Monument to Murder

by Mari Hannah

  Gormley and Carmichael had little to say during the twenty-minute journey. Kate assumed they were playing the forthcoming operation in their heads – as she was. They weren’t expecting violence. Neither Thompson nor the offender he was dossing with had any assault convictions. Thompson’s own brand of aggression was only ever directed at defenceless young girls.

  Was he capable of murder?

  Parking a street away, she radioed Brown asking him to meet DC Lisa Carmichael at the rear of the target property in case the offender made a break for the back door. Herself and Gormley would cover the front. They didn’t want any bother. The quicker they got in, the quicker they got a result. The element of surprise was a copper’s best friend. And that was exactly how it went down.

  Using a battering ram he’d borrowed from the station, Gormley smashed his way into the house, hitting the front door so hard it flew off its hinges and landed at an angle on the deck beyond. Trampling it flush to the hallway floor, he rushed forward into the house shouting: ‘POLICE!’

  Following close behind, Kate shone her torch to find the light switch.

  Bleary-eyed, shocked and obviously intoxicated, Thompson and his mate didn’t know what had hit them. They looked ridiculous, standing in the bedroom of the ground-floor flat in underpants, their milky-white bodies shivering in the cold night air that was blowing like a hurricane through the missing front door.

  ‘Who’s gonna pay for me door?’ the tenant complained.

  ‘What door?’ Gormley checked behind him. ‘You haven’t got one.’

  ‘You fucking bastard! I’m getting on to me MP!’

  ‘Calm down, Mr Watts,’ Kate said. ‘You should’ve opened up.’

  ‘Eh? I was fucking asleep!’

  ‘Sorry, mate. We did knock . . .’ Tongue in cheek, Gormley glanced over his shoulder as Carmichael and Brown joined them in the room. ‘Anyone knock on this lad’s door?’

  ‘I did,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Aye, with a feather, mebbies!’ Watts bit back.

  ‘John Edward Thompson, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder . . .’

  ‘Eh? You’re kidding, aren’t ya?’

  ‘Does my boss look like she’s laughing?’ Gormley said.

  Ignoring them both, Daniels rattled off the rest of the police caution. Then she sent Brown to fetch the pool car he’d parked around the corner out of sight. She was keen to get Thompson out of there and back to the station. There was no way the little scrote was parking his skinny arse on the seat of her new Q5. He was shitting himself, panicking now he’d realized what he was being arrested for.

  Pointing at some strides dumped on the floor beside the rumpled bed, Kate told him to get dressed. Then she turned her attention to Watts, who was already climbing into his own jeans.

  ‘Not you,’ she said. ‘Just him.’

  Watts gave her a load of lip.

  ‘Oh, you want to come too?’ she said. ‘That can be arranged.’

  He decided to leave it.

  Good choice.

  Now they could all go back to bed.

  48

  THERE WAS HARDLY another car on the road. Carmichael drove, with Thompson in the rear, flanked on either side by Brown and Gormley, all the while complaining that they had got the wrong man.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Gormley said. ‘We’ve heard it all before.’

  ‘It’s true! Dunno who got croaked but it wasn’t me, I swear!’

  ‘You ever clean your teeth, mate? Get a wash?’ Gormley held his nose and opened the rear side window. ‘You reek of stale sweat and cheap booze.’

  ‘He’s right, you do,’ Brown said. ‘You’ll never get a lass if you don’t smarten yourself up.’

  ‘You just pulled me from my pit, man. What d’you fuckers expect?’

  ‘Must’ve been all that running you’ve been doing,’ Brown said, his tone serious now. ‘Hope you know that’s an offence.’

  ‘Eh?’ Thompson looked at DS Gormley. ‘What’s this divvi on about?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Brown said. ‘Like you don’t know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  Gormley played along. ‘You should listen to the officer. It’s now an arrestable offence to run from the police, contrary to the Morpeth Town Police Clauses Act. It’s a new piece of legislation. Rubber-stamped by the Tories only last week. Surprised you and yours haven’t heard of it. Maximum three years if found guilty. Looks like you’re going back to the pokey pal.’

  Thompson had no idea they were talking rubbish. For someone who’d been in and out of jail all his life, he wasn’t very savvy where police humour was concerned. He really ought to have known he was being had.

  Carmichael turned on to the A1 heading for the nick. Flooring the accelerator, she pushed the car to the limit on empty roads. As Thompson realized they were travelling north he began to whinge. ‘Piss! Where you taking us, man? I’ve got no cash on us, have I? How the fucking hell am I going to get home?’

  ‘Who says you’re going home?’ Brown said.

  Thompson wound his neck in.

  Fifteen minutes passed and then he started again as they neared the outskirts of Alnwick, panic setting in. He kept repeating over and over that he was an innocent man. ‘Whatever you think I done, I never!’ he said.

  Carmichael reversed the pool car up close to the cell-block wall. Daniels was already there waiting. She overheard the prisoner protest his innocence as she opened the car door. Hank got out first. Holding on to Thompson’s arm, he heaved him out too, at the same time giving the SIO a little shake of his head, letting her know the suspect had said nothing in the car to implicate himself in any offence.

  ‘So why run?’ Daniels asked.

  ‘You’ve got a warrant out for us.’

  ‘No shit!’ Gormley laughed as they frogmarched Thompson towards the back door of the station. ‘He’s lying, I checked. You’re locked up, matey. Time for a nice warm cell. Don’t worry, you’ll feel right at home.’

  ‘No! Listen will ya!’

  They stopped walking.

  ‘You have one chance,’ the DCI said.

  Thompson hesitated. ‘I thought there might be a warrant. I lost count—’

  ‘OK, you blew it!’ Daniels yanked him nearer to the door.

  ‘OK, OK! There’s no warrant. I lied about that, but I’m not lying now. I lifted the fucking coat I had on. That’s why I ran. When I walked out the shop I saw Arsehole of the Empire, the uniform gadgie, standing right by the front door, so I legged it. I swear to you, I’m telling the truth!’

  ‘Where’d you ditch the coat?’

  ‘In the woods, where d’you think? So when I came out I didn’t have the same description as when I went in. I’m not entirely stupid, am I?’

  Kate didn’t want to admit it – even to herself – but his explanation made sense. She marched him into the nick, handed him over to the custody sergeant for processing, telling the officer to bang him in a cell to await his fate. Too drunk to interview was the official excuse for leaving the sod to sweat.

  49

  THE PRISONER WAS lean and strong, not an ounce of fat on him. He had a six-pack worthy of a professional footballer. He worked on it too. Every minute he got the chance. Kent had had enough of watching him pump iron in the state-of-the-art gym it would cost the tax-paying public five hundred quid a year to match.

  Where was the justice in that?

  He despised this one more than most. Not because he spent hours in the gym preening in front of a mirror, then shuffled back to his cell like he didn’t have the strength to fight his way out of a paper bag. Or because of the offence that brought him to the prison in the first place. There were worse sexual deviants under lock and key at HMP Northumberland. Neither was it because he had a thing about women – though clearly he had – particularly those in authority. It was because he was a creep: period.

  As a wing cleaner, Fearon was right there every time a skirt stepped foot inside the gate. Kent had hidden in the sh
adows on numerous occasions observing him observing them – psychologist Emily McCann especially. The arsehole was besotted with her.

  Kent felt his anger rising as he thought about McCann. She had never been his greatest fan. There’d been a time when they got on OK, but recently she’d been making that lovely mouth of hers go. Now he was on the back foot, his PO and SO demanding that he get his shit together, insisting that a little chat with her could do him some good.

  He sniggered.

  Other way round, more like.

  Pity her sympathies lay with the nonce.

  Kent looked around him. There were eight inmates exercising in total. As usual, Saunders and Jones had collared the elliptical trainers. Three others were on treadmills – two walking, one running. Singh was lifting weights on a flat bench behind them while his partner took on water.

  The room stank of sweat.

  Fearon was lying on the deck, a hard vinyl mat beneath his body. He was working through a gruelling series of sit-ups that would make a fit man weep, a thin veil of sweat on his upper lip but no sign of effort on his face. Kent couldn’t plant one on him in full view of everyone. He decided to bide his time, wait until his colleague’s back was turned before making his move.

  And there it was.

  As Fearon got up off the floor, Kent seized his opportunity to take a pop at him. It was like punching a brick wall. ‘Grab your kit and come with me!’ he said.

  Hearing the commotion, his colleague looked round, nonplussed. ‘What gives?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  Over the officer’s shoulder, Saunders and Jones were pissing themselves laughing having witnessed what had taken place. The rest of the cons had seen it too, but they looked away, minding their business. Fearon wasn’t popular.

  Kent tensed.

  Only one prisoner could cause him any trouble and the little twat was fast approaching, a complaint already forming on his lips.

  Time to head him off at the pass.

  ‘Looking forward to going home later, son?’ Kent’s eyes held a warning.

  Ajit Singh backed off.

  ‘Thought so.’

  Job done.

  Placing Fearon in an arm lock, Kent hauled him out through the gym door, yelling at his oppo to keep his eye on the others. The corridor beyond was empty. For a moment, he wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. If the lad turned on him now he knew he’d be in trouble despite his combat training.

  ‘Stand still!’ he bawled. ‘Or I’ll break your fucking arm.’

  He would too, the mood he was in.

  Fearon went limp. Raising his head, he eyeballed the screw, a look of sheer hatred passing between them. Despite the damage he could do, Kent was willing him to kick off. Any excuse to get stuck into him for real. But Fearon was too clever to fight with a member of staff so close to his release date. His present sentence couldn’t be extended, but a new assault charge would queer his pitch good and proper, putting paid to his plans to visit Emily McCann. So he just stood there, showing no emotion, good or bad.

  Drawing his arm back, Kent hit him again, in the stomach this time, bringing up some of his breakfast. Expecting some form of retaliation, he stepped away, lifting his fists ready to defend himself. Wiping vomit from his bottom lip, Fearon smiled as SO Walker rounded the corner.

  Game over.

  For now . . .

  THE WALK TO C-wing was long and silent apart from two pairs of boots squeaking on the highly polished floor and Fearon’s gym shoes padding along beside them. SO Walker led the way, having listened to Kent’s explanation as to what had taken place outside the gym. He hadn’t asked Fearon for his version of events, merely invited Kent to escort the prisoner to his office for, as he put it, ‘a more detailed conversation.’

  Kent knew he was in for some stick. Not in front of Fearon. The two officers went back a long way and, whatever the story, Walker would never undermine one of his own with a prisoner present. As the nonce assumed the position on one side of Walker’s desk, the SO walked round behind it and sat down.

  He didn’t look happy.

  Closing the door, Kent moved forward and stood to attention, shoulder to shoulder with Fearon, ready to blag his way out of a tricky situation. He didn’t want to deceive his SO, but what other choice was there? This time he’d gone too far. His job was on the line.

  Ash Walker sat in his chair, his eyes shifting from man to boy and back again, searching their faces for the truth.

  Kent’s jaw was so fixed he thought it might lock. Though his own gaze was trained on the wall opposite, he could feel the SO’s eyes boring into him and wondered which one of the two he was going to believe. He relaxed then. If in doubt, close ranks. That was how it was. How it had always been. Uniforms backed each other up. No question.

  No contest.

  ‘Assaulting an officer is a very serious breach of discipline,’ Walker said. He picked up a pen, opened an A4 incident log, looking directly at the inmate. ‘Mind telling me what happened again? Just for the record. I’ve heard one explanation, now I’d like yours.’

  He waited . . .

  ‘C’mon! You’re always making your mouth go, Fearon. Now’s your chance to put the record straight.’

  ‘I never touched him. I was going through my training programme. I got up and he elbowed me for no good reason.’ Placing his left hand on his right side, Fearon winced. ‘I think he bust a rib too. He’s always on my case. You know that as well as I do. Check your logbook if you don’t believe me. See how many times I’ve been to see the Governor on his say so. It ain’t on. Know what I’m saying?’

  ‘You’re alleging Officer Kent singles you out for special attention?’

  ‘Yeah, I am.’

  ‘I see. He makes your life hell for the fun of it?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly!’

  ‘And Ms McCann too, I suppose? Is she part of this conspiracy?’

  Fearon clammed up.

  ‘Why would either of them do that?’ Walker asked. ‘You sure it isn’t the other way round?’

  ‘I never done nowt to him, man. He’s making it up. He’s a fucking psycho! Everyone knows what he’s like.’

  ‘Oh, so now I’m part of the problem.’

  ‘No, sir. You ain’t got eyes in the back of your head. I understand that, dunni? But I got rights too, y’know . . .’ Fearon looked to his right. ‘I want this wanker off my case.’

  ‘Shut it!’ Walker glanced at his log, his pen poised to record the incident. There was a moment of silence while he considered what action to take. ‘I’ve had about enough of you, Fearon. You’ve been a pain in the arse since you arrived on this wing, not just to my staff but to Ms McCann and everyone else you come in contact with. I’ve put up with your antics long enough. Maybe you need a change of scenery.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Excuse me? Did I say you had a choice?’

  A look of panic flashed across Fearon’s face. ‘Don’t move me, please, sir. I take it back. I’m the problem, not Officer Kent. I swear I won’t make no complaint. I ain’t moving wing, man. No way!’

  Kent fought hard to keep a straight face.

  The nonce was almost begging.

  Ash Walker crossed his arms over his chest and sat considering his options. Kent could read his mind. The prison was full to capacity. Moving Fearon out would mean moving some other poor bugger in; one who probably didn’t deserve, let alone want, to shift. Movement for movement’s sake upset the status quo. The resulting disruption would cause a ripple effect throughout the prison. They all knew that. Besides, what wing PO would be daft enough to accept the agitating bastard?

  Kent wanted to laugh his cock off.

  He was home and dry.

  The SO pointed at Fearon. ‘You piss me off one more time and you’re transferring, you hear me?’ Fearon nodded, even said thanks. Walker looked at the clock above the door and said, ‘Fulham-Chelsea are on Sky tonight at eight o’clock. Shame you’ll miss it. No
w get out of here before I change my mind. This incident never happened, you got me?’

  Another nod from Fearon.

  But he didn’t move quick enough for Walker’s liking. ‘I said GET OUT!’

  Dragging his feet, Fearon trundled out, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Keep your eye on him today and bang him up early,’ Walker said. ‘Straight after his evening meal.’

  Kent turned to leave.

  ‘No, Bill. Sit down. We need a word.’

  Kent remained on his feet. He knew what was coming: another lecture, another pep-talk, so much sympathy he was drowning in the stuff. He was sick of it – sick of working with nonces like Fearon – sick of every damn thing and everybody: Fearon, Harrison, McCann, even Ash Walker, now he came to think of it.

  ‘You’re due some leave,’ Walker said. ‘Take it!’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I’m telling, not asking. Get on the phone and arrange it.’

  ‘Not my style, boss.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake! Then go and see Emily. She’ll help you, I know she will.’ Walker dropped his voice a touch as a work party of inmates were led past the office. ‘Look, I understand it’s difficult for you, but you can’t lose your rag with the cons and expect to get away with it. It’s not on, you hear me?’ Walker sighed loudly. ‘Consider yourself on a final.’

  Kent headed off.

  ‘And, Bill . . . ?’

  Turning as he reached the door, Kent waited.

  ‘Don’t mess with him, or me,’ Walker said. ‘You’ll end up losing.’

  50

  CONCENTRATING ON A minor theft and forgetting the arrest for murder was a decision Kate Daniels was comfortable with for the time being. John Edward Thompson obviously thought his luck was in when she handed him over to spend a night in the cells. According to the custody sergeant, he’d cooperated during the charge-room process, insisting that he neither required nor wanted a solicitor present. He’d been no bother during the night; not a peep from him, in fact.

  Interesting . . .

  She was observing him on CCTV.

  He was sitting at a table chewing his nails. He looked dishevelled, having slept in his clothes. His hair was greasy and stuck to his scalp and he could do with a wash. No wonder Carmichael was keeping her distance by the door. What interested Kate most was the fact that Thompson seemed unconcerned about being held in custody overnight. Then again, why should he? He knew the drill. He was an old hand now.