Monument to Murder

by Mari Hannah

  ‘No “suppose” about it.’ Hank got up, closed the window, then sat down again. It was already pitch-black outside. ‘Kate’s the one who’ll take the flak if information falls into the wrong hands. She has to be careful around the media and people like Thompson. It’s a fine balancing act, one you’ll have to implement yourself one day.’

  ‘She’s good at it too.’ Carmichael yawned again. ‘Throughout the interview, Thompson hung on her every word. If you ask me, he was getting off on all the attention. Cocky little git.’

  ‘That’s always the danger with paedophiles. You can’t share stuff with them in case they tell fellow abusers who may also be involved in the offence you’re investigating. You can’t let it slip why they’re in the frame.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Think about it, Lisa.’ He looked at her pointedly. ‘Once he realizes it’s because he dresses his victims up, that knowledge reveals something about the enquiry. And none of us want that.’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean. Got any paracetamol?’ she asked. ‘My head’s throbbing.’

  ‘Ask Sicknote.’ Hank was referring to Maxwell.

  Massaging her temples with the middle finger of each hand, Carmichael glanced around the office. Maxwell was nowhere in sight. ‘Two hours we were in there with Thompson. He denied any connections with Bamburgh.’

  ‘He would. Doesn’t mean there aren’t any.’

  ‘This whole case is a ’mare,’ Lisa said glumly.

  ‘No-victim-ID cases always are.’

  ‘We went through every bloody thing: antecedents, family tree, turned his criminal record inside out. Nothing. His custody record puts him in and he has contacts with the area and the former mining community. But the clever shit was quick to point out that so does everyone else who comes from Blyth.’

  Hank studied Lisa. His protégée looked very pale. He wondered if she was coming down with some bug or other or if it was due to lack of a proper night’s sleep. There was no point telling her to bugger off to the B & B and get her head down for a couple of hours. She’d rather stick pins in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t fret, Lisa. If Thompson is guilty, we’ll get him. The TIE action will expose any holes in his story. It’ll never be put to bed until the enquiry winds up. In my view, he’s in for both or he’s out for both. It’s not likely he’s working with anyone else.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I can’t. Some paedophiles are very well organized. But I don’t think Thompson has the bottle—’

  ‘He abducted a kid from her own front room! What would you call that?’

  ‘We’ll see. For the time being we need to concentrate on the periods he was inside. With any luck we’ll identify our two victims and home in on exactly when they went missing. Only then can we hope to prove if he’s in or out.’

  DANIELS WAS BACK. She’d washed her face and combed her hair, made herself look a bit more presentable. She put a hand in her pocket and then handed a couple of pills to Carmichael.

  ‘How you feeling now?’ she asked.

  ‘Better. Hank’s been holding my hand, figuratively speaking. He’s convinced me that things may not be as grim as I was beginning to think they were.’

  ‘Has he now?’ Daniels’ face brightened noticeably. Hank was good with young detectives, especially when the chips were down. That’s why she’d chosen him to mentor Carmichael. Same reason she’d selected him as her number two all those years ago. ‘’Bout time he did some work around here.’

  ‘Ouch!’ he said. ‘You kiss and make up with the guv’nor?’

  ‘Might have.’

  ‘Did you?’

  She grinned. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Good! I can’t stand seeing a grown man cry.’

  They all laughed.

  ‘So,’ Hank said. ‘At the end of the day all we’ve detected is a theft.’

  ‘I had three choices,’ Kate sighed. ‘Charge him, bail him or release him.’

  Gormley didn’t have to ask. He could see from her face that John Edward Thompson was long gone.

  53

  APPALLED BY WHAT Walker had told her at lunch, Emily had gone looking for Kent with a view to offering her help without letting on she knew about his daughter’s disappearance. But all afternoon he’d kept his head down, even volunteering to supervise a creative writing class taking place in the prison library, a dull duty for someone who’d never read a book in his life. It was obvious he was ignoring her.

  C’est la vie!

  She’d done all she could. Time to go home.

  Emily hurried to her car. It was freezing outside but a beautiful evening. The night sky was inky black, the stars brighter than she’d seen them in a long while. Turning out of the prison car park she rang Vera Hendry to check on her husband’s progress and let her know there was no rush for him to act as locksmith.

  The news wasn’t good.

  Since his fall, Reg had been complaining of extreme dizziness. Further examination by his GP revealed a swelling of the optic nerve. Suspecting a slight bleed on the brain, the doctor had ordered the old man to Rake Lane Hospital to undergo a CT scan. The situation wasn’t life-threatening but it wasn’t good either for a man of his age.

  Determined not to dwell on another miserable newsflash, Emily drove on, arriving at The Stint around fifteen minutes later. The place was in darkness. She let herself in, stooping to pick up junk mail from the hallway floor. It was the first time in ages she’d come home to an empty house. It hadn’t occurred to her how awful and isolating it must’ve been for Rachel since she’d taken the decision to return to work.

  Emily lit the wood-burner, prepared dinner, made the beds and stuck some washing in. As she re-entered the living room to check on the fire, her eyes were drawn to the wall above the hearth where two framed photographs took pride of place. Both were of Robert. In one he was fishing in the river at the bottom of the garden. In the other, he was standing beside his Land Rover Defender, a rifle cocked over his arm, an old black gundog by his side. She remembered taking the photo, poking fun at him, telling him he looked like an advert for the BBC programme, Countryfile.

  Miss you, Rob.

  Swallowing down her grief, she went to the window and looked out. The lane outside was empty. Emily checked her watch. Six fifteen. As she raised her eyes, the headlights of a single-decker lit up the tree-lined road beyond her garden wall. Only half-expecting it to stop outside, she was nevertheless disappointed when it didn’t. Rachel rarely managed the early bus from Newcastle.

  She’d be on the next for sure.

  Emily was about to turn away from the window when a police car took the brow of the hill at speed, its blues and twos flashing. She watched it get closer . . . and was horrified when it turned into her driveway, its tyres crunching on a mixture of gravel and ice as it came to a sudden stop.

  A policeman got out, putting his cap on as he climbed from the vehicle. With her heart in her mouth, Emily edged ever so slowly into the hallway. A blurred profile appeared through the frosted panel of her front door. A flood of mixed emotions ran through her head. She couldn’t see the officer’s expression but she could feel the seriousness of his visit like a heavy vibration through the door.

  What was he waiting for?

  As he tapped on the door, Emily remembered that the bell was iffy. She didn’t move for what seemed like an eternity. Then, lifting her arm, her hand froze in mid-air as she reached for the latch. She withdrew it again, staring at the blurred shadow of her unexpected visitor, as if leaving the door closed would save her from a fate worse than death.

  A knock this time: harder and more businesslike. A face pressed to the glass peering in at her. She took a deep breath, lifted the latch and pulled the open door. The officer was tall, maybe six-three, around forty years old, pale blue eyes framed by fair lashes and intelligent brows. He had what her mother called good suit shoulders, straight not slouched, that filled his pristine uniform perfectly.

&
nbsp; Emily tried to speak but no words came out.

  Removing his hat, the policeman stowed it under his left armpit. ‘I’m looking for Ms McCann?’ he said.

  ‘You found her.’ Emily’s voice caught in her throat.

  He pointed into the hallway. ‘Could we talk inside?’

  ‘Of course . . .’ Stepping back to let him in, a sense of dread wrapped itself around Emily as it had the day a policeman turned up at the prison without warning to inform her of Robert’s sudden death. She offered this one a seat but he remained standing, his eyes searching her face, forming impressions, making judgements.

  What the hell for?

  ‘Do you know why I’m here, madam?’ he asked.

  How could she? Confused, Emily only managed a shake of her head.

  ‘Did you come straight home from the prison?’ His tone was flat.

  How come he knew where she worked? ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  Emily shrugged. ‘A little after five-thirty.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. It was around then, I couldn’t say for sure.’

  ‘You seem rather nervous.’

  Emily felt hot. She had a good right to be nervous. There was a policeman standing in her living room asking her ridiculous questions and she didn’t know why. Her answer obviously wasn’t satisfactory and he wanted more. She glanced at her watch. ‘It was no more than half an hour ago. I’ve not been long in. What’s all this about?’

  ‘Any contact with anyone since you left?’

  ‘No, yes. I called a friend. Why is that important?’

  ‘We were alerted by prison staff—’

  ‘About what? I don’t follow. Has there been an escape?’

  He didn’t answer.

  Did he think she’d assisted an offender to get away, willingly or otherwise?

  ‘Officer?’ she pushed.

  ‘No, madam. There’s been no escape.’ His expression was like a reprimand. ‘I’m here for the keys. Where are they?’

  ‘Oh shit!’ Now she understood.

  Feeling like a kid who’d been caught stealing, Emily looked down at the key pouch on her waist, the realization dawning. Leaving one of Her Majesty’s Prisons without handing in her precious keys was tantamount to treason. One of the most serious breaches of security it was possible to make. Potentially, every lock on every gate and every cell door would have to be changed unless the authorities were satisfied that it was purely accidental.

  A grovelling apology was in order.

  ‘I feel such an idiot . . .’ Unclipping the keys from their chain, Emily handed them over. ‘Please assure the Governor they’ve not left my person or passed into the wrong hands. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s easy done, I imagine.’

  ‘It’s not, actually. Gatehouse security is usually very thorough. I can’t believe I wasn’t stopped as I passed through. I’ve been a bit preoccupied of late.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about Mr McCann. I’m sorry . . .’ Checking his watch, the policeman made a note in his pocketbook. Looking up, he asked, ‘Have you had any visitors at all since you got home?’

  Emily shook her head.

  ‘Stop anywhere on the way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You mentioned phoning someone. May I check your phone?’

  Emily got her bag and handed over her mobile. Accessing her calls list, the officer wrote down Vera Hendry’s number, asking her who it belonged to. She told him about the old lady, pleading with him not to worry her unnecessarily, explaining that her husband had been admitted to hospital that afternoon. He made the call, noted down his findings, and then called his control room telling them he was now in possession of the keys and that he was satisfied – as far as it was possible to be – that it was a genuine oversight on Emily’s part.

  Ending the call, he held the keys up to Emily. ‘I’d better get these back where they belong.’

  Repeating her apology, Emily showed him out. It would be up to prison security to determine whether any further action was required. She couldn’t care less. Compared to what was going through her mind when the policeman arrived, the keys going AWOL didn’t even come close. It certainly wasn’t something she’d lose sleep over.

  She sighed.

  The only emotion she was feeling right now was relief. As long as Rachel was safe, Emily was bulletproof. Nothing else mattered. Waving as the policeman reversed off her driveway, she wondered who had told him about Robert. There were too many people discussing her business and she resented it.

  The traffic car sped off the way it had come. Watching its tail lights disappear over the hill, Emily put on her coat and walked down her garden path to the main road to wait for Rachel, grateful that in the countryside the bus would stop anywhere to let its passengers off. A few seconds later, it flew right by.

  54

  TWENTY-TWO MILES AWAY, Kate Daniels parked her car in the fishing village of Low Newton-by-the-Sea, one of her favourite places along the North Northumberland coast. Taking a bottle of red from the passenger seat, she climbed out, feeling a rush of pleasure as she scanned her surroundings.

  Breathing in the fresh salty air, she admired the starry sky, the moonlight dancing on water, the waves crashing on to the shore. Jo’s rented cottage was situated a spit off the beach. Picture perfect, it sat at one end of a single-storey whitewashed terrace with a small porch out front. No wonder she’d chosen to live here.

  Jo was a little unkempt when she answered the door, as if she wasn’t expecting company and had just pulled her grey knitted dress over her head and hadn’t bothered to comb her hair afterwards. She was barefoot, her slim legs wrapped in footless tights, toenails painted a deep shade of plum that matched her lipstick perfectly. The neck of her dress was pulled a touch too low at one side revealing a hint of pale lacy underwear.

  ‘Come in quick before you’re blown away.’ She straightened her dress, wriggling her body into it, hopping on one foot to adjust one leg of her tights. ‘As you can see I’m running a little late, sorry.’

  ‘No need to apologize.’ Kate stepped inside.

  ‘Emily phoned. She had a visit from one of your lot. I think it gave her a bit of a fright.’

  ‘Problem?’ Kate took off her coat.

  ‘You could say that. She left the prison with the bloody keys!’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  The smell of burning candles and the crackling of logs hit Kate’s senses as she walked into the living room. Handing Jo the wine, she kicked off her shoes, the warm glow of the fire making her feel right at home. Her eyes scanned the tiny space her ex had made her own in the short time she’d lived there. It was really cosy and she told Jo so.

  ‘It’s basic but comfortable.’

  ‘It’s a whole lot more than that!’ Kate said.

  There was an awkward moment between them, a beat of time as they abandoned the present in favour of the past. Getting a bolthole at the coast – somewhere they could escape the rigours of life in the fast lane – had been high on their agenda when they were living together. Low Newton-by-the-Sea was their place of choice and the small cottage fit the bill perfectly.

  ‘It wasn’t intentional, Kate.’ Jo looked away, embarrassed. ‘It was the only one-bedroomed cottage available this close to the beach, I promise you. I needed it for Nelson. I didn’t do it to hurt you. You know I’d never—’

  ‘Hey! Don’t worry about it. I’d have done the same in your shoes.’

  ‘Liar!’ Jo smiled nervously, relieved that Kate wasn’t about to make an issue of it. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the rest.’

  The tour didn’t take long. This was not a family pad. You could fit the whole cottage into two rooms of Jo’s permanent home – a Jesmond town house not far from Newcastle. There was a double bedroom, a shower – no bath – and a galley kitchen at the rear with stunning views over the shoreline of Newton Haven. And then they were back in the living room
where they began. It had enough space for a two-seater sofa, a flat-screen TV, a square dining table, two chairs and little else. To the right of the fire was Nelson’s bed. He was curled up in it fast asleep, next to a huge, empty, log basket.

  Jo’s eyes fell on the very spot. ‘Shit! I forgot the logs. Supper’s on the stove. Can you give it a stir while I pop out a sec?’

  Kate offered to go.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Jo said. ‘There are steps down to the log store. You’re liable to break your neck if you’re not used to it. Help yourself to a drink. There’s a bottle breathing on the kitchen bench or soft drinks in the fridge if you prefer. I know you don’t partake on a school night. Won’t be long.’

  Kate took three steps into the kitchen.

  The cast-iron pot on the stove had no ladle. She called out, ‘Where will I find the—?’

  Too late: the front door slammed shut.

  Her phone rang: Hank.

  She didn’t answer. He was more than capable of holding the fort for a few hours without bothering her with trivia. Besides, he was the one hell-bent on getting her and Jo together. Now she was here, Kate had no intention of running out. If the matter was urgent he’d leave a message.

  There was a selection of spices and herbs in the first drawer Kate tried. In the next one along, she found a wooden spoon. Dipping it into the sauce, she helped herself. Licking her lips, she smiled. Jo always forgot the pepper. Finding some in a wall cupboard, she added a little and was about to put it back when something struck her as odd: a small framed photograph laid face down on top of a row of tinned tomatoes. Hidden, she suspected, from her prying eyes.

  Lifting it down, she saw why.

  It was a happy snap of the two of them, taken a couple of years earlier on a beach that was, quite literally, two paces beyond the kitchen wall.

  She didn’t pack light then.

  Hearing the front door opening, Kate quickly replaced it.

  THEY ATE AS soon as supper was ready: linguine with a sauce Jo had conjured up from nothing, a few fresh ingredients she had in the fridge, some oregano and olives thrown in, a green leaf salad. To go with it, German sunflower bread steeped in extra virgin olive oil, rubbed with roasted garlic cloves.