Page 3 of Dying Truth
There was no reason.
A second blow landed to the back of her head but this came from a foot. More blows continued to land along the left side of her body as she tried to shield herself. Her stunned brain tried to connect dots in her head as a blow to her kidney sent explosions of pain surging around her body. She tried to defend herself as her mind tried to hang on to a question. There had to be some kind of mistake, her brain screamed, as the blows continued to land.
She tried to turn on the ground but another kick to her left side brought a metallic taste into her mouth. She spat out the liquid that threatened to slide back down her throat. A small pool of red landed an inch away.
Her vision was beginning to fade on the left side.
Fear coursed through her as fists and feet continued to pummel at her flesh and the agony spread so that her entire body was on fire. All confusion had disappeared leaving only the terror and pain.
She cried out as the agony in her stomach turned into knives, hacking and slicing at her organs, white hot bolts of pain that took away her breath. The vision in her left eye had completely gone and darkness was coming at her from the right.
‘Pl-please…’ she begged, trying to hang on to the light.
A final blow to the head and the world disappeared from her view.
Two
‘Bryant, are you having a giraffe?’ Kim asked, incredulously, as she turned to him in the driver’s seat. They had just finished interviewing a woman who had changed her mind about testifying in court against her abusive husband. To Kim’s dismay, no amount of cajoling could persuade her to change her mind back again.
They’d spent weeks reassuring her that she was doing the right thing; that her evidence would put the bastard away, but one visit from his mother had undone all their hard work.
Her husband would be returned to her within a few hours, and Kim was betting Mrs Worley would be counting new bruises before the night was out. Thankfully there were no children involved or Kim wouldn’t have hesitated in contacting Child Services. As it was she could do nothing more than register as urgent any future calls of disturbances to the address.
She knew she had done everything within her power and yet still she wanted to drive back to the end terrace and try again. Damn, the ones that got away.
‘I’m assuming you mean laugh, and no, I’m not.’
‘We may be the closest but I’m not sure we’re—’
‘Look, guv, there’s a thirteen-year-old girl on top of the school building threatening to jump. Pretty sure they just want someone on the scene as quickly as possible.’
‘Yeah, but have they met me?’ she asked, increasing her speed towards Hagley.
Heathcrest Academy was a co-ed private school responsible for shaping the hearts and minds of the wealthy, privileged kids from the Black Country and surrounding areas from the age of five right through to university.
Lodged between the dormitory village of West Hagley and the Clent Hills the school was placed at the picturesque edge of the urban conurbation of Stourbridge.
Kim had never met anyone schooled at the boarding facility. Graduates of Heathcrest didn’t seem to filter into the police force.
If she took the dual carriageway along Manor Way and turned off Hagley Wood Lane she guessed that she could make it in just a few minutes. What exactly she’d say when she got there was another matter entirely. Not renowned for her tact, diplomacy or sensitivity she realised that dispatch really must be desperate.
On a scale of suitability for the task trained negotiators sat right at the top. Then there were people training to be negotiators. Below that were kids who aspired to the role. There were counsellors, there were normal people and somewhere way below that line was her.
‘I’ll hold your handbag while you go and talk to her,’ she said, crossing the black and white sign into freedom of speed.
She crunched the gears into submission as she bullied the car up to sixty in three seconds.
‘She’ll probably be down by the time we get there,’ Bryant observed. ‘I’m sure that place has qualified people on site.’
Oh yeah, Kim thought, as she slowed for a bend followed by a small traffic island. She’d read an article a few months ago about a planned multimillion pound extension for a medical wing. It had sounded like the school had better facilities than most of the local town centres.
‘Next left,’ Bryant said, just as she hit the indicator stick.
The road turned into a single-track tarmac path that wound its way beneath arching willow trees with leafless branches that reached across the distance to intertwine.
At the end, the tarmac tapered into a gravel driveway that straightened. Kim ignored the sound of bricks hitting the side of Bryant’s car as she sped along the track towards the Tudor-cum-Jacobean-style house.
‘Time?’ Kim asked.
