Silent Scream: An edge of your seat serial killer thriller (Detective Kim Stone crime thriller series Book 1) (6 page)

K
im replaced
the receiver after the third call. She hoped she was wrong and that she was about to waste the valuable time of some very important people. She would happily accept a bollocking from Woody if she was wrong. She would get no satisfaction from being right on this one.

Someone did not want that ground excavated.

‘What’ve you got, Stace?’ Kim asked, perching on the edge of the spare desk.

‘Hope yer sitting comfy, Guv. The building that still stands is part of a bigger facility that was built in the 1940s. Back then, it was designed to house the mentally disturbed soldiers returning from the war.

‘The physically disabled were sent to various hospitals in the region but the worst of the psychologically affected were sent to Crestwood. Really, it was a secure unit for the soldiers that could never go back into society. We’re talking killing machines that ain’t got an ‘off’ button.

‘By the late Seventies the population of about thirty-five individuals had either committed suicide or died of natural causes. The place was then used as a borstal.’

Kim cringed. It was an outdated word that brought all kinds of connotations.

‘Go on.’

‘There's some real horror stories that came out of the Eighties of abuse and molestation. An enquiry was carried out but no charges were brought. By the early nineties the place 'ad been turned into a children’s home for girls but still 'ad a reputation for housing troubled teens.

‘Due to budget cuts and building repairs the place was being phased out as we entered the millennium and in ‘04 there was a fire that emptied it completely.’

‘Anyone hurt?’

Stacey shook her head. ‘There ain’t no headlines to suggest it.’

‘Okay, Kev, Stace, start compiling a list of staff members. I want to see ...’

The sound of the fax machine kicking into life silenced her.

They all knew what it was and they all knew what it was going to say.

Bryant reached for the document and perused it quickly. He stood beside Stacey’s desk and handed her the C.V. of Teresa Wyatt.

‘Here you go, guys, I think you have your first.’

Glances were exchanged between them all as the possibilities began to dawn. No one spoke.

And then the phone rang.

‘
J
esus
, Guv, slow down. This is not a Kawasaki Goldwing.’

‘Good to know ‘cos there’s no such thing.’

‘You do know that we’re too late to save him?’

Kim slowed as she approached an amber light but thought better of it and sped over the lights of the Pedmore Road. She weaved in and out of vehicles on the dual carriageway that ran alongside the Merry Hill shopping centre.

‘And that there’s no siren on this?’

‘Oh Bryant, loosen up. I haven’t killed us yet.’ She offered him a sidelong glance. ‘And you need to be more worried about the gash on your left arm.’ She'd spotted the injury through the fabric of his shirt sleeve during the briefing.

‘Just a scratch.’

‘Rugby practice last night?’

He nodded.

‘You really need to give it up. You're either too old or too slow for the game. Either way you're gonna get hurt.’

‘Thanks for that, Guv.’

‘Each injury is worse than the last so surely it's time to pack it in.’

She was forced to stop the car at the next set of lights. Bryant unwrapped his left hand from the roof handle and flexed it.

‘Can't do it, Guv. Rugby is my yang.’

‘Your what?’

‘My yang, Guv. My balance. The missus has got me taking ballroom dance classes with her every week. I need the rugby to balance me out.’

Kim negotiated the next traffic island from the inner lane and ignored the horn honks that sounded in her wake.

‘So, you prance around the dance floor and then hug other hairy men to balance you out?’

‘It's called a scrum, Guv.’

‘I'm not judging, honest.’ She turned and looked at him, fighting back the smile. ‘What I really don't understand is why on earth you offered that information to me voluntarily. You have to know that was a mistake?’

He rested his head back against the seat, closed his eyes and groaned. ‘Yeah, starting to see that now.’ He turned to her. ‘You'll keep it between us, Guv, eh?’

She shook her head. ‘Not gonna make promises I can't keep,’ she answered honestly.

‘So, who were you calling earlier?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘Professor Milton.’

‘For what?’

‘Just making sure he’d reached Mrs Pearson safely.’

‘Bollocks,’ Bryant said, behind a cough.

As the cars began to move away slowly she shadowed the car in front. It braked and so did she as three lanes filtered into two. Bryant grabbed the handle.

‘So, what do we know?’

‘Male, late thirties, cut throat. Possible suicide, could be accidental.’

Kim rolled her eyes. A dark humour was necessary to maintain sanity but just sometimes ...

‘Where now?’

‘Take a left just past the school and we should see it from there.’

Kim screeched around the corner sending Bryant crashing against the passenger door. She drove up the hill and threw on the handbrake at the cordon.

A box porch led straight into the front room, where a WPC sat on the sofa comforting a distraught female. Kim walked through directly into an open plan dining room and kitchen.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she whispered.

‘No, that’s just a rumour,’ said Keats.

The male was still seated in the dining room chair. His limbs were limp like a rag doll. His head was torn back, the crown almost resting between his shoulder blades. Kim was instantly reminded of a cartoon. The angle looked almost impossible.

The laws of physics dictated that he should have fallen to the floor but the angle of the back of his neck over the top of the chair had kept him in place; the back of his head resting like a hook.

The gaping wound displayed yellow, fatty tissue torn apart by a blade. Blood had spurted onto the wall opposite and drained down his chest, forming a macabre bib. His T-shirt and joggers were sodden red and the stench of metal almost overwhelmed her.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Bryant offered from behind.

Keats shook his head. ‘One of you needs to fire their scriptwriter.’

Kim ignored him as she committed the scene to memory. She stood above the body and looked down. The eyes of the male were open and wide. His face bore the expression of the horror below.

She saw the empty bottle of whisky on the floor. ‘Alcohol at this time?’ she asked.

‘I think half of the bottle is inside him and the other half is in the carpet. It’s a damn waste. Johnnie Walker Blue sells for over a hundred a bottle.’

‘Bryant, go ... ’

‘On my way.’

Bryant turned and headed back to the lounge. He was much better with distraught females than she was. In her company they often cried more.

She walked around the body, examining the scene from every angle. Nothing in the immediate area was disturbed and no struggle seemed to have taken place.

A white suit hovered around her.

‘Detective, Keegan here is too polite to ask you to move but I’m not,’ Keats said. ‘Stand back so he can do his job.’

Kim shot Keats a look but stepped back into the corner of the room. With satisfaction she noted that the hem on his right trouser leg was down but damn that smidge of decency that kept the observation on the right side of her lips.

Keegan took digital photographs and then took out a disposable camera and repeated the process.

‘His wallet is upstairs so it wasn’t robbery,’ Keats offered, standing beside her.

Kim already knew that for a fact.

‘Type of knife?’

‘I’d say plastic handle, seven inch kitchen knife normally used for cutting bread.’

‘Detailed description for a prelim exam?’

He shrugged. ‘Or it could just be the one in the sink covered in blood.’

‘He was murdered with his own damn bread knife?’

‘Detective, I wouldn’t like to commit myself too early but,’ he lowered his voice and leaned towards her. ‘I’d hazard a guess that foul play was involved.’

Kim rolled her eyes. Great, today everyone was a comedian.

‘Method of entry?’

‘Patio door left open to let the cat in and out.’

‘Good to see the “Secure Home” campaign was successful.’

Kim stepped closer to the patio door. A technician stood outside, dusting the handle. She studied every inch of the area.

Her gaze paused and she crouched down.

She assessed the back garden; a mixture of gravel and slabs. A clean fence lined the perimeter.

‘Keats, who from this team was at Teresa Wyatt's house the other night?’

He glanced at the technicians present. ‘That would be just myself.’

So, it was just the two of them.

‘Are you wearing the same shoes?’

‘Detective, my footwear ...’

‘Keats, just answer me.’

He paused for a few seconds, now moving towards her. ‘No, I am not.’

And neither was she.

‘Look,’ she said, pointing.

He squinted at the object, which was no more than an inch long.

‘Golden Conifer,’ he observed.

Their eyes met as they both realised the repercussions of the discovery.

‘Whisky’s a bit of a puzzle, Guv,’ Bryant said, appearing beside her. ‘Our guy was a recovering alcoholic. Been on the wagon for about two years. The wife states that the bottle wasn’t in the house this morning and he would never have left the house dressed like that. Also, he’s got the same money in his wallet as he did when she left the house. She still checks.’

Kim stood and took an evidence marker from the tech bag. ‘Why would the killer bring the whisky?’

Bryant shrugged. ‘Dunno, but he had congestive heart failure so the whisky would probably have been enough.’

Kim was puzzled. The murderer had brought a bottle of alcohol, somehow aware that it would probably prove fatal to Tom Curtis, but had almost beheaded him anyway. It made no sense.

‘Our killer could have just delivered the bottle and left the scene but that wasn’t enough. Why?’

‘Sicko wanted to send a message?’

‘Either the killer knew of his heart condition but wanted to add the personal touch ‒ or it was a tool to subdue him, to make the job easier.’

Bryant shook his head as Kim’s mobile phone rang.

‘Stone.’

‘Guv, what’s the full name of your victim?’

‘Tom Curtis … why?’ she asked, hearing the breathlessness in Dawson’s tone. Her stomach rolled at what she knew she was about to hear.

‘You’re not gonna believe this, but there was a head chef at Crestwood children’s home ten years ago. His name was Tom Curtis.’

‘
T
hanks for letting
me drive back, Guv. My nerves couldn’t take another roller coaster.’

‘Yeah well, this ain’t
Driving Miss Daisy
and I do want to get back to the station before next weekend.’

Bryant headed towards Halesowen and Kim took out her phone. She redialled a number she’d called earlier.

‘Professor Milton ... yes ... Hello. About our discussion earlier, is everything in place?’

‘I’ve made some calls, my dear, and I think I can help with your request.’

‘I appreciate that but we now appear to have a second body related to this case and urgency is of the utmost importance.’

She heard his sharp intake of breath. ‘It will be done, Detective.’

She thanked him and ended the call.

‘What was all that about?’

‘Never you mind, just keep driving.’

By the time Bryant pulled into the car park she had called ahead to make a request for a brief meeting with Woody so she entered the building and headed straight for the third floor.

Kim knocked on Woody’s door and entered just a second before he instructed her to do so.

‘Stone, this had better be good. I was in the middle of ...’

‘Sir, the Teresa Wyatt case is much more complicated than we first thought.’

‘How so?’

Kim took a deep breath. ‘On the day she was murdered, our victim made a call to a Professor Milton who had just received authorisation to excavate an area of land in Rowley Regis.

‘She initially asked to be included in the project but was turned down. Then she became quite interested in the area concerned.’

‘What significance is in the land?’

‘It’s the site of the old children’s home.’

‘Next to the crematorium?’

Kim nodded. ‘Both Teresa Wyatt and Tom Curtis are ex-staff members. In the few days since he was granted permission to excavate the land the professor's life has been threatened and his dog killed. And two previous employees of Crestwood have been murdered.’

Woody stared at a spot on the wall behind her. He was already reading the headlines.

‘Sir, someone does not want that ground disturbed.’

‘Stone, don’t go at this at warp speed. There are a lot of politics involved.’

‘The equipment will be on site tomorrow.’

His jaw tensed. ‘Stone, you know that’s impossible. There are all sorts of things we need to do.’

‘With all due respect, Sir, that’s your worry not mine. With the momentum this case is gathering, we really don’t have the luxury of waiting that long.’

He considered her words for a moment. ‘I want you on site first thing in the morning and nothing gets dug, not one shovel hits that earth until you get confirmation from me.’

Kim said nothing.

‘Stone, do we understand each other?’

‘Of course, Sir. Whatever you say.’

She stood and left the room.

B
ethany Adamson cursed
at the sudden noise in the stillness of the hallway. The metal grid between the elevator and the tiled floor clattered beneath her walking stick.

She moved along the corridor, searching for the keys to the flat. With one hand she tried to single out the entrance key. The whole bunch fell to the ground; metal against metal.

She swore as she bent to retrieve them. A pain shot from her knee to her thigh. Her hand closed around them but not before she heard the deadbolt slide across the old cow's door.

As Beth straightened she felt the gush of warm air that came from the open door of their neighbour.

‘Is everything okay out here?’ she asked.

There was no concern in the question, only the hint of a reprimand.

Myra Downs stood about five feet high in her fur-trimmed slippers. The bare skin of her feet was scaly and dry. Beth thanked God that the woman was dressed in a full-length dressing gown. Her fleshy arms were folded across an ample breast being flattened down like dog ears. Her lined face was creased in displeasure.

Beth faced her squarely. Nicola might be frightened of the old cow but she was not.

‘Nah, Mrs Downs, I was just being raped and pillaged by three blokes but thanks for yer concern.’

The woman huffed. ‘There are people trying to sleep, you know.’

‘You'd have a better chance if yer wore propped up against the door.’

The woman's face distorted like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

‘You know, before you came to stay this floor was a perfectly respectable place and now what with the arguing and the noise at all hours ...’

‘Mrs Downs. It's half ten and I dropped me keys. Ger a fuckin’ grip.’

The woman's face reddened. ‘Well ... well ... how long do you intend to stay?’

Yeah, another resident who didn't want her here. Well, tough bloody luck.

‘Probably gonna stay a while. Nic's adding me to the lease.’

It was worth the lie to see the horror register on her face. ‘Oh, no, no, I'll be speaking to your sister about ...’

This nosey old bag was really starting to get on her nerves.

‘What the bloody hell is yer problem?’

‘Loud noise late at night is frightening for single residents, young lady.’

‘Who do yer think's gonna ger in. There's three locks and a keycode to protect yer.’ Beth looked her up and down. ‘And I don't think yer got a lot to fear, to be honest.’

Mrs Downs stepped back from the door. ‘I can't deal with you. I'll speak to Nicola. She's far more pleasant than you are.’

Tell me something I don't know, Beth thought.

She continued to stare the old woman down until the door finally closed. She allowed herself a small smile. That little exchange had made her night.

She jangled the keys a few more times before finally letting herself into the apartment.

Beth placed the walking stick over the edge of the sofa and sat down. She rubbed at her knee. The cold was giving it murder.

She reached for the slippers parked on the edge of the sofa. The maroon leather uppers were soft and smooth; the fur luxurious and warm.

She took off the flat-heeled boots and eased her feet into the expensive footwear. They weren't hers but Nicola wouldn't mind. They had always shared. That's what twins did.

She stood and shook out the ache from her knee.

She tapped on Nicola's door lightly. No answer. What had she been expecting? Of course her whore of a sister was not at home. She was out dancing and showing off her body for money.

She opened the door and stepped in. As usual, the room took her breath away. It was the room they'd dreamt of as children as they'd laid side by side at Crestwood.

Their room would have matching pink covers and pillows. An awning would circle the beds, held in place by beautiful lace. They dreamed of a wardrobe as magical as Narnia. Shelves would be filled with stuffed toys and snow globes. Fairy lights would be draped around the head of both beds. Their imagined bedroom would be magical and light and filled with things that were theirs and they would drift off to sleep making shadows on the wall.

Beth stepped further into the room. Her hand trailed along the shelf above the fireplace and landed on the single brown teddy bear at the end. She opened the door to the walk-in closet and stepped inside.

Nicola's clothes, underwear and shoes were folded, stacked and organised according to colour. Two drawers were dedicated to jewellery. One drawer held expensive, delicate pieces stored in their original boxes. Beth spotted one from Cartier and two from De Beers.

The second held bolder, heavier pieces that Beth guessed were used for her work. She closed the drawer quickly and moved further along. She didn't like to think of her sister at work.

A dressing table separated the wardrobe from the shoe cupboard. A single strand of clear fairy lights lined the mirror's edge.

Beth returned to the bedroom and sat on the four-poster bed. It was a room fit for a princess, just as they'd planned. It was the place they had vowed to live together for ever and ever and ever.

It was the room of which they'd dreamed; except there was only one bed.

One bed to be enjoyed by the sister who had it all.

What Nicola had didn't anger Beth anywhere near as much as her sister's refusal to admit what she'd done.

Her pathetic denial of their past infuriated Beth more and more with each passing day. No apology could ever take it back.

Nicola's actions had destroyed their chances of any life together and still she maintained her ignorance of the facts.

I don't know why you hate me. I don't know what I've done. I don't know how I hurt you.
On and on and on with the denial.

However much Nicola protested otherwise, Beth felt the truth in her heart.

Somewhere deep inside, she knew.