Deadly Cry (DI Kim Stone #13) - Angela Marsons Page 0,37
leaned against the kitchen counter and took out her phone.
On the journey back from the hospital, she’d checked in with the search co-ordinator who had officers already combing the immediate area and was working up a grid system ready for first light.
There was something that felt inherently wrong in being at home when there was a child unaccounted for, and if staying in the office would have made Archie reappear safe and sound in his bed, she’d be there with her sleeping bag right now.
Find the killer, find the child, was the phrase that kept going around in her mind.
A ground search was being carried out, but in her mind the child was not going to be found hiding in a bush somewhere. The dual part of the search was to look for clues: anything the killer might have left behind.
Kim’s heart went out to Robyn Webb-Harvey who had not only lost her partner but whose child was nowhere to be found either.
A quick call to the FLO had confirmed that Robyn alternated between grief and restless pacing as her varying emotions all demanded space in her mind. The grief wanted to close her body down, but the fear for her son kept it on high alert. She just prayed the woman would manage to get some kind of rest.
The FLO had also informed her that every neighbour in the cul-de-sac was out searching the immediate area, checking garages and gardens, even though they were a few miles away from where Archie had last been seen. But that was what people did. Friends and neighbours had to do something, had to feel as though they were contributing and trying to help.
Kim closed the back door behind Barney, who now sat before her waiting patiently for his late-night walk.
‘Just a sec, boy,’ she said, scrolling to the top email on her phone.
She opened the attachment from Keats, which was the letter he had photographed and sent to them all.
She had read it at the morgue, but now she wanted to study the words. Before she had a chance to, though, her phone switched to display an incoming call.
‘Hope you’ve got good news, Dobbie.’ For both me and my colleagues, she thought to herself.
‘Well, yeah and no,’ he said.
‘Explain.’
‘Well, there’s bin an err… development on yer request.’
Kim’s radar reacted to two things: Dobbie trying to sound like a businessman and the note of coyness in his voice telling her the problem was for her but not him.
‘Go on,’ she said, narrowing her eyes.
‘I’ve got the frame and…’
‘You’ve got my frame,’ she corrected.
‘Aah, well that’s the rub, see. I day know just how rare these frames was. Had two calls already from folks offering to pay more for it than yer offer.’
‘It wasn’t an offer, Dobbie. We had a deal.’
She could imagine him shrugging cagily. ‘Yeah, but a man’s gorra ate.’
The man was twenty-four stone. He didn’t miss many meals from bad deals. ‘You do all right, Dobbie. It’s my frame and I’ll be round to collect it at—’
‘Hmmm… not sure that’s gonna work for me any more. But I’ll tell yer what I’m prepared to do to help yer out.’
Help her out. It was her bloody frame.
‘Oh do tell me, Dobbie,’ she said, grinding her teeth.
‘I’m gonna hang on to the frame until seven tomorrow night, and whoever comes and offers me the most money is gonna get it. See, gives yer a fighting chance just cos I like you and I cor be fairer than that.’
‘You’re gonna fucking auction it back to me?’ she asked.
‘Fairest way, I reckon,’ he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. Her back was aching from the barrel over which he was bending her.
She pictured the thousands of pounds that had made it into his till from her back pocket over the years, and opened her mouth to tell him so, but stopped herself.
She didn’t doubt that there was a higher demand for the frame than he’d thought. The Vincent Black Shadow, with a top speed of 125 mph, had been produced by Vincent HRD at their factory in Stevenage, Hertfordshire from 1948 to 1955 over three Series. Official records said that only 1,774 were ever made alongside the fifteen White Shadow models built to the same mechanical spec, but with an engine that was polished rather than enamelled.
He took her hesitation as an opportunity to drive home his point.
‘Hey, these things are fetching hundreds of thousands at auction. I gotta look after—’