Broken Bones: A gripping serial killer thriller (Detective Kim Stone Crime Thriller Series Book 7)

by Angela Marsons

  ‘And what does that “management fee” include, Mr Lord?’

  ‘Introductions to clients, of course.’

  ‘And your clients are risk assessed, are they?’

  Kim knew that there were pimps out there that did take reasonable care of their girls. Clients were vetted and conditions were imposed. But Kai Lord was not one of those people.

  ‘I have never used force, officer.’

  Kim thought that was probably true. Entrapment, however, was a whole different story.

  ‘And are you quite so diligent in vetting clients for girls who are desperate to pay you off?’

  ‘Kelly was aware of the risk involved and if she chose to be out on a night…’

  ‘You know she was just trying to pay you off as quickly as she could,’ Kim said.

  ‘A colleague’s motivation is not my concern.’

  Of course it wasn’t his concern, it was his insurance. The more the girls owed him the longer they were trapped into earning him money.

  Personally, Kim had no problem with prostitution, providing it was a conscious choice, not borne of fear, intimidation, addiction. A woman’s body was her own providing her mind was in full working order.

  ‘So, where were you at around eleven on Saturday night?’

  Kai reached into his pocket and handed her a card.

  ‘This is my solicitor. He’s very, very good. I would suggest you give him a call if you wish to ask me any further questions.’

  Kim looked at the card. He was right. This solicitor was very good. And very expensive.

  ‘So soon, Mr Lord. I didn’t have you down as the scaredy-cat type. What exactly are you trying to hide?’

  He smiled widely and opened his arms expressively. ‘He really enjoys making fools of the police, officer, so I like to help him out when I can.’

  The sudden sound of her mobile signalling a text message startled her and she found herself suddenly tired of the polite, cordial conversation that was taking place at surface level.

  She reached for the phone and clumsily knocked her latte forward. Bryant managed to get out of the way in time but Kai Lord not so much. He jumped back and stood looking to the area of his trousers that now looked as though he’d pissed himself.

  ‘You fucking bitch,’ he growled as his face ignited with the rage that kept his girls in line.

  Finally she was in the company of the real Kai Lord.

  Kim smiled and moved away from the table towards the door.

  ‘Well, this has been lovely but I have to go,’ she said, pleasantly.

  His eyes bored into hers with hatred and Kim was gratified to find that she could elicit some genuine emotion in him after all.

  She couldn’t help the smile that touched her lips as she stepped out into the cold.

  She read the text message and put her phone away as Bryant appeared beside her.

  ‘Matey boy wants to know where to send the dry cleaning bill?’

  ‘I’ll pay it myself. It was worth it.’

  Bryant nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ll go halves.’

  They headed back towards the car. ‘So what was the text?’

  ‘Nothing important,’ she said, looking away.

  ‘Seriously, though, guv, that guy is some serious pond scum.’

  Kim shook her head. ‘No, Bryant, Kai Lord aspires to be pond scum but he’s not gonna give us the answers we need. There’s only one place we can go for that.’

  And only one person she could think of to ask.

  FIFTEEN

  Stacey found herself struggling to understand how they had returned to the station to find an additional woman claiming to be the mother of their abandoned child.

  They now had four prospective mothers milling around the reception area.

  She had immediately headed to the office, logged into her computer and begun assembling the news reports. The Dudley Star article had been shared a dozen times. The national news had given the abandoned baby a mention in between weather-related catastrophes and the inauguration plans for the new President of the United States.

  It still amazed Stacey how priorities shifted depending on the current news cycle. On another day, another week, the national press would have been camped outside the station for the duration of the case, already vilifying the mother of the child. But not this week.

  There was a part of her that hoped one of these women was the child’s mother and that whatever had prompted her to abandon her child had magically been resolved and everyone could live happily ever after.

  She was fully aware that social services would not view the situation with the same level of simplicity. And if one of them was the child’s mother, how were there three additional claimants? What would possess a woman to come forward and try to claim a child that was not their own as though it was a rescue puppy they’d seen on the news?

  ‘Why would you want to try to claim a child that’s not your own?’ she asked Dawson as they waited for the next potential mother.

  Dawson shrugged in response. ‘Mental illness, sterility, desperation.’

  ‘Still doe ger it,’ she said, taking a sip of her diet Coke.

  So far they’d interviewed a forty-seven-year-old woman who couldn’t recall exactly where she’d left the baby and another who was late twenties insisting she’d had the child snatched while shopping. For just a split second Stacey had been hopeful until she described in detail the pushchair the child was in.

  And what now? she wondered as a light tap sounded on the door.

  PC Bellamy appeared and guided in a woman in her early thirties. Stacey took a moment to appraise her as she walked around to the other side of the desk. Her jeans fitted snugly and she wore sensible, flat boots. She unzipped a Barbour Icefield jacket as she sat to reveal a tartan jumper beneath. Her hair was short and stylishly cut and two simple stud earrings adorned her earlobes. She uncoiled the scarf from her neck and placed it on the table.

  Stacey noted the single gold band on her ring finger.

  Dawson offered her a brief smile before opening his mouth.

  ‘So, Mrs?—’

  ‘Miz,’ she corrected, quickly. ‘Jane Sheldon. Please call me Jane,’ she said, pleasantly, looking from one to the other.

  Stacey was immediately struck by the woman’s calm demeanour. The two previous interviews had been full of hand-wringing, face-touching, palpable anxiety and tension reaching them across the table. In contrast, this woman presented as calm, controlled and eager.

  ‘So, Miz Sheldon, you claim that the baby currently in the custody of social services is yours?’ Dawson asked.

  She nodded, amicably. ‘Yes, yes, he’s my child.’

  Dawson lowered his pencil and sat back.

  ‘So, please tell us about your situation,’ he urged.

  The woman sat forward and met his gaze confidently. She sighed heavily.

  ‘I couldn’t cope any more. My husband is away, you see, in the military. I’ve been on my own. I have no family nearby and it all got a little too much for me. What I did was completely wrong and I knew that the minute I got home but by then I was frightened of the repercussions of my actions. I really am sorry for the inconvenience but if you could just tell me where he is, I’ll—’

  ‘Was it anything in particular that prompted such an extreme action?’ Dawson asked.

  She shook her head and closed her eyes.

  Stacey found herself entranced by the emotion emanating from the woman. Instinctively she wanted to reach across and reassure her that everything would be okay.

  ‘It was a culmination of things. Not enough sleep. He kept crying and couldn’t settle. I hadn’t left the house for days. I made sure he was wrapped up, though,’ she said, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ Dawson said, sitting forward.

  He pulled the list of bullet points towards him but Stacey felt real hope that this seemingly respectable woman had acted rashly in a moment of panic.

  ‘So, did anyone pass you as
you left him by the double doors?’

  ‘I left him outside. No one passed me.’

  Correct, Stacey thought.

  ‘And what time did you leave him?’

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ she said.

  Within the time frame. Stacey saw a flash of irritation as Dawson’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

  ‘And what type of carrycot?’

  ‘It was a car seat,’ she answered.

  Correct, Stacey thought.

  ‘And what colour is the baby’s hair?’ Dawson asked, and Stacey began to get a feel for where he was going.

  So far he had asked only questions that could have been answered from reading all the articles or just a clever deduction.

  This woman was assured, confident and convincing.

  ‘The baby’s hair is fair,’ she answered.

  Correct.

  ‘And what colour was the baby’s playsuit?’ he asked, as Stacey felt the vibration of his phone again.

  ‘Oh, please, officer, I had changed the baby’s suit so many times that day through sickness and soiling.’

  Dawson nodded. ‘Understandable. So, what about the baby’s coat?’

  Stacey could feel him gearing up for the all-important question.

  ‘The baby was wearing—’

  ‘Miz Sheldon, what is the baby’s name?’ he asked, going in for the kill.

  The sudden question caught her off guard. Two full, long seconds passed before she answered.

  ‘Peter,’ she blurted as colour flooded her cheeks.

  Dawson had continually referred to ‘the baby’, awaiting her correction, which had not come. She had been too busy keeping her composure in place and her story straight that she had forgotten the most basic information.

  ‘Why would you do this?’ Stacey asked, unable to contain herself.

  ‘I don’t understand your question, officer. It’s my child, it’s my son. I want him—’

  ‘It’s not your child,’ Stacey snapped. ‘So why would you waste valuable time that we could be spending trying to reunite him with his real family?’

  Dawson placed his hand against his vibrating pocket. By her count that was four attempts. Someone wanted to speak to him bad.

  The woman’s demeanour was now polar opposite. There was a hardness in her eyes and thin line to her mouth.

  ‘I’d be a much better mother than the one that dumped him out in the cold.’

  ‘You don’t know the circumstances,’ Stacey replied, unable to understand this woman before her.

  ‘I know that…’

  ‘Thank you for coming in, Miz Sheldon, PC Bellamy will show you out,’ Dawson said, opening the door.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be charging these women with wasting police time?’ Stacey asked.

  ‘And waste even more time making a case that CPS will never take to court?’ Dawson asked reasonably.

  Stacey tried to swallow her irritation as the door closed and Dawson’s phone vibrated again.

  ‘Jesus, Kev, just bloody answer it,’ she said.

  ‘Frost,’ he said, frowning at the screen. He put the call on speaker phone.

  ‘Yeah,’ he answered.

  ‘What you doing, officer?’ she drawled.

  ‘Interviewing every woman that claims to be that little boy’s mother,’ he snapped.

  ‘Aah, that’s why I’m ringing, as a matter of fact. I suggest that if none of them are Romanian you might as well knock it on the head.’

  SIXTEEN

  The heavy snow of the last couple of hours had slowed to a haphazard falling. Flakes landed on the windscreen but quickly melted despite the plunging temperature.

  ‘Did you put the jackets in the car?’ Kim asked.

  Bryant nodded.

  Kim took a detour and headed through Lye. She turned left into the McDonald’s Drive Thru, and ordered four lattes with lots of sugar.

  ‘Not that thirsty, guv,’ Bryant said as she passed the cardboard carrier to him.

  ‘Lucky they’re not for you, then.’

  ‘Aah, bribery and corruption.’

  Kim said nothing. A cup of hot coffee wasn’t enough to bribe or corrupt the people they were going to see.

  She drove to Brierley Hill and turned into Tavistock Road.

  ‘I count three,’ she said.

  Bryant nodded as they walked towards the small huddle of women halfway along the strip.

  ‘Evening, ladies,’ Kim said, stepping into the middle. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Jesus, that’s all we fucking need,’ said Sal, clearly the oldest of the three.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Sal. It’s been a while. Haven’t you missed me?’

  The other two females looked at each other.

  Most local police officers had had dealings with Sally Summers. She’d been on the circuit for many years and had been hauled in and charged by most police constables for petty theft and soliciting. But Kim’s path had crossed with Sal’s way before her choice of career in the sex trade.

  The woman’s make-up was heavy. The harsh light of the street lamp did her no favours and no amount of make-up could cover the red lines in her eyes. The wrinkles around her eyes were premature and not from laughter. Sal had smoked twenty or more a day since she was twelve years old.

  ‘What’s that gonna cost us?’ Sal asked, looking down at the drinks.

  ‘Just take one. It’s cold out here.’

  Sal did so and the other two followed.

  Kim guessed the short blonde girl to be mid-twenties. Her hands shook but it had nothing to do with the cold. Kim could tell that she was clucking. Sudden withdrawal from heroin brought the trembles, hot and cold sweats, nausea, diarrhoea, and confusion. Kim guessed she hadn’t had a fix for a while. Heavy snow, weather warnings and poor driving conditions dented most economies.

  The third girl had mousy brown hair and looked like she was of Eastern European descent.

  ‘Well, thanks for the drinks, now fuck off. You’re bad for business,’ Sal said.

  Kim laughed. Sal was hard as nails. And she always had been.

  The Eastern European woman gave Sal a look and then walked away.

  ‘She don’t much like you lot,’ Sal said.

  ‘Sorry if we’re getting in the way,’ Kim said, not really sorry at all.

  Sal shrugged and took a small bottle of Bell’s Whisky from her bag. She emptied half of it into the coffee. Unlike many of the others Sal had never touched drugs. Her addiction was to alcohol. Sal had always frustrated Kim. She was not a stupid woman, and although alcoholism was not a choice, her failure to seek help was. Sal’s addiction had started young and Kim knew exactly why.

  ‘So, what are you ladies doing out when you know there’s a killer about?’

  Sal shrugged and used her free hand to extract a pack of cigarettes from her bag. She took one and lit it, passing it to the other girl.

  ‘Here, Donna,’ she said.

  Donna’s hands would not have been able to hold a flame to a cigarette end if her life depended on it.

  Sal lit one for herself and then offered the pack to them. Kim’s was an instant head-shake but Bryant’s held that millisecond of hesitation that comes from a reformed smoker.

  ‘Gotta earn, Kim. Couldn’t get out last night. Too bloody cold.’

  Bryant looked at her sideways. Sal had never used her rank or title. And Kim never expected her to.

  ‘What do you know about Kelly Rowe?’

  ‘That she’s fucking colder than me, right now.’

  ‘Come on, Sal,’ Kim urged.

  A car turned into the street and slowly headed towards them. Twenty feet away the car sped up and passed them by. Bryant wrote down the registration number.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ the blonde growled.

  Kim was guessing that punters were sparse this evening.

  ‘Look, give us a couple of minutes of your time and we’ll get out of your way.’

  Sal cut her eyes. ‘Look, I didn’t know her very well.
We never went for coffee or did lunch and she always hogged the top of the street. Hard worker for her own reasons.’

  Kim knew that ‘hard worker’ meant she’d take almost any old shit to get as much money as she could.

  ‘Obviously it was temporary,’ Sal said.

  And of course it was, for all of them. Very few prostitutes set it out as their retirement plan. Woman were driven to the trade for a hundred reasons all of which were grounded in survival of some kind.

  ‘She didn’t talk all that much but she seemed decent enough. She had a kid, I think.’

  ‘Any new weirdos about?’ Kim asked.

  Sal shook her head but Kim knew she was lying.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Kim turned and raised an eyebrow at her partner. ‘Bryant, it’s a bit chilly out here.’

  He nodded and turned, jogging back to the car.

  Sal watched him go and eyed Kim suspiciously.

  ‘What you up to, Kim?’

  ‘Just a bit cold, that’s all,’ she answered.

  ‘Yeah, sure, it’d take more than the fucking elements to bother you.’

  Kim saw Bryant approaching with two high-vis jackets.

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Donna asked, walking away.

  The West Midlands police logo emblazoned on the back would kill trade on the street for weeks.

  ‘So, any new punters around?’ Kim asked Sal.

  Sal threw her cigarette to the floor and ground it out.

  ‘There’s this one guy, northern accent. Likes ’em young. Pays very well for it. He pays the pimps direct and then picks up the kid from the corner.’

  ‘And how do you know this one is different?’ Kim asked.

  ‘Always with a minder so they can’t get away.’

  Kim felt the rage surge around her body. Oh if only she could guard this street twenty-four hours a day. And every one like it.

  ‘Nothing to do with Kelly, though?’ she asked.

  Sal shook her head. ‘Nah, way too old,’ Sal said.

  ‘That it?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ Sal said, biting her lip.

  ‘Come on, Sal, I’m really feeling the bite in the air now.’

  ‘Jesus, Kim, you always were a devious bitch.’

  Bryant gave her a questioning glance.