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

by Angela Marsons

The lobby area was the size of a small elevator. The walls to the left and right of her held a collage of hand-written signs, some of which had been ripped or defaced with phallic symbols.

  ‘Classy,’ Bryant observed, as she pushed open a heavy glass door.

  Kim entered into what she supposed would have been the surgery waiting room. A receptionist counter dominated the left-hand side of the room. On top was a sharps box and a bowl filled with packets of condoms. On the right-hand side of the room there were two doors for toilets. Both marked up with black marker pen. A small television sat in the corner but the picture rolled every three seconds. Behind the door was a metal urn with plastic cups and a jar of value coffee.

  A lanky young man eyed them, pausing from the activity on his mobile phone. A tattoo emerged from beneath his shirt and crept up his neck. His eyes were alert and suspicious.

  ‘Damn it,’ they heard from a small room behind the reception.

  ‘Hello,’ Bryant called.

  A second man appeared in the doorway. Kim guessed him to be around her own five nine height and in his late thirties. His hair was fair and slightly too long. A two-day stubble mottled his chin. He was dressed casually in sweatshirt and jeans.

  His gaze narrowed. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, one of you can come back here.’

  ‘One of us?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘Take a look, you’ll see what I mean.’

  Kim stepped behind the desk and looked in. The space was five feet wide by about six feet long. Attached to the wall was a two-feet wide stretch of cut-down kitchen counter. The area was littered with folders, paperwork and a dated computer with its guts all over the side. Two folding chairs filled the rest of the space.

  Kim took one. The man took the other and Bryant propped up the doorway.

  ‘Tim Price, how can I help?’

  ‘We’re detectives,’ Bryant offered, taking out his ID.

  ‘Yeah, I kinda got that,’ he offered with a smile.

  ‘Problem?’ Kim asked, glancing towards the computer innards.

  He nodded. ‘Blue screen of death. The machine is seven years old and has less memory than a decent mobile phone.’

  Kim assessed the components and shook her head. ‘Yeah, it may be time to give it up and buy another.’

  ‘Of course, officer, I’ll just pluck a £1,000 from the money tree in the garden.’

  Kim shrugged. ‘Sometimes you gotta accept when something is broken.’

  ‘And sometimes you gotta remember that you don’t give up on something just because it’s not perfect.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she said, looking around. ‘Is that what you do here, mend things that are broken?’

  ‘No, we provide a place where poor sods can come and get a cup of coffee.’

  ‘What type of “poor sods”?’ she asked, repeating his description.

  ‘Drug addicts, homeless people. Prostitutes come in for free condoms.’

  It was clear to Kim that this facility was not council funded. There was no regulatory signage or evidence of health and safety considerations.

  ‘You run this place?’

  Tim shook his head. ‘None of us run it.’

  ‘Who is “us”?’

  ‘Local citizens who believe charity begins at home. The centre opens for two days each week. We all donate half a day.’

  ‘To do what?’ she asked, incredulously. It was hard to believe that anything positive came out of this place.

  ‘Offer a cup of coffee, a clean needle, condoms, the use of a computer…’ He looked dolefully at the mess on the table. ‘Sometimes. And primarily advice. Sometimes legal, sometimes housing, benefits, job opportunities, whatever we can.’

  ‘Well, if charity begins at home, ask matey boy out there for the use of his benefits-funded touchscreen phone if he’s done tweeting,’ Bryant offered.

  Kim shot her colleague a bemused look.

  Tim stood and edged past Bryant.

  ‘Hey, Len, pass the phone a second.’

  Len stood and brought him the phone.

  Tim stepped back into the room and scrolled along the open tabs. ‘You’ll see that every site he’s activated is a jobs site, officer. Normally he would have sat patiently at the computer while it chuntered and limped from site to site but as you can see it’s not available for use, right now.’

  He handed the phone back to Len, who ambled away from the doorway.

  Tim sat back down. ‘Oh, and officer, the phone is mine. Now what can I help you with?’

  Tim’s voice had dropped a few degrees.

  Kim was struck by the irony that for once it was Bryant who had pissed someone off instead of her.

  ‘Listen, I’m sure my colleague didn’t mean anything—’

  ‘Of course he did. That man out there has served his time and for two years has fought against being drawn back to his old life. He has a young child for whom he is desperate to provide for legitimately. He gets turned away from every interview because of his appearance and still he comes in here whenever he can to try and stay legal.

  ‘In the job that you do, is this not what you hope for? That people will learn from their mistakes and try to live a better life?’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Bryant said, holding up his hands. ‘I accept there may be the occasional exception.’

  Tim appeared to calm as the redness of his neck receded.

  ‘And I accept that you’re probably right. But I happen to think each exception is worth the effort.’

  A look passed between the two men. Kim felt a compromise had been reached. She understood completely Bryant’s point of view. Their line of work didn’t bring them into contact with many reformed characters.

  ‘Tim, did Kelly Rowe come in here much?’

  ‘She’d started to during the last couple of weeks. Never came to supper club but was here some Tuesdays and Thursdays to help out. I think she was kinda lonely.’

  Kim thought about all the secrets Kelly had from her mother and wasn’t all that surprised.

  ‘What did she do here?’ Bryant asked. It wasn’t exactly a hive of activity.

  ‘Letter writing. She was well educated and helped some of the others put together job applications. That’s the frustrating part with a lot of these ladies, officer. They are by no means stupid women.’

  He reached for a red ledger. ‘This is the balance sheet over which I pored for two days because it wouldn’t add up. It took Sal, one of the more experienced ladies, two minutes to find where I had transposed two figures three pages earlier. She showed me how to do page totals so that small mistakes didn’t get compounded.’

  ‘Sounds like Sal,’ Kim said.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Kim said. She remembered when Sal had secured a part-time job doing a paper round and each week she would divide her earnings into used envelopes all marked with different headings.

  Kim rued the day that the woman had discovered the comfort of alcohol.

  ‘What do you know of Kelly’s relationship with Kai Lord?’

  ‘I know she was terrified of him.’

  Kim knew that the relationship between pimp and prostitute was often abusive, often defined by violence, sometimes using psychological intimidation, manipulation, starvation, gang rape, confinement and inferred violence towards family members.

  ‘You know he is often referred to as Jofin?’

  Kim didn’t know that but it took her less than ten seconds to figure out why. His nickname was a convergence of two names adopted from America. A Jonas pimp was known for using violence and intimidation. A Finesse pimp was known for psychological trickery.

  ‘Is there anything you know of that could have contributed to her murder?’

  ‘There is one thing I heard the other day but it’s only a rumour. I overheard a couple of the girls saying that Kelly had been planning to bounce.’

  Kim had heard the term before
. It was when a prostitute transferred to another pimp. The new pimp would buy the original debt and a ‘moving tax’ would be agreed between the two pimps.

  ‘Any idea who she was planning on moving to?’

  Tim shook his head. ‘Like I said, it was just a snippet I overheard.’

  Kim idly wondered if Kai Lord had found out about Kelly’s intention. There were many transfers that occurred without incident but no pimp really wanted their pride damaged. Could the discovery of her intention have filled the man with such rage that he’d cut a dozen holes in her body?

  ‘Anything else you can think of?’ Kim asked.

  He thought for a few minutes. ‘Do you know something, officer? Kelly didn’t fit. It’s hard to label a prostitute a certain type because there are a hundred reasons why a woman might choose this profession but there was just something about her. Street life hadn’t hardened her yet. She was kind, educated, helpful and compassionate. My understanding is that she was just trying to get herself out of a hole.’

  ‘You hear anything about some weirdo around at the moment?’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’ he asked.

  Kim shook her head. ‘Apparently works with kids, or something.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve heard about him. Girls don’t mind him. Apparently he’s quick,’ he said meaningfully.

  ‘Got a name?’ she asked.

  He shook his head.

  Kim nodded her understanding and stood. She handed him a card. ‘If you think of anything else or hear any rumours going around, give me a call.’

  ‘Will do, officer.’

  Kim stood and Bryant moved out of the doorway.

  ‘Hey, that good kid of yours has done a runner with your phone,’ Kim said.

  Tim rolled his eyes. ‘No, he’s abiding by the rules and has gone outside for a smoke. Which is where I’m going now if the two of you have finished with me.’

  Kim thanked him again as he picked up a pack of Marlboro Lights and a box of matches.

  She followed him out of the poky office just as a familiar face with short, blonde curls appeared in the doorway.

  Gemma took one look at her and scarpered.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ Kim said. ‘Does the name Lauren Goddard mean anything to you?’

  ‘Of course, everyone around here knew Lauren.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, frowning at Bryant.

  ‘Went by the name of Jazzy. She was the youngest girl on the strip.’

  ‘Was?’ Kim asked, as the feeling of dread began to rise.

  He nodded. ‘She committed suicide a few weeks ago.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘You really think this has anything to do with our case?’ Stacey asked, following her colleague down the slope onto the canal towpath. The icy ground was hard and unforgiving beneath her feet.

  Keats had called the boss first who had directed him their way once she’d heard the words ‘possibly Romanian’.

  Dawson reached the bottom of the slope and turned, offering his hand to steady her. She waved it away.

  Police officers in yellow jackets were visible as far as the eye could see on both sides of the canal. The bridge they’d used was only one of a hundred shortcuts to the waterway, used by walkers and cyclists.

  Stacey spotted five white suits gathered around the diminutive figure of Keats.

  An officer held out two pairs of blue slippers at the walkway cordon. They quickly put them on and headed towards the huddle.

  Keats finished what he was saying to the photographer and turned their way.

  ‘Dawson, Wood, meet our customer,’ he said, pointing to an area of tall weeds.

  The body of the man was half sitting and half lying in the brush. Remnants of the snow that had covered him still glistened from his clothing.

  ‘Is that how he was found?’ Stacey asked. The positioning looked staged to her.

  Keats nodded.

  ‘He looks asleep,’ she noted, fighting the urge to reach down and shake his arm.

  ‘That may have been the issue,’ Keats said.

  ‘You think he’s homeless?’ Stacey asked.

  Keats shrugged. ‘We’ve had two so far this month, one in Dudley and one in Stourbridge.’

  ‘I’m guessing we’ve got no cause of death yet,’ Dawson observed.

  Keats shook his head. ‘Nothing obvious right now. No stab wounds or clear signs of trauma or violence.’

  Stacey could feel Dawson’s waning interest. The signs were pointing towards a homeless male who had fallen asleep and frozen to death. Unlike her colleague, Stacey couldn’t help her mind wandering to the reasons the man was homeless, the reasons why he’d fallen asleep beside the canal.

  ‘You said something about a notebook,’ Dawson said.

  Keats nodded and leaned down to retrieve a clear evidence bag holding a small notebook.

  Dawson took it from him and examined the A6 leather pad. The fabric was old and worn. An elastic band was looped around it vertically.

  ‘May we take it?’ Stacey asked. On first inspection there appeared to be no suspicious circumstances surrounding the male’s death.

  Keats shook his head. ‘Forensics will need to check it for fingerprints first to try and identify the male and we don’t need to make their job any harder by adding more fingertips.’

  ‘And you think the contents of the book are Romanian?’ Stacey asked.

  ‘Indeed I do,’ he answered.

  ‘You speak Romanian?’ Dawson asked doubtfully.

  ‘Not at all, Sergeant. It says Romania on the second page in. Kind of gave it away.’

  Stacey found herself smiling at the pathologist’s nature. She knew her boss had experienced run-ins with the man at almost every crime scene they’d shared but she also knew her boss respected this man immensely.

  ‘Any idea how long?’ Stacey asked innocently as Dawson shook his head.

  ‘Oh, constable, constable,’ Keats said, pursing his lips. ‘As this is your first time I shall only maul you gently in response to that question.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Dawson protested. ‘Why the special…’

  ‘When a body has been frozen,’ Keats offered, ignoring her colleague. ‘There is no way for bacteria to grow or for insects to attack. These being reasonably accurate indicators of time of death.

  ‘In this situation cells are frozen in place and prevented from decaying. The temperature arrests the process of decomposition.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, politely.

  ‘I shall look for other clues once I have him back at the morgue.’

  ‘Err… Keats that’s not really how you spoke to me the first time I asked you for an estimated time of death,’ Dawson said, sulkily.

  Keats growled. ‘You people expect the broken watch method every time even though you know it doesn’t work that way and is not a reliable—’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Dawson interrupted.

  Stacey instantly felt her colleague had made a mistake.

  Keats regarded Dawson for ten long seconds before deciding to offer the benefit of his wisdom.

  ‘Sergeant, one of my practical tests during training involved a staged crime scene in a living room. It was a violent affair with blood spatter, a broken, smashed clock and livor mortis. To pass, I had to estimate time of death to within an hour.’

  ‘A bit easy,’ Dawson offered.

  ‘Apparently so for my colleagues who tried to make the physical data match the time on the clock.’

  ‘Reasonable assumption. It’s a powerful clue,’ he said.

  Keats nodded. ‘If it fits the clues from the body.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’ Stacey asked.

  ‘I discounted it altogether, my dear,’ he answered pleasantly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I had no knowledge as to whether the clock had been working before the crime. My expertise lies in deducing clues from the body not a timepiece.’

  Stacey got it. Some clues were helpful and
some were not. The key was identifying which was which.

  ‘Just one more question,’ Dawson said. ‘Why did she get a nice explanation and you all but ripped my throat out?’

  ‘Because she’s prettier than you,’ he said, smiling. He turned her way.

  ‘My apologies if that is not strictly PC in this day and age and no offence intended.’

  ‘None taken,’ Stacey said.

  ‘So, when might we get copies of the contents?’ Dawson asked, nodding towards the book.

  ‘They’ll be with you later today,’ Keats answered.

  They both thanked him and headed back to the car.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Stacey asked, as Dawson put the key into the ignition. ‘Connected to our abandoned child or not?’

  Dawson shrugged. ‘Could just be a coincidence as I’m really not seeing the connection between the death of a homeless man and an abandoned baby even if they are both Romanian,’ he said, forcing the car into a line of traffic.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Stacey asked.

  ‘Back to the station; there’s more to learn about that place.’

  Stacey realised he meant Robertson’s. She wasn’t sure if his fixation on the factory was borne of a hunch or because obstacles had been placed in his path. He had wanted to interview the girls and he’d been told no.

  And she had come to realise that Dawson didn’t like being told no.

  TWENTY-NINE

  ‘What the hell has a suicide got to do with our case? How is Lauren Goddard related to Kelly Rowe, and who wants us to think she is?’ Bryant asked.

  Kim shook her head, staring out of the passenger window, her eyes scouring the street.

  ‘What does our anonymous tipster hope to gain by bringing us a bloody suicide?’ he said, exasperated.

  ‘Dunno, Bryant, unless they know something we don’t.’

  ‘Then they might have bloody well said so,’ he said. ‘Rather than just—’

  ‘Pull over,’ Kim said, sharply.

  Bryant aimed the car into the pavement and stopped.

  Kim jumped out and ran three paces.

  ‘Hey, you up to your old tricks again?’ she asked, grabbing Gemma by the shoulder and turning her around.

  ‘Oi,’ Gemma snarled before realising who it was.