Deadly Cry (DI Kim Stone #13) - Angela Marsons Page 0,27
The text was handwritten in what looked like blue biro ink. Without moving her thumb or forefinger, she slowly turned the page around for anything on the back that might help. There was nothing obvious to the naked eye, but who knew what forensics might find?
She dropped the letter into the evidence bag being held open by her colleague. She turned and took a photo of the envelope before dropping it into the bag with the letter.
‘Mitch is on his way,’ Stacey said, ending her call.
‘How the hell long was this just sitting there?’ Kim asked, looking around the room.
‘Since about twelvish,’ Stacey said. ‘I was here when the post was—’
‘And I just glanced over it,’ Penn said interrupting.
There was a part of her that wanted to let loose on both of them. A letter that appeared to be a direct communication from their killer had been sitting on the desk for four hours.
She swallowed down her anger. Chewing them out for ignoring the post may make her feel better, but in truth the post rarely held anything interesting.
‘Is it from him?’ Penn asked as she emailed both photos to Stacey.
‘Print them off,’ she said, moving towards the printer. It sparked into life, and Kim took the top sheet.
She leaned back against the table and read the contents.
DI Stone
You have to stop me from hurting anyone else. I don’t want to do these horrible things. I don’t want to kill anyone, but I have no choice. You have to understand that I have no power to stop. I’m sorry that she’s dead, but I couldn’t stop it. But you have to stop me. You’re the only one who can end this. You have to be the one who listens. Help me before I’m forced to do it again. And I will do it again because I have no choice. I’ve never had a choice.
Noah
Kim then read the letter aloud to the rest of her colleagues. She passed the page to Bryant as she took a look at the envelope. ‘Posted somewhere in Dudley, last collection last night.’
‘After he’d killed Katrina Nock,’ Penn observed.
Kim shrugged. ‘Why would the killer try to communicate with us directly?’
‘Correction, guv, he’s trying to communicate with you directly,’ Bryant pointed out, glancing again at the envelope.
Another reason she hated giving press conferences. It caused all the crazies to look in her direction. She’d given a brief statement with no names at teatime after briefing Woody and now she was the focus of attention. She had to consider all options, and the letter could easily be from someone messing about.
‘You think it’s really from him?’ Penn asked, as though reading her thoughts.
‘There are no specifics, so it’s hard to say and I’d bet Bryant’s new car his name isn’t Noah, but…’ she turned towards Stacey.
‘Already started looking, boss,’ she answered.
Kim read the letter again. ‘If it is him, he really wants us to stop him from…’
Kim stopped speaking as her phone rang.
It was Keats.
It appeared they were already too late.
Twenty-Seven
‘You know she’s pissed off with us, don’t you?’ Stacey asked once Mitch had zoomed in and collected the letter. She’d taken time to wave in his direction, even though she was on an urgent call from her mother, who never rang her during the day.
‘What do you mean Aunt Abebi can’t make the cake?’ Stacey had asked in response to her mother’s panic-stricken words.
Aunt Abebi was her father’s sister; she had come to the UK at the same time as her parents thirty-four years ago. She’d forged a place making authentic African cakes for the local Nigerian community. Over time, she had developed new recipes and tried them out on friends and neighbours. Now, few events took place in the Dudley Nigerian community without one of Aunt Abebi’s cakes. There had never been any question that Aunt Abebi would make her wedding cake.
‘She has to leave for Lagos tomorrow. Uncle Egbo is very poorly. She is in tears for letting you down.’
Stacey immediately felt sorry for her selfish response to the news.
‘Mum, please ring her and tell her it’s fine. She can’t leave feeling bad, but what are we going to do?’ she’d asked, hoping her mum would magically have the answer.
‘I could try…’
‘No, Mum, that’s not going to work,’ she cut in quickly. By her own admission, her mother was not a good baker. She was a demon with jollof rice and pounded yam, but cakes were not her forte.