Child’s Play: A totally unputdownable serial killer thriller Read online

  CHILD’S PLAY

  A TOTALLY UNPUTDOWNABLE SERIAL KILLER THRILLER

  ANGELA MARSONS

  BOOKS BY ANGELA MARSONS

  DETECTIVE KIM STONE SERIES

  1. SILENT SCREAM

  2. EVIL GAMES

  3. LOST GIRLS

  4. PLAY DEAD

  5. BLOOD LINES

  6. DEAD SOULS

  7. BROKEN BONES

  8. DYING TRUTH

  9. FATAL PROMISE

  10. DEAD MEMORIES

  11. CHILD’S PLAY

  * * *

  OTHER BOOKS

  DEAR MOTHER

  THE FORGOTTEN WOMAN

  Available in audio

  THE DETECTIVE KIM STONE SERIES

  1. SILENT SCREAM (Available in the UK and the US)

  2. EVIL GAMES (Available in the UK and the US)

  3. LOST GIRLS (Available in the UK and the US)

  4. PLAY DEAD (Available in the UK and the US)

  5. BLOOD LINES (Available in the UK and the US)

  6. DEAD SOULS (Available in the UK and the US)

  7. BROKEN BONES (Available in the UK and the US)

  8. DYING TRUTH (Available in the UK and the US)

  9. FATAL PROMISE (Available in the UK and the US)

  10. DEAD MEMORIES (Available in the UK and the US)

  * * *

  OTHER BOOKS

  DEAR MOTHER (Available in the UK and the US )

  THE FORGOTTEN WOMAN (Available in the UK and the US )

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Angela’s Email Sign-Up

  Books by Angela Marsons

  A Letter from Angela

  SILENT SCREAM

  EVIL GAMES

  LOST GIRLS

  PLAY DEAD

  BLOOD LINES

  DEAD SOULS

  BROKEN BONES

  DYING TRUTH

  FATAL PROMISE

  DEAD MEMORIES

  DEAR MOTHER

  THE FORGOTTEN WOMAN

  Acknowledgements

  This book is dedicated to Jez Edwards.

  * * *

  Simply, Thank You.

  PROLOGUE

  WINTER 2010

  ‘Come on, what do you want?’ she snaps, rubbing her hands together, reminding me of when I was a child.

  But I’m no longer a child. I’m a grown-up and I’m angry. But she doesn’t need to know that. Yet.

  ‘And what are we doing here, anyway?’ she asks, looking around the deserted park. It is mid-January and one degree above freezing, twenty minutes before the sun falls completely.

  My promise of having something for her had lured her here as I’d hoped.

  I pat the seat of the roundabout beside me. ‘Sit with me and I can give you your present.’

  She looks unsure but curiosity gets the better of her.

  I’ve been dreaming of this minute for eight years.

  ‘Come on, what’s this all?…’

  ‘Remember bringing me here to play when I was little?’ I ask.

  She hesitates. ‘Err… I…’

  ‘Do you remember pushing me on the swings, sitting with me on the see-saw, playing with a ball on the field?’

  ‘Come on now, it’s late. I want to get home,’ she says, and I hear a note of fear in her voice.

  She knows that something is wrong.

  She moves away from me.

  I grab her arm.

  ‘You don’t remember? No? Oh, that’s because you never did, you fucking bitch,’ I say, turning her around.

  ‘What the?…’

  I’ve rehearsed this in my mind so many times. I know exactly how it is going to work.

  I raise my right arm and punch her in the temple, knocking her clean out.

  A genuine smile lights up my face. That felt almost as good as I have imagined.

  I work quickly as the day begins to fade, unsure how long she’ll be out.

  She starts to groan as I finish the last tie to her ankle.

  ‘Hey, what you?…’

  ‘Comfy?’ I ask, standing back to admire my handiwork.

  Her legs are spread-eagled and tied to the metal frame of the spider’s web roundabout, facing down. Her body is bent at the waist so her upper half is hanging down towards the floor, the top of her head touching the concrete base of the ride. Her hands are tied behind her back.

  ‘Look, I’m gonna puke…’

  ‘Least of your problems,’ I say, enjoying the fear in her voice as she tries to move.

  ‘Aargh,’ she cries out as the barbed wire bites into the flesh of her wrists. A nightmare to apply but worth it to see the bright red results of her struggles.

  ‘You should have brought me here jus
t once,’ I spit as I begin to push the spider’s web around.

  She screams as her head is dragged across the surface.

  I smile and keep pushing, safe in the knowledge she won’t be heard. The houses the park had been built to serve were condemned and emptied years ago, after two fell into an old mining pit.

  The only kids that use it now come from miles away but not on a night like this.

  ‘P… please… st…’

  ‘Shush. It’s my turn now,’ I say, pushing the frame harder. Clumps of hair are being left behind with each revolution. ‘You’re going to wish you’d played with me,’ I say, speeding up the pushes.

  Her breath is coming in short, sharp bursts in between pain-filled screams as her flesh is dragged across the gravel.

  The screams have turned to yelps now, and I guess she’s fading in and out of consciousness.

  I stop the web from turning and push back the other way. The barbed wire cuts deeper into her flesh as the momentum builds again.

  And finally we’re playing a game. A game that I have chosen.

  A trail of blood is forming in a circle around the gravel.

  I push harder, causing the roundabout to whiz past me at speed.

  ‘You should have listened to me,’ I cry, pushing as hard as I can.

  The sounds coming from her are no more than a whimper.

  The blood on the ground is pooling, clumps of flesh are sticking to the concrete base.

  The crying stops completely after I hear the sound of the fracture of her skull.

  I give one last good push of the spider’s web and stand back.

  ‘You really should have played with me,’ I tell her again, although I know she can no longer hear.

  I walk away as the slumped, lifeless body continues to turn.

  ONE

  PRESENT DAY

  Kim Stone arrived at the cordon tape at 11.29 p.m. The sun had been down for almost three hours but late August warmth still lingered in the air.

  She had instructed Despatch to place a call to her colleague, DS Bryant, but his Astra Estate wasn’t yet visible amongst the squad cars, ambulance and coroner’s van. She looked at those two vehicles side by side. Surely only one or the other was needed.

  As she removed her helmet she wondered from what activity her colleague had been disturbed when he’d received the call. Knowing Bryant, he’d been about to fall asleep with the crime channel playing on the TV in the background.

  She’d been preparing to take Barney for his late-night walk. She’d left him after a quick visit out to the back garden and the promise of a run at the park when she got home. Whatever the time. She’d neglected to mention it was Haden Hill Park to which she’d been called, feeling he wouldn’t forgive her absence quite so readily if he knew she was visiting a park they frequented often for an early morning walk.

  Haden Hill House was a Victorian residence built on parkland in 1878 by George Alfred Haden Haden-Best. He had originally intended to demolish the grand Haden Hall and extend his home but his elderly aunt, widow of the squire, lived in the Old Hall, and by the time she died in 1903 he had lost the will to enlarge Haden Hill House, so the two buildings remained side by side.

  Upon his death in 1921, the house, the Old Hall, gardens and 55 acres of land were bought by public subscription for use as a park. In the years since, the Old Hall and House had been used as a refuge for evacuees and a bombing raid shelter. The Old Hall had lain in ruins for years following a fire until lottery funding had helped restore it to its former glory.

  Kim had been directed to the entrance off Haden Park Road that led onto the kids play area at the top of the grounds, a short walk away from the refurbished buildings. A dozen or so onlookers were already craning their necks to see beyond the police officers and vehicles and more doors were opening as locals gave up the pretence of looking through downstairs and upstairs windows.

  She showed her ID and ducked under the cordon tape, heading towards the collection of fluorescent jackets and multiple torch beams shining in the absence of street lighting.

  Officers moved aside as she headed to the centre of the crowd, passing paramedics who had obviously been dismissed but remained in discussion beside the giraffe-emblazoned play slide.

  ‘Hey, Keats,’ she said, spotting the diminutive pathologist, who reached for something from his equipment bag which had been perched on some kind of cartoon character on a spring.

  He shook his head, sorrowfully, causing Kim to wonder exactly what she’d been called out to. And then the reason for his dismay clicked in her mind and it had nothing to do with the crime scene.

  ‘He’ll be along shortly,’ she said, acknowledging the fact that the man liked her colleague far more than he liked her and made no attempt to hide it. It didn’t bother her. Most people felt that way.

  A slow smile began to turn up the man’s dour mouth.

  Clearly, Bryant had arrived.

  ‘Evening, Keats,’ her colleague said, with a smile and an outstretched hand.

  She offered him a look that he ignored.

  Keats smirked. ‘Now, that’s how you greet—’

  ‘Sorry, but did someone say there was a body here, somewhere?’ Kim asked, pointedly looking around.

  ‘There is indeed, Inspector, and the poor soul has not been touched except to check for life signs.’

  ‘Okay, well, point me in the right—’

  ‘Guys,’ Keats said, nodding to the group of uniformed officers.

  Suddenly, by collective torchlight, like a solo performance on a darkened stage, the area to the left of her lit up as though a switch had been flicked.

  It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust as Bryant came to stand beside her.

  His sharp intake of breath mirrored her own.

  ‘What the bloody hell is this all about?’ he asked, taking the words right out of her mouth.

  TWO

  At first glance Kim saw a late-middle-aged female sitting on the far-right swing. Her handbag was positioned neatly beside the metal frame. It wasn’t open, it wasn’t strewn, it was placed with the shoulder strap coiled to the left.

  Kim began her second detailed perusal of the strangely macabre sight before her.

  The woman’s hair was thick and grey but well styled. Even by torchlight Kim could see the glisten of lipstick on an attractive face that showed signs of wear but had not yet given itself up to deep wrinkles.

  Small pearl studs decorated each earlobe and matched a single strand around a neck that had not escaped the ageing process as well as the face.

  The string of pearls disappeared into a white collared blouse covered by a thin summer cardigan with three-quarter sleeves.

  The skirt was flared, patterned blue with small yellow flowers; it fell just below the knee but was probably longer if she were standing. Nylon covered her legs down into blue court shoes with two-inch heels.

  So, just a middle-aged lady pausing for a go on the swings as she took a walk through the park. Reliving a childhood memory or unable to resist an impetuous urge. Harmless.

  Except for two things: the bright red stain colouring the front of her blouse and the barbed wire that was tied around her wrists.

  Her body was trying to slump forward but was held in place by the vicious wire entwined into the hanging chain of the swing. Her legs were slightly bent, the tips of her shoes dragging against the ground.

  ‘Some kind of sexual game gone wrong?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘Dunno yet,’ Kim said, struggling to pull her eyes away.

  Take away the barbed wire, and in the daylight the picture of this woman laughing and moving to and fro on the swing beside her grandchild expelling whoops of delight would elicit smiles and laughter. Late at night even without the blood and barbed wire the scene offered a more sinister and compelling sight.

  ‘Who found her?’ Kim asked, to no one in particular.

  ‘Chappie over by the climbing frame, and avoid that puddle by the gravel. That be
longs to him too,’ said one of the uniforms.

  Bryant turned and nodded towards him. ‘Want me to go over and?…’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You take a look in her handbag. Keats is less likely to have a paddy at you.’

  The pathologist didn’t much like things being touched until the techies had been through them, but the bromance between the two of them offered Bryant a bit more leeway. Antagonising Keats at the beginning of a case rarely worked out well for her.

  She knew much of Keats’s affection for her colleague grew out of sympathy at Bryant’s plight of being stuck with her every day. Keats felt the man had enough crosses to bear. And she didn’t necessarily disagree with him, she thought, as she stepped around the pool of vomit to approach the fair-haired male sitting on the ground.

  His back was against the climbing frame, his knees bent with his arms resting on them to support his head as he stared down at the ground.

  She guessed him to be mid-twenties, wearing dark jeans and a sweatshirt.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, showing her ID.

  He pushed himself to stand.

  ‘It’s okay, you can stay on the—’

  ‘I just want to go home, officer. I was told that once I’d spoken to a detective I could…’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, looking to the female police officer standing beside him.

  ‘Eric,’ she offered. ‘Eric Hanson of—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Kim said, assuming the young man had not lost the ability to speak.

  His gaze had automatically lifted and been drawn back towards the swings. He started to shake his head.

  Kim stepped in front of him and blocked the view. She nodded towards the plastic water bottle in his hand. ‘Take a sip, mate.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘So, Eric, what happened?’ she asked.

  ‘She was just… I looked and…’

  His eyes were staring straight through her, locked on to the picture he’d stumbled across. She didn’t need him replaying the horror over and over. What she needed were facts.

  ‘Okay, back up for me, Eric,’ Kim said, bringing him to the present. ‘What time did you come into the park?’

  ‘Half ten-ish,’ he said, lifting his attention to her face. ‘I just wanted to walk off that last pint of lager I downed at the club. Just fancied stretching my legs.’