Silent Scream

Kim clutched the note and headed back to the office. She couldn’t help but feel that somewhere out there was one humungous can of worms and that she’d just been handed the can-opener.

‘Chicken,’ he said.
‘Damn right.’
Bryant grabbed the lead of the adult dog. She jumped out of the car of her own accord and stood still. Bryant put the box under his left arm and headed to his front door.
Kim said a silent prayer. Having seen Bryant’s missus in a bad mood she feared she might never see her colleague again. She’d give him ten minutes and then she'd be on her way.
She took out her mobile and placed a call to social services. She spoke for a few moments and ended the conversation. An ‘at risk’ call from a police officer galvanised an immediate response. A case worker would be knocking on the door within the hour. Kim suspected Tina was lost but Rhianna and the baby had a chance.
Bryant’s front door opened and he exited. She couldn’t be totally sure, but his limbs appeared to be intact.
‘Still married?’ she asked, moving over to the passenger seat.
‘Mum and pups are reunited on a blanket by the kitchen radiator. Chicken and rice is on the stove and the missus is on the internet looking up puppy care.’
‘You gonna keep them?’
He nodded. ‘For now, until they’re old enough.’
‘How’d you swing that?’
He shrugged. ‘Told her the truth, Guv,’ he said, simply.
Kim visualised the dogs in his home being fussed over and spoilt.
She shook her head with despair. ‘Okay, now drop me off at the station then get to the hospital. One of us needs to be there to question Croft if the opportunity arises.’
‘You not coming?’
Kim shook her head. ‘Probably not a good idea. It may be just paranoia on my part, but I don’t think Mrs Croft likes me all that much.’

neighbours West Mercia.
‘Should we put a call in to D.S. Bryant, Marm?’
Kim cringed. She hated the term Marm. At thirty-four, she wasn’t ready to be called Marm.
A picture of her colleague stumbling into a taxi outside The Dog came into her mind.
‘No, I think I'll take this on my own,’ she said, ending the call.
Kim paused for two seconds as she silenced the iPod. She knew she had to let go of the accusation in the eyes of Laura Yates; real or imagined, she had seen it. And she couldn’t get it out of her mind.
She would always know that the justice in which she believed had failed someone it was designed to protect. She had persuaded Laura Yates to trust in both her and the system she represented and Kim couldn't rid herself of the feeling that Laura had been let down. By both of them.

im Stone stepped around the Kawasaki Ninja to adjust the volume on her iPod. The speakers danced with the silvery notes of Vivaldi’s Summer Concerto as they headed towards her favourite part; the finale called ‘Storm’.
She placed the socket wrench on the work bench and wiped her hands with a stray rag. She stared at the Triumph Thunderbird she'd been restoring for the past seven months and wondered why it had not captured her tonight.
She glanced at her watch. Almost eleven p.m. The rest of her team would be staggering out of The Dog right about now. And although she didn't touch alcohol, she accompanied her team when she felt she'd earned it.
She retrieved the socket wrench and lowered herself to the knee pad beside the Triumph.
It wasn’t a celebration for her.
The terrified face of Laura Yates swam before her eyes as she reached inside the guts of the bike and found the rear end of the crankshaft. She placed the socket head over the nut and turned the wrench in a back and forth motion.
Three guilty verdicts of rape were going to send Terence Hunt away for a very long time.
‘But not long enough,’ Kim said to herself.
Because there had been a fourth victim.
She turned the wrench again but the nut refused to tighten. She’d already assembled the bearing, sprocket, clamping washer and rotor. The nut was the final puzzle piece and the damn thing refused to tighten against the locking washer.
Kim stared at the nut and silently willed it to move for its own sake. Still nothing. She focused her anger on the arm of the socket wrench and gave it one almighty push. The thread broke and the nut turned freely.
‘Damn it,’ she shouted, throwing the wrench across the garage.
Laura Yates had trembled in the witness box as she'd recounted the ordeal of being dragged behind a church and repeatedly brutally sexually assaulted for two and a half hours. They had seen with their own eyes how hard it had been for her to sit down. Three months after the attack.
The nineteen-year-old had sat in the gallery as each guilty verdict was read out. Then it came to her case and two words were stated that would change her life forever.
Not Guilty.
And why? Because the girl had consumed a couple of drinks. Forget the eleven stitches that stretched from back to front, the broken rib and the black eye. She must have asked for it, all because she'd had a couple of bloody drinks.
Kim was aware that her hands had started to tremble with rage.
Her team felt that three out of four wasn't bad. And it wasn't. But it wasn't good enough. Not for Kim.
She leaned down to inspect the damage to the bike. It had taken almost six weeks to track down those bloody screws.
She eased the socket into position and turned the wrench again between her thumb and forefinger as her mobile phone began to ring. She dropped the nut and jumped to her feet. A call so close to midnight was never going to be good news.
‘D.I. Stone.’
‘We have a body, Marm.’
Of course. What else could it have been?
‘Where?’
‘Hagley Road, Stourbridge.’
Kim knew the area. It was just on the border with their

Black Country, Present Day
Teresa Wyatt had the inexplicable feeling that this night would be her last.
She switched off the television and the house fell quiet. It wasn’t the normal silence that descended each evening as she and her home gently closed down and unwound towards bedtime.
She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting on the late night news. The announcement had already been made on the local evening news programme. Perhaps she was hoping for a miracle, some last-minute reprieve.
Ever since the first application two years ago she had felt like a prisoner on death row. Intermittently the guards had come, taken her to the chair and then fate had returned her to the safety of the cell. But this time was final. Teresa knew there would be no further objections, no more delays.
She wondered if the others had seen the news. Did they feel the same way she did? Would they admit to themselves that their primary feelings were not remorse but self-preservation?
Had she been a nicer person there might have been a smattering of conscience buried beneath her concern for herself; but there was not.
Had she not gone along with the plan, she would have been ruined, she told herself. The name Teresa Wyatt would have been mentioned with distaste, instead of the respect she now enjoyed.
Teresa had no doubt that the complaint would have been taken seriously. The source had been devious, but believable. But it had been silenced forever – and that was something she would never regret.
But now and again in the years since Crestwood her stomach had lurched at the sight of a similar gait or a hair colour or a tilt of the head.
Teresa stood and tried to throw off the melancholy that shadowed her. She strode to the kitchen and put the single plate and wine glass into the dishwasher.
There was no dog to let out or cat to let in. Just the final night time security check of the deadbolts.
Again, she was struck by a feeling that the safety check was pointless; that nothing could hold back the past. She pushed the thought away. There was nothing to fear. They had all made a pact and it had held strong for ten years. Only the five of them knew the truth.
She knew she was too tense to drift off to sleep immediately but she had called a seven a.m. staff meeting for which she could not be late.

Black Country, Present Day
Teresa Wyatt had the inexplicable feeling that this night would be her last.
She switched off the television and the house fell quiet. It wasn’t the normal silence that descended each evening as she and her home gently closed down and unwound towards bedtime.
She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting on the late night news. The announcement had already been made on the local evening news programme. Perhaps she was hoping for a miracle, some last-minute reprieve.
Ever since the first application two years ago she had felt like a prisoner on death row. Intermittently the guards had come, taken her to the chair and then fate had returned her to the safety of the cell. But this time was final. Teresa knew there would be no further objections, no more delays.
She wondered if the others had seen the news. Did they feel the same way she did? Would they admit to themselves that their primary feelings were not remorse but self-preservation?
Had she been a nicer person there might have been a smattering of conscience buried beneath her concern for herself; but there was not.
Had she not gone along with the plan, she would have been ruined, she told herself. The name Teresa Wyatt would have been mentioned with distaste, instead of the respect she now enjoyed.
Teresa had no doubt that the complaint would have been taken seriously. The source had been devious, but believable. But it had been silenced forever – and that was something she would never regret.
But now and again in the years since Crestwood her stomach had lurched at the sight of a similar gait or a hair colour or a tilt of the head.
Teresa stood and tried to throw off the melancholy that shadowed her. She strode to the kitchen and put the single plate and wine glass into the dishwasher.
There was no dog to let out or cat to let in. Just the final night time security check of the deadbolts.
Again, she was struck by a feeling that the safety check was pointless; that nothing could hold back the past. She pushed the thought away. There was nothing to fear. They had all made a pact and it had held strong for ten years. Only the five of them knew the truth.
She knew she was too tense to drift off to sleep immediately but she had called a seven a.m. staff meeting for which she could not be late.
She stepped into the bathroom and began to run the water, adding a generous measure of lavender-infused bubble bath. The scent instantly filled the room. A long soak on top of the earlier glass of wine should induce sleep.
The dressing gown and satin pyjamas were folded neatly on top of the laundry basket as she stepped into the tub.
She closed her eyes and surrendered to the water as it enveloped her. She smiled to herself as the anxiety began to recede. She was just being hypersensitive.
Teresa felt that her life had been divided into two segments. There were thirty-seven years B.C., as she called her life Before Crestwood. Those years had been charmed. Single and ambitious, every decision had been her own. She had answered to no one.
But the years since had been different. A shadow of fear had followed her every move; dictated her actions, influenced her