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

by Angela Marsons

  Kim knew that but it had been worth a try. And she wasn’t done trying yet.

  She took a breath. ‘Sir, the note came through my letterbox so someone is quite clear that they want me to find out all there is to know about this young girl. She was sixteen years old,’ she added, aiming for his paternal instinct.

  ‘Sorry, Stone. This is not going to happen.’

  She sighed heavily and stood. ‘I just couldn’t help feeling that maybe Lauren Goddard had something to tell us.’

  ‘That’s as it may be, Stone, but a request from the police based on that evidence would be laughed out of court. Not only would we be refused but we would look ridiculous even trying.’

  As she had learned to listen to every word that came out of her boss’s mouth, a smile itched at her lips.

  ‘Absolutely, sir. I completely understand,’ she said, heading towards the door.

  ‘Not so fast, Stone,’ he said.

  She groaned inwardly. She sensed she was about to learn the reason for the use of the stress ball.

  She turned.

  He waved a piece of paper at her.

  ‘From Kai Lord’s solicitor. A complaint about his client being harassed while he was having breakfast.’ He put on his glasses and read. ‘Oh, and a mention of a dry cleaning charge coming our way.’

  She shrugged. Letters like that formed the bulk of her Personnel file.

  ‘You know how clumsy I can be, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Well, curb your clumsiness, Stone, and stop bothering the man while he eats. Pick your battles. Got it?’

  Kim sighed heavily allowing her aggravation to be noted. Kai Lord knew what he was doing. Every interaction would now be met with claims of harassment and bringing him in for formal questioning would be an uphill battle.

  He was trying to tie her hands behind her back and put himself outside the law.

  And as Woody well knew, she did not like being handcuffed one little bit.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Stacey took a breath before following her colleague into the morgue. Her one and only previous visit had been an unforgettable experience. The body had been a fifty-nine-year-old man who had been found following his failure to return to his caretaking job after the school summer holidays. He had collapsed in the living room of his flat after suffering a fatal heart attack. The sun had passed over his body approximately twelve times in the July heat, burning through the lounge window, warming his dead flesh over and over again. The buzzing of the flies had been heard from outside his front door. The community of maggots, larvae and flies that had taken over his body had sickened her to the core.

  She had almost gagged at the smell of gases from bacterial decay as the Y incision had been cut into the flesh. And the nightmare got worse when her eyes rested on the tools.

  Somehow she had imagined that the instruments used to pry, saw and excavate the secrets from the human body were different to what you’d find in a hardware store. She’d expected them to be more gentle, refined, less intrusive, more respectful. The image of a bone saw had stayed with her for days.

  Not only had she been forced to keep her face impassive beneath Dawson’s prying gaze but had felt the need to pretend the experience had not affected her at all to avoid her colleague’s mirth.

  But today she was prepared.

  ‘What you got for us, Keats?’ Dawson asked, pleasantly.

  She was pleased to see that the metal dishes were empty and the tools were out of sight. She suspected the man had been returned to the cooler.

  Keats stepped back to the desk in the corner and reached for a sheaf of papers.

  ‘The contents of the booklet,’ he said.

  Dawson took a quick look and passed them her way. They held little interest for him while they were in no position to action them.

  Dawson waited patiently as Keats picked up a clipboard and leafed back a couple of pages.

  ‘Physical description is little more than you already know. Caucasian male, height five feet four inches, slight build, light brown hair, no tattoos or other distinguishing features and my experience would tell me that he was not homeless.’

  Stacey frowned. She thought it had been a safe assumption. No one had come forward to report him missing.

  As though reading the doubt in her eyes, Keats continued.

  ‘His hair is tidily if not expertly cut; he does not carry the odour of someone held together by dirt and stale sweat. There is no evidence of alcohol dependency and his toenails are clean.’

  Stacey recalled the pathologist’s words about putting all of the clues together.

  ‘His last meal appears to have been some kind of pork, rice and cabbage concoction.’

  ‘Okay,’ Dawson said.

  ‘Popular with Romanians,’ Keats offered. ‘A dish called sarmale,’ he said.

  ‘Okay,’ Dawson repeated.

  It was not difficult for Stacey to read the signs of her colleague’s boredom.

  ‘That’s not why I called you here,’ Keats said.

  ‘Righty ho,’ Dawson said, obviously not wanting to push the man into non-cooperation.

  ‘This man did indeed die of hypothermia but I’d like you to see these.’

  Keats stepped towards two wall-mounted light boards and switched them on. He placed an X-ray on each board.

  Stacey looked from one to the other and gasped.

  ‘His left leg,’ Keats said, pointing to the first image. ‘And his right leg,’ he clarified, pointing to the second.

  ‘What the hell?’ Dawson asked.

  Almost every bone in the right leg appeared to be broken.

  ‘Twelve fractures from the tip of his toes to his knee. Nothing above.’

  ‘The pain…’ Stacey breathed.

  ‘Would have been excruciating,’ Keats agreed. ‘He would have had no use in that leg at all.’

  ‘Blood loss?’ Dawson asked.

  Keats shook his head. ‘Very little blood loss, Sergeant.’

  ‘Car accident?’ Dawson asked, echoing Stacey’s thoughts. She too could imagine a vehicle ploughing into his leg and causing this level of damage.

  Keats shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. This is not consistent with victims of RTA incidents, in my experience.’

  Stacey tried to picture any other type of impact to cause this level of damage.

  ‘Crushing?’ she asked.

  Keats nodded. ‘That would be my guess, and there’s something else,’ he said, returning to the clipboard.

  ‘This man has ninety-six different injury sites around his body including his face, skull, arms, leg, torso and behind.’

  ‘“Ninety-six”?’ Stacey repeated, for clarification.

  ‘Some possibly twenty years old,’ he said. ‘I’ve examined a cage fighter with less injuries than this poor fellow.’

  ‘How did he get so many?’ Dawson asked, horrified.

  ‘It’s my guess that this male was regularly and systematically beaten over quite a number of years.’

  ‘Poor soul,’ Stacey breathed, shaking her head. How could someone do this to another human being? She had the sudden image of this man cowed and frightened, trying to fend off blows. Each punch and kick demeaning him even more, grinding him down so that over time he probably lost the will to fight back.

  ‘Keats,’ Dawson asked, frowning. ‘I assume I’m right in thinking that our guy could not have got down to the canal on his own.’

  ‘That is correct,’ Keats answered.

  Stacey met Dawson’s gaze as the final horror dawned on her.

  Although not murdered, their victim had been taken to the canal and left there to die.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘I bloody hate this place,’ Bryant said as they pulled onto Hollytree. ‘It’s where hope goes to die.’

  Kim silently agreed with him and tried to avoid looking into the grey faces of people they passed by. Every expression was filled with despair, suspicion, muted rage or hopelessness. She’d always had the i
mpression that people on Hollytree had given up. That they had accepted that this was as good as it got. There were no aspirations to get out, ambitions to improve, energy or initiative.

  Kim understood Bryant’s depression. This case was bringing them to Hollytree too often.

  He stopped the car at a fenced refuse area to the side of a maisonette block. Kim tried not to inhale the stench from the line of council bins with their lids forced open by overflowing rubbish.

  ‘It’s the end one on the ground floor,’ Bryant said.

  Kim approached the door and shook her head at the cardboard piece where a pane of glass should have been.

  She heard a peal of laughter from the open kitchen window and a man’s voice shouting something unintelligible as he headed towards the door.

  The door opened on a man sporting shorts and a football shirt that did not meet the waistband of the shorts, exposing a portly, milk-white stomach.

  ‘What?’ he answered with the tiny end of a roll-up clutched between his fingers.

  ‘Mr Goddard?’ Kim asked, although she didn’t think there was one.

  He guffawed as he wiped his index finger beneath his nostrils.

  ‘Not bloody likely. I’m Ken, and you are?’

  ‘Police officers,’ Bryant said, showing his ID.

  Kim thrust her hands into her trouser pockets. She would not shake that hand if her life depended on it.

  ‘May we speak to Margaret?’

  Again with the loud laughter from the kitchen.

  ‘Maggie, c’mere,’ he called.

  The woman who appeared was reed thin and sickly looking. The smile died in her eyes.

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘To talk to you, if you have a moment,’ Bryant said, pleasantly, aware that they needed something from this woman.

  She nudged her head inside and stepped away from the door.

  A staircase up to the second level rose up just a few feet from the front door of a dark, unlit hallway. Margaret Goddard stepped into the kitchen which was first door on the right.

  Ken took himself to the furthest point of the small room, grabbing a can of cider as he passed the two-seater table just inside the door. A few more six-packs and a couple of bottles of spirits appeared to have been recently unloaded.

  ‘Sorry if we’re disturbing a party,’ Kim offered.

  Bryant shot her a warning glance. The woman’s daughter had been dead for a whole fourteen days.

  Ken smiled widely. ‘Nah, it’s benefits day,’ he said, cheerfully.

  Kim kept her irritation in check. These two were a walking stereotype for every Channel 5 documentary she’d seen on Benefits Britain and yet Kim knew there were families that used the system properly.

  ‘We’re here about Lauren,’ Bryant said, taking a seat.

  Kim remained standing in the doorway.

  ‘What about her?’ Maggie asked suspiciously.

  ‘It’s about her death,’ he offered, gently.

  ‘What about it?’ she asked, wrinkling up her nose.

  Kim detected no deep swallow or rush of emotion reddening the eyes.

  ‘We think there are questions to be answered,’ he continued, although the gentle consideration for her feelings had left his voice.

  ‘Such as? She topped herself. Simple.’

  Kim wondered if she had ever witnessed a mother so devoid of emotion when talking about such a recent death.

  ‘Only buried her a week ago; why weren’t you asking your questions then?’

  ‘Information has recently come to light,’ he offered.

  ‘You mean that tart being murdered the other—’

  ‘Her name was Kelly Rowe,’ Bryant snapped.

  She shrugged, oblivious to Bryant’s change in tone. She held out her right hand towards Ken who seemed to know what she was requesting and placed a pack of smokes and a disposable lighter in her palm.

  ‘So, what’s that got to do with Lauren?’

  ‘The timeliness of her death when considered alongside recent…’

  ‘I still don’t get… oh, hang on, you think she didn’t commit suicide. You think she was murdered?’

  Finally, her eyes began to widen.

  Bryant didn’t confirm or deny. ‘As I said we have questions about her death.’

  There was a sharp cackle from her lips like the one they’d heard from outside. ‘Well, it ain’t like you’re gonna be able to ask her, now, is it?’

  She realised she was the only one laughing and stopped suddenly.

  ‘So, what the fuck you doing here?’ she asked, suspiciously.

  ‘There may be evidence on her body that was overlooked during the initial—’

  ‘Shit, you want to dig her up?’ she asked, aghast.

  ‘Awww… gross,’ Ken said, from the corner.

  Kim was pleased that they had finally said something to disgust the pair.

  ‘We would like to ask your permission to exhume—’

  ‘Fuck off,’ she said, finally lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Mrs Goddard, we need your permission before we approach—’

  ‘No bloody chance,’ she said, shaking her head, vehemently.

  Kim could feel the irritations at the woman’s manner. Pity she hadn’t been quite so protective of her daughter when she was alive. Her thoughts led her to a suspicion that was almost too twisted to consider. But consider it, she must.

  ‘You’re not working tonight, Mrs Goddard?’ Kim asked.

  ‘Nah, retired, I did. A while ago now.’

  Maggie Goddard lived on Hollytree. Kai Lord controlled Hollytree. His employees didn’t just retire.

  The sickening truth of this woman’s ruthlessness hit her with force.

  ‘You exchanged places with your daughter, didn’t you? You offered her to Kai instead of you. Just so you could get out,’ she spat.

  Ken made a noise from the corner. ‘Nah, she didn’t. That would be sick,’ he said.

  Strangely, of the two of them, only Ken looked disgusted at the accusation.

  Maggie Goddard just stared at her.

  ‘You did that to your own child so you could get out,’ Kim said, with disgust. ‘And how was Lord ever going to refuse that trade, eh?’

  ‘She’s the only one they left me with so I had to make use—’

  ‘The only what?’ Ken asked, stepping forward.

  ‘Kid,’ she screamed as though it was obvious.

  ‘You had more than her?’ he asked, staring her down.

  ‘Two boys and a girl,’ she said, as though she couldn’t be bothered to recall their names.

  Kim looked at her and then nodded towards her boyfriend. ‘Go on, tell him you did it, because he still doesn’t quite believe you.’

  The woman didn’t remove her gaze from Kim’s face. ‘Well, I did it to feed her for all them years, what was the harm?’

  ‘Fuck this,’ said Ken, stepping towards the table. He grabbed an armful of cans and headed towards the kitchen door. He stopped when he reached Kim.

  He turned. ‘You’re disgusting, woman,’ he said, before spitting right at her.

  Kim stepped aside for him to pass as Maggie Goddard shouted after him while grabbing a tea towel and wiping at the white spittle in her hair. Pity the guy was leaving just when he was starting to grow on her.

  Kim moved forward and took the prepared paperwork from her pocket and laid it on the table.

  Bryant produced a pen.

  ‘Margaret, you gave her fuck all else as a mother. The least you can give her is this.’

  The woman eyed her with pure hatred for a moment before grabbing the pen and signing her name.

  Kim put the paperwork back in her pocket and paused at the door. There was so much she wanted to say to this foul, repulsive woman who had done the unthinkable to her own flesh and blood. But there were no words that would penetrate the layer of disinterest of the piece of shit cracking open another can of cider.

  She turned and left the kitchen.
<
br />   Her colleague slammed the door behind him.

  ‘Bryant, I just simply have no words for that excuse for a mother in there.’

  He offered no response and she could see the tension in his jaw.

  Kim opened her mouth to distract him just as her mobile phone sounded.

  ‘Hey, Penn,’ she answered.

  ‘Got a result on one of those registration numbers, boss,’

  She put the phone on speaker. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You’re gonna love this. The white Astra is registered to an owner in Gornal, a Mrs Beverley Greaves.’

  Kim glanced at Bryant whose surprised reaction mirrored her own.

  ‘Thanks, Penn,’ she said, ending the call.

  ‘So, what was this woman doing crawling along Tavistock Road on a Saturday night?’ he asked.

  ‘Dunno, partner, but I think we should head over to her address and find out.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘Kev, what’s the point of coming here again?’ Stacey asked, as he pulled up outside Robertson’s.

  ‘There’s a reason these people don’t want us talking to these workers. I don’t believe their story about that urgent order and that minibus thing gives me the creeps. You ever known that before?’

  Stacey wanted to offer a balanced, reasonable response to his suspicion but she had none. Seeing those women being ferried en-masse away from the factory had reminded her of a programme she had once seen on the American facility of Area 51, where workers were bussed in and out and allowed no contact with anyone.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Stacey asked, as he walked away from the main entrance.

  ‘Just want to check something,’ he replied, cryptically.

  She followed him past the showroom to the end of the building. The high metal gates were closed but not locked. She followed Dawson’s gaze to a single back door partially obscured by towers of wooden pallets and a metal trolley.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.

  He ignored her for a moment and then smiled in her direction.

  ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘As I thought.’

  He started pulling back the metal gate handle.

  ‘Kev, this is trespass,’ she said. ‘And there’s a camera up there.’