‘So, if you could ask your questions as quickly as possible,’ he said, without looking at them. ‘I’m a very busy man.’
‘And we’re just shooting the breeze trying to find out who buried multiple bodies on land that you own,’ she answered shortly.
Travis covered his mouth and coughed beside her.
She ignored his covert warning about her manner because finally she had Mr Preece’s attention. A clutch of papers had stilled, mid move.
He slowly lowered them back down to the desk as he spoke.
‘I thought it was one person, one skeleton?’
‘It was until it was discovered that there were two bodies, and most likely a third.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.
‘How long have you owned the land, Mr Preece?’ Travis asked.
Kim allowed him to interject, as her attention was again drawn to the garden.
The woman’s upper body had come into view. She appeared to be pushing something.
‘We’ve owned that land for over ninety years. It was bought by my great-grandfather from a First World War widow. He paid double the market value for land he did not want.’
‘And how long have the Cowleys held the lease?’ Travis continued.
‘Charles Cowley and my grandfather agreed a deal back in the sixties. Jeffrey Cowley had just been born. Charles Cowley turned the land into a successful farm. At its height the farm was turning over one and a half million pounds in revenue with a net profit of around four hundred thousand.’
Kim wondered how Dale Preece knew the Cowley’s financial situation in such detail.
‘My grandfather was an investor in the farm,’ he explained, reading her expression.
‘The farming industry died a literal death in the nineties with the BSE outbreak. The farm was hit hard. Jeffrey worked alongside his father; the staff were fired, and their entire stock was burned. They lost everything. The Cowley girl and boy were pulled from private school and shoved into the local comprehensive.’
She found his description of the Cowley children offensive. ‘You mean Fiona and Billy?’
‘Of course,’ he said, impatiently, not understanding her point at all.
Travis coughed, and she allowed him to continue.
‘Go on,’ he urged Dale Preece.
Kim could now see that the woman outside was pushing a wheelchair.
‘Jeffrey’s wife left him, and his father died of pneumonia six months later. Ever since, it’s been just Jeffrey and the children.’
They were hardly children any more, Kim thought, remembering the figure in the ambulance and the officious woman at the hospital.
‘Never tempted to sell the land?’ Travis asked personably, surprising Kim. That sounded dangerously close to an investigatory question. She would check him for fever later.
‘My grandfather won’t hear of it,’ Dale Preece said.
From his tone, Kim guessed that Dale would sell at the earliest opportunity and turf the family out on their ear.
‘Insists it was a gentleman’s agreement made back in the day and he will not renege on it, regardless.’
Kim guessed the insistent grandfather was the elderly male being pushed around the garden.
‘Paternal or maternal grandfather?’ she asked.
‘Maternal,’ he said, as the woman outside smoothed the blanket over the old man’s knees.
She saw Bart approach from the left, followed by the faithful Labradors. He bent his head slightly, addressing the older man. The grandfather did not respond or lift his head. Kim guessed he must be extremely frail. Bart looked to his mother, who reached across and touched his arm before he strode away.
‘Do you all live here?’ Kim asked.
He nodded. ‘My brother, mother, grandfather and I each have our own wing. We occasionally meet for dinner.’
She moved her gaze from the window to the man before her, searching for a trace of humour in his words. There was none. He was stating a simple truth.
Dale Preece appeared to joke even less than she did.
Travis leaned forward. ‘Are you aware of the Cowleys having any work done to the property – any building or excavation?’
He shook his head. ‘They would need our permission for that, and no request has ever been received.’
‘But you wouldn’t really know, would you?’ Kim interjected.
‘We carry out an annual inspection of the property,’ he said.
‘Every year?’ she asked.
‘Most years,’ he countered. ‘We have a substantial portfolio of properties.’
‘So, the last inspection was done in?…’
He clicked on the mouse a couple of times, spurring the enormous Apple flat screen into life.
He frowned and clicked again.
‘It was in 2011,’ he said, doubtfully, checking again.
Kim was not surprised. Within their vast empire of land and property, the Cowleys and their farm were no bother to anyone.
‘So, no one has been to check for over five years?’
‘It appears so,’ he frowned, still clicking as though some new information would appear.
Five years is a long time, Kim thought, as the woman and the wheelchair went out of view.
‘And you now run the family business?’ Kim asked.
He nodded, his expression saying who else is going to do it?
She remembered that a boating accident had claimed one of his parents and had the sudden, inexplicable feeling this man could have done with having a father.
‘Well, thank you for your time,’ she said, standing.
In all honesty she was eager to get out of the room. The office was not to scale with the rest of the building. The small space was full of heavy wooden panelling from floor to ceiling. A wrought iron fireplace dominated the shorter wall. The window pointed north, away from the cold sunshine.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,’ he said, offering his hand again. This time Travis took it. ‘But I do hope you find out what happened to those poor people.’
‘Thank you for your concern,’ Travis said, as Kim headed towards the door.
She paused, remembering something he’d said.
‘Sorry, just one last question, Mr Preece,’ she said, turning. ‘You used the word “regardless” when referring to your grandfather’s refusal to sell the Cowley’s land. “Regardless” of what?’ she asked
Dale Preece frowned deeply. ‘Regardless of the fact they’ve paid no rent in almost thirty years.’
THIRTY-TWO
‘Put your face straight before the wind changes,’ Bryant said, as they chose another camera. It was something his grandmother had always said if he was sulking.
They had been in the CCTV viewing room at the rear of Sedgley Police Station for more than an hour, and Dawson hadn’t spoken once.
From this location they had access to 187 cameras around the borough. Less than half were public space cameras covering high streets and car parks. A quarter covered local housing estates, and the rest were monitored on behalf of organisations like Centro.
‘You still bothered by the thing with Stacey?’ he asked.
‘Leave it, Bryant,’ he said, selecting another bank of cameras and typing in the date and time of interest.
‘Why has it bothered you so much?’
‘Because I’m not a fucking racist,’ he snapped.
‘Jesus, Kev, she knows that. She was just making a point.’
‘Yeah well, her point has pissed me off,’ he said.
Bryant knew better. Stacey’s words had forced him to consider something about himself, and he didn’t like that one little bit. Dawson didn’t mind introspection, but on his own terms.
‘Fucking waste of time,’ he raged, pushing the mouse halfway across the desk. ‘This guy is invisible.’
Bryant retrieved the mouse and nudged Dawson to the side. With a few taps he was back to the view of the car park entrance at the time the figure exited. He
continued backwards for fifteen minutes to the time the attacker skulked around the building and into the car park.
‘Now, is there any indication of his direction of approach? It may help…’
Dawson shook his head. ‘We only see him against the wall. He could have come from anywhere.’
Bryant allowed the tape to continue playing.
‘Okay, let’s consider this logically—’
‘Hang on, what was that?’ Dawson asked, grabbing the mouse from Bryant’s hand.
Bryant frowned. He hadn’t seen anything.
‘Watch this,’ Dawson said, going back to the point Bryant had chosen but set to play at a slower speed.
‘See that?’ he asked.
Bryant shook his head.
‘Look again. A second before Marie enters the car park.’
Bryant leaned forward and for the first time didn’t focus on their witness.
‘A flash,’ he said.
Dawson nodded as he rewound again.
‘A torch?’ Bryant asked.
Dawson shook his head. ‘Too quick. Didn’t Henryk say something about the attacker wanting him to close his eyes. Could it be linked to that?’
‘Not a clue,’ Bryant said, dumbfounded. Interesting, but it still gave them nothing further in being able to identify the perpetrator.
‘We need a better shot of him,’ Bryant said. ‘The camera at the end of the high street didn’t pick him up in the time frame, and there’s no footage of him at the bus station. So, what’s left?’
‘The church,’ Dawson said. ‘He must have cut through the graveyard.’
Bryant agreed. Not a popular route in the dark, but attractive if you were on the run.
‘So, what’s on the other side of the church?’ Bryant asked, forcing his colleague to interact.
‘Traffic cameras, both sides of the road,’ Dawson said, excitedly.
They swapped to another menu and found the area they wanted.
Dawson typed in the time, and waited.
They both stared hard at the screen. Nothing.
‘Try the other one,’ Bryant said.
Dawson flicked to the other camera, and gasped. There he was.
They’d got the figure of a man walking at speed towards the camera, and watched as he continued to come close. But his head remained bowed.
Dawson squinted at the screen, and frowned. ‘He’s looking at his phone.’
‘What the hell for?’ Bryant asked. ‘He’s just beat a man almost to death.’
‘Well, he’s not hunting bloody Pokémon,’ Dawson replied.
Bryant sat back in his chair. ‘This guy has just beaten someone to within an inch of their life and literally two minutes later he’s checking Facebook. What the?—’
Bryant stopped speaking as his phone rang. It was a number he didn’t recognise.
‘Bryant,’ he answered.
‘It’s Keats,’ the voice said. ‘Your boss seems to be tied up on something else so I’m coming to you. I’ve got a body ‒ and I can tell you now, it isn’t pretty.’
THIRTY-THREE
Stacey adjusted the satchel across her body as the bus pulled away.
The doubt was already crawling all over her, and right now she had no idea whether to listen to it or shoo it away. She was very rarely out in the field and never without direct instruction from her boss, or someone else higher up.
Somehow, it felt both wrong and right at the same time. Wrong that no one knew where she was or what she was doing, but right that she was acting on a compulsion in her belly.
There was no obvious crime; Justin Reynolds had definitely committed suicide, but there was something in his letter that would not let her go. She knew she could be courting trouble for herself. She didn’t know how Kim would react and had been fighting that thought throughout the bus journey.
But, wasn’t this what she’d been trained to do? she asked herself as she turned into Aston Drive.
Only when she saw the small, tidy, semi-detached property did she question the actual logistics of her actions.
Behind that door was a grieving family. A mother who had lost her son in one of the most horrific ways imaginable. What if she was about to walk into a house full of well-wishers, family members, comforters, all trying to bring a moment’s relief from the pain?
Stacey slowed as she neared the property. Only a small Citroën was parked outside. A couple more vehicles were dotted around the kerb but no others close to the house.
What exactly was she hoping to achieve? Stacey asked herself critically. She had nothing to offer this family, nothing to ease the grief. And yet she was still being propelled forward.
She wondered, briefly, if her own boss ever questioned herself quite so rigorously before acting on her gut instinct. She suspected not.
Bravely, she tapped the door and ignored the part of her that hoped the knock went unanswered.
Too soon, she saw a shape looming closer towards the glass-panelled door.
It opened to reveal a woman in her early to mid-forties. Her frame was slight and no colour graced her cheeks. Stacey had not met Justin’s mother properly on the day of her son’s death; she had been flanked by paramedics checking her over and neighbours offering words of solace. Today, she wore jogging bottoms that had room enough for two and a grey hoody. It took Stacey a second to realise the woman was wearing her dead son’s clothes.
‘Mrs Reynolds, my name is Stacey… I mean, Detective Constable Stacey Wood.’
She fumbled in her satchel, and then dropped her ID card on the ground. She scooted down and retrieved it, holding it up to the woman’s questioning gaze.
Mrs Reynolds looked past the card and frowned.
‘You were here the other day, when…’ The words trailed away.
‘Yes, I was. I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Stacey said, trying to ignore the awkwardness.
This was a mistake. She should never have come. She wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t the one asking questions in the face of someone’s pain. She was the one making the tea. Her curiosity would have been best left in her head.
Perhaps this was a good lesson on the thin line between curiosity and instinct.
But the damage was now done. She had knocked on the door. She had interrupted the woman’s grief. If she turned and walked away now, Mrs Reynolds would definitely be making some kind of call to Halesowen Police Station.
‘May I come in?’ she asked.
Mrs Reynolds stood aside as Stacey stepped into the narrow hallway.
The woman closed the door and Stacey followed to the lounge.
‘Is this some kind of official visit?’ Mrs Reynolds asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion.
‘No Mrs Reynolds… it’s not. I’m just here to…’ Her words trailed away as she fought to find the right words.
‘I’m sorry, officer, but I think I’d quite like you to explain yourself.’
Her tone of frustration was understandable. Stacey was still trying to make sense of it herself.
‘I read his letter,’ Stacey said, as if that explained everything.
‘And?’ she said, coming to a stop in the lounge.
Stacey was faced with condolence cards resting on every surface. Her intrusion into this woman’s grief slapped her around the face.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come,’ Stacey offered, wishing she never had.
‘But why did you?’ the woman asked, lowering herself onto a single seat. She stroked at the fabric of the jogging bottoms.
Stacey perched on the edge of the sofa. She was already envisioning the letter of complaint that would be sent in regarding her conduct. There was no way back for her now.
Naked honesty was her only hope.
‘Mrs Reynolds, when I read that letter from your son, I felt something.’ Stacey tapped her chest. ‘It started here and ended here,’ she said, touching her stomach. ‘I really can’t explain it,’ Stacey said, feeling every angle of inadequate.
; ‘But there’s no doubt, is there?’ she asked. ‘I mean…’
Stacey shook her head. ‘No, Mrs Reynolds, there is no doubt that Justin took his own life but I’m curious to know why.’
The tears sprang into the woman’s eyes. ‘I can barely live with the fact that I’ll never know.’
Stacey ached to reach out and comfort her, but she kept her hands in her lap.
‘It’s that one line,’ Stacey said. ‘Do you have any idea what he was sorry for?’
Mrs Reynolds shook her head as she wiped furiously at her cheek.
‘It’s the question that has kept me awake since his, since he—’
‘Have you spoken to his friends?’ Stacy asked, to prevent her from saying the words her mouth was struggling to set free into reality.
‘I barely even know who his friends are any more. I don’t think he was in touch with many of his old school friends. They drifted away after…’
‘After what, Mrs Reynolds?’ Stacey asked.
‘The accident,’ she said.
‘Go on,’ Stacey urged.
She swallowed deeply. ‘Two years ago, Justin’s father and sister were killed in a car accident.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Stacey said, wondering how much pain one woman could take. When the body was being pounded with physical blows the flesh eventually checked out. Major organs began to close down. But the heart was different. How much loss and grief could the body take before it finally gave up?
‘After that he closed down completely. He lost his job, got into some fights, refused to leave his room. Eventually his friends stopped calling and texting, and he seemed okay with that. But recently he seemed better. He’d started to go out occasionally. He was looking for another job.’
She shook her head.
‘But that still doesn’t explain the comment about being sorry for what he’d done,’ Stacey said, gently.
A flicker of understanding came into Mrs Reynolds’ eyes, as though a question had just been answered.
‘Actually, officer. I think it does. He was there, you see. Justin was in the car. His father and sister were both killed instantly in the front of the car. Justin walked away with barely a scratch.’
‘But he still wasn’t responsible for the accident or either of the deaths,’ Stacey said. ‘It wasn’t anything he did.’
Dead Souls: A gripping serial killer thriller with a shocking twist Book 6 Page 12