Deadly Cry (DI Kim Stone #13) - Angela Marsons Page 0,36
though you’re stuck in traffic,’ she replied. There were few vehicles on the road as they headed through Dudley, but steady Eddie kept just below the speed limit the whole way. The empty roads, to her, were a tantalising invitation to press the accelerator, just a little bit.
She scrolled through her contacts and pressed the button, not caring if he’d finished work.
‘Stone?’
‘Mitch, you’ve got a leak. Find it and plug it. The press know we’ve got a letter and—’
‘Just a minute. I’m in the—’ he said as Bryant pulled into the car park of Russells Hall Hospital.
‘It’s not my lot, Mitch,’ she insisted.
‘Look, just—’
‘I know no one wants a leak in their department but quit arguing with me and—’
‘Bloody hell, Stone, I’m trying to tell you I’m parking right behind you. Put your bloody phone down.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking behind to see his white van at their rear for the second time that day.
Bryant pulled into a space close to the entrance, and Mitch pulled up two spaces away.
‘You’re gonna need to find out who it is,’ Kim said, continuing their conversation in person as they both got out of their vehicles.
‘Why do you assume it’s one of my guys?’ he asked as the three of them began to walk towards the morgue.
‘Frost said something about not getting the information from “my lot”, which to her means police as a whole. The only other folks that know about the letter are Keats and your guys.’
‘Damn it,’ he said, stroking his beard.
Kim struggled to remember sometimes that the forensic technicians were not police officers, so integral to an investigation was their expertise. But they were civilians who sometimes didn’t understand how necessary it was not to speak to the press or, in some cases, realise they actually were speaking to the press. Tracy Frost was ruthless when it came to getting a story and buying someone a few drinks to get information wasn’t even close to the depths she’d sink for a good headline.
‘Keats called you in too?’ she asked as they echoed along the empty corridors.
Mitch had a small lab next to Keats’s office, but the majority of his work was done at the Ridgewood House facility in Birmingham. He was rarely here by choice at ten o’clock.
‘Yeah, cryptic message as usual,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
Kim was even more intrigued. Bringing Mitch in had to mean he’d found something of evidentiary value, but the post-mortem wasn’t due until the following morning.
She opened the door that led into the morgue corridor, and the lighting dimmed just a little from the brightly lit hospital corridors. Kim always felt it was like a warning that you’d taken a wrong turn. Leave now while you still can.
Mitch stepped through first, followed by Bryant. She closed the door gently behind her. Her boots made little sound as she snuck up behind her colleague.
‘Boo,’ she shouted, tapping him in the back.
He jumped forward as though she’d electrified him.
‘Bloody hell, guv, that was not funny.’
Well, Mitch was hiding a smile in his beard and it was killing her not to laugh, so she begged to differ. It really had been a long day.
‘Okay, Keats, your audience has arrived,’ she said, stepping into the lab.
She was surprised to see there was no body on the table or evidence of recent activity. The place was gleaming, and no decaying smells lingered in the air. It had been a while since he’d put his last customer back into the chiller drawers.
She noted Bryant shift uncomfortably beside her after shaking hands with the pathologist.
She was amused at his reaction to their late-night morgue visit, but even she had to admit that there was an eeriness without Keats’s assistants milling around in the background or the sound of the cleaning staff mopping and wiping every surface.
‘Relax, Bryant, they don’t come out to play until after midnight,’ Keats said, nodding to the fridges across the corridor.
Much as Kim would have loved to enjoy Keats prodding her colleague instead of her, both of them had been at work for almost fifteen hours.
‘Come on, Keats, show and tell.’
‘Oh, Inspector, I remember when you were so much more fun.’
‘Grow up, Keats, I’ve never been any fun.’
He looked up and to the left. ‘Yes, actually, you’re right.’
He stepped over to the desk and picked up an evidence bag.
‘This fell out of her trousers as we were putting her to bed.’