Dead Memories (D.I. Kim Stone #10)(2)

Gemma blew a raspberry, and Kim laughed.

There were days Gemma was an old eighteen-year-old hardened by choices and what life had thrown at her already and other times she was just eighteen.

And Kim hadn’t minded the unexpected company today. Of all days.

‘Look, Gem, it might not be brain—’

‘Numbing,’ she cut in. ‘It’s brain numbing,’ she said, pulling a face.

‘I check books out; I check books back in. I put ’em back on the shelves. In the evening before we close I get the coveted job of wiping over the keyboards of the communal computers.’

Kim hid her smile. It was much more entertaining hearing Gemma complain about her job than moaning she couldn’t get one.

‘Oh, and yesterday I had this lovely old dear approach me,’ she said, standing. She hunched her back and pretended to walk with a cane across the space. ‘“Excuse me, love, but could you show me how to send these photos to my son in New Zealand?” she asked thrusting her ancient digital camera at me. I swear…’

‘Hang on,’ Kim said, as her phone began to ring.

‘Stone,’ she answered, brushing rust off her jeans.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Marm, but something happening over at Hollytree. A bit garbled. Got an address and one word,’ said a voice from dispatch.

‘Give me the address,’ she said, getting to her feet.

‘Chaucer block, flat 4B,’ he said.

Her stomach turned. Same block, three floors lower. Today, of all fucking days.

‘Okay, I’m on my way. Get Bryant en route too.’

‘Will do, Marm.’

‘And the word?’ she asked. ‘What was it?’

‘It was “dead”, Marm. The word was “dead”.’





Two





Kim negotiated the maze of streets, dead ends and shortcuts with ease on the Ninja, drawing curious glances from the groups of people congregating on the pavements wearing as little clothing as possible in an effort to catch the night-time breeze.

The sun had set fifteen minutes earlier leaving a red marble sky and a temperature still in the high teens. It was going to be another long, sticky night.

She wound the bike around the bin stores and headed for Chaucer House, the middle block of flats at the bulging belly of the sprawling Hollytree housing estate.

Chaucer was known for being the roughest of the tower blocks, home to the worst that society had to offer.

It had also been home for the first six years of her life. Normally, she was able to keep that thought pinned to the noticeboard at the back of her mind. But not today. Right now, it was front and centre.

She eased the bike through two police cars, an ambulance and a first responder bike and parked behind Bryant’s Astra Estate. He lived a couple of miles closer and it had taken her a few minutes to shepherd Gemma out of her house. The girl had been wide-eyed with curious questions about what she’d been called to.

Not that Kim would have told her but she hadn’t known herself.

‘Oi, pig on a bike,’ shouted a voice from the crowd as she removed her helmet.

She ran a hand through her short black hair, freeing it from her scalp, while shaking her head. Yeah, she hadn’t heard that insult for at least, oh, three days or so.

The crowd around the voice laughed, which Kim ignored as she headed for the entrance to the tower block.

She’d passed an outer cordon, an inner cordon and then met a wall of constables at the lifts and staircase.

The lift on the right had dropped below floor level and its doors gaped open, obviously out of order.

‘Evening, Marm,’ said a WPC stepping forward. ‘One working lift,’ she said, pointing to the display which told her it was currently on floor five. ‘We’re clearing the floor above and the floor below, Marm.’

Kim nodded her understanding. The stairs were being kept free for police use, while the lift was being kept as a means of access for the residents.

Evacuating the whole building for an incident on one floor was not an option, so the situation had to be managed.

She headed for the stairs and began the ascent to the fourth floor.

Thank goodness her left leg was now in a stronger state to deal with it, following the fracture she’d sustained after falling from the roof of a two-storey building in a previous case three months ago.

Officers were stationed at each floor to ensure no one tried to get closer to the incident. One of the officers at the fourth floor smiled and held open the door into the lobby.

She approached the open doorway.

Inspector Plant blocked her way.

‘What the?…’

‘If you can just hang on?’ he said, looking behind him.

She gave him a hard stare. She knew this guy well, had worked with him a few times. What the hell was he playing at?

‘Plant, if you don’t move yourself from that—’

‘Your colleague, Bryant,’ he said, uncomfortably. ‘He doesn’t want you in there.’

‘What the fuck are you on?’ she raged. It was a crime scene, she was the SIO and she wanted access.

‘I don’t give a shit what…’

Her words trailed away as Bryant came into view behind the inspector, who moved out of the way.

His face was ashen and drawn, his eyes full of horror. He hadn’t looked as bad as this when he’d been lying on the floor with her hand in his stomach to stop the blood that was oozing out of him on their last major case. If he wasn’t known to the constables as a detective sergeant someone would be wrapping him in a foil blanket.