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

by Angela Marsons

  ‘I need you back here right now.’

  Kim rarely felt irritation towards her boss. Usually he had a good reason for the things he did and the decisions he made, so she gave him the benefit of the doubt. Most of the time, even when he was sending her to pointless INEPT meetings.

  ‘Sir, I just need—’

  ‘The instruction wasn’t debatable, Stone. I want you back here now. There’s something we need you to do,’ he said, ending the call.

  Jesus, how was she supposed to solve this case if he kept pulling her off it to run errands. And more importantly, who the hell was ‘we’?

  Fifty-Six

  Within twenty minutes, Stacey had the call log from Nicola Southall’s phone. The revelation of a missing child tended to light a fire under most people from whom she requested assistance.

  The majority of calls were short ones to and from the same number that Stacey knew was Nicola’s husband. She’d ruled out calls to friends and other family members and only one other number remained in the seventy-two hours prior to Nicola’s murder. And that number had called the former actress at nine o’clock that morning.

  ‘She really did get some shit over that part, you know,’ Penn said, shaking his head.

  He’d been tasked with finding out as much as he could on Nicola Southall.

  ‘I remember it,’ Alison piped up. Stacey had no knowledge, as her parents had never been into the soaps.

  Alison continued, ‘My mum used to shout “evil bitch” every time she came onto the screen.’

  Penn agreed. ‘Mine too. I know folks get into these programmes. My mum watched every one of them, but surely this level of hatred for a fictional character is unnatural. I mean, the intensity of it all drove Nicola out of the public eye, and it looks like she never returned to social media. She just disappeared.’

  ‘Penn, why do you think people watch these shows?’ Alison asked.

  ‘Dramatic storylines that grow ever more outlandish especially for the Christmas specials?’

  Alison laughed and shook her head. ‘Nope, it’s for the characters. Viewers are invested in their lives.’

  Stacey stopped what she was doing to listen. She always valued Alison’s insights when it came to the human psyche.

  ‘Viewers spend a lot of hours each week with these people. They’re not necessarily switching on to watch a programme. They’re switching on to catch up with the lives of the characters. It becomes important to them. It matters. It’s like ringing a parent or family member. People record their favourite soaps, unable to bear the thought of missing something. The more people watch the more engrossed they get. They are invested, so when something bad happens to one of their favourite characters they’re hurt, angry. The characters are real people and the viewer feels as though they know them like friends and family, which is the purpose of the writers. They want the viewer to feel all these emotions.’

  ‘But to what degree?’ Stacey asked. ‘How do the writers ensure that an element of realism keeps it from becoming obsessive?’

  ‘They can’t. They have no control over the intensity, and what that intensity can do to an individual. Most folks will feel the emotion, maybe take to social media to lament for a few minutes and then move on to the next show or put the kids to bed, read a book. Others will not. They’ll take it personally, become enraged and take it further.’ Alison paused. ‘In 1989, a twenty-one-year-old actress named Rebecca Schaeffer was murdered by an obsessive fan who had been stalking her. He shot and killed her after being fixated on her for more than three years. Closer to home, we still have the case of Jill Dando, shot on her doorstep, case never solved.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what’s happened here? A crazed soap fan finally caught up with Nicola and punished her?’ Penn asked.

  Alison shrugged. ‘I think it’s too early to rule it out.’

  Stacey picked up the phone to call the network.

  She needed to know who had been on the other end of that three-minute call.

  Fifty-Seven

  ‘Go check on the kids while I go and untwist Woody’s nickers,’ Kim said as they entered the station. It was after four and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a drink. It felt like two days instead of the six hours that had passed since they’d been drinking coffee with the graphologist. ‘Oh, and Bryant…’

  ‘I’ll get a pot on,’ he said without looking her way.

  She smiled. She guessed that soon she wouldn’t even need to open her mouth at all.

  Her hand was curled around the door handle before she remembered to knock. It was one of her boss’s pet hates and a habit she struggled to break, much to his annoyance.

  ‘Come in,’ he called after two firm knocks.

  She entered and took a moment to assess the two additional people sitting with Woody at the small, round conference table, which worryingly had one spare seat. She felt her inner groan trying to escape. Sit-down meetings indicated a lengthy stay.

  ‘Take a seat, Stone,’ Woody said in a tone she rarely argued with when they were alone never mind in front of other people.

  ‘Obviously, you know Flora,’ Woody said, nodding to his left as she sat.

  Flora Bridges was with the press liaison team and was responsible for telling police officers what they could and could not say to reporters. She was in her mid-fifties and had a mousy brown perm that was as tight as the ill-fitting blouses she always wore. Her glasses on a rope rested along with her identification on a chest that was testing the fabric and button construction of her shirt.

  Almost all officers she knew dreaded getting Flora. Most of the press liaison team were happy to offer guidelines on content and delivery, but not Flora. Oh no, Flora wrote the whole thing word for word, with little notes like ‘pause’ and ‘lower voice’ like stage directions. Flora liked control.

  Kim glanced to Woody’s right.

  ‘And this is Frederick Hammond, psychologist over at Ridgewood laboratory.’

  ‘Okay,’ Kim said, wondering what either of these people had to do with her. For clues, she looked to the paperwork on the table. Set before Frederick Hammond were copies of the letters the killer had sent. The sheets were covered in red notations.

  Before Flora’s folded arms was a single sheet of paper neatly typed without notations.

  ‘We have a press briefing booked for five o’clock,’ Woody stated.

  That was little over half an hour away and still: what did that have to do with her?

  ‘You’ll be the one talking to the press,’ Woody stated, answering her silent question.

  If they’d been alone, she would have immediately offered an opposing argument. She hated talking to the press and Woody knew it.

  She searched his expression for wiggle room on the matter. There was none.

  Woody inclined his head to Frederick, who offered his hand across the table.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, DI Stone.’

  She ignored the hand and waited. Irritation flashed across her boss’s face, but she didn’t care. She didn’t touch people unnecessarily for anyone.

  He retracted his hand.

  ‘These letters are addressed directly to you. There is something in you that he trusts. He’s asking for your help. He wants you to help him stop.’

  Kim waited. She’d worked that much out for herself.

  ‘He looks up to you and has placed his faith in you. His anger at your failure to stop him is almost like a child waiting for boundaries to be set by a parent who—’

  ‘Sir?’ she said, looking at Woody. The words, how long do I have to listen to this? remained unspoken between them. She had little time for psychologists at the best of times, but this guy looked way too excited by his own observations.

  Woody narrowed his eyes at her and turned to Frederick.

  ‘He asked for your help in the first letter and showed his frustration with you after the second. I understand that no letter was found on the third victim today?’

  ‘Not y
et.’

  ‘He still wishes to communicate with you but may feel his letters are useless. He might find another way to communicate his displeasure. He may feel you’re ignoring him and choose to use the most valuable weapon he has.’

  ‘Archie?’ she asked, paying attention.

  Frederick nodded. ‘He may hurt the boy or worse, to get your attention, to make—’

  ‘Yeah, I get it,’ Kim said. She didn’t need those pictures in her mind.

  ‘The murder of the third victim needs to be communicated to the public, so this is an opportunity,’ Woody said, bringing the attention back to himself.

  ‘To do what?’ Kim asked. She didn’t like the way this was going.

  ‘To speak to him, to answer him. To show he’s got your attention,’ Frederick interjected before Woody offered him a look.

  Some juvenile part of her wanted to bob out her tongue at Frederick.

  He got the message and closed his mouth.

  ‘He’ll be looking out for any sign that he’s reached you. He wants a response from you. He needs you to connect, and we need to do everything we can to keep Archie safe.’

  Kim said nothing, concerned that all this was on the recommendation of one psychologist that she’d never even met before today.

  Woody nodded to Flora, who pushed the single sheet of paper towards her. ‘This is what we want you to say.’

  Kim started reading. It was pretty standard stuff at the beginning: ‘body of a female…’; ‘condolences…’; ‘no stone unturned…’; ‘the full force of the law…’ and then she got to the third paragraph.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  Three heads shook in unison.

  Frederick looked to Woody for permission to speak. Woody nodded.

  ‘Given the nature of his letters to you, we feel this is the best way to address him.’

  ‘You want me to berate him while he still has possession of an innocent little boy?’

  ‘We strongly believe that this man sees you as a figure of authority, a person to be admired and respected. We feel he will respond to a level of sternness that this message conveys.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s a chance it could have the opposite effect?’ she asked, and then began to read from the paragraph that horrified her.

  ‘“This is an unspeakable act carried out by someone with no conscience… evil individual… callous… unfeeling… deviant… punishment of the highest order… met with no mercy…”’

  She paused. ‘Hardly sending him to bed with no supper. Why not just tell him we’re firing up the electric chair ready?’

  Flora leaned forward. ‘Because that’s—’

  ‘Yes, Flora, I know we don’t do that any more, but even though I’d like to say all this and worse to him, I’m not sure it’s going to have the desired effect.’

  ‘And we are confident it will,’ Frederick said, folding his arms.

  ‘I think we have to do something, Stone,’ Woody said. ‘Three women dead in as many days and a child missing. Somehow, you have to reach him.’

  Kim considered arguing further, but it was futile. Despite her own misgivings. These people were the experts and there were times she had to accept that someone else knew better than she did.

  She just wasn’t sure that now was one of those times.

  Fifty-Eight

  ‘So where are we, guys?’ Kim asked, entering the squad room. ‘What have you been up to?’

  Stacey spoke first. ‘Waiting for an email from the network provider for the burner phone that called Nicola at nine this morning. Tried calling it a few times, but it’s going straight to voicemail. Really don’t think he’s going to answer, boss.’

  Well, that was one way of communicating with him that wasn’t going to work, Kim thought, still holding the piece of paper from the meeting in her hand.

  From the window at the top of the office, Kim could see the press starting to assemble outside the building.

  ‘Penn?’ she asked, turning away.

  ‘Looking for any crackpots who trolled Nicola and seeing if they’re still unhinged now, but nothing so far.’

  ‘I ferried you around all day and then made coffee,’ Bryant offered.

  ‘Valuable work,’ Kim said, taking a sip from the mug he’d placed beside the printer.

  She stared at the wipe boards. ‘And I’m still trying to work out the reason for the differences in the crimes. First one – woman killed but child left. Second one – woman killed but child taken. Third one – woman killed but no child involved at all.’ She paused and looked at Alison. ‘Anything at all to offer?’

  ‘We discussed split personalities earlier,’ Alison said, although her response lacked the conviction she’d have liked if they were looking at a highly plausible theory.

  ‘Is there any chance there’s another personality inside him telling him what to do?’ Kim pushed. ‘Would that explain why there are differences, if both personalities are murdering but doing it slightly differently?’

  Alison shook her head. ‘I’ve not seen that before. Normally, with split personalities there’s a dominant and a submissive; even with multiple personalities there is one clear voice that controls the rest, but we’re learning new things about mental illness all the time.’

  ‘And what do you think his personality or plural are gonna make of this?’ she asked, dropping the sheet of paper on Alison’s desk.

  Kim watched her carefully as she read and saw the frown on her face as she neared the end.

  ‘This is what you’ve been asked to read to the press?’ she clarified.

  Kim nodded. ‘By my boss, a psychologist and a press officer, and yes that does sound like the first line of a joke.’

  Alison read it again and this time there was no frown but a slight nod of the head as she reached the bottom.

  She handed it back. ‘Given his communication with you, it does make perfect sense to put you in the parental role and tell him off. I can definitely see the logic behind what they’re trying to do. They’re hoping your words will shock him into stopping what he’s doing and to let Archie go.’

  ‘But?…’ Kim asked.

  ‘There’s no but. I think it’s a sound plan. It could work.’

  ‘Okay, thanks for that,’ Kim said, glancing out of the window and then at her watch.

  She stood and reached for her jacket.

  ‘And I guess we’re about to find out.’

  Her colleague stood to follow.

  ‘It’s fine, Bryant, I can do this myself,’ she said, appreciating the gesture. He knew she wasn’t feeling confident about what she’d been asked to do.

  ‘Yep, you go do it alone, guv, and I’ll be right there with you.’

  Fifty-Nine

  Alison stared down at the papers on her desk and pretended to read, but the words began merging into each other and were making no sense. She felt as though she’d come full circle and didn’t like where she had landed.

  As a child, she’d never been great at fighting her own corner. She had shrunk from opposing opinions and deferred to what she always felt was a higher and more authoritative power. Afterwards, she would think of a hundred examples to substantiate her own viewpoint, but only once the moment had passed would she realise she did have an opinion after all.

  Once she had trained in behavioural science and obtained two degrees, she had felt confident enough in her knowledge and her education to try life at the other end of the spectrum. The certificates on her wall had given her the confidence to offer her opinion with both gusto and conviction whether it was sought or not.

  But a familiar sickness now started to rise up in her stomach. A feeling she could trace back to the day one of her nine-year-old classmates, Dorian, told her that kids on free school meals were stupid and had no parents. She knew that Molly, who lived next door, had free school meals and that was because her dad had been in an accident and couldn’t work for a while. Molly wasn’t stupid and had parents. Alison had disagre
ed, but as other kids had begun nodding in agreement with Dorian, Alison had felt herself fade away from the conversation. She had remained in disagreement, but she had also remained in silence.

  As the sickness travelled upwards to her throat, she raised her head and faced the two people still left in the room.

  ‘Guys, I think I just fucked up.’

  Sixty

  Kim felt her silent phone begin to vibrate as she stepped out of the building and into the glare of the press. Bryant sidled to the position he’d occupied a couple of days before.

  The paper she’d been given was in her back pocket, and if Flora expected her to take it out and read it word for word she could think again. If she was being forced to talk to the press, then she’d talk to them properly. She knew by heart enough of what was on the paper to do what they’d asked.

  Her phone stopped and started again as she approached the gaggle. She knew it wasn’t any of her team. They all knew what she was coming out here to do. The only other person who mattered was Keats and God forbid he’d be calling her right now. Answering the phone to the pathologist right in front of this group of people with their powerful microphones and speakers would not be a good idea.

  ‘Okay, folks, gather round.’ She paused to give them chance to switch on whatever device they were using. Frost’s choice was an iPhone pointed in her direction.

  She forced her expression into neutral as she began to speak.

  ‘I can confirm that the body of a forty-six-year-old female was found at Uffmoor Woods earlier today.’

  Kim paused. Every word she spoke took her closer to the third paragraph, with which she didn’t agree.

  And yet, Woody had instructed it.

  ‘The family have been informed and obviously our condolences go to her loved ones.’