Barton rarely swore. She grabbed her chair and scooted it over, tucked in next to him and stared at the screen. He’d zoomed in on the previous addresses, two of which were in Cambridge.

  ‘No way. You don’t think he’s responsible for those murders too?’

  Barton looked at Whitlam’s qualifications. ‘GCSE results and A levels from Queen’s School, Wisbech. He was at Fitzwilliam College, achieving a second class honours degree.’ He paused while he typed into Google. ‘Fitzwilliam College is a constituent college of the University of Cambridge.’

  ‘Surely he can’t be responsible for both. What’s the connection?’

  ‘He’s the connection. We can deduce why at a later date. So, Whitlam was from Wisbech. Sneaky sod. All that time, and he never mentioned it.’

  ‘He must have known he’d get caught out at some point.’

  ‘Yes, but I think he knew that.’

  ‘What do we do first?’

  ‘I’ll get Control to put whoever they can spare outside Claudia’s house and to be vigilant. DCI Cox will want an update. It’s still not concrete, but it’s too many coincidences. We can’t rest until Whitlam’s in custody. We’re going to drive to Wisbech to Trimble’s address. I’ll get Cox to drag a magistrate out and get us a search warrant. Clavell visited that house, but no one answered the door.

  ‘If there’s nobody there and we don’t have the warrant, we’ll nip to the allotments again. If Whitlam lived around that area, he would probably have known that place a long while ago, but someone might recognise his photo. Maybe he worked the plot with Trimble. Clavell said people go down there even on Christmas Day, so we might get lucky. You drive, I’ll ring Tapper in Cambridge on the way.’

  Empty roads made a siren unnecessary. They were there in a little over half an hour. Barton had only just finished updating DCI Cox and DS Tapper when they pulled up at Barney Trimble’s property.

  ‘Right. I’ve just had a thought. If Whitlam lived with Trimble, maybe they were friends. There’s a slim possibility that Whitlam’s in here. If he is, he won’t be pleased to see us.’

  Strange nodded to show she was prepared. They left the car and approached the house. Barton knocked on the door and they retreated from it. He rapped again and cursed, realising he’d stepped in the oil slick on the drive.

  ‘What did the boss say?’

  ‘She’s rung the ARV and sent it to Claudia’s house. The tactical unit are on standby as well in case it really escalates, but there’s a situation in London. The ARV was in Ely, so won’t be back in Peterborough for nearly an hour. We’ll go to Claudia’s after the allotment. Claudia will be able to tell us more about Whitlam’s movements. Wisbech are being kept up to speed.’

  ‘And Cambridge?’

  ‘Tapper and his team are dealing with the situation there. His guess was that if Whitlam and Charlie were at university together, they knew each other and perhaps dated. Either that or he had a thing for her. Perhaps she left him for the lecturer. To top it all off, there’s been a brawl over lunch at a pub in Huntingdon. And Lincolnshire have been pulled to some kind of hunting demonstration over tomorrow’s Boxing Day hunt. We’re seriously down on manpower. It’s going to be up to us to find Whitlam. We need to stop him before he kills someone else.’

  ‘If this is Whitlam, he chose a good day to do it.’

  Barton cursed under his breath. He’d seen films where an officer had gone rogue and not fully appreciated how dangerous it was. Whitlam knew everything Barton was going to do.

  ‘I’m getting a growing sense of dread. Zander has the late shift on call. He won’t mind coming in early for this. I’ll get him to go straight around to Claudia’s to support uniform and be there for the ARV. Let’s have a peek around the back before we go.’

  Woodworm had riddled the back door. Barton tested its weight. ‘I think Baby Luke could push that in.’

  Strange clucked. ‘You do know he’s six now.’

  Barton smiled at the thought of his boisterous son and wished he were with him. ‘He’ll always be my baby boy. I missed a lot of Layla’s early years but was on light duties with a dodgy knee when he arrived. We spent plenty of time together.’

  ‘Shall we fetch Luke, then, or perhaps ask the neighbours if they’ve seen anything and then get going?’

  Barton remembered the old curious fellow who’d leaned out of his window on the last occasion they were there. They tried him first. He grinned at them when he opened his door.

  ‘It’s the police. How lovely. Social calls for the lonely on this special day. Come in. I was about to have my microwave turkey dinner for one.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. I’ve got a few questions regarding your neighbours. Do you know them well?’

  The man’s smile dropped. ‘Trimble? No, not at all. He’s a solitary man. I don’t mind that. If you rarely talk to each other, then you can’t fall out. I haven’t seen him for ages though, although the van keeps disappearing off the drive, so he must be about.’

  ‘Is that what’s leaving that oil slick?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t use it for years, then did it up. Not sure why, as he’s pretty much bones now. To be honest, I’m surprised he has the strength to drive it. Maybe he wanted a last holiday, before, you know.’

  Barton couldn’t believe it. ‘Please don’t tell me it’s a campervan. A black and white campervan.’

  The old man beamed at him. ‘That’s it.’

  Barton got his phone out, found the right picture and showed it to him. ‘Do you recognise him?’

  ‘Yes, it’s David, used to live next door when his mother lived there. Now, she was as fruit loops as they come. Always banging on about heaven and hell. I felt sorry for David. It must have been very hard growing up under her preaching.’

  Strange joined the conversation. ‘You said lived. Do you know where they moved to?’

  ‘No, she died. Mad cow that she was, she didn’t deserve that.’

  Barton gave him an exasperated look. ‘Deserve what?’

  ‘To die like that.’

  Barton stared at him and debated if it was just turkey’s necks that you were allowed to wring at this time of year. ‘I don’t suppose it was suspicious?’

  ‘No, a terrible accident. She fell down the stairs.’

  Barton and Strange exchanged a glance. ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Years. Decade maybe. Happened on
Christmas Day, too.’

  ‘And David left? Where did he go, with his dad?’ asked Strange.

  ‘His mum scared his father off years ago. No, her new guy was Trimble. He moved in when David was at secondary school. David went to university and paid a visit sometimes. At Christmas, usually. I think he came here last year.’

  Barton’s brain tripped into overdrive. He tried to recall his previous visit. Did they ask Trimble if he had any family? He supposed Whitlam wasn’t related by blood. Perhaps Trimble was in cahoots with Whitlam. Barton thought about the van. He’d spotted it racing past when he’d visited Claudia. If Whitlam was driving it, he’d have seen Clavell’s car. So that was why he was driving so recklessly. It looked as though he was furious enough to kill.

  ‘Did you see the van here today?’

  ‘Yes, this morning, but I heard it leaving about an hour ago.’

  80

  DI Barton

  Barton made his mind up fast.

  ‘We need to return to Peterborough.’

  Strange jumped into the driver’s seat. She was the quickest driver of the two. Well, the safest at speed anyway.

  ‘Drive fast, Kelly. I’ll ring Claudia.’ They carried on talking while the phone rang and rang.

  ‘You think he’s gone to get her?’

  ‘God knows. Who else is there for him to visit?’

  Claudia didn’t answer after multiple attempts. He called Control and instructed them to update the ARV that was on its way to Claudia’s house. He also let the station know that Whitlam was suspected of murder and driving a black and white campervan. More than once, they drove past a van that had them pointing. Barton finally rang Zander, then sat grim faced as he ran through as many permutations as he could of what might occur.

  ‘It’s worrying that we can’t get an answer,’ remarked Strange.

  ‘She could have left her phone in a different room or something, but it doesn’t bode well. They sent a police motorcyclist to sit outside the front. They’re chasing him for an update. Another patrol car’s just finished at a traffic accident and is on its way. We need to act, but if Whitlam is there, we could have an extremely violent situation on our hands. We’ll be there in a little over ten minutes and so will the ARV.’

  Barton always remembered the police training about the force continuum. If you were attending a fist fight, take batons. If knives were possible, send armed officers. Guns present, you need bigger weapons and marksmen.

  Barton made more calls as they approached Peterborough. He got through to Malik, who was at his parents’ in Bedford. He explained he had no idea what Whitlam did outside work apart from go to the gym. They had gone swimming together once in the summer. He said he’d drive straight to Thorpe Wood and help any way he could. Ewing and Zelensky weren’t picking up.

  It took Strange twenty-seven minutes in total to get back to Peterborough. Very impressive considering Barton’s stomach hadn’t lurched once. She parked just down the road where Barton directed at the same moment as the ARV arrived, so Barton flagged it to stop.

  Alistair Smith and Jules Cureton, the two authorised firearms officers involved in the Snow Killer shootings, stepped out. They all shook hands. Barton brought them up to speed.

  ‘David Whitlam’s been killing people?’ asked an incredulous Al.

  ‘It looks like it. We have no concrete facts, but there’s too many coincidences. It has to be him. I reckon he’s gone off the rails. He could be capable of anything.’

  Jules, the older of the two, checked up the road at the house. ‘It seems peaceful enough. There’s no campervan. The front door is intact. And he hasn’t got a gun. You’re pretty sure about that?’

  ‘We don’t know for certain, but there’s no indication of him being armed. He’s bloody strong though and capable of extreme violence. I’ve seen him in the gym. There’s supposed to be a police motorcycle out the front.’

  Jules shook his head and removed his pistol. He wouldn’t chamber a round without an immediate threat, but Barton knew there was no safety on the pistols they used. Al did the same thing. He said, ‘No one’s as strong as a bullet. I say we just knock. You stay back. If he comes at us, we’ll put him down. We’ll do our job.’

  Barton had watched TV programmes where firearms officers had said they would shoot to wound rather than kill. It was rubbish because, realistically, these guys weren’t sharpshooters on rooftops. In a fluid situation, there would be little time for choices. They would shoot to stop.

  Barton bit his lip as they neared the house. Jules looked behind a wall and conversed with Al for a few seconds, then approached the door. Al peered through the glass. Jules knocked, and the door opened a few seconds later.

  A tall woman with her hair tied up in a towel and wearing a dressing gown stared at them with an open mouth. Jules spoke to her for a moment, then waved Barton over. At that moment, approaching sirens could be heard. It was the patrol car who hadn’t got the message about approaching with caution. It screeched up in front of them. An officer in leathers carrying his helmet came from around the back of the house.

  ‘Have you seen anything?’ Barton asked him.

  ‘No. No one said to knock or anything, just to look visible as a deterrent. I’ve just stood at the front. There was nothing going on, so I walked around the back to check in the garden. There’s nothing going on.’

  Barton saw the police motorcycle behind a low wall. There was only one car parked outside. He approached the woman from the house.

  ‘Hi, Chloe. Where’s Claudia?’

  ‘She’s gone out.’

  ‘Where the hell to?’

  ‘She’s visiting her family.’

  ‘I thought they were all dead.’

  She rolled her eyes at him. ‘They are.’

  ‘Ah, you mean in the cemetery. Which one?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She wrote it down for me.’

  Barton couldn’t help a rueful smile sneaking out at the horrified Cureton and Smith. They’d all had a very bad experience in a cemetery a year ago, courtesy of the Snow Killer. Barton followed the woman in and Smith said, ‘We’ll have another look around the back.’

  ‘Why did you let her go on her own?’ asked Barton as he followed her in.

  ‘She wanted to be by herself. Apparently, it was a tradition to visit the graves on Christmas Day. They’ve done it since her mum died. She said her head was spinning. She refused to believe David would hurt her. I’ve never seen her so angry. But she lurches from furious to overwhelmed in seconds at the moment. She said that no one would stop her being with her family. I offered to go but she wanted to be alone. She said she’d be safe in the car. Besides, she’d only be gone for an hour.’

  ‘How long’s she been out now?’

  After some mental arithmetic, Chloe pulled a face. ‘An hour and a bit.’ She peeled a Post-it note off the fridge. ‘Here it is, Woodston Cemetery.’

  Barton walked back outside. It didn’t look good. Claudia had been longer than she said, and she’d been on her own. Whitlam would know exactly where she went on Christmas Day if she did it every year. He’d be waiting at the cemetery. Barton called the ARV officers over and told them the details.

  ‘You’re kidding me. I remember what happened last time you asked us to hunt amongst the graves,’ said Cureton. ‘My arse hasn’t been the same since.’

  Barton nodded at both. ‘Don’t worry. It’s a different graveyard.’

  81

  DI Barton

  Barton instructed Chloe to ring them if Claudia returned. A domestic assault in progress came through over the radio. Barton sent the patrol car and motorcyclist to attend. Zander had just arrived and Barton thought they had enough bodies to stop Whitlam with the ARV men staying with them. After a quick conversation, Zander followed Barton, who drove after the ARV down Oundle Road. They cruised into New Road and past the entrance of the cemetery, turning right to stop behind a wall. Woodston Cemetery sat in the middle of an estate. It was nearly tw
o hundred years old. Barton realised they’d parked behind Claudia’s car and he was relieved that he couldn’t see a campervan anywhere in sight.

  This time Smith and Cureton took rifles from the safe in the back of their 4 x 4.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ asked Barton.

  ‘Does anyone know this place?’ asked Cureton.

  Zander did. ‘We buried my uncle here. In the centre there’s a small building, like a chapel. There’s nowhere to hide.’

  ‘It’s the same plan as before, then. He hasn’t got a gun, and we suspect he works alone. We’ll sweep the area. With luck, Claudia will still be in there. If he’s around, we’ll find him. Wait in your cars and keep an eye out. I’ll be back shortly.’

  Barton rang the office and Cox patched Malik in to listen to the call. Barton explained what he wanted. With advances in technology, they could track vehicles in real time as long as they stuck to main routes. If Barney Trimble’s campervan lit up one of the ANPR cameras, they’d have his location. There’d be no hiding something of that size easily either. Once they got the general direction of travel, they could scramble every resource. Now they all believed this was likely to be the man responsible for DC Clavell’s disappearance, nobody would mind leaving the Christmas washing up to settle the score.

  Cureton and Smith jogged back with their rifles pointing at the ground. ‘There’s no one at all in there. What do you want to do?’

  Barton considered their next move. ‘We’re onto ANPR. If the van moves, we’ll know shortly. Did you see her family’s graves?’

  ‘You want us to check every tombstone?’ asked Smith.

  ‘No, of course not. Their headstones will be new. We’ll all search. The fresh plots are often close together. Donald Birtwistle will be next to his wife.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Strange.

  ‘If he’s waited out of sight for her and then attacked, the most likely time would be when she put flowers on the grave. There might be a dropped shoe or a scattered bouquet, or at least some sign of a disturbance.’