Dead Memories (D.I. Kim Stone #10)(49)

‘Go on,’ Kim said, eager to get past the memories they shared and onto his reasons for writing the book. She hadn’t even known the press was there.

‘We ran the story that night but it wasn’t enough. I wanted someone to blame, to be held accountable. Unfortunately, my editor didn’t feel the same way and before I knew it I had mounds of research, notes, interviews and no one who wanted to listen, but I couldn’t let you go. That face, that expression when you were brought out of that building just wouldn’t leave me. I couldn’t give up on you. I just felt enough people had already done that.’

‘So, you made money out of me instead?’ she asked, although the question didn’t feel right on her lips any more.

‘Oh no, quite the contrary. I never wanted to make a penny from your heartache and pain. I wanted people to remember you, to learn from the mistakes. I wrote the book and self-published it. There was no Amazon KDP back then. I paid to have the book printed, and there’s never been and never will be a penny profit from that book. As I said, it was designed to help people never forget.’

‘And you think writing that book helped me?’ she asked.

‘I like to think I played my part in holding someone accountable.’

‘But no one named in the book was ever…’

‘Not the book, my dear. I told you I wanted someone to pay. Well I was a reporter, a journalist with investigative skills that were not being used covering the sports pages of the Dudley Star. So, I remembered everything I’d ever learned, used my sources and my own spare time and proved that I could do something tangible to help.’

‘So, what did you do?’ she asked, confused.

He met her gaze. ‘I went out and found your mother.’





Sixty-Four





If Symes was honest, he didn’t mind prison life as much as most folks. He didn’t much care about the loss of liberty or the structured day, being told what to do. Wasn’t that different from the Army, except for one crucial thing. He didn’t get to hurt people and call it a job.

His tours of Afghanistan had been the best years of his life. No one understood life out there, no one understood seeing comrades exploding right beside you from IEDs, the fear of stepping onto a mine if you just went to take a piss.

Frustrations built and grew, anger festered and poisoned until a village of unarmed civilians popped up like magic and served a purpose. An empathetic sergeant might look the other way as the soldiers did house-to-house checks. Rape had never been his thing. Now violence, causing physical harm, using his own hands to maim and damage was another thing entirely. And there’d always been someone he could find to use for that.

The real prize had been those two nine-year-old girls who had been promised to him, but that Stone bitch had taken it away. Months of planning, dreaming, fantasising about tearing them apart limb by limb had been ruined by one interfering cow who was too intelligent for her own good. Too intelligent for any woman to be. And now it wasn’t their pain he dreamt about each night. It was hers. And that was his only issue with being inside. That it prevented him getting to her.

For the slammer this place was no different to the other places he’d been since leaving the forces. This one had ten accommodation units formed from a mixture of four landing wings radiating from a centre point. The more recent additions were residential house blocks.

He smirked as he remembered his first night inside. The guards had taken his fingerprints and personal details and then issued him with a pair of jeans, two tee shirts, two boxer shorts and a sweatshirt. Before his two-minute shower he’d been subjected to the naked body search. One officer in front and one behind as he’d bent over at the waist. Just to be sure he’d grabbed both arse cheeks and pulled so they got a good enough look. He’d been on A wing, most commonly known as Beirut, ever since. And that suited him fine. A lot of Stone’s enemies lived on A wing, and he’d been able to recruit them all. But his most loyal two were Preece and Lord who had also learned to play the prison system like him. They’d all found something that got them through the day.

For him it was the gym he could access 365 days a year. His salvation and his church where he could spend hours building his strength all for one reason only.

Despite being an educated man, Preece had enrolled in every fucking course going, and Kai Lord had decided to find God, which was equally ironic.

‘Here they come,’ Symes said, as Gennard approached with three guys trailing behind.

‘You the welcoming committee?’ the guard asked, opening the gate.

‘Yeah, got fucking bunting and everything,’ he said, staring at Birdy.

‘Well, play nice, fellas,’ Gennard said, locking the gate behind them.

Symes nodded towards the two new guys. Lord ambled over and held out his hand. On admission prisoners had to choose between a smoking pack or a phone card. Didn’t matter much cos they didn’t hang on to either for long.

‘Good to see you again, Birdy,’ Symes said, placing his meaty palm on Birdy’s elbow. ‘Let’s you and me go and have a nice chat, eh?’ he said, guiding him into the third cell along.

Lord and Preece followed him in.

‘Outside, boys. This is a private meeting.’

They closed the door as Birdy began to back away. The space was nine foot square. He had nowhere to go.