Evidently Wrong: The Barton's Investigate, #1

By Katrina Deverill

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Evidently Wrong The road to hell is only as short as the journey...
It's the 1980s and DI Max Barton is the best in the business at catching serial killers. But when a mysterious illness threatens to derail his career, he's faced with his toughest challenge yet. With a chief who wants him gone and a serial killer on the loose, Max must race against time to solve the case before it's too late. Forensic capabilities are limited, and Max feels this time he is in over his head. As the killer, taunts Max, it becomes clear that the final target is much closer to home. With the clock ticking, Max must dig deep and figure out what's missing from the case if he's going to save the final victim. In this personal and high-stakes investigation, Max knows there's no "I" in team, but will it be enough to save the day? Because this time, if he fails it's game over for more than just the victim.

 

BOOK 1 in The Barton's Investigate series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katrina Deverill
• Release date: May 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223686682

Katrina Deverill

I live on the beautiful island of Cyprus where the sea is cobalt blue, and it rarely rains.  Because I believe some of the best books are the ones that have yet to be discovered, I read on average four novels a month, sometimes more, but I schedule my writing time into each day. It’s a full-time job. There’s something special about curling up with a book and being transported to another dimension. Although I write in several genres, they all have one thing in common: mystery. I’m a sucker for whodunits and whether there’s a ghost, some historical data, a smattering of magical realism or a full-blown serial killer, the characters guide me through all the way to the end. If you enjoyed this title, all my books are on my website in my portfolio, where you’ll find both my current titles and those soon to be released. You can also sign up for early-bird offers, news and giveaways, but if you're more interested in leaving a comment or asking about a particular character, I’d be happy to respond. I look forward to hearing from you when you visit my home from home https://katrinadeverill.com Katrina Deverill

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The key turned in the lock. A soft padding of footsteps broke the overwhelming silence. Her heart sank, wishing someone dead didn’t make it happen. There was only one face she wanted to see right now, but it wasn’t this one. In recent days, she had tried her best to stay calm, positive, and hopeful, but the constant grip of fear did nothing for her resolve. She already knew he only brought with him the promise of pain and terror as he approached. A rescue anytime soon looked unlikely. Her thoughts were concise; as his seventh victim, she knew what to expect. It filled her with profound sadness, for a life she’d miss, because the way she saw it, the only way she’d be leaving here, was in a body bag.

He strolled towards her with a twisted smile, his lip curled upward, his cold eyes trained on her face. As the light from the window high above hit the edge of the scalpel he carried, it glinted with menace. She turned her head away as the icy fear of her fate sank in, not wanting to acknowledge the power he held over her, but she failed. Her eyes needed to see. The direction of an oncoming fist, or the distance of the knife.

There was an inner panic that told her to never turn away, face her enemy, just look him in the eye and stand firm. She tried locking eyes in his direction, as her inner strength ebbed away with each step, he took towards her. It was no good. He frightened her and, for good reason, this guy had no scruples. She knew this was the serial killer who had terrorised the county for too long and she also knew he was mad as a hatter.

The inevitable terror took hold. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, the fear rolled over her as the dread at what was to come played out in her mind, she’d read the media reports, knew his modus operandi (MO) and the pain he caused, the devastating injuries he’d inflicted on his other victims. It was all too much.

A single tear coursed down her cheek; the mental fight was lost. Her eyes darted about, looking for an escape, but there was none. The only exit lay behind him. She wouldn’t stand a chance. As he spoke, his voice was both soothing and insincere, his demeanour calm, then ferocious. She froze as he lunged forward and, grabbing a fistful of her hair, pulled her roughly across the bare floor... dragging her like a rag doll; she didn’t fight back. What was the point?

A sob left her throat, but as hard as she tried to keep everything inside, damned if she’d give him his moment of pleasure, the unbearable pain took hold and she let the bottled-up emotions flow. As her screams rang out, there was no one to hear them except for her persecutor.

It gave him a buzz like no other as he sliced the hair away from her skull, taking his prize, a piece of scalp, all done with an expert hand. He got better with every encounter; it made him smile. This was by now a well-practised ritual. He enjoyed the pain he inflicted on his victims and the screams it elicited each time he executed his fetish, for he admitted now that was what it was. His pulse raced with the feeling of sheer joy and exhilaration. It came with a tinge of excitement which flowed through his body as her song of pain filled the air, along with the metallic aroma, as the blood dried caking on her pale, sun-deprived skin.

The girl’s scream muted now to a sob. The shock of what he’d done washed over her mind, fragmenting, and shearing it as the planes of reality and fantasy splintered her mind. It was a joy to behold, and he bathed in every filthy detail.

He stood back to admire his work. A warm thrill of satisfaction captivated and the need to savour the moment compelled him to stand watching her childlike machinations. How the human body copes with pain fascinated him and angered him in equal measure.

She scrambled to hold on to her sanity as she lay on the floor. Unable to focus her thoughts, she wondered if any of it was real as she drew her finger through the sticky fluid on the rough concrete floor. With her arm stretched out in front of her, she used one finger to swirl through the sticky red mess as she moved it around in ever-increasing circles, pausing once to write one word. Was it a word? She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

The girl cocked her bloodied head to one side, then the other, focussing hard on the four scrawled letters she’d written with an intensity of sheer concentration as she wondered what they meant. She babbled in an incoherent chatter like a toddler amusing themselves at a doll’s tea party. As a globule of fresh blood dripped from her bloodied head, it splashed across her hard work as she grunted angrily, scrubbing her palms backwards and forwards across the floor, obliterating all she’d accomplished.

‘No, no, no!’ she squealed as the single word disappeared into oblivion, leaving a mass of messy wet lines across the concrete.

A splatter of rusty-coloured blood hit his sleeve, she smiled, but he didn’t notice. What angered him was her fight, the determination she shown and, he snapped, striking her hard across the face. The slap rang out, reverberating in the cavernous space. He laughed at her pathetic attempt to escape his wrath as she scrambled back towards the wall - cowering.

Thoughts swam around her frozen mind; It should sting. But did it? Her brain blocked out a mass of feelings and replaced them with numbness as a hollow nothingness of emotion flooded through her body. Only the soft quiver of her shoulders and the wet salty tears let her know she was still very much alive, but she’d long decided death would be the ultimate release, a prize worth winning as yet another moment of lucidity passed her by. There was no escape, and with her mind already lost, her body became a useless vessel of pain and forgotten memories; if she’d prayed for someone to rescue her, then nobody was listening...

CHAPTER 2

1985

Their car doors slammed shut, almost in unison, an orchestra playing a symphony of doom in perfect tune, ready for what they were about to face. A sense of urgency in the air, although aware of the purpose of this visit, no amount of rushing would save the latest victim.

Preserving the scene, finding clues, and catching a killer, top of their agenda. DCI Max Barton paused as he swung his legs out and heaved himself to his feet, pulling his collar up against the wind as it whipped around him. But there was no reverence here.

The downpour doesn’t help the crime scene. Winds of change are needed, but Max has no time to fight this one out and he’s not blowing wind up anyone’s backside just to satisfy their ego. He’s done with playing other people’s paltry games because they’ve had to grapple with the latest spate of murders for a year, with little to no outside assistance. A year of failure, taunted by a psychopath identified only as Steven. With the Chief Super’s temper more than frayed, things have gotten difficult, as for some unknown reason, this Steven guy singled DCI Max Barton out as the recipient of his pre-victim evidence, the sick son of a...

He sends Max gifts, all nicely packed with some part of his next victim tucked inside; in general, a lock of hair, a piece of material, something to identify them by when he eventually gets called to the next crime scene, but the killers escalating, and Max bets his bottom dollar it won’t stop there. It appears the murderer enjoys playing games. But he’s never liked games and anyway, this is the last game he’d want to join in.

‘Someone want to bring me up to speed! What have we got?’

‘Another one of his, by the looks of it.’ The team is uncharacteristically quiet, a reverence kept only for the most heinous of crimes and a scene they are struggling with. Many a breakfast has been lost on the periphery, hopefully beyond the tape, but it’s not like there’s a way of controlling a heave. Once it starts... Well, you know how it is. Invariably, it sets the rest off too.

Media coverage is everywhere. There’s no escaping the daily news bulletins, the headlines, or the televised trash. It’s extensive, and it’s been consistent throughout. The journalists never miss a trick, they just find more interesting ways to tell a story, even when there’s nothing new to tell, and the less happening on Max’s side, the more pressure those vultures like to exact.

When news of the first murder broke, it was all news conferences and playing nice, but as the body count continued to rise with no arrest in sight, the stories have altered, verging on ugly. But Max knows they need them, and they need the police. It’s how it works, but as time passes, frustration reigns supreme. Now, as the case goes on, they’ve changed their tune and there’s mudslinging in progress. The police aren’t doing enough. And after the last victim came to light, they wrote: Is lead detective Max Barton losing his touch? As Max read it, he could feel his blood pressure rise, the cheek of it.

‘That’s me, and I’m not. There’s no ‘I’ in team, and that’s how we work, as a team.’ Max said, throwing the media rag onto his desk. ‘Bloody vultures. Haven’t they got better things to do?’

He’s under no illusion. Max knows why they aren’t making any headway and it annoys the hell out of him, but his hands are tied because what is letting them down is a lack of science, and a Chief Super who wants him gone. She seems to think Max rains on her parade. It’s not like he goes looking for the publicity, but the Chief isn’t their favourite copper, so a lack of media attention isn’t something she has to worry about. As the first woman to take up the post, the media attention is acute. Worse than that, it’s all negative; you’d think it was his fault. This is the 1980s. What did she expect? There’s no equality, not yet. Women may have had the vote since 1928, but nothing else has changed and in this instance it’s her own actions holding that back. Her vindictive and introverted anger at the media affects all of them. Sadly, she doesn’t see the harm she’s doing, she only sees red. What others see is a woman making a pig’s ear of the job, when she should be at the forefront of change, a success story, blazing a path towards equality for other women to follow. Instead, she’s a ball of disdain, making herself weaker in the eyes of those constantly waiting for her to trip up; it doesn’t take her long.

When warned of an imminent murder and the identity of the victim, is it too much to ask for some scientific help? There has been nothing so far and every time DCI Max Barton has tried to address the lack of funding, it’s come back to bite him; it seems as if he can’t even get that right these days, not with Katlin bloody Brown in charge.

The total lack of progress, the pressure to solve the case and the Chief’s constant ear bending is taking its toll, but the real problem for Max is resources or the lack of them. Since 1901, our great justice system has used fingerprints in evidence and yet, here we are in 1985 and he can’t get a profile of either the murderer or his victims. Nothing to link one to the other and they’re unable to build a case against their killer without catching him red-handed; an unlikely scenario.

The only proof the murders are all connected is a specific modus operandi. That’s an explicit pattern of events, a habitual way of operating. Their killer’s MO is brutal. The killing spree, so far, has stretched over a twelve-month period, and it looks to Max as if this Steven has an ever-increasing need to be seen, their killer craves fame, notoriety, he wants to be caught, but he also loves the chase, his cat, and mouse beginnings now appear to introduce a dog into the mix, that dog is DCI Max Barton. He’s desperate, like Max. Desperate for it all to be over.

Add to that a Chief under pressure from everywhere, with complete disdain for her lead detective, and what we have is a Mexican standoff. She’s under pressure to get this one solved. While Max lacks the resources, she’s under the media spotlight and can’t move him off the case without raising concern, and yet she wants him gone.

Back at the station, an uninspiring 70s concrete building constructed as a functional unit with less imagination than a goldfish, it looks like Max is about to face his in-house adversary. But she isn’t the only one.

Apart from the close ties to the search for a serial killer, which takes up every working hour of every day, his wife June is on his case. Everyone wants something, but Max’s needs are simple. He wants one thing, to put Sicko Steve, as the media are calling him, behind bars.

Today there’s a call, more of a demand than a request. The Chief Super has summoned him. It doesn’t bode well. But to be honest, he expected it weeks ago. And he’s under no illusions. If she can’t sack him, and cannot redeploy him without an uproar, she’ll find another way. What concerns Max is the likelihood she has found exactly what she needs; a way to push him off his feet, take it all away, without harming her fragile standing with the press. And worse than that, he’s the one to hand it to her on a plate!

It’s not like it happened overnight. Whatever is wrong, it’s a slow burner. Minor changes, but as things move on, they start to add up and become a noticeable problem. That’s why Junes on his back, but her wish for him to get it checked out, is as useless as a pack of Embassy No.6 without a box of matches! If Max relents, the Chief will get the heads up and he’ll be out. If he ignores it, the Chief can come to her own conclusions with the same outcome. Life sucks. Max suffers from constant feelings of inadequacy, failure, and anxiety as they flood through his mind, a tsunami of constant anguish, and yet until he has this killer banged to rights, what choice does he have? NONE, like Max says, it sucks!

His right hand is shaking, although Max works hard at hiding it. This means doing a Prince Charles, hands in pocket, as he goes to meet, she who should be obeyed, should, because it’s not that many years ago they were equals, partners, in the police duo sense. This look is a new but an important habit for him. He walks, right hand hidden. If it’s good enough for the Prince of Wales, well...

‘The Chief will see you now.’

Max nodded, though he felt his skin pale. Once again, close up, she couldn’t fail to notice the weight he’d dropped. Max already knew how he looked, thin, pinched even. Conscious of his hand snug in its pocket, he walked through the door and faced her.

‘DCI Barton, take a seat.’ Her hand waved dismissively towards the chair across from her own, the large mahogany desk oversized like her ego. Max hated this woman, despised her. She hadn’t treated him well since the day he knocked back the promotion. It’s her job now. But Max knew he wasn’t just a detective, but an active detective. A hunter, gatherer of killers, not desk bound material, not at all. Maybe as she always comes in as his runner-up, it makes Max her nemesis.

There’s an ominous silence in the room, before she takes her pen and begins tapping it on her desk, it reminds Max of a metronome, he’s conscious she’s using it to centre herself and as an act of intimidation, maybe to show her superiority: it isn’t working. Nevertheless, it sets his nerves on edge as his anxiety claws at him as he scrambles to appear stoic as she breaks the quiet.

‘I’m sure you know why you’re here today.’ She sniffed, as if she had a foul smell in her nose, one she couldn’t quite place. It could have been her own, a stench of a malicious malady.

‘No Ma’am.’ Max said, fighting to steady his hand as his foot began to move, involuntarily taking on a life of its own, a twitch he had no control over. The thin bead of sweat on his brow told Max he’s failed.

‘Well, I’ll get straight to the point, then. Your recent behaviour has given me no choice.’ Her desk seemed to grow, a further symbol of the divide, its depth keeping them oceans apart. A pause, dragging out what was her pièce de résistance, a body blow to Max. Here it comes, Max thought, looking out the window, counting leaves on the nearby tree and focussing his eyes on anything but her face, which from memory will consist of a twisted mixture, one of delight and loathing. As she takes a deep breath and the foul dialogue drips from her open mouth; Max knows what’s coming, but it makes it worse, caustic. His short nails dig deep into his palms as he attempts to keep down the words rising towards his mouth; if said there’ll be no going back and until Max catches his killer, he’s resolute in his path. Today is no day for resignations, well, not DCI Max Barton’s anyway.

‘As of today, I’m relieving you from duty. But, since there’s a process, even I have to follow, I’ve appointed a police psychologist to you. However, a word of caution. Before you can return, IF you return to work, you will need to detox. Do you understand?’

But as Max heard the words, listening to her maleficent twaddle, he felt his temper fray. So much for never punching a woman, everything screamed attack! But Max was no animal, even if his face flushed, a heat reminiscent of a furnace, twisting in an angry grimace. He blinked hard, his brow creased, the bull dog in him fierce, the beads of sweat already coalescing on his hairline. Max fought only one thing, to control himself. It was pointless holding back. The words escaping before he could put a solid check on them held an emphasis Max felt deep down.

‘This is bullshit! We’ve been through this. I don’t have a drink problem. Never have never will.’ Anxious now, wondering who would hear the exchange. Unbidden, his hand shot out of his pocket as Max clenched his fist. The shakings stopped.

‘DCI Barton, may I remind you this is a formal meeting. I will not sit here and listen to your profanity, save it for the pub. It’s non-negotiable, refuse and I will have no option other to make this a permanent arrangement. Something I would take great pleasure in.’

‘Let’s be honest here, the only problem is you. If you think you can bully me, you’re wrong. There isn’t a doctor or a test that will back your ridiculous claims up.’

‘I think we both know that’s exactly what they’ll do.’ Chief Super Katlin Brown said, a smirk told him she had her ways.

‘Bollocks.’

‘Last warning. Do you have any questions, or do you understand?’

‘No Ma’am.’

‘No questions or no, you don’t understand?’

The cotton wool mouth caught him off guard. He ran his dry tongue over his lips before answering. The need to swallow, as his throat tightened, becoming the enemy. The words came out, but with less force than intended.

‘On what basis do you make your assumptions?’

‘None, these aren’t assumptions. Look at yourself, man, you are not fooling anyone. You’re shaking, you can hardly stand without falling over, you’re a bloody disgrace, a liability. Come back sober or not at all.’

And that was it. DCI Max Barton stood without preamble. The chair rocked as he shot to his feet, before almost losing his balance. His body wavered, a slight stagger, as his balance fluctuated. Enraged, Max stormed from her office, his hand no longer in a fist, shook, as it took on a clawed shape, gnarled and sinister, unrecognisable as his own. The sweat poured down his back, chilling him to the bone, and it bloomed across his brow, as Max felt the heat in his face rise. Max dabbed with a handkerchief as he moved with as much speed as he could muster through the building. He spoke to no one. Nothing, but nothing, would stop him from catching this killer, not the Chief, not his problem, whatever it was.

Max didn’t need to turn around. He felt the Chief watching from her window; he could almost see her face in a twisted, characteristic sneer. She knows what she is doing, what she has done, Max thought as he made his way out of the building. Max didn’t need to turn and look. He could feel her eyes burning, stabbing him in the back. It was what she was good at. Well, screw her, Max had his own agenda, and it wasn’t detox.

Perhaps not his finest hour. Max crossed the road, his steps more reminiscent of a shuffle than the firm stride he was long used to. He entered the almost empty premises and almost dragged himself up until