Dead Memories (D.I. Kim Stone #10)(5)

‘Sorry I’m late, boss,’ Stacey said, rushing in and throwing herself into the seat that had once belonged to Kevin Dawson.

Kim knew they all missed him every day, sometimes still expected him to breeze in with some kind of smart-arse comment. But not as often as the early days. Their acceptance was coming with time.

‘Okey dokey, folks,’ Kim said. ‘Update on cases from yesterday?’

‘Didn’t you get called out last night, boss?’ Stacey asked, frowning.

Normally a call-out late at night was a precursor to their next big case meaning other cases had to be resolved quickly, where possible, or handed over to another team.

Normally one of them would be at the board, writing the name of the victim, underlining it, stating the priority of uncovering the reason for the person’s demise.

Normally, there would be an air of anticipation, a crackle, invisible but electric, an energy that only came at the beginning. Bryant would compare it to the beginning of a four-course meal at his favourite restaurant. She would liken it to starting a new build of a classic motorcycle in her garage, bits and pieces strewn all over the concrete floor. Each with their own purpose waiting to be put together, attached to the next component which eventually formed the whole.

Except this case had no mysteries to unravel and, as tragic as the scene had been, it had not been murder and it had no link to her.

‘Double overdose, Stace,’ Kim explained. ‘Just waiting on a call from Mitch to confirm scene findings and it’ll all be closed.’

‘Oh, okay,’ she said, trying not to let the disappointment show.

People outside the profession might think the response cold to the death of one young person and the near-death of another but Kim understood it. Every detective she knew had signed up to stop bad people getting away with bad acts. Stacey was not unfeeling towards the person who had died. She was only disappointed at not being able to track and find the person responsible. And normally Kim would agree with her. Only this time she wanted to get as far away from this scene as she could so the vision and the memory could fade from her mind.

The sooner the better.

‘So, Penn, where are you at?’

‘Three witnesses left to interview, boss, but not enthusiastically confident about the outcome.’

She nodded. Two thirteen-year-old kids passing the entrance to Hollytree had been beaten up by three older kids, and despite decent descriptions no one on the estate was talking.

‘Keep at it,’ she said, feeling a ‘we did everything we could do’ chat coming on with the parents. It happened rarely but sometimes there was just nowhere left to go.

But when she did have that conversation she wanted to be sure that they actually had done everything they could.

‘Stace?’ Kim asked.

‘Final interview with Lisa Stiles today and should be ready to present tonight.’

‘Good work,’ Kim said.

Lisa Stiles was a woman in her early thirties with two young boys. She’d been the victim of spousal abuse for a decade and had said nothing. She’d accepted the behaviour from her husband thinking she’d been protecting her children from the truth. Until a month earlier when her youngest child had punched her in the mouth ‘Like Daddy did’.

The realisation that she could be raising two small boys to believe this was normal behaviour had terrified the life out of her.

It was Stacey who had taken the initial report and continued to guide her through the process gently, efficiently and with sensitivity.

She had built a strong, solid case that would be presented to the CPS.

‘Penn, you know what’s coming,’ Kim said, nodding towards his desk.

He pulled a face. ‘Really?’

Kim nodded.

‘So, when you said Betty was my “welcome to the team present”…’

‘Yeah, it was loose, so hand it over. Stacey gets the plant.’

Stacey offered him a triumphant look as she stroked the green leaves.

‘Work harder, Penn and you’ll get her—’

She stopped speaking as her phone rang. ‘Just gonna take this call from Mitch,’ she said, walking towards her office, signalling they could continue with their own work.

‘Hey,’ she said, throwing herself into her seat.

Bryant appeared and propped up her door frame.

‘Morning, Inspector. Trust you’re well after your late-night outing,’ he offered.

She’d missed him at the scene but there’d been no reason to stay.

‘I’ll send over a full inventory by lunchtime but thought you’d want a summary of our initial findings.’

‘Go ahead,’ she said, twirling a pen between her fingers.

‘Loose change fallen from male’s jeans pocket totalling ￡1.72. A tissue in his front pocket, an empty wallet, a faded receipt from B&M and very little else.’

By the time he’d finished speaking she’d worked out there were seventeen blue stripes on Bryant’s tie.

‘And…’ she said, waiting for the most important thing. The thing that would rule this some kind of suicide pact or accidental death.

‘Err… and isn’t it a beautiful morning?’

‘Needles,’ she said, shaking her head at Bryant. Sometimes Mitch was excellent at his job and other times not so much.