Page 146 of Stolen Ones
A tear slid over his cheek which he quickly wiped away.
She gave him a moment before continuing. ‘There’s more, Gum. You can read all the gory details when it comes out, but Melody was responsible for the deaths of three little girls.’
‘The ones you’re digging up half of the Midlands for?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I’m saying no more until all the charges are in place, but I didn’t want you hearing this on the news. You deserve better than that.’
He wiped at his eyes and opened his mouth to let out one of the hundreds of questions that must have been on his mind, but he closed it again. He knew she was going to say no more.
He took a deep breath. ‘Thank you. I appreciate the courtesy. Now, what the fuck is in that glass?’
‘Lemonade.’
‘Why the bloody hell would you—?’
‘You know, Gum, there are times when we need to know shit. I mean, we need answers that we as police officers can’t get. I’m talking stuff that only a seasoned, experienced, gifted ex-police officer can find out. One that’s sober, has an excellent memory, impeccable contacts and a nose for getting to the truth. It doesn’t come with a title but most likely expenses, a few quid for your time and a chance to do what we all know you do best.’
Interest lit his eyes as she glanced at the glass of lemonade.
‘Your choice, Gum. I’ll leave it with you, okay?’ she said, pushing herself away from the table.
She turned at the door to see him staring at the glass of lemonade as though it would give him the answer; he hadn’t yet touched his other drink. His brain had a lot to process.
If he wanted to turn his life around, she had given him a reason.
She could offer him no more than that.
Eighty-Eight
Kim leaned against the seat of the Ninja with her ankles crossed and her hands balled in her pockets.
Her day had been the equivalent of a three-ringed circus. After speaking to Gum last night, she had sent the whole team home for some much-needed rest.
Overnight the news had come in that bones had been located at the Clent site. No one doubted they would be formally identified as belonging to Helen Blunt, Melody’s third and final victim.
The whole team had returned this morning, fresh and alert, ready to sort out all the charges for both Steven Harte and Melody Jones.
The CPS hadn’t been best pleased but had agreed that with Steven’s testimony they were happy that convictions of Kate Swift for the murders of Lexi, Paula and Helen would be achieved. And for his part, Steven Harte would never walk free again.
A couple of hours ago the press had exploded both locally and nationally. Every outlet and media were carrying the story; initially, that Melody Jones was alive after all this time, and then that she’d been charged with murder. Kim was sure that documentary makers were lining up talking heads already.
It was one of those stories that had captured the public’s interest. They wanted to feast on an oddity. To try to understand how the relationship had formed and then twisted between Harte and Melody.
She was pretty sure the Jones family would be considering how to milk this new development for everything it was worth. Not one of them had phoned the station to see how Swift was doing. Melody Jones was truly dead to them, and they would try and find some way to profit from her crimes.
Except a local reporter had been given a tip-off about certain eBay accounts, and Kim felt sure a juicy article about the family’s profiteering ways would be appearing imminently. The offers would soon dry up after that. They had made enough money out of Melody. It was time for it to stop.
Grace had been reunited with her mother at the police station. They had held each other as though they would never let go. The gratitude in Claire Lennard’s eyes had said more than any words she could have spoken.
So much pain, so much anguish caused by the twisted relationship of two people that never should have even met.
Two people had been responsible for the fact that three little girls had died, and yet she couldn’t find it in herself to hate either one of them.
Hollytree had been her home once too. Her own six-year hell had happened against the backdrop of a place that was devoid of humanity and hope. There was an ugliness there that consumed everything that lived within it.
Steven Harte had been imprisoned there for years, desperate to find hope, life, beauty. He had found that beauty in the faces of little girls.
He had admired them as one would admire a piece of art, a sculpture, except he’d allowed his fascination to drive him, to control him. He had not harmed any of the girls and had tried to justify his actions in relation to their backgrounds. In his own misguided way, he felt that he’d taken care of them.
