Silent Scream

Fourteen

‘Jesus, Guv, slow down. This is not a Kawasaki Goldwing.’

‘Good to know ‘cos there’s no such thing.’

‘You do know that we’re too late to save him?’

Kim slowed as she approached an amber light but thought better of it and sped over the lights of the Pedmore Road. She weaved in and out of vehicles on the dual carriageway that ran alongside the Merry Hill shopping centre.

‘And that there’s no siren on this?’

‘Oh Bryant, loosen up. I haven’t killed us yet.’ She offered him a sidelong glance. ‘And you need to be more worried about the gash on your left arm.’ She'd spotted the injury through the fabric of his shirt sleeve during the briefing.

‘Just a scratch.’

‘Rugby practice last night?’

He nodded.

‘You really need to give it up. You're either too old or too slow for the game. Either way you're gonna get hurt.’

‘Thanks for that, Guv.’

‘Each injury is worse than the last so surely it's time to pack it in.’

She was forced to stop the car at the next set of lights. Bryant unwrapped his left hand from the roof handle and flexed it.

‘Can't do it, Guv. Rugby is my yang.’

‘Your what?’

‘My yang, Guv. My balance. The missus has got me taking ballroom dance classes with her every week. I need the rugby to balance me out.’

Kim negotiated the next traffic island from the inner lane and ignored the horn honks that sounded in her wake.

‘So, you prance around the dance floor and then hug other hairy men to balance you out?’

‘It's called a scrum, Guv.’

‘I'm not judging, honest.’ She turned and looked at him, fighting back the smile. ‘What I really don't understand is why on earth you offered that information to me voluntarily. You have to know that was a mistake?’

He rested his head back against the seat, closed his eyes and groaned. ‘Yeah, starting to see that now.’ He turned to her. ‘You'll keep it between us, Guv, eh?’

She shook her head. ‘Not gonna make promises I can't keep,’ she answered honestly.

‘So, who were you calling earlier?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘Professor Milton.’

‘For what?’

‘Just making sure he’d reached Mrs Pearson safely.’

‘Bollocks,’ Bryant said, behind a cough.

As the cars began to move away slowly she shadowed the car in front. It braked and so did she as three lanes filtered into two. Bryant grabbed the handle.

‘So, what do we know?’

‘Male, late thirties, cut throat. Possible suicide, could be accidental.’

Kim rolled her eyes. A dark humour was necessary to maintain sanity but just sometimes ...

‘Where now?’

‘Take a left just past the school and we should see it from there.’

Kim screeched around the corner sending Bryant crashing against the passenger door. She drove up the hill and threw on the handbrake at the cordon.

A box porch led straight into the front room, where a WPC sat on the sofa comforting a distraught female. Kim walked through directly into an open plan dining room and kitchen.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she whispered.

‘No, that’s just a rumour,’ said Keats.

The male was still seated in the dining room chair. His limbs were limp like a rag doll. His head was torn back, the crown almost resting between his shoulder blades. Kim was instantly reminded of a cartoon. The angle looked almost impossible.

The laws of physics dictated that he should have fallen to the floor but the angle of the back of his neck over the top of the chair had kept him in place; the back of his head resting like a hook.

The gaping wound displayed yellow, fatty tissue torn apart by a blade. Blood had spurted onto the wall opposite and drained down his chest, forming a macabre bib. His T-shirt and joggers were sodden red and the stench of metal almost overwhelmed her.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Bryant offered from behind.

Keats shook his head. ‘One of you needs to fire their scriptwriter.’

Kim ignored him as she committed the scene to memory. She stood above the body and looked down. The eyes of the male were open and wide. His face bore the expression of the horror below.

She saw the empty bottle of whisky on the floor. ‘Alcohol at this time?’ she asked.

‘I think half of the bottle is inside him and the other half is in the carpet. It’s a damn waste. Johnnie Walker Blue sells for over a hundred a bottle.’

‘Bryant, go ... ’

‘On my way.’

Bryant turned and headed back to the lounge. He was much better with distraught females than she was. In her company they often cried more.

She walked around the body, examining the scene from every angle. Nothing in the immediate area was disturbed and no struggle seemed to have taken place.

A white suit hovered around her.

‘Detective, Keegan here is too polite to ask you to move but I’m not,’ Keats said. ‘Stand back so he can do his job.’

Kim shot Keats a look but stepped back into the corner of the room. With satisfaction she noted that the hem on his right trouser leg was down but damn that smidge of decency that kept the observation on the right side of her lips.

Keegan took digital photographs and then took out a disposable camera and repeated the process.

‘His wallet is upstairs so it wasn’t robbery,’ Keats offered, standing beside her.

Kim already knew that for a fact.

‘Type of knife?’

‘I’d say plastic handle, seven inch kitchen knife normally used for cutting bread.’

‘Detailed description for a prelim exam?’

He shrugged. ‘Or it could just be the one in the sink covered in blood.’

‘He was murdered with his own damn bread knife?’

‘Detective, I wouldn’t like to commit myself too early but,’ he lowered his voice and leaned towards her. ‘I’d hazard a guess that foul play was involved.’

Kim rolled her eyes. Great, today everyone was a comedian.

‘Method of entry?’

‘Patio door left open to let the cat in and out.’

‘Good to see the “Secure Home” campaign was successful.’

Kim stepped closer to the patio door. A technician stood outside, dusting the handle. She studied every inch of the area.

Her gaze paused and she crouched down.

She assessed the back garden; a mixture of gravel and slabs. A clean fence lined the perimeter.

‘Keats, who from this team was at Teresa Wyatt's house the other night?’

He glanced at the technicians present. ‘That would be just myself.’

So, it was just the two of them.

‘Are you wearing the same shoes?’

‘Detective, my footwear ...’

‘Keats, just answer me.’

He paused for a few seconds, now moving towards her. ‘No, I am not.’

And neither was she.

‘Look,’ she said, pointing.

He squinted at the object, which was no more than an inch long.

‘Golden Conifer,’ he observed.

Their eyes met as they both realised the repercussions of the discovery.

‘Whisky’s a bit of a puzzle, Guv,’ Bryant said, appearing beside her. ‘Our guy was a recovering alcoholic. Been on the wagon for about two years. The wife states that the bottle wasn’t in the house this morning and he would never have left the house dressed like that. Also, he’s got the same money in his wallet as he did when she left the house. She still checks.’

Kim stood and took an evidence marker from the tech bag. ‘Why would the killer bring the whisky?’

Bryant shrugged. ‘Dunno, but he had congestive heart failure so the whisky would probably have been enough.’

Kim was puzzled. The murderer had brought a bottle of alcohol, somehow aware that it would probably prove fatal to Tom Curtis, but had almost beheaded him anyway. It made no sense.

‘Our killer could have just delivered the bottle and left the scene but that wasn’t enough. Why?’

‘Sicko wanted to send a message?’

‘Either the killer knew of his heart condition but wanted to add the personal touch ‒ or it was a tool to subdue him, to make the job easier.’

Bryant shook his head as Kim’s mobile phone rang.

‘Stone.’

‘Guv, what’s the full name of your victim?’

‘Tom Curtis … why?’ she asked, hearing the breathlessness in Dawson’s tone. Her stomach rolled at what she knew she was about to hear.

‘You’re not gonna believe this, but there was a head chef at Crestwood children’s home ten years ago. His name was Tom Curtis.’