Kim and her colleague had spoken little in the car, after he had succeeded in pissing her off before they were even out of the station car park.
‘Well, that was a sensitive way to speak to Alison,’ Bryant had said once they were in the car.
‘It was what she needed to hear.’
‘You really think she’s gonna help us out after that?’
Kim had shrugged. If she was the woman Kim thought she was, she’d put her ego to one side and get involved. Whatever Alison told herself, her passion lay in analysing events and people. It reminded her of former athletes turning to coaching. There were few who didn’t wish they were still competing.
‘Pretty sure you’ve pissed Stacey off too.’
‘Jesus, Bryant, are you the feelings police this morning?’ she snapped, turning slightly in her seat.
‘You working on any project at the minute?’ he asked, shooting her a sideways glance.
‘None of your damn business.’
Bryant had got the message and focused on his driving.
Truth was she did care about people’s feelings. Up to a point. There was a six-year-old boy missing and they needed all the help they could get, but she wasn’t going to explain that to her colleague, who appeared much calmer walking into the morgue in full daylight.
‘Aah, as I suspected and I was right,’ Keats said, turning from the sink with a triumphant smile on his face. She wasn’t sure who he had been in a secret battle with, but she was pleased he’d won.
‘I thought it might be you instead of Penn this morning, so I took the liberty of getting it done early. It’s not the same with you peering over my shoulder. At least when Penn is breathing down my ear it’s because he appreciates the artistry.’
‘Of what?’ Kim asked, leaning against the spotless stainless-steel counter.
He thought for a moment. ‘It’s the difference between a seven-course tasting menu and a sandwich.’
She turned to her colleague. ‘Hear that, Bryant, Keats is calling me a—’
‘You’re the sandwich,’ he clarified. ‘Penn observes the process, asks questions, learns from the expertise. You, on the other hand, like to grab and go.’
‘Hey, I ask questions too.’
‘Not about the process, only about the results.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to add that knowing the process did not aid her in finding the killer, but she kept her mouth closed. Keats was clearly testy, and she was pleased she didn’t have to sit through the post-mortem.
She rubbed her hands. ‘Okay, what we got?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ he said, reaching for his clipboard, ‘that is going to help you.’
‘Someone’s glass is half-empty, isn’t it?’ she asked.
‘You already know the cause of death. Her neck was broken just like Katrina. There was no sexual assault and she appeared to be in reasonably good health.’
‘Toxicology?’
‘Has been sent off, but I don’t expect anything earth-shattering to come back on that score.’
Kim crossed her arms and waited.
Keats raised an eyebrow. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘The reveal, Keats. You’re like a good crime novel: you always save something for the end.’
‘Inspector, I have nothing interesting to offer.’
‘Well, I know that, Keats, but what about the body?’ she quipped.
‘There is nothing more to add. My official report is already in your inbox, so I’ll thank you to leave me in peace until circumstances dictate that we shall meet again.’
Kim glanced at Bryant, who shrugged in response.
There really was nothing else.
She moved towards the door, feeling as though there were questions she needed to ask.
Keats had listed all the similarities between the murders of Katrina and Louise. Her mind’s eye travelled back to the bullet-point list on the wipe board.
She stopped walking as the automatic doors opened to let her out.
‘Scratches?’ she asked, turning. ‘You noted deliberate scratch marks on Katrina’s skin?’
Keats shook his head. ‘None on Louise. Clean as a whistle.’
Kim frowned as she left the morgue.
A subtle difference to the first murder was the absence of something. What did that mean?
So had she learned something after all?
Forty-One
Penn knew Stevens Park well. It wasn’t a huge expanse of space. There were no undulating hills to climb or hidden lakes and beauty spots. The entire length of it was fringed by a dual carriageway that ran from Quarry Bank to the border of Lye.
The rest of its exterior was hemmed in by industrial buildings and a housing estate that adjoined every other perimeter.
This was not a country park where one went for a peaceful stroll amongst a stolen patch of nature. It had few facilities and was popular with local dog walkers, which was how Penn knew it.
When Jasper had been a toddler, they’d had a small dog, some kind of mixed-breed terrier. His parents had assumed that Jasper would be a lonely child and wanted him to have something to love. And love it he had. They all had until the day Mutley had gone off his legs and died due to kidney failure. Jasper had been inconsolable and had learned about death quite early for a little boy. Once he understood that Mutley wasn’t coming back, Jasper took to pulling the dog’s bed out of the utility and sleeping in it. There had been tears and tantrums for weeks, over a dog. And that was what was bothering Penn now. He’d seen his brother’s grief. He knew what it looked like when allowed to break free. He had seen the all-consuming effect and it hadn’t looked anything like what he was witnessing right now.
It’s just time, he told himself as he approached an officer he recognised.
‘Planty,’ he called out to the white-haired officer.
‘That’s Inspector Planty to you, my boy,’ he said, offering his hand.
Penn took it and shook it warmly. Before joining CID and moving to West Mercia, he’d worked as a constable with the man as his sergeant many times.
‘You here to keep us plods in line?’ he asked with a smile.
‘Nah, expedite communication,’ he explained. ‘Boss’s orders.’
‘Yeah. I’d do what she told me as well.’
Penn knew there was no malice in his words. From what he understood, they had worked together multiple times with co-operation and respect.
‘Anything to report so far?’
Inspector Plant shook his head.
‘Had a fair few volunteers this morning,’ he said with a frustrated look.
Penn knew that volunteers always turned up to help search, especially if there was a child involved. It was both a blessing and a curse. More bodies in the mix meant greater co-ordination and constant instruction.
‘How many?’ Penn asked, moving towards the open boot of Plant’s squad car, which was currently serving as an on-site command point.
‘Had forty-eight so far, but the day is young,’ he said, tapping the list where the names had been recorded. ‘All been tasked in pairs outside of the park area, and trained techies and police officers all over the park and the immediate area beyond the boundary.’
Penn picked up the sheets detailing the names and the location they’d been tasked to search.
His gaze rested on a name halfway down the page.
It was a name he already knew.
Forty-Two
‘Well, he’s not done too badly out of it, has he?’ Kim asked as Bryant turned on to a tree-lined road on the outskirts of Quinton.
Although only two miles from Halesowen, the area fell within the Edgbaston formal district bordering the suburbs of Harborne and Bartley Green and covered only two square miles. Its claim to fame was having the highest point of any building in Birmingham at the top of the Christ Church spire. The area had a few housing estates which balanced social and private housing, but as Bryant drove a mile or two from the centre Kim n
oted the properties they passed were around fifty metres away from their neighbours, separated by vast tree hedges and high walls. All of them were gated.
‘Go on, how much?’ she asked, revisiting a game they often played.
‘I’d say the upper sixes or low sevens.’
That was a fair range he’d offered, and she agreed with him.
‘For looking at handwriting,’ she mused as they drove through the only set of open gates in the road.
The house itself was a double-fronted, Victorian home, painted pure white with blue detail added to all the windows.
The overhanging trees formed a canopy blocking the weak sunlight from above.
Kim got out of the car and took a look around.
‘Stacey said he was… oh my god,’ she said as a woman appeared from behind a thick tree trunk with a large pair of shears. For a moment, she looked like she’d been in some low-budget horror movie where everyone with a speaking part met a slow and horrific death.
Kim glanced again at the shears as the woman smiled pleasantly. Kim guessed her to be late sixties or early seventies; she had a tanned and healthy complexion.
‘You must be the police officers,’ she said, placing the shears against the tree and wiping her hands on her jeans. ‘Reginald is very much looking forward to seeing you, even if he pretends otherwise,’ she said with a cheeky wink that took years off her appearance. ‘He’s in the sunroom, if you follow me.’
Kim did as she was told and was led from the front of the house to the rear, passing one high-ceilinged room after another, all painted in light colours, harvesting as much light as possible. As they neared the rear of the property, it was like stepping into another house. The weak sunlight flooded every room and warmed the house considerably.
The woman stepped down into the sunroom that stretched half the width of the house. The space was filled with wicker furniture and plants that appeared to have been brought in from the cold.
‘Mr Wilkins?’ Kim said as Bryant offered his hand.
‘Reg, please,’ he said, putting his book aside and motioning for them to sit.
‘Coffee, tea?’ the woman asked from the doorway.
They both shook their heads and Bryant thanked her.
She disappeared whistling.
‘You’ll get it whether you want it or not,’ Reg said, watching her go.
‘Sorry?’
‘By the time Henrietta gets to the kitchen, she’ll have forgotten your answer and will make it anyway.’ He glanced at the plants to his left. ‘This lot don’t go thirsty.’
‘Is she?…’
‘Early stages. We cope. Now what can I help you with? Police finally come to their senses?’
Kim hid her smile. As an institution, the force was not quick to embrace new ways of doing things, and assessing people from their handwriting was not something they openly embraced.
‘It’s an interesting subject. How did you get into it?’ Kim asked.
Reg Wilkins laughed out loud, displaying even white teeth in a lightly stubbled face beneath a full head of grey hair.
‘An innocuously innocent small-talk question hiding an interview assessment. You want to know my credentials for the job even though you came to me,’ he said, meeting her gaze. ‘I’m not the one with dementia, officer. Aaah, coffee, perfect,’ he said as his wife carried a tray into the room. The gesture pleased Kim as his wife placed the tray on the coffee table. He chose not to remind his wife that they had all refused her offer of a beverage.
‘Thank you,’ she and Bryant said at the same time.
She nodded and left.
‘There’s no need to drink it,’ he said, glancing at the plants. ‘But it is good coffee.’
Bryant poured them both a cup as she met the man’s gaze.
‘Okay, Reg, forget the small talk, what are your credentials?’
‘That’s better,’ he said, smiling. ‘And to answer your question, I began studying graphology in the eighties when British Steel Corporation let me go. I studied at the Cambridge School of Graphology and am a member of the British Institute of Graphologists, the British Academy of Graphology and—’
‘Okay, thank you,’ Kim said, holding up her hand.
‘I scraped a living from it through the nineties, but once the millennium hit there weren’t enough hours in the day. Every business or company suddenly wanted insight into the people they were employing.’
Kim now understood the house he was living in. His newly acquired skills had put him in the right place at the right time.
‘Have you ever consulted criminally?’ Kim asked.
He shook his head. ‘I understand that the police force remains dubious on the subject.’ He paused. ‘And I think we have the perfect example sitting here.’
Kim turned to her colleague, who was frowning as he listened.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude,’ Bryant answered. ‘But if I’m honest, I struggle to accept the science when we were all taught how to write by our primary school English teacher.’
Reg smiled. ‘Gather up your classmates and see if you all write the same now.’
Bryant’s nod conceded the point.
‘Bear with me a second,’ he said, standing and opening a drawer in a wicker side table. He brought out a piece of paper and a pen and thrust it towards Kim.
‘While I speak with your colleague, just write down what you’re hoping I’ll be able to achieve.’ He tapped his temple. ‘I don’t remember so well, any more.’
Kim did as he asked as the man sat and continued to talk to Bryant.
‘We are all totally unique. We look, speak, act and move in different ways. The way we write is unique. It leaves a permanent trail. Your writing will change upon your mood—’
‘So how can you determine anything if?…’
‘Because certain components remain consistent throughout. The uses of the science are endless. It’s used for people changing careers, to highlight strengths and weaknesses, compatibility. It can help guide you in how to deal effectively with people. It’s been used to detect forgery for decades.’
‘But it’s a pretty new science, is it not?’ Bryant asked.
He shook his head. ‘It was used in Ancient Greece for many centuries and by the Chinese. Even the famous Swiss psychologist Carl Jung recognised the validity of handwriting analysis. In Israel it’s estimated that ninety-eight per cent of job applicants have their handwriting analysed first, although Europe is still the area where most research and use of graphology remains.’
Kim handed him the note of her expectations and took the two pieces of paper from her back pocket.
‘Would you take a look at these?’
He put her list to the side and reached for them. ‘Aah, copies.’
‘Is that a problem?’ Bryant asked.
‘It’s better if it’s the original document, but these are good copies,’ he said, inspecting them both. ‘Yes, I think I can do something with these.’
‘What makes the original different?’ Kim asked.
‘You can tell a lot about a person by the force of the actual writing onto a sheet of paper; but never mind, we have a lot to work with.’
He met her gaze. ‘You’re not going to get anything right now. This isn’t a drive-through kind of thing. There are well over a hundred basic stroke formations to be identified.’
Kim couldn’t help her disappointment that there was no immediate snapshot to take away.
‘I’m sorry that’s not what you want to hear but the general picture of writing – such as where is it on the page, are margins wide or narrow, are they equal, is writing large or small, heavy or light, consistent or messy – all tell us something, but only in conjunction with the individual stroke formations, like where are the T bars placed, how long are the lower loops, are the circle letters open or closed.’
‘But surely…’
‘Okay, I’m not a party trick kind of guy,’ he said, reaching for the list Kim had
just written.
‘Hmmm… officer,’ he said, looking over the page, ‘I can tell straight away that you are determined. What I can’t see is whether that trait gets you in hot water.’
‘It does,’ Bryant said, leaning forward.
‘Is your determination mixed with recklessness?…’
‘Yes,’ Bryant answered again.
Kim offered him a look.
‘Are you determined to the degree of bloody-mindedness?’
Kim looked at Bryant who closed his mouth.
‘And even without his handwriting, I can see that your colleague there just exhibited the trait of bravery coupled with self-preservation. Knowing a couple of personality traits will tell you nothing unless I can tell you how the traits work together.’
Kim accepted defeat. Yes, she wanted an answer, but she wanted it accurate.
‘How long?’
‘I’d normally want three to four days.’
‘Shit,’ Kim said, picturing bodies stacking up in that period of time.
‘But given the urgency,’ he continued, ‘give me twenty-four hours.’
Kim knew that was the best she was going to get if she wanted a reasonable picture of their killer.
She stood, turned towards the door and then hesitated.
‘You said you didn’t care much for party tricks, so why did you do one?’ she asked.
He nodded towards her colleague. ‘Because when you come back tomorrow, I’d like you both to be receptive to what I have to say. I won’t justify my findings again.’
‘Touché,’ Bryant said, nodding his understanding.
‘Thank you for—’ her words were cut off by the ringing of her phone.
‘Excuse me,’ she said as Reg started to pour his coffee into one of the plants.
She turned away and took out her phone.
It was Penn at the search site.
Please God, let Archie be found, she thought, mentally crossing her fingers.
She answered the call and listened as she worked her way back to the front of the house.
Deadly Cry: An absolutely gripping crime thriller packed with suspense (Detective Kim Stone Crime Thiller Book 13) Page 12