Silent Scream: An edge of your seat serial killer thriller Book 1
Silent Scream
Angela Marsons
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
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
Letter from Angela
Acknowledegments
Published by Bookouture
An imprint of StoryFire Ltd. 23 Sussex Road, Ickenham, UB10 8PN, United Kingdom
www.bookouture.com
Copyright © Angela Marsons 2015
Angela Marsons has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-909490-91-8
This book is dedicated to my partner, Julie Forrest, who never stopped believing and never allowed me to forget my dream.
Prologue
Rowley Regis, Black Country, 2004
Five figures formed a pentagram around a freshly dug mound. Only they knew it was a grave.
Digging the frozen earth beneath the layers of ice and snow had been like trying to carve stone but they’d taken turns. All of them.
An adult-sized hole would have taken longer.
The shovel had passed from grip to grip. Some were hesitant, tentative. Others more assured. No one resisted and no one spoke.
The innocence of the life taken was known to them all but the pact had been made. Their secrets would be buried.
Five heads bowed towards the dirt, visualising the body beneath soil that already glistened with fresh ice.
As the first flakes dusted the top of the grave, a shudder threaded through the group.
The five figures dispersed, their footprints treading the trail of a star into the fresh, crisp snow.
It was done.
One
Black Country, Present Day
Teresa Wyatt had the inexplicable feeling that this night would be her last.
She switched off the television and the house fell quiet. It wasn’t the normal silence that descended each evening as she and her home gently closed down and unwound towards bedtime.
She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting on the late night news. The announcement had already been made on the local evening news programme. Perhaps she was hoping for a miracle, some last-minute reprieve.
Ever since the first application two years ago she had felt like a prisoner on death row. Intermittently the guards had come, taken her to the chair and then fate had returned her to the safety of the cell. But this time was final. Teresa knew there would be no further objections, no more delays.
She wondered if the others had seen the news. Did they feel the same way she did? Would they admit to themselves that their primary feelings were not remorse but self-preservation?
Had she been a nicer person there might have been a smattering of conscience buried beneath her concern for herself; but there was not.
Had she not gone along with the plan, she would have been ruined, she told herself. The name Teresa Wyatt would have been mentioned with distaste, instead of the respect she now enjoyed.
Teresa had no doubt that the complaint would have been taken seriously. The source had been devious, but believable. But it had been silenced forever – and that was something she would never regret.
But now and again in the years since Crestwood her stomach had lurched at the sight of a similar gait or a hair colour or a tilt of the head.
Teresa stood and tried to throw off the melancholy that shadowed her. She strode to the kitchen and put the single plate and wine glass into the dishwasher.
There was no dog to let out or cat to let in. Just the final night time security check of the deadbolts.
Again, she was struck by a feeling that the safety check was pointless; that nothing could hold back the past. She pushed the thought away. There was nothing to fear. They had all made a pact and it had held strong for ten years. Only the five of them knew the truth.
She knew she was too tense to drift off to sleep immediately but she had called a seven a.m. staff meeting for which she could not be late.
She stepped into the bathroom and began to run the water, adding a generous measure of lavender-infused bubble bath. The scent instantly filled the room. A long soak on top of the earlier glass of wine should induce sleep.
The dressing gown and satin pyjamas were folded neatly on top of the laundry basket as she stepped into the tub.
She closed her eyes and surrendered to the water as it enveloped her. She smiled to herself as the anxiety began to recede. She was just being hypersensitive.
Teresa felt that her life had been divided into two segments. There were thirty-seven years B.C., as she called her life Before Crestwood. Those years had been charmed. Single and ambitious, every decision had been her own. She had answered to no one.
But the years since had been different. A shadow of fear had followed her every move; dictated her actions, influenced her decisions.
She remembered reading somewhere that conscience was no more than the fear of being caught. Teresa was honest enough to admit that, for her, the s
tatement was true.
But their secret was safe. It had to be.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of a glass panel shattering. But the sound was not in the distance. It was at her kitchen door.
Teresa lay perfectly still, her ears straining for further sounds. The noise would not have alerted anyone else. The next detached home sat two hundred feet away, on the other side of a leylandi hedge that rose twenty feet high.
The silence of her house thickened around her. The quiet that followed the loud noise was fraught with menace.
Perhaps it was nothing more than a mindless act of vandalism. Maybe a couple of the students from Saint Joseph’s had learned her address. By God, she hoped so.
The blood thundered along her veins, vibrating into her temples. She swallowed, in an attempt to clear her eardrums.
Her body began to react to the sensation that she was no longer alone. She brought herself to a sitting position. The sound of the water rearranging itself was loud as it sloshed against the tub. Her hand slipped on the porcelain and her right side fell back into the water.
A sound at the bottom of the stairs destroyed any vague hope of mindless vandalism.
Teresa knew that she was out of time. In a parallel universe, the muscles in her body reacted to the impending threat, but in this one both her body and her mind were stilled by the inevitable. She knew that there was nowhere left to hide.
As she heard the creak of the stairs she briefly closed her eyes and willed her body to stay calm. There was an element of freedom when finally confronted by the fears that haunted her.
As she felt the cool air enter the room from the doorway, she opened her eyes.
The figure that entered was as black and featureless as a shadow. Utility trousers met a thick black fleece which was covered by a long overcoat. A woollen balaclava covered the face. But why me? Teresa’s mind raged. She was not the weakest link.
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t spoken,’ she said. The words were barely audible. Every one of her senses was beginning to close down as her body prepared for death.
The black figure took two steps towards her. Teresa searched for a clue but found none. It could only be one of four.
Teresa felt the betrayal of her body as urine slipped from between her legs into the scented water.
‘I promise ... I haven’t ...’
Teresa’s words trailed away as she tried to lift herself to a sitting position. The bath bubbles had turned the tub slippery.
Her breath came in short, sharp rasps as she considered how best to beg for her life. No, she didn't want to die. It wasn't time. She wasn't ready. There were things that she wanted to do.
She had the sudden image of water flooding her lungs; inflating them like party balloons.
She held out her hand imploringly, finally finding her voice. 'Please ... please ... no ... I don't want to die ...'
The figure leaned over the bath and placed a gloved hand above each breast. Teresa felt the pressure being applied to force her under the water and struggled to sit up. She had to try and explain but the force of the hands increased. Again she tried to rear up from her inert position but it was hopeless. Gravity and brute strength made it impossible for her to fight back.
As the water framed her face she opened her mouth. A small sob escaped from between her lips as she tried one last time. ‘I swear ...’
The words were cut short and Teresa watched as the air bubbles escaped from her nose and reached the surface. Her hair swam around her face.
The figure shimmered on the other side of the water barrier.
Teresa’s body began to react to the oxygen deprivation and she tried to quell the panic rising inside her. Her arms flailed and the gloved hand was briefly dislodged from her breast bone. She managed to raise her head above the water and got a closer look into the cold, piercing eyes. Recognition sapped the last of her breath.
The brief second of confusion was enough for her attacker to reposition. Two hands forced her body underwater and held her fast.
Her mind was full of disbelief, even as her consciousness began to wane.
Teresa realised that her co-conspirators could not even imagine who it was they had to fear.
Two
Kim Stone stepped around the Kawasaki Ninja to adjust the volume on her iPod. The speakers danced with the silvery notes of Vivaldi’s Summer Concerto as they headed towards her favourite part; the finale called ‘Storm’.
She placed the socket wrench on the work bench and wiped her hands with a stray rag. She stared at the Triumph Thunderbird she'd been restoring for the past seven months and wondered why it had not captured her tonight.
She glanced at her watch. Almost eleven p.m. The rest of her team would be staggering out of The Dog right about now. And although she didn't touch alcohol, she accompanied her team when she felt she'd earned it.
She retrieved the socket wrench and lowered herself to the knee pad beside the Triumph.
It wasn’t a celebration for her.
The terrified face of Laura Yates swam before her eyes as she reached inside the guts of the bike and found the rear end of the crankshaft. She placed the socket head over the nut and turned the wrench in a back and forth motion.
Three guilty verdicts of rape were going to send Terence Hunt away for a very long time.
‘But not long enough,’ Kim said to herself.
Because there had been a fourth victim.
She turned the wrench again but the nut refused to tighten. She’d already assembled the bearing, sprocket, clamping washer and rotor. The nut was the final puzzle piece and the damn thing refused to tighten against the locking washer.
Kim stared at the nut and silently willed it to move for its own sake. Still nothing. She focused her anger on the arm of the socket wrench and gave it one almighty push. The thread broke and the nut turned freely.
‘Damn it,’ she shouted, throwing the wrench across the garage.
Laura Yates had trembled in the witness box as she'd recounted the ordeal of being dragged behind a church and repeatedly brutally sexually assaulted for two and a half hours. They had seen with their own eyes how hard it had been for her to sit down. Three months after the attack.
The nineteen-year-old had sat in the gallery as each guilty verdict was read out. Then it came to her case and two words were stated that would change her life forever.
Not Guilty.
And why? Because the girl had consumed a couple of drinks. Forget the eleven stitches that stretched from back to front, the broken rib and the black eye. She must have asked for it, all because she'd had a couple of bloody drinks.
Kim was aware that her hands had started to tremble with rage.
Her team felt that three out of four wasn't bad. And it wasn't. But it wasn't good enough. Not for Kim.
She leaned down to inspect the damage to the bike. It had taken almost six weeks to track down those bloody screws.
She eased the socket into position and turned the wrench again between her thumb and forefinger as her mobile phone began to ring. She dropped the nut and jumped to her feet. A call so close to midnight was never going to be good news.
‘D.I. Stone.’
‘We have a body, Marm.’
Of course. What else could it have been?
‘Where?’
‘Hagley Road, Stourbridge.’
Kim knew the area. It was just on the border with their neighbours West Mercia.
‘Should we put a call in to D.S. Bryant, Marm?’
Kim cringed. She hated the term Marm. At thirty-four, she wasn’t ready to be called Marm.
A picture of her colleague stumbling into a taxi outside The Dog came into her mind.
‘No, I think I'll take this on my own,’ she said, ending the call.
Kim paused for two seconds as she silenced the iPod. She knew she had to let go of the accusation in the eyes of Laura Yates; real or imagined, she had seen it. And she couldn’t get it out of her mind.
Three
Four minutes after receiving the phone call, Kim was pulling off the drive in the ten-year-old Golf GTI that she used only when the roads were icy or when the firing of the Ninja would be an anti-social act.
The torn jeans stained with oil, grease and dust had been replaced by black canvas trousers and a plain white T-shirt. Her feet were now encased in black patent boots with a quarter-inch heel. Her short black hair required little maintenance. A quick comb from her fingers and she was ready to go.
Her customer would not be concerned.
She weaved the car to the end of the road. The machine felt alien within her control. Although it was only small, Kim had to concentrate on passing distances of parked cars. So much metal around her felt cumbersome.
A mile away from the target property, the smell of burning found its way in through the vents. As she travelled, the smell became stronger. Half a mile out, she could see a column of smoke leaning and reaching above the Clent hills. A quarter mile, and Kim knew she was heading right for it.
Second only in size to The Met, the West Midlands Police covered almost 2.6 million inhabitants.
The Black Country was situated to the north and west of Birmingham and had become one of the most intensely industrialised regions in the country by Victorian times. Its name came from the outcropping coal that made the soil black over large areas. The thirty foot seam of ore and coal was the thickest in Great Britain.
Now, unemployment levels in the area were the third highest in the country. Petty crime was on the increase, along with anti-social behaviour.
The crime scene sat just off the main road that linked Stourbridge to Hagley, an area that did not normally attract high levels of law-breaking. The houses closest to the road were new double-fronted properties with sparkling white roman columns and black leaded windows. Further along the road the houses were spread further apart and were considerably older.