Silent Scream: An edge of your seat serial killer thriller (Detective Kim Stone crime thriller series Book 1) (14 page)

I
didn't
like the girl from the moment I saw her. There was something pitiable about her: pathetic. And she was ugly.

Everything on her body was a size too small. Her toes wore a tear at the tip of her shoes. Her denim skirt showed a little too much thigh. Even her torso seemed too small for the long limbs that sprung from it.

She was the last girl I expected to cause me a problem. She was so inconsequential that I barely remember her name.

She wasn't the first and she wasn't the last but there was something truly satisfying about ending her misery. She was a girl that no one was ever going to love and no one ever had.

Born to a fifteen-year-old mother on the Hollytree estate the fates had been rather unkind. After giving birth to a second child five years later the mother had fled.

Paternal rejection came six years later when her father dumped her at Crestwood with one bin bag of accrued worldly goods. He made it clear that there would be no weekend visits or hope of return.

The girl stood at the reception desk as her father gave her away; old enough to understand.

He walked away with no hug, touch or farewell but at the very last minute he turned and stared at her. Hard.

Did she, for one brief minute, hope for regret, for some kind of explanation; a justification she could understand. Did she hope for the promise of her father’s return, even if it was false?

He walked back and pulled her aside.

‘Listen, kid, the onny thing I can say to steer yer right is try 'ard with the books 'cos yo ay never gonner ger a man.’

And then he was gone.

She stole around her peers like a shadow; eager to ingratiate herself, desperate for love or anything that looked remotely like it.

Her limited knowledge of affection dictated that the attention she received from other girls elicited a pathetic gratitude and an undying loyalty that brought forth gifts of food, allowance; anything her two cronies asked for. She trailed after them like a puppy Lurcher and they let her.

It is amusing that the most inconsequential girl ever to walk the earth is now of some importance. Everyone is looking to her for answers and I am happy to have given her that gift.

She said to me one night, ‘I have a secret about Tracy.’

I said, ‘I have one too.’

I asked her to meet me once the others were asleep. I told her it was our secret and that I had a surprise for her. Bunnies at the lake. The technique never failed.

At one thirty a.m. I watched as the back door opened. A shaft of light lit the gangly body from behind making her silhouette look like a cartoon character.

She tiptoed towards me. I smiled to myself.

This girl was no challenge. Her desperation for attention was sickening.

‘I've got something to tell you,’ she whispered.

‘Go on,’ I said eagerly, entering into her game.

‘I don't think Tracy ran away.’

‘Really?’ I asked, feigning surprise. This was not news. The girl had been telling anyone who couldn't escape her quickly enough that she didn't think Tracy had run away.

Her stupid, awkward face was a mask of studiousness.

‘See, she ay that kind of person and she left behind her iPod. I found it at the bottom of her bed.’

This was not what I expected her to say but damn it. How had I missed that? The stupid cow had always had it hanging from her ear. Undoubtedly stolen, it had been her prized possession.

‘What did you do with it?’ I asked.

‘It's in my cupboard so nobody nicks it.’

‘Have you mentioned this to anyone else?’

She shook her head. ‘No one cares. It's like she never existed.’

Of course it was – and that was just how I wanted it.

But now there was the damn iPod.

I smiled widely at her. ‘You're a very clever girl.’

The darkness surrounding us did not hide the redness that infused her cheeks.

She smiled, eager to please, to be of some use; to matter.

‘And there's something else. She wouldna run off ‘cos she was …’

‘Sshh,’ I said, placing my finger to my lips. I leaned in closer to her, a co-conspirator, a friend. ‘You're right. Tracy didn't run away and I know where she is.’ I held out my hand. ‘Do you want to go and see her?’

She took my hand and nodded.

I walked her along the patch of grass towards the far corner; the dark part furthest from the building and sheltered by trees. She walked on my right.

She stumbled into the hole and fell backwards. I let her hand go.

Confusion pulled at her face for a moment then she held up her hand in defence as I stepped into the hole.

I searched at the edge for my shovel but the stumble had moved it away.

The delay gave her time to stand up but I needed her lying on the ground. I pulled her head back by a handful of hair. Her face was inches away from mine.

Her breathing was laboured and frantic. I raised the shovel in the air and threw it down on top of her foot. She screamed only once before falling to the ground to clutch at her foot. The agony caused her eyes to roll back in her head as she briefly lost consciousness. I grabbed the sock from the other foot and stuffed it deep into her mouth.

I pulled at her body until she lay lengthways in her grave. I stood to the side and threw the shovel down. It caught her on the side of the neck. The pain brought her back to life. She tried to scream but no sound made it past the sock.

Her eyes darted all around, frantic with fear. I raised the shovel even higher and thrust it down as she writhed around the hole. This one worked better. The sound of the blade ripping through flesh met my ears.

The girl was a fighter. She wriggled again. I kicked her hard in the stomach. She began to choke on her own blood. I kicked her again, turning her onto her back.

I concentrated hard. It was a matter of aim. I raised the shovel once more and swung at her throat. The light left her eyes but her lower half twitched.

It reminded me of felling a tree. The cut was made and one more blow would sever it completely.

I launched the shovel from above. There was a sound of metal on bone.

Then the twitching stopped. Suddenly there was silence.

I placed my right foot onto the shovel and then my left, using it like a pogo stick. I jiggled the blade down until I felt it bed into the soft earth underneath her.

Her eyes never left me as I covered her up. In death she was almost pretty.

I stood back from the grave that would go unnoticed amongst the damage from the travelling fair.

The girl had always been eager to help, to be of use to someone, to have a purpose. And now she had.

I stamped down the grass and stood back.

Then I thanked her for keeping my secret.

Finally, she had done something good.

‘
W
hat do you think
, then?’ Bryant asked as she got into the passenger seat.

‘About what?’

‘The doctor and the archaeologist?’

‘Sounds like the start of a bad joke.’

‘Come on. You know what I mean. Do you think they’re—’

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ she snapped. ‘Half an hour ago you were acting like a little girl and now you’re a gossipy old woman.’

‘Hey, the “old” hurts, Guv.’

‘I’d rather you were applying your limited brain power to the case and not the sex lives of our colleagues.’

Bryant shrugged and pointed the car in the direction of Bromsgrove. Their next stop was to visit with Richard Croft at his office in the high street.

As they headed through Lye, Kim glanced out of the window, unable to rid herself of the image of a fifteen-year-old girl writhing around on the ground, clutching her broken foot, trying to escape the death blow of a blade. That the first two attempts may have cut through flesh, cartilage and muscle to reach the bone without being fatal sickened her.

She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the fear that had coursed through the body of the child.

Kim remained lost in her thoughts until they reached the outskirts of Bromsgrove and the site that had previously housed the Barnsley Hall asylum.

The mental hospital had opened in 1907 with a capacity of 1200 at its busiest and had been home to her mother for most of the Seventies, when she was released into the community aged twenty-three.

Yeah, good call, Kim thought as they passed the residential estate that had been built after its closure and demolition in the late nineties.

There was great local sadness when the ornate water tower was finally demolished in 2000. The Gothic structure fashioned in red brick with sandstone and terracotta dressing had towered over the facility. Personally, Kim had been thrilled to see its destruction. It was the last reminder of a facility that had severely contributed to the death of her brother.

Bryant pulled into a small car park behind a pet superstore and she focused on pulling herself together.

They took a short cut through a gulley between two shops and were greeted by the smell of the first bake of the day from Gregg’s the bakers.

Bryant groaned.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Kim said.

She looked up and down the properties. ‘That’s the one,’ she said, pointing to a red door that stood between a card shop and a discount clothing store.

An intercom was fixed just below the name plate. Kim pressed it. A female voice answered.

‘We’d like to see Mr Croft.’

‘I’m sorry, he’s not available at the moment. We have a walk-in ...’

‘We’re investigating a murder, now please open the door.’

Kim was not prepared to conduct police business through an electronic device.

There was a gentle beeping sound and Kim pushed the door. Before her was a narrow staircase leading to the upper floor.

At the top she found a door on either side. The door to her left was solid wood and the door to her right held four glass panels.

She pushed open the door to the right.

Inside was a small, windowless room occupied by a woman Kim guessed to be mid-twenties, with hair pulled back so tightly Kim could see puckering at the temples.

Bryant took out his warrant card and introduced them.

Although small, the space looked tidy and functional. The filing cabinets filled the wall. A year planner and couple of certificates decorated the opposite wall. The sound of Radio 2 played from the computer speakers.

‘May we speak with Mr Croft?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

Kim looked behind her at the door onto the other side of the landing. ‘He’s not there. He’s out making house calls.’

‘What is he, a G.P.?’ Kim asked, irritated.

What was with these assistants that felt the need to offer protection for middle-aged men? Was there a special college course for it?

‘Councillor Croft spends many hours visiting housebound constituents.’

The words ‘captive audience’ came to Kim’s mind, as did visions of him refusing to leave until their vote had been pledged.

‘We are trying to conduct a murder investigation so ...’

‘I’m sure I can find a suitable appointment time,’ she said, reaching for an A4 diary.

‘How about you just give him a call and let him know we’re here. We’ll wait.’

The woman played with the pearl necklace at her throat. ‘He cannot be disturbed while making house calls so if you’d like to make an—’

‘No, I would not like to make a bloody ...’

‘We understand that the councillor is a busy man,’ Bryant said, gently nudging Kim to the side. His voice was low and warm, tinged with understanding. ‘But we have a murder investigation to conduct. Are you sure he has no available time today?’

Croft’s assistant flicked back to the current day but shook her head. Bryant followed her eyes down to the diary.

‘I honestly can’t fit you in until Thursday morning at ...’

‘Are you joking?’ Kim barked.

‘We’ll take whatever you have.’

‘Nine fifteen, Detective.’

Bryant nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you for your help.’

Bryant turned and guided her out of the door. Once outside, Kim turned to him, fuming.

‘Thursday morning, Bryant?’

He shook his head. ‘Of course not. His diary said he’s working from home all afternoon and we know where he lives.’

‘Fine,’ she said, satisfied.

‘You know, Guv, you can’t always bully people into giving you what you want.’

Kim disagreed. It had worked for her so far.

‘Have you ever heard of the book
How to Win Friends and Influence People
?’

‘Have you ever watched
One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest
? Because she was Nurse Ratched in the making.’

Bryant laughed out loud. ‘I’m just saying there’s more than one way to skin a cat.’

‘And that’s why I have you,’ she said, stopping outside a coffee shop. ‘Double shot latte for me,’ she said, pushing open the door.

Bryant rolled his eyes as she sat at the window.

Despite Bryant’s warning, she had never possessed the ability to adapt her behaviour to accommodate other people. Even as a child Kim had been unable to assimilate herself into any kind of collective. She possessed no ability to hide her feelings, her innate reactions having a habit of claiming her face before she had a chance to control it.

‘You know, sometimes all you want is a cup of coffee,’ Bryant groaned, placing two cups on the table. ‘They have more choices than a Chinese takeaway. Apparently this is an Americano.’

Kim shook her head. Sometimes it was like Bryant had stepped out of a time capsule delivered from the late eighties.

‘So, why were you getting all tetchy with Nurse Ratched back there?’

‘We’re getting nowhere, Bryant.’

‘Yeah, we’re stalling around the onion rings.’

‘The what?’

‘A case for me is like a three-course meal. The first part is like a starter. You dive right in ‘cos you’re hungry. There are witnesses, a crime scene, so you gorge on information. And then the main course comes and let’s say it’s a mixed grill. You gotta work out what’s important. There’s too much food, too much information. So, should you just go for all the meat and leave the garnishes or forego a sausage so that there’s still enough room for dessert?

‘Now, most people will agree that pudding is the best bit because when it comes the whole meal comes together and the appetite is satisfied.’

‘That’s the biggest load of boll—’

‘Ah, but look at where we are. We’ve eaten the starter and we now have two lines of enquiry. We’re trying to work out which direction we should take to get to the dessert.’

Kim took a sip of her coffee. Bryant loved to analogise and now and again she chose to indulge him.

‘Now, the main course often makes more sense if interrupted for a gut chat.’

Kim smiled. They really had worked together for too long.

‘So, come on, hit me with it. What’s the gut saying?’

‘What was our initial theory?’

‘That Teresa Wyatt was murdered because of a personal grudge.’

‘And then?’

‘After the murder of Tom Curtis we surmised that it is someone connected to Crestwood.’

‘The death of Mary Andrews?’

‘Didn’t really alter our thinking.’

‘The discovery of a body in the ground?’

‘Leads us to believe that someone is trying to eliminate people involved in crimes that happened ten years ago.’

‘So, to summarise, it is our theory that the person who killed our young girl is the person who is murdering the staff so they don’t get caught for their original crime?’

‘Of course,’ Bryant said, emphatically.

And therein lay the disparity in her gut. ‘I think it was Einstein who said, if the facts don’t fit the theory, change the facts.’

‘Huh?’

‘The person who murdered our buried victim was measured and methodical. They managed to kill and dispose of at least one body without being caught. They left no clues and would have remained undetected, if not for the tenacity of Professor Milton.

‘Fast forward to Tom Curtis. The job was done with the alcohol but that wasn’t enough. There was a message loud and clear that this man deserved to die.’

Bryant swallowed. ‘Guv, don’t tell me your gut is saying what I think it’s saying?’

‘And what is that?’

‘That we’re looking for more than one killer?’

Kim took a sip of her latte. ‘What I think, Bryant, is that we’re going to need a bigger plate.’