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Her website wasn’t sensationalised, nor did it make extravagant promises. On TripAdvisor the shows got a rating of 4.4 or higher. Stacey had read all of the negative comments, which ranged from Sandy not being on stage long enough to poor seating to having trouble hearing some of her comments, but there was nothing vicious or threatening. Most people who had attended her shows had enjoyed the experience. And, so far, she hadn’t come across anything to connect Sandra to anyone with a name beginning with M.
The articles containing anything to do with Sandy were growing more and more sparse as she scrolled through the Google search. There were articles about other Sandras and other Deakins but very few that now contained both names.
‘Hang on,’ she said as she almost scrolled past an archived article printed in theDaily Mailalmost eighteen months earlier.
She clicked in and started reading.
Within seconds her mouth had fallen open. It was a hit piece exposing all so-called bargain-basement psychics.
The article laid into every psychic she’d ever heard of and a few that she hadn’t. Derek Acorah, Colin Fry, Sally Morgan, Sandra Deakin and a couple of others got a roasting. The article was savage and called for the general public to boycott these charlatans. The piece was vicious and went low in places, alleging family collaboration and knowledge of perpetrated fraud. The tone and the content read as though the author had rolled out of bed in the bitchiest mood imaginable and had put pen to paper before even a sip of coffee had passed their lips.
Stacey scrolled to the end of the lengthy article.
The author was named as Monty Dunhill, a self-proclaimed psychic to the stars.
Seemed to her that the only psychic Monty Dunhill had any respect for was himself.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Bridge House was a modern four-storey building at the heart of the Waterfront commercial area of Brierley Hill, built on both sides of the Dudley No. 1 canal.
Kim showed her ID to two security checkpoints before she reached the police cordon.
It was an officer that knew them, and he lifted the tape on seeing the car.
Bryant parked behind the waiting ambulance. They both jumped out of the car and pretty much sprinted around the L-shaped raised flower beds to the group gathered at the corner of the building.
Keats appeared to her left.
‘Same killer?’ she asked before setting eyes on the body.
‘Your job not mine,’ he said. ‘But the manner of death is definitely the same, as is the calling card.’
Kim groaned as she turned to where the majority of the group had moved away.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she said, seeing all the blood that had pooled around the victim.
A woman to the left gave a loud cry as the body became visible again.
‘His boss,’ Keats offered. ‘She found him.’
‘Can someone get her out of eye line?’ she snapped. Bloody hell. It was a sight the woman was never going to forget, but she didn’t need to be reminded.
Bryant immediately headed over to the police officers and the witness.
‘Good God,’ she said, working hard to keep out of the blood pools.
‘How old?’
‘Nineteen,’ Keats offered.
He looked barely that. She guessed him to be of Indian descent. He was of a slim build and wore black trousers and a mustard polo shirt.
‘Azim Mahmood,’ Keats offered. ‘It’s on the lanyard we’ve already removed. His name was the only thing visible. We’ll let you know more once we’ve cleaned it up.’
‘He worked here?’ she asked, nodding towards the building.
‘Second floor,’ Keats confirmed.
