Dead Memories: An addictive and gripping crime thriller

by Angela Marsons

  He removed six pages from the folder and headed to the machine. And with roughly twenty-five entries per page he was looking at around 150 people who were on the list.

  And any one of them could have copied the key to the murder scene.

  Sixty-One

  ‘Guv, I like the Cotswolds as much as the next person but is there no way we could have just called?’ Bryant asked, as she put her phone back into her pocket. Her second message of the day from Frost who really wasn’t getting that this time around she’d been gagged by her boss and that she could not talk to the press.

  ‘I considered it,’ she said, as Bryant negotiated the traffic lights in Stow-on-the-Wold. They were just five miles away from Bourton-on-the-Water, and the home of a man she’d never met, a man she knew nothing about but who had taken the time to find out an awful lot about her.

  ‘Did he ever speak to you?’ Bryant asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I knew nothing about the book until I was about fifteen and a social worker mentioned it.’

  ‘You ever read it?’

  ‘Why would I? I was there,’ she answered.

  ‘I meant for accuracy. Weren’t you curious to know how much he’d got right?’

  She shook her head. ‘What would it have changed?’

  All she’d known was that the man was a reporter trying to make money off everything bad that had happened in her life.

  She hadn’t thought about him for years until, three years ago, when Alexandra Thorne had tried to glean everything she could from the man to try and weaken her. She’d considered confronting him but had ultimately decided that any trips back to her past would do nothing to change the fact he’d exploited her story for money and that she’d been powerless to stop it.

  ‘It’s a left here,’ Bryant said, turning into a single-track lane. Solitary properties were dotted on either side as they wound around a few tight bends that led to a row of stone cottages with a pull-in just beyond.

  ‘Middle one,’ Bryant said, as they got out of the car. A bicycle was propped up beneath the front window.

  She took a deep breath before knocking.

  The door was opened by a rotund man a couple of inches beneath her own five foot nine height, with a skirt of hair running around the back of his head from ear to ear.

  He wasn’t exactly what Kim had been expecting, and he didn’t have the word opportunist tattooed across his forehead.

  ‘Henry Reed?’

  ‘May I help you?’ he asked, pleasantly.

  ‘Hopefully, my name is Kim Stone and you—’

  She stopped speaking as he took a step back and all colour drained from his face.

  Yes, as she’d suspected. He’d never expected this day of reckoning. He’d never expected to be confronted by the damaged child he’d exploited to make a few quid. And right now, he had a hell of a lot of explaining to do. Oh yes, he was right to look scared.

  ‘Forgive me, my dear,’ he said moving back towards her. ‘But I’ve dreamt of this day for the last thirty years.’

  Sixty-Two

  Alison returned to her notes, trying to make sense of what she’d learned.

  Nowhere could she find any mention of a missing earring.

  She had learned many years ago about criminals being so enamoured of their own crime they took souvenirs from their victims. Often a piece of clothing or jewellery, an item easily detached from the person. It wasn’t always valuable or obvious items, but normally something the victim was wearing or had on them at the time.

  Sometimes the trophies were more gruesome.

  Ed Gein, a serial killer in the Fifties, had made furniture from human skin, bowls made of skulls, a corset made of a female torso, a belt made of nipples. Alex Mengel from New York kept the scalp of his victim. A Texas serial killer kept his victim’s eyeballs. Yellowstone killer, Stanley Dean Baker, kept finger bones.

  It didn’t matter what was taken, the motivation was always the same: to prolong the fantasy of the crime, and between crimes – often while targeting future victims – a serial killer pulls out their trophies to relive the crime over and over.

  The police had viewed the murder of Jennifer Townes as a crime of passion from the outset. A one-off attack by someone she knew. The taking of a trophy, a keepsake, went against that theory, but there was something else.

  The murder of Jennifer could have been an escalation. No serial killer wakes up one day and starts killing just like that. There is always a history.

  French serial killer, Michel Fourniret, only started killing after one of his rape victims reported him to the police.

  Some start by breaking and entering for valuables, realise one night there is a woman living alone, rapes her and then targets homes of women living alone. Escalation. Another could strangle one of his victims because she fought back and he enjoys it. Escalation.

  She knew from experience that an evolving serial killer is usually organised and demonstrates more maturity and confidence with each killing, learning and modifying his MO.

  A devolving serial killer is normally unorganised and totally controlled by his fantasy and his impulses. His crimes would become more and more erratic, without real purpose, and usually loses complete control over reality and his own actions.

  Her mind started to throw up possibilities, the most disturbing of which was that they had caught the killer as he was beginning to devolve: a dangerous time for any female crossing his path.

  She compared the two crime scenes. Jennifer had disappeared from the bar at the end of her shift. The killer had subdued her successfully late at night and taken her to an abandoned warehouse two miles from the club, where he had been able to brutalise and rape her for hours before she’d even been identified as missing.

  The abduction of Beverly had been around three hours earlier in the night. She had been dragged to an alley that ran behind a row of houses and was disturbed when a dog began to bark.

  Was he already unravelling and making impulsive mistakes?

  But given the fact she didn’t believe this was the act of a rejected lover who had then gone on to attack another woman she had to consider the killer had escalated.

  As a consultant for each police force she’d worked for she’d had no personal experience of the sharing database HOLMES and now HOLMES2 but she knew it was an information technology system for major incidents used by all UK forces.

  And it could help her find out if any similar incidents had been logged before.

  She had no access to the system, but she knew someone that did.

  She lifted her head.

  ‘Stacey, you got a minute, cos I really need your help?’

  Sixty-Three

  Stunned by his admission, Kim followed Henry Reed into a light and airy space that was clearly a few walls short of its original build. The remaining walls were formed of exposed grey stone. The lounge blended into the kitchen before curling around into the dining area with one door that she presumed led to a bathroom.

  The single chairs, small television and large bookcases told her everything she needed to know about how this man lived his life.

  ‘May I get you something to drink, a snack?…’

  ‘We’re fine,’ she said, still surprised at his admission upon answering the door.

  ‘A glass of water,’ Bryant said, shooting her a sideways glance.

  ‘Please sit,’ he said, pointing to a light beech table with a bench on either side.

  He took a bottled water from the fridge and poured it into a glass and added two slices of lemon.

  Kim hated her colleague right now.

  ‘You have no idea how long I’ve waited—’

  ‘Why did you write the book?’ Kim asked, cutting him off. It was important to her. This man wasn’t what she’d been expecting but it was a long time ago. Just because he didn’t appear ruthless and cold now didn’t mean he hadn’t been a complete bastard back then.

  ‘Did you write books on other damaged kids too?’
she asked, bitterly.

  He placed Bryant’s drink down with a trembling hand, his face a mask of shock.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he said.

  ‘Then please explain why you chose to exploit me?’

  His shock deepened. He shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ He took a breath. ‘Let me start from the beginning. I was there that day, at Hollytree. The day they found you both. I was twenty-eight and happened to be close by writing an article on the Halesowen cricket club. I was right behind the line. I saw your brother, that’s to say I saw the tiny body bag holding your brother.’

  Kim swallowed down the emotion that suddenly clogged her throat.

  ‘There were people whispering about your mother, about your father or lack of and about the two of you. My heart was already breaking. And then I saw you.’

  He shook his head and blinked rapidly.

  ‘You were brought out of the tower block, and I’ll never forget it. The silence. You were like a frail little rag doll. Thin and white with your black hair and dark eyes. The fear shone from you. You were six years old and you already knew you were completely alone. It was maybe four seconds until you disappeared from view into the ambulance but not one person spoke. Every gaze was on you. There were three photographers behind me that had jostled for position and you know something, not one of them took a photo.’

  ‘Go on,’ Kim said, eager to get past the memories they shared and onto his reasons for writing the book. She hadn’t even known the press was there.

  ‘We ran the story that night but it wasn’t enough. I wanted someone to blame, to be held accountable. Unfortunately, my editor didn’t feel the same way and before I knew it I had mounds of research, notes, interviews and no one who wanted to listen, but I couldn’t let you go. That face, that expression when you were brought out of that building just wouldn’t leave me. I couldn’t give up on you. I just felt enough people had already done that.’

  ‘So, you made money out of me instead?’ she asked, although the question didn’t feel right on her lips any more.

  ‘Oh no, quite the contrary. I never wanted to make a penny from your heartache and pain. I wanted people to remember you, to learn from the mistakes. I wrote the book and self-published it. There was no Amazon KDP back then. I paid to have the book printed, and there’s never been and never will be a penny profit from that book. As I said, it was designed to help people never forget.’

  ‘And you think writing that book helped me?’ she asked.

  ‘I like to think I played my part in holding someone accountable.’

  ‘But no one named in the book was ever…’

  ‘Not the book, my dear. I told you I wanted someone to pay. Well I was a reporter, a journalist with investigative skills that were not being used covering the sports pages of the Dudley Star. So, I remembered everything I’d ever learned, used my sources and my own spare time and proved that I could do something tangible to help.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’ she asked, confused.

  He met her gaze. ‘I went out and found your mother.’

  Sixty-Four

  If Symes was honest, he didn’t mind prison life as much as most folks. He didn’t much care about the loss of liberty or the structured day, being told what to do. Wasn’t that different from the Army, except for one crucial thing. He didn’t get to hurt people and call it a job.

  His tours of Afghanistan had been the best years of his life. No one understood life out there, no one understood seeing comrades exploding right beside you from IEDs, the fear of stepping onto a mine if you just went to take a piss.

  Frustrations built and grew, anger festered and poisoned until a village of unarmed civilians popped up like magic and served a purpose. An empathetic sergeant might look the other way as the soldiers did house-to-house checks. Rape had never been his thing. Now violence, causing physical harm, using his own hands to maim and damage was another thing entirely. And there’d always been someone he could find to use for that.

  The real prize had been those two nine-year-old girls who had been promised to him, but that Stone bitch had taken it away. Months of planning, dreaming, fantasising about tearing them apart limb by limb had been ruined by one interfering cow who was too intelligent for her own good. Too intelligent for any woman to be. And now it wasn’t their pain he dreamt about each night. It was hers. And that was his only issue with being inside. That it prevented him getting to her.

  For the slammer this place was no different to the other places he’d been since leaving the forces. This one had ten accommodation units formed from a mixture of four landing wings radiating from a centre point. The more recent additions were residential house blocks.

  He smirked as he remembered his first night inside. The guards had taken his fingerprints and personal details and then issued him with a pair of jeans, two tee shirts, two boxer shorts and a sweatshirt. Before his two-minute shower he’d been subjected to the naked body search. One officer in front and one behind as he’d bent over at the waist. Just to be sure he’d grabbed both arse cheeks and pulled so they got a good enough look. He’d been on A wing, most commonly known as Beirut, ever since. And that suited him fine. A lot of Stone’s enemies lived on A wing, and he’d been able to recruit them all. But his most loyal two were Preece and Lord who had also learned to play the prison system like him. They’d all found something that got them through the day.

  For him it was the gym he could access 365 days a year. His salvation and his church where he could spend hours building his strength all for one reason only.

  Despite being an educated man, Preece had enrolled in every fucking course going, and Kai Lord had decided to find God, which was equally ironic.

  ‘Here they come,’ Symes said, as Gennard approached with three guys trailing behind.

  ‘You the welcoming committee?’ the guard asked, opening the gate.

  ‘Yeah, got fucking bunting and everything,’ he said, staring at Birdy.

  ‘Well, play nice, fellas,’ Gennard said, locking the gate behind them.

  Symes nodded towards the two new guys. Lord ambled over and held out his hand. On admission prisoners had to choose between a smoking pack or a phone card. Didn’t matter much cos they didn’t hang on to either for long.

  ‘Good to see you again, Birdy,’ Symes said, placing his meaty palm on Birdy’s elbow. ‘Let’s you and me go and have a nice chat, eh?’ he said, guiding him into the third cell along.

  Lord and Preece followed him in.

  ‘Outside, boys. This is a private meeting.’

  They closed the door as Birdy began to back away. The space was nine foot square. He had nowhere to go.

  ‘You let me down, buddy,’ he spat, cracking his knuckles.

  Birdy ran his hand through his prematurely receding hairline. ‘I got her, man. Fucked her up real good. Gave her a beating she won’t forget in a—’

  ‘Cos you hated her, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, man. You know I fucking did. What she did to me was—’

  ‘She copped you for aggravated burglary and ABH, yeah? Your missus lost the house while you was inside? Your kids suffered. Your missus met someone else,’ Symes said, taking a minute to remind Birdy why he’d hated the slag. ‘Your bitch was sucking someone else’s cock while you were banged up in here?’

  ‘That’s why I did what you asked and gave her—’

  ‘When?’

  The bastard had only been out for ten days.

  Birdy started to relax. ‘About a week ago.’

  Symes tipped his head. ‘Strange, cos she was here the other day without a fucking scratch on her,’ Symes said.

  ‘Nah, man, can’t be. She—’

  The first punch hit Birdy square on the nose and knocked him backwards. Symes enjoyed the rush of pleasure that travelled straight from his knuckles to the part of him crying out for satisfaction. The sound of cracking bone offered him satisfaction, as the blood exploded from his nose.

  ‘You were
welcomed into my club, you fuck. You enjoyed the benefits and only had to do one fucking thing. You let me down, brother.’

  As he landed blow after blow, kick after kick, heard bones break and skin tear he wondered at some inmates’ need for a weapon to cause a bit of bodily harm. Where was the fun in that? he thought as he looked down at the quivering bloody and broken mess on the ground.

  Enough fun for now.

  Now it was down to business.

  And for that he did need a weapon.

  Sixty-Five

  Kim envied the long slow drink Bryant took from the glass of water. It felt as though he was doing it on her behalf following that admission about her mother.

  ‘Why you?’ Kim asked.

  ‘Because no one else seemed bothered. Once it came out your mother was mentally unwell everyone started worrying about covering their behinds to avoid being the reason for the breakdown in an inept system. Everyone was too busy trying to redirect the blame. Don’t get me wrong – the police had a half-hearted search, asked the neighbours some questions, but were easily diverted onto other cases needing their attention.’

  ‘But not you?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t even explain to you what drove me,’ he said, honestly. ‘But your face as you were carried out of the building never left my mind.’

  ‘So, how’d you find her?’ Kim asked.

  ‘Police didn’t ask the right neighbours the right questions. They focussed on the ones that lived closest thinking they’d know her and her movements the best. I’d already learned that what you need are the nosey neighbours. Wherever they live. The nosey neighbours don’t just observe and watch, they ask and talk, trying to find out everything about everyone. There was a man in his sixties, a widower, who made it his business to know everyone’s habits. And he knew quite a bit about your mother.’

  ‘Where was she?’ Kim asked trying to visualise where her mother was while she’d been in hospital fighting for her life.