Monument to Murder

by Mari Hannah

  Kate was standing in the front porch, holding on to her, an arm securing a red blanket the ambulance crew had placed round her shoulders. The girl couldn’t stop shivering. Was it any wonder? Fearon’s attempt to kill her mother had been the last in a series of horrendous incidents most people wouldn’t encounter in a lifetime. Martin Stamp had been right about him all along.

  And so had Emily, up to a point . . .

  On her first day back at work she’d made a prediction that he would kill his next victim. Little did she know that Stamp would be the person he’d vent his rage upon; or that an attempt on her own life would follow the vicious killing of her lifelong friend. Though she had received a single stab wound to her left side, the injury was, thankfully, not life threatening. She’d been treated quickly at the scene by paramedics and was now being taken by stretcher and deposited in an ambulance, a sight that made Rachel weep all over again.

  Leading her to the same ambulance, Kate shut the door and watched it drive off into the wintery night. When she turned round, Hank was leaving the house, a pair of wellington boots and a police-issue waterproof over his suit. As he got closer, she moved her fingers slowly across her throat, a question in her eyes.

  He shook his head.

  Fearon was still breathing.

  101

  A FURTHER TRAWL of the incident log for Bamburgh had led Carmichael to a sad revelation. Ash Walker had been fifteen when his parents brought him to the Northumberland village to spend time with his grandparents in a rented holiday cottage. The old couple had gone off to walk their dog, leaving him in charge of his five-year-old sister. The pair of them had been playing on the rocks when she was swept out to sea by a freak wave. She drowned.

  The wall of silence the Murder Investigation Team had expected failed to materialize – far from it. Walker had been keen to share details of his macabre acts of devotion, and the traumatic death that had started it all. He described, as if it had happened only yesterday, the sight of rescuers pulling his sister’s dripping corpse from the water. Helpless and alone, he had followed as they carried her up the beach and laid her on the dunes to commence the frantic effort to revive her.

  In his head, Bamburgh Castle had become a living memorial to her, the motive for the killings not far from one put forward by Jo Soulsby early in the enquiry.

  Ten years ago, on what would have been her tenth birthday, he’d killed his little princess, Sophie Kent, laying her to rest in the very same spot where his sister had lost her fight for life. He’d got the idea of dressing her in adult clothes when he overheard one paedophile admit to another that he’d killed and buried a young girl in a woodland grave in Yorkshire years before.

  He was laughing as he told Kate Daniels, ‘The nonce who did it was a Geordie, as it happens.’

  Instead of reporting the matter to his superiors he’d copied the MO in the belief that the same paedophile would be blamed if Sophie’s body were ever discovered. To prevent the remains being identified, he’d slipped into her bedroom while visiting her grief-stricken father and substituted another kid’s hairbrush and toothbrush for Sophie’s. The traces of Bamburgh sand that had implicated her father had been a mistake; Walker hadn’t realized that grains of incriminating evidence from his shoes had been transferred to Kent’s car during a darts night out – his only error in the whole affair.

  Five years on, he’d killed Maxine O’Neil, a fifteen-year-old who looked exactly as he imagined his sister would have, had she lived. He’d seen the talented dancer’s picture in the local press performing in a Christmas concert at school. He’d watched her for a few weeks planning to make a move. Then, one day, out of the blue, he spotted her waiting at a bus stop, a sign that she was the right one. Stopping his car, he offered her a lift. When she refused, he got out, rendered her unconscious with a single blow and bundled her into the boot. When she came to and refused to celebrate the prearranged birthday tea he’d lovingly organized, he killed her.

  ‘Some kids,’ he said, ‘are never grateful.’

  Walker had thought of everything. He’d carefully selected remote locations where there were no neighbours to report strange sounds or comings and goings. He’d chosen the presents, the gift-wrapping and paper plates following the theme his sister had loved – princesses and ballerinas – perfect for her special day. The dresses he’d picked out for his victims were almost the same as the one his sister was wearing the day she died. Not quite, but nearly: red polka dots, matching ribbons for their hair, short white socks and his mother’s white shoes with a strap across the front. And pearls like the ones belonging to his grandmother that his sister loved to play with.

  The guy was sick.

  In interview, Walker confirmed Kate Daniels’ supposition that Rachel McCann had been his intended victim number three. His sister would have been twenty within a few days and Rachel was the right age for him to carry on his monument to murder, had she not managed to escape.

  However, he denied any involvement in DCI Gordon Munro’s case. The murder investigation that had frustrated the North Yorkshire SIO seemed doomed to remain unsolved . . .

  Until Kate began replaying Walker’s statement in her mind. His account of the ‘Geordie nonce’ who’d bragged about killing a young girl and dumping her in a woodland grave conjured up an image of John Edward Thompson sitting in the interview room, trying not to draw attention to himself. He’d been questioned by officers investigating the Yorkshire murder, but claimed he was abroad at the time. It turned out he’d served time in HMP Coleby, on the wing where Walker had been employed. Further actions led them to his former cellmate, who soon began to sing. As a result, Thompson was arrested. He was currently awaiting trial for the North Yorks murder. So at least one ex-SIO would be able to enjoy his superannuation without a niggling unsolved case to keep him awake at night.

  Chris Ridley, the historian who’d helped Kate track down a set of pearls for comparison, received a commendation from the Chief Constable for services rendered to the Murder Investigation Team, even though the police only managed to trace one other set and it was never a full-blown line of enquiry.

  Emily McCann made a complete recovery from the stab wound to her side. When Fearon had shoved Rachel aside and charged at her like a bull, probably planning to shred her face as he had done her friend and colleague, Martin Stamp, Emily hadn’t hesitated to pull the trigger of Robert’s gun. The CPS accepted that she’d acted in self-defence and no charges would follow. As for Fearon, he too had recovered from his injuries and could now look forward to spending the rest of his sad life in prison.

  When the Bamburgh enquiry ended, Ailsa Richards didn’t want to go home. She put in for a permanent transfer to Northumbria with aspirations of one day rejoining the Murder Investigation Team. Lisa Carmichael had offered her lodgings and they were now the best of mates. Kate Daniels couldn’t promise her a job, but she would see what she could do.

  Though the case was closed, Kate still had one more thing to do before she could lay it to rest. With a heavy heart she drove to Acklington village to make her peace with Bill Kent and apologize for the trauma she’d put him through. He’d hear nothing of it. He was grateful that his ten-year ordeal had finally come to an end. Sophie now had a proper resting place – maybe not quite as pretty at Bamburgh beach, but somewhere he could go and talk to her.

  THE SOUND OF Robert’s bike was distinctive as Rachel dropped the machine into the corner – knee down – using the force of gravity to maintain stability. Then confidently sped off along a winding road through stunning countryside, heading for home. She rode well, Kate shadowing her; their trip over Hartside the first of many in the years to come. It was a favourite destination of Kate’s, the one she turned to whenever she sought solitude after a harrowing case. The summit had far-reaching views on a good day. It was a place she only ever visited alone, with one exception: Jo Soulsby. Now she was happy to share it with Rachel, and hoped she would grow to love it too.

  Hank, Jo and
Emily turned to greet them as they arrived at The Stint. Since the trauma of that February, Rachel had moved out and returned to her studies. Today, she’d gone home. Surrounded by friends, she was ready to celebrate her father’s life, draw a line under the past and start over . . .

  The five of them wandered down the garden to the riverbank, a casket already in place. Emily looked a little reticent as her daughter neared the water’s edge and emptied out her father’s ashes into the water and watched them float away.

  She looked round. ‘No more tears, Mum.’

  ‘No more tears,’ Emily repeated.

  As mother and daughter walked off arm in arm to begin a new life, Jo made her excuses and left. Kate watched her go, her face pained with regret. During the Bamburgh enquiry, they had come close to rekindling their relationship, only to be pulled apart by circumstances. Since then, Jo had accepted Naylor’s invitation to return to work for Northumbria’s Murder Investigation Team, but she’d given Kate the brush-off. Their relationship was destined to be platonic from now on.

  ‘Get a grip!’ Hank said. ‘Could be worse.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Kate levelled her eyes at him. ‘What would you know?’

  Digging a hand in his pocket, he pulled out a plain white postcard and handed it to her. It was postmarked the Netherlands and addressed to her in Fiona Fielding’s flamboyant hand. Kate swore under her breath. She’d been so busy, she’d forgotten to text the artist her home address.

  ‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ he asked.

  Kate grinned. ‘I know what it says, Hank.’

  ‘Ahem . . .’ He made a crazy face. ‘I think you’ll find this one’s a little different, boss. I thought I’d better rescue it from your in-tray and deliver it personally before the team got their hands on it and posted it on Facebook or Twitter. It’s a bit more interesting than the usual stuff on there.’

  ‘Er, what have I told you about reading my mail?’

  Kate turned the card over. Instead of her usual four words – Are You Hungry Yet? – Fiona had planted a bright red lipstick kiss on one half of the card. On the other, she’d written four new words: Two Lips From Amsterdam.

  Kate laughed out loud. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s my shout.’

  Acknowledgements

  The idea for this book was mine but many people have contributed along the way – all of them deserve a loud round of applause. First and foremost, my brilliant agent at AM Heath, Oli Munson; my Pan Macmillan editor, the one and only Wayne Brookes; my wise and wonderful copy editor, Anne O’Brien; and last but not least, my publicist, Philippa McEwan, who looks after me so well.

  Thanks must also go to the unsung heroes, especially editorial assistant Louise Buckley, who will be married before this book hits the shops – congratulations, Louise! Also to everyone in the art department for producing the cover, the sales and marketing team who work extremely hard on my behalf, and the booksellers and readers who have supported me since day one.

  Were it not for my very own ‘close protection team’ I would not be a writer. So thanks to my family for putting up with my other self, the one who slopes off for days on end to play with words: Paul, Chris, Kate, Caroline, Max, Frances and Mo – you are all simply amazing.

  Read on for a look at Mari Hannah’s next Kate Daniels thriller

  KILLING FOR KEEPS

  On sale 6/2/15 from Witness Impulse

  Two brothers from the same criminal family die within hours of each other, five miles apart; one on the edge of a Newcastle industrial estate, the other in the busy emergency room of a local hospital. Both victims have suffered horrific injuries.

  Who wanted them dead? And will they kill again? Investigating these brutal and bloody killings leads detective Kate Daniels to break some rules, putting her career as well as her life on the line.

  As the body count rises in the worst torture case Northumbria Police has ever seen, the focus of the investigation widens to Glasgow and beyond to Europe, ending in a shocking confrontation with a dangerous offender hell-bent on revenge.

  1

  DAVID PRENTICE HAD been a security guard for over twenty-five years, nearly half his life. He’d worked on the Silverlink Industrial Estate the last ten. In all that time there had never been a single incident on his watch. Nights were a pain, but he wasn’t complaining. His line of work was, more or less, money for old rope. A piece of piss, in fact, allowing him time to study digital photography with the OU.

  What was not to like?

  Lifting his head from his prospectus, he took a long drag on his cigarette, rechecking his monitors. Perfect. Nothing to suggest he’d have to make the boring journey round the perimeter fence at five, no unusual sightings to report in the logbook. It was still. Quiet. He yawned. He’d be home and hosed by six-fifteen. Except . . .

  Something wasn’t quite right.

  Prentice peered again at the monitors. The last one he looked at showed a van straddling the main gate. It wasn’t there before. Pushing buttons on a keyboard, Prentice zoomed in on the vehicle, its driver’s door wide open – no sign of its owner. The van was parked on the access road, so technically not his problem, but it soon would be if the idiot who’d left it there didn’t get it shifted. Half an hour from now, delivery wagons were scheduled to arrive. Prentice imagined them backed up all the way to the coast road, waiting to get in.

  Panicking, he rewound the footage.

  A short while ago, he’d eaten his bait and taken a quick slash. He’d been out of his chair only a matter of minutes. In that time, two sets of headlights had approached the main gate at high speed: the mystery van and a light-coloured Range Rover following close behind. Prentice began to sweat as he viewed the screen. The two vehicles pulled up sharply. The van door flew open and a figure sprinted from one vehicle to the other. Before the door of the four-by-four was even closed, it was driven away at high speed, resulting in rear-wheel spin. It disappeared, leaving a plume of smoke in its wake.

  What the hell was all that about?

  Pulling on his uniform jacket, Prentice picked up his torch and went to investigate. As he walked to the exit, it occurred to him that what he’d seen might have been a diversionary tactic, a ruse to make him take his eye off the ball. The guy he’d seen running from the van and his accomplice could be parked around the back, ready to ram-raid the place. To be on the safe side, he returned to his office, rechecking his monitors, paying particular attention to the perimeter fence.

  Satisfied that there was nothing untoward at the rear, he made his way outside. As he hurried towards the main gate, a distance of around a hundred metres, his eyes nervously scanned the delivery yard. It was a beautifully clear morning. Not yet light. Eerily quiet. No sign of anyone, suspicious or otherwise. His breathing slowed, returning to normal. Probably some daft kids messing around in a stolen vehicle. They had little discipline these days and fewer boundaries. What the parents were up to was anyone’s guess.

  Digging inside his pocket, Prentice took out his master key, then thought better of it and put it back, deciding to remain on site, call the police and set the monkey on their backs, as his late wife used to say.

  They’re paid a damn sight more than you.

  Mrs P was right – they were.

  Intent on getting away home on the dot of six, Prentice looked up, the flap-flap of the company flag above drawing his attention. The only other sound was the soft purr from the van’s engine as he neared the main gate. Switching on his torch, he aimed it at the open driver’s door. The vehicle was a newish Mercedes. Along the side panel, a sign spelled out a company name: HARDY’S ROOFERS. Beneath it, a website address and contact details were picked out in bold black lettering.

  As he fumbled in his pocket for his mobile, Prentice decided it would be quicker and easier to contact the company direct rather than calling the law. The police would no doubt insist on a forensic examination and all sorts of other bollocks before the vehicle could be moved, leaving him stuck on site till lunch
time. Not to mention the shit he’d be in with his boss if he arrived to find the entrance blocked off.

  The number rang out unanswered. He scanned the van again, moving the torch-beam to the rear wheels where something glistened, thick and shiny like oil, dripping on to the road below, pooling beneath the vehicle.

  Oh Jesus!

  Prentice ran.

  2

  IT HAD BEEN a hell of a night in the A & E department of the Royal Victoria Infirmary. Since midnight there had been a steady stream of walking wounded, as well as emergency admissions brought in by ambulance, some with blue lights flashing and sirens screaming, the whole works. At last count, a hundred-plus cases had been booked in: heart attacks, strokes, a small child rushed in with meningitis, casualties from multiple RTAs. Bursting at the seams, the department had coped – but only just. Then it all went quiet.

  Totally spent, Senior House Officer Valerie Armstrong glanced around the waiting room, sipping cold tea she’d been given half an hour ago, relieved to have survived the general mayhem in the run-up to the August bank holiday weekend. Apart from one confused old man who’d just taken a seat, there wasn’t another punter in sight. The place looked as if it had been burgled: wheelchairs abandoned at the door, chairs tipped over, food wrappers and polystyrene cups discarded everywhere, a baby’s nappy dumped on the floor next to, of all things, an empty vodka bottle. She couldn’t remember a night like it.

  Behind a thick glass screen to her left, the department’s twenty-year-old temporary receptionist looked done in. Louise was leaning on the counter, head propped up in the palm of her right hand, ID clipped to the pocket of a tight-fitting white shirt, a pretty silver chain around her neck.

  Stifling a yawn, she took in the clock on the wall.

  ‘What time you due to knock off?’ she asked.