Page 64 of Deadly Cry
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 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.’
