Текст книги "Evil Games"

Автор книги: Angela Marsons

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

THIRTY-NINE

Kim parked the car and sat for a moment, bracing herself against the wind that rocked her vehicle from side to side.

From her first day of training, Kim had firmly believed that people should pay for crimes they committed. During her career, any unsolved case was like an open wound in her skin. She didn’t believe in extenuating circumstances. It was black and white; you pay for what you do.

She knew that Bryant thought she was crazy for suspecting Doctor Thorne of any involvement in the murder of Allan Harris, and in part she had to agree with him, but the events with Barry Grant would not compute in her mind.

For herself there would be no enquiry, as it was felt she had taken all ‘reasonably practicable steps to ensure a positive outcome’. Basically, the idea of erecting garden gazebos had saved both her ass and Barry’s. Finding Amelia hadn’t hurt her case either.

The doctor had scored brownie points for having skilfully kept Barry on the ledge long enough for the gazebos to be snapped into place.

Objectively Kim could understand that. But she’d been up there as well and towards the end of the conversation between Barry and the doctor, he had been talkative, animated. That didn’t seem to be the demeanour of a person about to end their own life. She’d been to other jumpers and every minute mattered. She’d never seen one who had bothered to hang around for almost an hour and still jump.

She turned to the dog in the rear seat. ‘Okay, Barney, this is it. Bark once if you see anyone coming.’

She got out of the car, climbed over the metal gate and entered the cemetery. As she walked up the hill any illumination from the street lights faded. She kept to the path until she reached the bench on which she’d sat with Alex a week earlier. They had walked up a few steps, so Kim started her search there. She took the torch from her pocket and moved along the rows of gravestones, saddened by the lives cut short.

She travelled to the very bottom of the hill and back up again, more slowly, making sure. When she arrived back at the row that was level with the bench, she knew there was no grave marker that was less than ten years old and certainly no resting place of a male and two boys.

She blew a kiss to the top of the hill towards the grave of her brother.

FORTY

The appeal of the Cotswolds was lost on Alex. Labelled an ‘area of outstanding beauty’, she had substituted the last word to boredom after passing through one sleepy village after another. Her journey had ended at Bourton-on-the-Water. Alex remembered reading that the area was rich in fossils. And most of them appeared to still live here, she thought, as she glanced around the village hub.

Stone buildings lined each side of the street, all individually owned shops that had probably been trading for two hundred years. Her brief appraisal confirmed there was no chain store in sight, not even a Costa or Starbucks. For Alex, that said it all. How the hell did these people survive?

If nothing else, the fifty-mile journey had been successful in cleansing her of the disappointment of Barry Grant. Initially, her expectations had been exceeded at the news he’d tried to murder his beloved wife and his brother.

For a few moments, standing on the top of that car park in the biting wind, Alex had felt he could be the one. A true sociopath could never find a sense of moral responsibility; could never defy their innate nature and feel guilt. But her experiment required only one success. One person to defy their true nature and momentarily, Barry had been her triumph.

And then he’d opened his mouth again.

His pathetic bellyaching about ‘red mist’ and the overwhelming guilt he felt had tempted her to push him forward herself. Luckily, Alex’s lie about his daughter had been enough to provoke the desired action.

She had been surprised that he’d lived through the fall, but only just. He was hooked up to life support, being kept alive by machines. And, although he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t far off. The physicians were not hopeful for any kind of recovery. Good enough.

Her disappointment in Barry was tempered with her excitement about Kim. The detective was a tantalising project into which she was compelled to delve deeper. It was her interest in Kim which had brought her to this godforsaken backwater.

Alex headed over to the designated meeting place, an establishment that offered an entire day’s sustenance: breakfast, brunch, lunch, afternoon tea, coffee, and she would imagine, for them, the exotic new inventions of cappuccinos and paninis.

She entered through a waist-high gate and noted that the only table occupied outside was by a portly male, completely bald but for a skirt of hair that travelled the back of his head from ear to ear. He wore glasses on the tip of his nose and appeared transfixed by the Kindle he was holding. In his left hand was a cigarette, explaining his residency outside.

Alex felt he was a safe bet and approached the table. ‘Henry Reed?’

The male looked up and smiled. He stood and offered his hand. ‘Doctor Thorne?’

She smiled in response.

He sat back down. ‘I hope you don’t mind if we talk out here. I am hopelessly addicted to the drug nicotine, which now makes me a social outcast.’

Alex did mind. Although the winds were tempered with the odd ray of sunshine, it was still bitterly cold. However, she wanted something from this man so she’d play along.

‘Of course. May I get you another drink?’

‘A latte, thank you.’

Alex headed inside and ordered two lattes. She paid, and was told the drinks would be brought out. She took a seat as her companion placed his reading device on the table.

‘Dickens as an ebook, who would have thought it?’

Alex smiled, not caring one way or another.

‘So, Doctor Thorne, how exactly can I be of assistance to you?’

Alex had decided flattery would work well in this situation. ‘I’ve been researching a particular subject and I came across your book, mentioned as a great insight into the field. Every review I read claimed that your book had broken ground at the time.’

Only part of this was true. There were no reviews she could find. Alex had researched the name Michael Stone and learned a great deal from newspaper articles. A small piece on Wikipedia had stated that a young reporter had self-published a book depicting the events, but she had been unable to locate a copy anywhere. In the absence of the book, Alex had decided to approach the author. Press clippings were one thing but, twenty-eight years ago, the man before her had interviewed people close to the case whilst events were still fresh.

He appeared pleased with her words, and shrugged. ‘In my opinion, it was a story that needed to be told, although the reading public differed and the book sold a total of seven hundred copies.’

Alex nodded as the waitress placed tall glass mugs on the wrought-iron table.

‘So, how can I help you, Doctor?’

‘Alex, please,’ she said, with a smile. She wanted to glean as much information from this man as she could. ‘I have a patient – obviously I can’t go into detail, but she has been subjected to a similar type of trauma recorded in your book and although it was written over twenty years ago, I think you may be able to help me.’

‘Of course, if there’s anything at all I can do.’

Alex noted that his ruddy cheeks had reddened more. Good, he was flattered.

‘Where would you like me to start?’

‘Wherever you’re comfortable.’ Alex would steer him if he veered off the course she’d plotted.

‘I was twenty three at the time, working for the Express and Star local office in Dudley. On Sunday second of June I was writing about the tombola winner at a school fete in Netherton and the following day I was covering the most horrific case of child neglect the Black Country had ever seen. Two days later the story had been knocked off the news cycle by a factory fire in Pensnett that had claimed the lives of three firefighters.’

‘But you didn’t move on so quickly?’

He shook his head. ‘I was young enough to be full of journalistic ideals. I thought there were many questions that needed to be answered. I wanted to know how it had been allowed to happen: who or what had been at fault. So, when I could, I would talk to neighbours, friends and any social workers that would speak to me. I gathered statements from psychiatrists and put the whole story together.

‘The trial wasn’t sensational and got little press attention, after which no one seemed particularly interested. There was no public outcry for an inquiry and that suited the authorities just fine. I realised that all the material I’d collated could fill a book. No publisher was interested and so I self-published the story.’

Alex felt she’d been indulgent enough. ‘Could you tell me about the case?’

He finished his drink and began to speak again.

‘Patricia Stone was a troubled child. Her father was of Romany descent and took a Gorja wife. By the time Patty was five her father had abandoned the family and returned to the Gypsy fold. At the age of seventeen Patty was committed to an asylum near Bromsgrove due to randomly hitting people in the street. She was committed by her mother, who simply left her there, relieved to have one less mouth to feed. When the doctors finally got round to her, she was diagnosed with schizophrenia. It took five years to stabilise her condition, finding the most effective cocktail of drugs. By this time, Patty was twenty-two.

‘Shortly after her diagnosis, an unfortunate event occurred under the Thatcher regime. The Care in the Community initiative that had been floating around for about twenty years gathered speed. Many institutions were closed and some very sick people were discarded into a community that was ill-prepared to accept them.’

Alex didn’t speak. She was grateful to the regime. It ensured a never-ending supply of unbalanced minds; however, places such as the outdated asylums had proved their usefulness in providing captive subjects for research purposes.

As Arthur bemoaned the government strategy, she recalled an experiment carried out in such surroundings in 1950s America. Doctor Ewan Cameron had received CIA funds to research the theory of ‘depatterning’. His aim had been to erase the minds and memories of individuals, reducing them to the level of an infant and then rebuilding their personality in a manner of his choosing. His methods had included drug-induced comas and high-voltage electric shocks. As many as 360 per person.

In addition, he had implemented ‘psychic driving’ which entailed strapping the subject into a blacked-out helmet, for sensory deprivation, and playing a recorded message though the inbuilt speakers for sixteen hours per day, for up to one hundred days.

Although all of the subjects were permanently damaged by the research, Alex felt that such institutions had provided an invaluable service over the years.

Alex tuned back in to her companion, who was still wittering on.

‘ … that the benefit did not outweigh the cost. Some patients went on to live ‘relatively’ normal lives, whilst others went on to murder, rape and commit acts of cruelty.’ He nodded towards her. ‘However that is a discussion for another time. Patty was released into the community, judged to be no danger to herself or anyone else. She was placed in a council flat in a high-rise building in Colley Gate and simply disappeared from the system.

‘Every patient was supposed to be monitored, but case workers had no chance of evaluating everyone, and so the quieter, less troublesome patients fell through the cracks.

‘Within a year, Patty was pregnant. No one ever knew who the father was. Patty was known as a bit of an oddball, “the local loon”, if you like. There was a neighbour that took an interest in Patty and made sure nobody gave her too much trouble. She was the closest thing to a friend that Patty had; her only visitor when she gave birth to twins.

‘She had a boy and a girl – named Michael and Kimberley. Because of her history she was placed under supervision. She left the hospital and the next few years are sketchy, but it is noted that the children were placed on and off the “at risk” register quite a few times. A lack of physical contact between mother and children was noted as was the boy’s slow developmental rate, both physically and mentally.

‘They fell off the radar for a couple of years until it was discovered that they hadn’t started school. The authorities got involved again and the children started school two terms behind everyone else. The girl soon caught up, and although withdrawn, was intelligent. The boy was kept in remedial class.

‘Reports were made about the children: their weight, cleanliness, refusal to interact. The girl was questioned but wouldn’t speak. She would just stand and hold her brother’s hand.’

‘You have amazing recall of the events,’ Alex noted. The facts were almost thirty years old.

He acknowledged her comment with a sad smile. ‘I lived and breathed this case while I was researching the book. The story of those two children has never left me.’

‘Was nothing done by the authorities?’ Alex asked.

‘The girl wouldn’t speak. I interviewed a Miss Welch, one of the school teachers who had taught Kimberly. She recalled one lesson when the sleeve of the child’s dress had risen up, revealing a red welt around her wrist. The child looked into the teacher’s eyes for a few seconds, as though trying to send a message, before quietly pulling the sleeve back down.

‘At break time Miss Welch sought Kimberly out and tried to ask her about the injury but, as usual, the child said nothing.’

‘Did the girl have no friends?’ Alex asked, with interest.

‘Apparently not. Each break time she would find her brother and hold his hand. They would sit or stand together somewhere in the playground. Children can be exceptionally cruel and they were bullied mercilessly for many reasons: they were scruffy, they smelled, he was underdeveloped and much smaller than the other kids and their clothes were atrociously ill-fitting. Fodder aplenty for primary school.’

He looked at Alex with real feeling in his eyes.

Oh God save me from nice, caring people, Alex thought.

‘And do you know, that girl never retaliated once. She simply held her brother’s hand tighter and walked away, just blanking them out.’

So this was why DI Stone’s barriers had been formed long ago. Alex’s interest was growing. She watched Arthur take a deep breath, eager for him to continue.

‘Spring half-term of 1987 came and went. The children didn’t return to school. Efforts were made to contact Patty, to no avail. A social worker who cared little for protocol persuaded a neighbour to help her break down the door.’

He lowered his head but continued. ‘I managed to interview that particular neighbour: a six-foot Nigerian drug-dealer who cried as he told me what they found. In the bedroom behind another locked door were the two children, chained to the radiator pipe. Michael was chained directly to the pipe and Kimberly was chained to him. It was a very warm week and the radiator had been left running. On the floor was an empty packet of cream crackers and a bone-dry Coke bottle.

‘The boy was dead and the girl was barely conscious. She had laid beside his lifeless body for two whole days. She was six years old.’

Alex placed a look of horror on her face, when what she really felt was excitement.

‘Did you follow the case after that?’

‘I tried to, but the people I really wanted to talk to weren’t saying very much by this time. The council conducted an internal investigation which was no more than a finger-pointing exercise, producing no real conclusions. Don’t forget, news was not what it is today. People bought their newspaper, read it, threw it in the bin and forgot about it. There was no public outcry for answers and this suited social services very well indeed. Compare that with the Victoria Climbie case which prompted a public inquiry and was the catalyst for major changes in the child protection policies for the whole country.’

‘What happened to Kimberly Stone after the trial?’

‘My understanding is that she went from foster home to foster home. As you can imagine, the poor child would have been significantly damaged and it would have taken a very special family to know how to help her. I have no idea where she is now but I still think about her and just hope that she’s found some measure of happiness.’

Well, Alex did know where she was and doubted very much that any true measure of happiness had befallen her. She recalled a passage from Milton’s Paradise Lost; ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.’ Alex wondered what Kim’s mind had made of itself.

Sensing there was nothing more to gain here but emotional lamentation, Alex reached down for her handbag. She stood and offered her hand.

‘Thank you very much for your time, it has been incredibly helpful.’

Henry leaned down and extracted a book. ‘Here you are, my dear, I still have a few left. You’re welcome to a copy if it will help with your case.’

Alex again thanked him and took leave of his company. The man had no idea that the spring in her step was due to the detail of his recollections. He had offered her an armoury of ammunition and she couldn’t wait to get started on the biggest challenge of them all.

FORTY-ONE

‘You alright there, Guv?’ Bryant asked, pulling up at the school gates.

Even through the sealed unit of the car the sound of the school playground could be heard. It was a universal symphony conducted around the world. Loud, excited chatter from groups that moved and changed like the tide. Playing, screaming, chasing in the last few minutes of freedom before the start of the day.

Already ties were being loosened, backpacks abandoned in the corner to be grabbed on the way in.

She knew this playground well. She looked to the oak tree that still dominated the top right corner. She half expected to see herself there, playing tag with Mikey around the tree. Just the two of them.

On cue, the bell rang and startled her. The doorway acted like a vacuum as it sucked all the little bodies inside.

‘Jeez, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Bryant said.

She didn’t need to see the ghost. It lived inside her every minute. What she hadn’t needed was the familiarity of the surroundings. It was why she’d sent Dawson to interview the teacher in the first place. It was also why they’d asked Miss Browning to meet them at the gate. Just so they didn’t disrupt the children.

‘Guv, are you …’

‘Looks like that’s our girl,’ Kim said, opening the car door. And as she walked towards the figure, Kim realised that the description of her as a girl was frighteningly accurate.

The figure wore a navy A-line skirt that fell just below her knees. Shapely legs were encased in black tights all the way down to court shoes. Her upper half was encased in a North Face jacket zipped up to the neck. The blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and little make up graced her face. Despite her understated appearance, nothing could hide the raw beauty of her features.

‘Miss Browning?’ Kim asked.

The woman smiled and the expression lifted her whole face. ‘Don’t worry, I’m older than I look.’

Kim laughed. She’d be thankful for that drawback in later life.

Kim introduced herself and Bryant who stood beside her, his hands dug into his jacket pockets.

In doing so, she’d made it clear to her partner that she intended to lead this one. Better that than succumb to the memories reaching out for her.

‘I know that Detective Sergeant Dawson spoke to you some time ago when we began our initial investigation into the abuse at the Dunn household.’

She nodded.

‘Can you tell me what alerted your suspicions in the first place?’

‘Wiggling in her seat. At first I thought Daisy was just restless but it seemed to be happening a lot. Especially when both hands were above the desk.’

Kim frowned. ‘I don’t get the significance …’

‘Itching, Detective Inspector. One of the physical symptoms of abuse, along with pain, bleeding, swelling etc. Without realising it, Daisy was trying to rub her private parts against the chair to relieve the itching.’

Well spotted, Kim thought.

‘So, I started watching her more closely for behavioural changes. There was a drop in school engagement and achievement. She interacted with her peers less and her school marks dropped from an A minus average to C plus.’

‘Any other signs?’

Miss Browning nodded. ‘Another common indicator of abuse is regression to a more childlike state. Three days running I saw her sucking her thumb.’

Kim couldn’t help being impressed by this woman’s vigilance.

‘Did you try and talk to her?’

‘Oh yes, many times, but she’d withdrawn so far into herself I could barely get a word out of her.’

‘Did she ever mention anyone else? Even before the withdrawal.’

Dawson wouldn’t have asked this previously. They had only ever been focussed on Dunn.

The teacher quickly drew a line between the dots.

‘There was someone else involved in the abuse?’

Kim nodded.

Miss Browning closed her eyes and shook her head, absorbing the information.

‘Every time I tried to talk to her she was uncommunicative. On demand, she could erect this wall and I couldn’t get past it. One time I just touched her lightly on the shoulder and she jumped right out of her skin. One time I tried to speak to her sister but Daisy wouldn’t let me anywhere near her. The woman shook her head some more. ‘Those poor little girls.’

Kim got to the question she really wanted an answer to.

‘When you took the girls home did you manage to voice your concerns to either of the parents?’

‘Not even a sentence. As soon as Mr Dunn opened the door and saw me he bundled the girls in and shut the door in my face.

‘Mrs Dunn?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t even know if she was home.’

So, that theory was destroyed. From what they’d learned, Kim suspected that Wendy Dunn had been upset at his ignorant treatment of the teacher.

Kim had a sudden thought.

‘Why did you take the girls home that day? It’s not exactly normal practice is it?’

The woman smiled. ‘No, but I wanted to speak to the parents. The message I sent about my concern appeared never to have reached them.’

‘Who did you give the message to?’

‘Mrs Dunn’s brother, Robin.’

‘Her brother picked Daisy up from school?’

‘Oh, yes, he collected both girls all the time.’

Kim glanced at Bryant who raised his eyebrows in response. That was something they hadn’t known and was a very enlightening detail indeed.