Buried Memories: A DS Albie Edwards Short Story

by Kimberley Shead

  Buried Memories

  A DS Albie Edwards Short Story

  Kimberley Shead

  Copyright © 2019 by Kimberley Shead

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Josiah Davis

  Book cover by MatYan

  For my husband and best friend, Roy.

  Thank you for your love, support, and belief in me.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kimberley Shead

  1

  “When did you see your first dead body?”

  Feigning deafness, Albie ignored the question from the young officer’s colourless lips. PC Darcy Nicholls, whose face was now tinged with a trace of puce-green, looked down at the grey-faced bundle illuminated by the artificial spotlight which bounced off every surface in the tight space.

  It wasn’t the type of question he was asked everyday and certainly not one he was in a hurry to answer. Instead he edged his way around the outskirts of the crime scene, head bent and shoulders rounded to compensate for the slanted low-ceilinged room which resembled a walk-in vertical grave dug into a cave of stones and mud. With each step, he moved further from his colleague and inched closer to the familiarity of Leo Nico. The pathologist fiddled with an evidence bag as he hunched over the child, curled in a foetal ball, near his feet. The same body still ensnared Nicholls’s fixated stare. Without looking up, Leo acknowledged Albie’s presence with a snort.

  “What can you tell us?” Albie asked, his full attention focused on Leo, who leaned in closer to try to catch the whispered question. “Is it?”

  He shook his head, waved the tweezers he held in his hand towards the victim. “The body is a young girl of a similar age to your missing child. Until I know for sure, there’ll be no speculation.”

  Albie nodded and watched Leo as he busied himself setting up equipment while mumbling under his breath about the lack of space to do a proper job. Sian Wilkins had been missing for over a week and finding her alive seemed less likely with each passing day.

  A clatter from the corner drew both men’s attention. PC Nicholls held out a hand in a futile attempt to stop the domino effect her clumsiness had started. Her foot caught in a cable, which in turn dragged a light hooked on a nearby protruding rock to clutter to the ground, just missing the body, before leaving the claustrophobic crime scene in virtual darkness.

  Leo dropped his tools onto the covered floor. “Albie,” he called his name as he contorted his body and threw himself to the ground like an international goalkeeper with a point to prove and managed to get the light upright without interfering with the corpse or its surrounding area.

  “Get her out of here before she does any real damage.” Leo’s words hissed as he eased his body into a sitting position and began methodically checking the lighting unit.

  “Sorry.” Darcy’s whisper was lost as she reached for part of the lamp which rolled to a stop near her feet. She bent and attempted to screw it back onto the stem of the lamp without much luck. Her face had a hint more colour. At least her embarrassment had distracted her from the victim, and all thought of sharing the contents of her stomach in such a tight space. After a useless attempt to marry the thread of the metal nut, she held it uneasily between shaking fingers before taking one last look at Leo’s burrowed forehead. She placed the part in his out-stretched hand, then inched away as if he were a feral animal ready to attack.

  Albie waited until she was within arms distance, placed his hands on her shoulders, then guided her backward towards the exit of the grimy extended underground room and into the basement beyond.

  “I don’t know what…”

  Albie lifted his palm towards her face and glared until she lowered her gaze.

  “It’s your first body. I understand, but a crime scene is sacred.”

  Darcy nodded, shuffled her feet, linked her fingers, and kept her head bowed.

  Albie took in their surroundings. Moss sprang from mudded walls. He breathed deeply. The smell of damp soil invaded his nose and assaulted the back of his throat. He lifted his hands and tried to still his shaking fingers. He walked forward one tentative step at a time. He took short sharp breaths as he fought against the insipid thoughts which swirled in a part of his memory he’d buried as a child. Albie stumbled into the wall at his side and slid down the surface until he felt the solidity of the floor. He brought his fingers to his temples and pressed, unable to dismiss the dread rising within his stomach and the thud in his head. Powerless to shake the images that danced in his mind, Albie’s thoughts travelled to a time and place which seeped from locked up memories. A place where he first experienced an utterly paralysing fear, a fear he’d never wanted to resurface. It had been the end of his innocent childhood. Albie sank back on his haunches. Damp and mildew cloyed his airways and darkness poked at the back of his mind until he lifted his head. Once again, he was back in the woods. A seven-year-old tearaway. It was 1973 and he was desperate for his father’s attention.

  Albie knelt on a blanket of moist leaves which covered rain-drenched soil that soaked, yet cushioned his knees. A brisk frigid breeze whipped between the branches, undressing the trees of their final leaves and slapping any skin left uncovered on his body. He jumped at the sound of a deep voice he would recognise anywhere. It covered a distance, carried on the wind from the thicket. He dared to inch around the thick, gnarled, moss covered trunk. His only protection from the people on the other side.

  “Gracie, you disappoint me. How many times? Never mind, betrayal knows no number.”

  The woman, hands and feet bound, coughed as her gag was loosened. She wriggled, reminding Albie of an eel before it was beheaded and gutted.

  The group of dark clothed men surrounded her writhing body. One growled a warning and the woman froze. Her mudded, off-white clothing further restricted her trussed up body. To seven-year-old Albie she resembled a caricature of a restrained mental patient—a familiar figure in the dark comic books Albie enjoyed reading. But this wasn’t the scene from a comic book. This was real.

  2

  “Sir?” Albie felt a hesitant nudge on his shoulder and outstretched his hand to steady himself. A concerned pair of blue eyes studied his face. Darcy lowered her voice. “Are you okay?”

  Albie glanced to either side, wiped dirty hands down the front of his jacket, straightened his tie, and smoothed his hair. He stood and brushed past Darcy without a word, grabbed the partial bannister, and took the worn steps two at a time, not stopping until he’d reached the open back door.

  The air was thin and ineffective and with each gasp, his body screamed out for oxygen. The temperature had remained over twenty five degrees since the beginning of the month and looked set to continue for at least the rest of the week. He emerged into what barely passed as a garden, stepped over a child’s broken tricycle, and dodged a couple of dumped tyres half hidden by overgrown grass. The garden, like the re
st of the house, was neglected. In parts there were traces of a casual attempt to rectify the shambles. This was evident in the pile of sawn off branches, the remnants from a stint of pruning, left ready to ignite at the end of the garden. Albie stretched, reached inside his top pocket and hunted for the packet he kept for emergencies. He balanced a cigarette between his lips, lit it, closed his eyes, and inhaled.

  The wooded area opposite the back of the property was only separated by a narrow, overgrown footpath. It was alive with the sounds of birds, children’s voices, and the occasional bark of a dog. In the heat it was nothing but a hazy mirage, a product of the assault from the unyielding sun. Albie squinted. His hand shook as he shielded his eyes. His gaze skimmed the abundant foliage opposite. He turned back towards the house. More officers were on the scene and the place buzzed with activity.

  Albie ground the cigarette into the dirt, then lifted his foot and used a knot on the trunk of the heavily laden apple tree to raise him high enough to reach the lowest branch. The sickly scent of over ripe fruit cloyed in his nose and throat as he climbed. He edged his way towards the end of the branch until he was perched on the top of the fence. Fruit fell to the ground as he leapt from the fence and the branch ricocheted back into position.

  Albie tumbled into an awkward forward roll, swearing as his back hit the solid dry earth. He struggled to his feet, flicking dust and debris from his suit and hair. He slipped his jacket off and folded it over his arm before draping it over the top of the fence, rolling up his sleeves, loosening his tie, and undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. He needed space to focus—a young girl was missing and others were turning up dead. Sian Wilkins deserved his full attention. He was going to find her and get the promotion he craved. Albie had his list of suspects. The list was a few pages long and consisted of some dubious characters. Nevertheless, there was just one name that kept his attention, Billy Stanton. Albie had taken a dislike to him at their very first meeting. Billy was a predator.

  When Angie Wilkinson husband died in a car crash, he left behind three children. Sian the youngest of three children had clung her big sister, Shelley’s, hand. Shelley had no choice to grow up quickly and become a surrogate mother to her younger siblings. Angie’s grieving was aided by drugs and alcohol, and that’s when Billy wheedled his way into the family home. Albie had a gut feeling that Sian’s disappearance was down to Billy. All he needed to do was find the evidence to corroborate his belief.

  On the other side of the footpath, under the canopy of the trees, the undergrowth rustled and he glanced to either side, too slow to spot whatever rodent used the foliage as cover from detection and the heat of the day. The shrill sounds of children’s screams rang out in the distance, carefree and exhilarating laughter. It was the kind of day you reminisce about in adulthood.

  Albie walked deeper into the wooded area, revelling in the solitude. Since children from the local streets started to disappear, parks, woods, and open spaces had become no-go areas for unescorted kids. Still, Albie would have expected to bump into a few groups of rebels, but instead there was silence.

  When he was a child, these woods would have been an ideal place to build a den, a secret retreat. Now he supposed parents were more protective. Although he did wonder whether this was because there were more child abductions and murders than when he was a youngster, or just aggressive media reporting.

  Albie leaned against a tree and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. It had been eight days since Sian had gone missing. The local community had all rallied round and searched for the seven-year-old, the public’s attention drawn by the horrific fact that this young girl seemed to have disappeared from her bed. The frenzy began with headlines like: Snatched while she slept.

  The last time he visited, Albie’s mother had grabbed his hand between both of hers and said, ‘Find her, Albie. No seven-year-old should be exposed to violence.’

  He’d nodded and eased his hand free before glancing at Eva. He’d known her his whole life. She was closer than a sister. They’d chosen each other and were destined to get on each other’s nerves until life took its leave.

  She’d been there for all of the most meaningful days of his life, even the day he’d made his decision. Albie remembered that day so clearly. If only he could delete the horror and just store the pleasure. If only he’d listened. Both of them were on the verge of their seventh birthday’s and Eva had been one of the only people he’d wanted to spend time with, apart from his dad.

  Eva had squealed with delight as his conker fell apart on the swaying string. It was the third one of his super king conkers that she’d smashed in the last ten minutes. She poked her tongue out at him. “You’ve gotta rubbish conker collection. I told you, mine’s the conquerer.” As she spoke, Eva twirled the string around her finger and Albie noticed a small crack at the base.

  “One more.” He began to thread the grubby piece of string he held between his fingers through the largest conker left in his rusted miniature whiskey tin.

  Eva grabbed her conker and studied the surface. “No, I’m the winner, you’re a loser.” She poked out her tongue once more, turned, and charged towards the house, tripping over her own feet in her frenzied need to escape. Albie chased after her, running through a gap between the door and his mother as she tried to block his way.

  “Albie, that’s enough. Leave Eva alone.” She grabbed at the back of his jumper while Eva hid behind her, bouncing from foot to foot to escape his grasp.

  “Get off.” He wriggled and fought to escape her hold. “She’s a cheat. I hate you, Eva.”

  “Albie.” He slowed. A familiar lavender scent calmed his twitching limbs until he no longer struggled in her grip. Marianne Edwards kissed the top of her son’s head, ruffled his hair, then knelt before him.

  “You know what to do, Albie.” She held her hand out and swamped Eva’s chubby warm hand in her own, gave it a reassuring squeeze, and waited. Albie slouched, thin lines burrowed his forehead and he stared out from half closed eyelids.

  Eva cleared her throat and spoke first—a whispered apology while she twiddled a blonde curl around her finger.

  “Well?” Marianne frowned. “Your turn, Albie.”

  He stared straight ahead, his face unchanging.

  “Your choice.”

  Marianne turned her attention to Eva. “Would you believe Albie’s seven tomorrow? Sorry, Eva, it looks like he’s not as grown up as I thought.”

  A growl started low and soft. Albie’s face flushed and he clenched his fists. “I don’t care, I don’t want a birthday, not if I can’t see him.”

  Marianne circled back towards her son, wrapped her arms around his stooped body, and smothered him in a cuddle while covering his head in kisses.

  “I know you’re angry, Albie, but your father’s busy. He wanted to see you… It’s just impossible.” The growl turned into a sob. The saltiness of his tears stung his chapped lips and burnt the raised ulcer on the end of his tongue. What did it mean if you had an ulcer? You’d told a lie? Well, tomorrow. In that moment, Albie decided he’d save his lie until tomorrow.

  3

  “DS Edwards?”

  Albie drew himself to standing, brushed his fingers through his hair and cleared his throat before attempting to answer. “Over here.’

  He watched as his colleague followed the trail towards him and knew he wasn’t being much support. It was PC Darcy Nicholls’s third day on the job and her, accidental, first case. They’d got caught up in the initial missing person case after a fruitless attempt to interview an old lady, the victim of an attack who recently decided she couldn’t remember anything after giving the officer on site a detailed description of the incident and the perpetrator. So far, Nicholls had been as efficient as she could be, all things considered. In fact, he wondered how she was still functioning. This was the first time today that she’d shown nervousness, and then She’d asked that bloody stupid question. Now he was struggling to stay in the present. B
ut then again, how was Nicholls to know he’d seen his first dead body at the age of the poor innocent girl? And not just a dead body, but the body of a murder victim?

  “They’ve finished in the basement, sir. Body’s being removed and Mr. Nico said will see you later for an update. He suggested that it may be a better environment for me to do my job properly.”

  Albie stifled a grin and shook his head.

  “Take no notice of Leo. He’s a sarcastic bastard when he wants to be.” He stepped back into the narrow lane that edged the gardens and walked towards the fence.

  “Right, we need to get back to the station, share the information.” He took his jacket from the fence, hunted though his trouser pockets for the car keys, and tossed them to Nicholls. After two unsuccessful attempts to climb the fence, Albie turned and strolled towards the road at the end of the lane. “Meet you at the car. Your turn to drive,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  Those words echoed in his head as he opened the door, slid into the passenger seat, and clicked his seatbelt in place.

  The night air was bitter, but even so, the street was filled with music and people.

  “I’ll meet you at the car,” his father had shouted to Jaws as he pulled the collar of his thick black coat up against the icy wind.

  Jaws the giant. That was Albie’s nick name for his father’s scary friend. It was a secret he’d never share with anyone else. In fact, Albie often hid from the man whenever he entered a room. Just his presence made him sweat and shake; even made him breathless at times.

  Jaws worked closely with his father, Freddie, and drove him to his business meetings. As far as Albie remembered, Freddie had never driven the shiny black Rover. Albie had only travelled in the Rover once, but he’d never forget soft cream seats, cool to the touch, the purr of the engine, and the polished walnut dashboard. Mellow music escaped from the radio and he’d smiled up at his father as he’d tapped his fingers on the arm rest and hummed out of tune. Since then, Albie knew he would work hard to be the owner of a sleek black Rover like Freddie.