Dead Memories (D.I. Kim Stone #10)(73)

‘What the hell was that?’

‘Fucking butcher,’ he cried out, cradling his jaw. ‘He’s no fucking dentist. You’re not touching me again,’ he said, swinging his legs off the seat.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Symes. Get back in the chair and let him finish…’

‘He touches me again I’ll sue; you hear me?’ Symes said. ‘I’ll wait until Marcia’s back tomorrow. My fucking choice.’

Symes headed for the door while the dentist leaned down to start collecting his tools.

Gennard hesitated for a moment, opened the door and then shook his head. ‘Okay, have it your own way but don’t go changing your mind when the anaesthetic wears off, cos that tooth is gonna hurt like hell.’

Symes stepped through the open door.

It was fine. He’d got what he’d come for.





Ninety-Four





‘What the hell was Harry Jenks doing here?’ Kim asked, once he had beaten a hasty retreat from the office.

‘I don’t have to discuss that with you,’ Nina said, loftily.

‘So, it was business?’ Kim pushed, sitting down.

‘None of your business,’ she retorted.

‘Although, I could understand if it was pleasure; Nina, if I recall you like them slimy and—’

‘What do you want, Inspector Stone?’ Nina asked, covering over a piece of paper.

‘Ah, so it was business?’ Kim said. ‘Seeking your advice on sexual harassment, I shouldn’t wonder. Has someone had the courage to report him, finally?’

Nina coloured, telling Kim she was close enough to the mark.

‘As I said, it’s none of your business. Now you didn’t come here to talk to me about Harry Jenks so…’

‘Actually, we did in a way, Nina. How do you know the man?’

‘We’ve worked together in the past.’

‘Distant or near?’ she asked.

‘Near, I suppose.’

‘Your volunteer work at Stourbridge Community Centre?’

Nina nodded.

Boy, this woman knew how to keep her cards close to her chest.

‘And how did that come about?’

‘Sorry but I don’t see what this has to do with you.’

‘You don’t strike me as the charitable type,’ Kim said, honestly.

‘You don’t know me as well as you think you do.’

‘I know that the downtrodden, disadvantaged, poor and homeless hold no appeal for you.’

‘Think what you like,’ Nina said, seeming to enjoy her confusion.

‘Only some folks from the Community Centre have turned up dead.’

Shock registered on her face. Real or manufactured Kim couldn’t tell.

‘Who?’

‘A young couple, Amy and Mark—’

‘The druggies?’ she asked with distaste.

‘What a very charitable response, which is kind of proving my point there, Nina, that you did not offer your services there for nothing.’

‘I have little patience for those unwilling to help—’

‘You have little patience for anyone who can’t pay you for your services, so what exactly do you gain from volunteering your very expensive legal services to the downtrodden?’

‘Gained, Inspector. Past tense. Your research should have told you that. I no longer offer my services.’

Kim felt the frustration growing inside her. Just one straight answer would be nice.

‘So, how long were you involved?’

‘A couple of months.’

‘Nina, I swear I’ll charge you with evading—’

‘Calm down, Inspector. It really is quite simple. You are correct that I have no interest in them or their pathetic sob stories. I couldn’t care less if they all drop dead tomorrow. I volunteered because I wanted something. They had a purpose and once they had served their purpose, I left.’





Ninety-Five





‘So, what am I supposed to do?’ Alison asked, once Penn had left the room, offering to go and speak to the relatives of Billie Styles.

Alison knew she was draining Stacey’s time but she didn’t know where else to turn.

Stacey folded her arms. ‘Well, clearly one of them is lying, and you spoke to Tom last night and he was consistent, so perhaps it’s time to talk to her,’ Stacey advised.

‘How can I? I can’t impersonate a police officer.’

‘Ask Penn to do it, he’s been impersonating a police officer for years. Boom, boom.’

‘That would have been funny if he’d been sitting there,’ Alison said, glancing at the empty dining chair.

‘And anyway,’ Stacey advised. ‘You’re only impersonating a police officer if you actually state you are one. Be creative.’

With Stacey’s encouragement, she dialled the home number for Tilly Neale. A gruff male voice answered, unnerving her. Stacey nodded encouragement.

‘May I speak to Tilly, please?’

‘Who is it?’

‘My name is Jane Lowe,’ she answered, using her middle name.

‘Til, phone,’ he called out.