Play Dead (25 page)

T
racy knew
that she’d been drugged again. The thing had given her a drink. She had refused, and then his face had changed. The gentle eyes had been suffused with rage and his jaw had been set.

She had felt the danger as he had taken steps towards her, but still she had refused to drink.

He had moved behind her and yanked her head back so quickly that Tracy thought her neck would snap. Her mouth had fallen open with shock and that had been the only advantage he’d needed.

She could feel the drug travelling around her bloodstream, injecting its lethargy into her flesh. The muscles in her body felt as though they were dissolving away from her bones. Every ounce of her strength had been zapped, and she could barely lift her head.

Through the haze she heard the bang of the door above. Her heart hammered in her chest. She knew she couldn’t fight him with her muscles melting away.

She wondered if she could find the strength to talk to him, beg for her life. Had Jemima begged for hers?

Tracy wanted to scream out that she had tried to help, but knew he would answer,
Not quickly enough
.

And he would be right.

The tears were hot and salty as they fell onto her cheeks, and she knew she was crying for both of them. They’d been children, stupid little children who could never have imagined the repercussions of their actions. That their one act of mindless cruelty could impact him so heavily, that the jibes and laughter could shape the person he would become.

And yet they had done the same to her.

But she had been the one, the only one that had tried to help him. She had understood him even then, had known how it felt and had wanted to end his pain.

The injustice of the situation added bitterness to Tracy’s throat. She knew she was still going to die.

She gulped back the tears. She knew that she shouldn’t displease him. The expression on his face and the rage that had exploded from his pores were not things she wanted to see again.

The door opened and the light went on. There were no windows in the room, which suggested they were underground, but she had no idea where. There were no sounds other than the bang from above that signalled he was on his way.

She saw that he carried a bowl of water and a small cosmetics bag over his arm. If only she had the strength to raise her legs, she could kick the contents of the bowl in his face, offering her a moment to try to get herself free. But she couldn’t even wiggle her toes.

‘It’s time to get you clean and ready,’ he said, sitting on a stool in front of her.

Ready for what?
she wanted to ask, but it was clear that the affable mood had returned, and for the moment she was thankful.

He placed the bowl on the floor and opened the bag. He took out a cloth and bottle.

He dipped the cloth into the bowl and gently dabbed at her feet. He rubbed a bar of soap onto the cloth until it began to lather.

He took her left foot in his other hand and began to soap it.

His touch was gentle, and she suddenly wanted to cry. She felt every part of her foot being cleaned before he rested it gently on his leg.

A tear slipped from her eye as he dabbed gently at her toes. The smell told her he was using nail polish remover to take the red stain from her nails.

‘Don’t cry, Tracy,’ he said, smiling up to her. ‘There’s nothing to be upset about.’

He took a disposable razor from the bag and ran it up and down her leg. The blunt blade pulled and tore at the short stubble protruding from her skin.

He reached into the bag again and removed a pack of baby wipes. He ripped one from the packet and another sprang up. He grabbed that one too and placed them together.

He pushed back the pink plastic chair and moved towards her, standing between her chair and the miniature table.

First he wiped gently at her forehead. Slow movements across her brow and then tender circles, small ones growing bigger.

‘Close your eyes,’ he said and she did.

She felt the damp wipe move across her eyelid, gently. Not enough pressure to hurt but enough to lift the stale eyeshadow and bitty mascara from her eyes. He repeated the process on her other eye.

‘So much better, Tracy. You can open them now.’

She did so.

He was not looking into her eyes. His gaze was focussed on her cheek as he rubbed in bigger circles all the way down to her jaw. He moved across her chin and then up the other side and over her nose.

Finally he rubbed at both lips together.

He stepped back and assessed her face. One more rub of her lips and he was done.

He reached for the toiletry bag and took out a brush. He moved behind her and Tracy held her breath.

The prongs of the brush touched the back of her head but did not scratch it. He held her long hair firmly so that the brushing motion didn’t pull at her head.

He worked his way from the back rhythmically to the left-hand side, taking care not to catch her ear as he brushed the hair down. Despite the drugs that were attacking her muscles she could feel every touch to her flesh.

He then worked from the centre of the back of her head around to the right. This time he accidentally nicked the top of her ear. Immediately he stopped brushing. She felt his hands on her shoulders as he leaned into her and planted a kiss where he had nicked.

‘I’m sorry, my precious little girl,’ he said tenderly.

Tracy had to work hard not to pull away. Whatever fantasy he was living, she did not want to disturb it.

He completed the brushing and once more stepped to the front of her. She could see that his left hand was clenched closed.

He reached towards her forehead and smoothed away her fringe to the side. He opened his hand to reveal two kirby grips, as her mother called them. But these were white in colour, unlike the plain brown ones that had held her mother’s rollers in place.

Placed at the curve of each hair clip was a jagged heart. He slipped them both into her hair to hold back her fringe.

‘That’s better – now I can see your face,’ he said, tipping his head. ‘Now you’re ready to play.’

The tenderness in his voice brought fresh tears to Tracy’s eyes.

She knew she was being prepared to die.

‘
I
’ve not been here before
,’ Bryant said, turning the car into a car park that hugged half of the two-storey building.

The Elms formed part of the Dudley and Walsall Mental Health Partnership. This particular building focussed on Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services, otherwise known as CAMHS.

‘Do social workers operate out of here?’

Kim shrugged. ‘Not sure, but this is where Stacey said she’s working.’

The double doors opened automatically into a functional annex with plastic chairs around the perimeter. A glass window fronted a general office area behind.

Kim approached it and tapped on the window. A second too late she saw the bell that said ‘Ring me’.

A man in his early twenties with hair over his eyes approached the window.

‘Can I help?’ he said through the diamond of air holes drilled into the glass.

‘Valerie Wood – she’s expecting us,’ Kim said, holding up her badge to the window.

The male looked neither impressed nor concerned. She reminded herself this was a building that dealt with troubled adolescents.

He headed to the rear of the office and made a call. He nodded a couple of times and then made a waving motion their way, indicating they should take a seat.

Kim stepped away from the window but paced around the space.

This didn’t feel like any of the facilities she’d visited as a child. But she knew it was. The processes didn’t change all that much.
Get it out, talk about it, you’ll feel better afterwards.

Wanna bet
? Kim had always thought. She had always chosen silence.

A woman used a card hanging around her neck to key herself out of the main building and into the annex.

Kim guessed her to be late fifties with blonde curly hair that lived close to her head. Her face was devoid of make-up and a few deep wrinkles were etched around her mouth and eyes. A small gap showed between her front teeth as she smiled.

‘Valerie Wood, how can I help you?’

So Stacey had asked if she had time to see them but hadn’t told her what it was about.

‘Do you recall a case concerning a male named Graham Studwick?’ Kim asked.

Valerie’s eyes widened. ‘Back in my social-worker days, yes, why?’

‘Could we ask you a few questions?’

She considered for a moment and then nodded. ‘Come outside, I’m due a smoke break anyway.’

Kim followed as the woman headed outside and removed a small box and tiny lighter from the back pocket of her jeans.

‘Terrible habit,’ she said, drawing on the cigarette. ‘I give up after every one.’

‘So you were a social worker?’ Kim asked, just to understand the relationship between this woman and their suspect better.

‘In a former life – but it wasn’t for me. You have to learn to switch off, and if you can’t learn that, you don’t last long. I didn’t last long. Graham was actually one of my last cases and definitely one of the reasons I made the move to psychology.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that kid needed to talk. He needed more than a social worker. He needed a therapist. He needed a friend, a confidante… but with thirty-nine cases you can’t be all those things. Oh, and I wasn’t all that good at hiding my feelings around neglectful parents.’

Kim fought a smile back into her mouth. She suspected she would suffer the same issues in that profession.

‘At what stage did you get involved?’ Kim asked.

‘How much do you know?’ Valerie asked, demonstrating the reason Kim had never done well with psychologists as a child.

‘We know that Graham suffered a horrifically embarrassing episode at school. Is that when you met him?’ Kim asked.

Valerie shook her head. ‘I met him when he was eleven years old. I know of the incident at school, but social services weren’t called in then – God only knows why not – but he was taken out of the school system and taught at home by his mother. He never went to school again.’

‘Is that legal?’ Bryant asked.

She nodded. ‘Oh yeah, home education is legal in all parts of the UK and always has been. It’s as simple as deregistering your child, normally a simple letter, and then a proposal to the local authority of how you intend to educate your child.’

‘But surely there are checks that the national curriculum is being met?’ he pushed.

‘It’s not the responsibility of the state to educate your child, only to provide a suitable facility, should you require one. A parent is obliged to provide a suitable education for their child during compulsory school age. Schools are available to be used, but if a parent thinks they can do a better job they are within their rights to do so.’

‘You’re telling me that Graham’s mother was able to remove him from the school system with no supervision at all?’ Kim asked incredulously.

‘Absolutely. The law is clear that there is no legal duty for a local authority to monitor the education provision and would only conduct a home visit in rare or extreme circumstances.’

Kim took a moment to digest this information.

Valerie continued. ‘You know his mother was feeding him hormones from the age of three?’

Kim shook her head. No, she hadn’t known that, but something else was confusing her. If neither the uncovering of his true sex or his absence from school had prompted the intervention of social services, then what the hell had?

‘So how did the two of you meet?’ she asked.

‘I was the social worker that collected him from the home after the death of his mother. It was Graham that called the ambulance and the police.’

‘Police?’ Bryant asked.

Valerie nodded. ‘Thank God he was never charged with the offence. After what his mother did to him, the kid had been through enough. He needed help, not punishment.’

Kim glanced at Bryant.

‘I don’t understand. Charged with what offence?’

Valerie stubbed out the cigarette on the top of the bin. ‘Good grief, Inspector, you really don’t know very much about him. The offence would have been murder. Graham Studwick admitted immediately that he was the one who had killed his mother.’

B
ryant showed more
patience than she would have as he negotiated the rush-hour traffic building on a busy Friday afternoon. She caught the occasional disbelieving shake of his head.

‘What?’ Kim asked.

‘I can’t believe the kid wasn’t even charged.’

Kim had no trouble believing it at all. Valerie had happily given them the detail of what had followed that day.

Eleven-year-old Graham had admitted to holding the pillow over his mother’s face until she could breathe no more. But he had admitted it without the guidance of a responsible adult. The young constable who had walked him from the house to the car had asked a couple of questions that would have made the whole confession inadmissible.

Graham had been lucky enough to secure a brief who had known what he was doing and had got him admitted to Bromley immediately.

The police investigation was further hampered by two independent psychiatric reports stating that Graham’s ‘fitness to plead’ in Crown Court was not adequate.

Kim knew the decision of the CPS to prosecute was based on a number of factors. Was it in the public interest? Past history, probability of causing harm to others, need for treatment and if that need was being provided. And the unspoken factor – the likelihood of conviction.

Kim could understand why the CPS had chosen not to prosecute.

Bryant pulled the car straight onto the drive of the two-bed mid-terrace. The property sat back from the road in the Lyde Green area of Halesowen where it met Cradley Heath.

Only two windows were visible and both were suffocated by heavy net curtains.

Kim tried to peer through and could just make out that there were heavy draw curtains inside. Closed.

A covered entryway led to the back of the house. She headed that way and tried the gate. As it opened, Kim felt her heart sinking. Stacey had checked this was the correct address for a man named Graham Studwick, but her gut told her that the gate should have been locked if they were in the right place.

The gate opened onto a flat, long, thin garden that disappeared into a row of oak trees behind.

A decrepit shed was on her right. A quick glance inside revealed no garden tools, lawnmower or boy toys. There was no plant, bush or square foot of lawn to break up the slabbing that stretched from fence line to fence line.

‘Bryant, I’m going in,’ she said and tried the door. It was locked.

She tried the door to the shed. It opened. The only thing in there on the second shelf down was an upturned plant pot. She moved it and revealed a key.

‘I’m just gonna check there’s nothing hiding behind those trees,’ Bryant said.

Kim tried the key in the door and, after a little force, it unlocked.

The back door led into a kitchen. A blackout blind held the room in total darkness.

She reached along the walls and found the light switch.

The room was empty. The counter tops were free of kettle, mugs, tea and coffee, the usual staples of a lived-in kitchen.

As she checked the cupboards each one revealed more and more empty space. The fridge and freezer were empty and switched off.

She stepped through a door to the front of her house. Again the space was dark but not dense. Two shafts of sunlight peeped around the edges of the heavy brown velour curtain, offering the minimum of light. But it was enough for Kim to see that the only thing the room contained was a carpet.

‘About as homely as yours, guv,’ Bryant offered.

Kim ignored him as she felt the claustrophobia of the room now it contained two of them.

She headed for the only other door, which revealed the stairs.

She took them two at a time, and after checking both bedrooms and the bathroom she found more of what she’d seen downstairs.

Nothing.

She headed back down to Bryant.

‘This might be his address, but it’s not where he lives.’

Kim knew that to move this case any further along she had to get a better comprehension of what she was up against.

She had to crawl inside the mind of their killer and understand how he thought. She couldn’t even comprehend the mindset of a person like Graham.

Kim knew there was only one person she could ask.