Silent Scream: An edge of your seat serial killer thriller (Detective Kim Stone crime thriller series Book 1) (4 page)

‘
O
kay folks
, hope you all got some rest and kissed your loved ones goodbye.’

‘Yeah, no social life for the foreseeable future,’ Dawson groaned. ‘So, no change for Stacey but the rest of us have real lives.’

Kim ignored him. For now. ‘The TUBs want this one solved by the end of the week.’

They all knew her acronym stood for Totally Unreasonable Brass. Substitution of the last word was optional, dependent on her mood.

Dawson sighed. ‘What if our murderer didn’t get the memo, Guv?’ he asked, checking his mobile phone.

‘Then come next Friday I’ll be arresting you and trust me, I can make it stick.’

Dawson laughed.

She remained serious. ‘Keep pissing me off, Kev, and it won’t be a joke. Now, what did we get from the post mortem?’

He took out his notebook. ‘Lungs full of water, definitely drowned. Two bruises just above her breasts. No sign of sexual assault, but difficult to tell.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yep, she had chicken korma for dinner.’

‘Great, that’ll break the case wide open.’

Dawson shrugged. ‘Not really much to come out of it, Guv.’

‘Bryant?’

He moved a few pieces of paper but Kim knew that any information was already in his head.

‘The area was canvassed again yesterday but none of the neighbours saw or heard a thing. A couple of them knew her in passing but it would appear she wasn’t a coffee morning kind of person. Not the most sociable of sorts.’

‘Oh well, there’s a motive. Killed for her lack of community spirit.’

‘Folks been killed for less, Guv,’ Bryant responded and she had to concede the point. Three months earlier they had investigated the murder of a male nurse who had been killed for two cans of beer and the loose change in his pocket.

‘Anything else?’

Bryant picked up another piece of paper. ‘Nothing from forensics yet. Obviously no footprint evidence and the fibre analysis has just started.’

Kim thought about Locard’s exchange principle. It held the theory that the perpetrator of a crime will bring something to the scene and leave with something from it. It could be anything from a hair to a simple fibre. The art was in finding it. And with a crime scene trampled by eight fire officers and a waterlogged bathroom, trace evidence was not going to raise its hand voluntarily.

‘Prints?’

Bryant shook his head. ‘And we all know the murder weapon was a pair of hands so we’re unlikely to find them thrown in a bush somewhere.’

‘You know, Guv, it ain’t like this on
CSI
,’ Stacey offered. ‘Nothing on her phone either. All incoming and outgoing calls are either to St Joseph’s or local restaurants. Her contact list ain’t all that long.’

‘No friends or family at all?’

‘Certainly none she cared to keep in touch with. I’ve requested her home phone records and her laptop is on the way. Maybe there’ll be something there.’

Kim grunted. ‘So, basically, thirty-six hours in and we’ve got absolutely bugger all. We know nothing about this woman.’

Bryant stood. ‘Give me just a minute, Guv,’ he said and left the room.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, while Bryant powders his nose, let’s recap.’ She looked to the board which held barely more information than it had the day before.

‘We have a woman in her late forties who was ambitious and hard-working. She was not particularly sociable or popular. She lived alone, with no pets and no family connections. She was not involved in any dangerous activity and seems to have had no hobbies or interests whatsoever.’

‘That may not be the case,’ Bryant said, taking his seat. ‘Apparently she was quite interested in an archaeological dig that’s just been authorised to take place somewhere in Rowley Regis.’

‘And you know this how?’

‘Just spoke to Courtney.’

‘Courtney who?’

‘Courtney who brought us coffee all day yesterday. I asked if our victim had spoken to anyone different during the last few weeks. Courtney had been asked to get a number for a Professor Milton at Worcester College.’

‘I saw something on the local news about that,’ Stacey offered. ‘The Professor's been trying to get permission to work on that site for ages. It’s just a field since the old kids’ home caught fire but it’s rumoured to hold buried coins. He’s been fighting objections for about two years but got the final go ahead this week. It made the national news ‘cos of the long court battle.’

Finally, Kim felt the stirrings of excitement. Expressing interest in a local activity was hardly a smoking gun but it was more than they had ten minutes ago.

‘Okay, you two carry on digging, excuse the pun. Bryant, go fire up the Batmobile.’

Dawson sighed heavily.

Kim grabbed her jacket and paused at Dawson’s desk. ‘Stace, don’t you need the toilet right about now?’

‘No, Guv, I’m fine ...’

‘Stacey, leave the room.’

Tact and diplomacy had been invented by someone with too much time on their hands.

‘Kev, put your phone down a minute and listen. I know you're going through it a bit right now but you really brought it on yourself. If you'd managed to keep your dick in your pants for another couple of weeks you'd be in the loving embrace of your girlfriend and newborn daughter instead of back in your mum's spare room.’

Kim was not in the habit of employing sensitivity with her team members. She had enough trouble conjuring it for the general public.

‘It was a stupid, drunken mistake at a stag party ...’

‘Kev, no offence, that's your problem not mine. But if you don't stop sulking like a little girl every time you don’t get your own way, that desk over there will not be the only one going spare. Do we understand each other?’

She gave him a hard stare. He swallowed and then nodded.

Without another word Kim left the room and headed down the stairs.

Dawson was a gifted detective but the line he was treading was a very thin one indeed.

F
or the second
time in as many days, Kim walked amongst that air of naïve expectation present at every learning facility.

Bryant headed to the reception desk while she stood to the side. A group of males to her right were laughing at something on a mobile phone. One of the males turned to her. His gaze travelled the length of her body, pausing at her breasts. He tipped his head and smiled.

She mirrored his actions and took in the skinny jeans, V-neck T-shirt and Justin Bieber hairstyle.

She met his gaze and smiled in response. ‘Never gonna happen, sweetpea.’

He immediately turned back into the group, praying that his friends had not witnessed the exchange.

‘There’s something not quite right here,’ Bryant said. ‘Receptionist looked confused when I asked to see the professor. There’s someone coming but I don’t think it’s going to be him.’

Suddenly the groups began parting like the red sea as a woman four foot in heels bustled through. Her form was small but she travelled like a bullet, slowing for nothing. Her keen eyes searched the area and landed on the two of them.

‘Shit, hide,’ Bryant said, as she headed right for them.

‘Detectives?’ she said, offering her hand.

Kim’s nose was assaulted by the aroma of Apple Blossom. Tight greying curls clung closely to her head and her nose supported a pair of glasses that Dame Edna wanted back.

Bryant shook the hand. Kim did not. ‘And you are?’

‘Mrs Pearson, Professor Milton’s assistant.’

Okay, clearly the professor was too busy to see them. If they learned nothing from his assistant they would be forced to insist.

‘May we ask you some questions about a project Professor Milton is working on?’ Bryant asked.

‘Very quickly,’ she answered. There was no offer to go elsewhere to speak more privately. The woman was clearly going to give them only a little time.

‘The professor is interested in an archaeological dig?’

Mrs Pearson nodded. ‘Yes, permission was granted a few days ago.’

‘What exactly is he looking for?’ Bryant asked.

‘Valuable coins, Detective.’

Kim raised an eyebrow. ‘In a field on the outskirts of Rowley Regis?’

Mrs Pearson sighed as though speaking to an errant toddler. ‘You are clearly ignorant of the richness of our immediate locale. Have you never heard of the Staffordshire hoard?’

Kim looked at Bryant. They both shook their heads.

Mrs Pearson made no attempt to hide her disdain. Clearly people outside of academia were philistines.

‘One of the most substantial finds of our time was discovered in a field in Lichfield a few years ago. More than three and a half thousand pieces of gold valued at just over three million pounds. Just recently a hoard of silver denarius coins dating back to 31 BC were discovered in Stoke on Trent.’

Kim was intrigued. ‘Who gets the money?’

‘Well, take the recent find in Bredon Hill, Worcestershire. A man with a metal detector found Roman gold, including coins, and both he and the farmer received over a million and a half.’

‘What makes the professor think there’s something in Rowley?’

Mrs Pearson shrugged. ‘Local legend, myth about a battle that took place in that area.’

‘Did he recently take a call from a woman named Teresa Wyatt?’

The woman thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I think so. She called a few times, insisting on speaking to Professor Milton. I think he called her back late one afternoon.’

Okay, Kim had had enough. There was something here and she was no longer content to speak to the monkey. She needed the organ grinder to recount the content of that conversation.

‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Pearson, but I think regardless of how busy the professor might be we need to speak to him immediately.’

Mrs Pearson looked puzzled then angry. ‘Now I have a question for you, Detective. Don’t you people talk to each other?’

‘Excuse me?’ Bryant asked.

‘Well you’re obviously not from the missing persons unit, otherwise you’d know.’

‘Know what, Mrs Pearson?’

She harrumphed and crossed her arms across her chest. ‘That Professor Milton has not been seen or heard of for more than forty-eight hours.’

N
icola Adamson closed
her eyes against the foreboding that washed over her as she put the key into the lock of the penthouse apartment. Despite her gentle touch the sound still seemed to reverberate around the hall; as did most things at two thirty a.m.

Myra Downs in apartment 4C would be out any second to see who was making all the noise. Nicola could swear the retired accountant slept against the front door.

As expected she heard the familiar sound of her neighbour’s deadbolt sliding across the bottom of the door, but she managed to curl herself into her own apartment before the one-woman neighbourhood watch committee spotted her.

Even before she hit the light switch Nicola could feel the difference in her home. It had been taken over, invaded. Although the space was still hers, she was having to share it all. Again.

She removed her shoes and padded through the lounge quietly, headed for the kitchen. Despite the visitor in the spare room she tried to maintain her own habits, her own routine, her own life.

She took a lasagne from the fridge and placed it into the microwave. Work always made her hungry and this was her routine; get back from the club, warm up a meal while taking a shower, then a bite to eat with a glass of red wine before going to bed.

Having to share her home was not going to change that. Nevertheless, she tiptoed across to the bathroom. She was tired and in no mood for drama.

Once in the bathroom Nicola breathed a sigh of relief. Each door she closed behind her was a battle fought and won. She pictured herself inside a computer game where the object was to clear each room whilst outrunning the enemy.

That was unfair, she chided herself as she dropped the clothes in a pile beside the walk-in shower. She had to adjust the temperature dial, which irritated her. Until a week ago no adjustment had been necessary. The dial would have been right where she left it.

She closed her eyes and lifted her face to meet the steaming water. The needles felt good on her skin. She turned away from the spray and craned her neck back. Within seconds the power shower had soaked her long blonde hair. She reached behind to the metal rack but found an empty space. Dammit, the bottle had been placed on the floor again.

She reached down and picked it up. The force of the squeeze sent a stream of shampoo onto the shower glass. Again she swallowed down the irritation. Sharing her space shouldn’t be so difficult, but it bloody well was. It was what she’d had to do all her life.

She could feel the tension in her shoulders. Tonight had not been a good night for her.

She’d worked at The Roxburgh for the five years since her
twentieth birthday and had loved every minute of it. She didn’t care if people thought her job was seedy or degrading. She loved to dance, enjoyed showing off her body and men paid a lot of money to watch her. She didn’t strip and there was no touching. It wasn’t that kind of club.

There were other clubs in the centre of Birmingham and every dancer at every one of them aspired to work at The Roxburgh. For Nicola it would be the only club at which she would ever work. She intended to retire from dancing when she reached thirty and pursue other interests. Her bank balance supported that plan.

During the last five years she had become the most popular dancer at the venue. She received on average three requests for private dances per night and at two hundred pounds a time it was not to be sniffed at.

She knew she was the anti-Christ for some feminists and to that she raised her middle finger. Women’s liberation for her was about the right to choose and she chose to dance; not because she was some vacant crackhead needing the money, but because she enjoyed it.

Even as a child she had enjoyed performing. She had strived for that individuality, that uniqueness that would set her apart, that would make people notice her.

But tonight she had felt dissatisfied with her performance. There had been no complaints from her customers; the Cristal had flowed and two bottles of Dom Perignon had been bought by her last client, making her boss a very happy man.

But Nicola knew. She knew that tonight her mind had not been fully on her work. She had not felt that total submission of herself, her mind and body, to the performance. To her it was the difference between Best Actress or Best Support.

She washed the conditioner from her hair and stepped out of the shower. She towelled herself dry and snuggled into the robe, enjoying the sensation of the warm fabric against her skin. She tied the belt around her waist and stepped out of the bathroom.

She stopped dead. For a moment she had forgotten. Just for a moment.

‘Beth,’ she breathed.

‘Who else?’

Nicola headed to the kitchen. ‘Sorry if I woke you,’ she said, removing the lasagne from the microwave. She took out two plates and halved the meal.

She placed one plate at her own seat and the other opposite.

‘I ay hungry,’ Beth said.

Nicola tried not to cringe at Beth's broad Black Country dialect. It was a habit she herself had worked hard to overcome. As children they had both spoken that way but Beth had made no effort to change.

‘Have you eaten today?’ Nicola asked and then silently reprimanded herself. Would she ever grow out of the habit of being the older twin? Even if it was only by a matter of minutes.

‘Yer don't want me here, do yer?’

Nicola stared down into the pasta. Suddenly her appetite was gone. The directness of her sister’s question did not surprise her and it was futile to lie. Beth knew her almost as well as she knew herself.

‘It’s not that I don’t want you here, it’s just that it’s been so long.’

‘And whose fault's that, dear sister?’

Nicola swallowed and took her plate to the sink. She dared not look. She could not face the accusation and hurt.

‘Do you have plans for tomorrow?’ she asked, steering their conversation to something less explosive.

‘Of course. Will yo be working again tomorrow night?’

Nicola said nothing. It was obvious that Beth disapproved of her lifestyle. ‘Why do yer degrade yerself like that?’

‘I enjoy what I do,’ Nicola defended. She hated that her voice had risen an octave.

‘But yer degree in Sociology. It’s a bloody waste.’

‘At least I have a degree,’ Nicola shot back and instantly regretted it. The silence between them was charged.

‘Well, yo took that dream away from me, didn't yer?’

Nicola knew that Beth blamed her for their estrangement but she could never bring herself to ask why.

Nicola stared into the sink, clutching the unit. ‘Why did you come back?’

Beth sighed heavily. ‘Where else would I go?’

Nicola silently nodded and the air between them calmed.

‘It’s all gonna start back up again, ain't it?’ Beth asked quietly.

Nicola heard the vulnerability in her sister’s voice and it made her heart ache. Some bonds could not be broken.

The dirty plate blurred before her eyes and the years without her sister bore down on her.

‘And how will yer protect me this time, big sis?’

Nicola wiped at her eyes and turned, reaching out to hold her twin but the bedroom door had already closed.

Nicola emptied the contents of the second plate. She spoke quietly towards the spare bedroom. ‘Beth, for whatever reason you hate me, I’m sorry. So very, very sorry.’