Dead Memories (D.I. Kim Stone #10)(38)

‘Look, Preece, don’t get wound up cos I might get to the bitch before you do. You can have the carcass,’ he said, with a smirk to lighten the air.

Screwball headed their way once more.

‘Kid, you looking to get your fucking head?…’

‘I know shit,’ he whispered, wringing his hands.

‘Not when to stay away,’ Symes said, pushing himself to his feet. The rage at Preece had been stifled meaning he needed to punch something and this piece of shit looked good for it.

‘He’s coming back,’ the kid said, looking around. ‘Birdy’s coming back.’

Looked like the kid’s talent for listening worked both ways, which was the only thing that was gonna save him from a severe beating.

‘Okay, now piss off,’ he said as Screwball shuffled back towards the door.

Birdy was Paul Bird, a former member of the hate club who had not done what he was supposed to after being set free back into the wild.

‘So, Birdy’s coming back, is he? Well, I’m gonna punch every one of his teeth down his throat the second…’

His words trailed away as a light bulb illuminated in his head.

Preece and Lord waited expectantly.

‘I think I just got myself a plan.’





Fifty-One





‘So, this is The Civic?’ Kim asked, remembering their conversation the previous day. From the front, the white, painted building looked small.

‘Bigger than it looks,’ he said, turning left in front of a single row of houses that looked like council dwellings.

‘And I thought these were posh when they were first thrown up,’ he said, driving slowly along the row.

‘Really?’ she asked, glancing at the identical, flat-faced properties as they passed by.

‘New, shiny bricks,’ he explained. ‘Anything new was posh.’

‘Well, I’m not sure they’re so posh now,’ she said, as a braless woman threw a black bag onto a pile that was building up beneath her front window.

‘Is that?…’

‘Next door,’ Bryant clarified. ‘His mother’s old house. Died while he was inside.’

Kim stepped over the two piles of dog shit on the path and reached the door as a dog started barking at the rear of the property.

‘Shut the fuck up, Mofo,’ she heard, as she knocked the door.

‘Who the hell is this guy?’ she said to her colleague.

She had searched the database for any links between them and had found nothing. She’d studied his photo and no recollection at all had made itself known. But he’d been recruited by Symes, so they had to have some connection.

‘Well, guv, we’re about to find out.’

The shape that loomed up behind the door was not distorted by the patterned glass panel that opened to reveal a man-mountain with a bald head and a long ginger beard. ZZ Top reject immediately sprang to mind.

She knew he was about seven foot two and she’d guess him to be approximately twenty-five stone.

And she knew she had never seen him before in her life.

He was viewing her with the same level of confusion, which made no sense if he was in the hate club.

‘If you’re here about Mofo, he’s just barking cos—’

‘We’re not here about the dog,’ Bryant said, presenting his identification.

He took a good look.

He stepped back. ‘Hey, you can fuck right off. I ain’t done nothing since I got out. I’m keeping my nose—’

Kim silenced him by thrusting her own identification in his face.

He stopped speaking as his face broke into a wide and genuine grin.

‘Hey, you is the bitch that killed my sister.’





Fifty-Two





Alison knew with absolute certainty that she shouldn’t be doing what she was about to do but she pushed open the door anyway.

She wasn’t sure Stacey had believed her about an urgent errand but the detective constable had remained silent as she’d left the squad room. It had taken her no more than ten minutes to get to the small, unassuming dry cleaners in Romsley.

Her senses were immediately assaulted with the scent of fabric conditioner. Low rumbling sounded from the area behind the woman that greeted her with a functional but less than enthusiastic smile.

Alison guessed this was a woman who had accepted the fact that life had to go on; that no matter how much crying, pleading and praying she did, she couldn’t undo the murder of her daughter.

‘Mrs Townes?’ Alison checked, not having met the woman during her time on the murder investigation.

She nodded warily and although her eyes narrowed the rest of her face relaxed as though she didn’t have to keep up any pretence of trying to be normal.

The woman appraised her quickly. ‘Are you a reporter?’

Alison shook her head and said what she’d been practising in her head.

‘I was a consultant on the police case.’

‘You’re police?’ she asked frowning.

‘I work with the police,’ she said and moved on quickly. ‘It’s just a follow-up call. Just to see if you were satisfied with the way the police handled…’

‘You want me to review the police?’