Page 119 of Dying Truth

‘Wasn’t what?’ Kim asked.

Every gaze was on Stacey.

‘Go on,’ Kim instructed.

‘Lorraine Peters enrolled at Heathcrest in 1990, when she was twelve years old. She was one of the two annual scholarships because of her swimming abilities. Olympic material, apparently.’

Kim sat back and listened. Maybe she should have let Stacey speak sooner.

‘All was well for three years. She studied hard and began improving her swim times. She’d been entered for the junior world championships, except she started turning up late for practice. Started back-answering the sports coach. Talented girl by all accounts but the training is brutal. Six mornings a week and five evenings.

‘Two days after her fifteenth birthday she dived into the swimming pool from the tenfeethigh diving board.’

‘And?’ Kim asked, confused. She’d probably done that a million times.

‘The pool was empty.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Bryant said, as Dawson visibly winced and rubbed his neck.

‘It had been emptied earlier that day due to a high legionella reading. Lorraine didn’t know that because she’d skipped training that morning.’

‘She was in the pool in the dark?’ Kim asked.

Stacey nodded. ‘Her death was marked accidental.’

A moment of silence fell before Kim turned to Stacey. ‘And this is what you were doing last night?’

Stacey nodded, and Kim recalled her earlier words.

‘Stace, remember when I said about losing effectiveness in your job as the hours go on?’

‘Yeah, boss.’

‘Doesn’t apply to you,’ Kim said. ‘These two maybe, but definitely not you.’

‘Thanks, boss, but there’s one more thing you really need to know.’

‘Go on.’

‘Lorraine Peters was pregnant.’

Eighty-Three

‘What makes you think he’ll be there?’ Bryant asked, parking up at Russells Hall Hospital. It wasn’t quite yet 8o’clock.

‘You didn’t watch the news last night?’ she asked.

‘Not last night, no,’ he said.

‘Aah, ballroom night,’ she realised. ‘You and your good lady givingStrictlya run for its money?’

‘Guv, I really wish I’d never told you.’

Yeah, she bet he did.

‘Body of an elderly male found along the canal. Been missing for two weeks. Keats’ll be in,’ she said, definitely, as they strolled along the corridor.

Although reception wasn’t manned, the hospital was coming alive for another day. Patients and visitors milled around the café area. Porters pushed out patients towards appointments, and red tee shirted volunteers stepped forward to offer direction. Not one person they passed wanted to go where they were heading.