Child's Play (D.I. Kim Stone #11)(2)

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 belongs 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.’