‘So, Stone, why is it that practically no one wants to work with you?’ he asked, surprising her from the off.
Firstly, because it was a question that required an answer. Secondly because it was direct and thirdly because he hadn’t launched into an immediate lecture.
‘Sir, in all honesty, I’m probably not all that easy to get along with,’ she answered and saw the hint of a smile tug at his lips.
‘And why is that?’ he asked.
‘I’m not good with people. I don’t like them very much.’
‘All people?’
‘Most, so it’s safer to assume all and generalise.’
‘I see, so you take full responsibility for the fact that this is pretty much the last station that will take you?’
She thought for a moment and then recalled his own directness.
‘No, sir. I work hard and like to do a good job. I am direct and not everyone likes that, but I will not stop until I’ve exhausted every opportunity open to me. Not everyone likes my style, and I just didn’t feel it prudent to detail some of the knobs that I’ve worked for who also happen to be your contemporaries. Not on our first meeting anyway.’
He surprised her by throwing back his head and roaring with laughter.
‘There may be some I actually agree about but clearly that stays in this room.’
And she hadn’t expected that.
‘Talking of which, what exactly happened with you and DCI Worthington?’
She said nothing.
‘Some kind of communication issue, he cited as your reason for transfer?’ he pushed.
Kim thought back to the night of the celebration in The Dog. Her sudden movement of standing up at the table had sent a pint of bitter and half a bag of pork scratchings hurtling into his lap. He’d caught her outside and asked what the hell that had been about. She had told him that if she saw him patting one more female officer on the behind she’d put in a formal complaint against him herself. He had claimed it was just ‘banter’. Tipsy or not it wasn’t acceptable and the detective constable being pawed hadn’t looked like she was enjoying the ‘banter’ all that much.
‘Yes, sir. A communication issue is exactly what it was.’
‘So,’ he said, removing his glasses. ‘No big speeches but just to say I don’t judge you and you don’t judge me. And we’ll take it from there.’
‘Fair enough,’ Kim said, unsure if he was playing with her. It was the shortest, most direct welcome speech she’d had yet.
‘It’ll be a small team to start but you’ll have two DSs and a DC. Needless to say there’ll be other resources available but today I’d like you to focus on getting to know your colleagues, their strengths and weaknesses and then I’ll move some cases around to give you something to get your teeth into.’
A whole day getting to know folks she wouldn’t work with for very long? She’d worked in her last team for four months and still didn’t know everyone’s name.
Seemed like a waste of a day to her.
‘Sir, to be honest, I’d rather just get stuck in to…’
‘I’m sure you would, Stone, and I’d rather we just did it my way.’
She nodded her agreement while thinking that once she and the team had introduced themselves she’d put the feelers out with Despatch for any active cases.
‘Any clues on who or what I’m getting?’ she asked, standing.
He shook his head. ‘I’ll leave you to sort that out yourself. The CID office is on the second floor next to the general admin office. I suggest you head there and await the arrival of your team.’
Chapter Two
DCI Woodward let out a breath as the door closed behind her.
She hadn’t recognised him and he hadn’t realistically expected her to. It had been a long time since their last meeting. But he’d remembered every second of it.
He’d heard much about the detective inspector from all of his fellow DCIs. He hadn’t bothered to mention to her the two condolence cards he’d received that were in his drawer.
He’d been fully briefed about her bloody-mindedness, her lack of social skills, her inability to work well with others. He’d heard about the complaints that had been received about her manner. He knew there were times when she broke the rules without breaking the law but sailing close to the line.
He had read her personnel file cover to cover. Followed her journey since their meeting all those years ago. He’d read about every slap on the wrist, just as he’d read about every case she’d worked and her impeccable success rate.
He also had a rough idea about what had happened between her and Samuel Worthington. He knew the man. He’d trained with him years ago and had felt back then that he was a sexist, chauvinistic oaf with little room for improvement. How he’d survived in the changing diverse landscape of the police, he was unsure although even he knew that the political correctness training and directives were white noise to some officers. Something had occurred between them and yet she’d chosen to keep it to herself. He felt the seed of respect being sewn somewhere in his mind.
He thought again about the sympathy cards in his drawer from her former bosses who felt he’d been lumbered with the force’s problem child, when that hadn’t been the case at all. He had actually requested that the unmanageable, rule-bending, taciturn officer be allowed to join his team.
And for better or for worse that’s what he’d got.
Chapter Three
DS Bryant checked his reflection in the mirror. His customary dark suit and light blue tie with white shirt looked back at him.
Only yesterday his wife, Jenny, had said that he was starting to remind her of Bradley Walsh, the guy who presented that Chaser programme or something.
He’d started to argue with her until she’d told him with a wink that she quite fancied Bradley Walsh. He hadn’t been sure how to take that until she’d convinced him that she only had eyes for him. And after almost a quarter century together, he’d take that.
He removed the tie. The damn thing was refusing to knot properly.
‘It was fine,’ Jenny said, startling him. He hadn’t realised she was awake but she was sitting up in bed, her knees bent, watching him.
‘And it was also fine the three times before. What’s wrong?’
‘Ah, just new boss, that’s all,’ he said, snaking the tie beneath his collar again.
‘You met her before?’ Jenny asked.
He shook his head.
‘It’s not because she’s a…’
He turned away from the mirror before she’d even finished the sentence and offered her a look. ‘You really have to ask that?’
She bobbed out her tongue to show she was joking, and he turned back to the mirror.
‘I’ve worked for women and I’ve worked for people younger than me before. She just happens to be both. That doesn’t bother me.’
As both a police officer and as a detective he’d witnessed the horrors that people could inflict upon each other. He understood the coping mechanisms employed by some of his colleagues: drink, drugs, adultery; all of the above. In fact, anything to distract the brain from the images it held on to. He understood that the need for a crutch came from the absence of balance. Every crime scene was horrific, every crime he dealt with had a victim: loved ones, grief, despair, anger, hatred, death. Every case was a negative. Few police officers were called to investigate a cake bake. It reminded him of the Samaritans’ helpline. You were never gonna get a call from someone telling you how great their day had been.
His own crutch had been thirty cigarettes a day. Stressful situations had been followed by a few hits of nicotine which had helped relax him and bring him back to normal. He had known the cigarettes weren’t really relaxing him, just deadening his muscles in response to the poisons he was ingesting but it had felt good while he’d been doing it. Until after one chest infection too many, when the doctor had told him he was in danger of shortening his life by ten to fifteen years if he didn’t s
top.
The thought of missing those years from the life of his nineteen-year-old daughter had prompted him to buy every patch and gum pack available. The sudden chest infection that had knocked him off his feet for three weeks had shown him just how poor his lungs were. He had eventually returned to work with the help of Menthol Lyptus extra strong sweets and had been trying to kick them ever since. But he was almost two years smoke free so the addiction to sweets he could live with.
Only thing was, since quitting he’d worked hard not to voluntarily place himself in stressful situations that might have him reaching once again for the smokes.
Attending crime scenes and interviewing witnesses were unavoidable but he tried to keep his working relationships easy-going, pleasant and without conflict.
And from what he’d heard about his new boss, that was likely to be nigh on impossible.
‘So, what have you heard?’ Jenny asked, as though she’d travelled along his entire thought process with him.
Always knowing his thoughts was one of the many things he loved about her. As was her insistence on forcing him to speak those thoughts so he could hear the words outside of his head.
‘That she’s difficult, arrogant, rude, hates working with anyone for too long.’
‘Well, if she is all those things it may be good that she’ll want to move on quickly.’
‘If?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely. If you’ve never worked with her, you can’t possibly know if these rumours are true. Remember when we went…’
‘To Marbella,’ he finished for her. ‘Yes, I remember. Bill and Helen told us it was bloody awful and reeled off everything they’d hated, making us wish we’d never booked the damn holiday until we got there and loved it.’
‘Am I that predictable?’ she asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
‘No, it’s the thing you always quote when you’re trying to tell me not to take other people’s opinions as my own.’
‘Then my work here is done,’ she said, dusting off her hands and getting out of bed.
She stood in front of him and straightened his tie. He didn’t bother to resist the urge to lean down and kiss the top of her head.
‘And beautiful,’ he said. ‘She’s apparently very good-looking.’
Jenny shrugged and tapped the knot of his tie. ‘There you go. Perfect.’
‘You’re not even a bit threatened, are you?’ he asked.
She shook her head and smiled up at him.
‘I love you,’ he said and meant it.
‘And, that’s why I’m not threatened,’ she said, moving away but tapping his behind. She paused at the bathroom doorway. ‘So, you okay about this then? There’s nothing else bothering you? It’s got nothing to do with the other thing?’ she asked.
He shook his head and felt the tension seep into his jaw.
Right now he didn’t even want to think about the other thing.
Chapter Four
It is time to take out the book.
The book.
I both love and hate this fucking book. I hated it as a child. I feared it as a child. But now it guides me and tells me what must be done.
The first three pages bear straight black lines, shooting diagonally from corner to corner. They are done.
I turn to page 4 with the pen in my hand and realise I can’t mark it complete quite yet. Should I do a part line, halfway across the page until I complete this task?
I sit back, pondering, giving myself a minute to relive the memory of your death. I smile. I enjoyed every second of your demise.
Each one soothes another layer of my pain.
You got into my car so easily, you stupid bastard, because you thought I was just like you. You were tempted by my promises of the freedom to satisfy your disgusting pleasures. You didn’t know me but I knew you. You see, I’ve listened. I always listen, it’s what I do and I know everything you ever did.
I made you piss yourself, King Louis. A bonus, an added pleasure and a true exhibition of terror. You could not have gratified me more; the stench of the urine as it seeped through your clothes was like the aroma of a sweet summer flower to me. Because it stank of your fear.
You see, that’s exactly what I was after, you bastard. It’s your fear I wanted. It feeds my soul. It satisfies me. It’s what I crave and so far you’re the only one to exceed my expectations.
How did it feel, King Louis, given your own reign of terror?
I wish I could have felt your distress but I have felt plenty enough of my own. And now no one will fear you ever again.
My thoughts are now tired of you and return to the page. I hate that I cannot put a line through and mark it complete. The King is dead but the Queen still lives.
My gaze catches a few words from the page and I cannot help the tears that spring to my eyes.
I brush them away. Those emotions are no good to me. They didn’t help me then and they don’t help me now.
Rage is better. Blind fury gets the job done and there is still so much to do.
But it’s too late to stop that damn memory seeping into my brain.
A soft, cajoling voice that says,
‘Go on, it’s time to fetch the book.’
Chapter Five
Detective Sergeant Kevin Dawson opened one eye and employed every sense he could locate before fully emerging from the cocoon of sleep.
Where the hell was he this morning?
Okay, there was no sheet beneath him, his legs were bent and the fabric of the sofa was velour, green velour.
The single pillow beneath his head had a faint smell of Chinese takeaway.
Terry’s flat, he realised, as the man himself came through the door from the kitchen with a mug of something.
He smiled gratefully, not even sure what the liquid was.
‘Cheers, mate,’ he said, inhaling the aroma of strong black coffee. He took a sip. Too bloody strong. ‘Where’d we end up last night?’ he asked, looking around for his stuff.
‘Where didn’t we?’ Terry asked. ‘After your fourth pint, I couldn’t get you to listen to a word I was saying. You had a skinful.’
Dawson remembered telling his friend that he only wanted to go for a couple, just to take the edge off his misery, and to calm down his anger.
At many things.
Not least that he’d been pulled from a big team in Brierley Hill to work in a smaller team, in a smaller station with the biggest bitch in the force. He had the unnerving feeling of sitting facing forward but moving backwards, like being on a train. And forward movement was the only thing he was interested in.
Not that he’d ever met her but he’d heard the stories, knew she couldn’t work with anyone for longer than a case or two. She’d been moved around the borough more often than the five-a-side football trophy. As far as he was concerned, there was no smoke without fire.
And besides, he’d been happy in his old team. Yeah, fair enough they weren’t what you’d call over friendly and he hadn’t made any lifelong friends, but sometimes being in a bigger team worked for him. Never too much attention on one person. Some days, like today, when you were a bit hungover you could let the others pick up your slack a bit and the boss was none the wiser. And DCI Church had been an okay guy to work for. Dawson felt the guy would have been a decent bet for putting him in for the DI exam if he’d had the chance to work on him a bit longer. He’d already started laying the groundwork to shine in the boss’s eyes, much to the irritation of his colleagues, but he’d had no problem taking credit for others’ work now and again or throwing his hand up enthusiastically for a task, to get noticed for his keenness before quietly delegating the job to a meek and unsuspecting detective constable. It was survival of the fittest and he fully intended to survive.
He’d worked out how to play every single one of his bosses so far and he didn’t intend to stop now, he decided, trying to cheer himself up. All he had to do was watch her, analyse her weaknesses and play up to them.
�
�What you smiling about?’ Terry asked, removing the pillow from behind him. ‘You were a right grumpy bastard last night.’
‘Ah nothing, I’m just forming a plan.’
‘Well, mate, I hope that plan includes finding somewhere to stay tonight cos Louise is off nights and she ain’t gonna be chuffed with finding you on the sofa when she comes down for her cornflakes.’
‘Ah, shit, Terry, I’ve got nowhere to…’
‘Sorry, mate, but unlike you she pays half the rent and like err… lives here.’
Dawson ran his hand through his hair wondering which mate he could tap up for a bed tonight.
Terry sat in the single chair and shook his head.
‘Beats me why you can’t go home, mate. I’ve seen your missus and she is one tasty…’
‘Hey,’ Dawson warned.
‘You know what I mean. Whatever has gone on between you two can be worked out, surely. She’s bloody worth it.’
Dawson said nothing as he pulled on his socks and his shoes.
He couldn’t think about that situation right now.
It was time to get to work and meet his new boss.
And he couldn’t fucking wait.
Chapter Six
Detective Constable Stacey Wood smoothed her hand over the tight black curls lying close to her head, enjoying the feel of her own hair against the palm of her hand.
Her last weave had recently been taken out and she was glad to see the back of it. Only two weeks in it had been clear that the hair had been sewn in too tightly causing pain and discomfort to her scalp. She’d stick with her own hair and wear it proudly for now.
First Blood: A completely gripping mystery thriller (A Detective Kim Stone Novel) Page 2