Dead Memories (D.I. Kim Stone #10)(43)

Keats looked over his glasses. ‘I’d guess it’s a section of seat belt.’

‘Welded to the skin?’

He nodded. ‘I’ll take a sample for analysis and confirm—’

‘So, they were still wearing seat belts?’ Kim asked, turning to her colleague, who looked as dumbfounded as she was.

‘And still in a normal seated position?’ she said, thinking aloud.

‘Appears so,’ Keats answered, although there was no need.

‘Why?’ Bryant asked, catching up with her thoughts.

‘Why what?’ Keats asked.

‘If the car is on fire, don’t you make some kind of effort to get out?’ she asked. ‘Surely there’s time to move a bit, at the very least unbuckle your seat belt?’

‘Not my job to work that one out, Inspector, but taking a closer look at this poor soul is,’ he said, moving her away from the table.

‘As you know, a human limb burns not unlike a tree branch,’ Keats said. ‘The outer layers of skin fry and begin to peel off as the flames work across the surface. After about five minutes, the thicker dermal layer of skin shrinks and begins to split, allowing the underlying yellow fat to leak out. Body fat can make a good fuel but needs clothing or charred wood to act as a wick. The wick absorbs the fat and pulls it into the flame where it is vaporised, enabling—’

‘How long until they died?’ Kim asked, licking her dry lips.

‘Difficult to say exactly. The body can sustain its own fire for around seven hours…’

‘I know that, Keats,’ she snapped. ‘I’m talking about these bodies and how long they suffered.’

She’d seen burnt bodies before but what she wanted to know was how long this poor couple withstood horrific pain.

‘Minutes,’ he answered. ‘They would most certainly have died from smoke inhalation in such a confined space.’ He paused to touch the body on the left. ‘And this is the female, who we suspect to be Helen Phelps,’ he said.

Kim switched from avoiding the sight to being unable to tear her eyes away.

A lock of blonde hair protruded from the blackened skull, over a space where the ear should have been and alongside the cheekbone supporting an expression of horror moulded permanently by the flames.

Erica’s hair had been blonde.

Was this how her foster mother had looked after the car accident on the journey home from trying to adopt her?

She hadn’t been allowed to attend the funeral; cut off by Erica’s sister who had never been an aunt to her despite her three years with the couple.

But she couldn’t comprehend sweet gentle Erica ever looking like this. She could only visualise the warm, tolerant, reassuring smile as she’d waited patiently for the first three months for Kim to even speak.

She could visualise that same lock of hair being tucked behind her ear as she leaned down to leave the hot chocolate on the bedside cabinet every night.

She could feel the emotion gathering in her throat and had to bring herself back to the present, which was no more an attractive place to be.

She knew that Keats was speaking and that Bryant was acknowledging those words but only one thing was filling her mind. She had avoided giving much thought to the way they had died, only that they had. Enduring the pain of their loss had been enough without visualising how the agony of the event itself. She wasn’t sure she could have borne it.

And this was how they had lost their lives. Trapped in a car, burnt beyond recognition. Hot flames lapping at their skin. Dear sweet and gentle Erica and Keith had suffered and died like this.

Kim turned and ran from the room.





Fifty-Seven





Penn arrived on the Hollytree estate around one fifteen and held no compunction of leaving his car unattended.

Nine-year-old Ford Fiestas didn’t have a high street value, even for parts.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like fast showy cars. Yeah, he’d fantasised about a Lamborghini or a Ferrari or an Aston Martin and these days you could get one if you were prepared to give up your entire salary for the monthly payment and even that wasn’t the reason he didn’t hanker after one. He didn’t want a car he had to worry about. He didn’t want a car that he couldn’t leave anywhere for fear of vandalism or theft. His Fiesta got him around fine and no one else wanted it.

He immediately saw that the Forensics cordon had been moved back, but he wasn’t here for that. He knew any developments in that area would be communicated to the boss immediately.

He headed up to the fourth floor where the cordon was now only across the doorway of the property where Amy and Mark had been found.

A single officer manned it.

Penn nodded in his direction before moving along the hallway to the next property.

‘Wasting your time there, mate,’ said the officer, pointing to his temple. ‘Nutty as a fruit bat.’

Penn gritted his teeth and knocked the door, glad to see the police diversity training at its best.

‘Bet you a tenner she calls you Steve. Everyone’s Steve,’ he said, quietly.

‘Who’s Steve?’ Penn asked.

He shrugged. ‘Ain’t no Steve,’ he said, as the door began to open.

A lady he guessed to be late seventies, early eighties, assisted by a walking frame, opened the door.