Silent Scream: An edge of your seat serial killer thriller Book 1 Read online

  Kim pulled up at the cordon and parked between two fire tenders. Without speaking, she flashed her ID to the officer guarding the perimeter tape. He nodded and lifted it for her to duck underneath.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked the first fire officer she found.

  He pointed to the remains of the first conifer tree at the edge of the property. ‘Fire was started there and spread through most of the trees before we got here.’

  Kim noted that of the thirteen trees that formed the property line, only the two closest to the house were untouched.

  ‘You discovered the body?’

  He pointed to a fire officer sitting on the ground, talking to a constable. ‘Just about everyone else was out watching the commotion but this house stayed dark. Neighbours assured us that the black Range Rover was hers and that she lived alone.’

  Kim nodded and approached the fire officer on the ground. He looked pale and she noted a slight tremble to his right hand. Finding a dead body was never pleasant, no matter what training you’d had.

  ‘Did you touch anything?’ she asked.

  He thought for a second and then shook his head. ‘The bathroom door was open but I didn’t step inside.’

  Kim paused at the front door, reached into the cardboard box to the left and took out blue plastic coverings for her feet.

  Kim took the stairs two at a time and entered the bathroom. She immediately located Keats, the pathologist. He was a diminutive figure with a completely bald head, set off by a moustache and a beard that fell into a point below his chin. He’d had the honour of guiding her through her first post mortem eight years earlier.

  ‘Hey, Detective,’ he said, looking around her. ‘Where’s Bryant?’

  ‘Jesus, we’re not joined at the hip.’

  ‘Yeah but you’re like a Chinese dish. Sweet and sour pork ... but without Bryant you’re just sour ... ’

  ‘Keats, how amused do you think I am at this time of night?’

  ‘Your sense of humour isn’t really evident any time to be fair.’

  Oh, how she wanted to retaliate. If she wished to, she could comment on the fact that the creases in his black trousers were not quite straight. Or she could point out that the collar of his shirt was slightly frayed. She could even mention the small bloodstain on the back of his coat.

  But right now a naked body lay between them, demanding her full attention.

  Kim moved closer to the bath slowly, careful not to slip on the water that was being sloshed around by two white suits.

  The body of the female lay partly submerged. Her eyes were open and her dyed blonde hair was fanned out in the water, framing her face.

  Her body floated, so that the tip of her breasts broke the surface of the water.

  Kim guessed the female to be mid- to-late-forties but well kept. Her upper arms appeared toned but limp flesh hung in the water. Her toenails were painted a soft pink and no stubble showed on her legs.

  The volume of water on the floor indicated that a struggle had taken place and that the woman had fought for her life.

  Kim heard footsteps thundering up the stairs.

  ‘Detective Inspector Stone, a pleasant surprise.’

  Kim groaned, recognising the voice and the sarcasm dripping from the words.

  ‘Detective Inspector Wharton, the pleasure is all mine.’

  The two of them had worked together a few times and her disdain had never been hidden. He was a career officer who wanted to climb the ladder as quickly as possible. He had no interest in solving cases, only adding to his tally.

  His final humiliation had been when she’d made D.I. before he had. Her early promotion had prompted him to move house and transfer to West Mercia; a smaller force with less competition.

  ‘What are you doing here? I think you’ll find this is a West Mercia case.’

  ‘And I think you’ll find it’s right on the border and I got first dibs.’

  Unconsciously, she’d stepped in front of the bath. The victim didn’t need any more curious eyes roving over her naked body.

  ‘It’s my case, Stone.’

  Kim shook her head and folded her arms. ‘I ain’t budging, Tom.’ She tipped her head. ‘We could always make this a joint investigation. I was here first, so I’ll lead.’

  His thin mean face filled with colour. Reporting to her would be done only after gouging out his own eyeballs with a rusty spoon.

  She assessed him from head to toe. ‘And my first instruction would be to enter the crime scene with appropriate protection.’

  He looked down at her feet and then at his own unprotected footwear. More haste, less speed, she thought to herself.

  She lowered her voice. ‘Don’t make this a pissing contest, Tom.’

  He gave her a look filled with contempt before turning and storming out of the bathroom.

  Kim turned her attention back to the body.

  ‘You’d have won,’ Keats said quietly.

  ‘Huh?’

  His eyes danced with amusement. ‘The pissing contest.’

  Kim nodded. She knew.

  ‘Can we get her out of here yet?’

  ‘Just a couple more close ups of her breastbone.’

  As he spoke, one of the forensic officers pointed a camera with a lens the length of an exhaust pipe at the woman’s breasts.

  Kim leaned in closer and saw two marks above each breast.

  ‘Pushed down?’

  ‘I’m thinking so. Preliminary exam shows no other injuries. I’ll tell you more after the post mortem.’

  ‘Any guesses on how long?’

  Kim could see no evidence of the liver probe, so she was guessing he’d used the rectal thermometer before she'd arrived.

  She knew that a body dropped temperature by 1.5 degrees centigrade in the first hour. Normally it was between 1.5 and 1.0 degree centigrade every hour thereafter. She also knew that figure to be affected by many other factors. Not least that the victim was naked and submerged in now-cold water.

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll do further calculations later but I’d say no more than about two hours.’

  ‘When can you ... ’

  ‘I’ve got a ninety-six-year-old lady who expired after falling asleep in her armchair and a twenty-six-year-old male with the needle still in his arm.’

  ‘Nothing urgent then?’

  He checked his watch. ‘Midday?’

  ‘Eight,’ she countered.

  ‘Ten and no earlier,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m human and need occasional rest.’

  ‘Perfect,’ she said. It was the exact time she had in mind. It would give her chance to brief her team and task someone to attend.

  Kim heard more footsteps on the stairs. The sound of laboured breathing came closer.

  ‘Sergeant Travis,’ she said, without turning. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Officers are canvassing the area. The FOA rounded up a couple of neighbours but the first thing they knew was the fire service rolling up. Alert call was from a passing motorist.’

  Kim turned and nodded. The First Officer Attending had done a good job of securing the scene for the forensics team and corralling any potential witnesses but the houses were set back from the road and separated by a quarter acre. Not exactly a mecca for the nosey neighbour.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘Point of entry was a smashed glass panel in the back door and the fire officer states that the front door was unlocked.’

  ‘Hmmm ... interesting.’

  She nodded her thanks and headed down the stairs.

  One technician was inspecting the hallway and another was dusting the back door for fingerprints. A designer handbag sat on the breakfast bar. Kim had no idea what the gold monogram fastener meant. She never used handbags but it looked expensive.

  A third tech entered from the dining room next door. He nodded towards the handbag. ‘Nothing taken. Credit cards and cash still intact.’

  Kim nodded and headed out of the house. At the doorway she remov
ed the shoe coverings and placed them into a second box. All protective clothing would be removed from the scene and examined for trace evidence later.

  She stepped under the cordon. One fire tender remained on watch to ensure the blaze was totally extinguished. Fire was clever and just one ember that went unnoticed could set the place ablaze within minutes.

  She stood at the car, surveying the bigger picture of the scene before her.

  Teresa Wyatt lived alone. Nothing appeared to have been taken or even disturbed.

  The killer could have left safe in the knowledge that the body would not be discovered until the following morning at the earliest and yet they had started a fire to expedite police attention.

  Now all Kim had to do was work out why.

  Four

  At seven thirty a.m. Kim parked the Ninja at Halesowen police station, just off the ring road that circled a town with a small shopping precinct and a college. The station was located within spitting distance of the magistrates court; convenient, but a bitch for claiming expenses.

  The three-storey building was as drab and unwelcoming as any other government building that apologised to tax-paying citizens.

  She navigated her way to the detectives’ office without offering any morning greetings and none were offered to her. Kim knew she had a reputation for being cold, socially inept and emotionless. This perception deflected banal small talk and that was fine by her.

  As usual, she was first into the detectives’ office and so fired up the coffee machine. The room held four desks in two sets of two facing each other. Each desk mirrored its partner, with a computer screen and mismatched file trays.

  Three of the desks accommodated permanent occupants but the fourth sat empty since they had been downsized a few months earlier. It was where she normally perched herself rather than in her office.

  The space with Kim’s name on the door was commonly referred to as The Bowl. It was nothing more than an area in the top right hand corner of the room that was partitioned off by plasterboard and glass.

  It was a space she used for the occasional ‘individual performance directive’, otherwise known as a good old-fashioned bollocking.

  ‘Morning, Guv,’ Detective Constable Wood called as she slid into her chair. Although her family background was half English and half Nigerian, Stacey had never set foot outside the United Kingdom. Her tight black hair was cut short and close to her head following the removal of her last weave. The smooth caramel skin suited the haircut well.

  Stacey’s work area was organised and clear. Anything not in the labelled trays was stacked in meticulous piles along the top edge of her desk.

  Not far behind was Detective Sergeant Bryant who mumbled a ‘Morning, Guv,’ as he glanced into The Bowl. His six foot frame looked immaculate, as though he had been dressed for Sunday school by his mother.

  Immediately the suit jacket landed on the back of his chair. By the end of the day his tie would have dropped a couple of floors, the top button of his shirt would be open and his shirt sleeves would be rolled up just below his elbows.

  She saw him glance at her desk, seeking evidence of a coffee mug. When he saw that she already had coffee he filled the mug labelled ‘World’s Best Taxi Driver’, a present from his nineteen-year-old daughter.

  His filing was not a system that anyone else understood but Kim had yet to request any piece of paper that was not in her hands within a few seconds. At the top of his desk was a framed picture of himself and his wife taken at their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. A picture of his daughter snuggled in his wallet.

  DS Kevin Dawson, the third member of her team, didn’t keep a photo of anyone special on his desk. Had he wanted to display a picture of the person for whom he felt most affection he would have been greeted by his own likeness throughout his working day.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Guv,’ Dawson called as he slid into his seat opposite Wood and completed her team.

  He wasn’t officially late. The shift didn’t start until eight a.m. but she liked them all in early for a briefing, especially at the beginning of a new case. Kim didn’t like to stick to a roster and people who did lasted a very short time on her team.

  ‘Hey, Stacey, you gonna get me a coffee or what?’ Dawson asked, checking his mobile phone.

  ‘Of course, Kev, how’d yer like it: milk, two sugars and in yer lap?’ she asked sweetly, in her strong Black Country accent.

  ‘Stace, would you like a coffee?’ he asked, rising, knowing full well that she didn’t touch the stuff. ‘You must be tired after fighting warlocks all night,’ he quipped, referring to Stacey's addiction to the online game World of Warcraft.

  ‘Actually, Kev, I received a powerful spell from a high priestess that can turn a grown man into a raging dickhead – but looks like someone else got to yer first.’

  Dawson held his stomach and offered mock-laughter.

  ‘Guv,’ Bryant called over his shoulder. ‘The kids are playing up again.’ He turned back to the two of them and wagged a finger. ‘You two just wait until your mother gets home.’

  Kim rolled her eyes and sat at the spare desk, eager to begin. ‘Okay, Bryant, hand out the statements. Kev, get the board.’

  Dawson took the marker pen and stood next to the whiteboard that occupied the entire back wall.

  While Bryant divided up the paperwork she talked through the events of earlier that morning.

  ‘Our victim is Teresa Wyatt, forty-seven years old, highly respected principal of a private boys’ school in Stourbridge. No marriage or children. Lived comfortably but not lavishly and had no enemies that we’re aware of.’

  Kev noted the information as bullet points beneath the heading of ‘Victim’.

  Bryant’s phone rang. He said little before replacing the receiver and nodding in Kim’s direction. ‘Woody wants you.’

  She ignored him. ‘Kev, make a second heading, “Crime”. No murder weapon, no robbery, so far no forensics and no clues.

  ‘Next heading, “Motive”. People are normally murdered because of something they have done, something they are doing or something they are going to do. As far as we know, our victim was not engaged in any kind of dangerous activity.’

  ‘Err ... Guv, the DCI wants you.’

  Kim took another gulp of the fresh cuppa. ‘Trust me, Bryant, he likes me better when I’ve had coffee. Kev, the post mortem is at ten. Stace, find out everything you can about our victim. Bryant, contact the school and let them know we’re coming.’

  ‘Guv ... ’

  Kim finished her drink. ‘Calm down, Mum, I’m going.’

  She took the stairs to the third floor two at a time and knocked lightly before entering.

  DCI Woodward was a heavyset man in his mid-fifties. His mixed race origins gifted him smooth brown skin that travelled up and over his hairless head. His black trousers and white shirt were crisp and creased in all the right places. The reading glasses on the tip of his nose did little to disguise the tired eyes behind them.

  He waved her in and pointed to a chair, giving her a full view of the glass cabinet holding his model car collection. The lower shelf housed a selection of classic British models but the upper shelf displayed a history of police vehicles used through the ages. There was an MG TC from the Forties, a Ford Anglia, a Black Maria and a Jaguar XJ40 that took pride of place at the centre.

  To the right of the cabinet, fixed firmly to the wall, was a photograph of Woody shaking hands with Tony Blair. To the right of that was a photograph of his eldest son, Patrick, in full dress uniform, right before he was deployed to Afghanistan. He had been clothed in that exact same uniform for his burial fifteen months later.

  Woody ended the phone conversation and immediately picked up the stress ball from the edge of his desk. His right hand clenched and relaxed around the clump of putty. Kim realised he reached for it a lot when she was around.

  ‘What do we have so far?’

  ‘Very little, Sir. We were just outlining the investigat
ion when you summoned me.’

  His knuckles whitened around the ball but he ignored the dig.

  Her eyes wandered to the right of his ear, to his current project on the window sill. It was a Rolls Royce Phantom and construction had not progressed in days.

  ‘You had a run-in with Detective Inspector Wharton, I hear?’

  So, the jungle drums had already been busy. ‘We exchanged pleasantries over the body.’

  There was something about the model that didn't look quite right. To her eye the wheel base looked much too long.

  He squeezed the ball harder. ‘His DCI has been in touch. A formal complaint against you has been lodged and they want the case.’

  Kim rolled her eyes. Couldn’t the weasel fight his own battles?

  She fought the urge to reach across and pick up the Rolls Royce to rectify the mistake but she contained herself.

  She slid her eyes along and met the gaze of her commanding officer. ‘But they’re not going to get it, are they, Sir?’

  He held her gaze for a long minute. ‘No, Stone, they are not, however a formal complaint does not look good on your file and quite frankly I'm getting a little bit tired of receiving them.’ He swapped the ball to his left hand. ‘So, I’m curious to see who you’re buddying up with on this one.’

  Kim felt like a child being asked to choose a new best friend. Her last performance review had highlighted only one area of improvement; playing nice with others.

  ‘Do I get a choice?’

  ‘Who would you choose?’

  ‘Bryant.’

  The ghost of a smile hovered around his lips. ‘Then yes, you get to choose.’

  So, there was no choice at all, she thought. Bryant provided damage limitation and with the neighbouring force sniffing at her backside Woody wasn’t taking any chances; he wanted her in the care of a responsible adult.

  She had been on the cusp of offering her boss a little advice that would save him hours of dismantling the rear axle of the Rolls but quickly changed her mind.

  ‘Anything else, Sir?’