Monument to Murder

by Mari Hannah

  16

  ARMED WITH THE knowledge that her victims hadn’t been buried at the same time, Kate headed back to Alnwick station. It was cold and dark outside. It had stopped snowing but heavy footfall had made the pavements all grey and slushy. Not that it mattered. Now that the enquiry was up and running she’d be spending much of her time inside.

  An old man was struggling to cross the road. Offering to help him over, she got the brush-off. Ignoring her outstretched arm, he muttered something about managing by himself for eighty-odd years – or words to that effect – waved her away with his cane and shuffled off, mumbling under his breath.

  With neither the time nor the energy to care whether or not he made it to the other side, she walked on, a dozen separate actions competing for attention in her mind. Naylor was nowhere in sight when she reached the incident room. The rest of the team were exactly where she’d left them – except Hank, who’d shifted to a desk near the window.

  He was eating a chicken wrap and washing it down with Coke, a newspaper spread out in front of him. Kate was worried about him. Since his marriage hit the rocks, he’d let himself go. He’d been drinking and smoking more than usual, eating out to avoid going home. Not taking care of his health had become a habit of late, and it was beginning to show. She’d bullied, coaxed and pleaded with him to stop the rot, but may as well have been talking to the wall.

  Well, if he wanted blocked arteries, so be it.

  Sensing a presence, he looked up.

  Seeing her standing on the threshold, he rose from his seat and lumbered over to greet her. He seemed tired today, more so than usual, but she knew his lethargy was down to inactivity rather than the size of his waistline. All day she’d felt much the same. Having little to occupy their minds when they were used to working at breakneck speed hadn’t been easy to take. Kate was restless too, knew exactly where he was coming from.

  ‘Any news?’ He binned the wrap packaging in a wastepaper basket.

  ‘Some, but don’t get too excited.’ She draped her coat over the nearest chair. ‘It looks like we’re in for the long haul on this one. Has the guv’nor gone for the day?’

  Gormley nodded, licking Caesar sauce from his fingertips. ‘He’s got a conference call with Bright scheduled. Then he’s off to get himself spruced up for a night out with you-know-who . . .’ He sniffed at the air and screwed up his face. ‘You changed your perfume, boss?’

  Kate grinned. ‘Wanna slap?’

  He smiled back. ‘Just making an observation.’

  He was right though. She stank to high heaven. Every pore on her body seemed to ooze disinfectant and chemicals. The sickening, overpowering stench of death was in her nostrils too.

  She looked at her watch.

  It was past teatime and her tank was empty.

  She nodded towards the rest of the squad. ‘Have they all eaten?’

  ‘Fed, watered and ready to go,’ he told her. ‘And there’s something green and boring in the fridge for you too.’

  ‘OK, briefing in ten. That’s everyone. No excuses.’

  Picking up the overnight bag she carried in her car in case of emergencies, Kate vaulted the stairs two at a time to the rest room on the floor above. She took a hot shower, a touch of jealousy creeping into her thoughts over Naylor’s dinner date with Jo. She’d been sorely tempted to accept his invitation to join them. But how could she? Especially when she and Jo were not on the best of terms right now.

  With no time to indulge that thought, she got dressed quickly. Repacking her bag, she stowed it in a free locker, then reverted to type and went back to work. By the time she walked into the incident room, Hank had prepared the team for a full briefing.

  Kate ate while she brought the team up to date with Tim Stanton and Abbey Hunt’s findings.

  Or lack thereof.

  ‘I have an observation to make,’ she said. ‘Bamburgh’s like a lot of coastal villages in that it’s not a place you come upon by accident. In my humble opinion, that could be highly significant.’

  ‘It’s not on the main road, if that’s what you mean,’ DS Robson said.

  ‘Exactly my point, Robbo. To get there you need to leave a major north-south border route. I’m pushing the scientists for a time of year when the burials might’ve taken place. In the meantime, I want checks on all hotels, guest houses and holiday rentals for anyone staying in the area during 2001 and 2006. That’s everyone, leisure guests or business. I want names. And I don’t give a monkey’s if we have to copy every database in the area to get them.’

  ‘Are we releasing this to the press?’ Lisa Carmichael asked. ‘They’ve been on the blower already from both sides of the border.’

  ‘Good question. The answer is no. Let’s be clear here . . .’ The SIO scanned the faces of her team, making sure they were all paying attention. ‘What we have is two bodies of young girls: one approximately ten years old, the other fifteen. The ten-year-old has been buried about ten years, the fifteen-year-old about five. From a media point of view, we found two bodies on a beach. I want no hint or suggestion that those girls were buried at different times. Nothing I’ve told you leaves this room. If you get asked any awkward questions you say we’re doing random checks, building a profile of people visiting the area. I’m particularly interested in regulars.’

  Kate’s eyes searched the room and came to rest on DC Maxwell. ‘Neil, you’re on missing persons. You’re looking for kids who went AWOL in the relevant years and a couple of months either side. Got that?’

  Maxwell answered with a nod.

  ‘That’s a very precise timeline, isn’t it, boss?’ The question had come from DC Brown. He blushed as heads turned in his direction. ‘I mean, can we really be that certain? Look at them!’ He pointed at the murder wall where crime scene photographs of the two victims were pinned side by side. ‘If we’re out by a year we’ll be wasting our time, won’t we?’

  ‘You’ve obviously not met Abbey Hunt.’ Hank slipped into cowboy drawl to make his point. ‘She don’t make no mistakes, boy! Pity anyone who suggests she do.’

  Everyone laughed.

  The next question came from Maxwell. ‘With regard to missing persons, you want me to concentrate only on our force area or what?’

  ‘For the time being, yes. Then, depending how you get on, we widen the search gradually. I suggest we start with neighbouring forces: Lothian and Borders, Durham, Cumbria – in that order. Maybe North Yorkshire too. We go national after that, if necessary.’ She waited as he scribbled a note to that effect. ‘I want to be informed each time you intend to redraw the search boundaries. It’s important to keep control and let everyone know where we’re at.’

  DCs Brown and Carmichael were sitting next to each other as usual, so close it surprised Kate that their hips hadn’t fused together. They had joined the force in the same intake, had come to MIT as a pair. And what a great pair they were proving to be. An inseparable combination, they were complete opposites in terms of skills and personality. Brown was Daniels’ obs man. Quite a shy lad with the patience of a saint, he was highly skilled in surveillance techniques. Carmichael was an all-rounder. Technically savvy, an outgoing, gregarious detective with bags of confidence – an officer who could turn her hand to anything, pretty much.

  ‘Lisa, I want a trawl of the database: all suspicious incidents in and around Bamburgh the last fifteen years. Liaise with the back record team for that. Andy, concentrate on known offenders, any MO that remotely mentions dressing victims up. That’s it, guys. I declare this enquiry officially underway.’

  17

  THE RAILWAY INN wasn’t far from the prison. It was a typical farmhouse conversion with a cosy wood-burner and photographs of a past association with horse racing adorning the walls. The lounge was almost empty. Not surprising on such a grim night. Jo Soulsby and Martin Stamp had taken their drinks to one corner of the lounge so as not to be overheard by the four regulars standing at the bar, all men. At least one of them was a prison officer,
a tall skinny guy with two cute border terriers fast asleep on the floor at his feet.

  Jo’s glass of red wine was divine, if a little chilly, a bit like the atmosphere across the table. Stamp was silent now, staring into his pint as if it held the answer to his problems. He’d fallen over himself to apologize to her. It turned out he’d been to see Walter Fearon when he had no authority so to do and in her opinion no damned right either.

  She wanted to clear the air but was still wound up about his weirdness in the prison corridor after their squash game. To make matters worse, Naylor was due at any second. If he got wind of their little spat, policeman or not, the gloves would be off in the car park.

  Jo didn’t want that.

  Feeling like one half of an argumentative married couple, she scanned the empty tables around her. Other locals would pop in for the last hour, their way of showing support to the landlord for keeping the only pub in the village alive. The prison officer at the bar was watching her, casting the occasional glance here and there, maybe even the odd comment to the others if the smirk on his face was anything to go by.

  She looked away, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘You’ve overstepped your brief,’ she told Stamp.

  And he had: flashing his impressive credentials in order to infiltrate the medical wing; convincing the late shift that it was in their patient’s best interests to be seen by a psychiatrist, sooner rather than later, following his suicide attempt. Getting Fearon to open up and, in so doing, feeding his sick fantasies.

  Pushing her wine away, Jo took a deep breath and tried to calm down. She’d been angry with him ever since he made his move to step into Robert McCann’s shoes so soon after his death. But now she had more reasons to add to the list. His rough treatment of her was unforgiveable. He’d also blatantly poked his nose into Emily’s professional life. That was both patronizing and unfair.

  And still he didn’t answer.

  ‘I mean it, Martin. I’d like to believe you’re just looking out for her, but she doesn’t need or even want your protection.’ She wasn’t getting through. ‘When she finds out she’ll be bloody furious—’

  ‘Hold on a second! Didn’t she ask for our input only this morning?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘But nothing! As far as I’m concerned, her request justifies my actions. I just stopped by and had a little chat with him, that’s all.’ He took in the group at the bar and leaned closer, lowering his voice a touch. ‘This kid is dangerous and unpredictable.’

  ‘I know. I heard you the first time!’

  ‘And he’s obsessed with Emily.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? I work at this prison too, remember?’ She eyeballed him across the table. ‘Sorry to state the obvious but, apart from me, she’s the only woman he sees. His fascination with her must be seen in that context.’

  ‘Does that extend to the screws?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Jo was utterly thrown by his remark.

  Stamp eyeballed her. ‘I see the way they look at her.’

  Jo’s mouth fell open. ‘I can’t believe you said that out loud. Martin, listen to yourself! You’re the one who needs help. You’re acting like a jealous prick.’

  He took a long slug of beer, glaring at her over the top of his glass. He’d embarrassed himself and made her feel uncomfortable.

  No wonder he wanted to see her outside of work.

  ‘OK, OK! I admit it,’ he said, buckling under the intensity of her gaze. ‘I’m crazy about her. I blew my chance once. If anything were to happen to her now I’d never forgive myself. I’d lose her all over again. I’m not having that, Jo. And I’m certainly not going to apologize for wanting to make her happy. This inmate, Fearon, he’s—’

  ‘A manipulative freak is what he is.’ Jo almost laughed. ‘Wake up, man. Ninety-nine per cent of men in prison are sexually frustrated. That’s hardly news, is it? She’s gorgeous and they’re locked away from females! Most straight males in there will have fantasized about her at one time or another. Why should Fearon be any different? Do you seriously think that passed her by? You heard her this morning. She’s hardly written him off as a pathetic loser, has she? She knows precisely how dangerous he—’

  ‘She doesn’t know he slit his wrists in order to get close to her, does she?’

  Jo stopped ranting. ‘He said that?’

  ‘He didn’t have to. It was written all over his face. Like it or not, she’s vulnerable now. Look, I know what I’m talking about. I think it would be best if she ceased working with him, at least for the time being. And I think you—’

  He checked himself, didn’t finish what he was going to say.

  Whatever it was, Jo wanted to hear it. ‘Going to patronize me now?’ she asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ He was blushing.

  ‘Go on, I’m sure you could manage if you try really hard.’

  He ignored the wind-up. Changing the subject, he pointed at her glass and asked if she wanted a refill. She declined, told him what she wanted was an explanation.

  ‘Emily trusts you, Jo. You’re her friend. You’re also a Home Office psychologist—’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You could easily take over Fearon’s supervision. No one would bat an eyelid, least of all the Governor.’

  ‘It’s not the Governor that concerns me.’ Jo glared at him across the table, regretting her decision to bring him along while she waited for Naylor. Even though Stamp had scared her, she wanted to get to the bottom of what was making him act so out of character. Now she wished he’d piss off and leave her be. She leaned forward, picked up her wine and swigged it back in one mouthful. She needed another – but not with him.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh, I see.’

  There he goes again. ‘What? What do you see?’

  ‘Female pride is over-rated, Jo. Don’t let it get in the way of good judgement.’

  ‘You’re a nobber, Martin. And don’t waste your breath, because the answer is still no. You’ve got no right to even suggest I get involved. Just think through what you’re asking here. If I took over Emily’s case, what signals would that send to Fearon, not to mention the rest of her clients, and the prison staff, since you brought them into it? Her authority would be totally undermined. She’d be finished. I won’t do it.’

  He climbed down a bit. ‘No one’s questioning her professionalism, or yours.’

  ‘Oh really? Then give us both some credit.’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘Are you?’ Jo’s hackles were up and it showed.

  Stamp exhaled loudly. He wasn’t done yet. ‘You don’t get it, do you? Fearon seriously believes he’s special to her. Can’t you see how risky that is? You do know she’s the only reason he hasn’t asked for Rule 43?’

  Now Jo was listening.

  That particular regulation meant complete segregation from other inmates. Many sex offenders sought to hide behind it, preferring to spend their whole prison term living in solitary confinement rather than face the wrath of the mainstream population – and for good reason. Even the most vicious of their number couldn’t fight every thug who fancied chancing their arm. The saying ‘safety in numbers’ wasn’t true in this case. Jo had to concede, Stamp had a point. Fearon’s life inside would certainly have been easier if he’d chosen the segregation unit over B-wing.

  The hiatus was enough to convince Stamp that he’d won Jo over.

  ‘Now do you get it?’ he asked smugly. ‘Fearon would rather be bullied for being a nonce by every inmate in that prison than not see Emily on a daily basis. The fact that she’s been away for so long has made him all the more determined. She needs warning that—’

  ‘No. You need warning!’ Jo bit back. ‘If you seriously believe the two of you have a future together, I’d advise you not to take that tone with Emily. Robert never would have. And mark my words, if you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll call the law.’

  The pub door opened and N
aylor walked in.

  Conversation over.

  18

  KATE WAS REALLY UNSETTLED. Not because she wasn’t dining with Jo and Naylor when she damned well ought to be – although the thought had crossed her mind – but because something elusive had been niggling away at her subconscious for the past hour. Something to do with the case she just couldn’t get a handle on.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Philip Bright’s voice sounded hoarse down the line. He’d insisted she field all media enquiries herself, show the public that her team were working flat out to identify the victims, reassure them that resources were being allocated commensurate with the severity of the gruesome find at one of the county’s major tourist attractions. In reality, the DCI had half a dozen officers, no forensics or intelligence and bugger all else to go on.

  The upside of that was, the press would be similarly stumped.

  Handling journalists and television correspondents was a skill Kate had cultivated during her time in the CID. After years of practice, she had it down to fine art. Under her former guv’nor’s guidance she’d discovered how useful the media could be to an SIO with a little give and take. But with huge resources at their disposal they also got in the way on occasions, appropriating information from potential witnesses before the police got to them. It was a dead cert that they had already started digging into her case. It wouldn’t take a genius to work out that the archaeologists involved in research in and around Bamburgh Castle lately would be their first port of call. Thankfully, Carmichael had got in ahead of them and project leaders had given assurances that they would refrain from talking to the media until after they had spoken with the Murder Investigation Team.

  One less problem to worry about.

  ‘You blitzed the missing persons, I take it?’ Bright asked.

  ‘Doing that now, guv.’

  ‘Any knowns with a similar MO?’