Page 3 of Stolen Ones
It was the fifth car to go missing from the same estate in a month.
‘I’ve put in a request for some mobile CCTV units to be positioned on the entry and exit points of the estate.’
Kim nodded her agreement and wondered, for the hundredth time, what kind of world they’d live in if the criminals used their intelligence and skills to do good.
‘Okay, make sure you get one placed at—’
Kim stopped speaking as Bryant’s phone rang.
He listened and then pushed the receiver towards her.
‘It’s Jack for you.’
Did no one ring her own phone anymore? Was all communication filtered through her colleague?
She reached across and hit the loudspeaker.
‘Go ahead, Jack,’ she said to the desk sergeant.
‘I’ve got another one, marm,’ he offered wearily.
Kim groaned. She didn’t need any explanation. Anniversaries brought out the weirdos. The more the media coverage, the more confessions they received, and in the last two days, three men and one woman had come in to confess to the abduction of Melody Jones. The last one hadn’t done his sums right and had no answer when Penn had asked how he’d managed to pull it off when he’d only been two and a half years old himself.
Kim looked around the room. ‘Okay, by my count it’s Stacey’s turn to…’
‘Only wants you, marm. He really insists you’re going to want to hear him out.’
Kim felt herself stiffen. If there was one thing she hated more than weirdos wasting their time, it was the ones who insisted on wasting hers.
‘Okay, Jack, put him in interview room one. I’ll be down shortly.’
Bryant filled her mug with strong black coffee. ‘Keeps her calm,’ he said to the others.
‘You wish,’ Kim said, taking the drink from him.
She had a mind to make their visitor wait, but she couldn’t get on with her day until she’d listened and discredited confessor number five.
As she headed down the stairs, coffee in hand, she considered just how many pieces of her mind she was going to give him for wasting their time.
She opened the door and stepped in, immediately hiding her surprise.
It wasn’t news to her that you couldn’t deduce anything by appearance. There was no photofit for a criminal, a murderer, a paedophile or someone suffering from mental illness. She knew that, but the man standing before her appeared to be none of the above.
She guessed him to be mid-fifties. He had salt-and-pepper hair cut tidily around an attractive, tanned face.
His light-blue shirt was a quality brand that fitted him perfectly and was tucked into belted black trousers. He stood a couple of inches higher than her own five foot nine, and he appeared to have an athletic build.
‘Steven Harte,’ he said, thrusting out his hand as though they were meeting at some kind of conference.
She ignored the hand and sat down.
‘Please take a seat, Mr Harte, and tell me what you profess to know about the abduction of Melody Jones.’
‘Profess?’ he asked, frowning, as he took a seat.
‘You’re our fifth this week, so please forgive my suspicion.’
The frown remained.
