Dead Memories (D.I. Kim Stone #10)(51)

‘When you say recently, I sold one about four months ago. As he read his notes he began to nod his head. ‘Yes, I remember now. The money came in a Jiffy bag with a stamped addressed envelope enclosed.’

Kim’s heart quickened. ‘So, you know where you sent it?’

‘Oh yes, I remember it well. I sent it to Winson Green prison. I mean, I thought it was a bit strange but even prisoners like to read, I suppose.’

Kim glanced at Bryant to see if he was feeling the same level of surprise.

He was.

Kim realised she had gained far more from this visit than she’d expected.

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ he said, as though sensing the visit was coming to an end.

‘For what?’

‘Coming here. I feel that I can finally let go of the vision of that frightened little girl now that I’ve seen the strong, successful woman she’s become.’ He looked away as his eyes reddened. ‘And how you’ve achieved that is a testament to your strength and determination, I’m sure.’

She had anticipated confronting this man and shaming him for trying to profit from her misery. Instead she had found a man who had done no such thing. In his own way, he’d been the only one fighting her corner while she had been fighting for her life. The thought comforted her somehow. She hadn’t been quite as alone as she’d thought.

‘Henry, I’d like just two more things from you before I go,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ he replied, closing the folder.

‘Destroy those remaining books.’

He hesitated, glanced at the box and nodded.

‘And?’

‘I’d kill for a glass of water.’





Sixty-Six





Penn prided himself on being a reasonable and patient kind of guy. But even he had his limits.

He parked the Fiesta well away from the entrance to the scrapyard for fear it would be mistaken and towed directly to the crusher.

He was pleased to see the site had been reopened for business.

‘Hey, Dobbie,’ he said, pleasantly, glancing around the office. Despite the down time of the guys on site, it hadn’t been spent cleaning up.

‘What the f… hell you want? Last van rolled out of here not ten minutes ago.’

And Penn could already hear the crusher going in the distance.

‘Yeah, still waiting on that name, mate,’ he said, leaning on the reception desk and then wishing he hadn’t. The man had not taken an opportunity to refresh those armpits.

‘Been busy, mate,’ he said, without interest. As far as Dobbie was concerned he’d got his business back and could return to making money. ‘And anyway, when do I get my metal back?’

Penn raised an eyebrow. ‘You want it back, covered in skin, bone, blood and—’

‘I paid for it, day I?’

‘Yeah, I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t hold your breath. It’s all being logged as evidence. But yeah, you did pay for it, but to who is the question. Now, I’d like to think that you’d be as helpful as possible seeing as some poor sod got mangled in your crusher. And I’d hate to think you were withholding important information, like the owner of the car, because of your illegal way of doing business.’

‘Hey now, just wait a fucking—’

‘Every single transaction in this place should be logged with a registration number, purchase price and whether the seller was VAT registered. In another ledger you are required to record all sales, profits, VAT and tax so the Inland Revenue and VAT man can happen along and inspect at any time. Isn’t that correct?’

Penn left no time for an answer.

‘Now quite frankly, I don’t give a shit how you operate your business, but I do care who sold you that car. I could be persuaded to care more about your bookwork, say, to call the VAT man with my concerns about—’

‘Jesus, you coppers don’t mind a bit of threatening behaviour yourselves, do yer?’ he said, moving papers around on the desk.

Penn would swear there was a half-eaten burger under there somewhere even though he couldn’t imagine this guy leaving half of anything.

‘Here,’ he said, thrusting a Post-it note towards him.

‘And for your information I put the details into my purchase ledger this morning.’

Sure enough, the Post-it contained the date, the purchase price, the registration number and the name of the seller.

And it was a name he already knew.





Sixty-Seven





‘Are we on lunch break yet, guv?’ Bryant asked, half an hour after leaving the home of the journalist.

She checked her watch. ‘It’s almost three and you grabbed a sandwich from—’

‘Yeah, but I’m still entitled to a lunch break,’ he said, stubbornly, as they approached Redditch.

‘Bryant, what the hell is wrong with you? We never take a proper lunch—’

Her words were cut off as he hit the brakes suddenly and pulled in to a service station. He brought the car to a stop in the area reserved for grocery shoppers.

‘Guv, may I have my lunch break, please?’ he asked, sharply.

‘Of course, if you really want to.’