Play Dead by Angela Marsons

smiled and reached into the cupboard. She took a teeth-cleaning chew and asked for his paw.
    He gave his left then his right then his left again, doing a little dance that never failed to raise a smile from her lips.
    He took the chew and trotted proudly to the rug in the lounge, the place he always took his booty.
    As she filled the percolator jug, she knew that she would never be without him.
    But even his enthusiastic welcome had failed to lift the cloud for more than a few minutes.
    She had tried to convince herself that it was her current case.
    She hated this stage of a new investigation. It was the most frustrating part, getting to know her victim, trying to get inside the mind of the killer.
    Some clues came from the life of the victim and others came from their death. So far, other than a complete dickhead for a boyfriend and a break-in attempt at her home, there was very little of Jemima’s life to pick apart. She’d only been back in the country for a short while and it was unlikely she’d made any new enemies in that time. Unlikely but not impossible.
    Waiting for the clues of her death was like being stuck in the middle lane of the motorway at rush hour. You look for different ways to go but you’re just not moving anywhere.
    Kim tried to superimpose the photo she’d seen of Jemima at the Lowes’ home on top of the bloody, battered mess that she’d been left with.
    There was so much about this murder that was personal. Her instinct was telling her that Jemima had not been some random woman taken with no thought or care. Her killer had wanted her for a reason.
    Kim applied her usual logic of deeds done past, present or future. Jemima appeared to be no threat to anyone. She wasn’t involved in any project that was going to harm or threaten anyone. Her present was equally vanilla. Although Kim thought that if she’d been able to collar Roach for it and get away with it, she might be tempted. Any loss to the human race, women in particular, he was not. But the more she pictured the viciousness and passion that had gone into the attack, the more certain she became that he was not their man.
    Which left only Jemima’s past – and that’s where they would begin tomorrow.
    She knew it wasn’t the only thing bothering her.
    It was the bloody commendation that was at the core of her misery, for more reasons than one.
    Kim disliked public recognition for doing her job. Yes, it had been a hard and trying case, and yes she had eaten, breathed and slept the investigation. But that’s what she’d signed up for and receiving a piece of paper in front of a few hundred people was not what had prompted her application to the police force.
    The commendation meant little to her but would have meant everything to Keith and Erica. The irony was that the ceremony was to be held on the anniversary of their deaths.
    This time of year brought forth many cherished moments of her time in their care, but it also prodded at a day that, when recalled, had the power to bring her to her knees.
    Kim did what was second nature when memories from her past threatened to overwhelm her.
    She turned to work and opened the file of a man named Bob.

Nineteen
    O h , Mummy, I remember a little girl named Lindsay. She lived just down the street with her two daddies.
    I found it strange that she had two and I had none. Her daddies were named Maxwell and Clint. You showed me my birth certificate when I asked. And my daddy’s name was ‘unknown’. You convinced me we didn’t need one; that families were made of all different types of people and some families didn’t have a mummy and some families didn’t have a daddy. And like everything else I accepted it.
    One of Lindsay’s daddies dropped her at our house one day. She was such a pretty little girl. Her hair was blonde and curly, natural curls that constantly invaded her face.
    She had an adorable little head shake to dislodge the unruly curls from her eyes. I remember her eyelashes. They