Emotion erupted within him. He hated her, he loved her, he needed her.
It wasn’t a sexual desire within him. He felt no sexual desire for anyone. His ability for that had been destroyed years ago.
What he craved was her perfection, her purity. She was so clean. He knew from their time together that her hair smelled of coconut and that she used a jasmine-scented body wash. Her nails were free of polish but manicured and tidy. Her clothes were fresh and crisp.
His own clothes were the ones he’d been wearing when he’d left Hardwick House in the middle of the night. The light blue jeans were stiff with dirt. The knees caked in grime from ‘working’ behind the derelict bingo hall in Cradley Heath. Each time he’d accepted only a fiver as payment; just enough to eat.
It wasn’t the dirt on the outside that bothered him. It was the filth on the inside. Every cell of his body was soiled with his past. Shane often visualised removing each body part one at a time and washing it in hot soapy water. If he scrubbed hard enough he could put them all back, shiny and new.
But Alex had taken that hope away from him. He would never be free of the memories of his uncle’s organ throbbing inside him. Or the sickness he felt when he recalled the soft caresses to his hair and the intimate murmurs of encouragement that had accompanied the acts. The whispered endearments had been worse than the rapes.
Shane felt the bile rise in his throat as the memories engulfed him. He lunged into a side street and bent over. His hard-earned McDonalds hit the pavement.
The rage returned so forcefully he almost folded to the ground. Until his last meeting with Alex there had always been that tiny sliver of hope that he could be cleansed. That somehow, someone would eventually find a way to remove the grime.
But in that final conversation she had taken that dream away from him. She had taken everything, and now she had to pay.
Shane wiped the spittle from his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket. He already knew how he’d get in. A small bathroom window was slightly open at all times.
Shane knew he would get through the small gap. As a child he had excelled at fitting himself into small spaces. To hide.
The next time she left the house he would gain access to her home, her safe place, and then he would wait.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Oh, come on, Bryant. Why would she agree to testify against her own patient?’ Kim asked, back in the squad room.
Bryant shrugged as he opened his lunchbox. He appraised the contents although they had never once changed: an apple, a ham and cheese sandwich and an Actimel drink.
‘Conscience.’
Kim remained silent. Bryant, she guessed, had been taken in by the cool, attractive woman and the flirtatious smile, and even Kim had to concede that there was a certain allure to her persona, but a couple of things were not sitting well with her. They had visited the psychiatrist to get information and that’s what they’d got, but Kim couldn’t help the uneasy feeling that they’d come away with more than they’d asked for.
Kim also felt that her natural instinct for detecting emotion had been switched off the second they walked in the door. Perversely, despite her own emotional detachment she was perceptive to the emotions of other people and yet with Alex she had felt nothing.
‘Jeez, Guv, what’s your problem? She’s answered our questions and agreed to testify. Happy Birthday to us.’
‘And you’re not the least bit swayed by her looks and flirting?’
‘Not at all.’ Bryant held a sandwich in one hand and a pen in the other. ‘Granted, she’s a very attractive woman, a bit on the skinny side for me, but last I heard being gorgeous was not against the law. I mean, ultimately she knows what she’s talking about. Those certificates didn’t come out of Photoshop.’
‘I’m not saying she’s a fraud … ’
Bryant threw down his pen. ‘Then what are you saying, Guv? The doctor told us everything we wanted to hear. We know that Ruth Willis is not insane and CPS are going to be our best friends forever. This case could be tried in the River Severn and come out dry. It’s watertight so I just don’t see the problem.’
Kim rubbed her chin. Everything he said was true, but it didn’t stop the nibbling in her belly.
‘And that crack on the way out, what was that about?’ Bryant asked.
‘Just an observation.’
‘She’s a doctor, not God. How could she know what Ruth was going to do?’
Kim could feel Bryant’s frustration as reflected in the state of his appearance. His jacket had been discarded, the tie knot loosened and the top button of his shirt undone.
Kim carried on. ‘She’s a psychiatrist. She specialises in the workings of the mind. Don’t you think she should have known it was a possibility?’
Bryant finished his first sandwich and wiped his mouth.
‘No, I don’t. We were asked to gather information for the charge. You were convinced it should be murder and everything we’ve done confirms that you were right, yet you still see darkness in everything, an ulterior motive if someone tries to help. The whole world is not calculating and evil, Guv.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘And on that note, I’m going to the canteen to get something to drink.’
By the time he came back, things would be fine between them. They always were.
In the meantime she’d just satisfy herself with a Google search. She entered the doctor’s full name into the search bar, which turned up twelve reports. She started at the top.
Ten minutes later she’d visited the website for Alexandra Thorne’s practice, read about the articles she’d published, learned of her charity work and been redirected to a couple of sites where she volunteered online counselling advice.
As Bryant re-entered the room with coffee, she realised he was right. Her search had turned up nothing. It was time to let it go.
For now.
TWENTY-THREE
Kim dismounted the bike and tried to leave Woody’s words in the fabric of the helmet but they still rang in her ears. Under no circumstances was she to approach or talk to the Dunn girls. If her memory served her correctly, she had not agreed. Well, not explicitly. Therefore, realistically, no contract existed.
She hadn’t even told Bryant where she was going. They’d had enough spats for one day.
Fordham House was a new facility built on the west side of Victoria Park in Tipton. Listed in the Doomsday Book as Tibintone, the area had been one of the most heavily industrialised towns in the Black Country. It had once been known as the ‘Venice of the Midlands’ for its abundance of canals. But, like many other local towns, the nineteen-eighties had seen the closure of many factories, and housing estates had been built in their place.
The entrance to Fordham House was an extended porch formed of glass and brick with a simple gold sign etched in black to name the property. Kim knew it catered for victims of sexual abuse pending an outcome of their future. The children here were either transferred into a long-term care home or returned to a parent or family member. It was transitional accommodation and the duration of each stay varied from a few days to a few months. Social Services would decide when or if the girls would be returned to their mother.
On entering the building Kim was instantly struck by the difference to other care facilities. The glass of the front porch welcomed all available light from outside.
Children’s paintings were pinned to the noticeboard but had overflowed to the bare walls.
More glass at waist height displayed an office behind reception. A woman was bent over the lower drawer of a filing cabinet.
Kim pushed the red attention button that was the nose in a smiley face.
The woman jumped backwards from the cabinet and turned towards her.
Kim held her warrant card up to the glass.
She guessed the woman to be early thirties. Her hair may have started the shift in a tidy bun but appeared to have had a rough day. Her slim frame was clad in light blue jeans, a green T-shirt and a cardigan that was falling off her left shoulder.