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

by Angela Marsons

‘Come on, Sal.’

  A car turned into the street and moved slowly towards them.

  ‘Jacket, Bryant?’ Kim said, holding out her left hand.

  The car began to speed up. Donna was already tottering quickly to the top end of the road to try and catch the car at the Give Way sign.

  ‘Jesus, Kim. Okay, there’s this one guy. I can’t tell you why he’s weird but he just is. Works with kids and there’s something about him that just makes me uneasy.’

  ‘Name?’ Kim asked.

  Sal laughed out loud. ‘You’ll put that fucking coat on and hold an open day on this street before I give you any names and you know it.’

  ‘Is he a regular?’

  Sal nodded and then held up her hand. They were getting no more.

  Kim glanced to her right, to the top of the street. Both Donna and the car were gone.

  ‘Okay, Bryant, we’re done for now. Go ahead, I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  Bryant eyed the two of them before walking away.

  Kim looked into a face that was only two years older than her own. ‘Jesus, Sal, when are you gonna give this up?’

  ‘Don’t fucking start. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Can’t you at least stay safe until we catch the bastard who killed Kelly?’

  Sal smiled but there was no joy in the expression. ‘My landlord don’t like safe all that much. Especially when the first of the month comes around.’

  Kim was frustrated. The low value placed on life on the streets sickened her.

  ‘D’ya know what, Kim? I remember this kid once, hardened little thing she was. She came to the children’s home when she was six.’

  Kim looked to the ground.

  ‘Terrified little mite but you wouldn’t have known it. Offered her half my apple I did and she just wouldn’t have it.’

  ‘Not the only time you helped me out, was it Sal?’ Kim said, meaningfully.

  Sal ignored her response. ‘It didn’t matter how many times I tried to be her friend she just wouldn’t have it.’

  ‘Look, Sal…’

  ‘No, Kim. You gotta accept that there’s times you just can’t mend the world. I don’t take your help ’cos I don’t want it. You know what I mean?’

  Kim nodded, knowing there was no more to be done here.

  ‘Okay, I got it. Just be careful, okay?’

  Sal nodded and lit another cigarette.

  Kim turned back to the car with a heavy feeling in her stomach.

  ‘Hey, Kim,’ Sal shouted along the pavement. ‘No need to rush off right away, eh?’

  Kim paused and tried to read her expression. It was closed and so was her mouth but her message was loud and clear.

  Something was going down.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘Can we really trust this tip-off from Frost?’ Stacey asked him, rubbing her cold hands together. ‘How the hell did she identify the shawl as Romanian?’

  ‘Cleaning lady saw the photo of the baby on her desk and commented on having a shawl just like it handed down from her Romanian grandmother. Intricate design, hand-knitted with some crochet work, whatever the hell crochet is,’ he shrugged.

  After the phone call from Frost they had visited a greengrocer’s in Cradley Heath High Street and a chippy in Quarry Bank, both owned by Romanian immigrants. The woman at the greengrocer’s, through eye-wateringly broken English, had confirmed Frost’s theory that the shawl was likely to be of Romanian origin, and the chippy owner had pointed them towards a bag factory that he should have recalled himself. He’d been there before.

  ‘So, where are we going now?’

  ‘Robertson’s,’ he answered and watched as her teeth clenched in frustration.

  ‘Who or what is Robertson’s?’ she asked.

  ‘Jeez, it’s like working with a newborn,’ he sighed. ‘Robertson’s is a small factory in Lye. Been done in the past for manufacturing copy designer handbags. Took to court five years ago and now produce cheap, poor-quality stuff for a couple of quid. Workforce is primarily Romanian and female.’

  He took a right onto Hayes Lane and then a sharp left and pulled onto a car park.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, switching off the ignition.

  ‘Thought yer said small factory,’ Stacey said.

  ‘It was five years ago,’ he said. ‘Looks like they’ve taken over the units either side.’ He noted that two thirds of the building appeared to be factory space with the final third converted to a glass-fronted showroom.

  ‘Healthy market for cheap shit, then?’ Stacey quipped as they headed for the door marked ‘Reception’.

  They were met by a young blonde girl with a tan at odds with the outside temperature. Dawson caught the surreptitious movement of her hand as it pushed the mobile phone out of sight. Her hands came back into view displaying nails that would have struggled to press any key.

  ‘May we speak with Mr or Mrs Robertson, please?’ he asked, leaning his elbows on the curved desk.

  The receptionist, badged as ‘Melody’, leaned forward slightly and tipped her head.

  On closer inspection Dawson could see that the heavy make-up masked countless bobbles of skin on a face that wasn’t being helped underneath the stifling layers of cosmetics.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ she asked, pleasantly.

  He shook his head and smiled. ‘We were just hoping for a quick chat with one of the owners.’

  ‘Is it regarding an order… an enquiry?’ she asked.

  Dawson shook his head, and opened his mouth.

  ‘We’re police officers,’ Stacey butted in, breaking the spell he was trying to weave across the reception desk.

  Melody frowned and retreated just an inch or two.

  ‘There’s no problem,’ Stacey reassured quickly. ‘We just have a situation that the Robertsons may be able to help with.’

  ‘May I see your identification, please?’ she asked.

  Stacey obliged and Dawson followed suit. She glanced at them both before picking up the phone.

  ‘Shame on you, Kev, using your sexuality and charm to get what you want,’ Stacey whispered, frowning at him.

  ‘Hey, I’m a modern man, equality and all that,’ he said, smiling as Melody replaced the receiver.

  ‘Steven will see you in a minute, if you’d like to take a—’

  ‘Who is Steven?’ Dawson asked, perplexed.

  ‘Mr Robertson,’ Melody answered. ‘You asked for Mrs or Mr…’

  ‘I thought his name was Alec.’

  Understanding dawned on Melody’s face. ‘Oh, you meant Mr Robertson, senior. I’m afraid he’s no longer with us.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Dawson offered. ‘I had no idea he had passed…’

  ‘He hasn’t,’ Melody replied. ‘He’s just not here any more,’ she said with an air of finality and a look of distaste.

  Dawson raised his eyebrows in Stacey’s direction. There was a story there, he could feel it.

  ‘It’s Mr Robertson, junior that’s—’

  ‘Right behind you,’ said Steven Robertson coming into view.

  He remained behind the reception desk but offered his hand to Dawson first and then Stacey. His grip was firm but warm. The gold Rolex brushed against his wrist.

  ‘How may I help?’ he asked, looking from one to the other.

  ‘It’s regarding a current case we’re working,’ Stacey offered while Dawson observed.

  He guessed Steven Robertson to be mid-thirties. His dirty-blonde hair was cut tidily around a good-looking face. His light blue shirt was open at the neck and his sleeves rolled part way up his forearms. Dawson detected an athletic build beneath the expensive but understated clothes.

  ‘You may have seen on the news that a baby was recently abandoned at the police station in Halesowen?’

  He nodded but looked confused.

  ‘Of course, but I’m not sure how we might assist with that.’

  ‘We have a suspicion that the mother of the child is Romanian.�
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  ‘There was a note?’

  Dawson smiled. ‘Nothing as helpful as that,’ he said.

  ‘So, what would lead you to believe…’ his words trailed away. ‘You can’t tell me?’

  Dawson nodded. They had agreed to keep the link to the shawl out of any questioning as it could prove to be a valuable form of identification later.

  ‘And you’d like to know if any of our employees know anything about it?’

  Dawson nodded again. ‘If we could speak to any of the ladies here they may know of someone who—’

  ‘I can definitely understand your logic but that would be impossible right now. We are all working flat out to complete an urgent order.’

  ‘Not even for just a few minutes?’ Stacey asked.

  ‘I’m afraid the freight ship to China won’t delay for even a few moments, abandoned child or not,’ he offered.

  ‘And there’s no other reason you don’t want us coming out back?’ Dawson asked, not unkindly.

  Steven Robertson grinned. ‘If you’re referring to our previous working practices you know that we now only manufacture quality merchandise at affordable prices.’

  Yeah, cheap shit, he thought, recalling Stacey’s apt description.

  ‘You are more than welcome to come take a look,’ he said. ‘We have nothing to hide.’

  Dawson nodded and followed the man through the door behind the reception desk.

  The corridors were formed of narrow stud walling that didn’t reach the ceiling, reminding Dawson of a maze. They reached a metal staircase interrupted by a turning landing halfway up. Three pairs of footsteps traversing together rattled in his ears. They exited the stairway onto a mezzanine that overlooked the factory floor.

  Three glass-fronted offices glared down at three rows of sewing stations. Dawson counted at least fifteen heads bent over machines. Their hands were busy expertly turning and stitching different coloured fabrics as their feet tapped on pedals below.

  ‘My mother,’ Steven Robertson said, opening the door to the largest office at the centre. ‘Janette Robertson.’

  Clearly taken by surprise the woman looked to her son for some kind of explanation.

  ‘Police officers, mother. Detective Sergeants Dawson and Wood.’

  Dawson didn’t correct Stacey’s rank.

  Janette Robertson’s gaze lingered on him. ‘Have we met?’

  Dawson smiled at the well-kept, attractive woman. ‘Let’s just say I’ve been here before.’

  It took only a nanosecond for the sharp brain to put it together. She removed her glasses and frowned.

  ‘We don’t do that any more.’

  ‘I know, Mrs Robertson. That’s not why we’re here.’

  Steven stepped in and explained the reason for their visit.

  A range of emotions passed over her face ending with understanding.

  ‘Please sit,’ she said. ‘Although Steven was correct in telling you that we can’t really spare anyone to speak to you right now. This order…’

  ‘We understand, Mrs Robertson,’ Stacey offered. ‘But do you know of any workers with a newborn, maybe a young, frightened girl who might have taken such action?’

  She slowly shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t. I try not to get involved in the personal lives of my employees.’

  Dawson thought of all the heads bowed beneath them on the factory floor and wondered if the woman even knew their names.

  ‘Isn’t there someone, anyone, you could spare for just a few minutes?’ he asked.

  Mrs Robertson turned to her son. ‘Nicolae may be able to help.’

  Steven nodded and stepped out of the office. He approached the railing at the end of the mezzanine and called down.

  ‘Nicolae is our foreman,’ Janette Robertson explained. ‘He knows the girls better than we do. He may be able to help.’

  ‘Things have moved on a bit since I was here last,’ Dawson observed, looking around the stylish office.

  ‘Yes, a six-figure fine and the threat of a prison sentence will do that to you,’ she said, ruefully.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to have done you any harm,’ he responded.

  ‘I don’t complain,’ she said, as the glass door opened.

  Behind Steven Robertson was a rugged-looking man in his early fifties. His piercing blue eyes added a gentleness to the weathered face. The stubble on his chin was 60/40 in favour of the grey. He wore a black, short-sleeved shirt, and plain black trousers.

  ‘Hello, how may I help you?’ he asked, pleasantly.

  While his colleague filled the man in on the details, Dawson observed his body language and movement as he listened carefully.

  Robertson’s hands slid idly into his pockets as though that was his natural relaxed stance. There was no head bobbing or fidgeting, or licking or any other kind of tic that offered anything other than transparency.

  When Stacey finished Nicolae thought for a few seconds and then began to shake his head.

  ‘None of m… these girls have newborns that I know of. Natalya has a little girl aged ten back in Romania and Daniela a teenage boy but not newborns,’ he said.

  Just a trace of accent hung onto his perfect English. Dawson wondered how long he had been in the country.

  ‘Would any of the employees here be able to offer—’

  ‘I think we’ve covered that,’ Steven said from the doorway.

  ‘Nicolae,’ Dawson said, turning to the foreman. ‘Is there anywhere else we might try, anyone who might know?’

  ‘Nail bars,’ he offered. ‘Try local nail bars.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Dawson said. It had been a long shot.

  ‘I’ll show you out,’ Steven said, following Nicolae to the door.

  They bid farewell to Mrs Robertson and followed her son.

  Of course, they should have thought of that sooner. Only last year almost a hundred people had been arrested as part of operation Magnify, an initiative aiming to tackle exploitative employers who provide low-paid jobs to illegal immigrants. The initial stage of the operation had focussed on construction, care, cleaning, catering, taxi and car wash industries. Nail bars had been highlighted as a particular workplace for exploitation.

  It suddenly begged the questions in his mind:

  Was the mother of this child an illegal immigrant?

  Had she been pressured into giving up the baby?

  Or was it more difficult for her to stay under the radar with a child?

  Had the sacrifice been for the child or herself?

  But those weren’t the only questions on Dawson’s mind. Allowing Stacey to lead the conversations was beneficial to him for a number of reasons. Her expertise and experience out in the field was severely limited but she was a fast learner. She watched carefully and soaked in all new data like a sponge giving him the chance to observe.

  And right now he found himself wondering why, throughout that entire exchange, Janette Robertson and Nicolae had not looked at each other once.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Guv, did I do something to really piss you off?’ Bryant asked, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Not yet, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,’ she said, from the other side of the doorway.

  The smell of fresh meat wafted through the locked door of the halal butcher’s shop.

  ‘Only, I’m sure Kev and Stacey feel like they’re really missing out on these field trips.’

  ‘Yeah, well they’re a bit busy trying to find the mother of an abandoned child right now,’ she said, glancing left.

  ‘What are we doing still here anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘Not quite sure, Bryant,’ she said, glancing at Sal a few doorways down. ‘But we need to get these registration numbers, and if you can offer a better suggestion I’m all ears, so get your notepad out.’

  Sal’s suggestion to stick around had not come easily to the woman. Donna had returned from the guy she’d caught at the Give Way sign and was now beside Sal halfway along the street in
the doorway of a charity shop.

  Of course, this was a task Kim could have delegated to members of her team. Standing in a shop doorway taking registration numbers of punters for follow-up was not her idea of a good night out. But she’d never been the type to ask her team to do something she was not prepared to do herself.

  ‘Got one,’ she said, as a car turned into the strip and slowed down. The aptness of the term ‘kerb crawler’ instantly sprang into her mind.

  Suddenly the street came alive as a few more girls stepped out of the doorways and moved closer to the road. Gone was the shivering, hand-wringing and foot stamping to keep warm. Now it was Game On. The movements and poses reminded Kim of a body-building championship with each girl standing in a way to show off their best assets.

  The vehicle gradually came to a stop near the end of the road.

  A figure that Kim recognised stepped forward to the open passenger window.

  ‘Damn it,’ she breathed, fixing her eyes on the short curly hair of the girl dressed in jeans and trainers.

  Bryant followed her gaze.

  ‘Is that…’

  ‘Gemma,’ Kim answered when he hesitated over her name.

  Kim wouldn’t forget her name in a hurry. Four months before the girl had been sent by her sociopathic nemesis, Alexandra Thorne, to kill her and had it not been for a tortured, broken soul named Shane the girl might have had a shot.

  Alex had spotted both the vulnerability and rage in the girl while she’d been visiting her mother who had been residing off and on in the same prison as Alex for most of Gemma’s life.

  Kim could easily imagine how Alex had manipulated the girl’s need for a caring parental figure, evidenced by the prison visits despite the fact her mother had never managed to go straight for the sake of her own child. Alex had used that basic information to maximum effect.

  Guided by Alex, Gemma had cleverly wormed her way into Kim’s home. Kim had seen so much of herself in the spirited, angry kid and had even cooked her a meal. Hell, she’d never even cooked Bryant a meal, she thought as she continued to watch the transaction taking place.

  Negotiations were brief and the girl got in the passenger door.

  Watching the car drive away Kim couldn’t help the swell of sadness that inexplicably rose within her.