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

by Angela Marsons

  I said, ‘I have one too.’

  I asked her to meet me once the others were asleep. I told her it was our secret and that I had a surprise for her. Bunnies at the lake. The technique never failed.

  At one thirty a.m. I watched as the back door opened. A shaft of light lit the gangly body from behind making her silhouette look like a cartoon character.

  She tiptoed towards me. I smiled to myself.

  This girl was no challenge. Her desperation for attention was sickening.

  ‘I've got something to tell you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Go on,’ I said eagerly, entering into her game.

  ‘I don't think Tracy ran away.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked, feigning surprise. This was not news. The girl had been telling anyone who couldn't escape her quickly enough that she didn't think Tracy had run away.

  Her stupid, awkward face was a mask of studiousness.

  ‘See, she ay that kind of person and she left behind her iPod. I found it at the bottom of her bed.’

  This was not what I expected her to say but damn it. How had I missed that? The stupid cow had always had it hanging from her ear. Undoubtedly stolen, it had been her prized possession.

  ‘What did you do with it?’ I asked.

  ‘It's in my cupboard so nobody nicks it.’

  ‘Have you mentioned this to anyone else?’

  She shook her head. ‘No one cares. It's like she never existed.’

  Of course it was – and that was just how I wanted it.

  But now there was the damn iPod.

  I smiled widely at her. ‘You're a very clever girl.’

  The darkness surrounding us did not hide the redness that infused her cheeks.

  She smiled, eager to please, to be of some use; to matter.

  ‘And there's something else. She wouldna run off ‘cos she was …’

  ‘Sshh,’ I said, placing my finger to my lips. I leaned in closer to her, a co-conspirator, a friend. ‘You're right. Tracy didn't run away and I know where she is.’ I held out my hand. ‘Do you want to go and see her?’

  She took my hand and nodded.

  I walked her along the patch of grass towards the far corner; the dark part furthest from the building and sheltered by trees. She walked on my right.

  She stumbled into the hole and fell backwards. I let her hand go.

  Confusion pulled at her face for a moment then she held up her hand in defence as I stepped into the hole.

  I searched at the edge for my shovel but the stumble had moved it away.

  The delay gave her time to stand up but I needed her lying on the ground. I pulled her head back by a handful of hair. Her face was inches away from mine.

  Her breathing was laboured and frantic. I raised the shovel in the air and threw it down on top of her foot. She screamed only once before falling to the ground to clutch at her foot. The agony caused her eyes to roll back in her head as she briefly lost consciousness. I grabbed the sock from the other foot and stuffed it deep into her mouth.

  I pulled at her body until she lay lengthways in her grave. I stood to the side and threw the shovel down. It caught her on the side of the neck. The pain brought her back to life. She tried to scream but no sound made it past the sock.

  Her eyes darted all around, frantic with fear. I raised the shovel even higher and thrust it down as she writhed around the hole. This one worked better. The sound of the blade ripping through flesh met my ears.

  The girl was a fighter. She wriggled again. I kicked her hard in the stomach. She began to choke on her own blood. I kicked her again, turning her onto her back.

  I concentrated hard. It was a matter of aim. I raised the shovel once more and swung at her throat. The light left her eyes but her lower half twitched.

  It reminded me of felling a tree. The cut was made and one more blow would sever it completely.

  I launched the shovel from above. There was a sound of metal on bone.

  Then the twitching stopped. Suddenly there was silence.

  I placed my right foot onto the shovel and then my left, using it like a pogo stick. I jiggled the blade down until I felt it bed into the soft earth underneath her.

  Her eyes never left me as I covered her up. In death she was almost pretty.

  I stood back from the grave that would go unnoticed amongst the damage from the travelling fair.

  The girl had always been eager to help, to be of use to someone, to have a purpose. And now she had.

  I stamped down the grass and stood back.

  Then I thanked her for keeping my secret.

  Finally, she had done something good.

  Thirty-Five

  ‘What do you think, then?’ Bryant asked as she got into the passenger seat.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The doctor and the archaeologist?’

  ‘Sounds like the start of a bad joke.’

  ‘Come on. You know what I mean. Do you think they’re—’

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ she snapped. ‘Half an hour ago you were acting like a little girl and now you’re a gossipy old woman.’

  ‘Hey, the “old” hurts, Guv.’

  ‘I’d rather you were applying your limited brain power to the case and not the sex lives of our colleagues.’

  Bryant shrugged and pointed the car in the direction of Bromsgrove. Their next stop was to visit with Richard Croft at his office in the high street.

  As they headed through Lye, Kim glanced out of the window, unable to rid herself of the image of a fifteen-year-old girl writhing around on the ground, clutching her broken foot, trying to escape the death blow of a blade. That the first two attempts may have cut through flesh, cartilage and muscle to reach the bone without being fatal sickened her.

  She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the fear that had coursed through the body of the child.

  Kim remained lost in her thoughts until they reached the outskirts of Bromsgrove and the site that had previously housed the Barnsley Hall asylum.

  The mental hospital had opened in 1907 with a capacity of 1200 at its busiest and had been home to her mother for most of the Seventies, when she was released into the community aged twenty-three.

  Yeah, good call, Kim thought as they passed the residential estate that had been built after its closure and demolition in the late nineties.

  There was great local sadness when the ornate water tower was finally demolished in 2000. The Gothic structure fashioned in red brick with sandstone and terracotta dressing had towered over the facility. Personally, Kim had been thrilled to see its destruction. It was the last reminder of a facility that had severely contributed to the death of her brother.

  Bryant pulled into a small car park behind a pet superstore and she focused on pulling herself together.

  They took a short cut through a gulley between two shops and were greeted by the smell of the first bake of the day from Gregg’s the bakers.

  Bryant groaned.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Kim said.

  She looked up and down the properties. ‘That’s the one,’ she said, pointing to a red door that stood between a card shop and a discount clothing store.

  An intercom was fixed just below the name plate. Kim pressed it. A female voice answered.

  ‘We’d like to see Mr Croft.’

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s not available at the moment. We have a walk-in ...’

  ‘We’re investigating a murder, now please open the door.’

  Kim was not prepared to conduct police business through an electronic device.

  There was a gentle beeping sound and Kim pushed the door. Before her was a narrow staircase leading to the upper floor.

  At the top she found a door on either side. The door to her left was solid wood and the door to her right held four glass panels.

  She pushed open the door to the right.

  Inside was a small, windowless room occupied by a woman Kim guessed to be mid-twenties, with hair pulled b
ack so tightly Kim could see puckering at the temples.

  Bryant took out his warrant card and introduced them.

  Although small, the space looked tidy and functional. The filing cabinets filled the wall. A year planner and couple of certificates decorated the opposite wall. The sound of Radio 2 played from the computer speakers.

  ‘May we speak with Mr Croft?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  Kim looked behind her at the door onto the other side of the landing. ‘He’s not there. He’s out making house calls.’

  ‘What is he, a G.P.?’ Kim asked, irritated.

  What was with these assistants that felt the need to offer protection for middle-aged men? Was there a special college course for it?

  ‘Councillor Croft spends many hours visiting housebound constituents.’

  The words ‘captive audience’ came to Kim’s mind, as did visions of him refusing to leave until their vote had been pledged.

  ‘We are trying to conduct a murder investigation so ...’

  ‘I’m sure I can find a suitable appointment time,’ she said, reaching for an A4 diary.

  ‘How about you just give him a call and let him know we’re here. We’ll wait.’

  The woman played with the pearl necklace at her throat. ‘He cannot be disturbed while making house calls so if you’d like to make an—’

  ‘No, I would not like to make a bloody ...’

  ‘We understand that the councillor is a busy man,’ Bryant said, gently nudging Kim to the side. His voice was low and warm, tinged with understanding. ‘But we have a murder investigation to conduct. Are you sure he has no available time today?’

  Croft’s assistant flicked back to the current day but shook her head. Bryant followed her eyes down to the diary.

  ‘I honestly can’t fit you in until Thursday morning at ...’

  ‘Are you joking?’ Kim barked.

  ‘We’ll take whatever you have.’

  ‘Nine fifteen, Detective.’

  Bryant nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  Bryant turned and guided her out of the door. Once outside, Kim turned to him, fuming.

  ‘Thursday morning, Bryant?’

  He shook his head. ‘Of course not. His diary said he’s working from home all afternoon and we know where he lives.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, satisfied.

  ‘You know, Guv, you can’t always bully people into giving you what you want.’

  Kim disagreed. It had worked for her so far.

  ‘Have you ever heard of the book How to Win Friends and Influence People?’

  ‘Have you ever watched One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest? Because she was Nurse Ratched in the making.’

  Bryant laughed out loud. ‘I’m just saying there’s more than one way to skin a cat.’

  ‘And that’s why I have you,’ she said, stopping outside a coffee shop. ‘Double shot latte for me,’ she said, pushing open the door.

  Bryant rolled his eyes as she sat at the window.

  Despite Bryant’s warning, she had never possessed the ability to adapt her behaviour to accommodate other people. Even as a child Kim had been unable to assimilate herself into any kind of collective. She possessed no ability to hide her feelings, her innate reactions having a habit of claiming her face before she had a chance to control it.

  ‘You know, sometimes all you want is a cup of coffee,’ Bryant groaned, placing two cups on the table. ‘They have more choices than a Chinese takeaway. Apparently this is an Americano.’

  Kim shook her head. Sometimes it was like Bryant had stepped out of a time capsule delivered from the late eighties.

  ‘So, why were you getting all tetchy with Nurse Ratched back there?’

  ‘We’re getting nowhere, Bryant.’

  ‘Yeah, we’re stalling around the onion rings.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘A case for me is like a three-course meal. The first part is like a starter. You dive right in ‘cos you’re hungry. There are witnesses, a crime scene, so you gorge on information. And then the main course comes and let’s say it’s a mixed grill. You gotta work out what’s important. There’s too much food, too much information. So, should you just go for all the meat and leave the garnishes or forego a sausage so that there’s still enough room for dessert?

  ‘Now, most people will agree that pudding is the best bit because when it comes the whole meal comes together and the appetite is satisfied.’

  ‘That’s the biggest load of boll—’

  ‘Ah, but look at where we are. We’ve eaten the starter and we now have two lines of enquiry. We’re trying to work out which direction we should take to get to the dessert.’

  Kim took a sip of her coffee. Bryant loved to analogise and now and again she chose to indulge him.

  ‘Now, the main course often makes more sense if interrupted for a gut chat.’

  Kim smiled. They really had worked together for too long.

  ‘So, come on, hit me with it. What’s the gut saying?’

  ‘What was our initial theory?’

  ‘That Teresa Wyatt was murdered because of a personal grudge.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘After the murder of Tom Curtis we surmised that it is someone connected to Crestwood.’

  ‘The death of Mary Andrews?’

  ‘Didn’t really alter our thinking.’

  ‘The discovery of a body in the ground?’

  ‘Leads us to believe that someone is trying to eliminate people involved in crimes that happened ten years ago.’

  ‘So, to summarise, it is our theory that the person who killed our young girl is the person who is murdering the staff so they don’t get caught for their original crime?’

  ‘Of course,’ Bryant said, emphatically.

  And therein lay the disparity in her gut. ‘I think it was Einstein who said, if the facts don’t fit the theory, change the facts.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The person who murdered our buried victim was measured and methodical. They managed to kill and dispose of at least one body without being caught. They left no clues and would have remained undetected, if not for the tenacity of Professor Milton.

  ‘Fast forward to Tom Curtis. The job was done with the alcohol but that wasn’t enough. There was a message loud and clear that this man deserved to die.’

  Bryant swallowed. ‘Guv, don’t tell me your gut is saying what I think it’s saying?’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘That we’re looking for more than one killer?’

  Kim took a sip of her latte. ‘What I think, Bryant, is that we’re going to need a bigger plate.’

  Thirty-Six

  ‘Are you sure this is where she said?’ Kim asked.

  ‘Yep, this is the place; The Bull and Bladder. Famous for being the second pub along the Delph Run.’

  The Delph Run was a collection of six pubs that were scattered the length of the Delph Road. The Corn Exchange kicked off the stretch at Quarry Bank and it ended with The Bell in Amblecote. It had become a rite of passage for groups of males and more recently, females, to work their way from one end to the other, consuming as much alcohol as their young bodies could contain.

  No self-respecting man over the age of eighteen within a two-mile radius would admit to not having conquered the Delph Run.

  Bryant had knocked on the door at the home of Arthur Connop to be informed by his indifferent wife where her husband could be found.

  The Bull and Bladder was a triple-windowed building furnished with mahogany wood and a mustard-coloured exterior.

  ‘At eleven thirty?’ Kim asked. To her it looked like a place where you wiped your feet on the way out.

  The outer door led into a small, dark corridor with choices. To the immediate left was the snug. Along the same wall were doorways to the toilets. The doors matched the dark wood on the windows outside and made the small space claustrophobic.

  The stench of ale was worse
than most crime scenes Kim had ever attended.

  Bryant opened the door to the bar on the right. The room was not much lighter than the corridor.

  A fixed booth ran the entire circumference of the wall. The upholstery was stained and dirty. Wooden tables sat in front of the banquette encircled by a couple of stools.

  In the right hand corner was a newspaper and a half pint of beer.

  Bryant approached the bar and spoke to a woman in her early fifties drying glasses with a dubious-looking tea towel.

  ‘Arthur Connop?’ he asked.

  She nodded towards the door. ‘Just in the pisser.’

  At that second the door opened and a male no taller than five feet entered, adjusting the belt to his trousers.

  ‘Cheese cob, Maureen,’ he said, walking right through them.

  Maureen reached under a scratched plastic hood, examined a package and then placed it on the bar.

  ‘Two quid.’

  ‘And a pint of bitter,’ he glanced in their direction. ‘The coppers can get their own.’

  Maureen pulled the pint and placed it on the bar. Arthur counted out the change and placed the money on a grungy beer mat.

  ‘Nothing for us, thanks,’ Bryant said, and for that Kim was truly grateful.

  Arthur squeezed himself between the table and the banquette and sat down.

  ‘What d’ya want?’ he asked as they both took stools on the other side of the table.

  ‘Been expecting us, Mr Connop?’

  He rolled his eyes impatiently. ‘I day come over on the banana boat. Yo bin digging up where I used to work. Folks I worked with am being knocked off so it weren't gonna be long til yer come looking for me.’

  He unwrapped the cling film from the cob that appeared to be the only culinary fare on offer. The stench of onion reached Kim immediately. A small piece of grated cheese fell onto the table. Arthur licked his index finger, touched the table to retrieve the cheese, then ate it off his finger.

  Kim was guessing those hands hadn’t been washed after his recent trip and suddenly she was fighting down nausea.

  Bryant knocked her knee beneath the table. He obviously wished to lead this one and she was more than happy to let him.

  ‘Mr Connop, we’re after some background at the moment. Do you think you could help with that?’