Play Dead (D.I. Kim Stone, #4)(68)

‘Yeah, I know her. Blonde, high heels, nice pair of—’

‘Does she store her car anywhere else?’ Bryant asked quickly.

‘Yeah, in front of our house sometimes,’ he said and grinned.

Kim stared back.

He shook his head. ‘Nah, if she’s here, the car’s here.’

‘Can we get to her back garden through yours?’ Kim asked.

‘Pfftt… not a chance. We got a six-foot fence and spikes. Fucking cats.’

Damn. They’d need to try the house on the other side, which looked as empty as the one they were trying to access.

‘Me mum’s got a spare key,’ he said, reaching behind the door.

Her initial relief was replaced by dismay.

‘You don’t even know who we are,’ Bryant said for her. How easily he had offered the key to two total strangers. Very secure.

He looked them both up and down then laughed out loud as he handed Bryant the key. ‘Yeah, good one… Officer,’ he said, closing the door.

Kim shook her head as Bryant put the key in the lock.

She stepped into a room that had appeared larger through the letter box. A two-seater sofa claimed the length of one wall facing an old gas fire. A single armchair was placed diagonally to the television set and a striped rug almost covered the worn walkway on the carpet.

Two unused pillar candles sat at opposite ends of the fire surround. In the middle was a photo. Kim took a closer look and saw it was a young Tracy, probably seven or eight, sitting beside a woman on the beach. They wore matching sombreros made of foam. Kim was drawn to the smile on the child’s face. She didn’t know Tracy’s face could do that.

As Kim continued through the room her leg caught a pile of coupons teetering on the arm of the chair.

The only door out of the room led to a walkthrough that passed by the bottom of the stairs and then into the kitchen.

A roman blind was lowered halfway down the window above a stainless-steel sink that held a used juice glass.

An empty tin of smart-price beans peeped out of the pedal bin.

Bryant opened a cupboard door, revealing more value-branded grocery items.

A single sheet of paper was held on to the fridge door by a cupcake magnet.

‘Dentist appointment,’ Bryant said, taking a quick look.

There was little to learn Kim realised as she looked around, because there was very little here, full stop.

‘I’m going upstairs,’ she said, wondering if they would find any clues at all.

Bryant followed her. He was unusually quiet.

Kim took the door to her left and entered the front bedroom. Plain brown curtains were drawn halfway across the small window.

An e-reader and a bedside lamp occupied the only cabinet.

Kim stepped around the bed and opened the wardrobe. Hanging to the right were three designer trouser suits, one navy, one black and one cream. To the left were shelves holding tracksuit bottoms, sweatshirts and vest tops. Kim realised that she had never seen Tracy in a skirt.

Bryant bent down. ‘Look, guv,’ he said, picking up a high-heeled shoe. Inside was a plastic insert. As her gaze took in the identical shoes lined up in a row it was clear that every pair had its own insert.

Kim sat down on the edge of the bed and shook her head.

The sadness of the property had found a route to somewhere inside her.

‘I know I moan about the missus and stuff sometimes but bloody hell, you just don’t realise what you’ve got.’

Kim silently agreed. Her own home lacked many of the personal touches found in others but the wagging tail that greeted her more than made up for it.

It was clear that Tracy spent all her money on the bits people could see; the Tracy Frost that she presented to the world. The ‘home Frost’ was the polar opposite. For some inexplicable reason, it really bothered Kim.

‘And I take back what I said outside,’ Bryant said, as he closed the wardrobe door.

He didn’t need to elaborate. Kim knew exactly what he meant.

They had to get her back.





Sixty-Two





Isobel was chasing her tail. The effort of fighting off sleep was exhausting.

The day had been tiring and, although she had escaped the dense blackness, even the light was clouded by a deep fog.

Everything in the hospital was trying to trap her into sleep, but she didn’t want to close her eyes. The darkness lay waiting. She didn’t want to return to it.

The lights had been dimmed and the night staff walked with a lighter step. The rhythmic beating of a machine and a soft snore reached her from the bed opposite.

Everything was trying to guide her back to the darkness.

Even awake, her stomach was in turmoil. The anxiety swirled like a tornado inside her, reaching up to touch her heart and her lungs. Occasionally she would feel the urge for a sharp intake of breath to steady the turmoil inside. Now and again the odd palpitations in her chest caused a dizziness in her head. She was learning to focus her way through the fear. See past it. Get to the other side and let it pass rather than react to it.

The worst thing was that she didn’t know what she was afraid of. Except for, well, everything.

She was frightened she would never know who she was.

Only Duncan had made her feel safe. His reassuring smile and his gentle squeeze of her hand told her she wasn’t alone.