‘Blood spatter on the fur,’ Keats added.
Kim looked closer and saw a few spots on its front leg.
She blocked out the peripheral activity and focussed on the most important part of the crime scene: the body. She saw a white male, early to mid-forties, overweight, wearing Tesco jeans and a white T-shirt that had been washed so many times it was the colour of cigarette ash. A stain of crimson coloured the front of the garment, which was littered with slash marks. A pool of blood had seeped from beneath. Looking at the ground, he had fallen backwards.
His jacket was a new, medium-quality leather bomber that clearly didn’t stretch across his stomach. Fastening the two sides of the zipper was nothing more than a pipe dream. A Christmas present from someone who loved him and was blind to his increasing girth, probably his mother. The garment had offered no protection against the penetration of a sharp object.
His hair was peppered with grey and too long. His face was clean-shaven and still bore a look of surprise.
‘Murder weapon?’
‘Nothing yet,’ Keats said, turning away.
Kim leaned down and made eye contact with the forensic photographer. He nodded, indicating that he’d taken the shots he needed of the body. He turned his attention to the dog.
She carefully lifted up the sodden T-shirt. One stab wound would have been responsible for most of the blood.
‘I’m guessing the top one is the fatal wound,’ Keats added. ‘And before you ask I’d say kitchen knife, five to six inches.’
‘It won’t be far away,’ she said to no one in particular.
‘How do you figure? It could be anywhere. He could have taken it with him.’
Kim shook her head. ‘The attack may have been planned: late night, dark alley, but there was frenzy involved. There was emotion in this attack. The first injury did the job but there are three “stay dead” wounds.’
She continued to stare down at the corpse, feeling the fury that had accompanied the attack as though it had been captured in the air around her.
She lifted her head. ‘The killer was blinded by rage while committing the act, but once it’s finished that adrenaline recedes and then what?’
Bryant followed her logic. ‘You see what you’ve done and what’s still in your hand and you want to discard the connection as quickly as possible.’
‘Stabbing is very personal, Bryant. It requires a closeness that is almost intimate.’
‘Or it could be a mugging gone wrong. There isn’t any wallet on him.’
Kim ignored his last comment and lowered herself to the ground to the left of the body. She lay on her side and placed her feet right next to the victim’s. The cold gravel path bit straight through her clothes.
Keats looked on, shaking his head. ‘Oh Bryant, every day must be a challenge.’
‘Keats, you really have no idea.’
Kim ignored them both. She pulled back her arm and then lunged it forward in a stabbing motion. The trajectory put the wound at the centre of the breast bone. She tried to match a swipe from her arm to the wound but the momentum wasn’t there.
She shuffled along the floor and did it again. Once more the trajectory was off by an inch or more.
She shuffled just a touch lower, closed her eyes and blocked out the curious gazes around her. She didn’t care what they thought.
She thought of Daisy Dunn standing in the middle of that seedy basement. She pictured that frightened, shivering child dressed in an outfit of her father’s choosing.
This time she swung her arm with anger. With the rage of someone who was ready to kill. She opened her eyes and leaned over. Her index finger was right on the wound.
She looked down and their feet were no longer level. She had dropped by a good four to five inches to achieve a comfortable, natural stabbing position that matched the trajectory of the wound.
She pushed herself to her feet and dusted off her jeans.
She subtracted the difference from her own height. ‘Murderer will be no taller than five three or five four.’
Keats smiled and stroked his beard. ‘You know, Bryant, if Carlsberg made detectives …’
‘Is there anything else I should know?’ Kim said, moving towards the exit flap of the tent.
‘Not until I get him home for a proper look,’ Keats said.
Kim took a moment to survey the scene. Crime scene officers were searching the area for evidence, constables were going door to door, statements were being taken and the ambulance was awaiting the release of the body. Her presence was no longer required. She had everything she needed. It was now up to her to pull it all together and establish what had taken place.
Without speaking, she exited the tent and walked past the two officers guarding the end of the alley.
She was ten feet away when she heard the mutterings between them. She stopped short, causing Bryant to almost crash into the back of her. She turned and headed back.
‘What was that, Jarvis?’
She stood before the DS and thrust her hands into her trouser pockets. He had the grace to colour.
‘Would you like to repeat what you just said? I don’t think Bryant heard you.’
The tall, reedy officer shook his head. ‘I didn’t …’
Kim turned to Bryant. ‘DS Jarvis here just called me a “cold bitch”.’
‘Oh, shit …’
She continued to talk to Bryant. ‘I mean, I’m not saying his assessment is completely wrong but I would like him to explain it.’ She turned back to Jarvis who had moved back a step. ‘So, please, go on.’
‘I wasn’t talking about …’
‘Jarvis, I would have far more respect for you if you could find your backbone for long enough to actually qualify your statement.’
He said nothing.
‘What would you have me do, eh? Am I required to burst into tears for the loss of his life? Would you like me to grieve for his passing? Say a prayer? Lament his fine qualities? Or should I just put the clues together and find whoever did this?’
Her eyes held ground with his. He looked away.
‘I’m sorry, Marm. I shouldn’t have …’
Kim didn’t hear the rest of his apology, as she had already walked away.
By the time she reached the cordon, Bryant was just behind her. She ducked under the tape and then hesitated. She turned to one of the constables.
‘Can someone make sure that dog is taken care of?’
Bryant guffawed. ‘Jeez, Guv, just when I think I know you.’
‘What?’
‘There are constables being abused ’cos of diversion signs, first-time officers who’ve never seen a crime scene, a DS with his nuts chewed off, and you’re bothered about the welfare of the bloody dog.’
‘The dog didn’t figure this into his career plans. The rest should’ve done.’
Bryant got into the car and checked his seat belt, twice.
‘Cheer up, it might not be a simple mugging gone wrong.’
She pulled away from the scene without speaking.
‘I can see it in your face. You look like someone stole your Barbie doll and boiled it.’
‘I never had a Barbie doll, and if I had I would’ve dismembered it myself.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Kim did know what he meant and he was the only detective that could say it and remain unscathed.
Bryant took a pack of sweets from his jacket pocket. He offered her one and she refused.
‘You really should try and cut down on those things,’ she said, as the aroma of menthol filled her car.
Bryant had become addicted to the extra strong cough lozenges after kicking a forty-a-day smoking habit.
‘You know they help me think.’
‘In that case, have a couple.’
Unlike Bryant, she already knew for certain this case was no mugging, so other questions needed to be answered: who, when, how and why.
The ‘How’ was straightforward enough, a blade
that she guessed to be somewhere between five and seven inches. The closest ‘When’ would be confirmed at the post mortem. That left the ‘Who’ and the ‘Why’.
Although establishing the ‘Why’ was of paramount importance to the investigation of a crime, for Kim it had never been the most essential part of the puzzle. It was the only element that could not be corroborated by scientific means. It was her job to establish the ‘Why’, but the last thing she needed was to understand it.
She recalled one of her earlier cases as a detective sergeant, when a child had been knocked down on a zebra crossing by a woman whose blood contained three times the legal alcohol limit. The seven-year-old boy died slowly of horrific internal injuries caused by the bull bars on the front of the woman’s jeep. It transpired that the woman had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer and had spent the afternoon in the pub.
This information had no effect on Kim whatsoever, because the facts remained the same. The woman had still chosen to drink; she had still chosen to get behind the wheel of a car; and the seven-year-old boy was still dead.
Understanding the ‘Why’ of an action brought with it an expectation of empathy, understanding or forgiveness, however brutal the act.
And, as her past would bear out, Kim was not the forgiving kind.
NINE
At 1.30 a.m. Kim headed through the communal office that housed the police constables, PCSOs and a couple of civilian staff.
‘Good, you’re here.’
The other two detectives that completed her team were already seated. There had been little time to recover since closing the Dunn case. But that’s how her team rolled.
The room held four desks in two sets of two facing each other. Each desk mirrored its partner, with a computer screen and mismatched file trays.
Three of the desks accommodated permanent occupants but the fourth sat empty since they had been downsized two years earlier. It was where Kim normally perched herself, rather than her office.
The space with her name on the door was commonly referred to as The Bowl. It was nothing more than an area in the top right-hand corner of the room that was partitioned off by plasterboard and glass.
‘Morning, Guv,’ Detective Constable Wood called brightly. Although half-English and half-Nigerian, Stacey’s desk held a sign stating, ‘The only way is Dudley’. She wore her hair short and natural. Her complexion and gentle features suited the style.
On the other hand, DS Dawson looked as though he’d left a hot date. Dawson had been born wearing a suit. And just as some men were unable to look smart even in Armani, Dawson was the opposite. His numerous suits were not expensive but he managed to make them look good. His shoes and tie normally dictated his activity. Kim glanced to the ground as he headed to the percolator. Oh yes, he’d been on the pull all right. Just a few months after being accepted back into the loving embrace of his fiancée and young child.
But it wasn’t her business, so she left it alone.
‘Stace, you get the board.’
Stacey jumped up and reached for the black marker pen.
‘No identity yet. Wallet wasn’t on him so we’ll go with what we know: white male, mid-forties, low income, four stab wounds, first one fatal.’ Kim paused for a moment, giving Stacey chance to catch up.
‘So, we need to get a timeline. Did he go to the pub and his wallet was taken afterwards or did he simply take his dog for a walk?’
Kim turned her attention to Dawson. ‘Kev, talk to the uniforms, check with the bus service and taxi ranks. It’s a busy road; someone might have seen something. Get the witness statements for yesterday. Bryant, check for any missing persons reports.’
Kim looked around the room. Everyone was moving.
‘And I’ll go and brief the boss.’
She took the stairs two at a time and entered without knocking.
DCI Woodward’s five foot eleven stature could be gauged even from a sitting position. His torso sat straight and proud and Kim was yet to spot a crease in his crisp, white shirts. His Caribbean heritage had gifted him with skin that belied his fifty-three years. He had begun his career as a constable on the streets of Wolverhampton and had persevered through the ranks during decades when the Police Force was not as politically correct as it liked to think it was.
His unwavering passion and pride was reflected in the bookcase displaying his Matchbox car collection. The police vehicles took centre stage.
He picked up the stress ball from the edge of his desk and started kneading it with his right hand.
‘What do we have so far?’
‘Very little, Sir. We just started outlining the investigation.’
‘The press have already been on the phone. You need to give them something.’
Kim rolled her eyes. ‘Sir …’
He squeezed the ball harder. ‘Forget it, Stone. Eight a.m. tomorrow. Give them a statement: body of a male etc.’
He knew she hated talking to the press but he periodically insisted. Her career progression plan for herself differed from his plan for her. Rising any further in the ranks took her further away from actual police work. Any further escalation on the food chain and her day would be filled with codes of practice, policies, arse-covering and godforsaken press conferences.
She opened her mouth to argue, but a slight shake of his head discouraged that course of action. She knew which battles to fight.
‘Anything else, Sir?’
Woody put the stress ball back and took off his glasses. ‘Keep me updated.’
‘Of course,’ she said, closing the door behind her. Didn’t she always?
She entered the squad room to a mixture of expressions.
‘We have good news and bad news,’ Bryant said, meeting her gaze.
‘Hit me with it.’
‘We have a positive identification on the victim … and you’re not going to like it one little bit.’
TEN
Alex was startled from sleep by the sound of The Beatles singing ‘I’m a Loser’ from her mobile phone. It was her private joke to signal that she had an incoming call from Hardwick House. It wasn’t as amusing at almost three in the morning.
She glared at the phone for a couple of seconds, trying to gain her composure, eventually silencing John Lennon.
‘Hello …’
‘Alex, it’s David. Can you come over …?’ His voice disappeared into the distance but she heard him shout for someone to get Shane back into the common room. ‘Look, we’ve had an incident between Shane and Malcolm. Can you get here?’
Alex’s interest picked up. ‘What type of …?’
‘Eric, get Shane in there and close the damn door.’
He sounded fraught and Alex could hear a lot of shouting in the background.
‘I’ll explain when you get here.’
‘On my way.’
She dressed quickly but thoughtfully in fitted jeans that hugged her hips and caressed her bottom. On top she put a cashmere jumper that revealed just a hint of cleavage when she leaned forward; invaluable when visiting a house full of men.
A light dusting of blusher and a quick pout of lipstick and the ‘just out of bed’ look had been carefully constructed. She grabbed a notepad from the kitchen drawer on her way out.
As the three-litre injection engine cut through the silence of the leafy road, Alex considered her options with Hardwick House. The partnership had become one-sided and the benefits of the liaison were becoming less attractive to her.
She’d been careful when choosing the facility on which to bestow the gift of her expertise. After researching the local good causes, Hardwick House had been the only bunch of do-gooders she could stomach.
She had wanted to see if there were any candidates for her research but when she found no particularly good subjects she had grown bored and just used them to perfect her manipulation techniques. Now, even that was growing tiresome, Alex thought as she pulled onto the drive and killed the engine. She sensed a gradual withdrawal somewhere in
her future.
The door was opened by David, the only remotely interesting person in the building. At thirty-seven, his black hair was showing just a hint of grey that added depth to his features. He carried himself with the ease of someone who had no idea how attractive they were to the opposite sex. For him, Alex would break her ‘married men only’ rule.
She knew little about him outside of Hardwick House other than he’d sustained serious damage to a knee in a sporting accident. She’d never asked because she didn’t care.
She also knew he worked tirelessly for the men within his remit, getting work placements, benefits, basic education. For David, they were souls to be saved. For Alex, they were target practice.
‘What happened?’
David closed the door behind her and Alex was again reminded that, despite the renovations, the former nursing home still held the aura of God’s waiting room.
The door to the common room was closed and guarded by Barry, a subject she had considered for her project when choosing potential candidates four months earlier. Unfortunately his progress had been slow. They’d had many conversations about his hurt at his wife’s betrayal with his own brother but he’d been missing that last incentive to galvanise him into action. His hatred had not been deep enough, raw enough, to affect his long-term conscience. And ultimately that’s what she was interested in.
Yet another disappointment.
She caught his quick appraisal of her and held his gaze for just a second to show that she’d noticed. He looked away.
‘Shane is in there,’ David said urgently. ‘Malcolm is in the kitchen. We’re having to keep them apart at the moment. To cut a long story short, Shane didn’t make it up to bed. He fell asleep in the den in front of the television. Malcolm could hear the TV and came in to turn it off. He gently shook Shane awake to get him to go to bed.’
David paused, running his hand through his hair. Alex already knew where this was going.
‘Basically, Shane woke up then beat seven shades out of Malcolm. He’s in the kitchen; nothing broken, but he’s a bit of a mess. He’s shouting for the police and Shane is shouting for you.’
Alex felt rather than heard the presence of her ‘bodyguard’, Dougie, behind her. She reached into her bag and pulled out a writing book with a psychedelic design on the front cover. Dougie was severely autistic and rarely spoke, but he had a fascination for notebooks. To make herself look good she brought him a new one every time she came. He took it and held it close to his chest and took a step backwards.