Play Dead (2 page)

J
emima Lowe felt
the palms close around her ankles.

With one sudden movement she was yanked from the tinny van. Her back landed on the floor followed by her head. The pain shot around her skull like a star bursting through the darkness. For a few seconds the shards of pain were all she could see.

Please, just let me go
, she offered silently as her mouth was unable to move.

The muscles in her body had been severed from her brain. Her limbs no longer obeyed her. Her mind screamed messages but the rest of her body wasn’t listening. She could run a half marathon with ease. She could swim the Channel and back. She could ride a bike a triathlon distance, but right now she couldn’t even make a fist. She cursed her own body for letting her down and succumbing to the drug ravaging her system.

She felt herself being turned on the ground. The gravel bit into the small of her back where her top had hiked up.

Her body was being dragged along by the ankles. She had the sudden image of a caveman dragging a freshly killed carcass home for the family.

The texture beneath her changed. It was grass. Her head bounced up and down as her body was pulled along by invisible hands. The angle changed. She was being pulled up hill. Her head was thrown to the side. Her cheek hit against a small rock.

She sent an instruction to her hands to grab on to the ground. She knew her only chance was to slow this down. It was her only way to live.

Her thumb and forefinger almost grabbed at a small clutch of grass but then slid away as the digits refused to hang on. She knew the drugs were deep in her system. The tears of frustration stung at her eyes. She knew she was about to die – but also knew she couldn’t stop it.

A laboured sigh from her captor punctured the silence as the incline grew steep and the angle of her body changed.

Please, just let me go
, she prayed again. Her thoughts had sharpened, but her muscles refused to catch up.

Her body came to a halt. It was level, her legs in line with her back.

‘You want me to stop, don’t you, Jemima?’

There was the voice. The only voice she’d heard for twenty-four hours.

It chilled her to the bone.

‘I wanted you to stop, Jemima. But you wouldn’t.’

Jemima had already tried to explain, and yet she had been unable to find the right words. How could she ever explain what had happened that day? In her mind the truth had sounded so inadequate and once out of her mouth it had sounded much worse.

‘One of you put a sock in my mouth so I couldn’t scream for help.’

She wanted to apologise. Say sorry for what she had done. She had spent most of her adult life running away from the memory of that day. But it had never worked. The shame of it had always been with her.

Please, just let me explain
, her mind screamed through the numbness. If she could just have a minute to think she was sure she could say the right thing.

She managed to open her mouth. But before she could summon the strength to speak something was forced in through her lips. Her tongue recoiled from the thick dry substance.

‘All I hear when I go to sleep is the sound of your laughter.’

Another handful of dirt entered her mouth. She could feel it travelling down and clogging her airway. A scream was building in her throat, but it couldn’t find a way out.

‘I will never hear your laughter again.’

Another handful was forced in and then a palm clamped over her face. Her cheeks bulged as the dirt tried to rearrange itself to make room. The only exit it had was to try to escape down her throat.

She could feel the breath leaving her body.

She tried to writhe away from the hand covering her mouth. In her mind the movement was strong and forceful. It emerged as a pathetic wriggle.

‘And then you held me down, didn’t you, Jemima?’

Is this what it had felt like?
she wondered, as her body fought for breath.

She could feel the life draining out of her and into the ground. Her mind screamed the protest that her body could not.

For a second the hand moved and Jemima had a fleeting hope that it was over.

Something hit her in the middle of her face. She heard the sound of cracking bone a second before the pain exploded around her head. Blood spurted from her nose and cascaded over her lips.

The agony travelled to her mouth, causing her to cry out even though she could make no sound. The action sent more dirt travelling down her throat.

Her gag reflex tried to eject it, and she began to choke. She tried to swallow the arid ground, but it was sticking to the sides of her throat like freshly poured tar.

Tears forced themselves from her eyes as she tried to find a breath somewhere in her body.

A second blow landed on her cheek.

Her mind screamed out with the agony.

She writhed against the ground. Her cries of terror were held in the dirt.

A third blow landed on her mouth. Teeth burst away from her gums.

Every inch of her had succumbed to the pain as the calm voice reached her once more.

‘I will no longer see your face in my dreams.’

She had one last thought before the darkness claimed her.

Please, just let me die.

K
im knocked once
before entering the domain of her boss, Detective Chief Inspector Woodward, who resided in a corner office on the third floor of Halesowen Police Station.

The landline was at his ear. Mild annoyance shaped his features before he ended the call abruptly.

‘Didn’t feel like waiting for the word “enter”?’ he growled.

‘Er… you asked to see me, sir,’ she said. It’s not like he didn’t know she was coming.

He checked his watch. ‘Almost an hour ago.’

‘Really, that long?’

She stood behind the chair that faced him.

He sat back and offered her an expression that her best guess said was a smile. But she wouldn’t bet her house on it.

‘Congratulations on a positive result yesterday with the Ashraf Nadir case. Had you not been so insistent that there were more people involved in that prostitution ring we would never have found the second property.’

Kim accepted the compliment. Woody had managed to condense her dogged effort into one single sentence. If she recalled correctly it had taken four separate requests to investigate Ashraf Nadir after she’d spotted him talking with a male suspected of involvement in the publicised Birmingham case. She hadn’t exactly camped outside his office but she’d been close to buying a tent.

She took a step back to leave.

‘Not quite yet, Stone. I have a couple of questions.’

Oh, if only she’d been called to his office just for a pat on the back. Too late she realised the completed statements from her team on the Nadir raid were neatly piled on his desk.

He popped the reading glasses onto his nose and lifted the first page of the top statement, which he really did not need to do. Kim knew that any questions he wanted to ask her were already in his head.

‘I’d like you to clarify the time difference between receipt of the warrant and entry to the Nadir property.’

‘Marginal, sir,’ she answered honestly.

‘Minutes or seconds?’ he asked.

‘Seconds.’

‘Double figures or single?’ he asked, removing his glasses and staring at her, hard.

‘Single.’

He placed the glasses on the desk. ‘Stone, was the warrant in place before you entered the property?’

She didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes, it was.’ She didn’t add the word ‘just’. She also decided it was best not to add that she’d been about to go in anyway. She tended to get in enough trouble for her impetuous acts of judgement. Adding in near misses was a whole new story.

He eyed her suspiciously for a few seconds before tapping the statements with his fingers.

‘Other than that, watertight,’ he said.

She nodded her understanding and again took a step backwards towards the door.

‘So much so, I think you and your team have earned yourselves a little treat.’

She narrowed her gaze and opened her ears. Now she was suspicious.

‘Do you remember being briefed about that facility in Wall Heath?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘The one carrying out forensic research? Of course.’

Everyone down as far as detective-inspector level had been briefed when the place had originally started work. It was called Westerley and focussed on studying the human body after death.

Kim wondered if the mid-July heat was getting to her boss. Outwardly the twenty-three-degree heat had only prompted him to loosen his shirt cuffs but maybe he was melting on the inside.

Completing cases was not like bowling. Solving one didn’t knock the other ones down. There were many more cases spread across the desks of her team, and Woody knew it.

‘Sir, any chance of a rain check?’ she asked. ‘My team has six new cases that have landed over the weekend.’

Again, that almost-smile appeared on his face.

‘No, Stone. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity for the last few weeks but delayed it while the Nadir case was live. But you will take the trip today.’

She had learned to accept when her boss would not be moved, and she now chose her battles more wisely. Still she had to give it one last try.

‘Is there any particular reason why now is…?’

‘West Mercia have solved two cold cases in the last month based on the research being carried out at Westerley,’ he said, with a look that left her in no doubt that the discussion was over.

They were going.

H
er team piled
into her ten-year-old Golf, which was only with her today after dropping Barney at the groomers. Normally her Kawasaki Ninja provided all the space she needed.

Bryant folded his six-foot height into the front while Stacey and Dawson shuffled in the back.

‘Buckle up, kiddies,’ Bryant said over his shoulder.

‘Bloody hell, Kev. Move over a bit, will yer?’

‘Christ, Stace, you’ve got loads of room.’

Kim drove the car out of the car park as Dawson and Stacey continued to bicker in the back.

‘Hey, you two…’ Bryant said. Thankfully he was going to restore some order before she had to. ‘Hope you both went to the toilet before you got in the car.’

Dawson groaned and Stacey stifled a chuckle.

‘Hey, Bryant,’ Dawson said, leaning forwards. ‘Did you bring us all a packed—’

‘One more bloody word,’ Kim snapped, ‘and you’ll all be walking. This isn’t a school trip to the zoo.’

At least in the office she could retreat to The Bowl, a term used for her tiny office in the corner of the CID squad room. In her small car there was really nowhere to go.

Silence descended like a curtain.

Eventually Bryant broke the peace.

‘Guv?’

‘What?’

‘Are we there yet?’

‘Bryant, I swear—’

‘Sorry, what I meant to ask is where exactly are we going?’

‘Just on the outskirts of Wall Heath.’

The facility was right on the border where the West Midlands met the Staffordshire police force.

Wall Heath was primarily a residential area located on the edge of the West Midlands conurbation bordering Staffordshire to the west. It was at the very edge of Kim’s safety zone before the roads narrowed, traffic lights disappeared and roadkill was waiting around every corner.

‘That’s Holbeche House,’ Bryant said as she passed what looked like a stately home. ‘It’s famous for being where the flight of the Gunpowder Plotters ended. The mansion was originally built around 1600 but is now a private nursing home.’

‘Splendid,’ Kim offered. ‘Apparently we’re looking for a place called Westerley Farm,’ she said, glancing to her left.

‘Not signposted as a site of rotting corpses then, boss?’ Stacey asked.

‘Funded research?’ Dawson asked.

Kim was relieved that they had returned to grown-up questions.

‘Yes but not exclusively,’ she answered. ‘The programme is funded by a mixture of universities and police forces.’

‘Unlikely to be featured on the annual “look how we spent your money” leaflets,’ Stacey acknowledged.

Kim suspected not. It was definitely on the ‘not for public consumption’ list.

‘And you just passed it on the right,’ Bryant said, looking behind.

The lane was a one-track road. She drove along for almost a quarter mile before reaching a driveway she could use to reverse.

She drove back down the lane and slowed as she saw the break in the seven-foot-high hedgerow. A simple wooden sign with the name burned into it hung from a gate that offered a one-foot gap either side of the car width.

Bryant jumped out and unlatched the gate, waving her through. He closed the gate behind.

‘No lock?’ Kim asked, frowning.

The road narrowed further and became two strips of dirt with a central line of grass and weeds. The hedgerow grew higher and began to impose itself around them. Kim was reminded of taking the car through the car wash.

The track ended at a second wooden gate but, unlike the first, this one rose to a height of eight feet and was made of solid wood. The gate wore a hat of black, wrought-iron spikes. This gate was locked. She was guessing they’d reached the business end of the property.

Kim lowered the window and spoke into the speakerphone on her right.

‘DI Stone, West Midlands Police.’

There was no reply but the solid gate began to move along a single runner. Halfway across it juddered and then continued. Kim drove the Golf through as soon as the gap was wide enough. Although the thought of viewing the facility held some interest for her, real police work was stacking up on her desk. Her mind was already apportioning the one armed robbery, two sexual assaults and a vicious ABH to her team.

Kim brought the car to a halt beside a light grey prefabricated structure that was probably the length of two eight-berth caravans. Two red doors punctuated the row of perfectly square windows.

A collection of cars and pickup trucks were parked beside a double Portaloo.

The vehicles were all squeezed into a small gravel patch. Kim could see that some effort had been made to provide a line of gravel from the makeshift car park to the Portakabin, but the majority of the stones appeared to have been trodden into the ground.

Kim was forced to park the car on the dirt behind a red pickup truck. Bryant looked at the vehicle before a slight frown shaped his face.

‘Glamorous, eh?’ Stacey noted, opening the rear door.

‘Shit, these shoes were expensive,’ Dawson said, trying to find a place to put his feet where they wouldn’t get swallowed by the mud.

A figure walked towards them with a smile and an outstretched hand.

Kim guessed him to be mid-fifties with a well-stocked girth giving him an ambling gait as he approached. Black wellington boots rose over green corduroy trousers to the knee. A patterned jumper completed the look of a farmer who still lived with his mother.

‘Detective Inspector Stone, so pleased to meet you. Chris Wright, Professor of Human Biology and person in charge of Westerley.’

His palm was warm, fleshy and pumped her hand enthusiastically.

Kim took a moment to introduce the rest of her team and the professor ensured that he shook the hand of everyone.

She followed as he led them to the red door on the left that had two wooden steps denoting it as the main entrance.

She was immediately struck by the TARDIS element of the space as her team filed in behind her.

The door had opened into the mid-section of the Portakabin, which was clearly the office. Fixed to the walls on either side were light beech-effect counters. The front edge was fluid with indents for the ergonomically positioned chairs pushed snugly underneath.

There were three clearly defined working spaces. The first, directly opposite the door, held three flat-screen monitors, the largest keyboard Kim had ever seen and a mouse lying idle next to a wrist support. The screens on either side of the workspace had been turned to form a wall of privacy from the next workspace.

‘Jameel is running late,’ Professor Wright said, nodding towards the screens. ‘I’m hoping he’ll be here before you leave to demonstrate the analytical software systems we use.’

Kim would swear she could see the envy dripping from Stacey’s eyes.

He pointed to sliding doors that took up the final third of the Portakabin. ‘That’s our preparation area. The second door leads directly into there to avoid us having to bring corpses through the office.’ He smiled widely. ‘But I’d imagine it’s our residents you really want to see.’

What she really wanted to see was that heavy wooden gate closing behind her, but she did not wish to offend the professor. She understood that the work carried out here was valuable, but the vision of important witnesses forgetting vital information related to the cases on her desk was ever present in her mind.

She stepped to the side as the professor turned away from the sliding doors and moved back towards the centre of the space. The rest of them filed around and followed like some kind of disjointed snake.

The professor moved through the office section to the far end of the space. The left-hand side held a kitchen area with all the normal appliances. Kim wasn’t so sure she wanted to take a look in the fridge or the freezer. The rest of the space was taken up by a three-seater leather sofa and a round meeting table made of the same light beech as the desks.

A woman stood before a boiling kettle, spooning instant coffee into an array of mugs. Her legs were encased in dark jeans and what appeared to be compulsory-issue wellington boots. Her tawny hair was pulled back in a functional ponytail that rested on the back of a college emblazoned sweatshirt.

‘This is Catherine Evans, entomologist. She’s our resident maggot lady.’

The woman turned her head, smiled and nodded. The smile was neither warm nor welcoming. It was functional and reminded Kim of a toddler being told to smile for a tolerated aunt.

She couldn’t help but feel that Catherine Evans had heard that introduction a hundred times already and briefly wondered how the woman felt about her extensive journey of education and study being reduced to a description of ‘maggot lady’.

Professor Wright stopped and turned, clasping his hands before him. ‘We have a couple of consultants roaming the site at the moment but they are currently observing Ant and Dec so will not interfere…’

‘Excuse me?’ Kim said, perplexed.

He smiled. ‘I will explain,’ he said, leading them outside. He closed the door behind him and began walking slowly, heading east.

‘Officially we are categorised as a research facility specialising in forensic anthropology and related disciplines,’ said the professor. ‘More commonly known as a body farm.’

‘Isn’t there one in America?’ Dawson asked.

‘There are actually six in America. The largest belongs to Texas State University and covers an area of seven acres.’

Dawson frowned and shook his head. ‘No, that’s not the…’

‘You’ll be thinking of the original body farm in Knoxville, Tennessee, founded by Doctor William Bass in eighty-one and made famous by the author Patricia Cornwell. Westerley is much smaller than the two and a half acres of the Texas facility but is used in the training of law enforcement in scene-of-crime skills and techniques. I visited the place some years ago and modelled Westerley on many of their ideas and theories.’

‘So how much land do you have?’ Dawson asked.

Professor Wright nodded forwards. ‘As far as the eye can see and a little bit beyond the south border.’

Kim followed his gaze. The area he’d indicated totalled seven or eight football pitches and although the ground undulated in places it was a downhill slope from the Portakabin.

He pointed to the west. ‘Those trees mark the barrier to Staffordshire. The entire south is blocked by hedgerow beyond the oak trees and to the east is a brook that separates us from our closest neighbours.’

‘And how do they feel?’ Dawson asked.

He smiled. ‘We don’t place a weekly advertisement but our closest neighbour is a food-packaging factory. It’s a half mile in any direction to the nearest resident.’

Dawson seemed satisfied.

‘How many bodies do you have?’ Bryant asked.

‘Currently seven.’

‘Where do you get ’em from?’ Stacey asked.

‘Donations from family members, a person’s own wishes as stated in a will—’

‘Hang on, Professor,’ Bryant interrupted. ‘You’re telling me that family members actually donate their loved ones to this research?’

Professor Wright hesitated. ‘Donations to medical research rarely state the nature of the research. Few family members would wish to know the details, but they are content to know that the death of a loved one may be of scientific benefit, and of course it is.’

Kim stepped in. ‘And some people will themselves here?’

‘Not necessarily to this exact location but to the benefit of research. Texas State has some one hundred bodies donated each year and over 1300 people have registered to be donated there specifically upon their demise.’

‘It has a waiting list?’ Kim asked incredulously.

Professor Wright smiled and nodded.

‘Are the bodies in varying states of decay?’ Stacey asked.

‘Yes, my dear, I think you’ll get a good idea of what we do from the two residents I’m heading towards.’

Kim caught Stacey’s slight stiffening at the endearment, but she smiled through her irritation.

They all followed as the morning sun finally broke through the white cloud and changed the face of the day completely.

Kim matched the professor’s stride. ‘It must be quite a unique funding system you have here?’

He nodded. ‘We are fortunate indeed that the majority of institutions we approached had an interest in our research and yet no one wants it on their doorstep. So we share our findings with all parties and offer assistance where we can.’

‘To current investigations?’

He nodded as he walked. ‘Of course. We intend to replicate as many scenarios as we can that will not only aid our research aims but assist the police with both current and historic investigations.’

And had already helped West Mercia solve two cold cases. Damn, Woody. Now she was bloody interested. Kim would not scoff at any additional police resource. Cold cases were frustrating to any officer on the force. They stayed in the back of your mind like a conversation that had ended before you’d had your say. They embedded themselves into your subconscious until you could put it to bed. And that was if you were lucky.

Sometimes they didn’t even make it to the back of your mind to be machinated over while you continued with the current workload. Now and again they remained at the forefront of your thoughts, doubts constantly gnawing and shredding your brain.
Did I interview the correct witnesses? Did I miss a vital clue? Could I have done more?
It was Kim’s opinion that it was cold cases that were responsible for much of the alcohol abuse within the police force.

‘So here we are,’ Professor Wright said, regaining her attention.

Kim noted two perfectly cut rectangles in the grass. As she got closer, she saw that they were makeshift graves.

‘Please meet Jack and Vera,’ Professor Wright said, pointing like a proud father.

‘Their real names?’ Stacey asked while Dawson rolled his eyes.

The professor shook his head. ‘No, they come to us with unique reference numbers, which remain their official identification, but we prefer a more personal approach out here in the field.’

Kim glanced to the foot of a nearby tree. Two bouquets were in their last throes of life. Roses and lilies.