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‘Yeah.’
‘Try and replicate it. It’s not possible.’
She tried to do it as Bryant headed back towards her with a questioning expression on his face.
She thought she had it pretty close.
‘Not really,’ Keats said, pointing at the photo.
The circle made by the arms on the photo was much smoother and appeared much larger.
‘No,’ she said, hoping her suspicions were wrong.
‘Oh yes. Two dislocated shoulders and a hammer to the elbows.’
‘While he was still alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she said, trying to imagine suffering that level of pain while being unable to defend yourself or even cry out.
Kim instructed Jimmy to send the photos to her and the team, then took a final look at the battered body on the ground and wondered what the hell they were dealing with.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Stacey couldn’t remember any time in her life when she hadn’t known what to feel.
Her emotions felt as though they’d gone a full ten rounds with Tyson. Her brain and heart weren’t working together, and although the boss had told her that Terence Birch was dead, her system hadn’t yet computed that her ordeal was over.
It was hard to recall a time when the fear hadn’t lived somewhere within her, when she hadn’t feared looking out the window or getting on the bus. When she hadn’t been terrified to scroll through Facebook or answer her phone. They all seemed like inconsequential actions that shouldn’t have provoked deep anxiety. It was hard to believe that she was free of the terror that had been attached to her for months.
And what would happen when her brain and heart did start working together to process the information he was dead? Would it be a slow, long exhalation, like letting down a bouncy castle? Would her emotional state decompress gradually, or would it be like using a pin to pop a balloon and suddenly she’d jump up and dance with joy? Would she really be able to take so much pleasure from a man’s death?
She’d texted the news to Devon. She’d offered no explanation or details, and Devon hadn’t asked for any. She’d simply replied with:
Thank God
Followed by a couple of praying-hands emojis.
A second text had followed with some kisses. Like an afterthought.
Another anxiety was growing within her. Just how much damage had she done to her relationships? In addition to Devon’s anger, the boss hadn’t yet communicated with her once. Penn’s phone was the hotline, the last call informing him that they had a second victim. Normally those calls would have come to her, but apparently the boss couldn’t even stand to hear her voice.
‘Well, that’s that then,’ Penn said, ending the call from Lloyd House. She knew he’d been speaking with tech support. Somewhere within West Mids Police HQ were people dedicated to the relationship between the police and social-media platforms. They knew the best way to get an answer that didn’t include thecontact usoptions where you might get a standard answer within forty-eight hours.
‘No go?’ Stacey asked.
‘Not a chance. That Twitter account is registered to Don Beattie at that IP address, and seeing as Don Beattie does indeed have that IP address, they’re happy that no rules have been broken and have no plans to shut down the Sentinel’s account.’
‘But the boss said there’s no way that the man who lives there is our guy.’
‘Tell that to Elon and his mates. Account stays active.’
Penn drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Stace, how hard is it to try and track down where he’s diverting out of that IP address?’
‘Depends on the proxy server and the VPN and how he’s obscuring it.’
‘Hmm…that’s what I thought you were gonna say but in a language I can’t understand.’
