by Mari Hannah
‘That’s hardly fair, is it?’ Carmichael blurted out. ‘It’ll take him most of the day to get there and back, longer if there happens to be the wrong kind of snow on the tracks. Any old excuse and he’ll be gone for a fortnight!’ She flushed up and shot a hacky look at Maxwell, who could hardly contain his joy. ‘How come he gets a couple of extra hours’ kip while we’re all slaving away?’
Carmichael really was in a bad mood. It wasn’t like her to whinge about who did what, even less to be so grumpy first thing in the morning. Whatever the reason behind her attitude, she did have a point. On the face of it, Maxwell had scored an easier day than most.
For a moment nobody spoke.
Kate put down her toast. ‘The answer is in the question, Lisa. British weather and British Rail is a lethal combination. It might not be such a cushy number when you come to think of it.’ Maxwell’s joy melted away. ‘You’re not on your jollies, Neil. I want you back here tonight. No excuses.’
Carmichael brightened instantly but she didn’t look good.
Serve her right for drinking with Hank.
Kate moved on. ‘The interesting thing in all of this is the significance of the pearls to the sick bastard who killed those kids. That’s symbolism, plain and simple.’
‘For what?’ Brown was frowning at the DCI.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘We find out why, we find him.’
21
DURING HER COMPASSIONATE LEAVE, a temporary replacement had been drafted in to cover Emily’s caseload. She didn’t know the woman personally but it soon became apparent that she’d done the bare minimum and no more. Case-notes were unfiled scrappy bits of paper, referrals left untouched, parole reports either deferred for her return or awaiting her countersignature. There was a shedload to do and it would take her ages to sort out the mess.
She was standing at the window looking out over the prison grounds. The sky was almost Mediterranean blue. She wondered what Rachel was up to today, whether she’d decided to go back to college and pick up where she’d left off when Robert died, carry on with the media studies he’d been helping her with.
Emily hoped so.
A digital radio was playing gently in the background, tuned to Radio 4, the station she always listened to as she made the most of her lunch hour. It was a quiet time when protocol demanded the suspension of all prisoner movement, a time to get on with stuff without fear of interruption, a time to relax.
The golden hour.
In theory, at least.
Except . . .
And Emily didn’t know it yet . . .
One prisoner had other ideas.
UNOBSERVED, WALTER FEARON stood outside her door, eyeing her through the narrow strip of security glass, his eyes focused on that great arse and shapely legs as she stood with her back to him, gazing out of the window. He couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday, wondering what had been going through her mind as she knelt beside his naked body in the shower room.
Emily turned from the window, took a few paces to a grey filing cabinet that stood in one corner of the room, and began rifling through the contents of the bottom drawer. With her attention otherwise engaged, he pushed open the door and moved across the threshold.
SENSING A PRESENCE, Emily turned round expecting to see a colleague, a prison officer, anyone but him. Her scalp tightened as the hairs on her head stood to attention. Her legs grew weak, her mouth dry. Fearon said nothing, just loomed over her. He was much larger and more powerful than she’d realized. Or was it just in her mind that he’d taken on a Jack Reacher type stature, all 6'5", 250 pounds of him? Only difference was, Fearon was real, not some fictional creation – a force for evil, not good – a young man who oozed ill intent.
She noticed fresh injuries: a split lip, a black eye.
It was difficult to judge his mood or see the expression in his eyes through the filth on his spectacles and one cracked lens. She couldn’t decide which was the more chilling: seeing his scary eyes or not seeing them, and therefore not being able to read them.
She cleared her throat. ‘What are you doing here?’
Her voice sounded tremulous, even to her.
Fearon didn’t move a muscle or give an answer. His breathing seemed laboured as he stood there defiantly, both arms freshly bandaged. Emily swallowed down her fear. What was he doing there? What was he thinking? Did she even want to know the answer to either question? Was he eking out the time he had left? Just how much time did he have left? And what damage was he capable of inflicting before it expired?
Emily glanced at the clock on the wall above his head: 12:35. Lockdown was still fifteen minutes away.
He wouldn’t be missed until the head count.
‘You’re supposed to be at lunch.’ Emily was trying to mask the anxiety in her voice. She could see from his smug expression that her efforts had failed.
‘I gave them the slip,’ was all he said in return.
Emily couldn’t afford to show fear. But years of training hadn’t equipped her for this. Everything she knew about working with dangerous prisoners deserted her then. Adrenalin surged through her body. The answer came to her in a flash. In the event of a threat, the hostage-negotiating team had instructed her to take a non-confrontational stance.
Sit down . . . put a barrier between you.
Somehow she found her seat. She was now inches from the red alarm button mounted on the wall behind her. If she hit it now the troops would come running. But Fearon was close enough to grab her and she didn’t want that. The mere thought of his hands touching her made her skin crawl.
Everything she knew about him scrolled across her mind like some bizarre, evil slideshow. Stamp had warned her how dangerous he was. That he’d faked a suicide attempt for no other reason than to draw her closer. A crime waiting to happen, or words to that effect. An unhealthy obsession. Keep your distance, Em.
And he wasn’t the only one to think that way.
The prison medic had said the same thing.
Why would Fearon do that?
What was he up to?
He’d gone to great lengths to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This visit was no accident. Was he planning to take her hostage? She could not – would not – allow him to intimidate her. Just how she managed it she wasn’t sure, but when she spoke again her words were measured, her voice calm.
‘There’ll be trouble if you miss the head count, Walter. You’ll lose days.’
‘Saunders and Singh are scrapping.’ He grinned. ‘All the screws are busy.’
Emily held his gaze. ‘Officer Kent will come looking, you know that.’
The implied threat of Kent hadn’t worked.
Fearon took a few steps forward, a grin spreading across his face. He looked even more sinister exposing a chipped front tooth, the result of his latest altercation. No charges had been brought. For all Fearon hated Saunders with a passion, he wouldn’t grass him up and there were no witnesses. Even Kent, the lone officer present at the time of the assault, claimed he hadn’t seen a thing.
Sure he hadn’t.
‘I need to see you,’ Fearon said.
‘You know the rules. Make an application in the morning.’ Emily’s tone was harsh. Her words hung in the air between them. Fearon’s casual attitude and total disregard for the trouble he was in alarmed her. ‘Did you hear me? Go on! Get back to the dining room before you land yourself in even bigger trouble.’
‘Yes, miss. Sorry, miss.’ He was mocking her now.
After what seemed like an hour, he turned and walked away without another word. Rooted to the chair, Emily blew out her cheeks. For a moment, she couldn’t move. Her legs were shaking beneath the desk, her heart pounding in her chest. When he was out of sight, she raced towards the open door.
FEARON WINCED AS the door slammed shut behind him. He waited outside, still as a statue, with his spine pressed hard against the wall. A smile lit his face as a key turned in the lock, followed by the sound of Emily’s f
ootsteps returning to her desk. Chancing his arm, he took a quick peek through the window and was rewarded by the sight of her fumbling for the phone, hands shaking so badly it was all she could do to hold it.
She was well spooked.
Power coursed through his veins. He’d craved that feeling since the first time he set eyes on her. He’d been wondering how she’d react to him once they were alone, with no screws hanging around on the other side of the door. In a couple of weeks he’d be released and they could be alone together again, outside of this stinking hellhole. Somewhere warm and cosy, where they could get better acquainted. He’d make sure of that.
Not long now.
She’d seen him in all his glory. The least she could do was return the favour.
Her voice sounded muffled through the door. ‘Ash?’
Pure terror.
‘Ash?’ It came out like a sob.
Silence for a long while.
Fearon took another peek. He was right. She was weeping. One shaky hand holding the phone, her free hand over her mouth now, trying to keep control, but failing miserably.
Class.
He hadn’t even touched her and yet it was as if he already had the ligature round her neck and was applying pressure, watching her eyes roll back in their sockets.
‘Yes, I’m here . . .’ Emily recovered, her distress replaced with rage. ‘Mind telling me what the fuck is going on? Fearon just left my office . . . He bloody well was! I nearly shit myself.’
As the alarm bell blasted out, Fearon walked away, unperturbed.
Life inside wasn’t so bad.
22
DAY TWO OF the murder investigation had been full on. A sustained information-gathering exercise had begun in earnest with no sign of hangovers from the team or strops from Carmichael after being late to bed and suffering a poor night’s sleep. In the incident room, heads were down, focus exclusively on the job with one aim in mind: to catch those responsible for the unlawful deaths of two little girls.
Kate sucked in a breath and let it out again.
Even with all her years of experience, she was at a loss with this one. She’d contacted the National Crime Faculty requesting a trawl of their database for cases involving bodies buried in sand. It was a long shot, but worth doing.
In the meantime, the DCI had to face facts . . .
Without victim identification, she was totally screwed.
In the absence of any other evidence or intelligence, the crime scene was all she had. Time and again, her mind kept returning to that stretch of dunes. Bamburgh beach was a body deposition site – no more, no less – and, because of the long interval between death and discovery, there was no way of knowing if it was also the attack site, the murder site or just a convenient burial site.
But that was just it . . .
The site wasn’t convenient – not by a long chalk.
Glancing at the murder wall, Kate forced herself to repeat the mantra that all was not lost. At the morning briefing, she’d actioned several lines of enquiry that were, if not exactly bearing fruit, at least throwing up a few possible leads. If the burial site couldn’t help her, maybe offender profiling might. Jo Soulsby wasn’t around to help with that, but after a trawl of the PNC a few local persons of interest had come up.
Two paedophiles in particular had been thrown in the hat by Brown as worthy of attention. This in turn had created a series of other actions for their outside team to deal with. These two individuals were nut-jobs with a bent for dressing their victims up. Along with other relevant data, Brown was now adding their names to the murder wall in thick red pen. They must be traced and, guilty or not, suffer the inconvenience and indignity of closer examination.
Tough.
In the SIO’s opinion, they were both volunteers.
She wondered if they had any links to the village of Bamburgh. Brown had no knowledge of any thus far, so Kate moved on to Carmichael. Her trawl of incidents in and around the area confirmed only what the team already knew to be the case. The pretty coastal village wasn’t exactly the crime capital of Europe. As expected, there had been very few criminal incidents recorded during the relevant years. Lisa was scraping the barrel with only a couple left to check.
It wasn’t looking good.
Undeterred, Kate asked her to go back further still.
What was it about Bamburgh that disturbed her so?
A crime scene was key to any SIO. But in this case it didn’t have the potential to tell her much. Or did it? As she returned to her office, her mind drifted to the view from the dunes: Holy Island. When she’d climbed up from the beach with Gormley yesterday and turned to face the sea, her gut instinct had been that the burial site might in itself be significant. That thought had remained with her ever since. Now she mulled over what might have motivated an offender to bury his victims in that particular spot. Had religion played a part? Or was there some other reason connected to the significance of the location? Maybe one of the archaeologists working on the Bamburgh Research Project could help.
She raised an action on her computer, allocating the task to Lisa Carmichael.
Unlocking the bottom drawer of her temporary desk, Kate pulled out a list Robson had compiled earlier. His efforts had given her a few leads – all of them sad. Missing children whose parents had been in limbo for years. For the parents of these two girls, the waiting was nearly over. Closure was on its way.
Kate gazed at the ceiling, her thoughts in turmoil.
The delivery of a death message was a task that came with every new incident. She wondered how long it took for hope to die. How long before parents came to accept the fact that they would never see their offspring alive again? In her mind’s eye, she saw her hand poised in mid-air and felt a stranger’s pain in that split second before she knocked at the door and gave news too awful and depressing to contemplate.
It never got any easier.
She doubted it ever would.
23
IN THE EN suite washroom attached to her office, Emily turned on the cold tap, cupped water in her hands and washed her face. She was calm now and beginning to realize that her reaction to Fearon’s unscheduled visit had been over the top. She’d worked in a prison long enough to have taken it in her stride, not made such a drama out of it. It was a situation she’d rather not repeat, that much was true, but she was angry with herself. Thanks to Stamp, she’d immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was in danger. Consequently, that was the only thing on her mind the whole time the inmate was standing near her.
It was bloody ridiculous.
Emily was still looking in the mirror as the sound of running footsteps echoed in the corridor outside.
Stamp appeared in the doorway, sheet-white and out of breath.
‘He didn’t touch you?’
Emily dried her face on a towel.
‘Did he?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Come here.’ Stamp opened his arms for a hug.
Emily’s feet remained rooted to the spot. ‘Don’t fuss, it was just one of those things.’
‘It was a fuck-up that could have cost you d—’
‘Drop it, Martin!’ She was angry now. ‘It was no one’s fault. Ash is doing his best with limited staff today. A fight distracted them. Fearon was only missing for a few minutes. It was no big deal.’
‘What the f—’
‘Keep your voice down!’
Stamp moved towards her but Emily stepped away.
She wanted him to go and told him so. ‘I’ve got a lot to do and so I imagine have you.’
He didn’t move. ‘I’m just looking out for you, Em.’
‘I know that.’ She let out a big sigh. ‘I’m not trying to push you away but I’d appreciate some space. Just back off a bit, give me time to settle in. Can you do that for me?’
‘If that’s what you want,’ Stamp said caustically, his frustration bubbling to the surface.
Emily softened. He was like a big k
id sometimes, wanting to play the knight on the white horse, stamping his feet because she wouldn’t let him. She pulled a funny face, frowning like a clown, making light of the situation, trying to get him onside. It had always worked when she was married. Robert could never stay cross with her for long. He would burst out laughing and within minutes they would be friends again, unable to recall what had made them angry in the first place.
Stamp was having none of it.
Sitting down, he glared at her like a spoilt child. They were now engaged in a game of blink first.
She threw him a crumb. ‘Will you go if I promise to holler when I need you?’
He said nothing but the ice began to melt.
‘Hey, don’t let’s fight. Finding my way again was always going to take time, Martin. We both knew that. It’s been a tough couple of days. To be honest with you, I’m struggling to remember who the hell I am right now. Please tell me you understand. If you don’t, I’ll be cross for the rest of the day, tomorrow and possibly even the day after.’ She managed a grin. ‘Rachel’s not the only one in my family who knows how to sulk.’
He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
Emily smiled warmly. ‘There is one thing you could do for me . . .’
‘Name it.’
‘I’m concerned about Rachel. She’s still not coping and I’m too close to be objective. I know she’s difficult and, let’s face it, not your greatest fan, but will you talk to her?’
