Deadly Cry: An absolutely gripping crime thriller packed with suspense (Detective Kim Stone Crime Thiller Book 13)

by Angela Marsons

  ‘I can see them turning, you know.’

  ‘What?’ Alison asked.

  ‘The cogs in that head of yours. They might need a bit of oil, but the pulleys are definitely moving.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got one or two initial questions.’

  ‘Shoot,’ Penn said.

  ‘Why Noah?’

  Both police officers shrugged.

  ‘We need to know, guys. He could have called himself anything. It’s either his perception of himself or it’s a clue to something, but we definitely need to know which one.’

  Fifty-One

  ‘Her name is Nicola Southall,’ Bryant said to everyone who was suddenly looking his way.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ Kim asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Never met her, but she’s pretty well known.’

  She exchanged a glance with Keats who shrugged in response. For once the two of them were on the same page, and Bryant was out in the cold. For someone who was pretty well known, two-thirds of their collective had no idea who she was.

  ‘She is… was an actress, appeared in one of the big soaps about ten years back, not sure which one now but the missus watched it. Loved the soap but hated her.’

  ‘Why?’ Kim asked. The blonde bob framed a pleasant, attractive face with clear, smooth skin.

  ‘She played a kidnapper. Stole someone else’s toddler cos she couldn’t have kids of her own. I only remember it because I had to tell Jenny to calm down every time this woman came on the screen. Some folks get really involved.’

  Kim knew that some people viewed soaps as though they were watching real-life events; that the incidents unfolding were actually happening in a street or square somewhere. She didn’t think Bryant’s wife was as susceptible to that level of disbelief.

  ‘It was an incendiary storyline, guv,’ Bryant said, as though reading her thoughts. ‘It was aimed at every parent’s worst nightmare. Imagine someone broke into your place and took Barney—’

  ‘I get it, Bryant; I’m just not sure what relevance it has here.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Keats said, in harmony with her for the second time. She considered asking for his rectal probe to take his temperature. Clearly, the man was unwell. He continued, ‘Same manner of death as both Katrina and Louise.’

  Kim already knew. While Bryant had been talking, her gaze had sought any obvious wound or injury before checking out the angle of her neck.

  The woman was dressed in dark jeans, trainers, a lilac T-shirt and a thick woollen cardigan; a satchel-type handbag had been dropped to her left.

  ‘Strange,’ Kim said, placing her foot near the satchel.

  Bryant followed her gaze.

  ‘These are normally worn across the body,’ she said, picturing Stacey back at the office constantly lifting it over her head. That would also be the logical way to wear it if you were going off for a walk in the woods as her attire suggested. The murderer wouldn’t have needed to remove it to break her neck, so what was it doing off her person?

  ‘Has it been photographed?’ Kim asked.

  Keats nodded.

  Bryant took out a pen and held it towards her. She used it to nudge the bag aside and touched the ground beneath it. The flattened patch was dry. The rain had started around eleven when they’d been at the Stevens Park search site, meaning Nicola Southall had been dead for at least three hours.

  ‘I’d estimate between nine and eleven,’ Keats confirmed.

  Kim understood the havoc the elements could wreak on evidence collection. Since the killer had left the body, the breeze had increased, bringing heavy rain and evidence dispersion. Kim surveyed the ground around them: valuable evidence – a hair, DNA – could be somewhere right there. She could be standing on a link to their murderer, the person who was holding Archie, and she didn’t even know it.

  She used the pen as carefully as possible to dislodge the catch on the satchel. The bag opened easily.

  Kim looked up at Bryant, who was watching from above.

  ‘The bag is already open,’ he said, echoing her thoughts.

  ‘Ah, just the man,’ Kim said as Mitch approached from the path.

  ‘Oooh, got me feeling like a rock star with that greeting,’ he joked, coming to stand beside her.

  ‘Well, Bon Jovi, can you empty and bag this first?’ she asked. ‘I think our killer has touched it.’ Which meant she didn’t want to interfere with it any more than she needed to.

  Mitch opened his bag and took out a white sheet of fabric. In seconds, his gloves were on and he was expertly moving the satchel onto the sheet, so that anything of interest could be collected.

  He avoided the catch and opened the bag, laying out the contents: a small purse; a tiny manicure kit; three receipts and a pack of mints.

  Kim turned to the pathologist.

  ‘Keats, anything on her person?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘The killer took her phone,’ she said to Bryant.

  ‘He didn’t take the others,’ he replied.

  ‘Exactly,’ Kim said, standing up. ‘Because this victim he already knew.’

  Fifty-Two

  The battery was out of the phone within five seconds of walking away from her limp and lifeless body. Choosing someone that I know is dangerous; but I like the thrill. Yes, I suppose I made this one more complicated for myself.

  Not emotionally, I’m over that. But practically speaking, I’ve linked myself to my victim. Not that they will catch me. They’ll never catch me. They will have to get up early in the morning to smell the skid marks I leave behind.

  That game is a sideline, a frivolous distraction, like the breadstick you eat while waiting for your meal. It’s entertaining and amuses me while I wait for the main course. But it’s not the reason I’m in the restaurant.

  She is good but not good enough. She will not win.

  There was a marked difference in killing Nicola Southall. I missed the rush of choosing a life, of standing and watching and knowing that the person I chose was completely oblivious to my existence, that someone they had never seen or met was going to be responsible for their death.

  But it was necessary to move it along. There had to be an escalation; there had to be something new. Nicola Southall had been a means to an end, a convenient acquaintance, a step up from the victim before. She should be proud that I chose her to play this part: the starring role she’d always dreamed of. But this one would not bring hate, rage and insults, but sympathy, love and flowers. Nicola would once again amass an adoring public, as in death she would be forgiven. If she could communicate from beyond, I know she would thank me.

  The mechanics of the job are done, and my anticipation consumes me.

  It’s time for the purpose of the act to be fulfilled, and my favourite part bar none.

  It is time to take out my phone and wait for whatever is to happen next.

  Fifty-Three

  ‘Alison, it’s half past two, you’ve been here an hour and there are already three empty wrappers on your desk,’ Stacey pointed out.

  ‘Yeah, I’m cutting down.’

  ‘I hate you,’ Stacey said. Her own recent efforts to lose a few pounds before her wedding day had put her in the worst mood of her life. Luckily, she had accepted that both Devon and she preferred her the way she was.

  ‘Okay,’ Penn said, sitting back. ‘Noah was chosen by God to undertake a mission of rescuing various animal species from a disastrous flood. Along with his family, he builds an ark to protect life on earth.’

  ‘We all know that, Penn,’ Stacey offered. She turned to Alison. ‘You think he’s saying he was chosen by God to do this?’

  ‘Visionary serial killers,’ Alison said.

  ‘What’s that now?’ Stacey asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Okay, seeing as there are three victims, our guy qualifies as a serial killer. The motives of serial killers fall under four categories: visionary, mission-oriented, hedonistic and power or control.’

  ‘Go on,’
Stacey said. This was the reason they’d called her in.

  ‘Okay, visionary serial killers suffer psychotic breaks with reality, sometimes believing they’re another person or are compelled to murder by entities like the Devil or God. Remember Son of Sam, David Berkowitz, who was being given messages by his neighbour’s dog?’

  ‘Could be our guy.’

  Alison shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. These letters don’t indicate any kind of psychosis.’

  ‘And the second type?’

  ‘Mission-oriented killers typically justify their acts as ridding the world of certain types of people. They’re generally not psychotic but could claim to be doing it in the name of a higher order. Normally, they seek to improve the world. They target specific groups of individuals. They are often perfectionists and highly compulsive. They’re stable, gainfully employed and long-term residents of the geographical territory in which they kill. They’re highly meticulous and they kill quickly and efficiently.

  ‘Joseph P. Franklin, a former member of the Ku Klux Klan, was convicted in 1980 of four homicides, including a sniper shooting of two black men jogging with a white woman. He felt that race mixing was a sin against God and that God had instructed his work.’

  Stacey looked hopeful. If they knew what kind of serial killer they were dealing with, maybe Alison could form a profile and give them somewhere to start.

  ‘Is this our guy?’

  Again, Alison shook her head. ‘The victims don’t fit. He’s targeting straight, white, heterosexual women, two with children. Victims would normally be homeless, prostitutes, black, Asian. His perception would be that he is improving the planet.’

  ‘Hedonistic?’ Stacey asked, losing hope.

  ‘Definitely not,’ Alison said. ‘Hedonistic serial killers are driven by lust, thrill or comfort. None of which are evidenced in any of the murders. There is no kind of ritual, no apparent pleasure in the act of killing itself, and the latest victim is even more unlikely, as power-driven serial killers almost always sexually abuse their victims, but not through lust, more through the need to dominate, like Ted Bundy who travelled around the United States seeking women to control.’

  ‘So what kind of serial killer is he?’ Stacey asked, confused.

  ‘None that I’ve come across before,’ Alison acknowledged, shaking her head.

  ‘But if he’s a serial killer, he has to fit one of those criteria,’ Stacey protested.

  ‘Hang on while I change decades of research to accommodate you.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ Stacey said, feeling as though she’d learned a lot and yet it had given them nothing.

  ‘How much further on Noah do you want me to go?’ Penn asked, his voice showing the same level of despondency she was feeling.

  ‘Leave it for now,’ Alison said, moving around papers on her desk. ‘I keep reading these letters and I can’t help getting a picture of Norman Bates.’

  ‘From the Psycho film?’ Penn asked.

  Alison nodded. ‘This reference in the first letter to having no control, it’s like he’s absolving himself of all responsibility, as though he has no free will. What about if there’s a voice in his head, a dead mother who speaks to him or something?’

  ‘Like a whole other personality is doing the killing?’ Stacey asked. Seemed a bit outlandish to her but stranger things had happened.

  ‘Or more,’ Alison answered.

  ‘More than one personality?’ Penn asked.

  Alison nodded. ‘There are many cases, but one that springs to mind is William Milligan. After committing several felonies, including armed robbery, he was arrested for three rapes on the campus of Ohio State University. He was diagnosed with multiple personality disorder. His lawyers pleaded insanity, claiming that two of his alternate personalities committed the crimes without Milligan being aware of it.’

  ‘You are kidding me?’ Stacey said.

  ‘He was the first person diagnosed with multiple personality disorder to raise such a defence and the first to be acquitted of a major crime for this reason. He was never imprisoned and spent a decade in mental hospitals.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Alison, I would hate to be knocking around in your mind with all these stand-up folks,’ Stacey said.

  ‘Been doing lots of research, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, for a book I can’t wait to read if it ever gets written.’

  Alison blew her a kiss.

  ‘So you really think our killer could have a split personality?’ Penn asked.

  ‘Maybe… or maybe not,’ Alison said, thoughtfully picking up her pencil.

  Fifty-Four

  Russell Southall shook his head for the fourth time, denying the truth of the news they’d just delivered.

  They had driven the short distance from the crime scene to Nicola’s home, a comfortable four-bed detached property, to give devastating news for the third time in as many days to the partner of their latest victim. They had waited patiently while he tried to process the news, but he remained in a state of shock.

  She guessed the man to be around five feet ten; he had dark hair beginning to grey around the temples. A tidy moustache and light beard gave his face a gentle, friendly appearance. His eyes were filled with pain.

  ‘We understand how difficult this must be for you, Mr Southall, and obviously we want to catch the person responsible as quickly as possible,’ she reassured as her eyes wandered the room and landed on a photo of three children in between two miniature model Vespa scooters. The children in the photo appeared to vary in age from early to late teens.

  ‘Your children?’ Kim asked.

  ‘Mine from a previous marriage,’ he said. ‘Nicola and I don’t have children together. We knew each other years ago but lost touch.’ He smiled sadly. ‘We met again in a friend’s pub around eleven years ago. I had no idea she was now famous. She liked that, I think,’ he said, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘That first night we didn’t even talk about it. We chatted about mutual friends and she wanted to know about my job as a sign maker. Despite the fame, she hadn’t changed a bit. She still loved to read a good book, was passionate about cats, liked to go to the theatre and took a long walk every day.’

  For a moment, it had seemed as though he had forgotten what he’d been told as he relived happier memories, but the mention of the walk brought him right back to Uffmoor and the fact that she was now dead.

  He shook his head once again. ‘Who?… I mean… I just don’t understand…’

  ‘Did your wife have any enemies?’ Kim asked, seizing the opportunity to insert a question into his grief. ‘Had she been threatened at all?’

  The fact that her phone had been taken could mean that it contained a link to the killer. The first two phones had not been taken.

  ‘Not any more,’ he answered, shaking his head. ‘All that was behind us.’

  ‘All what?’ Kim asked.

  He sighed heavily. ‘When Nicola got that part in the soap everything changed. At first, it was amazing to see her get the recognition she deserved. She was earning ridiculous money compared to the living on which she’d scraped by. For a while, we enjoyed a bit of high life until the writers came up with that storyline. Her character got pregnant and lost the baby, sending her into a spiral of grief. She was excited to play the storyline, welcomed the challenge. And she played it well, too well.’

  Kim sat forward. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Her character was popular and had all the public sympathy and support until she kidnapped the newborn child of an even more popular character. Overnight, the public hated her. She was getting abused in the street. She couldn’t leave the house alone. She tried to weather it for a while, but it was too much for her. She came off social media and begged the producers to write her out of the soap.’

  Kim recalled examples of public perception when it came to soap characters, none more so than when Deirdre Barlow was imprisoned in Coronation Street and even the prime minister commented on it.

  ‘What happe
ned?’

  ‘They agreed. Nicola kept a low profile, and once she was gone from the screen everything quietened down and went back to normal. But that was almost ten years ago. You don’t think it’s related to?—’

  ‘We don’t know at this point, but we can’t rule it out. Were there any direct threats that you know of?’ Kim asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Everything was dealt with by her agent. She took care of everything.’

  ‘Nicola had an agent?’ Kim asked, feeling her interest rise. It was a question she had never thought to ask.

  ‘Yes, her name was Sewell. Kate Sewell.’

  Fifty-Five

  ‘I’ve met her,’ Kim said once they were back in the car. ‘I met Nicola’s ex-agent, on Monday at the INEPT meeting. She’s also the agent of the visiting celeb.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Bryant asked and then thought for a minute. ‘Although that probably shouldn’t be a huge surprise. Not sure we have too many talent agencies around here, so probably not much of a coincidence.’

  ‘Still like to have a chat with her, though,’ Kim said, taking out her phone.

  ‘You don’t think this is our guy?’ he queried.

  ‘Could be someone copy-catting,’ Kim answered, scrolling to Stacey’s name. ‘The manner of death has been in every news report. The agent should know if there was any direct threat years ago that might still be valid now. If it’s not connected to the part she played, we need to rule it out.

  ‘Stace,’ she said when the constable answered her phone, ‘I’ve sent you Nicola Southall’s number. Get on to the network and see who she was in contact with. And get me an address for a talent agent named Kate Sewell. Thanks, gotta go.’

  Kim ended the call as a beep and Woody’s name appeared on the screen.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Where are you, Stone?’

  Kim wondered if this was a trick question. She’d updated him about the third murder before entering Nicola Southall’s home. He wasn’t normally on her case this quickly. And clearly her answer didn’t matter, as she was given no time to answer.