First Blood: A completely gripping mystery thriller (A Detective Kim Stone Novel)
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First Blood
A completely gripping mystery thriller
Angela Marsons
Books by Angela Marsons
Detective Kim Stone Series
1. SILENT SCREAM
2. EVIL GAMES
3. LOST GIRLS
4. PLAY DEAD
5. BLOOD LINES
6. DEAD SOULS
7. BROKEN BONES
8. DYING TRUTH
9. FATAL PROMISE
10. DEAD MEMORIES
11. CHILD’S PLAY
Other Books
DEAR MOTHER
THE FORGOTTEN WOMAN
Available in audio
The Detective Kim Stone series
1. SILENT SCREAM (Available in the UK and the US)
2. EVIL GAMES (Available in the UK and the US)
3. LOST GIRLS (Available in the UK and the US)
4. PLAY DEAD (Available in the UK and the US)
5. BLOOD LINES (Available in the UK and the US)
6. DEAD SOULS (Available in the UK and the US)
7. BROKEN BONES (Available in the UK and the US)
8. DYING TRUTH (Available in the UK and the US)
9. FATAL PROMISE (Available in the UK and the US)
10. DEAD MEMORIES (Available in the UK and the US)
11. CHILD’S PLAY (Available in the UK and the US)
Other Books
DEAR MOTHER (Available in the UK and the US )
THE FORGOTTEN WOMAN (Available in the UK and the US )
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
SILENT SCREAM
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Angela’s Email Sign-Up
Books by Angela Marsons
A Letter from Angela
EVIL GAMES
LOST GIRLS
PLAY DEAD
BLOOD LINES
DEAD SOULS
BROKEN BONES
DYING TRUTH
FATAL PROMISE
DEAD MEMORIES
CHILD’S PLAY
DEAR MOTHER
THE FORGOTTEN WOMAN
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to Amanda Nicol.
For all that you do.
Prologue
‘Are you scared yet?’ I ask, peering down into your soulless eyes.
You are prostrate and trapped. This time it’s you that is helpless.
If not for the gag in your mouth what would your last words be? I wonder. Would you beg for forgiveness? Would you plead for your life? Would you make promises? Would you apologise?
I bend down and remove the gag to satisfy my curiosity.
‘Let me go you fucking…’
I shove the gag back in. You are not in charge. You have absolutely nothing of interest to say to me. Of course there’s no remorse. That’s okay. It doesn’t change a thing if you’re sorry or not. Your fate remains the same. Your failure to feel anything other than for yourself makes my task so much sweeter.
Your expression mixes anger with fear.
‘Not so much fun on the other end, is it?’ I ask, enjoying myself. But I want to be sure I’m clear; that you understand.
‘Make no mistake, you are going to die,’ I say, waving the knife in front of your face to make my point. ‘And I’m going to make it hurt.’
I read your expression again and now there is only fear. Finally you believe me. Your eyes shift from side to side as your brain turns towards desperate self-preservation.
‘There’s nothing you can do. It’s too late,’ I say to put you out of this misery. I want your eyes full of fear. I don’t want you to have any hope for your own life. There is none.
‘It’s all about you, isn’t it? You care for no one but yourself and your own sick perversions. Well, now’s the time to pay for everything you’ve done and I know it all, my King. I know every bad thing you’ve ever done.’
The urine stain that appears at your crotch gives me pleasure.
‘You’ve pissed yourself,’ I laugh, waving the knife around your cock. Your weakness gives me strength. I am now satisfied that you have suffered. You’ve tasted the fear you’ve inflicted on others.
For me, that will have to do. It is time to end this.
I stand above you. I have taken all your power. Now I am bigger, stronger and in control.
‘Do you feel my power now?’ I ask.
You nod vigo
rously as though that will make a difference. You think you can appease me, identify with me, befriend me to save your own life.
‘Now you’re going to die.’
My fist tightens around the handle of the blade I’ve been holding. It is itching, almost to the point of a spasm, to carry out the wishes of my brain.
I bend down. My hate-filled face will be the last thing you ever see before you leave this earth for your final judgement.
I savour this triumph for just a second before I slice the knife across your throat.
There is horror. There is fear as the blood spurts from your body taking with it the light from your eyes.
I watch as the last signs of life depart. I feel peace as you gurgle your last breath. I feel cleansed.
You are dead. And that should be enough, but it isn’t.
What I’ve done already is for others, to save them pain and suffering, but the rest is just for me.
I grip the bloody knife with all my strength.
It’s time to get to work.
Chapter One
15th December 2014
The 7 a.m. winter darkness felt like the middle of the night as Detective Inspector Kim Stone dismounted the Kawasaki Ninja, removed her helmet and surveyed the concrete and brick building.
West Midlands Police, as the second largest force in England and Wales, was responsible for policing an area with almost two million, nine hundred thousand inhabitants and covered the cities of Birmingham, Coventry, Wolverhampton and her own patch in the Black Country. The area was divided into ten Local Policing Units. Dudley was the LPU under which Halesowen Police Station sat.
The three-storey structure offered a mixture of darkened windows and bright shining lights. The top floor remained the darkest. Just like every other station the brass resided at the top and most likely were not yet out of bed. It was similar throughout the borough. And she should know, she’d worked at most of them. A case here, a case there, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. Her most recent placement at West Bromwich had been shorter than most. She’d been seconded to work an armed robbery of a small greengrocer two streets away from The Hawthorns, the home of West Bromwich Albion Football Club, when the DI in charge had been struck down with a sudden case of peritonitis. The case had been two days old and witness statements had been confusing and lacking in detail.
With a team of one sergeant and three constables she had worked through the statements one by one and eventually established that not one witness had actually seen the perpetrator flee the scene, except for the son of the owner who had been on his way in to assist his father, and had offered them the only description they had. Male, approximately six feet tall, faded jeans, blue jacket and black balaclava.
In the absence of CCTV Kim had attended the scene and inspected the premises. The shop was on the end of a row of five shops with a narrow one-way street leading to a car park at the rear. A gate led from the car park back into the store. The owner’s son, Ricky, had accompanied her as she’d toured the premises and unlocked a small, damp, decommissioned outside toilet at the rear of the shop.
The toilet had been removed and the space filled with old racking, paint tins and a couple of chairs. She had taken a quick look around and turned to Ricky.
‘So, you saw the man and he was…’
‘About six feet tall, jeans, blue jacket and black balaclava.’
Kim rubbed her chin and nodded. ‘Anything like that black balaclava there?’ she asked, pointing to the corner of the space where the woollen item had been thrown, and forgotten.
His face had immediately contorted with guilt and the case had been solved. Opportunistic criminals had not honed their methods, learned their craft over time. They made mistakes, they forgot things. They were clumsy and nervous. And this nineteen-year-old had been refused the eight hundred quid to go partying in Ibiza with his mates, he’d admitted back at the station.
That evening DCI Worthington had insisted the whole team meet him at The Dog for a celebratory drink. She had attended but had not taken a drink. She never touched alcohol. Two hours later she’d been told she was off the team and to await her next placement.
The rest of the team had been surprised.
She had not.
And now she was about to meet her second DCI in as many weeks.
She used her fingers to ruffle her short black hair, flattened by the helmet. A quick look in the bike mirror confirmed that the fringe was resting untidily on her eyebrows without obscuring her dark brown eyes.
Let’s see how long this one lasts, she thought, stepping through the automatic doors of her newest work placement.
The first thing she noticed was the Christmas tree; a battered artificial affair with limbs missing and the remaining ones arranged haphazardly as though someone had become bored by the task. A few mismatched baubles and a one-line zigzag of tinsel arranged to cover the maximum area did not a festive vision make.
Not that she had any interest. Her own home had not turned up for school on the day they were giving out Christmas and that was just how she liked it. The season of goodwill and present giving did not appeal to her natural disposition.
‘DI Stone,’ she said, showing her ID to the desk sergeant.
‘Jack Whittle, Custody Sergeant,’ he said, offering his hand across the desk.
She ignored it.
And so, it began. New station, new people, new ground rules.
And unnecessary touching of other people was one of them.
‘DCI Woodward is expecting me,’ she said as the custody sergeant’s arm retracted to his side of the desk.
‘I’ll buzz you through,’ he said, nodding towards the key-coded automatic doors.
Kim remained where she was and said nothing. It was a three-storey building that she’d never been in before.
‘Top floor east corner,’ he offered, coolly, catching on quick.
Maybe Jack was going to be all right after all, tolerable for the duration of her stay. However short that was going to be.
She made her way along corridors and up staircases that were pretty much generic in all of the OCUs she’d worked, and one office of beaten-up mismatched furniture was no different to the next.
Except of course for Head Office at Lloyd House, in Birmingham. From what she’d seen it was furnished very nicely and was the benefactor of the hand-me-downs to the smaller stations.
She knocked on the door with the brass nameplate and forced herself to wait for instruction. Hating time-wasting she was always tempted to announce her arrival with a single knock and enter immediately. After all, he was expecting her and how many other meetings did he have planned for 7 a.m.?
She heard the instruction to enter and did so. It was her first day after all.
DCI Woodward stood and offered his hand.
She approached and shook it. His grip was dry and firm.
‘Welcome to Halesowen,’ he said, taking a seat and indicating she do the same.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, taking a moment to appreciate the brilliant whiteness of his shirt against the smooth, dark brown skin. Rimless reading glasses were perched on his nose.
A memorial photograph of a young man closely resembling the man behind the desk graced the wall.
She hadn’t heard a great deal about DCI Woodward before she’d been seconded and she hadn’t known if that was a good or bad thing. Was he lazy, unremarkable, perhaps treading water until retirement? She’d met all of the above. A bit of digging into his performance as a DCI had told her that his team satisfaction percentage rate was in the high seventies and his successful prosecution rate was in the mid-nineties. There were more statistics available but it was these two that interested her the most. He ran a decent team and put bad people behind bars. And yet she’d never seen this man on press conferences hogging the spotlight.
‘I thought it prudent to have a brief chat before putting you to work,’ he said, lacing his fingers together and resting them on the desk.
Here it comes, she thought, preparing to adopt the correct expression. It was time for the chat. If true to form of every other DCI there was very little chatting involved. It was a one-sided conversation where he laid down the law, told her how it was going to be and what he expected, a bit like how she remembered her first day at school. There would be no questions and no response required from her until the end when she would be expected to offer total acquiescence. There you go. Job done. She could get up and leave right now. She knew the drill. She’d listen, nod in the right places and then follow the rules she agreed with.