Play Dead (D.I. Kim Stone, #4)(79)

And it was THAT DAY I began to hate you, Mummy. For making me a fucking freak.





Seventy-One





Tracy tried to hide her repulsion at the figure that stood before her. She felt she might have walked onto the set of a horror film or a funhouse at the fair.

The thing wore a full-length brown pinafore dress. Two mock pockets adorned the shapeless garment.

Lurid, hairy legs protruded from the square-cut material.

But that wasn’t the part that frightened her.

The hair was short but two tiny pigtails stuck out from the head, held in place by tightly wound plastic bands. It reminded Tracy of bows put in babies’ hair when there was barely anything there to hold.

The make-up was heavy and striking as though applied by a child playing at dress up. All the colour without the skill.

The red slash of lipstick was untidy, giving the face a manic, terrifying expression.

The eyes were alight and bright with excitement.

‘Hello, Tracy, do you remember me?’

The voice was masculine but gentle. Not unkind. It frightened her even more. There was ease, relaxation.

‘Wh-what…?’ she said, shaking her head.

‘It’s me, Graham. You knew me as Maria. You must remember my first day at school all those years ago?’

Tracy swallowed down the fear. It was what she had been afraid of since hearing of Jemima’s murder.

‘I’m… I-I don’t… ’ she spluttered. She had no idea what to say to him, to her, to it.

‘I’ve waited a long time for this.’

The words alone were not what sent terror screaming through Tracy’s veins. It was the cool detachment with which they were delivered. There was a sense of calm, which meant there was no pressure, no rush.

He turned to the side and she had a good look around.

The rows upon rows of shelves of dolls mocked her from their spectator positions on the wall. Some hung from the ceiling, dangling by a single limb, their dresses fallen over their heads.

An alcove to her left was furnished with glass shelves. The top one held a porcelain tea set. A design of tulips wound its way around cups, saucers, milk and sugar jugs.

Her eyes travelled to the next shelf down and her heart stopped.

Placed beneath the tea set were rocks. They were dark grey, almost black, and jagged as though they’d been torn like a piece of bread from a rock face. All of them were bloody. Two long blonde hairs dangled from the one on the right.

She fought down the nausea as she recalled that Jemima had been blonde.

She tore her gaze away before she threw up.

Looking down she could now see that she had been placed in a wooden contraption similar to the ones used for children. It was formed of mismatched pieces of wood and had been scaled up. Her feet dangled about ten inches from the ground. Beneath her thighs was a strip of unvarnished timber an inch wide that dug into her flesh. A serving tray was wedged against her stomach, forcing her in place. Nails that hadn’t been properly hammered in protruded from most of the joints. Grey masking tape was wrapped around the front right leg. It wasn’t a chair – it was a prison.

Amongst the dolls and the child-sized furniture Tracy felt like Alice in Wonderland.

The figure looked her up and down and smiled. ‘Hello, Tracy doll. We’re going to play a little game – but first I need to get you ready.’





Seventy-Two





‘Stace, start looking for anything to do with the name Graham Studwick,’ Kim said once they were outside the café.

Kim didn’t know just how reliable Elsie’s memory was on the little boy’s name – she had agreed with them that half the school had been involved – but it was all they had right now.

‘Okay, boss, and I have something for you. When Ivor Grogan was imprisoned eight years ago he was found guilty on two counts but not guilty on a third. I’ve got the addresses of all the families, but that third family never got any justice so…’

‘Send all the addresses to Bryant,’ Kim instructed. ‘And ring me the second you have anything on that name.’

She ended the call and looked to Bryant, who was shaking his head.

‘Looks like we were wrong and you were right, guv, about it being a man,’ he offered.

She snorted as she got into the car. ‘Don’t count my chickens too soon, Bryant, because at this stage who the hell knows anything?’





Seventy-Three





The house of Stuart Hawkins lay behind the Timbertree pub at the mouth of a council estate lodged between Cradley Heath and Belle Vale, Halesowen.

The house had net curtains that were mismatched but appeared clean. The cul-de-sac was small with a thin road separating two rows of properties. With no driveways, parking space was at a premium.

Bryant had parked the car in the turning circle at the closed end of the road.

Kim was about to knock on the door when it opened. The man exiting was tall and dressed in navy overalls, with a clear plastic sandwich box tucked under his arm and a set of car keys positioned in his hand. The initial surprise at the near collision was replaced with a frown.

‘Mr Hawkins?’ Bryant asked quickly.

He nodded, but the puzzled expression remained.