Deadly Cry (DI Kim Stone #13) - Angela Marsons Page 0,53

had missed it even more than she realised.

Directly after the incident, she had been unable to face the thought of returning to her consultation role. The idea of writing a book had initially appealed to her, and she had thrown herself into the research with gusto. She’d taken a break from active – and what she now considered dangerous – duty but had still felt as though she’d been doing something productive. Something worthwhile.

Research done, she had reached the point months ago where she actually needed to write the words ‘Chapter One’, but she had been unable to do it. Reading about old profiling cases, the techniques, had been interesting enough, but it was stuff that she now knew. There was no new information being presented for her to dissect. There was no challenge in reciting facts and exploring theories.

She blinked away the tears as she realised that this was what she needed to do. Right now, this was where she needed to be. She coughed away the emotion as Stacey smacked three thick files of paper down on the desk before her.

‘I can see them turning, you know.’

‘What?’ Alison asked.

‘The cogs in that head of yours. They might need a bit of oil, but the pulleys are definitely moving.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got one or two initial questions.’

‘Shoot,’ Penn said.

‘Why Noah?’

Both police officers shrugged.

‘We need to know, guys. He could have called himself anything. It’s either his perception of himself or it’s a clue to something, but we definitely need to know which one.’

Fifty-One

‘Her name is Nicola Southall,’ Bryant said to everyone who was suddenly looking his way.

‘Friend of yours?’ Kim asked.

He shook his head. ‘Never met her, but she’s pretty well known.’

She exchanged a glance with Keats who shrugged in response. For once the two of them were on the same page, and Bryant was out in the cold. For someone who was pretty well known, two-thirds of their collective had no idea who she was.

‘She is… was an actress, appeared in one of the big soaps about ten years back, not sure which one now but the missus watched it. Loved the soap but hated her.’

‘Why?’ Kim asked. The blonde bob framed a pleasant, attractive face with clear, smooth skin.

‘She played a kidnapper. Stole someone else’s toddler cos she couldn’t have kids of her own. I only remember it because I had to tell Jenny to calm down every time this woman came on the screen. Some folks get really involved.’

Kim knew that some people viewed soaps as though they were watching real-life events; that the incidents unfolding were actually happening in a street or square somewhere. She didn’t think Bryant’s wife was as susceptible to that level of disbelief.

‘It was an incendiary storyline, guv,’ Bryant said, as though reading her thoughts. ‘It was aimed at every parent’s worst nightmare. Imagine someone broke into your place and took Barney—’

‘I get it, Bryant; I’m just not sure what relevance it has here.’

‘Agreed,’ Keats said, in harmony with her for the second time. She considered asking for his rectal probe to take his temperature. Clearly, the man was unwell. He continued, ‘Same manner of death as both Katrina and Louise.’

Kim already knew. While Bryant had been talking, her gaze had sought any obvious wound or injury before checking out the angle of her neck.

The woman was dressed in dark jeans, trainers, a lilac T-shirt and a thick woollen cardigan; a satchel-type handbag had been dropped to her left.

‘Strange,’ Kim said, placing her foot near the satchel.

Bryant followed her gaze.

‘These are normally worn across the body,’ she said, picturing Stacey back at the office constantly lifting it over her head. That would also be the logical way to wear it if you were going off for a walk in the woods as her attire suggested. The murderer wouldn’t have needed to remove it to break her neck, so what was it doing off her person?

‘Has it been photographed?’ Kim asked.

Keats nodded.

Bryant took out a pen and held it towards her. She used it to nudge the bag aside and touched the ground beneath it. The flattened patch was dry. The rain had started around eleven when they’d been at the Stevens Park search site, meaning Nicola Southall had been dead for at least three hours.

‘I’d estimate between nine and eleven,’ Keats confirmed.

Kim understood the havoc the elements could wreak on evidence collection. Since the killer had left the body, the breeze had increased, bringing heavy rain and evidence dispersion. Kim surveyed the