Child's Play (D.I. Kim Stone #11)(7)

‘Had she spent a lot of time at the park or Haden Hill in general?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘The cricket club, did she perhaps socialise there now and again?’

‘Belinda didn’t drink. At all,’ she emphasised. ‘And I can think of no reason for her to be there unless taken by force.’

‘Belinda’s car was parked and secure with no evidence of any kind of struggle.’

‘I’m sorry but the place means nothing to me,’ she said, dismissively.

‘Any husband or?…’

‘Never married. Either of us,’ Veronica said. ‘Although she did have a friend from the college that she sometimes kept company with.’

Kim heard Bryant’s notebook open behind her.

‘Name?’

‘Charles, Charles Blunt. He’s in the physical education department at Halesowen College, where my sister worked until seven months ago when she retired.’

‘As?’

‘Professor of child psychology.’

Kim wondered if they’d learn more of the woman from her colleagues than they were learning from her sister.

‘And did Belinda have a phone?’

‘Of course she had a phone.’

‘It wasn’t in her handbag or car,’ Bryant offered.

Veronica shrugged. ‘Probably stolen. It was a big cumbersome thing with lots of those appy things on it. She liked the bigger screen so she didn’t have to use her glasses to make a call. Prone to vanity, at times, I’m afraid.’

‘May we take the number?’ Kim asked. ‘We’ll contact the service provider…’

‘It’s Vodafone you want,’ Veronica said, taking an old Nokia from her bag. ‘She swapped after I told her I was getting a better deal.’

Kim detected a note of triumph as Veronica read the number out to Bryant.

‘Okay, Miss Evans, thank you for your help. If I can just ask about something that’s puzzling us?’

‘Of course,’ she answered, smoothing her hands over her skirt.

Kim glanced around. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much evidence of your sister here. Just a lot of empty drawers and cupboards.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, officer. I assumed you already knew. My sister also owns the house next door. If you want to know more about her, you really should go there.’





Six





Penn arrived at the entrance to Birmingham Crown Court at three minutes to nine. He would have made the run from the train station quicker if the boss had let him keep the trainers on.

‘Bloody hell, Penn,’ Lynne said, smiling. ‘Talk about cutting it fine.’

‘Bloody trains,’ he said, unsure how to greet her.

A hug seemed inappropriate but no contact felt cold. He held out his hand.

Lynne gave him a strange look but shook his hand anyway.

‘Hey, mate,’ Doug said, dropping his cigarette and thrusting out his hand.

Penn shook it and quickly appraised them both.

In the four months since he’d left West Mercia, Lynne appeared to have lost a few pounds and Doug appeared to have found them. He’d swear that the sergeant had done something different with her light brown hair, maybe grown it a couple of inches. Her normal inch-high boots had been replaced with expensive-looking high heels that disappeared beneath her navy trouser suit. He was pretty sure she was wearing make-up, too. Her court outfit had taken way more money, time and consideration than his.

Detective Constable Doug Johnson was wearing the exact same thing he wore for work every day. A slab of black suit and a light blue shirt. The whole team had ribbed him about having a wardrobe full of black suits and blue shirts. He had retorted that this way no one ever knew when he was wearing dirty clothes.

‘Good to see you both,’ Penn said, as they headed up the steps. And he meant it. He’d worked alongside these officers for more than four years and he’d wondered how he would feel seeing them again. A comfortable familiarity washed over him as he followed them into the building.

He was struck by the cold functionality of the Elizabeth II Law Courts that housed Birmingham Crown Court. He always found himself wishing he was at the other place. When the new Crown Court opened in 1987 it had taken major cases away from the Victoria Law Courts on Corporation Street. The older court house, now a Magistrate’s Court, was a Grade I redbrick and terracotta building drenched in history ever since Queen Victoria laid the foundation stone in 1887.

Now that place felt like a law court, Penn thought, with its great hall and chandeliers made to resemble Queen Victoria’s coronation crown. The place demanded reverence and respect.

The newer building resembled a collection of square, efficient boxes. Here they used recording machines instead of a stenographer and laptops had replaced case files.

He underwent the normal security measures as he remembered his reason for being here. It was to see Gregor Nuryef finally face the justice he deserved.

Gregor Nuryef had brutally stabbed a man to death for refusing to hand over the night’s takings from the family petrol station business.

Penn had been forced to admit he’d been wrong in his first assessment of the crime.

Initially he’d suspected a local gang headed by two brothers, Alan and Alec Reed, of being behind the crime. Having moved into the area in the mid-Eighties after a few close shaves with the Met, the brothers had eventually taken over organised crime in the city of Worcester and surrounding areas.