Dead Souls: A gripping serial killer thriller with a shocking twist Book 6

by Angela Marsons

  ‘Move it if you need to,’ she shouted, setting off after Travis.

  She ran through the slowing crowds of pedestrians who were stopping to wonder what was happening.

  She crossed the dual carriageway through stationary traffic and headed for the next exit from the island. The road was smaller, with two-way traffic.

  She sprinted towards the clutch of heads gathered behind a supermarket delivery van. As she approached, she searched for Travis’s head above the rest.

  ‘Move,’ she shouted as she headed to the centre of the huddle.

  She could hear the sirens but they weren’t getting any closer.

  She assessed the scene quickly.

  Travis was on his hands and knees, performing CPR on a black male with scratches across his cheek.

  But that wasn’t where Kim’s gaze rested. She stopped dead at the sight before her. For a second, no sound penetrated her ears and no movement caught her eye.

  To Travis’s left lay a woman who stared up into the endless sky. Her broken body lay at impossible angles, reminding Kim of one of those chalk figures daubed on the ground. The top of her skull had been cracked open by the impact, and brain matter seeped from the open wound along the edge of the pavement and into a storm drain. Clumps of blonde hair were being lifted and moved by the breeze.

  Travis had been forced to make an immediate choice and had chosen to try to save the person who at least had a chance.

  She would have made the same call. There was nothing they could do for her now.

  Kim swallowed deeply and the action around her unpaused.

  She turned right into a man recording with a smartphone. She raised her hand and brought it down on top of the phone. It plummeted to the ground and smashed.

  ‘Now fuck off before you get nicked,’ she growled. That footage was not going on Facebook.

  The male grabbed the remains of his phone and scarpered.

  ‘If you’re not involved or can’t help, move away,’ she shouted at the crowd. ‘Right now.’

  Two men wearing roofing contractor jackets stepped forward. ‘Can we help?’ they asked.

  Although they were pale and shocked, she could use all the assistance she could get.

  She nodded. ‘Do you have anything to cover?…’

  The taller man nodded and sprinted back along the pavement.

  ‘Did you see anything?’ she asked the other roofer.

  He shook his head. ‘There’s an old lady over there that was walking by. I think she saw something,’ he said. ‘And a couple of folks in that group said something about seeing the delivery van.’

  Kim glanced towards the woman being comforted by a younger woman over by the wall.

  ‘Can you start to move everyone back?’ she asked. ‘Try to identify witnesses and keep them separate.’

  He nodded as his colleague returned with a dust sheet. Kim took it from him and carefully draped it over the dead woman.

  She moved closer to Travis. She could see that he was exhausted.

  ‘Tom, do you want me to take over?’ she asked.

  He shook his head without looking at her, keeping his concentration on the count of compressions between breaths.

  She would have been the same. Despite the fatigue, during CPR you found a rhythm and blocked out the pain in the arms and shoulders. The movement became automatic but he would know about it later.

  ‘Sirens are getting closer,’ she said.

  Although he offered no acknowledgment, Kim knew he had heard.

  She took a few steps along the pavement to the elderly woman.

  ‘You saw what happened?’ Kim asked, gently. Damn, if Bryant had been with her he would have thought to ask if she was okay first.

  The woman raised her head and nodded as a fresh batch of tears escaped from her eyes. Kim looked to the younger woman who was gently supporting her.

  ‘Did you?…’

  The woman shook her head. ‘I was at the bottom of the road,’ she said, pointing to the corner approximately one hundred metres away.

  ‘Do you know this lady?’ Kim asked, as she saw a squad car pull in at the bottom of the road.

  She nodded. ‘She’s a neighbour of mine. Her name is Mrs Harper, Enid Harper.’

  Kim moved closer and touched the older woman’s arm. ‘Enid, can you tell me what you saw?’ she asked, gently.

  From the corner of her eye Kim could see paramedics running towards her from the bottom of the street. Travis would be relieved momentarily.

  ‘It all happened so quickly,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I was walking just down there,’ she said, pointing with a trembling hand.

  Kim nodded and stepped forward as the paramedics rushed past her. Black uniforms had arrived and were starting to bark instructions.

  ‘Did you see what kind of vehicle it was?’ she asked, hopefully.

  She nodded and pointed across the road.

  Kim followed her finger. ‘It was a grocery delivery van?’ she asked, confused.

  ‘That delivery van,’ she said, staring right at it.

  Kim had been led to believe it was a hit-and-run; she needed to clarify before she went any further.

  ‘You’re sure the driver of that delivery vehicle over there knocked down these two people?’

  She nodded as she wiped at her eyes.

  Kim thanked her and headed towards the van parked fifty metres along the road.

  One person dead and another one close to it.

  It was definitely time to talk to the driver.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dawson was not sure what he’d been expecting as they had travelled towards the residence of Gary Flint, but the man that answered the door was certainly not it.

  ‘Mr Flint. Mr Gary Flint?’ he asked, to make sure.

  The man was early forties, dressed in smart black trousers and a plain white shirt. A faint mark around his neck indicated that the shirt collar had not long been loosened. Despite the early morning shadow appearing on his chin, Dawson recognised skin that was tended to by its owner. His hair was tidily cut, and his face was open and friendly as he looked from one to the other.

  Dawson couldn’t help wondering if Stacey had made some kind of mistake. But the man nodded, confirming she had not.

  ‘May we come in?’ Bryant asked, holding up his identification.

  He yawned and stepped back. ‘Of course,’ he said, pleasantly. ‘I’ve not long got back from work but please, come in.’

  Dawson entered a room that was exactly the same layout as the house next door. Except this front room was awash with gym equipment instead of children.

  He noticed the brand new Life Fitness Club Series treadmill facing the curtain-less window. His own gym had recently purchased a few of the machines for just under five thousand a pop.

  ‘Please, come through,’ Flint said.

  They followed him to a small kitchen diner with a patio that looked out onto a poky thirty feet garden made smaller by a seven feet fence barrier fronted by conifer trees.

  This man clearly liked his privacy out back but had unfettered windows at the front. To see but not be seen, Dawson couldn’t help but think.

  ‘How may I help you?’ he asked.

  Looking closer, Dawson could tell that the open expression was now forced, tentative, tense.

  ‘We’re here about your neighbour, Henryk,’ he said, stepping forward. He would lead this one. ‘You know that he was badly beaten the other night – almost killed actually?’

  Flint folded his arms and leaned back against the cooker, causing the ignition to click repeatedly behind him.

  ‘I’d heard something,’ he said, moving to the side.

  ‘Yeah, he’s in a bad way. Attempted murder, we think.’

  ‘Shame,’ Flint said, with no emotion at all.

  ‘You don’t like Henryk very much, do you?’ Dawson asked.

  ‘I don’t like any of them, to be honest,’ he said.

  ‘You mean the whole fami
ly?’ Dawson asked.

  He shrugged.

  ‘Or do you mean Polish people in general?’ Dawson asked.

  Again he shrugged. ‘I mean Poles, Pakis, Jews, N—’

  ‘I think you’d better stop right there,’ Bryant advised, and then nodded to Dawson to continue.

  The shock quickly turned to anger, and Dawson had to force it back down. Way down.

  ‘So, you’re openly a racist?’ he clarified.

  Gary Flint smiled. Dawson hated that the smile was pleasant, personable. Such ugliness inside should flash like a beacon and not be clothed in average normality. There should be horns, warts, disfigurement and scales to reflect the putrid person within.

  ‘If that’s what you want to call it. I prefer to think of myself as a nationalist.’

  ‘An honest-to-goodness card carrying member of the EDL?’ Dawson asked.

  ‘Absolutely. Keep Britain white, officer. We have become infected by so many races we no longer know who we are.’

  ‘And how far do you take your views, Mr Flint?’ Dawson asked through a jaw that was beginning to ache.

  He shrugged but said nothing.

  ‘Where were you Sunday night?’ he shot out. He wasn’t sure how many more minutes he could remain in this man’s company.

  ‘At work,’ he shot back. Amusement was dancing in his eyes. ‘I supervise the night shift in a supermarket.’

  ‘You think this is funny?’ Dawson asked.

  He could see Bryant’s warning glance to his left. He shrugged in response.

  Flint tipped his head. ‘I honestly have no feelings on that, whatsoever,’ he said. ‘What does amuse me is your noticeable change towards me since I mentioned my political views.’

  ‘You must get that a lot?’ Dawson said, trying to keep control of the rage building inside him. Oh, how he wanted to retaliate. Give this man his real thoughts.

  Bryant stepped forward. ‘Those views are your own, Mr Flint, and they are your right, however abhorrent they may be to a normal, sane person. Although, sending threatening, abusive messages is not your right.’

  Dawson felt himself reacting just as badly to his colleague’s measured, reasonable tone. There was nothing reasonable about this disgusting piece of shit.

  ‘Threatening to rape his wife, slit the throat of his children,’ Dawson raged, taking a step forward.

  Flint looked unapologetic. ‘The end justifies the means in my book. If they pack up and—’

  ‘They’re fucking human beings,’ Dawson interrupted, aching to wipe the satisfied smile from the bastard’s face.

  ‘Not my kind of human beings, Sergeant,’ he said, imperiously.

  Dawson found himself moving towards the man. ‘What the hell gives you the?—’

  Bryant stepped right between them and started speaking.

  ‘Gary Flint, I’m arresting you on suspicion of…’

  Dawson turned away in frustration as Bryant calmly stated the caution and applied a pair of handcuffs. He took a few deep breaths and worked to compose himself. He was by far the most agitated person in the room.

  ‘You’re not even bothered that you’re in some serious shit?’ he asked.

  Flint smirked. ‘Officer, you want me to be sorry for what I’ve done, and I’m not. I will take the consequences for my actions, but it won’t change a thing about how I feel whether I’m here or in prison.’

  ‘But at least it’s one more scumbag off the streets,’ Dawson spat.

  Flint surprised him by laughing out loud.

  ‘Oh, Sergeant, I can assure you that you have much bigger problems than me.’

  Dawson was prevented from replying as his colleague turned Flint and pushed him towards the door.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Kim took a good look at the vehicle as she crossed the road.

  Her eyes widened as she got closer and saw the full impact of the damage. Bloody hell, no wonder the woman had stood no chance. The entire driver’s side front wing had been smashed and crumpled into the middle of next week. The mangled metal reminded Kim of an unironed white shirt. Pieces of orange and clear glass littered the floor and the front bumper hung down, sadly.

  Kim paused for a moment before continuing. She looked up and down the road. It was a 40 mph zone leading up to the traffic island. Something wasn’t making sense here.

  A suspicion began to build in her stomach.

  A man, who she assumed to be the driver, attempted to get up from his seated position on the pavement. She indicated for him to stay where he was. If the two pools of vomit to the left of him were anything to go by, he would not be stable on his own two feet.

  ‘Detective Inspector Stone,’ she said, showing him her ID.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he said, immediately.

  She appraised him slowly, leaving his statement hanging between them. She guessed him to be late fifties, with a greying stubble evident on his chin. Glasses had been pushed on to the top of his head and left there.

  Kim leaned down, bringing herself to his level.

  ‘Are you okay, Mr?…’

  ‘Brady,’ he answered. ‘Allan Brady.’

  Kim had opened her nostrils when he spoke but she detected no obvious smell of alcohol. He would be tested for that shortly but her initial feeling was that he was not driving under the influence.

  She raised herself back to a standing position as the smell of the vomit began to waft towards her.

  ‘Mr Brady, can you tell me exactly what happened?’

  He rubbed at his head and realised his glasses were there. He popped them back to their rightful position.

  ‘H… how is she?’ he stuttered, pleadingly.

  ‘I can’t answer that right now, Mr Brady. If you could just tell me…’

  ‘She’s d… dead, isn’t she?’ he cried, searching her face.

  She gave away nothing. ‘Mr Brady, I can’t…’

  ‘She’s dead, I know it. I know she’s dead and it’s my fault. I should have seen… I sh… should have stopped… I should…’

  His words were muffled as his hands covered his face and the sobbing began.

  Although she had neither confirmed nor denied his question, Kim’s failure to reassure him the woman was still alive had given him his answer.

  ‘Mr Brady, you need to stop thinking about that, right now. Can you tell me how it happened?’ she asked again.

  ‘I can’t think. It was all so quick. She just appeared from nowhere. I’m going to lose my job, aren’t I?’ he asked, sobering.

  Kim was amazed how quickly self-preservation kicked in. Right now she had no clue who was to blame for the woman’s death but she wondered if he’d be so quick to think about his pay cheque if she took him back and showed him the victim’s wounds.

  ‘Mr Brady, would you mind?…’

  ‘Do I need a lawyer?’ he asked, suddenly. ‘Am I being charged with murder?’

  ‘Mr Brady, I need you to calm down and stop getting ahead of yourself here. I’m simply asking you what happened.’

  Suddenly, his face closed down. ‘I think I’m going to keep quiet until…’

  ‘Were you speeding, Mr Brady?’ she asked, hoping for an answer before he shut her out completely.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he asked.

  She was happy to clarify. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Brady, but the impact of this accident at forty miles per hour is not making any sense to me,’ she said, truthfully.

  He looked from her to the red circled traffic sign staring at them.

  ‘You don’t think… I wasn’t… my speed…’ he stumbled, trying to get his point across.

  She shrugged. ‘The severity of the damage to your vehicle and the victim for a walking pedestrian at forty miles per hour doesn’t seem to compute.’

  Travis sidled up beside her as the van driver shook his head.

  ‘No officer, you’ve got it wrong. She didn’t walk into the path of my van. That lady was pushed.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  17 OCT
OBER 1989

  Jacob James had no clue what time of day it was.

  The darkness cloaking him was stifling. Constantly he found himself fighting down waves of panic.

  He had no concept of how long he had been in the room. At first, he had tried to keep a rough idea but the darting thoughts had interrupted his count.

  Next he had tried to focus on Adaje. What was she doing right now?

  He pictured her normal day. Still sharing the family home with him during the last year of university. Just the two of them for more than ten years. She would thunder down the stairs, grab a piece of buttery toast, kiss his cheek and run. And then pause at the front door to shout back, ‘Love ya, Dad.’

  The thought of those three sweet words, called to him every single morning, ripped at his heart. Those words used to pull him through the darkest days.

  In the evenings, she would return. Some nights he would cook; some nights she would cook, and sometimes they would do it together, attempting to recreate her mother’s jerk chicken and green beans followed by ginger spice bulla cake. They were never successful but the effort kept the memory of his wife alive for them both.

  What was Adaje doing now? What was she thinking? Was she frightened? Was she in danger? Yes, she was now a young woman but she would for ever be his little girl.

  If only he could answer these questions. If he could know for sure his daughter was safe. The other questions in his mind were secondary to his daughter’s safety.

  Suddenly Jacob heard a metal key in the door. A bright light shone in his face. He instinctively raised his bound hands to cover his eyes.

  Fingers grabbed at his upper arms. Voices, the smell of alcohol, the sensation of warm skin grabbing at his cold flesh, bewildered him.

  ‘Stand it up,’ said one voice.

  ‘Yeah, let’s have a look,’ said a second.

  He felt himself being hauled to his feet. Fabric was placed over his eyes and tied at the back of his head.

  ‘Let me go,’ he cried. The words croaked from his dry throat.

  He flailed his arms like a dervish but he was being held firm.

  ‘Behave yourself, mud boy,’ said the first voice.

  Jacob ignored him and continued to try to pull himself free. He kicked out in front of him with his bare feet and met with something hard.