Deadly Cry (DI Kim Stone #13) - Angela Marsons Page 0,52

have turned up since 1944, asking who put Bella in the wych-elm, but despite an extensive investigation, she’s never been identified.’

‘Bryant, do you go to special classes for this stuff?’ she asked, taking a left when the trail forked.

‘Nah, I just read local books.’

‘I suppose you’re gonna tell me the woods are haunted next.’

‘Well, as it happens…’

‘Enough,’ she said, spotting activity about forty feet away from the main path. A young male she recognised was sitting on a bench beside a standing constable.

She headed there first.

‘Hey, Plinky,’ she said, using the force’s nickname for a low-level drug dealer who got banged up a couple of times a year for drug offences and still went back to his same stomping ground every time. Brains were not his strong point.

‘You out for your afternoon stroll?’

‘’S right, yeah,’ he said, looking up at her with a glazed expression. She was unsure if he was still in shock or had been smoking too much of his own product.

‘You weren’t here doing a deal or anything like that?’

‘Nah, nah, not me.’

‘You see anyone?’ she asked, unsure whether he was going to claim to have seen unicorns and fairies, looking at the state of him.

‘Nah, just called you lot.’

A drug dealer and yet stays with the body. Suitably called Plinky, as he didn’t have the brains to lie.

‘Did you touch anything?’

‘Fuck off, I ain’t into bestiality.’

‘Wrong sport, but I appreciate the sentiment and I didn’t mean sexually. You didn’t think about taking anything like money or phone?’

He shook his head, wearing an expression that said he’d never given it a thought but maybe had missed an opportunity.

‘Plinky, you must be the most honest drug dealer we know.’

He smiled weakly at the compliment.

‘Okay, we’ll need to talk to you again. Now show this nice police officer what you’ve got in your pockets.’

He bristled. ‘I ain’t got nuffin. I ain’t done nuffin wrong, so what you gotta treat me like—’

‘Bloody hell, Plinky, I’m trying to get you off home, but I’ve got to make sure you’ve not got more on you than you arrived with.’

Jesus, you couldn’t do a local weed dealer a favour without suspicion these days. ‘But fine, you want to hang around for hours until—’

‘Okay, okay,’ he said.

He was doing as she asked as she began to walk away. Seeing as he could have discarded or at least hidden his stash before the police arrived told Kim the kid could do with some lessons in self-preservation.

She headed west to Keats and the rest of the team.

‘What we got, Keats?’ she asked as a couple of techies stepped aside.

‘Female, late thirties, haven’t opened her bag to identify her yet but—’

‘Bloody hell,’ Bryant said as his gaze rested on her face.

‘You know who she is?’ Kim asked.

‘Oh yeah, I know exactly who she is.’

Fifty

Alison read both letters a few times. She wanted to get a feel for his mind-set before Stacey presented her with all the case details.

She also stared at the page to give her a few minutes to get her bearings on where she was and what she was doing.

It had been almost twelve months since she’d been seconded to assist the team in trying to catch a killer who had been recreating traumatic events in the DI’s life, before trying to take the life of the DI herself.

She had been tasked to identify past associates of the detective to help find the person with enough hatred and motivation to carry out such horrific crimes. But she hadn’t found the person. Instead, the murderer had found her and involved her in the sick, torturous game in which she had very nearly lost her life. Only the physical strength and determination of DI Stone had saved her.

She shivered, as she always did, and forced the memory from her mind.

Every day, it played over in her head, and even if she felt that she’d defeated it in her conscious mind, her subconscious mind was not yet prepared to give her a break and tortured her with nightmares, prompting her to wake drenched with sweat, fighting heart palpitations.

She knew that seasoned police officers often faced near-death experiences and got over them much quicker than she had. Trouble was, she wasn’t a police officer and had never wanted to be one. She was a consultant, a pen pusher, a desk jockey who cheered from the sidelines. She studied people and patterns, behaviour and habits, traits and motivations. It was what fuelled her, what she was passionate about, and she