Play Dead (20 page)

T
racy negotiated
the cobblestones that surrounded the entrance to the café. Uneven flooring was the bane of her life. Ramps, potholes, gravel and slabs with too much space in-between.

The afternoon rush had passed and the evening lull had descended. She stood at the counter feeling the additional heat from the appliances being blown towards her by a fan that was cooling no one.

She ordered a coffee that she had no intention of drinking.

It wasn’t as bad as where she’d met the detective inspector the other day, but it wasn’t far off. This establishment had brick walls and tablecloths. Yes they were plastic with a red and white chequered pattern that hadn’t been updated in twenty years, but they were tablecloths all the same.

It wasn’t the great coffee and haute cuisine that brought her here. It was about the only place from her childhood that hadn’t changed a bit. Her mother had brought her to Old Hill on a Saturday morning to traipse around the markets collecting the weekly shop. Her mother had never believed in the convenience of one-stop shopping. She had liked to distribute her business. Weighed down with plastic bags of produce, they had always stopped at this café for a pork sandwich and a cup of tea.

The markets had gone but this café had remained the same, and Tracy still came here often.

She wasn’t sure what had prompted the maudlin thoughts that had plagued her this week. Perhaps it was the news that one of her old classmates had been murdered. It had taken her back to a time that was not her proudest moment. A time she wished she could take back, at whatever cost to herself.

But truthfully, even at seven years of age, Tracy had been relieved when the bullies had turned their attention to someone else.

She acted as though she didn’t care what people thought of her. Unfortunately for her a by-product of being bullied and tormented meant that you did care. You cared very much. Too much. There was always the paranoia that everyone having a private conversation was talking about you. Every chuckle that met your ears was because people were laughing at you. And the worst thing about paranoia was knowing you could not be proven wrong.

And just as you strived to gain the recognition and acceptance of your peers throughout school, so you continued throughout life. Self-worth couldn’t be bought in the shops once you turned sixteen and escaped the education system.

Of course she knew the persona she projected, and it was intentional. It was her only form of defence. She had to show people she didn’t give a shit before they laughed and pointed.

It wasn’t armour she’d been born with. It had grown over her skin like a shield over the years, inch by inch, until she no longer knew how to take it off.

Of the people that she truly envied, Detective Inspector Stone was definitely up there. Tracy couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. Now there was a woman who really did not give a shit. Yes, people talked about her, and yes they called her names, and Kim Stone did not give these people a second thought. How did one do that? Tracy wondered.

She just wasn’t sure whether the image she had shaped and honed for herself was now a perfect fit. There were days when she wanted to lower her barriers and drop the act even just a little. One day she would like to care less about what people thought, but the truth was she just didn’t know how.

She needed to talk about these things, Tracy realised as she pushed herself to her feet, but she was not in the right place to get answers.

As she concentrated once more on the cobblestones, she realised there was only one person who could help her. As she headed into the underground car park, she resolved that tomorrow she would visit her mother.

T
he bungalow sat just
off the main road that ran through Stourton and stopped short of the Stewponey lights, so named because of the pub.

The Stewponey Inn was known to have existed in 1744 when it was called the house of Benjamin Hallen. The inn gave its name to the nearby locks and bridge on the Staffordshire and Worcestershire canal, along with the octagonal toll house.

The pub had been demolished in 2001 to make way for houses.

The old headmaster’s property was double fronted with a single hanging basket for decoration. Geraniums peered listlessly at the floor.

‘Probably worth a few quid,’ Bryant observed. Property in Stourton did not come cheap.

‘Not as much as you’d think,’ Kim said. From what she could see, the small back garden was overlooked by a good number of the new houses.

‘How old is this guy?’ Bryant asked as they walked up the driveway.

‘He retired from Cornheath primary about fifteen years ago so…’ she said, pressing on the bell. She heard no sound so she tapped on the glass.

The door was swung open by a woman in her mid-forties wearing a navy overall. Her hair was cut short and showed some colourful costume jewellery in her ears.

‘Thank you but we don’t want…’

The door was beginning to close.

‘Police,’ Kim explained, quickly realising the woman had taken them for salespeople or canvassers.

The door stopped.

‘Identification?’ she said, frowning and looking to each of them.

Both she and Bryant showed their ID. Kim had a feeling they were not getting in otherwise. The name Vera was embroidered into her overall.

Still the door did not move backwards. ‘What do you want? Mr Jackson tires very easily and…’

‘We need to speak to Mr Jackson regarding an investigation, and we will discuss the matter with him directly,’ Kim said, pushing firmly against the door.

The woman got the message and began to back away.

‘The door to the left,’ she said, closing the door behind them. ‘He’s just had his evening meal, and he tends to get sleepy afterwards…’

‘You come in and care for him?’ Kim asked, pausing.

She nodded. ‘His son comes every morning before going to work, and I pop in twice a day.’

Kim’s heart began to sink. This man needed a great deal of assistance.

‘Alzheimer’s,’ Vera clarified.

Kim knew enough about the disease to understand why it was called ‘the long goodbye’. The cause was poorly understood, and she had read once that it was something to do with plaques and tangles in the brain.

She also knew that there was no treatment to stop or reverse the disease’s progression.

‘How is he with remembering things?’ Kim asked.

‘He’s gradually spending more time in the past than the present. Sometimes he believes a memory has already happened when it hasn’t. Other times he thinks an old memory is a new one. When his son comes he tends to combine two totally separate recollections and other times he confuses the people so…’ She shrugged.

‘Thank you,’ Kim said with a smile.

She turned left into a room that was built for comfort and not style. An array of dark furniture that had obviously accrued over the years now jostled for space. Ornaments and trinkets adorned every surface.

Mr Jackson sat in a reclining armchair. His eyes were closed and his mouth slightly parted.

His face looked peaceful beneath a full head of white hair.

Bryant offered a gentle cough.

The eyes fluttered open and looked in their direction. For a second there was confusion before his eyes lit up and sparkled. It couldn’t be because of her. No one was ever that pleased to see her.

Mr Jackson’s gaze travelled past her to Bryant.

‘My boy, come closer. How are you?’

Bryant looked her way as Vera entered, carrying a mug of something hot.

She stopped alongside Kim. ‘He thinks your man there is Mr Simmons, an English teacher he mentored at Cornheath. Every man under the age of fifty is Mr Simmons, who actually died five years ago. We just don’t remind him any more.’

Vera expertly placed the mug in the only space available on the cluttered table.

‘Should we correct…?’

‘He wouldn’t believe you if you did,’ Vera offered matter-of-factly.

Mr Jackson beckoned again and Bryant moved forwards cautiously.

Kim took a step. ‘Mr Jackson, we’re here—’

‘Oh and this must be your lovely wife. How nice to meet you, my dear,’ he said, nodding enthusiastically.

Bryant’s expression held amusement that she would surely punish him for later.

‘Yes, isn’t she?’ Bryant said, turning away from her. ‘I was just telling my… er… wife the other day about our years at Cornheath, Mr Jackson.’

His face lit up. ‘Best years of my life, son. We had some times, didn’t we?’

‘We did that, Mr Jackson,’ Bryant said, lowering himself into the nearest seat. ‘In fact, I was trying to recall the detail about that unfortunate incident with Jemima Lowe. Do you remember?’

Kim held her breath. She was normally the one for the long shot. Bryant was really throwing the net out this time.

His face saddened. ‘Oh yes, I remember. Terrible business. Children can be so cruel.’

Bryant glanced her way. His look said ‘back off, I’ve got this’ and he had.

Kim retreated to the doorway. Somehow this subterfuge felt wrong. Although she had to wonder if the information would be accessible to them any other way.

Vera appeared in the doorway and Kim asked the question with her eyes. Vera nodded and leaned against the door frame.

‘My memory isn’t what it used to be, Mr Jackson. I can’t quite remember what happened now.’

‘Oh, it’s your age, my boy. Happens to us all. It was those girls, if you remember. A group of them. Pinned that child down in the gym hall and lifted her dress up and held her there for everyone to come and see her privates. Awful business.’

‘I don’t recall how many girls there were, Mr Jackson,’ Bryant said gently.

‘There were four or five to start with I think. One little girl came running to the staff room to get us. Funny little thing, she was.’

Bryant continued. ‘Of course, I remember now. Little Louise was there as well, wasn’t she?’

Mr Jackson started to nod, but as he did so his expression began to change. His face crumpled into confusion. He looked from one to the other and then beyond them to the doorway.

‘Vera…?’

The carer appeared instantly. Her smile was warm and comforting.

‘It’s okay, Mr Jackson. These nice people just called to see if you wanted double glazing fitted, but they’re going now.’

She turned to Kim as Bryant stepped backwards. She looked towards the door. It was not an unkind gesture, but it was clearly time for them to leave.

Kim nodded her thanks and turned away, saddened.

‘He’ll be okay,’ Vera said, appearing beside her. ‘
Coronation Street
will be on in a minute. It’s his favourite.’

Kim swallowed the emotion in her throat and continued to the door.

‘Wait a minute,’ Mr Jackson called. ‘I remember now. That funny little thing that fetched us. She had a limp. A terrible limp. And I think… I think her name was Tracy.’

‘
G
uv
… you don’t think…?’

‘Bryant, I’m willing to bet your house on it,’ she said as they reached the end of the drive. She shook her head as a couple of things began to make sense. ‘Those bloody stupid heels. Ring Stacey and get an address,’ she said, scrolling through her list of incoming calls. She found the one she had received a few days ago around midnight. She hit the button to recall.

The phone rang and rang and finally ended with a brief message from Tracy Frost. Kim could hear Bryant talking to Stacey as she called again.

Same thing happened. It rang all the way to the message.

She tried once more. This time it went straight to voicemail without ringing.

Damn it. The phone had been switched off, and she had no way of knowing by whom.

Bryant ended his call and walked towards her. ‘I’ve asked Stacey to check and see if Tracy Frost went to Cornheath and if she was there at the same time as Jemima.’

Kim nodded. She knew it was almost half past seven and her team had been at it all day. She also knew if she tried to send any one of them home they would refuse to go. Leads didn’t always present themselves at nine in the morning.

‘Have you got Tracy’s address?’ she asked.

Bryant nodded as he unlocked the driver’s door. He hesitated. ‘You do know we could be completely wrong?’

Kim had no such hesitation as she plonked herself in the passenger seat.

‘Yeah. But what if we’re completely right?’

‘
H
e has
no idea where she is,’ Kim said, ending the call. Tracy’s editor had not seen her again following their morning briefing.

‘You know, there are worse people he—’

‘Finish that sentence, Bryant, and you and I are gonna have problems.’

No person was any better or worse, more or less deserving than the next. In their job they couldn’t be. Tracy Frost was a pain in the backside, there was no doubt about that, and there had been times over the last few years Kim would have abducted the woman herself if she could have got away with it – but there was more to the reptilian reporter than she had originally believed. If Kim thought her colleague truly believed that Tracy deserved it he’d already be on his way home.

Bryant slowed as he passed QB Motorcycles. ‘Is that the one?’

‘Looks like it,’ Kim said, checking the number of the door.

He continued to the bottom of the hill and turned into a pub car park.

Kim noted that the white Audi was nowhere to be seen.

Bryant pulled up directly in front of the house.

‘Not what I expected,’ he observed.

She had to agree with him. The house was a tiny terrace squeezed between two others. Together, all three might have made a decent-sized property.

Tracy’s designer labels did not fit in a house like this.

She knocked on the door hard. Perhaps Tracy had the car in a garage somewhere.

She leaned down and lifted the letter box. The door led straight into a small reception room. Kim could see a television in the far corner. It was off and no other sound met her ears.

‘Jesus, guv, how do we even get around the back?’ Bryant asked, taking a step back and looking around.

He had a point. Tracy’s property was in the middle.

A movement to the right caught her eye. The corner of the net curtain covering next door’s window dropped back down.

Kim took two steps and knocked on the door. Perhaps they could get to the rear of the property via the back gardens.

The door was opened by a thin lad in his mid-teens. Gangly, milky legs protruded from multicoloured shorts covered with tropical birds. His concave upper half was uncovered.

‘Yeah,’ he said with the requisite attitude.

‘You know the woman next door?’ Kim asked, relieved she did not even have to try to raise any pleasantries.

He looked outside and glanced at the property as though he had no idea who she was talking about and had to be reminded there was a house next door.

‘Yeah, I know her. Blonde, high heels, nice pair of—’

‘Does she store her car anywhere else?’ Bryant asked quickly.

‘Yeah, in front of our house sometimes,’ he said and grinned.

Kim stared back.

He shook his head. ‘Nah, if she’s here, the car’s here.’

‘Can we get to her back garden through yours?’ Kim asked.

‘Pfftt… not a chance. We got a six-foot fence and spikes. Fucking cats.’

Damn. They’d need to try the house on the other side, which looked as empty as the one they were trying to access.

‘Me mum’s got a spare key,’ he said, reaching behind the door.

Her initial relief was replaced by dismay.

‘You don’t even know who we are,’ Bryant said for her. How easily he had offered the key to two total strangers. Very secure.

He looked them both up and down then laughed out loud as he handed Bryant the key. ‘Yeah, good one… Officer,’ he said, closing the door.

Kim shook her head as Bryant put the key in the lock.

She stepped into a room that had appeared larger through the letter box. A two-seater sofa claimed the length of one wall facing an old gas fire. A single armchair was placed diagonally to the television set and a striped rug almost covered the worn walkway on the carpet.

Two unused pillar candles sat at opposite ends of the fire surround. In the middle was a photo. Kim took a closer look and saw it was a young Tracy, probably seven or eight, sitting beside a woman on the beach. They wore matching sombreros made of foam. Kim was drawn to the smile on the child’s face. She didn’t know Tracy’s face could do that.

As Kim continued through the room her leg caught a pile of coupons teetering on the arm of the chair.

The only door out of the room led to a walkthrough that passed by the bottom of the stairs and then into the kitchen.

A roman blind was lowered halfway down the window above a stainless-steel sink that held a used juice glass.

An empty tin of smart-price beans peeped out of the pedal bin.

Bryant opened a cupboard door, revealing more value-branded grocery items.

A single sheet of paper was held on to the fridge door by a cupcake magnet.

‘Dentist appointment,’ Bryant said, taking a quick look.

There was little to learn Kim realised as she looked around, because there was very little here, full stop.

‘I’m going upstairs,’ she said, wondering if they would find any clues at all.

Bryant followed her. He was unusually quiet.

Kim took the door to her left and entered the front bedroom. Plain brown curtains were drawn halfway across the small window.

An e-reader and a bedside lamp occupied the only cabinet.

Kim stepped around the bed and opened the wardrobe. Hanging to the right were three designer trouser suits, one navy, one black and one cream. To the left were shelves holding tracksuit bottoms, sweatshirts and vest tops. Kim realised that she had never seen Tracy in a skirt.

Bryant bent down. ‘Look, guv,’ he said, picking up a high-heeled shoe. Inside was a plastic insert. As her gaze took in the identical shoes lined up in a row it was clear that every pair had its own insert.

Kim sat down on the edge of the bed and shook her head.

The sadness of the property had found a route to somewhere inside her.

‘I know I moan about the missus and stuff sometimes but bloody hell, you just don’t realise what you’ve got.’

Kim silently agreed. Her own home lacked many of the personal touches found in others but the wagging tail that greeted her more than made up for it.

It was clear that Tracy spent all her money on the bits people could see; the Tracy Frost that she presented to the world. The ‘home Frost’ was the polar opposite. For some inexplicable reason, it really bothered Kim.

‘And I take back what I said outside,’ Bryant said, as he closed the wardrobe door.

He didn’t need to elaborate. Kim knew exactly what he meant.

They had to get her back.