‘Ruthee,’ said a voice from the door.
Ruth’s initial surprise was replaced with pleasure as Elenya tentatively entered Ruth’s cell, holding out a book.
The woman was two years younger than Ruth, hailed from a small town in Ukraine, and was serving three years for her part in an armed robbery with six members of her family. Like her, Elenya wanted to do her time and get out, unharmed. Only two weeks ago Elenya had admitted that she couldn’t read or write, and Ruth had agreed to teach her. Elenya was grasping the English language tremendously and, in truth, Ruth was enjoying teaching her.
‘Come on in,’ Ruth said, moving along the bed.
They sat together with their backs against the wall.
‘I finish chapter two on my alone,’ Elenya said.
‘On your own,’ Ruth corrected with a smile.
Elenya frowned. ‘Yes, I say that.’
Ruth motioned for her to open the book.
This was exactly what she needed to lift that uneasy feeling.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kim never minded the trips to the morgue. None of her fears lived here.
All she saw was the cold, hard metal and its simplicity. Of course, she understood the purpose of the facility but both she and the pathologist were doing the same thing. They were both seeking answers from Deanna Brightman. He was picking apart her body, and she was picking apart her life. They were both searching for clues.
Dawson was standing against the metal sink furthest away from the body around which Keats was moving deftly.
Although he nodded in her direction, Kim could see that he was a little miffed that Keats had called her to tell her about the hair when he had been the detective assigned to the post mortem. As a major development in the case, Kim would have been more than miffed if he hadn’t.
She understood Dawson’s hunger for responsibility, for his own investigation. She understood it because she had been filled with the same enthusiasm to prove herself. However, she had trusted her commanding officer to know when the time had been right.
She had yet to see if Dawson had the same trust in her.
‘Where’s your mini me?’ Kim asked Keats, looking around the space that hid nothing.
‘Sent out for coffee,’ Keats admitted.
‘To the canteen?’ Bryant asked.
‘No, sergeant, further. Much further.’
‘Bit of a pain?’ Bryant asked.
‘Very bright, very curious and very talkative. My silences don’t need filling.’
‘I hear you, Keats,’ she said. ‘Some of us work better alone.’
‘Ahem,’ Bryant interjected.
Kim smiled and ignored him. ‘What have you got?’
‘Stomach contents sent off to Toxicology. Not a lot in there, so she hadn’t eaten for a while.’
Kim knew the whole digestion process of food being broken down and reduced to a liquid pulp could take anywhere from twenty-two hours to two days. Normally only two hours were needed for food to pass from the stomach to the small intestine.
Fortunately, the stomach contents were not needed to assist with assigning a time of death as they already had a pretty accurate note of that. Keats would still send off the limited contents, along with ocular fluid, to reveal any drugs their victim may have ingested during the hours before her death.
So, wherever she had gone last night, it hadn’t been for food.
‘Recent sexual activity?’
‘Not obviously,’ he said, stepping towards a tray at the foot of the trolley.
‘This is what I thought you might like to see.’
She squinted at it and frowned.
‘Look closer. It’s in there.’
She took it from him and held it up to the light.
A single hair was contained within.
Finally, Dawson moved towards her and took a look. She was unsure if he’d been waiting for her to coax him out like one would do with a moody child. If so, he didn’t know her as well as he should have done.
‘With follicle?’ she asked Keats, hopefully.
He nodded.
They would be able to get a full DNA profile. The hair shaft alone did not contain nuclear DNA but it was often useful to police in cases of drug use. It acted as a secret diary and had tripped up many people professing abstinence.
‘Where was it?’
‘Just inside her cardigan.’
Kim felt the excitement start in her stomach. The hair was from someone who had managed to get pretty damn close to the woman. Now all they needed was a suspect.
‘Anything else?’ Kim asked.
He shook his head.
‘Relatively straightforward. Single stab wound, the measurements of which will be on the report you’ll get later today.’ He paused and peered over his glasses. ‘So, Inspector, looks like a pretty simple case for an officer of your calibre.’
Kim offered him a look before turning to leave. In her experience there was no such thing.
‘Oh, one last thing, Inspector. There were no hesitation wounds on the body at all.’
Kim paused at the door. Often such marks were found as the killer gathered courage for the fatal wound.
That told her their killer had not been nervous at all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Alex carefully placed the beaker of water on the bedside cabinet and clutched the two sachets of salt in her closed palm.
The lights went out.
Cassie put down her Sophie Kinsella novel and turned onto her back. With no real window to the outside world the cell was immersed in total darkness. But Alex knew Cassie’s movements by heart. She would now be staring at the ceiling willing her eyes to droop and discard this day.
‘You know, Alex, the closer something gets the more time seems to stand still,’ she murmured.
‘I know what you mean,’ Alex agreed, wishing the stupid cow would just go to sleep. Tonight was the night.
‘It’s like, I know I’m going to be with them in just a few days, but each hour is like a week.’
Alex smiled in the darkness. A person with a conscience might feel a touch of guilt for what was about to occur, but not her. She’d been lucky enough to have been born without such an encumbrance.
‘It’s really strange but this place has been the turning point I needed. I’m twenty-five years old and I’ve got a lot of life left to live. I’m clean now, and I can go home and finally take care of my children properly.’
‘Hmm,’ Alex murmured. Of course you can. Alex gently ripped the top of both sachets and emptied the salt into the water.
‘I’m sorry,’ Cassie said. ‘That was insensitive of me.’
‘It’s fine,’ Alex answered. ‘I’m happy that you have your children to go home to.’ She glanced towards where she knew her one photo was taped to the wall. She didn’t need light to recall that a handsome man and two fair-haired boys looked down on her. She could recall their features perfectly.
‘You never talk about them, do you?’
No, Alex didn’t talk about her husband and two sons. It was enough that the photograph did all the work for her. It was a beautiful photo of her family who had been killed in a car crash four years earlier. The story was heart-stoppingly sad. It was poignant that they had been on their way home from buying her a huge bouquet of flowers for Mother’s Day. It was poetic that the bouquet had been strewn across the bodies of her two dead sons. It was emotional that in her husband’s pocket was a locket engraved with their intertwined initials.
And it would have been all of these things had it been true. The photograph was from a catalogue, and she’d never been married in her life. The photograph had served her well in a previous life. It had adorned her desk, pointed subtly towards the chair that had been used by her patients. Family gave the perception of kindness, of stability. It had worked.
Alex shook her head in the darkness. ‘It’s still too painful.’
‘I’m so sorry, Alex. It must be terribly—’
‘
It’s fine, honestly,’ Alex interrupted. The pity in her voice was gratifying but also irritating. She just needed the gullible idiot to go to sleep.
There was another photograph that remained hidden inside the plastic cover of a paperback book. And that photograph did have meaning for her. It was of a little girl and a little boy: twins. And it would be the catalyst that would bring Kim back into her life.
She pushed that delicious thought away. For now, she had work to do.
Alex turned on her side, indicating that the conversation was over. She lay there counting and reached seven hundred before the slow rhythmic sound of Cassie’s breathing changed.
Alex slunk beneath the covers and retrieved her tool of choice: a paper weight, stolen from the library. She closed her hand around the object that was solid and heavy in her hand. She took a deep breath and counted. On three, she struck the paperweight into her right eye socket. The pain shot through her temple into her forehead and all through her nose. She gritted her teeth to prevent herself from making any sound. The initial impact subsided quickly and was followed by the immediate swelling around her eye. In a few minutes the bruising would already be starting to show. Perfect.
She slid her hand beneath the waistband of her pyjamas and rested to the right of her belly button. She pinched the skin between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed hard. She repeated the process in two other areas until the pain stung her eyes. Even in the darkness she could visualise the three red patches of flesh on her skin.
Slowly she sat up and turned so that her legs were over the side of the bed. She reached for the glass of water and quickly drank half. The result was immediate. She bent over and vomited on the floor.
Cassie stirred.
Alex repeated the process.
‘Alex, what’s wrong? Are you—’
‘Help!’ Alex screamed. She banged her fists on the door. ‘Someone please help me, quickly.’
Cassie shot up in bed, instantly awake. ‘Alex—?’
Alex banged and screamed.
‘Help, someone; please, get her off me.’
Cassie jumped out of bed. Alex heard Cassie’s foot slide in the vomit.
‘What the hell… ?’
‘Someone help… ’
Alex could feel the confusion emanating from her cellmate. She was barely awake, standing in a pool of vomit, with a crazy woman screaming for help. She had no clue what was going on.
She didn’t have long to wait for an explanation, Alex thought, as the sound of footsteps thundered along the corridor.
The door was thrust open by a red-faced plump officer named Beckett. The lights went on.
‘Jesus Christ, what happened?’ the second officer asked looking straight at Alex’s swollen eye.
Alex backed away from Cassie, who stood bewildered in the middle of the cell.
‘She just started attacking me for no reason. I was sleeping and I woke up and she was standing over my bed.’ As if the black eye was not enough Alex pushed down her pyjama bottoms. ‘She hit me so hard in the stomach I vomited.’
The guards looked from one to the other.
Cassie was shaking her head vigorously. ‘I didn’t, honestly, I swear I didn’t do anything. I was asleep and I heard—’
‘Please, you have to get me away from her. I’m terrified,’ Alex said, clasping her arms around her torso. ‘She’s gone mad. Please, just get me away from her.’
The plump guard touched her gently on the forearm and ushered her out of the cell. ‘Come with me, I’ll take you to medical.’
Alex allowed herself to be guided down the corridor. Twenty feet away from the cell Alex pulled her arm out of the grasp of the guard.
‘You people placed me in a cell with a fucking lunatic. My expensive lawyer is going to love this. Now, I want to see the warden, immediately.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dawson pulled in to the car park next to the pub and sat for a moment. The boss had dismissed them an hour earlier, after a quick catch up briefing. He had tried to hide the fact he was still smarting from Keats’s blatant undermining of his authority, or lack of it, during the post mortem.
Dawson knew he had never given the pathologist any reason to distrust him with the information but, as was the case with most people, they preferred to deal direct with the boss. Which was fine if he wanted an easy life, but he didn’t.
There were times he wondered if his boss trusted him. He knew there were days he irritated her by questioning everything, but if she really wanted him to stop she would have told him so. Objectively, he knew he was a pain. He could hear his own voice pushing when a decision had been made, and he often pissed himself off, but there were times he just didn’t agree with the decisions she made.
Stacey always seemed to be the golden girl. She always managed to uncover some kind of nugget in her data mining that pushed their cases along. He respected her abilities and he liked her well enough but sometimes he felt like the last kid to be picked for the football team.
Sometimes he wanted the boss to notice him.
Which was why he was back here at the pub hours after everyone else had gone home. Maybe there was someone from last night in again tonight. Someone who spent many nights in the pub.
He loosened his tie, even though it would make him look no less like a copper than if he’d walked in wearing his old uniform.
‘Hey mate, got a sec?’ he heard as he approached the door.
He turned to see a kid in his late teens or early twenties wearing an Adidas track suit. The lower half of the boy’s face was covered in acne. Dawson immediately felt his pain. He’d had the same problem. And he’d been fat.
‘Yeah, mate,’ he said.
‘Got a quote for the Dudley Star?’
Dawson looked him up and down. ‘You’re joking, right?’
He smiled cockily and offered his hand. ‘Bubba Jones, trainee crime reporter.’
Dawson ignored the hand. ‘Bloody hell, mate. Even Frost has more tact than that.’ He frowned. ‘And where is Frost?’
‘Chasing a story up in Manchester. You know her?’ he asked.
‘Oh yeah,’ Dawson said.
‘Isn’t she awesome? I’ve been shadowing her for a few weeks, since I left Uni.’
Dawson wasn’t sure ‘awesome’ would have been the first word out of his mouth to describe the reporter so he left it there.
‘Is Bubba your real name?’ he asked, frowning.
The kid shrugged with that ridiculous smile still plastered to his face. ‘It’s my pen name, and I think it’ll get me noticed.’
Dawson considered offering his opinion on that one and then decided against it.
‘So, you wanna chat or what?’
‘What,’ Dawson responded, trying to step past him.
‘Huh?’
Dawson couldn’t be bothered to explain. ‘I don’t want to chat; now get out of my way,’ he growled.
‘I could help you, man. Get the word out, maybe an appeal or—’
‘Get out of my way, mate,’ Dawson said, nudging him aside. He really didn’t have time for this stupidity.
He stepped into the bar and a wall of excited chatter. He had no doubt at the topic of conversation.
If there was something here, he’d find it. It was time to prove his boss wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kim took her cup and wandered into the garage. Barney followed closely behind.
She leaned against the countertop and surveyed the mess on the floor. Some people chose to unwind on a breezy autumn evening by sitting on the patio with a glass of wine while watching flowers or branches or something. Some people allowed the dusky birdsong to pull the grime of the day from their skin. She chose to stand in her garage and stare at an explosion of bike parts.
Thoughts of the case were spinning around in her head. Something about Deanna Brightman’s death was not making sense to her. She had seen murder victims with a single stab wound before. And every time there had been a
clear direction of travel for the investigation: a domestic violence situation, a drug deal, a gang-related incident, even a mugging or a fight. But this case didn’t slot nicely into any of those categories and it bothered her. There appeared to be no motive for killing Deanna Brightman at all. She shook her head as she remembered Kev’s relevant quip – ‘and yet she was dead’. The fact was inescapable. Somewhere there was a reason.
She sighed and walked around the bed sheet that was protecting the exhaust assembly from the concrete floor. She wanted to sink to her knees and lose herself amongst the uncomplicated chrome. But her gaze kept lifting to the wall that separated the garage from the kitchen and the drawer that still held the letter. For some inexplicable reason she had been unable to throw it away.
Part of her couldn’t help being curious about what was contained within the incendiary envelope, but her encounter with Alex had been placed into a box and stored in the recesses of her mind. Maybe the occasional question leaked out wondering just how close she’d come to losing her grip on sanity. And when it did she simply chased it away.
Opening that letter was more than opening a letter. It opened a gateway. Alexandra Thorne was safely in prison serving her time for the deaths she had engineered. And that was all Kim needed to know.
Feeling resolute she headed back to the kitchen and leafed through the post she’d picked up on her way in.
Nothing unusual – until she got to the last one. It was a plain brown window envelope with her name typewritten on it. But it was the postmark that held her attention. The envelope had travelled from Chester.
The only thing she had a connection to in Chester was the Grantley Care facility. A lovely name for the psychiatric unit that had held her bitch of a mother for the last twenty-eight years.
They had never written to her before.
A slight tremble entered her fingers as she turned the envelope around. There was a written instruction on her mother’s file that she was only to be contacted in the event of one thing – her mother’s death.
For some reason she had expected a phone call. She’d expected to hear from Lily – the woman she had spoken to for almost twenty years.
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