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She shrugged. It was hard to tell. The fact that Victoria had barely got in the door meant he had either been waiting for her when she got back or that he’d followed her home, meaning the killer had been at the theatre at the exact same time as her.
FIFTY-FIVE
‘Are you sure?’ Richard asked, slumping back in his seat.
Stacey nodded, having just given him the news that Victoria Sykes was dead.
Stacey turned back to her computer. The boss had said to inform him but hold back on the detail. Although he was assisting them in a consultation capacity, he was still a civilian they didn’t know all that well.
‘How do you do that?’ he asked, not unkindly.
‘Sorry?’
‘Accept the information and move on so quickly?’
‘We have to,’ Stacey said, understanding how cold it might appear to casual onlookers.
‘It’s not easy – it takes time. For my first two years, I’d go home and cry for every victim, but self-preservation kicks in. You can’t stay in that state or it’ll eat you alive. We have to stay focussed on finding the person responsible.’
He shook his head, nonplussed. ‘I just don’t get…I mean, surely a minute…’
Stacey stopped what she was doing to see that all colour had dropped from his face.
‘You knew her?’ Stacey asked.
‘I’ve seen her show and I’ve written two chapters on her, so I suppose I feel like I knew her better than I actually did.’
Stacey had to remind herself again that he wasn’t a police officer. He wasn’t even a police consultant. He was a man they’d harangued into assisting them.
‘Tell me about her,’ Stacey said, killing two birds with one stone. The boss would want background, and he needed to overcome his shock. She could get onto the receipts in a minute.
‘I know she was born in Newcastle in the early eighties and was orphaned by the time she was fourteen. Only living relative was an uncle who lived in Tettenhall. I don’t think the next couple of years were happy for her. She moved out when she was sixteen and they didn’t try to stop her. The next fifteen years she spent working at numerous basic office jobs. There was a marriage, a divorce and her first stage show in 2010. It wasn’t a large audience, just at some village town hall where she warmed up for the weekly bingo game.’
‘From that to selling out the Alexandra Theatre,’ Stacey noted.
‘She had that something that drew you in. She had chemistry, believability, a magnetism that reached out into the audience. She honed her craft. She studied people and other psychics. She was good at what she did, and it’s just not sinking in that…’
‘That what?’ Penn asked, sliding into his seat.
‘Oh, the wanderer returns,’ Stacey said, tipping her head, waiting for an explanation of his absence.
‘Victoria Sykes is dead,’ Richard offered.
Penn looked from the author to her.
‘May I just go to the kitchen for a drink of water?’ Richard asked.
‘Of course,’ Stacey answered.
‘Serious?’ Penn asked as Richard headed out the door.
Stacey nodded. ‘Right outside her front door, which you’d have known if you’d been here helping me like the boss said,’ she said, only half-joking.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand as her mobile started to ring. It wasn’t a number she recognised, which was exactly what she’d been hoping for.
‘Stacey Wood,’ she answered.
‘Hey, it’s Ronny Brownhill. We spoke…’
