Dead Souls: A gripping serial killer thriller with a shocking twist (Detective Kim Stone Crime Thriller Series Book 6)

by Angela Marsons

  ‘But he still wasn’t responsible for the accident or either of the deaths,’ Stacey said. ‘It wasn’t anything he did.’

  ‘Oh, but it was,’ she said, nodding vigorously. ‘Because he gave the front seat up for his sister.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  After circling the car park at Russells Hall three times, Kim took a spot reserved for maternity parking.

  ‘You shouldn’t really do that,’ Travis said, disapprovingly.

  She took the keys from the ignition and held them out towards him.

  ‘Here, feel free to drive around all night while I go in on my own.’

  He ignored the outstretched hand and got out of the car. Yeah, with evening visiting fast approaching, she didn’t think so.

  ‘So, you want to lead this one or are you happy to let me do all the work?’ The words did not sound as conciliatory in the air as they had in her head.

  ‘As ever, our perception of events is completely different,’ he said, bitterly.

  She hadn’t meant for the simple comment to fuel the animosity that still sat between them like a pungent smell. Five years of hostility could not be erased by one traumatic incident earlier that day.

  ‘Still blaming everyone else, Tom?’ she shot out.

  He ignored her, and they made the walk to the ward in silence.

  They were buzzed through, and Travis almost collided with the food trolley that was being wheeled into position at the end of the corridor.

  Kim held her smile in check as Travis sought directions from the ward sister.

  She followed him through an assortment of smells that signalled the distribution of the evening meal. Oh yeah, hospital food was sure to cheer the patients right up. Vegetables fit for a hockey match; mashed potato that had lived in hope of a sprinkling of salt and a piece of unidentifiable meat. Or if you were lucky, a brown MDF sandwich. No wonder people were so desperate to escape.

  Kim was more surprised to see Fiona sitting beside the bed than Fiona was to see her. The set expression was already on her face.

  ‘Miss Cowley, Mister Cowley,’ Travis said, nodding at them both. Fiona Cowley offered a slight incline of the head. Billy Cowley did not.

  Kim could see why. The dressing on the left side of his neck was as padded as a newborn baby’s nappy.

  Travis moved to Billy’s left-hand side. Both Billy and his sister eyed her colleague suspiciously. Kim remained at the foot of the bed.

  ‘It’s good to see you looking better, Mr Cowley. May I call you Billy?’ he asked, gently.

  Billy hesitated then nodded.

  ‘Probably a stupid question but I’m going to ask it anyway. How are you feeling?’

  Billy opened his mouth but the answer came from his sister.

  ‘He can’t speak due to his injury,’ she said, as she took Billy’s hand in her own. ‘And yes, it is a stupid question.’

  Travis smiled disarmingly at Fiona, accepting her rebuke.

  Kim stood and watched with interest. This was a side of Travis she hadn’t seen for a very long time.

  Travis continued to offer small talk, while Kim observed the siblings. Billy Cowley looked younger than his twenty-six years. His fair hair flopped over warm blue eyes that were busy darting between his sister and Travis.

  Fiona, on the other hand, looked older than her twenty-eight years. There was a grey pallor to her skin that reached into the temples of her dark brown hair. But it was more than just her severity in both appearance and manner. The relationship between the siblings presented more as parent and child.

  ‘So, can you tell us a bit more about the shooting incident, Billy?’ Travis asked.

  Kim liked the way he continued to aim his questions at the victim despite his sister’s determination to dominate.

  ‘It was an accident,’ Fiona said, squeezing her brother’s hand.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Travis said, amiably. ‘And he told you this?’ he asked, subtly calling her on the fact he couldn’t speak.

  Kim saw the panic in Billy’s eyes.

  Fiona recovered quickly. ‘My father told me what happened. He saw the whole thing.’

  ‘Really?’ Travis asked, surprised. ‘We arrived before the ambulance, and your father told us he was alerted by the sound of a gunshot but hadn’t actually seen a thing.’

  A smattering of colour flushed her cheeks. ‘It had just happened. He was in shock. He remembers it now,’ she said.

  I’ll bet he does, Kim thought.

  ‘No problem,’ Travis said, agreeably.

  Not what Kim would have said. She was sure ‘barefaced liar’ would have been in there somewhere.

  ‘We’ll need to confirm that with your father. Get a bit more detail and take the necessary statements. Obviously, ballistics will match the bullet to the gun, and we can leave it at that. And I’m sure the residue on your brother’s hands will confirm that he was the one holding the gun.’

  Okay, Travis’s way of calling her a barefaced liar with the added undercurrent of we’re gonna catch you out was more tactful than Kim’s way. And still the pleasant smile remained on his face.

  Kim saw Fiona’s tongue pass over her lips.

  ‘It’s a very simple test,’ Travis continued. ‘The residue on Billy’s hands will be made up of burned and unburned primer combined with residue from the surface of the bullet, cartridge case and lubricants…’

  ‘But you can’t do it now, can you?’ Fiona asked.

  Travis nodded, pleasantly. ‘I’m sure we could. All I’d need is an alcohol wipe and I could pop that into one of these…’ He opened his wallet. On the left-hand side were pockets holding business cards, pens and small evidence bags. ‘… and we wouldn’t have to bother you again.’

  ‘He can’t give his permission,’ she said, frowning.

  Damn, Kim thought. It hadn’t taken her long to recover.

  Travis nodded. ‘But that shouldn’t be a problem, should it? I’m sure you could do so as you’d want us to corroborate his story as soon as we can.’

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘He can’t give permission as he is unable to speak and I am not prepared to do so on his behalf.’

  Kim saw another squeeze of the hand. Billy Cowley looked terrified.

  Travis nodded. ‘No problem. We’ll ask one of the techs to come and take the sample once we’ve obtained permission from your father.’ He shoved a hand across the bed. ‘Thank you for your time, and I’m sure we’ll speak soon.’

  Kim nodded to both of them as she followed Travis out of the ward.

  ‘Do we have the bullet?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘Gibbs got it last night once it was removed from Billy’s neck.’

  ‘Jesus, slow down,’ she said, as they entered the main corridor.

  ‘Not my problem if you can’t keep up, Stone,’ he threw behind.

  Two more paces and she was level.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ she said, as they hit the outside crowds.

  ‘Think about it,’ he said, sidling behind a group of smokers obscuring the ‘No Smoking’ sign.

  She looked at his head towering above the plume of smoke. ‘If we’re supposed to be hiding, I suggest you duck down a bit.’

  He moved further into the wall.

  Kim peered through the smokers. If Fiona had been lying to them she would now have to cover her tracks, quickly. She would need to get home and tell her father what he’d seen. Travis had deliberately stated their next course of action to flush out hers. She would have to get to her father before they did.

  ‘And there she goes,’ Kim said, as Fiona sprinted over the crossing right in front of a taxi.

  Travis started walking towards the maternity car park at speed.

  ‘Hey, Travis, it’s almost six. Aren’t we getting past your curfew?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I’d hate to see you turn into a pumpkin.’

  He shot her a frosty look. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Stone. Just need to make one call.’

  Kim started the car as
he took out his phone and stepped away from her.

  She felt a smile fighting its way onto her face.

  Now, it was feeling familiar.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Bryant parked behind Keats’s van at the mouth of Buck Tunnel on what was known locally as the Codsall estate.

  Bryant remembered football matches as a kid on Bearmore Bank, the playing fields right next to the Burton Delingpole factory manufacturing flanges and fittings. He remembered the evening siren that sounded right before black-faced men spewed out of the building and headed home for a warm meal.

  Bryant wasn’t naïve enough to view the past through rose-tinted glasses. He didn’t believe there had been fewer problems for families in the seventies and eighties. Just a different kind. Many of the factories and foundries of that era had been responsible for thousands of health problems still being identified today. The average life expectancy had increased by more than ten years due to better working practices. Yet when he recalled the camaraderie he’d witnessed at the mass exodus of the workers at night, he felt saddened at its loss.

  The factory had closed in the mid-eighties and been replaced by houses, the occupants of which were already formed into small groups on both sides of the road. They could see nothing, but it didn’t spoil the entertainment of speculation.

  He shook his head as one of the constables handed them plastic shoes and nodded towards the incline leading up to the railway track that was about halfway between the train stations of Cradley Heath and Old Hill.

  As he trudged through knee-high grass, he took a few deep swallows. Even though Keats had warned them that the scene was gruesome he could not have prepared himself for what he was about to see.

  He heard Dawson curse behind as he slipped on the already frosted vegetation. He considered turning to offer his hand but thought better of it. The kid’s ego would not thank him.

  At the top of the slope temporary floodlights bounced off the sea of reflective jackets of clusters of railway workers, police officers and crime scene techs. There was little movement and Bryant could feel the shock and horror in the air.

  His colleague appeared beside him and began dusting the dirt from his knees.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ Dawson said, mid swipe.

  Bryant followed his gaze and almost gagged.

  The body of a young male was sprawled across the rails. His head was two metres down the track.

  Keats turned and smiled as he saw the two of them.

  ‘Finally, a pairing I can live with,’ he said. ‘Care to make it permanent, boys?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ they said, together.

  Keats shrugged away his disappointment.

  ‘Come closer, for goodness’ sake,’ he chided.

  Bryant realised they had both stopped short a good three metres from the decapitated victim.

  ‘Suicide?’ Dawson asked. A question not as stupid as it sounded. They had both attended scenes of death by train. Most times the person would throw themselves from a bridge into the path of an oncoming train, giving the driver no chance of slowing down.

  Others did it as the train was pulling into a station; rather than jump, they would simply fold and fall into the train’s path.

  Personally he felt they were selfish bastards. He had met train drivers suffering from PTSD, depression, and other devastating conditions as a result of someone else’s choice to end their own life.

  Keats leaned down in response to Dawson’s question and pointed to the remnants of string that had fallen inside the track, along with most of the victim’s fingers. The cleanliness of the severed flesh instantly brought to mind the picture of a meat slicer used in a butcher’s shop.

  ‘Even the most determined soul can’t bind both hands,’ Keats answered.

  ‘With help?’ Bryant asked. He’d heard of stranger assisted suicide cases than this.

  ‘Oh, he had help all right but I don’t think it was wanted. Look at the footprint between the shoulder blades.’

  ‘To hold him in place while the train passed by?’ Dawson asked, echoing his own thoughts.

  Keats shook his head. ‘No, because the perpetrator would have been too close to the train.’

  Bryant forced himself to look closely at the severed stump of the man’s neck above the shoulders. A pool of blood covered the gravel between the tracks where the head had been sliced off. He was reminded of the cheap magic tricks with a guillotine and a basket. Except this was no trick and the head to his left was not made of latex.

  Keats then pointed to a length of green garden string enmeshed in the pasty white flesh.

  ‘To tie his neck in place?’ Bryant asked.

  Keats nodded. ‘I suspect to make sure he was facing the right direction.’

  He nodded east.

  The track continued from the body approximately twenty metres before disappearing around a bend. The train driver would have had no hope of stopping the train.

  ‘He didn’t have a bloody chance,’ Dawson breathed. ‘Train needs more than two hundred metres to stop at just sixty miles an hour.’

  Bryant shuddered. The victim would have heard the train in the distance, hurtling towards him, waiting for it to come into view, praying the driver would see him before it was too late. And then it would have been there, thundering towards him. All the time he had known what was coming.

  He shuddered again and glanced sideways at his colleague, who had suddenly gone quiet.

  He followed Dawson’s pensive gaze over the baggy, low slung jeans and bright orange trainers.

  A colourful piece of cloth peeped out below the blue North Face padded jacket.

  ‘Kev, you okay?’

  Dawson ignored him. ‘Keats, has the head been moved yet?’

  ‘No, it’s the next job,’ he said.

  ‘Can we do it now?’ Dawson asked, moving towards it.

  ‘Oh my, this new partner of yours poses it as a question,’ he said, nudging Bryant as he walked past. ‘This one’s a keeper.’

  Bryant ignored the pathologist’s dig at his boss and followed in his colleague’s footsteps.

  Like Dawson, he stared down at the severed head. The light brown hair ended unnaturally, like a blunt fringe turned upside down.

  Keats beckoned one of his assistants and slowly they turned the head face up. The eyes were closed but the mouth was partially open. His peaceful expression did not reflect the barbaric horror of the last few seconds of his life. The ashen skin was covered in white chalk marks and grazes where the head had bounced along the gravel.

  Bryant was surprised by the lack of blood on the pallid skin but his colleague appeared to be surprised by something else.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, hoarsely. ‘I fucking know this kid.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Stacey closed the door of the café and allowed the relief to wash over her. This was familiarity. This was normal. This was not out of her comfort zone, like going to people’s houses and invading their grief.

  Mrs Reynolds had appeared satisfied that she had discovered the source of her son’s pain. Stacey was not so sure. It had been two years since the death of his father and sister. And although that was a loss that a teenager would never properly recover from, two years would have brought some level of healing.

  Even so, Mrs Reynolds had allowed Stacey to take Justin’s computer away with her, which told Stacey there was an element of doubt still lingering in her mind.

  She moved one place up the queue when a woman left after being told they’d stopped serving hot food.

  Priscilla spied her in the queue and turned to place a teacake onto the grill. Stacey didn’t feel like eating but she appreciated the familiarity of the gesture.

  By the time she reached the front of the queue, the steaming teacake and drink was waiting for her.

  ‘You okay?’ Priscilla asked.

  ‘Rough day,’ she said, turning around. She had hoped a seat would have become available, but the stragglers from market day still nurs
ed lukewarm drinks before heading off in their product-laden vans.

  ‘Come with me,’ Priscilla said from beside her.

  Stacey followed the woman just past the toilets to a single table by the ‘Staff Only’ door; currently it was covered in folders and paperwork.

  Priscilla scooped it all into one pile.

  ‘It’s our break table. Have your teacake in peace.’

  Stacey smiled gratefully as she folded herself into the cramped space.

  She buttered the teacake before pushing the plate to the side. The golden mound turned to liquid and disappeared.

  She placed Justin’s laptop on the table and opened the lid. Unfortunately, his mother had no clue to her son’s password but Stacey had extracted enough information about him to start with the obvious.

  Despite online warnings about the strength of passwords, people still opted for something simple to remember using their own personal information. The most common was a derivation of the person’s name with digits added.

  She tried Justin’s name and his date of birth but she got nothing.

  She tried a few variations of both name and birthdate using capitals in key places.

  Her hands flew over the keys. The more passwords needed the simpler the construction. Few people could recall numerous passwords to an array of social platforms. Shockingly, some people still opted for the word ‘password’ as their password.

  She reached absently around the laptop for her drink as a hand clamped her shoulder.

  The drink almost flew to the ground.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Kev. What the?…’

  ‘Hey, easy tiger. I was just passing and saw you in here.’

  ‘Kev, you’re a liar,’ she said, as her heart began to slow down. ‘No one can see me back here.’

  He looked around. ‘You ain’t kidding.’

  ‘So, what do you want?’ she asked, easing down the lid of the laptop.

  He ignored the question.

  ‘And how was your day, Kev?’ he asked himself on her behalf. ‘Well, Stace, thanks for asking. We were called to the body of a young kid on the railway tracks. Pretty harrowing if you want the truth,’ he answered himself.