Silent Scream: An edge of your seat serial killer thriller Book 1 Page 5

  Kim felt herself deflate. This was not a lead that would help them uncover a killer. It was a harmless conversation.

  ‘Was there anything else?’ Bryant asked.

  The professor paused. ‘She did ask where about we would be commencing the dig, which I found a little strange in the context of the conversation.’

  Yes, Kim thought. That was a little strange. ‘What happened later?’ she asked, recalling his previous comment.

  Professor Milton swallowed. ‘I got home from work and Tess didn’t greet me as she usually did.’

  Kim looked at Bryant. Dawson had said the professor was single again.

  ‘Ordinarily she sleeps in the kitchen, next to her water bowl but as soon as I put my key into the lock, she’s there, wagging her tail.’

  Ah, that made more sense, Kim thought.

  ‘But not Wednesday. I called her as I walked to the kitchen but she didn’t come. I found her next to her bed.’ He swallowed. ‘She was convulsing on the floor. Her eyes were glassy and staring and for a few seconds I didn’t even see the note.

  ‘I scooped her up and drove to the vets as quickly as possible but it was too late. She’d gone by the time I got there.’ He wiped his right eye.

  Kim opened her mouth to ask about the note but Bryant cut her off.

  ‘So sorry to hear that, Professor. Had she been unwell?’

  Professor Milton shook his head. ‘Not at all. She was only four years old. The vet didn’t need to examine her. He could smell the antifreeze on her breath. Apparently, dogs love it because it tastes sweet. The chemical had been poured into her water dish and she’d drunk the lot.’

  ‘You said there was a note?’ Bryant prompted gently.

  His eyes reddened. ‘Yes, the bastard stapled it to her ear.’

  Kim winced. ‘Do you recall what it said?’

  He reached into his jacket. ‘I have it here. The vet removed it afterwards.’

  Kim took the note. Forensically it would be of no use now. The Professor had handled it, and so had the vet.

  She unfolded it and laid it out on the table. It was simple black type on white paper and read:

  ‘KILL THE DIG OR WIFE NUMBER 3 WILL BE NEXT’

  ‘I didn’t even go back home. I’m ashamed to admit that I was terrified and still am. Who would do this, Detective?’ The professor drained the last of his tea. ‘I don’t even know where I can go.’

  ‘Mrs Pearson,’ Kim offered. She’d seen the expression on the woman’s face when she’d spoken of the Professor. That little bulldog wouldn’t let anyone near him.

  Kim stood and took the note while Bryant shook the man’s hand and offered to get him a ride to wherever he wanted to go.

  Kim clutched the note and headed back to the office. She couldn’t help but feel that somewhere out there was one humungous can of worms and that she’d just been handed the can-opener.

  ‘Okay, Kev, I think we’re gonna need fresh coffee. Stace, what did you find out about that land?’

  ‘It’s about an acre in size and sits right next to the Rowley crematorium. It’s at the tip of a council estate built in the mid-Fifties. Before the housing development it was the site of a steelwork factory.’

  Bryant entered the room on his mobile phone. ‘Thank you, Courtney. You’ve been a wonderful help.’

  ‘What?’ Bryant asked as six curious eyes landed on him.

  ‘Courtney?’ Kim asked. ‘Is there something I need to drop to your wife?’

  Bryant chuckled as he removed his suit jacket. ‘I’m a happily married man, Guv. My wife said so. And anyway, Courtney is mending a broken heart courtesy of Joanna, the English teacher that was coming on to you the other day.’

  Dawson turned, his eyes wide. ‘Really, Guv?’

  ‘Down boy.’ She turned to Bryant. ‘Why the call?’

  Bryant raised an eyebrow. ‘Following your logic of past, present and future I asked Courtney if she had access to Teresa Wyatt’s employment history. She’s faxing it over.’

  ‘Put that girl on the Christmas list. She’s saving us a fortune in warrants.’

  Kim turned back to Stacey, trying to visualise the piece of land. ‘Hang on, are you talking about that field right next to the crematorium? The one where the travelling fair sets up?’

  Stacey turned her monitor and pointed. An image from Google Earth filled the screen. ‘Look, there’s something fenced off at the road edge but otherwise it’s just a waste piece of land.’

  Kim’s gut was now churning out of control. Every sense she possessed was on high alert.

  ‘Stace, look up the name Crestwood and get me everything you can. I have some calls to make.’

  Kim took a breath as she sat at her own desk. A few pieces of the puzzle began to slide into place. And for the first time in her life, she hoped she was wrong.

  Twelve

  Tom Curtis turned over and faced away from the window. The daylight didn’t normally stop him from sleeping after an eight hour shift at the care home.

  The work was exhausting; picking up fat, old people, putting them to bed, dabbing their spittle and wiping their arses.

  He’d already avoided two internal investigations but he suspected that this third one might be more problematic. Martha Brown’s daughter only visited once a week and when she did she was sure to notice the bruise.

  The rest of the staff had turned a blind eye. It was impossible not to lose patience now and again. Being the only male on the team meant he would often turn up for the night shift and find that the heavier jobs had not been done. He was powerless to complain. If he’d been honest on his medical form he would not have a job at all.

  But it wasn’t even his conscience that kept him awake. He felt nothing for the old folks under his care and if their relatives were affronted they could bloody well take them home and wipe the shitty arses themselves.

  No, it was the ringing of his mobile phone that was keeping him awake. Even though he’d switched it off he could still hear it in his head.

  He turned and lay on his back, glad that his wife and daughter had already left the house. Today was going to be another dark day.

  The dark days had punctuated the last two years, seven months and nineteen days. It was on these days that the urge to drink was overpowering. It was on these days that sobriety was not worth his life.

  When he’d left culinary school he had never envisaged that his future would consist of changing the nappies of old people. When he’d graduated he had not foreseen old, wobbly flesh around his neck as he lifted geriatrics in and out of bed. He had not dreamt that he would be hand feeding a group of people who were filled with rigor mortis before they’d taken their last breath.

  At twenty-three he’d suffered his first heart attack which had rendered him unemployable on the restaurant scene. Long hours and stressful working conditions were not conducive to the long life of a person with congestive heart disease.

  One day he’d been serving haute cuisine in a French restaurant at Water’s Edge in Birmingham and the next he’d been preparing turkey burgers and frozen chips for a bunch of worthless kids.

  For years he hid his addiction from his wife. He became a master of lies and deceit. On the day he collapsed with a second heart attack his lies had been uncovered when the doctor had advised that the next bender would most probably be his last.

  He had not taken a drink since that day.

  He reached across and switched on his phone. Immediately it began to ring. He hit the end button to cut off the call, taking the tally of missed calls to fifty-seven in three days. He didn't recognise the number and no name displayed on the screen, but Tom knew who was calling.

  And the caller would have spent his time better had he tried to reach Teresa. It was obvious that she'd opened her mouth to someone and it had got her killed.

  He suspected that the authorisation for the dig had made them all jittery but he didn't need the check calls. He would keep their damn secrets, just as they had kept
his. They had made a pact. He knew that the others viewed him as the fragile connection in the chain of deceit but he hadn't weakened yet.

  There had been times, especially on the dark days when he'd been tempted to speak out, to rid himself of the poison. Those thoughts had been more easily silenced by drink.

  His mind travelled back, as it did every day. Damn it, he should have said no. He should have stood up to the rest of them and said no. His own wrongdoing seemed so trivial compared to the consequences of his acquiescence.

  One time he'd found himself on the wall outside Old Hill police station. For three and a half hours he remained there, chasing the tail of his conscience. He stood, he sat down, he paced, he sat down. He cried, he stood up. And then he walked away.

  If he'd been strong enough to tell the truth he might have lost his wife. As a woman and as a mother, if she ever learned of his part in the events she would be sickened by his actions. And the worst part was Tom couldn't blame her.

  He threw back the covers. There was no point trying to sleep. He was fully awake. He headed downstairs. He needed coffee, the stronger the better.

  He headed to the kitchen and stopped dead at the dining table.

  Staring at him was a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and a note.

  The very sight of the golden brown liquid took the saliva from his mouth. The forty per cent proof bottle cost more than one hundred pounds. It was one of the finest old-aged malt and grain whiskies; the Cristal of the blended whisky world. His body responded. It was like staring into Christmas morning. He tore his eyes away and reached for the note.

  WE CAN DO THIS YOUR WAY OR MY WAY BUT IT WILL GET DONE. ENJOY.

  He slumped into the chair, his eyes fixed on his best friend and his worst enemy.

  It was clear what the sender wanted. They wished for him to die. Alongside his fear sat relief. He had always known that the day of reckoning would come, whether it be in this life or the next.

  Tom unscrewed the top of the bottle and the smell reached his nose immediately. He knew that to take a drink would kill him. Not the first sip – he was an alcoholic, there was no such thing as a sip. If he took a drink he would finish the whole bottle and that would bring him death.

  If he chose this method to die then no one else need suffer. His wife would think he'd simply weakened and she would be safe. With luck she might never learn of what he'd done. His daughter need never know.

  He lifted the bottle slowly and took the first gulp. He paused only a second before raising the bottle to his lips again. This time he didn’t stop until the scorch in his chest was unbearable.

  The effects hit him immediately. After more than two years his body had lost tolerance and the alcohol burned around his veins all the way to his brain.

  He took another swig and smiled. There were worse ways to die.

  He swigged again and chuckled. No more bathing old folks. No more dirty nappies. No more wiping dribble.

  He raised the bottle to his mouth, taking the liquid halfway down. His body was on fire and he felt euphoric. It was like watching your favourite football team slaughter the opposition.

  There would be no more hiding what he’d done. No more fear. He was doing the right thing.

  The tears dropped onto his cheeks. Inside Tom felt happy, at peace, but his body was betraying him.

  The bottle paused at his mouth as his eyes rested on a photo of his daughter feeding the goats at Dudley Zoo on her sixth birthday.

  He squinted at the photo. He didn't remember that frown on her face or the questions in her eyes.

  ‘Sweetheart, I'm sorry,’ he said to the picture. ‘It was only once, I swear.’

  Her expression didn't change. Are you sure?

  He closed his eyes against the accusation but her face still swam before his eyes.

  ‘Okay, maybe it was more than once but it wasn't my fault, sweetheart. She made me do it. She tempted me. She teased me. I couldn't help myself. It wasn't my fault.’

  ‘But you were an adult?’

  Tom closed his eyes against the onslaught of his child's disgust. A tear forced its way out and slid down his cheek.

  ‘Please understand, she was much older than fifteen. She was clever and manipulative and I just gave in. It wasn't my fault. She seduced me and I couldn't fight back.’

  ‘She was a child.’

  Tom pulled at his own hair to ease the pain. ‘I know, I know, but she wasn't a child. She was a conniving girl who knew how to get what she wanted.’

  ‘But what you did next was unforgivable. Daddy, I hate you.’

  Now his whole body cried. He would never see his beautiful little girl again. He would not watch Amy grow into a young lady or be around to protect her from boys. He would never kiss those soft cheeks again or feel her tiny little hand in his.

  His head dropped forward and tears fell onto his legs. Through the blurred vision his gaze travelled to his feet and rested on the slippers Amy had bought him for Father’s Day. They were monogrammed with the face of Homer Simpson, his favourite character.

  No, his mind screamed. There had to be another way. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to lose his family. He had to make them understand.

  Maybe he could go to the police. Admit to what he’d done. It wasn’t as though he’d been alone. He hadn’t even been a decision maker. He’d just gone along with it because he was young and scared. He’d been weak and stupid but damn it he was not a murderer.

  Of course he would be punished, but it would be worth it to be able to watch his daughter grow.

  Tom wiped away the tears and focused his vision on the bottle. It was over half gone. Oh God, he prayed that it was not too late.

  As he placed the bottle back on the table he felt his head being yanked back by the hair.

  The bottle fell to the floor as Tom tried to understand what was going on. He felt the cold tip of metal beneath his left ear, a forearm against his neck. He tried to turn but the tip of the blade ripped at his skin.

  He watched as a gloved hand moved from left to right beneath his chin.

  And that was the last thing he saw.

  Thirteen

  Kim replaced the receiver after the third call. She hoped she was wrong and that she was about to waste the valuable time of some very important people. She would happily accept a bollocking from Woody if she was wrong. She would get no satisfaction from being right on this one.

  Someone did not want that ground excavated.

  ‘What’ve you got, Stace?’ Kim asked, perching on the edge of the spare desk.

  ‘Hope yer sitting comfy, Guv. The building that still stands is part of a bigger facility that was built in the 1940s. Back then, it was designed to house the mentally disturbed soldiers returning from the war.

  ‘The physically disabled were sent to various hospitals in the region but the worst of the psychologically affected were sent to Crestwood. Really, it was a secure unit for the soldiers that could never go back into society. We’re talking killing machines that ain’t got an ‘off’ button.

  ‘By the late Seventies the population of about thirty-five individuals had either committed suicide or died of natural causes. The place was then used as a borstal.’

  Kim cringed. It was an outdated word that brought all kinds of connotations.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There's some real horror stories that came out of the Eighties of abuse and molestation. An enquiry was carried out but no charges were brought. By the early nineties the place 'ad been turned into a children’s home for girls but still 'ad a reputation for housing troubled teens.

  ‘Due to budget cuts and building repairs the place was being phased out as we entered the millennium and in ‘04 there was a fire that emptied it completely.’

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  Stacey shook her head. ‘There ain’t no headlines to suggest it.’

  ‘Okay, Kev, Stace, start compiling a list of staff members. I want to see ...’

  The sound o
f the fax machine kicking into life silenced her.

  They all knew what it was and they all knew what it was going to say.

  Bryant reached for the document and perused it quickly. He stood beside Stacey’s desk and handed her the C.V. of Teresa Wyatt.

  ‘Here you go, guys, I think you have your first.’

  Glances were exchanged between them all as the possibilities began to dawn. No one spoke.

  And then the phone rang.

  Fourteen

  ‘Jesus, Guv, slow down. This is not a Kawasaki Goldwing.’

  ‘Good to know ‘cos there’s no such thing.’

  ‘You do know that we’re too late to save him?’

  Kim slowed as she approached an amber light but thought better of it and sped over the lights of the Pedmore Road. She weaved in and out of vehicles on the dual carriageway that ran alongside the Merry Hill shopping centre.

  ‘And that there’s no siren on this?’

  ‘Oh Bryant, loosen up. I haven’t killed us yet.’ She offered him a sidelong glance. ‘And you need to be more worried about the gash on your left arm.’ She'd spotted the injury through the fabric of his shirt sleeve during the briefing.

  ‘Just a scratch.’

  ‘Rugby practice last night?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You really need to give it up. You're either too old or too slow for the game. Either way you're gonna get hurt.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Guv.’

  ‘Each injury is worse than the last so surely it's time to pack it in.’

  She was forced to stop the car at the next set of lights. Bryant unwrapped his left hand from the roof handle and flexed it.

  ‘Can't do it, Guv. Rugby is my yang.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘My yang, Guv. My balance. The missus has got me taking ballroom dance classes with her every week. I need the rugby to balance me out.’

  Kim negotiated the next traffic island from the inner lane and ignored the horn honks that sounded in her wake.