Play Dead: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller Book 4

  As her gaze travelled up the body it met with the bloody stumps that ended at his wrists. The flies weaved and ducked around the open flesh, undaunted by the police presence. Kim was instantly reminded of Westerley.

  Although the picture had walked out of a bad horror movie, no special effects had been used. Gruesome as the sight was, the stumps were unusually clean.

  ‘After death?’ Kim asked Keats as she nodded towards the wrists.

  Keats nodded. ‘Volume of blood indicates that the heart was no longer pumping.’

  ‘Cause of death?’ she asked as her eyes continued their journey looking for clues.

  ‘Ahem…’ said Dunn from beside her.

  Damn, she had forgotten it was not her crime scene. She was here for information purposes only.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kim said and continued to walk around the body.

  ‘Well, for whichever detective inspector cares, there is no identification on his person, and I would estimate he’s been here for between fourteen to eighteen hours. I can’t state cause of death yet, however there is bruising to the upper-neck area.’

  Kim knew this was for her benefit and that Keats was offering any information that might help her without her having to ask and encroach on someone else’s crime scene. He was also aware that she would not be able to attend the post-mortem.

  ‘Are you finished?’ Dunn asked her.

  She nodded and turned away from the body. She had learned all she’d needed to know. The two murders were linked. Bob was involved in this somehow.

  But good manners and ingrained ethics dictated that as it was now an active case again she should not do anything to hamper or interfere with the investigation of her colleagues.

  ‘So this other guy from Fens Pool…?’ Dunn asked.

  She held up her hands. ‘It’s clearly your case now. I’ll step away and leave it alone.’

  She was surprised when he threw back his head and laughed loudly.

  ‘Oh no you won’t, not if you learned anything from me at all,’ he said wryly before walking away.

  She headed back to where Bryant leaned against the side of the changing rooms. Both of them viewing the body on a case that was not theirs would have been overkill.

  ‘What’s the betting his name is Larry?’ Kim asked.

  She couldn’t help but focus on the similarity in location to where Bob had been found at Fens Pool.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Bryant said, staring across 20,000 square feet of water.

  ‘What is it that…?’

  ‘He’s luring them,’ Bryant said and immediately Kim knew he was right. Both locations were easy to get to but had areas of bush, foliage and trees. The perfect place for illicit activity.

  With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Kim took out her phone.

  Stacey answered on the second ring.

  ‘Guv… I was just about to call. I’ve described our Bob to a woman at the warfarin clinic, and I’m pretty sure his real name is Ivor.’

  ‘Yeah, Stace, I think so too, but drop what you’re doing. I need you to check and see if he’s on The List.’

  Stacey knew she would mean the register of sex offenders.

  Dunn’s recent words rang in her ear. Of course she couldn’t leave it alone.

  There was a pause before Stacey spoke and Kim knew why. Searching the sex offenders register was a stark reminder of just how much evil surrounded them.

  ‘Got it, boss.’

  Kim looked around and knew there was nothing more to learn.

  It was time to go and see the headmaster from Jemima’s school.

  The answer to that case lay in the past.

  Fifty-Eight

  Tracy negotiated the cobblestones that surrounded the entrance to the café. Uneven flooring was the bane of her life. Ramps, potholes, gravel and slabs with too much space in-between.

  The afternoon rush had passed and the evening lull had descended. She stood at the counter feeling the additional heat from the appliances being blown towards her by a fan that was cooling no one.

  She ordered a coffee that she had no intention of drinking.

  It wasn’t as bad as where she’d met the detective inspector the other day, but it wasn’t far off. This establishment had brick walls and tablecloths. Yes they were plastic with a red and white chequered pattern that hadn’t been updated in twenty years, but they were tablecloths all the same.

  It wasn’t the great coffee and haute cuisine that brought her here. It was about the only place from her childhood that hadn’t changed a bit. Her mother had brought her to Old Hill on a Saturday morning to traipse around the markets collecting the weekly shop. Her mother had never believed in the convenience of one-stop shopping. She had liked to distribute her business. Weighed down with plastic bags of produce, they had always stopped at this café for a pork sandwich and a cup of tea.

  The markets had gone but this café had remained the same, and Tracy still came here often.

  She wasn’t sure what had prompted the maudlin thoughts that had plagued her this week. Perhaps it was the news that one of her old classmates had been murdered. It had taken her back to a time that was not her proudest moment. A time she wished she could take back, at whatever cost to herself.

  But truthfully, even at seven years of age, Tracy had been relieved when the bullies had turned their attention to someone else.

  She acted as though she didn’t care what people thought of her. Unfortunately for her a by-product of being bullied and tormented meant that you did care. You cared very much. Too much. There was always the paranoia that everyone having a private conversation was talking about you. Every chuckle that met your ears was because people were laughing at you. And the worst thing about paranoia was knowing you could not be proven wrong.

  And just as you strived to gain the recognition and acceptance of your peers throughout school, so you continued throughout life. Self-worth couldn’t be bought in the shops once you turned sixteen and escaped the education system.

  Of course she knew the persona she projected, and it was intentional. It was her only form of defence. She had to show people she didn’t give a shit before they laughed and pointed.

  It wasn’t armour she’d been born with. It had grown over her skin like a shield over the years, inch by inch, until she no longer knew how to take it off.

  Of the people that she truly envied, Detective Inspector Stone was definitely up there. Tracy couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. Now there was a woman who really did not give a shit. Yes, people talked about her, and yes they called her names, and Kim Stone did not give these people a second thought. How did one do that? Tracy wondered.

  She just wasn’t sure whether the image she had shaped and honed for herself was now a perfect fit. There were days when she wanted to lower her barriers and drop the act even just a little. One day she would like to care less about what people thought, but the truth was she just didn’t know how.

  She needed to talk about these things, Tracy realised as she pushed herself to her feet, but she was not in the right place to get answers.

  As she concentrated once more on the cobblestones, she realised there was only one person who could help her. As she headed into the underground car park, she resolved that tomorrow she would visit her mother.

  Fifty-Nine

  The bungalow sat just off the main road that ran through Stourton and stopped short of the Stewponey lights, so named because of the pub.

  The Stewponey Inn was known to have existed in 1744 when it was called the house of Benjamin Hallen. The inn gave its name to the nearby locks and bridge on the Staffordshire and Worcestershire canal, along with the octagonal toll house.

  The pub had been demolished in 2001 to make way for houses.

  The old headmaster’s property was double fronted with a single hanging basket for decoration. Geraniums peered listlessly at the floor.

  ‘Probably worth a few quid,’ Bryant observed. Property in Stourton
did not come cheap.

  ‘Not as much as you’d think,’ Kim said. From what she could see, the small back garden was overlooked by a good number of the new houses.

  ‘How old is this guy?’ Bryant asked as they walked up the driveway.

  ‘He retired from Cornheath primary about fifteen years ago so…’ she said, pressing on the bell. She heard no sound so she tapped on the glass.

  The door was swung open by a woman in her mid-forties wearing a navy overall. Her hair was cut short and showed some colourful costume jewellery in her ears.

  ‘Thank you but we don’t want…’

  The door was beginning to close.

  ‘Police,’ Kim explained, quickly realising the woman had taken them for salespeople or canvassers.

  The door stopped.

  ‘Identification?’ she said, frowning and looking to each of them.

  Both she and Bryant showed their ID. Kim had a feeling they were not getting in otherwise. The name Vera was embroidered into her overall.

  Still the door did not move backwards. ‘What do you want? Mr Jackson tires very easily and…’

  ‘We need to speak to Mr Jackson regarding an investigation, and we will discuss the matter with him directly,’ Kim said, pushing firmly against the door.

  The woman got the message and began to back away.

  ‘The door to the left,’ she said, closing the door behind them. ‘He’s just had his evening meal, and he tends to get sleepy afterwards…’

  ‘You come in and care for him?’ Kim asked, pausing.

  She nodded. ‘His son comes every morning before going to work, and I pop in twice a day.’

  Kim’s heart began to sink. This man needed a great deal of assistance.

  ‘Alzheimer’s,’ Vera clarified.

  Kim knew enough about the disease to understand why it was called ‘the long goodbye’. The cause was poorly understood, and she had read once that it was something to do with plaques and tangles in the brain.

  She also knew that there was no treatment to stop or reverse the disease’s progression.

  ‘How is he with remembering things?’ Kim asked.

  ‘He’s gradually spending more time in the past than the present. Sometimes he believes a memory has already happened when it hasn’t. Other times he thinks an old memory is a new one. When his son comes he tends to combine two totally separate recollections and other times he confuses the people so…’ She shrugged.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kim said with a smile.

  She turned left into a room that was built for comfort and not style. An array of dark furniture that had obviously accrued over the years now jostled for space. Ornaments and trinkets adorned every surface.

  Mr Jackson sat in a reclining armchair. His eyes were closed and his mouth slightly parted.

  His face looked peaceful beneath a full head of white hair.

  Bryant offered a gentle cough.

  The eyes fluttered open and looked in their direction. For a second there was confusion before his eyes lit up and sparkled. It couldn’t be because of her. No one was ever that pleased to see her.

  Mr Jackson’s gaze travelled past her to Bryant.

  ‘My boy, come closer. How are you?’

  Bryant looked her way as Vera entered, carrying a mug of something hot.

  She stopped alongside Kim. ‘He thinks your man there is Mr Simmons, an English teacher he mentored at Cornheath. Every man under the age of fifty is Mr Simmons, who actually died five years ago. We just don’t remind him any more.’

  Vera expertly placed the mug in the only space available on the cluttered table.

  ‘Should we correct…?’

  ‘He wouldn’t believe you if you did,’ Vera offered matter-of-factly.

  Mr Jackson beckoned again and Bryant moved forwards cautiously.

  Kim took a step. ‘Mr Jackson, we’re here—’

  ‘Oh and this must be your lovely wife. How nice to meet you, my dear,’ he said, nodding enthusiastically.

  Bryant’s expression held amusement that she would surely punish him for later.

  ‘Yes, isn’t she?’ Bryant said, turning away from her. ‘I was just telling my… er… wife the other day about our years at Cornheath, Mr Jackson.’

  His face lit up. ‘Best years of my life, son. We had some times, didn’t we?’

  ‘We did that, Mr Jackson,’ Bryant said, lowering himself into the nearest seat. ‘In fact, I was trying to recall the detail about that unfortunate incident with Jemima Lowe. Do you remember?’

  Kim held her breath. She was normally the one for the long shot. Bryant was really throwing the net out this time.

  His face saddened. ‘Oh yes, I remember. Terrible business. Children can be so cruel.’

  Bryant glanced her way. His look said ‘back off, I’ve got this’ and he had.

  Kim retreated to the doorway. Somehow this subterfuge felt wrong. Although she had to wonder if the information would be accessible to them any other way.

  Vera appeared in the doorway and Kim asked the question with her eyes. Vera nodded and leaned against the door frame.

  ‘My memory isn’t what it used to be, Mr Jackson. I can’t quite remember what happened now.’

  ‘Oh, it’s your age, my boy. Happens to us all. It was those girls, if you remember. A group of them. Pinned that child down in the gym hall and lifted her dress up and held her there for everyone to come and see her privates. Awful business.’

  ‘I don’t recall how many girls there were, Mr Jackson,’ Bryant said gently.

  ‘There were four or five to start with I think. One little girl came running to the staff room to get us. Funny little thing, she was.’

  Bryant continued. ‘Of course, I remember now. Little Louise was there as well, wasn’t she?’

  Mr Jackson started to nod, but as he did so his expression began to change. His face crumpled into confusion. He looked from one to the other and then beyond them to the doorway.

  ‘Vera…?’

  The carer appeared instantly. Her smile was warm and comforting.

  ‘It’s okay, Mr Jackson. These nice people just called to see if you wanted double glazing fitted, but they’re going now.’

  She turned to Kim as Bryant stepped backwards. She looked towards the door. It was not an unkind gesture, but it was clearly time for them to leave.

  Kim nodded her thanks and turned away, saddened.

  ‘He’ll be okay,’ Vera said, appearing beside her. ‘Coronation Street will be on in a minute. It’s his favourite.’

  Kim swallowed the emotion in her throat and continued to the door.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Mr Jackson called. ‘I remember now. That funny little thing that fetched us. She had a limp. A terrible limp. And I think… I think her name was Tracy.’

  Sixty

  ‘Guv… you don’t think…?’

  ‘Bryant, I’m willing to bet your house on it,’ she said as they reached the end of the drive. She shook her head as a couple of things began to make sense. ‘Those bloody stupid heels. Ring Stacey and get an address,’ she said, scrolling through her list of incoming calls. She found the one she had received a few days ago around midnight. She hit the button to recall.

  The phone rang and rang and finally ended with a brief message from Tracy Frost. Kim could hear Bryant talking to Stacey as she called again.

  Same thing happened. It rang all the way to the message.

  She tried once more. This time it went straight to voicemail without ringing.

  Damn it. The phone had been switched off, and she had no way of knowing by whom.

  Bryant ended his call and walked towards her. ‘I’ve asked Stacey to check and see if Tracy Frost went to Cornheath and if she was there at the same time as Jemima.’

  Kim nodded. She knew it was almost half past seven and her team had been at it all day. She also knew if she tried to send any one of them home they would refuse to go. Leads didn’t always present themselves at nine in the morning
.

  ‘Have you got Tracy’s address?’ she asked.

  Bryant nodded as he unlocked the driver’s door. He hesitated. ‘You do know we could be completely wrong?’

  Kim had no such hesitation as she plonked herself in the passenger seat.

  ‘Yeah. But what if we’re completely right?’

  Sixty-One

  ‘He has no idea where she is,’ Kim said, ending the call. Tracy’s editor had not seen her again following their morning briefing.

  ‘You know, there are worse people he—’

  ‘Finish that sentence, Bryant, and you and I are gonna have problems.’

  No person was any better or worse, more or less deserving than the next. In their job they couldn’t be. Tracy Frost was a pain in the backside, there was no doubt about that, and there had been times over the last few years Kim would have abducted the woman herself if she could have got away with it – but there was more to the reptilian reporter than she had originally believed. If Kim thought her colleague truly believed that Tracy deserved it he’d already be on his way home.

  Bryant slowed as he passed QB Motorcycles. ‘Is that the one?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Kim said, checking the number of the door.

  He continued to the bottom of the hill and turned into a pub car park.

  Kim noted that the white Audi was nowhere to be seen.

  Bryant pulled up directly in front of the house.

  ‘Not what I expected,’ he observed.

  She had to agree with him. The house was a tiny terrace squeezed between two others. Together, all three might have made a decent-sized property.

  Tracy’s designer labels did not fit in a house like this.

  She knocked on the door hard. Perhaps Tracy had the car in a garage somewhere.

  She leaned down and lifted the letter box. The door led straight into a small reception room. Kim could see a television in the far corner. It was off and no other sound met her ears.

  ‘Jesus, guv, how do we even get around the back?’ Bryant asked, taking a step back and looking around.