Dead Souls: A gripping serial killer thriller with a shocking twist Book 6

by Angela Marsons

  The scientist offered a brief smile as she signed something on a clipboard and handed it back to the man beside her.

  In a few short hours Doctor A had traded the white suit for a white medical jacket that fell just below her knees. Her legs were encased in grey denim, and the trademark Doc Marten boots were on her feet.

  ‘It is about time you are coming,’ she said.

  Kim held back her smile. The call had reached her less than ten minutes ago. She moved around the doctor and saw what the fiery figure had been obscuring.

  Then she looked back to the doctor, who nodded.

  Three separate gurneys contained bones.

  She moved towards them.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Kim asked, quietly.

  ‘Definite,’ Doctor A responded.

  The first gurney held the largest collection of bones. Both legs, a right arm and part of the left arm.

  The second gurney held some bones of the lower limbs and a pelvis.

  The third gurney currently held a single arm.

  ‘Three victims?’ Kim asked.

  Doctor A nodded as she came to stand between gurney one and two.

  ‘Yes, there are too many bones of the arm. We have a second skull en route right now.’

  Kim noted a box on the metal counter still holding the first skull and a collection of small bones.

  ‘We do not know yet which victim it belongs to.’

  Kim was reminded of a jigsaw puzzle and fitting pieces by the process of elimination. That piece cannot fit there and so on until you whittle it down to the only place left where it can fit.

  The method only became a problem if there were pieces missing.

  Kim prayed there were no pieces missing.

  ‘You’re sure there are no more than three?’ Kim asked.

  Doctor A shook her head. ‘We cannot yet be certain. The remains are not in any particular order so until the excavation is complete…’

  Kim prayed there were no more than three.

  ‘It is clear that this was not the first burial site. These bones have been moved. We are having two types of soil in the pit. Both have been sented off for analysis.’

  Kim ignored the mauling of the English language. She got it.

  ‘Any idea how long the bones have been in this grave?’ she asked.

  ‘It is hard to say at the moment but they were already skeletonised when they were dumped here.’

  Kim found the use of the word ‘dumped’ a little jarring, but then she remembered the bone protruding through the eye and realised it was very accurate indeed.

  ‘I have seen no evidence of tissue on any of the bones.’

  Kim understood and realised this was an investigation into time. How long had the bones been buried; how long since the bones had been moved. How old were the victims?

  Crime scene investigators tried to use evidence to create linkage, like a hair on the clothing of a suspect; a fibre from the victim found in the home of a suspect. All to create an association between a perpetrator and a crime.

  Kim moved to the foot of the first gurney, the one with the most bones but still without a skull. Travis sidled along the other side.

  Had these bodies been buried separately? And then thrown together. Why three bodies all in the same grave?

  She suspected that Locard’s exchange principle was not going to help them here. His theory of leaving trace materials picked up from elsewhere, like hairs from dogs, and children etc, would be a challenge to execute if the bodies had already been moved.

  ‘Can you tell us anything about victim one?’

  Doctor A reached for the clipboard that was hanging off the end of the gurney. Kim was reminded of a medical doctor doing rounds and checking progress of their patients. Live ones.

  She hoped to God the scientist had something for her. Identifying the victims was always her priority, for both personal and professional reasons. She detested anonymity in her victims. Every one of them had been a real life person and deserved the respect of their own name. And professionally it was the beginning of the crumb trail. It was the centre of the investigative wheel. Spokes pointed out in every direction from the identity of a victim; family, work, friends, lovers, activities, enemies, past. Without an identity they had nothing.

  Kim knew that there were ways to sex an adult, but not a child or juvenile. She knew the skull was not good for age estimation in adults.

  ‘Victim one is a male aged between forty-five to sixty. I would estimate approximately six feet tall with…’

  ‘Hey, slow down,’ Kim said, taken by surprise. It looked as though she was going to get more detail than she’d expected. If only Keats was around to take notes.

  Travis had his leather folder open and ready.

  ‘You can pinpoint his age that accurately already?’ Kim queried.

  Doctor A pointed to the long bones of the arms and legs.

  ‘The growth plates in here are closed. They remain open as the bones grow and close when growing ends, normally no later than twenty-five years of age. X-rays indicate that the level of bone calcium is consistent with a male older than forty.’

  ‘Okay,’ Kim said.

  ‘And here,’ she said, pointing to the ribs. ‘The sternal areas are pitted and sharp through ageing. The level of pitting at the junctions would suggest early fifties to approximately sixty years of age.’

  Travis continued to scribble furiously.

  Kim wondered at the level of detail he was recording. She could quite easily remember middle-aged male.

  ‘And the height?’ she asked, dubiously.

  Doctor A frowned at the doubt in her voice.

  ‘For that we are consulting the long bones again. Height is usually equalling to five times the length of the humerus.’

  Kim found herself looking at her own arm. She hadn’t known that.

  Travis stepped forward, holding his pen aloft. ‘Can you give us an idea of the man’s build?’

  Doctor A narrowed her eyes.

  Travis read this as a communication issue but Kim knew the doctor better than that. She knew what he was asking.

  ‘Physique,’ he clarified.

  ‘I understand the question, Sergeant, but I don’t understand why you would ask it.’

  ‘Because the last bones person I worked with was able to offer an idea of build based on the bone size and thickness,’ he challenged, imperiously.

  Kim considered asking Travis if he would like his genitals gift-wrapped when they were handed to him.

  ‘Then your bones person was a cock head,’ the doctor said, simply.

  Kim suspected she meant dickhead but same difference.

  ‘Thicker bones can indicate thicker muscles, but this is not reliable as bone thickness is also dependant on nutrition, heavy physical activity. Your so-called expert was guessing. I give you only facts and leave the guessing to you.’

  Doctor A had come to stand before him. The size difference was laughable. Doctor A’s head was tipped back at seventy degrees to meet his gaze.

  The scene reminded her of a Chihuahua barking at a Doberman. Dogs had no concept of their own size. For the first time in her life she actually felt sorry for Travis.

  Kim stepped forward like a referee at a boxing match. ‘Anything else for us, Doctor A?’

  The scientist offered one last look as she took a step back. Kim would not have been surprised to hear her growl.

  ‘Aah, delivery,’ she called out as the doors opened, but it was not pizza coming through the door.

  Two techs entered, each carrying a white plastic box. The shorter male had a bouquet of colourful blooms clutched in his armpit.

  Doctor A frowned. ‘Flowers, Timothy?’

  ‘Marina said to bring them here,’ he said, nodding towards the gurneys. ‘Brought to site by Mr Preece.’

  Kim’s head snapped up. ‘Dale Preece brought flowers?’ she asked. He hadn’t appeared the flower-giving type to her.

  Timothy shook his hea
d. ‘No, this one introduced himself as Bart. Offered no trouble. Said a prayer, and left when we asked him to.’

  ‘You moved the flowers?’ Doctor A asked.

  Timothy nodded towards the gurneys. ‘To be with the victims,’ he said.

  The Doc shook her head. ‘They are to mark the grave,’ she said. ‘Never mind; now, who has the skull?’

  The first tech that had entered shook his head as he placed his box onto the metal counter.

  ‘Marina said to give you this first,’ he said, removing the storage box lid. He handed her the smallest possible evidence bag, which was an inch square.

  Both she and Travis leaned forward as the doc held it up to the light.

  ‘Dirt?’ she queried, as her voice rose. ‘Mame mu ebam, I have enough dirt, Timothy,’ she said, impatiently.

  ‘Look again,’ he said, evenly. The man was clearly used to the Macedonian outbursts from his boss.

  She grabbed a magnifying glass from the desk and huffed as she inspected closer. The deep frown changed to a look of surprise like a CGI graphic.

  ‘No ways,’ she breathed.

  ‘What?’ Kim and Travis asked together.

  ‘A fibre,’ Doctor A said, wondrously.

  ‘No way,’ Kim said, realising she had repeated the scientist’s words.

  Doctor A was still shaking her head as she placed the bag onto the counter.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Kim asked. Anything she could tell them would be helpful.

  The doc shook her head. ‘This will go to the laboratory. If it is our only one we must ensure we get everything we can from it.’

  Kim understood. They did not have the necessary equipment at the morgue to glean everything the fibre could offer.

  It would take longer but it would be worth it.

  Timothy took out a much bigger plastic bag containing one long bone and handed it to the doc. ‘And she said you were to have this one second.’

  Doctor A turned it in her hands and then held it up to the light. A beam shot straight through a section of the lower part of the leg. The hole cut clean through the bone.

  Doctor A looked her way.

  Kim let out her breath and nodded at the same time.

  She knew exactly what she was being shown.

  That hole had been caused by a bullet.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Stacey walked through the door and into the distinctive aroma of chip fat.

  The café was located just off Dudley High Street and had been frying for the masses for over twenty years. She had first graced the place in her teens when there was little else to do in Dudley on a rainy Saturday afternoon once the activity of window shopping had been exhausted.

  It was also the place she’d been when she’d first had the notion to end her own life.

  In the years since, the ownership had changed hands but the décor and menu had not. A few of the usuals were in their normal spot, and her preferred table was free.

  Hank Brown sat at the window table. He spent most evenings in Betty’s Bite’s. Having lost his wife of thirty-seven years he ventured to the café a few nights each week for a hot meal. She had once made the mistake of offering him a smile. That was an hour of her life she would never get back.

  ‘Hey Stacey, what can I get you – toasted tea cake and diet coke?’

  Stacey nodded and fished into her purse. It was her theory that the one cancelled out the other. She suffered a diet Coke to spread the packet of butter onto the warm, fruity dough. And after receiving a cup of tea, suffocating beneath a film of grease, she’d chosen a sealed bottle ever since.

  Priscilla held up her hand. ‘Already balanced the till,’ she said, with a smile. ‘It’s on me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Stacey said, returning the smile. Genuine acts of generosity were few in her personal life and even less in her work.

  Priscilla nodded towards the corner table. ‘I’ll bring it over.’

  Stacey thanked her, hoping she didn’t offer too many free snacks. Manny wouldn’t like that.

  Manny was the owner of the café and so nicknamed after the woolly mammoth in the Ice Age films. He was big, hairy and Romanian. He had inherited Priscilla with the fixtures and fittings from the previous owner.

  Stacey wiped the table and took out her iPad.

  Priscilla placed the small plate and a knife onto the table.

  ‘There you go, lovely,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks a lot but…’

  ‘Shhh…’ she said, resting a hand on Stacey’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be our secret.’

  The woman headed to the door and turned the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’.

  She was the most unlikely Priscilla that Stacey had ever seen. Not a common Black Country name, Priscilla tended to stand out. Stacey guessed her to be late twenties. Her lips were full and shapely but her eyes seemed too small for her face. Her large forehead was exaggerated by the dyed red hair pulled back into a bun. And yet there was a quality to the features that Stacey found intriguing.

  Priscilla caught her appraisal and smiled.

  Stacey blushed and turned her attention to her snack. She spread the butter onto the teacake and watched as it disappeared.

  People came into the café for any number of reasons. Her own was to provide a buffer between work and home. The six miles between the station and her flat were not normally enough to erase the events of the day. On the days she went straight home she entered one doorway as fraught as the one she’d left. Eventually, the traumas of the day would dissipate but by then it was time for bed. If she used the café as a pit stop it became an event, a separation between work and home.

  Tonight she was struggling to leave work behind. The vile texts found on Henryk’s phone were still rattling round in her head. Despite his attempts to delete them, perhaps to hide from his wife, she had managed to retrieve the messages that had escalated in to vicious, sickening threats. The last one she remembered word for word.

  ‘Fuck off or we will gut you, gang rape your wife while your little bastards watch and then rip their limbs off one by one’

  Her mind could not compute the level of hate needed to send such a message. At the very least it was designed to terrify human beings who had done nothing wrong. At most it was a credible threat.

  She pushed away the teacake, unable to stomach food as she glanced at the World of Warcraft icon on her phone. A smile hovered around her lips as she imagined the smirk and eye-roll if Dawson could see her now. It would confirm everything he ribbed her about: that she had no life and spent most of her time in a fantasy world full of goblins and ogres.

  And he was right. She didn’t have a life. Not since her relationship with Trish had died in a lacklustre way. The initial spark between her and the forensic tech had never ignited in the way both of them had hoped. There had been no great scene or argument; there hadn’t even been enough passion for that. The period of time between phone calls just got longer and longer until they were no longer calling or texting at all.

  She took a moment to check her emails. Nothing new.

  Her whole day consisted of four messages. She’d been tagged in a photo of a relative on Facebook. She’d received a daily email voucher, and got three new followers on Twitter. The fourth was someone trying to sell her more followers.

  She put the phone away.

  Tonight she wasn’t trying to cut off her emotions from work, this time she was trying to distract her mind from the feelings that had engulfed her upon reading Justin’s letter.

  And those same feelings would not now let her go.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Kim let out a low and prolonged groan as the darts of water pricked her flesh before rolling over her skin and down the drain.

  Although symbolic, she did actually feel as though she was cleansing Travis from her flesh.

  After leaving Doctor A, Travis had pointedly looked at his watch. They had been half an hour past the official end of shift. Personally, she had wanted to crack
on and visit the Preece family or pore over the missing persons reports, but Travis’s set expression had told her neither was an option. So, she had delivered him safely back to his wife, who was twitching behind the net curtain. Probably fearful of burning the meat and two veg.

  She stepped out of the shower and into a beach towel. A rub of her head with a smaller towel followed by a quick shake and her short black hair was damp and spiky.

  She dressed in loose jeans and plain black tee shirt, and smiled as she saw Barney sitting patiently at the bottom of the stairs. Kim had no clue why the dog had never even tried to venture upstairs. There was no gate or barrier and yet he never crossed that invisible threshold.

  She rubbed his head and continued through to the kitchen. She looked behind but he hadn’t moved a muscle.

  He wasn’t waiting for her at all. He was waiting by the front door.

  Kim laughed out loud. Even her dog was developing a sixth sense about the arrival of visitors.

  She moved to the coffee machine and took down two mugs. Plain black liquid for her and milk and sweetener in the other.

  The front door tapped as she was pouring the second cup.

  ‘Enter at your own risk,’ she called.

  Her colleague pushed the door open and walked straight into the furry welcoming committee.

  He was holding up his identification.

  ‘The name’s Bryant. You might not recognise me but…’

  ‘Jesus, I only saw you this morning,’ she laughed, pushing his drink across the breakfast bar towards him.

  ‘How do you do that?’ he asked, handing Barney a tripe strip. ‘I didn’t call; I didn’t text; I didn’t send a pigeon, so how?…’

  ‘Bryant, you visit me unannounced for one of two reasons. Normally it’s either to see if I’m okay or because you’re being nosey.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Today, I’ve been forced to work alongside a man I despise on a case that you know nothing about. You turning up tonight was a pretty safe bet. Even the bloody dog knew you were coming.’

  ‘Fair point,’ he conceded. ‘So, how was it?’ he asked, wasting no more time.

  ‘Like watching a game of cricket in slow motion. He is methodical to the point of laborious. There’s no fire in him unless he’s arguing with me. He writes everything down and his greatest act of impulsiveness so far has been to add a caramel shot to his skinny latte.’