Stacey sat back and watched the show.
He continued. ‘A kid I recognised as well, since you ask.’ He stopped and looked down at her plate. ‘You eating that?’
She pushed the plate towards him. He lifted a piece and bit into it. Two chews and a swallow. Kevin Dawson ate the way he did everything else; quickly, eager to move on to the next thing.
‘Which clearly bothered you enormously,’ she said, pointedly. ‘So, other than my teacake, what do you want?’
‘You left in a hurry, earlier. Where did you go?’ he asked, glancing at the laptop.
‘None of your business. Now get lost, I’ve got goblins to kill,’ she said, following his gaze to the computer.
He shrugged. ‘Just wanted to check on you. You know, how mates do.’
She didn’t try to keep the disbelief from her face. ‘Dow treat me like a donkey, Kev. We are many things but we ain’t mates.’
‘Stace, I just—’
‘For the third time, what do you want?’
He put the teacake down and fixed her with a stare.
‘Stace, I am an arsehole. We both know that’s true, but what happened earlier…’ His words trailed away as he shook his head and looked back at the teacake.
It took Stacey a moment to catch up. She couldn’t believe it was still on his mind. He was right when he admitted to being an arsehole; but he wasn’t a nasty arsehole. He often gave the impression that nothing penetrated his cocky exterior but sometimes, just occasionally, something got through.
‘Oh, Kev, ignore me. I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘So, why say it?’ he asked. ‘You know there’s not a racist bone in my body.’
She shrugged. ‘Sometimes your arrogance needs a bit of a shake, Kev. You think you have all the answers all the time. It riles me, because you leave no room for improvement.’
‘Huh?’ he said, as he reached again for the teacake.
‘Everything changes over time; things grow, adapt, learn and become more. Except you. You’re the same person I met two years ago.’
He offered her a chewy smile. ‘But don’t you love me just the way I am?’
‘No, Kev, I don’t,’ she said. ‘Because I think you can be more.’
She watched as the top of her teacake disappeared completely. He rubbed his hands together above the plate to dust off the crumbs.
She touched her own cheek to demonstrate the ones he’d left behind. He brushed and they were gone. A smile bubbled somewhere within her. Sometimes he really was just like a little boy.
‘What was it like, Stace?’ he asked suddenly. ‘What was school like for you?’
She was about to brush him off with a flippant comment until she saw the humour in his eyes had been replaced with gentle curiosity.
‘Difficult, Kev,’ she said, honestly. ‘I was surrounded by two different types of people. People that were horrible to me because of my colour and people that were overly nice to me because of it, trying to prove to themselves and to me that it didn’t matter. Often expecting gratitude because they “didn’t care”,’ she said, sighing. ‘Anyone who is different in any way is fair game for the bullies.’
These were not memories she wanted to relive. Suddenly she remembered something.
‘Weren’t you the fat kid?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Oh yeah.’
‘So, to some degree you get what I mean,’ she said. ‘So, what did you do?’
‘I lost weight,’ he said, quietly, as a measure of understanding came into his face.
She raised her eyebrow in response. No amount of weight loss would have changed the colour of her skin.
‘Got it,’ he said, smiling. But not before she saw the wave of sadness pass over his features.
But, as pleasant as his impromptu visit was, she was eager to get back to Justin Reynolds’s laptop. She took a quick look at her watch.
‘Bloody hell, Stace. You been taking subtlety lessons from the boss?’
‘No, I didn’t mean…’
It was exactly what she’d meant and he knew it.
‘So, we’re all good?’ he asked, sincerely.
‘Yeah, Kev, we’re fine,’ she answered.
‘Okay, see you tomorrow,’ he said, tapping her right shoulder.
She didn’t respond, as he was already out of earshot.
As far as Dawson was concerned racism was as simple as a black-and-white negative; racist or not, bigot or not. To explain the shades of grey that existed between the two extremes would take far too long. And right now she just didn’t have the time.
She opened the laptop lid and the log in screen flashed into life.
It suddenly occurred to her that many people used the name of a loved one instead of their own.
She tried variations of Justin’s birthday and his mother’s name.
Nothing.
She tried Justin’s dates with the name of his father.
Nothing.
She tried Justin’s dates with the name of his sister.
Still no joy.
Suddenly she looked around to find the café had emptied around her. Priscilla was busy with a mop and bucket.
Finally, she tried his sister’s name and the date of her death.
She sat back as the screen flashed into life.
Bingo. She was in.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Every light shone from the farmhouse, guiding their path to the rest of the parked vehicles, and once again highlighting the squalor and filth of the property. Rusted pieces of machinery were propped against the walls of the outbuildings. A pile of straw covered in excrement sat ten feet away from the side of the house. Half-opened bags of cattle feed were strewn everywhere.
A cordon stretched from the drainpipe on the side of the farmhouse to a tree at the end of the gravel drive, approximately ten feet from the bloodstain where Billy Cowley had been shot.
Kim cringed as she saw a well-fed rat scurry unashamedly across the mud towards the old barn.
‘Even though it’s a shit hole, Travis, I’d like to know why they’ve paid no rent for so many years,’ Kim said, with disgust.
‘Yeah, not even a token amount,’ he agreed, as they headed towards the cottage.
Unsurprisingly, Fiona was waiting for them at the front door.
They had been held up by a poorly parked taxi collecting a very frail, elderly man. By the time she’d managed to exit the hospital, Fiona was long gone and had certainly made it home in time to feed her father the story she wanted him to tell.
Her red Jaguar was parked at the very edge of the property as though she didn’t want it contaminated.
Kim could understand it. She counted six other vehicles: four ranging in age from seven to fifteen years, and two techie vans. Kim recognised the brogues of a masked technician named Ben who had worked on many of the cases she’d been involved in.
‘Hey,’ she said, standing beside him as he took fresh evidence bags from the rear of the van. ‘Anyone being obstructive?’
He removed the mask and smiled. ‘Just attentive,’ he said, nodding towards the doorway.
Yeah, she could believe it.
‘Special attention to the fibres, if you can, Ben,’ she said, remembering Doctor A’s recent discovery.
‘No probs,’ he said, as she headed towards the house.
‘That was quick,’ Kim said, as she stepped past the scowling woman into the home.
‘You can’t just—’
‘Yes, we can,’ Kim answered. This woman had obstructed the investigation enough. The warrant had been served while they were at the hospital and Fiona Cowley knew who they were. There was no need for further explanation, and Kim was in no doubt that this woman knew more than she was letting on.
The open door led straight into a dark, poky kitchen with a small north-facing window. The wall cabinets were plain and square and badly painted. Two doors still bore the old wooden frontage, as though someone had realised part way through that their e
fforts to update or modernise were a total waste of time.
An Aga took up most of the wall opposite the window. Kim had no idea if it was functional as the top was a storage area for an electric kettle and tea canisters. A bean-stained camping stove sat next to it. A black plastic bin dominated the corner, spewing burger wrappers and pizza boxes all over the floor. The smell of stale refuse was a slight improvement on the overpowering odour of damp that weaved through the house.
She turned to Fiona, who was shadowing right behind them. ‘If you don’t mind giving your address to Travis,’ Kim said. ‘We may need it later.’
Fiona looked surprised, but began dictating it to Travis, who opened his leather folder.
Of course Fiona didn’t live here. It wouldn’t look like this if she did. The woman was clean and smart and wouldn’t tolerate it. Hell, she didn’t even want her shiny red Jaguar getting too close in case it caught something.
Kim took the step down into the lounge that could have been the heart of the home with the original features that were expensively emulated in modern homes. The brick fireplace and oak beams were lost amongst the mismatched furniture and heavy patterns that jarred against each other. The room was lit by a single naked bulb glaring yellow from the middle of the room.
The pleasant space had been filled with heavy, dark furniture from at least seven or eight different decades. The walls were dripping in pictures of farm animals and brass horseshoes mounted on leather strips.
The three seater sofa was purple with worn patches on the two end cushions. The back of the seat rose up to a fan shape in the middle. Foster family two had owned one back in the late eighties.
Mr Cowley stepped past three techies working by torchlight as he entered the lounge from the other end, leaving what looked like some kind of utility room.
‘Mr Cowley, good to see you again,’ she said, stepping forward. Kim could sense Fiona behind her but she continued speaking directly to him. ‘Thank you for your permission in swabbing Billy’s hands. I’m sure we’ll be able to put this shooting matter to bed shortly.’
Kim heard Fiona’s sharp intake of breath. He hadn’t told his daughter he’d given his consent.
As soon as Fiona had careered off the hospital car park, Kim had called Mr Cowley direct to reach him before his daughter did and obtained his permission.
‘The forensic technician should be with him now.’
He nodded in her direction. He didn’t look at his daughter but his gaze narrowed. She could see his hand fidgeting in his trouser pocket.
‘Your daughter mentioned that you remembered some details about your son’s accident,’ she said. ‘Not least that you actually witnessed it,’ she added.
Again he nodded. The fidgeting in his pocket continued.
‘So, could you tell us exactly what you saw, Mr Cowley?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I was putting out the rubbish, and I saw Billy messing with the gun over by the bar. I called out to him…’
‘Slow down,’ Kim said, having already learned three key facts: firstly, the rubbish was still in the kitchen and hadn’t been put out in days, possibly weeks; secondly she could smell the alcohol on his breath, and finally, he wanted to get this story out as quickly as possible.
Before he forgot what he was supposed to say, Kim thought.
Travis took a seat on the stained sofa, and she silently applauded his bravery. Until she realised exactly what he was doing. A memory threatened to bring a smile to her face but she kept it in check. He hadn’t forgotten everything.
‘So, you were putting out the rubbish?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, we always just leave it outside the front door.’
That explained the healthy looking rodent she’d seen outside.
‘And what drew your attention towards Billy?’ she asked.
She wasn’t sure his son over by the cowshed would be too far out of the ordinary.
‘I don’t know. I think it was that he was holding the gun.’
‘It’s a rifle, isn’t it?’ she asked.
Normal hardware for a farm.
‘Yes, he was turning it around and I remember thinking…’
‘So, you stopped to watch him because he was holding the gun or twirling the gun?’ Kim asked, slowing him down. The script was scrolling through his head and he was eager to follow it. She didn’t enjoy the harsh line of questioning but she needed to distract him from the autocue in his mind.
‘I think he was just holding it but I thought something was going to…’
‘You thought that from your son just holding the gun?’ she questioned. Mr Cowley was far too eager to get to the accident part. ‘Is he not to be trusted with a gun?’
The man ran his hand over his bald head.
‘No, no, it’s not that,’ he said, defensively. ‘It just looked strange,’ he said, getting flustered.
Kim had no choice but to capitalise on his confusion. She turned to the side so that Travis was in her peripheral vision.
‘Shall we go outside and take a closer look at where it happened?’ she asked. It wasn’t Mr Cowley’s reaction she sought. It was the slight nod from Travis she was after.
Fiona led them out of the lounge, through the kitchen and back outside.
‘So, you were standing here?’ she asked, pausing right in front of the open doorway.
‘Yes, as I said. I was putting out—’
‘The rubbish. Yes, I know,’ she finished for him, while pointedly looking around for the missing rubbish bag.
‘And Billy was over by the barn?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, as his pocket began to move again.
‘And he was holding a shotgun?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘And a shotgun is how long?’
‘About two feet,’ he answered. ‘Maybe a little more.’
Kim looked around. Her eyes fell on a thin piece of stump wood.
‘May I?’
Mr Cowley nodded and stole a quick glance at his daughter who watched pensively, arms folded.
Kim placed the piece of wood against the wall. She brought her foot down and cracked it.
She picked up the longer piece. ‘About this long?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Could you just remain where you are, Mr Cowley?’ she asked.
He nodded.
She walked towards the area where Billy had been standing.
Travis was now right behind her.
She lowered her voice, so only he could hear.
‘So, Billy’s twirling the gun and manages to shoot himself in the back of the neck. Let’s see how that works out, shall we?’
She began twirling the stick like a baton.
‘So, the trigger would be about here?’ she asked Travis.
He nodded. She looked around for something to mark it.
‘Lipstick?’ he asked
‘Have you met me?’ she shot back without looking at him.
She reached down and retrieved a piece of slate from the ground, praying that the fat rat was long gone. She scored the wood and put her finger on the groove.
‘Are they watching?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Travis said.
Good. She wanted them to see how ridiculous their claim was, and if that meant a bit of play-acting from her, then so be it.
She stretched her arms, keeping one finger on the trigger mark. The gun wavered before settling beneath her chin. The suicide position. She adjusted the angle and the end moved further along her neck.
She changed position and fed the piece of wood up and over her shoulder.
‘That’s about the closest,’ Travis said.
‘Yeah, but I can’t keep my finger on the trigger.’
She handed him the gun. ‘You have longer arms.’
He took it and repeated her movements as she watched.
‘Possible but more likely to be a graze or a flesh wound rather than the bullet entering the body.’
And they
both knew it had.
They were currently reliant on the report from ballistics to confirm the bullet had come from that gun. Until then she couldn’t run up to them and scream ‘liar, liar’.
She sighed and took a step back towards Fiona and her anxious-looking father.
Her phone signalled a message. She took it out and read the short sentence. She turned to Travis with a smile and then strolled back to the family members.
‘Was there anything you saw us do just then that looked familiar, Mr Cowley?’
‘Yes,’ he said, eagerly. ‘Over the shoulder. I think Billy was putting the gun over his shoulder.’
Fiona stepped forward. Kim was surprised she had stayed silent for this long.
‘Officer, what does this have to do with the discovery of bones on the land? There has been no crime committed here. My brother had an accident as he has already confirmed.’
‘That you confirmed for him,’ Kim reminded. She had yet to hear Billy Cowley speak.
‘But my father…’
‘Is recounting everything you told him to,’ she said coldly.
‘How dare you?’
‘How dare you.’ Kim replied. ‘How dare you blatantly lie to us? Did you think we would take your word for it with a firearm involved?’
‘It’s the truth,’ she growled.
Kim took a deep breath. ‘So, despite it being almost a physical impossibility, and the fact we’ve just confirmed with the hospital there was no gunshot residue on your brother’s hands or neck, you still insist your story is that it was an accidental shooting?’
Fiona faced her squarely. ‘Yes, Inspector, that’s our story.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Kim paused before pulling away from the Cowley property.
‘Travis, what the hell is going on here?’ she asked, trying to understand their determination to stick to a sequence of events that simply didn’t happen.
‘I thought you were going to arrest her,’ Travis said.
‘I was,’ she admitted.
‘For what?’
‘Smugness,’ she replied.
She would swear that a chuckle almost popped out before he smothered it with a cough.
‘So, did you get anything?’ she asked.
When they’d worked together in the past, Tom had had a thing for checking sofas. He maintained that whatever was down there was not even known by the owners. Nine times out of ten he came up empty, but just one time he’d found the missing earring of an assault victim who claimed she’d been raped and held hostage. The forty-seven-year-old male had denied all knowledge. Until Travis had found the earring hanging on to the lining of the sofa.
Dead Souls: A gripping serial killer thriller with a shocking twist (Detective Kim Stone Crime Thriller Series Book 6) Page 14
