Dead Memories (D.I. Kim Stone #10)(10)

‘Anonymous call came in at 10.03 p.m. and Keats has time of death of the male at around 9 p.m.’

‘And?’ Stacey asked.

‘Well, we know officers had to force entry, so the call could only have come from the killer.’

Stacey nodded. They had listened to the recording countless times and could not establish the age or gender of the caller through the words ‘Chaucer 4B, dead’.

Penn continued. ‘So, the killer was in the room and must have known the girl was still alive.’

Stacey was beginning to understand why the boss insisted on early identification. She hated hearing The boy, The Girl, The Male, The Female. It depersonalised them. Put distance between the victim and the investigation.

‘Go on,’ she urged.

‘Well, wouldn’t you want to make sure they were both dead?’

‘Could have been disturbed,’ Stacey reasoned.

‘And then go call the police?’ he asked, doubtfully. ‘Especially if you’d been disturbed. Wouldn’t you want to just get as far away from the scene as possible?’

‘Penn, your attention to detail…’

‘But why not make sure the girl is dead before leaving or even just do it and go and leave them to be found whenever. Why the call to the police?’

Stacey took a second cookie, but paused before taking a bite.

‘No violence, no struggle, no bruises or defensive wounds. It’s like they both walked into that flat, sat down quietly and obediently and just waited to die.’

He nodded. ‘There’s a word that keeps going through my mind but it’s not very nice. I keep thinking they were inconsequential, that they don’t matter, do you know what I mean?’ he asked, appearing puzzled at his own feelings.

‘I think I do,’ she said, following his train of thought.

‘It’s like this murder wasn’t even anything to do with them. It was all to do with something else. They were a part of the set, a prop.’

Stacey could understand his view but she’d never worked a case where the victim or victims were not the focus of the investigation, so wondered if Penn was barking up the wrong tree completely.

She was about to voice her thoughts as her inbox dinged the receipt of a message from the community centre in Stourbridge.

She read it and then turned to Penn.

‘Well, whether or not Mark and Amy mattered to our killer, let’s make sure they matter to us.’





Thirteen





Kim took a few deep breaths before ducking below the crime scene tape. It was harder to enter now than it had been the night before.

Fourteen hours earlier every available space had been filled with paramedics, police officers, potential witnesses and onlookers jostling for position even though they could see nothing four floors up.

Last night the area had borne no resemblance to the flat a few floors higher but today things were different. The crowds had dispersed from the cordon tape, having gone back to normal daily life after the previous night’s entertainment. The barrier was being patrolled by two constables already feeling every gram of the 3 kg stab vest in twenty-degree heat before lunchtime.

Beyond them one officer milled around the front entrance. She couldn’t pass any one of them without a small jolt of sympathy. This was not the dream of being a police officer; standing on a cordon. Guarding the entrance to a block of flats did not get you out of bed each morning.

The officers had been removed from the other floors, allowing most residents to go about their business, except for the fourth floor which had officers stationed on the lift and the stairs.

With less people, reduced activity and more open space Kim could see the detail of the property. She could see the narrow, windowless entrance hall that led all the way to the front room. A door to the kitchen and one bedroom on the right and the second bedroom and bathroom on the left. And that was the way she turned, into the room with a south-facing window, ideal for attracting the heat of the sun and turning the room into a space that could cook pottery.

Normally spaces seemed smaller as you grew older but this one seemed bigger than Kim recalled although she knew it was the exact same size in the flat on the seventh floor.

Of course in that flat the two single beds wedged together had completely dominated the room, leaving space only for a battered dresser that had easily held their meagre collection of clothes.

Kim shook herself back to this room, in this flat where a white-suited Mitch and his colleague were putting the carpet back down. Her eyes fell onto the radiator, her mind replaying the images from the previous night.

‘Hey, Inspector,’ Mitch said, removing his blue gloves and face mask. ‘What brings you back?’

She shrugged and moved away, stepping towards the window. ‘Just wanted to get a feel for the place,’ she said, almost adding ‘again’.

The logical, adult police officer knew this wasn’t the same room and yet she could picture Mikey sleeping peacefully in the left-hand bed. She could see him wrapping himself like a sausage roll in the grey, coarse blankets and shouting ‘come and find me’ and herself pretending to look for him.

She could see clearly the fear in his face as their mother had pinned him to the bed, holding a bread knife to his chest swearing she would cut the devil right out of him if she had to.