Monument to Murder

by Mari Hannah

  Time for a little chat.

  In interview, he stuck to the same story. He’d run because he’d been shoplifting, nothing more. Daniels now knew he was telling the truth, having sent Gormley on a mission to recover the coat, which was right where Thompson told them it would be. What’s more, Hank had identified it as coming from the shop from which their suspect had done a runner. Probably had his DNA all over it. Shop security had even provided CCTV that showed a hint of a police uniform at the front door.

  ‘Told ya!’ Thompson smirked.

  He was getting cocky now – a bit too cocky – and it made the DCI’s heart sing. In her experience, if you told someone you were arresting them for murder and they hadn’t done it, they did one of three things: they went berserk, put up a wall of silence or screamed for their brief and made an official complaint. Thompson had done none of these things.

  So why hadn’t he made his mouth go?

  They had broken his door down in the middle of the night, hauled his arse to Alnwick, and taken the piss out of him unmercifully. And yet he’d taken the lot on the chin without kicking up a fuss. In her mind, that meant only one thing. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself or his previous offending because he had something to hide.

  That something was probably serious.

  ‘It looks like you’re going to prison unless you help us.’ She eyeballed him across the square Formica table, pausing a moment, allowing him to sweat. ‘If I were you, I’d use my loaf. You may well have proved beyond reasonable doubt that you ran from us because you were thieving. But if you cast your foggy mind back to last night, I didn’t arrest you for theft in the first place, did I? That other matter hasn’t gone away.’

  ‘Shame . . .’ Carmichael tutted. ‘Not so clever now, eh, pal?’

  The put-down hit home.

  Thompson’s bravado disappeared and he asked for a brief.

  Carmichael grinned. ‘You hear something, boss?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ Daniels glanced at Thompson’s custody record. ‘Oh look! At 0440 hours the suspect declined a solicitor. See here?’ She pushed the record across the table, using her index finger to point to a specific entry. ‘The custody sergeant has even signed his name right there next to it in case a judge should want to see it too.’

  ‘I changed my mind,’ Thompson huffed.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Daniels said. ‘You help me and I’ll forget I ever saw that CCTV. How does that sound to you?’

  She and Carmichael had called up Thompson’s police record earlier. Years ago he’d dressed a couple of young girls up in adult clothing before abusing them. He’d stopped short of killing them, but he’d left them in a terrible state: degraded and traumatized, unable to sleep, fearful of men. He’d snatched one of them from her home in broad daylight while her mother was in the garden hanging out her washing.

  Walked right in through the front door.

  That took nerve.

  It was one of two reasons he’d come up as a possible suspect. The other was that he’d gone to prison in May 2002 and come out again in November 2005, which meant he was capable of having committed both offences that fell within Daniels’ timeframe, such as it was. Since the enquiry began, the SIO had been asking herself why the long interval between victims. The obvious conclusion was that the offender had been locked up and therefore unable to commit an offence in the intervening years.

  Thompson’s incarceration spanned the gap perfectly.

  When questioned in connection with Munro’s enquiry, he’d insisted he was living and working on the Continent from August 1995 to September 2001. So what? A cheap flight from Spain was no barrier to murder. Relaxed border controls within Europe meant passports were rarely scanned – another change in the law that made the job of murder investigation teams across the globe more difficult. He could’ve been back and forth a hundred times without being detected.

  A TIE action had never put him out of the North Yorks enquiry but neither had it put him in. With no hard evidence to implicate him, he had been released. Munro’s frustration over the phone was palpable. The DCI was nearing retirement and wanted to detect this one before he handed in his warrant card. Kate totally understood how that would eat away at him. Major incident teams throughout the country faced exactly the same issues on a daily basis. Staff had to pick up and drop actions and incidents, constantly reevaluating and feeding their priorities. As a result, some cases were left undetected, marring the end of a fine career. She hoped that wouldn’t happen to her.

  51

  ASH WALKER WAS waiting for Emily at the entrance gate, feet crossed over one another, arms folded, his back against the wall. He’d removed his tie and put on a civilian jacket to disguise the fact that he was a prison officer who was technically still on duty. It was the done thing if uniformed staff ventured out at lunchtime in public.

  It hadn’t worked.

  The white shirt, dark strides and black boots were a dead giveaway. His whole persona screamed prison service personnel.

  It had been a while since they had seen each other outside of the perimeter fence – a few months at least – certainly before Robert passed away. The last occasion was probably someone’s leaving do or possibly a retirement bash. There weren’t the facilities to celebrate such events on site. For obvious reasons, alcohol was strictly forbidden.

  It was a stunning day outside: cold and crisp, clear blue sky and bright winter sunshine. They took Walker’s Renault and had the road to themselves. The pub they were heading for was handy for the prison – only fifteen minutes along narrow country lanes – but it was not one of Emily’s favourites, it had to be said.

  Walking through the door transported her back in time.

  To describe the place as tired was being kind. The decor was drab and old-fashioned. The lounge hadn’t been redecorated in ages. Smoking had been outlawed years ago, but the heavily embossed wall fabric still retained a slight whiff of nicotine.

  Gross.

  ‘You certainly know how to spoil a girl,’ Emily joked.

  Walker winked at her. ‘You better believe it.’

  There was no hot food so they ordered a sandwich and a beer, then retreated from the bar, taking their drinks with them. At a table near the door, Walker pulled out a chair for her. Ignoring the seat he was offering, Emily sat down with her back to the window, giving him the sea view in the distance.

  Lifting his pint, he saluted her.

  They clinked glasses.

  Walker took a long drink, set his glass down on the table and wiped a line of white froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand. He looked troubled today, hence the invitation to lunch at such short notice.

  Emily thought she knew what was coming.

  ‘You going to tell me what’s on your mind?’ she said.

  Walker grinned. ‘Am I that transparent?’

  ‘It isn’t every day I get invited to such a prestigious venue for lunch.’ Smiling widely, Emily looked beyond him. There were few customers in the bar. No prison staff. She figured that was the reason he’d chosen to bring her here. ‘What’s bothering you, Ash?’

  ‘This’n’that.’

  ‘A euphemism for Bill Kent, I presume.’

  ‘He needs your help, Em.’

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t even know why I’m bothering when he won’t help himself.’

  ‘He’s still digging his heels in?’

  ‘I’m working on him.’

  ‘I hope he’s worth it.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to believe me, but he wasn’t always such an arse. Thing is, the idiot will lose his job if we don’t get him on track. He’s already on a warning. If he steps out of line again I’ll have no choice but to put him on paper. If I do that, the PO will have to do something about him whether he likes it or not. That won’t make you very popular with Harrison either, will it?’

  ‘I can’t make Kent talk to me.’

  ‘T
rue. But as I said, he has his problems.’

  ‘We all have our cross to bear.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh!’

  Walker stopped talking as the barman, a frail-looking man with sallow skin and whisky breath, arrived with their sandwiches. He eyed them suspiciously – as if new customers were something to be feared and not encouraged – then shuffled to the bar and disappeared out back somewhere, presumably for another slug of Bells or a Marlboro.

  ‘Will you stop talking in code now?’ Emily said.

  ‘I hate to lay this on you, Em. I know you’re not in a good place at—’

  ‘This isn’t about me! So tell me what’s on your mind and be done with it.’

  Walker finally caved in. ‘Bill Kent had a daughter when I first met him. Early on in his service she disappeared. She went off to school one day and never came home.’

  ‘God! How old was she?’

  ‘Ten . . .’ Walker paused. ‘A murder investigation was launched, but the police never found her body.’ He looked past Emily, his eyes finding the horizon. ‘This business up the coast is taking its toll on him.’

  ‘I bet it is. How long ago was this?’

  ‘It must be close to ten years.’

  Emily’s thoughts turned first to her friend Kate Daniels and then to Stamp and his evasiveness over Kent and his problems. She felt guilty that her preoccupation with Fearon and her own daughter’s safety had prevented her following up on Kent’s strange behaviour.

  ‘Has he been in touch with the police locally? I know the SIO personally.’

  ‘I don’t know. He won’t talk to me.’

  Emily went quiet. This was beginning to make sense to her. Maybe Stamp had been cagey because he was counselling Kent in an unofficial capacity. Maybe that was his way of taking the heat off her.

  She shared that thought with Walker.

  He shook his head. ‘I doubt it. They’re not on the best of terms.’

  ‘How so?’

  He put down his sandwich. ‘Long story.’

  Emily folded her arms and said nothing, waiting for him to elaborate.

  With a sigh, Ash obliged. ‘We were all three working at Coleby Prison back then. There was a huge investigation. The hunt for Sophie went on for months. Several of Bill’s colleagues were questioned, Martin Stamp included.’

  ‘Martin? I never knew.’

  ‘Stamp was furious. Allegations were rife. Lots of names were bandied around. Bill himself was obviously high on the list of suspects.’

  ‘Poor bugger . . .’

  Emily meant that. Having a child go missing was every parent’s worst nightmare, one she’d contemplated only yesterday. If that parent then fell under suspicion, she could imagine all too well the devastating psychological effect it would have on them. There would always be those in the community who believed there was no smoke without fire. And now that bodies had been discovered close to Kent’s workplace, the rumour-mongers would be at it again.

  A horrible feeling crept over her.

  When Stamp arrived at HMP Northumberland, he’d not divulged a past connection to Kent or any other prison officer there. Fair enough. Maybe, as Ash said, they didn’t get on. But she’d known him back then. Even though they parted after university, they had never lost touch. So if he’d fallen under suspicion when Sophie Kent went missing, why hadn’t he mentioned it?

  ‘Where is Coleby?’ she asked. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘It closed down a year after Sophie went missing. Staff members were dispersed around the country. Kent and I ended up here. At the time I thought it might help him, y’know, moving away. Not that you ever get over something like that.’

  ‘Especially when there’s no body, no burial, no closure.’

  ‘Exactly! I know you think he’s a prat, but take my word for it, he was a good bloke before all this.’ He shook his head, looked at her. ‘I swore I wouldn’t say anything, but I thought you should know.’

  ‘Where did Martin go?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said you and Kent moved here.’

  ‘Oh . . . I seem to think he went to Ashworth for a time. Not sure after that. I never saw him again until he landed his current job.’

  ‘He should have told me – about Kent, I mean.’ Emily had something more to add, but in view of what had been said already, she knew that now wasn’t the time or place to bring it up. Walker, however, picked up on her reticence and asked what was on her mind. She hesitated. ‘I don’t miss much that goes on around here, Ash.’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘Just that Kent had another go at Fearon. You promised me it wouldn’t happen again.’

  ‘I know, but there was nothing I could do. There was an incident in the gym. Fearon came off worse.’

  ‘Is that the official version?’

  ‘That’s not fair, Em.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I apologize. You didn’t deserve that. I’m angry with him, not you, in spite of what you told me.’ Emily picked up her beer and took a drink, meeting his eyes over the rim of her glass. ‘So how did you get to know about their latest altercation?’

  ‘Right time, right place. I just happened to walk round the corner when they were sizing up to one another. Kent maintains Fearon threw the first punch.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he would, wouldn’t he? I can see you have your doubts.’

  ‘I made a few discreet enquiries. Kent’s duty partner claims he saw nothing. He had his back turned, apparently. And before you say anything, I know that sounds very convenient. All the same, for what it’s worth, I believe him.’

  ‘I’m hearing a but.’

  ‘I found a witness. Ajit Singh claims Kent struck the first blow. He said the attack on Fearon was totally unprovoked. He won’t make a statement to that effect and, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t want to push him.’

  ‘Can’t blame him, can you? He’s hardly going to rock the boat on discharge day.’

  Walker checked his watch. ‘He’ll be on the bus home now.’

  Emily’s mobile rang.

  She took it out of her bag and checked the display.

  It was Reg Hendry’s wife.

  ‘Shit!’ She’d forgotten about her home security. Reg was probably at the house, wondering where she was. ‘Mind if I take this, Ash? It’s important.’

  Shaking his head, Walker picked up his sandwich and bit into it.

  ‘Vera? I’m so sorry . . .’ Emily listened. ‘Oh no! Is he going to be OK? No, not at all . . . you tell him he’s to stay right where he is until he’s better . . . No, I promise you. Next week is fine . . . OK, yes . . . yes, will do. Give him my love. I’ll call you soon.’

  She hung up.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘The old guy who owns the hardware shop in Felton was supposed to be doing some work for me at home today. Apparently, he’s fallen and hit his head. Nothing too serious, but the doctor has confined him to barracks for a couple of days to be on the safe side. I was supposed to be meeting him at my house, but when you asked me to join you for lunch I clean forgot. Poor old boy is knocking eighty.’

  ‘Anything I can do? I’m a bit younger than that and a dab hand at DIY.’

  Emily declined. It was a kind offer but it could wait. Her cottage was empty now. Rachel wasn’t at home today. She was safely ensconced in college as planned. Suddenly, the lock thing didn’t seem so urgent.

  52

  DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT RON NAYLOR wasn’t looking where he was going as he left the MIR. He ran headlong into Hank Gormley at the door, the mobile in his hand crashing to the floor. Gormley stepped back, apologizing for the collision even though it wasn’t his fault.

  ‘What’s up, guv?’ he asked.

  ‘Ask your DCI!’ Picking up his phone, Naylor examined the screen before lifting it to his ear. The line was dead. He cancelled the call, put the mobile in his right trouser pocket and sloped off down the corridor, leaving Gormley none the wiser and a tad bewilde
red.

  Kate Daniels and Naylor were best buddies. On top of that, the Super was always so calm, so easy-going. Hank couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him riled. Wincing as the double door slammed shut at the end of the corridor, he turned on his heels and pushed on into the incident room.

  Kate and DC Lisa Carmichael were sitting together by an open window, a pile of paperwork and handwritten notes spread out on the desk in front of them. They both looked spent. An afternoon giving John Edward Thompson a police agenda interview had obviously taken its toll.

  He wandered over to join them.

  ‘Who died?’ he asked.

  Neither one spoke as he pulled up a chair and sat down.

  Getting to her feet, the DCI wandered aimlessly away.

  ‘Fine!’ Hank huffed. ‘What the hell is wrong with everybody?’

  ‘Difference of opinion,’ Carmichael replied without looking at him.

  ‘About?’

  Lisa glanced up. ‘The Chief was on to Naylor earlier, suggesting we convene a press conference. Naylor mentioned it in passing. The boss was having none of it. She told him straight. They had words. He stormed out. End of.’

  ‘Ah.’ Now Hank understood.

  There were things about the Bamburgh case the public didn’t need to know. Kate wanted to keep it that way. It wasn’t her style to stir up a media frenzy in order to make the police look good. Or take credit in front of the force logo, telling everyone how harrowing it was for the team to have witnessed a burial site containing the remains of two young girls. She hated all that showboating stuff. It was bollocks anyway. Murder detectives were paid to witness these things. That was their duty.

  ‘Don’t blame her,’ he said finally. ‘Anyway, why bother? We’ve got fuck-all to tell them.’

  ‘S’pose.’ Yawning, Lisa rubbed her upper arms. ‘I’m cold.’