Monument to Murder

by Mari Hannah

  It was downhill from there on in.

  Well, Emily reminded herself, I’m the muscle now.

  ‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘You do something for me and you have my word I’ll return the favour.’

  Saunders didn’t reply.

  ‘I thought you were a businessman,’ Emily looked him square in the eye. ‘Call it a transaction of mutual benefit. I have something you want. Your good behaviour is the means to pay for it. Stay out of trouble for the next six months and I’ll see what I can do. Do we have a deal?’

  He glared at her, resentful. His charm offensive had failed, and that didn’t happen very often where women were concerned. Finally he gave a resigned nod. She dismissed him and he left the room, yanking open the door, leaving it wide open. Almost immediately, Walter Fearon appeared in the doorway, rubbing the top of his right arm with his left hand. He looked awful, his eyes ringed by dark circles, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He wasn’t the only one to have had a sleepless night. She had too: Rachel hadn’t come home until 3 a.m.

  ‘What’s wrong with your arm?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What do you want, Walter?’

  ‘I’ve come to apologize. I’ve got something for you.’

  Emily thought about last night, specifically the argument she’d had with herself after the officer rang and told her how distressed Fearon was. Could she live with herself if she wrote him off as a no-hoper? Despite the risk he posed to her personal safety, she felt duty-bound to listen. He was only twenty-one. Years of abuse had turned him from helpless victim to high-profile perpetrator. He needed therapy in spite of himself. It would be totally unprofessional to turn him away.

  She pointed at a chair. ‘Sit down.’

  Fearon did as he was told. He fumbled around in his trouser pocket, making her nervous. When she picked up her phone, he panicked, thinking she was about to have him removed. Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he placed a tightly folded and slightly crumpled piece of prison-issue paper on her desk.

  ‘It’s for you, miss.’

  ‘An apology?’

  He bowed his head, eyeing her over the top of his filthy specs.

  She spoke into the phone. ‘Walter Fearon is in my office . . . I know I did, but I changed my mind . . . yes, thank you.’ Emily hung up, her eyes drawn to the scruffy note in front of her.

  She didn’t touch the paper. Instead, she got up and went to her filing cabinet to retrieve his prison record. Feeling his eyes on her back, she opened the manila folder and retraced her steps, flipping through the case-notes until she came to the last entry. Only when she was seated across the desk from him again did she look up, coolly returning his gaze.

  ‘Seeing as you’re here, we may as well discuss your release,’ she said. ‘A hostel place has been made available to you. I’m sure you know why. You obviously can’t go home, and your local authority have refused to house you. I don’t mean to labour the point, but that leaves you with no other option: it’s a hostel or the streets. You’ll receive a travel warrant to get you there. Do you have any questions?

  He didn’t respond.

  He was too busy eyeing her hair as it wafted slightly in the breeze from the desk fan, his eyes taking in every feature, every blemish with that same constant and persistent gaze that had unsettled Emily since her return to work. She was fighting the urge to cringe from his stare when, over his shoulder, she saw Ash Walker in the doorway. The old Emily would have taken offence, but she knew the SO meant well. He was there for her protection – Just in case Fearon kicks off, as he’d told her on the phone a moment ago.

  That was a nice way of putting it.

  Emily gave nothing away as she cast an appraising eye over the inmate. Not including yesterday’s prank, he’d spent a total of thirteen days on the block for breaches of discipline while he’d been inside. He’d also missed out on privileges such as parole and home leave. Like a lot of other young men in there, he had bugger all to go home to.

  It wasn’t Fearon that Emily worried about. It was the women he might come into contact with. She shuddered at the thought of the damage he was capable of inflicting before his next term of imprisonment.

  ‘Close the door on your way out,’ she said.

  Fearon was trying to act cool but his non-verbal behaviour was giving him away. He was visibly seething having been dismissed: his jaw bunched, the grey eyes flashed behind his spectacles, and his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had turned white. The tirade that followed was vicious but short-lived.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he clocked the SO loitering in the corridor. Fearon got to his feet and left the room without another word, pushing past Ash Walker on his way out.

  ‘Everything OK?’ asked the SO, popping his head round the door.

  Emily nodded.

  ‘Well, if he gives you any more grief—’

  ‘I’ll be sure to let you know.’

  ‘You made any decision about Kent?’ Walker asked. ‘Whether to make a complaint, I mean.’

  ‘No, not yet, Ash. Despite the fact that I think he’s an arse, I’m prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. The problem is, he’s avoiding me. That’ll be down to Harrison.’ She managed a smile. ‘I’m persona non grata as far as the PO is concerned.’

  ‘Join the club,’ Walker said.

  ‘Anything you want to tell me?’ Emily looked at him, inviting him to speak up, but he remained silent. She still had no clue what issues might be bothering Kent, but now was obviously not the time to question Walker about it. Maybe Stamp was wrong . . . Maybe Walker had nothing to tell her and she’d just have to drag it out of Kent herself. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t want to compromise your relationship with him.’

  Closing her door quietly, the SO left her to her work.

  Emily wrote Kent’s name in her diary, a reminder to catch him later. He could refuse to see her, but she’d at least offer him the opportunity to discuss his attitude. Who knew? Maybe he’d surprise her and accept some well-meaning advice.

  Her eyes landed on the note Fearon had left on her desk.

  Reluctant to touch it without gloves on, she took a pair out of her drawer and slipped them on. Teasing open the folded sheet of paper, she braced herself for the drivel it might contain. If it was an apology it would be badly spelt and lacking punctuation. He’d sent her notes before. His writing was barely legible, school being the one institution he’d managed to avoid. He’d run away at ten, never to return. When Emily read about that in his prison file she’d suggested a literacy course. He laughed, telling her he’d learned so much more on the streets than he ever could in a stupid classroom.

  She read the note: I wil lern too controal meself miss. I’ll stop hurtin wimon if you give uz 1 last chanse. Carnt do that if you send me away can i? He’d signed his name and added a kiss. Beneath the message there was a mark on the paper. Emily stared at it for a very long time. It was in the shape of a heart. A red heart.

  And it was written in blood.

  33

  KATE DANIELS GAVE Detective Sergeant Robson the TIE action on John Edward Thompson and a couple of DCs to help him with it. As he set to work, she received a phone call she’d been waiting for. Local historian Chris Ridley had been as good as his word. What he had to say sent a ripple of excitement through her.

  ‘At least one set of pearls are still in existence,’ he said. ‘I spoke to a lady called Pauline Watson. She’ll wait in for you to collect them.’

  Kate scribbled the address down as he read it out. It wasn’t far away, off Ashington High Street. The news made her heart sing. Another set of pearls meant a three-way comparison.

  ‘Any idea how many sets of pearls were purchased in 1953?’ she asked.

  He’d done some checking and her luck was in. Only eighteen sets of pearls had been given out by Ashington Miners’ Welfare, a surprising statistic in her opinion.

  ‘Why so few?’ she queried. ‘There
must’ve been scores of kids at those parties.’

  ‘There were. But, as I suspected, most miners’ daughters wanted a diamond tiara like Princess Elizabeth was wearing that day.’

  ‘Thank heaven for little girls, eh?’ the DCI said.

  ‘It looks like you’re in business,’ Ridley said, quoting her words from the day before. ‘I should warn you that there were actually twenty purchased. I couldn’t say what happened to the others – probably thrown away after the event or taken home by welfare staff for their own kids to play with.’

  A small discrepancy, but still: the odds were in her favour.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself, Mr Ridley. You’ve been a great help to us.’

  He agreed to send a list of names and addresses. Thanking him, Kate put down the phone and waited for the email to drop into her inbox. Bless him. In the subject box, Ridley had entered TOP SECRET in large red type. Selecting the message, one of several dozen unopened emails, she clicked on the print icon and called Maxwell, asking him to retrieve it from the general office.

  ‘Do a job on it right away. I want those miners and their descendants traced. I’m not arsed how long it takes, just make sure it’s done. Drop everything else I’ve given you.’

  His silence was like a groan.

  Kate grinned. Intuitive was something this particular DC had never been. Consequently, he found himself lumbered with much of MIT’s donkey work. ‘I know it’s a tedious job, Neil. But you’re good at that when you put your mind to it. Every office needs a plodder. You happen to be mine. I’ll devise a pro forma and let you have it later. Any complaints, spit ’em out now.’

  He didn’t need telling twice.

  Maxwell was lucky to be in the squad at all, having come close to being sacked after pissing her off on a previous enquiry. Water under the bridge now. As far as she was concerned, it never happened. They understood each other perfectly. She knew he’d come good in the end. The promise of overtime seemed to satisfy him. As an added bonus, she excused him from the afternoon briefing and put down the phone.

  DANIELS KEPT THE briefing short and to the point. It was more an update of the day’s events, an impromptu meeting earlier having covered pretty much everything else. As the team disbanded, she caught Gormley’s eye. ‘Don’t disappear, Hank. We need a word.’

  He blushed. ‘Am I in trouble?’

  ‘No, you idiot! Why? Have you done something I should know about?’

  ‘Always.’ He made a face. ‘What then?’

  ‘This Ashington link. It’s not a definite. At best, it’s a maybe. But I’m going to follow it through because it’s the only maybe we’ve got.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan to me. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Later . . .’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll call you in ten.’

  A civilian indexer approached with a tray of coffees.

  Daniels grabbed the sole mug of black, headed straight to her office and shut the door with the intention of devising a pro forma questionnaire for the outside team, one that would illicit the information she required.

  Picking up a pen, she listed relevant questions: particulars of each child recipient of the pearls, parents, siblings and extended family too. With genealogy currently in vogue, Kate figured that some family trees might already be available to give her a starter for ten. If not, the Murder Investigation Team would have to produce their own. Either way, the details would need to be verified from at least one other source.

  Ten minutes later, as satisfied as she could be that she’d nailed the questionnaire, she rang Gormley telling him what she’d been up to, asking him to join her in her office to go over it in case she’d missed anything.

  ‘You might want to speak to Jo first,’ he suggested. ‘I know she’s not part of the squad any more, but I’m sure she’ll give us the benefit of her advice. An offender profile would come in handy right now. Might even prompt other lines of enquiry.’

  ‘Good idea . . . you want to chase that up?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m delegating.’

  ‘Oh, it’s like that, is it?’ He sounded as if he was smiling.

  ‘No, it’s not like that!’ She mimicked him. ‘I’m busy, that’s all. I’ve got Naylor to see, Abbey Hunt to chase up, Forensics and God knows—’

  ‘OK, OK, I didn’t ask for a list of reasons. One would’ve done.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger! Get in here now!’

  Within seconds, Hank was walking through her door trying to hide the grin on his face. Soon after, they were forming a plan of action. Without giving the game away to the Ashington miners or their families, Daniels wanted to establish whether any of the pearls were, or had been, still in existence within the last decade. She was particularly interested in finding out if any family had a direct link with Bamburgh, either now or in the past. More importantly, she wanted to know what had happened to the pearls.

  ‘Want my opinion?’ Gormley asked.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘I think you’re pissing in the wind.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  ‘You know what kids are like,’ he said. ‘Some of those pearls will have been lost in the street the day they were received or thrown away the day after. They could’ve been lifted from the rubbish after the event by anyone. It’s sixty years ago!’

  ‘Doesn’t mean we can ignore it as a line of enquiry.’

  ‘OK. I think you’re wasting your time, though.’

  ‘I heard you first time.’ Kate brushed a hair away from her face. ‘That’s why it’s so important to get this right from the get-go. The outside team need to be asking a set of predetermined questions. We decide what those questions will be. Then we can log the information and hopefully avoid having to re-interview at a later date. That way, the target families have no opportunity to change their story or conceal things from us. You know as well as I do that first responses tend to be closer to the truth than those given after folks have time to think—’

  ‘The element of surprise, Dr Watson.’

  ‘It’s vital we keep the upper hand, if that’s what you mean.’

  Hank leaned across her desk to the phone and picked up the receiver.

  He held it out to her. ‘You going to call Jo, or shall I?’

  Kate narrowed her eyes. She was about to say something when the door opened and Brown walked in, a police-issue radio in his hand. ‘Control room for you, boss. Pete Brooks just had a shout from uniformed inspector 7534. He spotted John Edward Thompson in Morpeth. Suspect came out of a shop, spotted 7534 and did a runner. The intrepid inspector gave chase. It’s still ongoing.’

  Kate grabbed the radio.

  She held up a thumb to Brown and he left the room as Brooks’ voice hit her ear, repeating almost word for word what she’d just been told. The officer chasing Thompson was an ex DS looking to get back to the CID following his promotion out of the department. He was someone Daniels had a lot of time for. A fearless soul, he wouldn’t think twice about taking off in hot pursuit of any suspect. He wouldn’t wait for backup either. He’d just get stuck in. Brooks had once done the same thing and wished to God he hadn’t.

  The radio crackled . . .

  ‘Thompson pursued west along Market Street, down to Old Gate and over the bridge,’ Brooks said. ‘If you want to get somebody there, he’s running north on High Stanners now . . . I’ll keep you updated.’

  ‘Put a call out, Control. See if any squad member is anywhere near Morpeth.’

  Moments later, Carmichael’s voice came over the radio. ‘That’s affirmative. I’m travelling south down the A1, taking the A192 down Pottery Bank and Newgate Street. Awaiting further instructions, over.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Kate whispered under her breath.

  ‘He’s still running!’ Brooks again. ‘He’s down by the river now, travelling north, 7534 in pursuit. Suspect quite a way in front – seems he’s fit as a butcher’s dog. Looks like he’s heading for
Borough Woods. Sorry, we’ve got no helicopter; it’s down in Houghton-le-Spring. They’ll shout if they get freed up. Your DC on Milford Road now, she might be able to head him off. I’ve lost contact with 7534. Stand by . . . I’ll try and raise him.’

  Gormley was off his seat, pacing, waiting for news.

  Brooks’ voice: ‘7534 from Control: what’s your location?’

  No response from 7534.

  ‘Control to 7534. Repeat, what’s your location, over?’

  Nothing.

  Shit! Daniels wondered what was going through Brooks’ mind right now. About five years ago he’d been badly injured when an offender he was chasing turned, aimed a shotgun and blasted his lower legs at point-blank range. Although he could no longer work outside, he’d still wanted to be a copper. A job in the control room was marginally better than going off on a medical pension. He was good at it too. He knew the force area like the back of his hand. He also had excellent knowledge of officers on the ground. What’s more, he cared what happened to them. He was – not to put too fine a point on it – the very best radio operator there was.

  Even so, the SIO could feel his anxiety as he waited for an update.

  Pressing the transmit button on her radio, she said: ‘7824 to 7534, please respond.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Anyone got sight of 7534?’ She was getting worried.

  A couple of Panda drivers who’d joined the hunt both gave worrying negative feedback. ‘Sorry, boss. No word from 7534. Nope, can’t see him. Hang on . . . member of the public pointing towards the river. I’ll get back to you, over.’

  ‘Hopefully, he’s slapping the cuffs on Thompson,’ Kate said, muting the radio.

  Hank nodded. ‘Failing that, they’re scrapping and he’s lost his radio in the drink.’