Dead Memories: An addictive and gripping crime thriller

by Angela Marsons

  Penn idly wondered if any of the services had ever been used.

  ‘Did the argument get physical?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe a bit of pushing and shoving,’ he said, getting more comfortable in what he was saying.

  The best lies were based on truth, Penn knew.

  ‘Only we heard that he punched you and gave you a black eye,’ Penn said, without changing his tone.

  Tie fiddle.

  Headshake.

  ‘Absolutely not, Sergeant. His hand may have caught the side of my face as he was gesturing but it was purely accidental, I’m sure.’

  ‘Which is why you didn’t report him?’ Penn offered amiably.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said, eagerly, and Penn could see the man thought he had the upper hand with this conversation.

  ‘Kids have got enough trouble without stuff like that. They live life on the edge, no home, no idea where the next meal is coming from, no security. Their emotions live very close to the surface and I didn’t want to spoil things for them.’

  Penn mumbled his understanding. ‘Yes, so, it must be terrible when you start to hear there are rumours, especially when you’re doing everything you can to—’

  ‘Rumours about what, Sergeant?’

  ‘Oh nothing, it’s just something we heard about—’

  ‘Well, if it concerns me then I’d certainly like to know what it is.’

  The fact that the man couldn’t let him finish a sentence in his eagerness to find out, and the forced tone of righteousness, gave away his nerves and knowledge of what was coming.

  ‘I’m sure it comes with the territory but there are people that say you offer the women that come here extra help for sexual favours.’

  Penn would have bet his car the man’s right hand was going to touch the tie knot again. And he would have won.

  ‘Oh, that is ridiculous,’ he blustered with indignation. ‘Why the devil…’

  ‘Why indeed?’ Penn agreed. ‘But, obviously, we have no proof of—’

  ‘Obviously,’ he repeated. ‘Because it’s completely untrue.’

  ‘So, what else can you tell me about the two of them?’ Penn asked. The man would speak more freely if he did not feel under threat.

  ‘Some saw the pair of them as ungrateful if you want the truth, myself included.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Amy was a perfect candidate for the sponsor a room project. She came off the drugs and she was placed in a studio above a Chinese takeaway in Lye, but she lost it.’

  ‘Why?’ Penn asked.

  ‘She couldn’t abide by the rules. She wasn’t allowed male visitors, and of course she sneaked Mark in more than once. She got found out and had to leave.’

  ‘Shame,’ Penn observed.

  ‘Thousands of other girls just waiting to take her place,’ he offered coolly.

  Penn couldn’t help the jolt of sympathy inside. Sounded to him as though the kids had just wanted to be together.

  Penn remembered something he’d said earlier. ‘You said you didn’t want to report Mark for fear of spoiling something for them. Spoil what?’

  ‘They’d met some kind of outreach worker who was trying to help get them off the street. Not sure they deserved it but it looked like they were on their way to getting what they wanted.’

  Penn thought about the behaviour of the pair around the supermarket; the flowers.

  ‘Mr Jenks, in your opinion, what did Mark and Amy want more than anything?’

  ‘If I had to pin it down I’d say the one thing they wanted beyond all else was a home.’

  Fifty-Four

  ‘Hang on,’ Kim said, frustrated, ‘did I kill your sister, or not?’

  They had followed a grinning giant through a poky hallway to a white Formica kitchen at the back. A can of cider was already open sitting between a pizza box and a tube of Pringles.

  And now, Kim wanted answers.

  ‘My sister wasn’t murdered. I ain’t even got no sister,’ he said, taking a swig of cider.

  Kim waited for an explanation.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘Folks been wanting to fight me my whole life. School, pubs, clubs, chippy – always someone who wants to try it.’

  ‘You can look after yourself, surely?’ Bryant asked, voicing her thoughts.

  ‘Duh, yeah,’ he said. ‘But who the fuck always gets the blame, eh? It ain’t the fucking little squirt on a dare or the guy dumped by his missus with a point to prove. It’s the angry big guy. And prison is full of dicks just wanting to prove themselves.’

  ‘So, you joined the hate club?’ Kim asked, as the dog, an Irish setter entered the kitchen and jumped up on the worktop.

  ‘Down, Mofo,’ he barked, rubbing the dirty spot on the counter with his tee shirt.

  Kim wasn’t sure of a man who named his dog Motherfucker but showed concern for dirty paws.

  ‘Cos of Symes,’ he continued. ‘He is one nasty, sick puppy and no one in there will cross him, so if you’re in his little hate club, you’re safe.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Kim said.

  ‘Oh yeah, and boy does he hate you,’ Duggar said, grinning as though it was all some kind of joke.

  ‘So, how’d it work?’ Bryant asked. ‘You put some kind of sign on your back to get picked?’

  ‘Nah, I’m guessing you ain’t never been inside, so I’ll spell it out for yer,’ he said, throwing away the empty can and reaching for another. ‘You get in there and suss out the hard man. Not hard to do in this case cos even most of the guards are frightened of him. You ask who to steer clear of, you get a name and you know that’s your guy. Then you watch for a bit to work out what you gotta do to get on his good side. Give ’em your dinner, batter a guard, rape a newbie.’

  Kim was chilled by the cold, matter-of-fact way he reeled off the horrific acts needed to get protection.

  ‘And all I had to do to get in was pretend I hated you. Easy. And two months later, guess what. I really did.’

  ‘But we’ve never met,’ Kim said.

  He shrugged and swigged. ‘Trust me, he’s got a real powerful argument.’

  ‘You got any names for me?’ Kim asked.

  He laughed out loud and she would swear it rocked the house.

  ‘If you knew Symes, you wouldn’t even ask that. Look, what that guy does is take your anger and turn it into hate. He massages it, feeds it, strokes it and makes it the object of every negative emotion you have. I was ready to kill you and you ain’t even done anything to me.’

  He paused and debated something for a second. ‘Listen, you gotta get this so I’m gonna share something. Guy you put away for two armed robberies in Gornal. Stain or something…’

  ‘Peter Staines,’ Kim corrected.

  ‘Yeah, him. He was recruited two days after he landed. Didn’t read the memo about keeping your trap shut. Admitted he’d never considered hurting you and that he was just pissed at you for catching him.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Fucking idiot.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Safe to say his butt crack opened up like the Grand Canyon once Symes and his—’

  ‘So, if I wanted to find out if he’s behind something I need to look at all his cronies inside who I’ve helped put away.’

  He observed her for a minute. ‘You don’t get it, do you? It’s not only inside the prison. He gets quite the pile of fan mail, you know?’

  ‘You’re joking?’ Bryant asked.

  He swigged and shook his head. ‘Even one-eyed monsters have their appeal. He gets plenty attention through the “email a prisoner” scheme.’

  ‘All genuine nutcases?’ she asked.

  He shrugged.

  Kim clicked. ‘You saying he keeps in touch with people who have left through this system?’

  He shrugged again and sighed. ‘You gotta understand that his every waking thought is dedicated to you. He eats, sleeps and exercises to stay in shape for you. Everything is about aiming hatred towards you.’

  ‘Got it,’ Kim s
aid, feeling that chill again despite the heat.

  ‘But surely not everyone is manipulated by Symes?’ she asked. ‘I know you won’t give me names but, say, someone like Dale Preece.’

  Duggar hesitated before nodding. ‘Yeah, he’s in the club.’

  She frowned not quite believing the man’s admission.

  ‘And make no mistake, Inspector, cos he hates you almost as much as Symes does.’

  Fifty-Five

  By twelve thirty Stacey had had enough. Since returning from her urgent errand she’d seen the woman across the office chow down a breakfast bar, not bad. An apple, quite good. A bag of Maltesers, questionable, two cakes from Penn’s Tupperware box and was now munching through a chicken and sweetcorn sandwich from the canteen.

  Stacey had treated herself to her special cake from Jasper and then had a plain egg salad to compensate.

  ‘Alison, are you part hobbit?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, from what I saw on the films they have breakfast, mid-morning snack, pre-lunch, lunch…’

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m just lucky, I suppose. I always get ravenous when I’m desk-bound.’

  ‘You must spend hours at the gym,’ Stacy said, hopefully.

  Alison hesitated. ‘If it makes you feel better, yes,’ she answered.

  Just one more reason not to like you, Stacey thought, turning back to her screen.

  She’d started researching Bill and Helen Phelps, which was not rocking her world one little bit.

  Google had turned up absolutely no results for anything. No social media activity, which wasn’t too strange but not a lot of help at all.

  He was a bank manager who retired at fifty-five, and Helen had managed a florist shop which she’d left when her husband had retired.

  They’d spent a few years travelling on a boat but health problems with Bill had brought them back home. Stacey could find no good reason for their murder unless it was punishment for being too nice, too ordinary, too average. But surely too average didn’t get you killed.

  She followed her own protocols and put Bill’s name into the system while laughing to herself. Yeah, like there was going to be anything from that.

  And she got a hit.

  She sat forward in her chair.

  A neighbour dispute to which the police had been called. Mr Phelps had struck his neighbour over an ongoing issue with a wheelie bin.

  Laughable as it was Stacey felt a stirring in her stomach at the possibility of conflict. And then she read further down where the two men had been encouraged to avoid charges, court and shake hands. And they’d agreed. Nothing further had occurred in the five years since.

  Stacey read it again just in case she’d missed the involvement of anyone else in ‘bingate’ and her brain registered a sentence that she hadn’t noticed before.

  Mr Phelps was eventually restrained by his twenty-two-year-old son.

  Which begged the question: where the hell was the Phelps’ son?

  Fifty-Six

  ‘Hey, wonder if Keats wants to join the fan club that Symes has got going,’ Bryant said, as they got out of the car at Russells Hall.

  ‘You think this is funny?’ she asked, glancing at him sideways.

  ‘No, I think it’s tragic, creepy and frightening. I think you should be removed from the case and placed into protective custody under armed guard until this lunatic is caught, but seeing as neither you nor Woody agrees with me I’ll just have to save my breath,’ he said, as they entered the building.

  ‘We don’t agree because no one has threatened my life. No one is trying to actually kill—’

  ‘Yet,’ Bryant reminded her. ‘We have no idea what this psycho is going to do next.’

  Kim shook her head in disagreement and walked silently to the morgue, steeling herself for what she was about to see.

  ‘Hey, Keats,’ she said, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on his face as she entered.

  He said nothing for a few seconds.

  ‘I’m sorry but I was waiting for the witty rejoinder that normally accompanies a greeting from you. Scriptwriter on holiday?’

  She ignored him and headed to stand beneath the air con unit. Keats kept it a constant 16 degrees which suited her just fine.

  She watched the pathologist shoot a questioning glance at Bryant, who shrugged in response.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know the burnt-out vehicle has been released to Forensics, who have their fire investigators on it right now.’

  ‘Will they be able to identify the cause of the fire?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘Hard to say but I’m pretty sure they’ll be able to rule out engine faults resulting in spontaneous combustion.’

  Even though she had not yet looked directly at the forms on the metal dishes, she knew that unlike normal dead bodies the sheets did not cover the flat prostrate form. The covering was high, tented, as though there were kids playing underneath.

  ‘Okay, let’s begin,’ Keats said, removing the first sheet.

  Kim tried to swallow down the nausea as the burnt figure was revealed. The blackened form was resting on its side as though in the foetal position with knees bent but with a straight back. Kim knew that the heat caused the muscles to dry out and contract making the limbs move and adopt postures. Had the figure been upright it would have appeared to be still sitting on the car seat.

  ‘What’s that?’ Kim asked, moving closer and pointing to the chest area at a piece of fabric unlike the strips of material that remained from the clothing.

  Keats looked over his glasses. ‘I’d guess it’s a section of seat belt.’

  ‘Welded to the skin?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll take a sample for analysis and confirm—’

  ‘So, they were still wearing seat belts?’ Kim asked, turning to her colleague, who looked as dumbfounded as she was.

  ‘And still in a normal seated position?’ she said, thinking aloud.

  ‘Appears so,’ Keats answered, although there was no need.

  ‘Why?’ Bryant asked, catching up with her thoughts.

  ‘Why what?’ Keats asked.

  ‘If the car is on fire, don’t you make some kind of effort to get out?’ she asked. ‘Surely there’s time to move a bit, at the very least unbuckle your seat belt?’

  ‘Not my job to work that one out, Inspector, but taking a closer look at this poor soul is,’ he said, moving her away from the table.

  ‘As you know, a human limb burns not unlike a tree branch,’ Keats said. ‘The outer layers of skin fry and begin to peel off as the flames work across the surface. After about five minutes, the thicker dermal layer of skin shrinks and begins to split, allowing the underlying yellow fat to leak out. Body fat can make a good fuel but needs clothing or charred wood to act as a wick. The wick absorbs the fat and pulls it into the flame where it is vaporised, enabling—’

  ‘How long until they died?’ Kim asked, licking her dry lips.

  ‘Difficult to say exactly. The body can sustain its own fire for around seven hours…’

  ‘I know that, Keats,’ she snapped. ‘I’m talking about these bodies and how long they suffered.’

  She’d seen burnt bodies before but what she wanted to know was how long this poor couple withstood horrific pain.

  ‘Minutes,’ he answered. ‘They would most certainly have died from smoke inhalation in such a confined space.’ He paused to touch the body on the left. ‘And this is the female, who we suspect to be Helen Phelps,’ he said.

  Kim switched from avoiding the sight to being unable to tear her eyes away.

  A lock of blonde hair protruded from the blackened skull, over a space where the ear should have been and alongside the cheekbone supporting an expression of horror moulded permanently by the flames.

  Erica’s hair had been blonde.

  Was this how her foster mother had looked after the car accident on the journey home from trying to adopt her?

  She hadn’t been allowe
d to attend the funeral; cut off by Erica’s sister who had never been an aunt to her despite her three years with the couple.

  But she couldn’t comprehend sweet gentle Erica ever looking like this. She could only visualise the warm, tolerant, reassuring smile as she’d waited patiently for the first three months for Kim to even speak.

  She could visualise that same lock of hair being tucked behind her ear as she leaned down to leave the hot chocolate on the bedside cabinet every night.

  She could feel the emotion gathering in her throat and had to bring herself back to the present, which was no more an attractive place to be.

  She knew that Keats was speaking and that Bryant was acknowledging those words but only one thing was filling her mind. She had avoided giving much thought to the way they had died, only that they had. Enduring the pain of their loss had been enough without visualising how the agony of the event itself. She wasn’t sure she could have borne it.

  And this was how they had lost their lives. Trapped in a car, burnt beyond recognition. Hot flames lapping at their skin. Dear sweet and gentle Erica and Keith had suffered and died like this.

  Kim turned and ran from the room.

  Fifty-Seven

  Penn arrived on the Hollytree estate around one fifteen and held no compunction of leaving his car unattended.

  Nine-year-old Ford Fiestas didn’t have a high street value, even for parts.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like fast showy cars. Yeah, he’d fantasised about a Lamborghini or a Ferrari or an Aston Martin and these days you could get one if you were prepared to give up your entire salary for the monthly payment and even that wasn’t the reason he didn’t hanker after one. He didn’t want a car he had to worry about. He didn’t want a car that he couldn’t leave anywhere for fear of vandalism or theft. His Fiesta got him around fine and no one else wanted it.

  He immediately saw that the Forensics cordon had been moved back, but he wasn’t here for that. He knew any developments in that area would be communicated to the boss immediately.