Not what Kim would have said. She was sure ‘barefaced liar’ would have been in there somewhere.
‘We’ll need to confirm that with your father. Get a bit more detail and take the necessary statements. Obviously, ballistics will match the bullet to the gun, and we can leave it at that. And I’m sure the residue on your brother’s hands will confirm that he was the one holding the gun.’
Okay, Travis’s way of calling her a barefaced liar with the added undercurrent of we’re gonna catch you out was more tactful than Kim’s way. And still the pleasant smile remained on his face.
Kim saw Fiona’s tongue pass over her lips.
‘It’s a very simple test,’ Travis continued. ‘The residue on Billy’s hands will be made up of burned and unburned primer combined with residue from the surface of the bullet, cartridge case and lubricants…’
‘But you can’t do it now, can you?’ Fiona asked.
Travis nodded, pleasantly. ‘I’m sure we could. All I’d need is an alcohol wipe and I could pop that into one of these…’ He opened his wallet. On the left-hand side were pockets holding business cards, pens and small evidence bags. ‘… and we wouldn’t have to bother you again.’
‘He can’t give his permission,’ she said, frowning.
Damn, Kim thought. It hadn’t taken her long to recover.
Travis nodded. ‘But that shouldn’t be a problem, should it? I’m sure you could do so as you’d want us to corroborate his story as soon as we can.’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘He can’t give permission as he is unable to speak and I am not prepared to do so on his behalf.’
Kim saw another squeeze of the hand. Billy Cowley looked terrified.
Travis nodded. ‘No problem. We’ll ask one of the techs to come and take the sample once we’ve obtained permission from your father.’ He shoved a hand across the bed. ‘Thank you for your time, and I’m sure we’ll speak soon.’
Kim nodded to both of them as she followed Travis out of the ward.
‘Do we have the bullet?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Gibbs got it last night once it was removed from Billy’s neck.’
‘Jesus, slow down,’ she said, as they entered the main corridor.
‘Not my problem if you can’t keep up, Stone,’ he threw behind.
Two more paces and she was level.
‘What’s the rush?’ she said, as they hit the outside crowds.
‘Think about it,’ he said, sidling behind a group of smokers obscuring the ‘No Smoking’ sign.
She looked at his head towering above the plume of smoke. ‘If we’re supposed to be hiding, I suggest you duck down a bit.’
He moved further into the wall.
Kim peered through the smokers. If Fiona had been lying to them she would now have to cover her tracks, quickly. She would need to get home and tell her father what he’d seen. Travis had deliberately stated their next course of action to flush out hers. She would have to get to her father before they did.
‘And there she goes,’ Kim said, as Fiona sprinted over the crossing right in front of a taxi.
Travis started walking towards the maternity car park at speed.
‘Hey, Travis, it’s almost six. Aren’t we getting past your curfew?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I’d hate to see you turn into a pumpkin.’
He shot her a frosty look. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Stone. Just need to make one call.’
Kim started the car as he took out his phone and stepped away from her.
She felt a smile fighting its way onto her face.
Now, it was feeling familiar.
THIRTY-FIVE
Bryant parked behind Keats’s van at the mouth of Buck Tunnel on what was known locally as the Codsall estate.
Bryant remembered football matches as a kid on Bearmore Bank, the playing fields right next to the Burton Delingpole factory manufacturing flanges and fittings. He remembered the evening siren that sounded right before black-faced men spewed out of the building and headed home for a warm meal.
Bryant wasn’t na?ve enough to view the past through rose-tinted glasses. He didn’t believe there had been fewer problems for families in the seventies and eighties. Just a different kind. Many of the factories and foundries of that era had been responsible for thousands of health problems still being identified today. The average life expectancy had increased by more than ten years due to better working practices. Yet when he recalled the camaraderie he’d witnessed at the mass exodus of the workers at night, he felt saddened at its loss.
The factory had closed in the mid-eighties and been replaced by houses, the occupants of which were already formed into small groups on both sides of the road. They could see nothing, but it didn’t spoil the entertainment of speculation.
He shook his head as one of the constables handed them plastic shoes and nodded towards the incline leading up to the railway track that was about halfway between the train stations of Cradley Heath and Old Hill.
As he trudged through knee-high grass, he took a few deep swallows. Even though Keats had warned them that the scene was gruesome he could not have prepared himself for what he was about to see.
He heard Dawson curse behind as he slipped on the already frosted vegetation. He considered turning to offer his hand but thought better of it. The kid’s ego would not thank him.
At the top of the slope temporary floodlights bounced off the sea of reflective jackets of clusters of railway workers, police officers and crime scene techs. There was little movement and Bryant could feel the shock and horror in the air.
His colleague appeared beside him and began dusting the dirt from his knees.
‘Oh Jesus,’ Dawson said, mid swipe.
Bryant followed his gaze and almost gagged.
The body of a young male was sprawled across the rails. His head was two metres down the track.
Keats turned and smiled as he saw the two of them.
‘Finally, a pairing I can live with,’ he said. ‘Care to make it permanent, boys?’ he asked.
‘No,’ they said, together.
Keats shrugged away his disappointment.
‘Come closer, for goodness’ sake,’ he chided.
Bryant realised they had both stopped short a good three metres from the decapitated victim.
‘Suicide?’ Dawson asked. A question not as stupid as it sounded. They had both attended scenes of death by train. Most times the person would throw themselves from a bridge into the path of an oncoming train, giving the driver no chance of slowing down.
Others did it as the train was pulling into a station; rather than jump, they would simply fold and fall into the train’s path.
Personally he felt they were selfish bastards. He had met train drivers suffering from PTSD, depression, and other devastating conditions as a result of someone else’s choice to end their own life.
Keats leaned down in response to Dawson’s question and pointed to the remnants of string that had fallen inside the track, along with most of the victim’s fingers. The cleanliness of the severed flesh instantly brought to mind the picture of a meat slicer used in a butcher’s shop.