Child's Play (D.I. Kim Stone #11)(90)

Eric pushed her to the ground and ran.

‘Get Ellie,’ she shouted to her colleague. ‘And stay with her,’ she instructed, getting to her feet.

The woman would be absolutely terrified by her ordeal.

She set off in the direction she thought he’d gone. He could easily climb the fence around the play area and get lost in the Worcestershire countryside.

She ran around the castle and spied him launching himself at the metal fencing. His left foot had managed to get hold and he was scaling it like Spiderman.

She heard him curse as one of his clown suit bobbles got caught on a join in the wire. He shouted out with frustration as he was frozen halfway up the fencing, unable to move up or down.

She reached him as he gave one almighty roar. She heard the fabric of his suit rip as his left leg came free. Too late she realised that his left foot was aiming straight for her as he kicked down.

She managed to turn her head so the heel missed the middle of her face but caught her on the left temple. The force of it knocked her to the ground. The nausea threatened to engulf her but she pushed herself back to her feet and began climbing the fence as he dropped down the other side.

She fought the dizziness as she pulled herself up feeling the burn right through her muscles but she knew she had to catch him.

The grounds of the hotel led on to open countryside but a few lights littering the driveway to the main building told her he had a good thirty to forty metres head start.

Gotta go quicker, she silently told her muscles as she tried to increase her speed.

The lights she’d thought were fixed appeared to be moving towards her. Maybe people with torches coming to help.

Damn it, her one hope had been that Eric might get disoriented in the semi-darkness and lose his bearings, taking him away from the exit and potential freedom and giving her time to catch him before he got away.

She shook her head to clear them from her vision but still the lights to her right came towards her, moving much quicker than she had thought. But they were still helping to drive Eric towards the exit.

She focussed her gaze on Eric and wasn’t sure if she’d managed to close the gap by a few metres. She realised he was losing ground by keeping on looking behind to see where she was.

If she could just find another gear she could get to him before he left the grounds.

She followed his trajectory trying to ignore the two lights in her peripheral vision.

Her muscles burned as though they were detaching from her bone; her breathing was laboured as she tried to force more air down into her lungs. The process brought back the nausea from the kick to the head.

But she knew she was gaining on him as he turned again because now she could see the expression on his face.

Come on, she told herself as the lights to her right burned brighter.

They weren’t torches, she realised.

They were the headlights of a car, travelling along the gravel path towards the exit.

She looked again towards Eric, running at speed, looking behind him, checking where she was.

The car continued to travel.

Eric continued to run.

One last look.

And then the sound of metal hitting flesh.

Kim’s legs faltered but she pushed them on, staring at the inert figure on the ground.

Oh, no, she thought. It doesn’t end like this. Three people dead. Countless lives ruined. The bastard had to stand trial.

As she neared, the car door opened and Veronica Evans stepped out. Her face ashen.

‘Oh no, oh my god, oh no.’

Kim took a few deep breaths as the figure on the ground groaned.

‘I can’t… oh no…. I didn’t see… I’m so sorry…’

‘He’s not dead,’ Kim offered breathlessly.

‘Oh my goodness… I hit a… children’s clown,’ she said as the horror on her face grew.

Kim looked down into the pain-contorted features of Eric Hanson, all the more grotesque with the smeared clown make-up and felt nothing but disgust for him, for the lives he’d taken in what was little more than a fourteen-year long tantrum.

‘Don’t be too sorry, Veronica,’ Kim said, taking out her phone. ‘This is the bastard that killed your sister.’





One Hundred Seven





Stacey let herself into the flat at almost one in the morning.

The scent of jasmine welcomed her even though she’d been avoiding it all week. Along with the familiar aroma she detected a sweet, sickly, cloying smell in the air. Some kind of fruit pie, she guessed. Devon baked when she was stressed.

She removed her coat and laid it over the back of the sofa. She didn’t turn on the lights. She didn’t need to. She knew Devon’s flat almost as well as she knew her own.

As she walked through the lounge she took care to avoid the brightly coloured craft bag containing Devon’s numerous failed attempts at knitting. The oversize needles had been used more for sword fights between the two of them than for actual garment making.

Against the wall between the bathroom and the bedroom was a two-foot high stuffed dog with a misshapen face, so ugly that he’d been in their favourite vintage store for months. Eventually they’d felt so sorry for him and given him a home.

Feeling sorry for a stuffed toy, she thought, shaking her head.

She slipped soundlessly into the bathroom and quickly brushed her teeth while waiting for the anxiety to pass. This was a conversation she’d avoided all week, and she was being unfair to them both. And perhaps she had left it too late.