Damn it, Kim thought. Frost had very nearly derailed the press conference and taken the attention away from a missing boy to something being withheld, and how the hell did Frost know about the letter?
She used every ounce of the willpower she possessed to keep her face in neutral as she followed her boss into the station. Once away from the glare of the press, he turned to face her, his expression thunderous, and she understood why. If they didn’t shut her up, that would become the story instead of a missing child.
‘What the f… bloody hell was that about? How does she know about the letter?’
Kim took a step back from a level of rage rarely shown by the man. It was the closest she’d known him to use foul language.
‘Sir, I have no idea how she could have known.’
‘Well, Stone, you’d better find out whose police career just died on local television,’ he growled, storming up the stairs.
‘On it, sir,’ she called after him before turning and heading back out of the station. There was no way she was going to allow her boss to be blindsided by a local reporter because her nose was out of joint. Kim fully intended to put that nose right back where it belonged.
Instead of heading towards Frost, who was now beside her Audi TT, she moved to the side of the building out of sight and took out her phone.
The call was answered immediately. ‘What?’
‘Frost, round the back, now,’ she barked.
It would do no good for the other press personnel to see her confronting Frost openly, giving credence to her question.
Kim heard the high heels tottering on the slabs before the woman came into view. The woman’s ponytail of long blonde hair whooshed behind her as she moved with uncharacteristic speed.
‘What the fuck were you doing back there?’ Kim growled.
‘My job, Stone,’ she barked back.
‘At the expense of finding a little boy?’
‘Getting a bit fed up of getting used,’ she said, crossing her arms.
Kim narrowed her gaze. ‘Since when has it been a two-way street, Frost? Name the date we were supposed to consider the delicate feelings of the press while trying to bring criminals—’
‘Yeah, that’s the bloody problem. We get information when it suits you lot to just dangle a carrot, when there’s something you want but not when we need stuff.’
‘Not our problem. More importantly, you could be putting a little boy at risk if you mention anything about communication in your report. If anything happens to Archie, I swear—’
‘Oh, give me a break, Stone. I was pissed at your boss for cutting me off for trying to do my job.’ She paused and tapped her chin. ‘You should know that some people are more accommodating than your lot and are happy to share, but rest assured no mention of it will go in my report.’
In spite of her boss’s request, Kim swallowed down the urge to demand Frost’s source. There was no way she could just come right out and ask where the reporter had got her information. To do so would be to confirm that she was on to something and they’d never hear the end of it. She’d explore other avenues to find the leak given the hint that Frost had just unknowingly given her.
‘Then you were misinformed, Frost.’
‘Oh, so that’s how we’re going to—’
‘Good chat,’ Kim said, walking away. Frost had confirmed that no mention of the communication would be made in her report and that’s what she’d been after.
‘Stone, you should know by now that I make a much better friend than enemy.’
‘So do I, Frost, so do I,’ she said as her phone began to ring.
Thirty-Four
Jasper stood in the kitchen and counted off the ingredients as he put them back in the cupboard. He found reassurance in numbers. They were firm and unyielding. They didn’t change. They were solid and dependable.
Not like cookie dough, he thought.
‘One flour. Two butter. Three eggs. Four raisins. Five sugar. Six baking powder. Seven chocolate bar,’ he said aloud as they all went back.
He hadn’t known what he was going to bake. He had been going to let Ozzy choose, seeing as Ozzy had been so keen for him to get back in the kitchen. He didn’t really feel like it, but Ozzy was being strong, so he had to be strong too.
He closed his eyes and listened as the theme tune to EastEnders played out. He put the telly on just to hear the sounds of the soaps. Some nights when a few of them had been on, his mum would just sit and swap channels, moving from one soap to the next while he and Ozzy baked in the kitchen. And then she would come in to make a cup of tea and talk about the characters as though they were real people. He would glance at Ozzy, who would wink and then mix up storylines deliberately.
‘But I thought Sharon was seeing Tommy and that Gail was married to a Mitchell brother.’
His mum would raise her hands in despair and explain how he was getting his soaps mixed up, and Jasper would try not to laugh as she patiently talked Ozzy through the plot lines until he had it straight. Until the next time.
He clapped his hands and laughed out loud at the memory. Ozzy was so funny. He always made him laugh.
His hand raised to his cheek and he was surprised to find it wet. He hadn’t even realised a tear had escaped. He brushed it away roughly.
He couldn’t cry. He was being strong for Ozzy.
He headed upstairs. It was eight o’clock and Billy would be on the Xbox. They could carry on playing the game they’d started last night.
He paused at the door to his mum’s bedroom. Everything still looked the same. They hadn’t moved anything when she was taken to the place that was like a hospital but different. They had both pretended that she was coming back. He didn’t think Ozzy had been in the room once since the funeral, but he came in every night before Ozzy came back from work.
He touched the reading glasses sitting on the bedside table. He stroked the cover of the last book she’d been reading before the pain got too bad. He could still see her lying there with the glasses on her nose and the book on her chest when she’d fallen asleep. He could still see her in his memories, but he wanted more.
He moved across the bedroom and opened her wardrobe door. The smell of his mum reached out to him immediately: a mixture of the lavender fabric conditioner and the summery perfume that she’d worn all year.
His vision blurred at the memories that played through his mind: the trips they’d taken; the games they’d played; the nights they’d spent watching his favourite films.
He leaned into the wardrobe, drinking in the familiar smells. He closed his eyes and imagined her nearby, asking about his day, leaning across and gently moving a lock of hair from around his eyes.
He opened his arms and enclosed them around a clump of her clothes. He took them from the rail and placed them on the bed.
He knew the tears were coming. He could feel them closing up his throat, but it was okay. Ozzy wasn’t here, so for just a little while he didn’t need to be strong.
He pulled the arm of one of her winter jackets across his torso, lay amongst her clothes and allowed the tears to run free.
Thirty-Five
‘You sure you’re not gonna tell me why we’re heading back to the morgue at ten o’clock at night?’ Bryant asked once they were in the car.
‘Are you scared of it in the dark?’ she asked as the conversation with Frost played over in her mind.
‘Place freaks me out any time of the day to be fair,’ he admitted.
‘Maybe I should partner with Penn. He sees the place as a fun day out.’
‘Ooh, guv, just the thought of you wanting to partner with someone else cuts me deeply. I could even think you don’t like me now you’ve made some new buddies at your EPT meeting,’ he offered in a deliberately whiney voice.
‘Yeah, cos they’re as much fun as a heart attack, so you ain’t got much competition.’
‘It’s okay. I’ll take it.’ He smirked. ‘But seriously, why are we going?’
Kim shrugged. ‘You know Keats likes to keep me in suspense until I get there.’
Probing after his summons to the morgue had prompted only that there was something she should see. Just as concerning to her right now was the conversation with Frost.
‘Hang on a minute,’ she said, taking out her phone.
‘Me?’ Bryant asked.
‘Nah, you keep driving as 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.’
Kim’s stomach lurched.
In the bag was a single sheet of paper.
The killer had written to her again.
Thirty-Six
Kim 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. ‘Ye
ah, 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—’
‘Not for just the frame, Dobbie,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘And not restored models either. The ones getting silly money are original models that have been kept wrapped in tissue paper and bubble wrap for fifty years.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘I’ll be there, Dobbie,’ she said, knowing she had little choice. He had possession of the frame and, as she knew, that was nine-tenths of the law.
‘Fanbloodytastic,’ he said.
Deadly Cry: An absolutely gripping crime thriller packed with suspense (Detective Kim Stone Crime Thiller Book 13) Page 10
