Page 4 of Silent Scream

‘No, I think I'll take this on my own,’ she said, ending the call.

Kim paused for two seconds as she silenced the iPod. She knew she had to let go of the accusation in the eyes of Laura Yates; real or imagined, she had seen it. And she couldn’t get it out of her mind.

She would always know that the justice in which she believed had failed someone it was designed to protect. She had persuaded Laura Yates to trust in both her and the system she represented and Kim couldn't rid herself of the feeling that Laura had been let down. By both of them.

Three

Four minutesafter receiving the phone call, Kim was pulling off the drive in the ten-year-old Golf GTI that she used only when the roads were icy or when the firing of the Ninja would be an anti-social act.

The torn jeans stained with oil, grease and dust had been replaced by black canvas trousers and a plain white T-shirt. Her feet were now encased in black patent boots with a quarter-inch heel. Her short black hair required little maintenance. A quick comb from her fingers and she was ready to go.

Her customer would not be concerned.

She weaved the car to the end of the road. The machine felt alien within her control. Although it was only small, Kim had to concentrate on passing distances of parked cars. So much metal around her felt cumbersome.

A mile away from the target property, the smell of burning found its way in through the vents. As she travelled, the smell became stronger. Half a mile out, she could see a column of smoke leaning and reaching above the Clent hills. A quarter mile, and Kim knew she was heading right for it.

Second only in size to The Met, the West Midlands Police covered almost 2.6 million inhabitants.

The Black Country was situated to the north and west of Birmingham and had become one of the most intensely industrialised regions in the country by Victorian times. Its name came from the outcropping coal that made the soil black over large areas. The thirty foot seam of ore and coal was the thickest in Great Britain.

Now, unemployment levels in the area were the third highest in the country. Petty crime was on the increase, along with anti-social behaviour.

The crime scene sat just off the main road that linked Stourbridge to Hagley, an area that did not normally attract high levels of law-breaking. The houses closest to the road were new double-fronted properties with sparkling white roman columns and black leaded windows. Further along the road the houses were spread further apart and were considerably older.

Kim pulled up at the cordon and parked between two fire tenders. Without speaking, she flashed her ID to the officer guarding the perimeter tape. He nodded and lifted it for her to duck underneath.

‘What happened?’ she asked the first fire officer she found.

He pointed to the remains of the first conifer tree at the edge of the property. ‘Fire was started there and spread through most of the trees before we got here.’

Kim noted that of the thirteen trees that formed the property line, only the two closest to the house were untouched.

‘You discovered the body?’

He pointed to a fire officer sitting on the ground, talking to a constable. ‘Just about everyone else was out watching the commotion but this house stayed dark. Neighbours assured us that the black Range Rover was hers and that she lived alone.’

Kim nodded and approached the fire officer on the ground. He looked pale and she noted a slight tremble to his right hand. Finding a dead body was never pleasant, no matter what training you’d had.

‘Did you touch anything?’ she asked.

He thought for a second and then shook his head. ‘The bathroom door was open but I didn’t step inside.’

Kim paused at the front door, reached into the cardboard box to the left and took out blue plastic coverings for her feet.

Kim took the stairs two at a time and entered the bathroom. She immediately located Keats, the pathologist. He was a diminutive figure with a completely bald head, set off by a moustache and a beard that fell into a point below his chin. He’d had the honour of guiding her through her first post mortem eight years earlier.

‘Hey, Detective,’ he said, looking around her. ‘Where’s Bryant?’

‘Jesus, we’re not joined at the hip.’

‘Yeah but you’re like a Chinese dish. Sweet and sour pork ... but without Bryant you’re just sour ... ’

‘Keats, how amused do you think I am at this time of night?’

‘Your sense of humour isn’t really evident any time to be fair.’

Oh, how she wanted to retaliate. If she wished to, she could comment on the fact that the creases in his black trousers were not quite straight. Or she could point out that the collar of his shirt was slightly frayed. She could even mention the small bloodstain on the back of his coat.