They spaced out and walked into the cemetery. Despite the armed officers saying it was safe, each face was pinched. It was eerily quiet. The new headstones appeared to be clustered in the middle on the right hand side. A lone crow perched on one, giving the searchers a wary look, before flying away with a haunting caw. A minute later, Zander shouted out that he’d found the graves. The team gathered in a circle and peered down. There was no mistaking the red splatter on the stones. Barton’s phone rang before he could swear. It was Malik.
‘I’m in the control room getting real-time info. The van’s route has been traced. It came to Peterborough and then returned to Wisbech. Half an hour ago, it triggered a camera in King’s Lynn and then near Fakenham. It’s on the A148.’
‘I don’t know that road well. Where’s he going?’
‘If he follows it to the end, he’ll hit the coast. That route finishes at the seaside town of Cromer. The spot where Annabelle’s car and clothes were found, Overstrand, is two miles farther along the coast.’
‘He has to be heading there. Get DCI Cox to contact Norfolk Police. They must have some uniform out in cars. Instruct them to watch the Cromer road for the van, and get someone on the approach to Overstrand. Tell them he is violent and dangerous, but there's no intel to suggest he has a firearm. They’ll need to make the call about whether to intercept. We presume David Whitlam is heading for the same car park as before, this time with the sister, Claudia, as a hostage, whom we believe is injured. I repeat, there’s fresh blood on her father’s grave.’
‘Is the ARV there still?’ asked Malik. ‘Cox said to send it with you.’
‘Yes, we’ll all attend. Cureton and Smith will go ahead in the faster vehicle. We think they’ll have the necessary force to take out Whitlam. However, even with lights, we’re over sixty minutes away. She’ll need to mobilise the local ARV, and it’s time to bring in a tactical support unit in case Whitlam gets holed up somewhere and we want snipers.’
‘Hang on, sir. Another camera’s been lit up at Holt. He’s cracking on for a big vehicle, but definitely heading towards Cromer.’
Barton urged himself to think if he’d missed anything. He clicked his fingers. ‘Last thing, we reckon he’s been operating out of Trimble’s house in Wisbech. Get anyone free, a special or a support officer, to secure the scene. They don’t need to go in yet, we think we know exactly where the danger is, but it’s possible the owner of the house is involved.’
‘Will do.’
‘And get uniform out to secure Woodston Cemetery. It might be a murder scene.’
82
The Soul Killer
It seems Claudia isn’t interested in absconding with me. That’s the second time I’ve been spat at. I’m not Taser trained and wasn’t entirely confident with what I was doing or where I was aiming. I’d had it a while, and it didn’t hold its charge for long. Tasers shoot prongs into the body and override the nervous system. I did some research and decided if my life was in danger, I wouldn’t want to rely on it. Sure enough, one of the prongs hit her thick coat and nothing happened.
Luckily I had brought a stun gun with me as backup. You simply press them against the body, ideally against skin, but they can arc through clothing. The YouTube video I watched recommended I hold it against her neck for five seconds. It was an uncomfortably long time as her teeth clamped in agony. She collapsed afterwards as though I’d removed her heart. The loudest sound of the whole experience was her head hitting the corner of the grave. She remained unconscious and still bled as I taped her up and laid her in the rear of the van.
I had to return to Wisbech to pick up the items I need for my final act. I suspect it will be Barton I have to watch out for because Clavell won’t solve another crime.
Unless I escape, nothing remains for me except prison. The only choice I have left is how to end it all. In my job I know how this works. Someone will have noticed Claudia’s gone by now. They’ll have found Charlie and realised the lecturer wasn’t a simple brutal robbery. Armed officers will be fired up over the disappearance of Clavell. They’ll have connected some of the dots, perhaps not all of them, but there’ll be no doubt that I am to be brought in. I don’t want to give one of those cocky firearms types the chance to take me down.
The road to the coast is a single carriageway most of the way. There are few options for rat-running so I can only hope that I’m far enough in front for them to have insufficient time to respond. I’m through Holt. They’ll think I’m heading to Overstrand. I bet they now wonder if Annabelle drove herself there and swam out to sea, or if I locked her in the boot and threw her in.
I find myself in good spirits though. There’s a lightness in my voice as I sing along to the radio. It can only mean my confession has been accepted. I imagine the crucified Jesus giving me a nod to carry on. I work for him now.
Instead of ploughing on to Overstrand, I turn off to West Runton. Barton won’t know Barney and I stayed there in the past. I rang Martha from the caravan park yesterday afternoon:
‘Hi, Martha. It’s David here. I thought I’d let you know that Barney has passed.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. He was a nice man.’
‘Yes. I really miss him. Anyway, it’s been a troubling time of late. There’s been a lot going on, as you can imagine. My girlfriend and I are having a save-the-relationship break in our campervan. Can we come and stay on your field?’
‘I’m sorry, we’re closed in the winter. The shop’s shut and the facilities are all closed.’
I knew that, of course. ‘That’s okay. We’ll just park there. We don’t need anything.’
‘I’m sorry, David. Our insurance doesn’t permit anyone to stay on the site when it’s closed.’
I knew that too. I also know Martha and her husband live in a house at the bottom of the road that leads up to the site. It’s there that I’ve stopped. I push over the body that’s been held by the belt in the seat next to me, and prop it against the window. It feels very stiff. Maybe that’s for the best.
Martha’s a big one for decorations. Through the lounge window, I can see a tinsel laden tree and there’s one of those moving reindeer in her front garden. She answers the door with suspicion, but brightens when she recognises me.
‘Hi, Martha.’
‘David, what are you doing here?’
‘We decided to come for the night to get away. We’ll park on the edge of the cliff car park, unless you’ve changed your mind about the site?’
‘I’m sorry. We just can’t.’
‘No problem. You’ll probably be able to see us from down here.’
She looks over my shoulder at the campervan. The body has slipped forward at an unnatural angle. Greasy hair smears the window and you can make out a thin protruding chin.
‘I better wake her up, or she’ll be stiff.’
Martha is still in the doorway as I get back in the van, but it’s dark enough to prevent her getting a good look. She definitely wouldn’t want to get in the van. I remember the Coughlin character in that film, Cocktail, constantly giving Tom Cruise advice. One of his titbits was to ‘bury the dead, they stink up the joint,’ and he was right – Clavell really hums. He must have had better gut bacteria than Barney. It’s the kind of smell that, however much you scrubbed, you’d never be rid of.
There are no other vehicles in the car park. I stop on the left hand side so Martha can see our lights if she looks out of the window. From under the table, I drag out the canisters of petrol I got a few days ago and pour all but one onto the floor. The stinging stench is almost overpowering but still an improvement on rotting flesh. I leave the biggest container attached by a steel wire to the door handle. If anyone races to be a hero, they will open the door and flood more fuel around. Failing that, it’s made of metal. It’ll make quite a bomb. They’ll spot the flames from the house down below, but there’ll be no chance of saving anyone.
Out here, the fire brigades are on-call, and the fastest they could arrive is ab
out fifteen minutes. Petrol burns at around 1000 degrees Celsius. That’s teeth-melting, bone-disintegrating heat. Hopefully, all they’ll find to poke through will be ashes.
83
DI Barton
Barton, Zander and Strange discussed the facts in the car. They were chilling. Zander came to the same conclusion as Barton.
‘You’re right. When all this comes out, he’s going to go down in history. Peterborough will have a new serial killer.’
‘I expect he’ll have a name catchier than the Compost Heap Killer. I dread to think how many people he’s killed,’ replied Barton.
‘The twins said it was out of character for their father to have taken the choice to hang himself. Could Whitlam have carried him up the stairs, noosed him, and thrown the body over the balcony?’
Strange nodded. ‘From talking to Claudia, that seems more likely than his suicide. What’s tough to get your head around is that he did all this while he continued to work. I suppose it’s possible that Robin Rowe was involved, but if he wasn’t, then his death is down to Whitlam too. What kind of person can chat freely at the water cooler after burying a body in an allotment the previous day?’
None of them commented. Barton’s phone broke the silence. A low-key-sounding Malik spoke fast.
‘We’ve used a variety of media to warn the public and ask for sightings. A 999 call has been received from West Runton. A driver spotted a campervan matching the description speeding towards the seafront.’
‘What details did the operator get?’
‘Black and white campervan, two people in the front seat, driving dangerously fast.’
‘Okay, we’re twenty minutes away from West Runton. We’ll head straight there. Redirect the ARV, which must be in Cromer by now.’
Barton hung up and stared ahead. The finale loomed. They were dealing with a clever detective; one who would know it was over. But would Whitlam surrender to a life in jail? Minutes passed swiftly as Barton contemplated their next move. He might only have seconds to make life-or-death decisions.
Barton ran through Whitlam’s options. What did he want? What did he gain by driving to the seaside? He couldn’t hide there now; it was too late for that. He had no hope of escaping in that slow van, either. Barton had been to West Runton a couple of times in the past. He recalled an overpriced souvenir shop next to a slip ramp, which allowed the fishing boats to enter the sea. All of a sudden, he feared a Thelma and Louise-style ending.
Strange cleared her throat. ‘Okay, Boss?’
Barton tutted. ‘I’ve got a nasty feeling this isn’t going to end well.’
‘His end or ours?’
Barton’s phone startled them.
‘John, it’s Tapper here. The word has got out down here and it’s been bedlam. You’d think people would have had something better to do today than stare at a crime scene. It seems Charlie wasn’t popular. No surprise there. One of her friends did turn up though. She was another one who never left after her degree. After what you told me about Whitlam studying here, I asked her if she remembered him. She didn’t recall the surname, but she said Charlie dated a boy called David in her first year.’
‘Do you think it was him?’
‘Yep. She described him as tall, thin, and serious to the point where it made you a bit wary around him. She thinks he was the last student Charlie dated before she got tangled up with the lecturer she ended up marrying.’
‘Well. I think that solves your crimes for you. I suspect Whitlam’s always been a troubled individual. It’s hard to maintain a façade for years. Maybe it was a culmination of pressure and he finally lost control.’
‘You need to stop him, John. He’ll kill again.’
‘We’re pursuing him now. I can’t imagine he’s going to let us take him alive, so you probably won’t get to question him.’
Barton’s phone beeped to let him know someone else was trying to call him. He said goodbye to Tapper and connected Malik.
‘Has Whitlam reached Cromer?’ asked Barton.
‘The fire service received a 999 call. This time for a van on fire at West Runton beach car park. The vehicle stopped at the caller’s house before driving on. She knows who it is. The male’s name is David. She’s known him for years. The other is his girlfriend, who was asleep when they arrived. She looked gaunt with long black hair.’
‘Were they inside the campervan when it went up?’
‘That’s all we have at the moment. The caller’s husband has gone to help. They could see the fire raging from their window. We had managed to set up a roadblock at Pinewood Caravan Park outside Cromer but the campervan didn’t turn up. Police from there are on their way to West Runton now, too. There’s also a team in Overstrand, who’ll stay put for the time being, but it doesn’t look good.’
‘How long for the fire brigade?’
‘DCI Cox arrived here a while ago. She expected Whitlam to crash on the country roads, so she’d warned Sheringham Fire Station they might be called out and they were ready to go. The fire engine’s arrival is imminent as the station is only two miles away. The ARV might beat you there as well. Cox said not to approach the vehicle until the armed officers have called it safe. They’ll liaise with Fire and Rescue on the scene.’
The satnav told them they were only ten minutes away. Barton struggled to believe it was Christmas Day. Only a few hours ago, he’d been opening presents and pulling crackers with his family. The car had steamed up with all the talking, and Barton opened his window fully once they hit West Runton village. His nose wrinkled at the smell of something man made burning in the air.
Strange drove down Water Lane to the caravan park. Two policemen stood in the way, their patrol car blocking the road. Strange eased to a halt and they introduced themselves. Barton showed his warrant card through the window.
‘Any survivors?’ Barton asked.
‘In that?’ the taller one said. ‘No chance. It’s been blazing since we got here ten minutes ago. The flames were fifty feet high. Something just exploded, too. I’ve never seen something burn like that.’
‘Okay. Could you move your car so we can approach?’
‘No entry, sir. The watch manager is up there with the ARV making an assessment. It looks as though there were two bodies in the front seats. Turn your engine off, and I’ll check whether the situation has changed.’
It was another five minutes before Barton, Zander and Strange were allowed to drive to the burning wreckage. The fire brigade had a large cordon set up around the smouldering campervan. The crew trained their hoses on the vehicle and had commenced dousing. Barton asked who was in charge. He could feel the heat as he approached.
‘Keep back, please. I’m guessing you’re police?’
‘Yes, DI Barton, Peterborough. How long to put it out?’
A flicker of irritation passed over the watch manager’s face. He suspected he’d have the same look if a fireman pressed him on his murder investigation. The man remained professional.
‘We’ll take our time, maybe all night. Caravans don’t burn in this manner without accelerants. That individual—’ he pointed to a man in his sixties being comforted by a younger firefighter at the edge of the car park, ‘came over to assist after spotting the fire. He saw two people burning in the front seats. Both struggled and then stopped.’
‘I take it they were beyond help?’
‘The cab was filled with flames, so he tried to enter the living unit at the back, but the heat beat him away. That makes him very lucky because, just after we arrived, something blew up and blasted off that door.’
Barton stared into the bushes fifty metres to the left where the blackened door rested on top of a dune.
‘There’s no rush to put it out as there’s nothing for it to spread to. Anyone inside that van will be long dead. We won’t risk more lives for little benefit.’
‘When will I be able to get closer to have a look?’
‘Not for quite a while. Our fire investigator is on
the way. He’ll make that call due to the loss of life. Besides, we don’t know what kind of batteries are in there, or gas canisters, even tyres can blow and kill. There may be booby traps. I’ve seen an exploding vehicle strut knock a man’s leg clean off.’
Barton and the watch manager stepped back a pace as the nearest wall of the campervan slowly collapsed in on itself.
‘A well-involved fire like this means there won’t be much left for us, or you, to investigate. You might get something from dental, but I doubt it.’
84
The Soul Killer
After the campervan catches fire, I hide and wait to make sure it goes up. It appears I’ve used more than enough petrol. I put the rucksack containing money, my stun gun, the baseball bat and some clothes on my back. Keeping out of the light, I sprint from the car park into Lavender Caravan Park. I jog hard for a mile along the cliff tops towards the small hill at Beeston Regis, seeing nobody. It looks foreboding in the dark. I could go around it, but I’m less likely to meet anyone over the top.
When I reach the taxi company’s office in Sheringham town centre, the building is shuttered. Cursing, I check my watch. I’m half an hour late. My hands pat my jacket pockets and I suddenly remember placing my mobile on the dashboard of the van. My heart races as I check for a phone booth. A pair of headlights flash in the gloom ahead of me. Should I run? A voice carries over.
‘Mr Clavell?’
‘That’s me.’ I’d decided if I got this far that I would have a little fun at Barton’s expense. It was better than using my own name.
‘Taxi to Wisbech?’
‘Correct. I thought you’d shut up and gone home.’
‘They closed yesterday. It’s only me working today. They told me to meet you here. I almost cleared off when you didn’t show but, since you paid half up front, I reckoned I’d give it thirty minutes.’
The Soul Killer Page 30