Page 66 of First Blood
The Wren’s Nest estate was originally all council housing built in the 1930s to rehouse families from town centre slum clearances.
By the 1980s the poor quality of housing alongside all forms of crime including anti-social behaviour, joyriding and burglary sent the area into decline. Unemployment was above the national average and the decay of the estate seemed irreversible.
In the 1990s the council committed millions to a regeneration project giving properties new boundary walls, double glazing and decent heating. Crime levels fell along with the unemployment rate and the estate continually walked a tentative line dictated by socioeconomic factors.
The residents were served by schools, shops and the Summer Road Chippy, in front of which Bryant was trying to park right now.
‘Do you think he does this a lot?’ Bryant asked, blocking in a couple of squad cars. ‘You know, just ring up and demand attendance somewhere?’
‘Not sure he’s gonna get to do it again,’ she answered, getting out of the car.
She began the walk around the building to a row of bins and a collection of high-visibility jackets.
Yes, maybe a quiet word with Keats would be required. She didn’t appreciate being summoned to a location with no explanation.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, walking through two constables trying to find somewhere to tie the cordon tape.
‘Okay, Keats, what the hell?…’
She stopped speaking as Keats silently stepped aside to reveal the figure on the ground.
Her gaze began at the bony feet, bare, with shoes kicked to the side. A bird tattoo on the ankle peeped out from beneath dark, worn jeans that hung loose from the body. An open denim jacket revealed a striped, woollen jumper underneath.
Her gaze continued to travel up to the carnage at the neck where the head had been severed from the body.
The ringing of her phone shattered the silence.
She took it from her pocket and pressed the answer button without looking away from the body.
‘Go ahead, Stace,’ she said, quietly.
‘Boss, I think I’ve got the correct phone number for our girl, Hayley.’
Kim’s gaze finally rested on the birthmark covering the left eye.
‘Never mind, Stace, I’m looking at her right now.’
Chapter Sixty
Dawson walked into the Black Country Museum which he barely recognised from his only visit when he was around ten years old.
The museum entrance now doubled as a gift shop displaying souvenirs, traditional homeware, local history books and artists’ prints and canvasses from around the area.
The site had originally opened to the public in 1978 and had since added more than fifty shops, houses and other industrial buildings that had been relocated from their original sites around the Black Country and had been used as a filming location for many films and TV series includingPeaky Blinders.
Dawson hadn’t realised how much the place had grown since his one visit, but right now, he was here to meet a man named Arthur who supposedly could help him.
One of the contacts he’d emailed regarding the nail composition had replied to say the nail was like nothing he’d worked with as it consisted mainly of wrought iron. He had suggested a meeting with someone from the museum who would perhaps know more about where in the area these nails were being produced.
Dawson thought he was on a highway to nothing but he’d taken this lead and now had to run with it. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t when Arthur Nugent offered his hand across the reception desk.
‘You’re the police officer that called?’ he asked, lifting the glasses from their resting position against a check jumper and placed them on his nose.
‘I am Detective Sergeant Dawson.’
‘Okay, well, let’s see it,’ he said expectantly.
Dawson raised his hands. ‘I don’t have it.’
