Blood Lines

by Angela Marsons

  Kim reached the figure in seconds and put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Hey, are you—?’

  ‘Get the fuck off me,’ she screamed, violently shaking her away.

  Beneath the lamplight Kim could see that the girl was late teens with hair that was a short mixture of blonde and green. She wore heavy make-up, especially around the eyes, one of which was already starting to swell. That would be a corker tomorrow.

  ‘Did he take your bag?’ Kim asked.

  The girl gave her a filthy look.

  ‘Bitch, you wanna get away from me before I kick the shit out of yer?’

  Kim took a closer look at her. Two of her knuckles were grazed and red. A mark was beginning to show on the right side of her jaw.

  Kim briefly considered going after him but knew he’d be long gone.

  ‘Did he hit you anywhere else?’ she asked.

  The girl snarled in her direction. ‘I ain’t gonna tell yer again. I’m fine. Now fuck off.’

  Kim took a step back and was about to do just that. Being helpful was not a natural disposition for her. But something caught her eye.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ she said as a perfect line of red started travelling down the girl’s neck.

  ‘I’ll live,’ she said, wiping absently. ‘Which is more than can be said for that fucker if I ever see him again.’

  ‘You could need stitches,’ Kim said.

  ‘Lady, I’m warning you… ’

  Kim held up her hands in defeat. Some people didn’t want to be helped. ‘Please yourself,’ she said, turning around and heading away. In the last few hours she’d entrapped a serial rapist and attended a horrific, bloody crime scene. The day had been long enough as it was.

  She shook her head at the girl’s prickly attitude. She headed back towards her home. She had no doubt the girl could take care of herself.

  Two more steps and she heard a sickening thud behind her.

  She looked.

  The girl was in a heap on the ground.

  Kim groaned out loud as she turned and headed back.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘What the hell… ?’ the girl cried, catapulting herself to a sitting position.

  ‘Calm down,’ Kim said, placing a steadying hand on the bony shoulder.

  The girl shrunk from her hand and looked at her properly. Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘You’re the bitch that wouldn’t back off when I—’

  ‘I’m the bitch that carried you back to my home when you landed in a heap on the floor, tough girl,’ Kim snapped.

  The girl looked at her dolefully.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Kim asked.

  ‘Gemma,’ she spat, sitting up and swinging her legs around.

  ‘You’re a prickly little thing, aren’t you?’ Kim asked as she gathered up the antiseptic wipes she’d used on the girl’s knuckles while she’d been out cold.

  ‘Was it really worth putting up such a fight for your bag?’ Kim asked.

  The kid had got herself pretty well banged up.

  Gemma looked around pointedly. ‘Easy for you to say.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Kim conceded but she could have been hurt much worse.

  The girl’s hand moved to the back of her ear.

  ‘It’s just a plaster,’ Kim explained. ‘Leave it on until tomorrow.’

  Gemma rolled her eyes. ‘What the fuck? You a nurse?’

  ‘No, I don’t think you need one of those. I think the passing out was more shock than injury, but if your head hurts—’

  ‘Fuck me, lady. Give it a rest.’

  For a petite girl with little meat on her bones she packed a whole lot of attitude.

  Kim hid the smile inside. There was a familiarity to the girl that she recognised.

  In her experience attitude was like a second skin: grown to keep something out. Normally, it didn’t just appear for no reason.

  Kim could see her looking around for her shoes.

  ‘At the end of the sofa, and your coat is hanging by the door.’

  Gemma was on her feet in seconds. Her feet burrowed into the grubby trainers and she strode towards the door.

  Kim made no effort to stop her. She had only reacted to the situation because she’d been there. Her duty as a responsible citizen had been fulfilled.

  ‘Listen, if you can identify him, give us a description of the man—’

  ‘Us?’ she said, turning. Her eyes were filled with loathing. ‘You ain’t a fucking pig?’

  Kim bit down her irritation. ‘I am a police officer and—’

  ‘See ya,’ she said, grabbing her coat and heading out the front door.

  Kim’s shot of irritation turned to amusement.

  Oh, how she loved the tough kids.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  14 DECEMBER 2007

  Dear Diary,

  Well today I finally did it. I still can’t believe how simple it was. Months of fantasising about the moment and it was so much easier than I thought.

  I still can’t choose the moment that the fantasy became a plan. It just kinda happened. One moment I was thinking wouldn’t it be great to do such a thing and without me realising it had changed to when.

  All day I held my secret close. There was a moment I wanted to tell someone, to share the excitement, the anticipation but I didn’t. Because I wanted it all to myself. It was mine.

  She was mine.

  By the end of the day every one of my senses had been lit by a fuse. It’s ignition travelling every inch of my skin. I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried. My body and mind cried out for the satisfaction of which I’d dreamed.

  And the first part of the plan worked.

  It was awesome. I was awesome.

  I know it was the smile that did it. It’s a smile perfected over the years.

  I have a good-looking face. I know this. People stare and I smile. For that I use my practised performance smile. The one that has got me through life. It has got me everything I wanted. It has got me out of trouble. I am told it is beguiling.

  Personally I prefer my real one. The smile that feels natural on my face. The one that says I’m winning. My favourite smile.

  The execution of the plan was painful in its simplicity. I offered to walk her home, smiled, looked down and then up again, a question in my eyes.

  She hesitated.

  My smile turned tremulous.

  She nodded.

  Result.

  There came a point on the journey when there was a choice. Not about what I was doing. That was never in question. It was left to her house and right to mine.

  She wanted to go left. I did not.

  No one heard her scream.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Okay, people, let’s get to it,’ Kim said, joining her team in the squad room. ‘Stace, are the crime scene photos printed?’

  Stacey nodded and rose. She stepped towards the whiteboard and taped them on. The first was a headshot. The other displayed a broader view of the car’s interior.

  Kim waited for Stacey to sit back down before she began.

  ‘Our victim is Deanna Brightman, forty-seven years of age and Deputy Director of Children’s Services at Dudley Council.’

  ‘Single stab wound, boss?’ Dawson asked, standing up and staring at the photo.

  Kim nodded.

  ‘Tidy,’ he said, sitting down.

  And just like that the investigation took its first breath. The board had a name and a picture. This woman would hold all of their attention until they found out who had taken her life. The pictures on the board provided a focus. Few of her victims remained just a name.

  ‘No defence wounds and the seat belt removed.’ She turned towards Stacey. ‘Body slightly—’

  ‘Someone she knew?’ Dawson piped up.

  Kim narrowed her gaze in his direction. ‘Thanks for that… Stacey,’ she said.

  ‘Oh sorry,’ he said, grinning across the desk at his colleague.

  Kim liked to tease th
e information from her team instead of hand-feeding all the time. It was her hope that one day they would all lead their own teams.

  ‘Looks that way,’ she confirmed. ‘No attempts to make it look like a robbery.’

  Kim continued to stare at the photo for just a second longer, a half thought playing in her mind.

  ‘It’s almost emotionless,’ Stacey said suddenly.

  Kim nodded. She had wondered if anyone else would pick up on what she’d been thinking.

  There was no rage. No anger. No multiple stab wounds to send a message. No frenzy of a hand that couldn’t stop.

  It seemed functional.

  ‘Well, someone wanted her dead and she is; so I’d say that’s enough emotion for us,’ Dawson offered.

  Kim couldn’t really argue with his point. There had been enough feeling for their killer to plunge the knife in and take away her life. And yet, something about it bothered her.

  She refocussed her attention. ‘Kev, post mortem is at eleven and then I want every patron of the Chinese takeaway and the pub opposite the lay-by interviewed.’

  ‘Aww… boss,’ Dawson said. ‘I thought maybe while the cat was away the mice…’

  ‘Kev, the only cat you need to worry about is right here,’ she said, raising one eyebrow. Woody’s holiday was no excuse for anything less than their best or for approaching the mountainous task of securing statements from both the pub and the takeaway with reduced vigour.

  Admittedly, interviewing every person from both locations was an impossible task but if they aimed for one hundred per cent and achieved ninety-five she’d be reasonably satisfied. Aiming for eighty per cent and achieving less would mean a whole bunch of missed potential witnesses.

  And right now there was little else to be done. So far they had a respectable middle-aged woman with a single stab would. The people they really needed to see were the people closest to her.

  ‘Boss, is it worth appealing for witnesses instead of—?’ Dawson asked.

  ‘No,’ she answered.

  ‘But while it’s fresh?’ he pushed.

  ‘Not at this stage, Kev,’ she said, patiently.

  An appeal so early would bring hundreds if not thousands of calls that would all have to be dealt with immediately. It would also mean divulging details of the case that she wasn’t ready to release for public consumption. The family had been informed barely eight hours earlier.

  ‘Stace, start checking to see if there’s any reliable CCTV in the area.’ Kim knew it was unlikely. Expensive surveillance systems had been replaced with dummy cameras following vandalism and theft of equipment. Metal shutters were cheaper. But it only took one camera image so was worth checking all the same.

  ‘On it, boss,’ Stacey said.

  Kim sometimes likened the beginning of an investigation to a single rose. One by one they picked off the petals around the edge until they got to the heart of the case.

  And it was time to pick the first petal.

  ‘Bryant, get your coat. We’re off to see the family.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Doctor Alexandra Thorne waited patiently at the visiting centre for her solicitor to arrive.

  She took the time to analyse her surroundings and realised there were worse places she could have been incarcerated.

  Drake Hall was situated in Staffordshire and had provided accommodation for female munitions workers during World War II. In the 1960s it had been a male prison, changing to a female one in the mid-seventies. In March 2009 it had been redesignated from semi-open to closed. Having changed from an open to a closed prison it had a fairly relaxed environment and the regime had pretty much stayed the same, allowing prisoners free movement inside the fence.

  The facility had a capacity for 345 inmates shared amongst fifteen houses with mainly single rooms and a few double rooms. Alex was thankful she had been assigned to a double. Her plan relied on it.

  A form appeared around the side of the coffee machine, and Alex fixed a smile to her face. He looked well, she thought, as he strode forward smiling. He had more to smile about than she did.

  His fifty-three-year-old body was slim and well-toned. She idly wondered if he would like to compare his gym facilities with hers.

  She had instructed the law firm Barrington and Hume, and she had the benefit of being represented by Mr Donald Barrington himself. And so she should, she thought, for the money she was paying.

  She stood and shook his hand, pleased that she could operate on his level as far as attire was concerned. His pinstriped Savile Row suit easily matched her Chanel sweater and Dior trousers. Drake Hall allowed prisoners to wear their own clothes.

  ‘How are you, Alexandra?’ he asked, trying his best not to look uncomfortable.

  Alex lowered her eyes. ‘Bearing up, Donald.’

  A little sympathy never hurt anything. She reached across and touched his hand lightly. ‘Thank you for putting me in touch with Melvyn Trotter. He’s very good.’

  Donald nodded as he placed his Asprey briefcase onto the table.

  Donald had recommended Melvyn Trotter, a private detective, and he had cost her a fortune, just like the man before her but, unlike Donald, Melvyn had already started providing results. Donald had yet to prove his worth and only an appeal followed by a ‘not guilty’ verdict would do that.

  ‘We have a trial date: nineteenth of November.’

  Alex hid the anger that coursed through her. Another six weeks in this damn place because of one simple error in judgement.

  It wasn’t that she couldn’t cope with incarceration – she could cope with anything – but she didn’t want to. She missed the three-storey Victorian house in Hagley. She missed her sporty BMW. She missed good food and occasional sex with good-looking strangers.

  ‘And what’s the plan?’ she challenged, wondering if he possessed any strategy at all.

  For her there was only one available option: ‘Not Guilty’ followed by immediate freedom and return to her previous life. She tucked the blonde hair behind her ear. It was longer than she liked but there was no way she was getting a prison trim.

  ‘We are all doing our best, Alexandra,’ he said, placating.

  ‘I would hope so, Donald.’ Though it didn’t look like he was breaking much of a sweat. And a strategy did not appear to be resting on the tip of his tongue.

  She considered the cost of the Queen’s Counsel defence. Her savings were taking a beating, but they would be easily replenished once her liberty and good name were restored.

  She would consider selling her beloved BMW Z4, but only if it became absolutely necessary.

  ‘You must realise, Alexandra, that the conclusion to this is not foregone.’

  Alex understood that and hoped he was not angling for extra money. The glare from the diamond encrusted cufflinks was hurting her eyes.

  ‘But you are the best, aren’t you, Donald?’

  He smiled in acknowledgement, showing perfect, gleaming teeth.

  ‘We have a couple of challenges ahead of us. The first is the fact that Ruth Willis will again testify against you. I can’t tell you how that hurts our case.’

  Ruth Willis had been a promising research subject in an experiment she’d planned since completing her PhD in Psychiatry.

  The boundaries of conscience had always fascinated her, not least because she didn’t have one. As a sociopath she was born without the ability to feel remorse, meaning she could commit any act and feel no guilt. It also meant she could not form any attachment to another living thing. She had learned very young that her feelings did not work the same way as normal people. She had access to the primal emotions but not the ‘higher’ ones. She would never feel or understand love in any form, and that was perfectly fine by her.

  She could easily cause some poor unsuspecting fool a lifetime of torment and feel not one moment of empathy. This shortcoming had not impeded her life in any way but she had become fascinated by people ruled by conscience. She had selected various patients to par
take in her experiment; they remained blissfully unaware.

  Ruth Willis had been her first. She was the victim of a brutal rape at the age of nineteen, and she had entered Alex’s sphere a few years later, following an attempted suicide upon discovering her attacker had been released.

  Alex worked with her for months, manipulating her emotions until finally taking her through a visualisation exercise that had resulted in Ruth following it to the letter and killing her attacker.

  Perfect, that was exactly what Alex had wanted her to do. She’d had no doubt that Ruth would commit the act. Her interest was more in how Ruth would feel afterwards, and the stupid bitch had still felt guilty. After the horror of his attack and the permanent impact he’d had on her life she’d still felt guilt for snuffing out his.

  The complexity of human emotion was a constant source of puzzlement and amusement to Alex.

  She already had a plan for Ruth.

  ‘What if Ruth Willis did not testify against me?’ Alex asked.

  Donald sighed in the face of the remaining challenges. ‘Even without Ms Willis we’ll still have the testimony of the detective inspector.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ she muttered.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She had known from day one that even the best legal team in the land couldn’t get her acquitted from a charge of conspiracy to commit murder. Even OJ’s team would have struggled, which was precisely why she’d taken out her own insurance. She’d been right to make her own plans. Her legal team had given up.

  She rose, thanked Donald and left the room.

  If her plan came together, as she hoped it would, Ruth would no longer be a problem and the inspector would be a gibbering wreck in Grantley, right alongside her mother. But not before she’d afforded herself some light entertainment at the woman’s expense.

  The first time they had come together Alex had been intrigued by the darkness that emanated from the police officer. It was a blackness that she had wanted to explore, to expose.

  And she had.

  She had already taken Detective Inspector Kimberly Stone to the edge of sanity once, and she was sure she could do it again.

  This time she knew exactly which buttons to press and how hard. She would not be distracted by her own fascination again.