Deadly Cry (DI Kim Stone #13) - Angela Marsons Page 0,68
exception. She instructed Bryant to head to the Webb-Harvey home.
She now had some explaining to do.
Sixty-Seven
Kate tried to push down her rage as she stared at the phone that had stopped ringing and now started again. She knew the number well; he really should know better than to call her. That wasn’t how they did things. She considered returning to her yoga session, but there was no way the downward dog on a chair position was going to relieve the tension that had now built in her shoulders.
The visit from the police had unnerved her, as had the conversation about Nicola Southall. Not least because it had reminded her of what could have been if only the woman had been made of sterner stuff.
Kate had brokered an initial deal on Nicola’s behalf of £1,400 per episode with a guaranteed 100 episodes a year and a repeat fee. It was a nice deal and they had celebrated together with a glass or two of the bubbly stuff. Kate had celebrated even harder alone once she saw the direction they were taking Nicola’s character. Good characters make decent money, but hated characters make a lot more.
Every daytime show wants an interview, every newspaper wants a story and every magazine wants a photoshoot with the most heinous characters being portrayed on the small screen.
And Kate had been poised to start making big money from interviews and personal appearances. She’d been ready for them both to milk the exposure for every penny it was worth.
She’d learned the hard way not to overshare with her clients. She’d made the mistake of talking to Nicola about her ideas. The minute she’d unveiled her plans, the woman had folded under the pressure of the abuse.
No, she’d learned by now that the less the client knew the better. They could thank her later when they, and she, were laughing all the way to the bank.
Best if she didn’t involve them at all, she thought, picking up the phone once it stopped ringing. She wasn’t going to speak to the caller. Conversations could be recorded.
She pressed the text message icon.
She typed:
I’ve told you not to ring me. What’s up?
The reply came quickly:
All ok 4 tomoz?
Kate swallowed her irritation at the abbreviation in text messages. Just how much time did people save by using non-words?
She typed:
If there was any change I’d have let you know!!!
The reply:
Just chkg c u tomoz
She typed:
No, you won’t and stick to the plan. Don’t contact me again.
She threw the phone to the side in disgust and took a deep breath.
There was a feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she couldn’t ignore the sensation that something was going to go horribly wrong.
Sixty-Eight
‘She’s in Archie’s bedroom,’ Craig said, opening the door. He nodded towards the stairs. ‘Second on the left.’
Bryant offered her a questioning glance. She shook her head. She’d deal with Robyn alone.
‘We’ll make tea,’ Bryant said, following Craig to the kitchen.
The door was already open, and Robyn sat on the edge of the racing-car bed with her head in her hands.
Kim coughed to signal her arrival.
‘You,’ she accused, reaching to the right for her phone. ‘You said all this to the man that murdered my wife and abducted my son?’
She thrust the phone forward as though she wanted Kim to read it.
‘Robyn, let me explain,’ she said, stepping into the room. The walls had been painted white then decorated with hand-painted colourful cartoon characters. Kim had the sudden vision of Robyn and Louise clad in overalls, paintbrushes in hand, preparing for the birth of their child. The thought brought a deep sadness to her heart.
‘Explain what? That you understand why he took my child? Why he murdered my wife and left me with nothing?’
Kim pulled out a stool nestled beneath a small table holding colouring books and crayons. Two grown adults sitting on child-sized furniture.
‘I mean, are you trying to make new friends or something? You want to pat him on the back for ruining my fucking—’
‘Robyn, I’m trying to keep your son alive,’ Kim offered gently. In hindsight, she wished she’d taken a moment to explain to Robyn what she was trying to achieve. To read the article without warning or explanation must have been like a knife to the heart.
‘I should have spoken to you. I’m sorry, but there is a method in our madness. Believe me when I say we are every bit as angry as you are, but we believe in this particular instance a gentle approach will yield