‘She was a child.’

Tom pulled at his own hair to ease the pain. ‘I know, I know, but she wasn't a child. She was a conniving girl who knew how to get what she wanted.’

‘But what you did next was unforgivable. Daddy, I hate you.’

Now his whole body cried. He would never see his beautiful little girl again. He would not watch Amy grow into a young lady or be around to protect her from boys. He would never kiss those soft cheeks again or feel her tiny little hand in his.

His head dropped forward and tears fell onto his legs. Through the blurred vision his gaze travelled to his feet and rested on the slippers Amy had bought him for Father’s Day. They were monogrammed with the face of Homer Simpson, his favourite character.

No, his mind screamed. There had to be another way. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to lose his family. He had to make them understand.

Maybe he could go to the police. Admit to what he’d done. It wasn’t as though he’d been alone. He hadn’t even been a decision maker. He’d just gone along with it because he was young and scared. He’d been weak and stupid but damn it he was not a murderer.

Of course he would be punished, but it would be worth it to be able to watch his daughter grow.

Tom wiped away the tears and focused his vision on the bottle. It was over half gone. Oh God, he prayed that it was not too late.

As he placed the bottle back on the table he felt his head being yanked back by the hair.

The bottle fell to the floor as Tom tried to understand what was going on. He felt the cold tip of metal beneath his left ear, a forearm against his neck. He tried to turn but the tip of the blade ripped at his skin.

He watched as a gloved hand moved from left to right beneath his chin.

And that was the last thing he saw.

Thirteen

Kim replaced the receiver after the third call. She hoped she was wrong and that she was about to waste the valuable time of some very important people. She would happily accept a bollocking from Woody if she was wrong. She would get no satisfaction from being right on this one.

Someone did not want that ground excavated.

‘What’ve you got, Stace?’ Kim asked, perching on the edge of the spare desk.

‘Hope yer sitting comfy, Guv. The building that still stands is part of a bigger facility that was built in the 1940s. Back then, it was designed to house the mentally disturbed soldiers returning from the war.

‘The physically disabled were sent to various hospitals in the region but the worst of the psychologically affected were sent to Crestwood. Really, it was a secure unit for the soldiers that could never go back into society. We’re talking killing machines that ain’t got an ‘off’ button.

‘By the late Seventies the population of about thirty-five individuals had either committed suicide or died of natural causes. The place was then used as a borstal.’

Kim cringed. It was an outdated word that brought all kinds of connotations.

‘Go on.’

‘There's some real horror stories that came out of the Eighties of abuse and molestation. An enquiry was carried out but no charges were brought. By the early nineties the place 'ad been turned into a children’s home for girls but still 'ad a reputation for housing troubled teens.

‘Due to budget cuts and building repairs the place was being phased out as we entered the millennium and in ‘04 there was a fire that emptied it completely.’

‘Anyone hurt?’

Stacey shook her head. ‘There ain’t no headlines to suggest it.’

‘Okay, Kev, Stace, start compiling a list of staff members. I want to see ...’

The sound of the fax machine kicking into life silenced her.

They all knew what it was and they all knew what it was going to say.

Bryant reached for the document and perused it quickly. He stood beside Stacey’s desk and handed her the C.V. of Teresa Wyatt.

‘Here you go, guys, I think you have your first.’

Glances were exchanged between them all as the possibilities began to dawn. No one spoke.

And then the phone rang.

Fourteen

‘Jesus, Guv, slow down. This is not a Kawasaki Goldwing.’

‘Good to know ‘cos there’s no such thing.’

‘You do know that we’re too late to save him?’

Kim slowed as she approached an amber light but thought better of it and sped over the lights of the Pedmore Road. She weaved in and out of vehicles on the dual carriageway that ran alongside the Merry Hill shopping centre.

‘And that there’s no siren on this?’

‘Oh Bryant, loosen up. I haven’t killed us yet.’ She offered him a sidelong glance. ‘And you need to be more worried about the gash on your left arm.’ She'd spotted the injury through the fabric of his shirt sleeve during the briefing.

‘Just a scratch.’

‘Rugby practice last night?’

He nodded.

‘You really need to give it up. You're either too old or too slow for the game. Either way you're gonna get hurt.’

‘Thanks for that, Guv.’

‘Each injury is worse than the last so surely it's time to pack it in.’

She was forced to stop the car at the next set of lights. Bryant unwrapped his left hand from the roof handle and flexed it.

‘Can't do it, Guv. Rugby is my yang.’

‘Your what?’

‘My yang, Guv. My balance. The missus has got me taking ballroom dance classes with her every week. I need the rugby to balance me out.’

Kim negotiated the next traffic island from the inner lane and ignored the horn honks that sounded in her wake.

‘So, you prance around the dance floor and then hug other hairy men to balance you out?’

‘It's called a scrum, Guv.’

‘I'm not judging, honest.’ She turned and looked at him, fighting back the smile. ‘What I really don't understand is why on earth you offered that information to me voluntarily. You have to know that was a mistake?’

He rested his head back against the seat, closed his eyes and groaned. ‘Yeah, starting to see that now.’ He turned to her. ‘You'll keep it between us, Guv, eh?’

She shook her head. ‘Not gonna make promises I can't keep,’ she answered honestly.

‘So, who were you calling earlier?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘Professor Milton.’

‘For what?’

‘Just making sure he’d reached Mrs Pearson safely.’

‘Bollocks,’ Bryant said, behind a cough.

As the cars began to move away slowly she shadowed the car in front. It braked and so did she as three lanes filtered into two. Bryant grabbed the handle.

‘So, what do we know?’

‘Male, late thirties, cut throat. Possible suicide, could be accidental.’

Kim rolled her eyes. A dark humour was necessary to maintain sanity but just sometimes ...

‘Where now?’

‘Take a left just past the school and we should see it from there.’

Kim screeched around the corner sending Bryant crashing against the passenger door. She drove up the hill and threw on the handbrake at the cordon.

A box porch led straight into the front room, where a WPC sat on the sofa comforting a distraught female. Kim walked through directly into an open plan dining room and kitchen.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she whispered.

‘No, that’s just a rumour,’ said Keats.

The male was still seated in the dining room chair. His limbs were limp like a rag doll. His head was torn back, the crown almost resting between his shoulder blades. Kim was instantly reminded of a cartoon. The angle looked almost impossible.