Monument to Murder (16 page)

J
O GOT IN
her car and drove off without another word. With no arrangement to meet again, Kate returned to the office in a foul mood. Hank was still there, helping himself to her coffee. He made her one too and then sat down, taking an open bag of cheese and onion crisps from his pocket.

‘Low fat . . .’ He grimaced. ‘They taste rank.’

‘So bin them,’ she said.

‘No need, I added salt. They’re better now. Want one?’

Kate laughed even though she felt like crying.

He was too busy with his snack to notice her eyes filling up. Recovering quickly, she did her usual and immersed herself in work. On this occasion, it was a long list of items she wanted to tackle at the evening briefing. By mid-afternoon, they were ready for a break. Yawning, Hank leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head, grinning as if he’d won the force lottery.

She asked what was so amusing. Her own sense of humour had gone walkabout. He said something facetious about all being well now that the Dream Team was back in action, which she didn’t find in the least bit amusing or comforting. Getting up, she drew down the window blind, a message to outsiders that they were not to be disturbed.

Gormley made a face. ‘Am I in for a bollocking?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’ She didn’t attempt to mask her anger as she sat down. He was treading on very thin ice interfering in her private life and she told him so. He’d stage-managed a meeting with Jo in the name of work. That wasn’t on. ‘I didn’t raise the issue on the way home from the beach, but it’s time I did. So keep it buttoned, eh? If I want your input, I’ll ask for it.’

‘What’s up with you?’ He made a meal of looking over his shoulder. ‘There’s no one else here, Kate—’

‘Your point being?’

‘My point being, there’s no need to go off on one. A blind man on a galloping horse could see you missed having her around.’

‘So you took it upon yourself to arrange a meet?’

‘How the hell did I know she’d be on the . . . beach.’

Kate rolled her eyes.
What-do-you-take-me-for?

Gormley knew he’d been rumbled. ‘She told you, didn’t she?’

‘About you meeting her in Alnwick yesterday? Yes, she told me.’

‘Now that
was
pure chance, I swear.’

‘I don’t doubt that for a second.’

‘So what’s the problem? It’s what you wanted, right? Seeing her again, I mean.’

‘Since when do you know what I want?’

‘Oops! Sorry, my mistake. I thought I did.’

Kate glared at him stony-faced. It was ridiculous arguing with him when he was acting in her best interests. She should be thanking him, not berating him, allowing her pride to get in the way. If she carried on like this, she’d have no one to confide in. She should apologize at once.

‘Knock you back, did she?’ Hank said before she could open her mouth.

‘Excuse me?’ Now he really
was
taking the piss. ‘You’re hardly in a position to play Cupid, are you? Maybe you should get your own house in order before organizing mine.’

He just looked at her. Inscrutable. ‘Y’know what? You can be an arsy cow sometimes. But you’re dead right. Aren’t you always? I’ve made a complete bollocks of home life. Julie and I are about as far apart as we ever were. Ryan hates my guts. Even the neighbours can’t stand the sight of me. That’s why I thought I’d spread a little sunshine your way. But hey!’ He held up his hands. ‘I’ll stay out of your business in future, no need to ask twice.’

Kate swallowed her guilt.

She could see she’d hurt him. She ought not to have dragged his marital problems into their silly spat but she was too prickly to apologize. He thought he was helping. She thought he’d gone too far. End of. It was as well
their
relationship was strong enough to survive a difference of opinion. He was her number one fan; her professional partner as opposed to her personal one. He’d forgive and forget before the day was out. She couldn’t believe they were having a go at each other. Still, she wished she could take back what she’d said.

Jo would laugh if she knew they were fighting over her.

Sending him off to brief the team, Kate left the station without telling him where she was going, something she never ever did. She needed some time alone – time to get her focus off Jo Soulsby and on to the job. Time to cool down. The best way to achieve that was a visit to the morgue.

D
ARK CLOUDS THREATENED
to dump their load across Northumberland as Emily left the prison with an errand to run. It was something she should’ve done long ago; something far more important than some arsehole rookie officer showing off to his mates during her training course.

Two young officers had really got up her nose. They were being charged with the containment of some of the most serious sex offenders and yet they were behaving like adolescent schoolboys. The victims of those sex offenders deserved better. Angered at the suggestion that women were a bunch of cock-teasers who deserved what they got, Emily had displayed photographs of beaten and murdered women, real crime scenes where the victims had been horribly disfigured.

That made them pay attention.

As her presentation came to an end, her mind drifted to one sex offender in particular, more especially his threat to commit murder. A horrible thought kept gnawing away at her subconscious – one she could hardly bear to contemplate. It was Fearon’s preoccupation with
her
that had put her daughter’s life at risk.

Rachel was safe now, but for how long?

Today’s events had put things into perspective. From this moment on, her daughter was her one and only priority. Handing in her keys at the gatehouse, Emily felt drained and exhausted as she accepted her tag in return. Her head ached after the seminar, the first in a series of six in-depth discussions she was scheduled to carry out over the coming weeks. Hopefully it would do some good, challenge idiotic notions like the ones she’d come up against this afternoon. That sort of thing couldn’t be overlooked, let alone tolerated, in or out of the prison environment.

Checking underneath Robert’s rusty old Defender before she got in – force of habit drilled into her by security staff – Emily put on her seatbelt and turned over the engine. The vehicle sounded like a tractor but she couldn’t bring herself to part with it. She put it in gear and moved off, desperate to catch the hardware store in Felton before it shut up shop for the day.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up outside. A sign on the door said CLOSED but a light from the window offered a glimmer of hope. She tried the handle.

No joy.

She peered through the glass in the door. The shop was a veritable Aladdin’s cave, crammed with all kinds of gadgets: pots, pans, brooms, items and equipment for every conceivable use. The owner was hunched over his counter, balancing the day’s takings by the looks of it. A poster behind him screamed:
HOLLER IF THERE’S SOMETHING YOU NEED THAT I DON’T SELL!
That was the type of shopkeeper Reg Hendry was, why he’d survived where others had failed, why he was still in business in a village this small. But he was as deaf as a stone and hadn’t heard her knock.

Emily knocked again, harder this time.

The old man looked up, walked round the counter to unbolt the door, a bell tinkling as he pulled it open. He couldn’t afford to turn good customers away even though he’d been open since eight o’clock that morning. He stepped aside to let her pass, following her gaze as she scanned the untidy shelves, so many items it was hard to distinguish one thing from the other.

‘Something pacific you were after?’

She tried not to laugh. Reg was a master of the malapropism.

‘I need some locks,’ she said. ‘Bolts too, if you have any.’

‘Window or door?’

‘Both. I was hoping you could advise me.’

‘Expecting a break-in are you?’ The old man had hit a nerve. He noticed Emily’s concern but pretended he hadn’t. ‘Best if I fit them, eh? No extra charge.’

‘Would you? That would be really kind.’

‘I’ll nip out tomorrow. Afternoon OK with you?’

Emily nodded. ‘I’ll pop home from the prison and make you a cuppa. Hang on! Isn’t tomorrow your half-day?’

‘Every day’s a half-day at my age, flower.’ He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I never could refuse the ladies, but don’t tell the wife.’

A
FTER A BRIEF
visit to the morgue, Kate got in her car and drove around for a while, needing time to think, time to calm down after her spat with her favourite DS. Time to call Jo. She’d already tried her twice. She was about to try again when her mobile rang.

Hank.

‘You speaking to me yet?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘No.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

Robson interrupted at the other end. It sounded urgent. Hank asked her to hold on. He didn’t bother covering the speaker and she heard every word that passed between them. Pete Brooks from the control room wanted to speak to her urgently but her phone was engaged and he couldn’t get through. Something about her suspect, John Edward Thompson, a.k.a. JET – due to his initials, she assumed, and not because he could run like a bastard when cornered by the police.

‘Boss?’ Hank was back.

‘I heard,’ she said. ‘Hanging up now.’

Maybe, just maybe, this could be the break she’d been waiting for.

P
ULLING ON TO
the drive of her isolated cottage, Emily couldn’t fail to notice the open garage door. It was an engineering enthusiast’s garage, full of assorted tools and motoring memorabilia, including a bookshelf crammed with Robert’s old car manuals. Not one but two of his treasured motorcycles stood side by side, both of them polished to perfection.

Rachel was nowhere in sight.

Emily’s eyes fell on her front door. The wonky knocker. The peeling paint her late husband had said he’d fix but never got round to. It was the threshold over which he’d lifted her on their wedding day – the best day of her life – the door to their future life together. That door now stood slightly ajar . . . a sight that scared her witless.

Frozen to the Defender’s seat, she was unable to summon up the courage to move. Unable to do anything except listen to Fearon’s threat running through her thoughts. She’d lost her husband. She couldn’t lose Rachel.

Get a grip
, she told herself.

He’s in a cell.

In a prison.

Under lock and key.

But still . . .

Her eyes slid over the kitchen window where Rachel would’ve been standing when they spoke an hour and a half ago. There were no lights on inside.
Unusual.
Flanked on either side with a copse of trees, the north-facing cottage required illumination, even during the daytime, even in summer. There was no movement
anywhere. With her heart in her mouth, Emily dialled Kate Daniels’ number.

T
HE
DCI
PICKED UP
. Pete Brooks came on the line. ‘Got something for you, boss. Report just in from Bamburgh. Man resembling the description of your suspect, John Edward Thompson, on the beach, acting in a suspicious manner according to the caller.’

‘Suspicious?’

‘He’s lighting candles, boss.’

‘What makes you think it’s him?’

‘Witness claims he has a deep red patch on his face.’

Kate did an immediate U-turn and put her foot down on the accelerator. ‘Have you sent anybody?’

‘Yes, 3465 is on his way. Ten minutes before he can get there, mind.’

‘Nobody nearer?’ Kate had been driving around aimlessly and now she was forced to check road signs in order to get her bearings. According to what Brooks was telling her, no one else was closer. No CID. Not even a dog handler. She was on her own. ‘No sweat,’ she replied. ‘Put a call out for any of my squad in the vicinity to meet me there. If I break the law, I’m about five minutes away.’

‘Hank’s on his way too,’ Brooks said. ‘ETA, more like twenty.’

‘Tell him not to bother. He’s miles away and I’m not waiting. Put me on talk-through with 3465 – Hank too if he insists on following me. No offence, but in his current mood he’s not going to listen to you. I’ll be coming in north of the castle, Pete. I’ll head for the car park and walk south along the beach. Tell 3465 to make his way from the south end near Armstrong Cottages. I know I’m going to get there first. Who made the call?’

‘Couple walking their dog.’

‘Are they still on the line?’

‘Negative. The guy was anxious to get his wife home.’

Shit!
Daniels did a quick head check. The streets were almost deserted. It was after kicking-out time for schools. Fortunately for her, the weather was naff and doing its bit to keep pedestrians inside. The few folk that were around were in cars, not on foot. ‘When did you receive the call?’

‘Just before I called Hank.’

‘Right, speak to them again. I want full details before I hit the beach.’

‘You sound like a navy seal, boss.’

Kate laughed out loud as a million questions ran through her head. She rattled them off one after the other. ‘What’s our guy wearing, Pete?’

‘Description the witness gave was sketchy: jeans, parka jacket, white trainers.’

‘Where were they? Where was he, exactly?’

‘They were on the beach walking their dog. He was kneeling on the ground just below your crime scene. He turned and looked at them, then pulled his hood up – she says trying to cover his face. That’s what triggered the alarm.’

‘Was the man alone?’

‘Affirmative.’

Daniels’ speedo was climbing, trees flashing by on either side of the road. ‘And he was still there when they left the beach?’

‘I believe so.’

‘OK, keep me updated. Find out how many vehicles were there. Did they see anyone else? Did they see how he made his way there? Did they see him before he lit the candles or afterwards? I want the whole SP.’

She rang off.

Driving on, she knew she had a decision to make before she left
the car. She had two choices: wait for backup or go it alone. In reality, there wasn’t any call to be made. Back in her uniform days, when she’d faced the possibility of confronting a group of arseholes in a pub armed with glasses, knives or guns, that had been the time to start worrying. In her present situation it was just a matter of one suspect on a beach and a colleague only minutes away.

Piece of cake.

She knew Thompson’s record inside out. The offences he’d committed – what she believed he might have done – the kind of person he was. A soft shit in all probability. Offenders against children invariably were. He was evil if he’d killed those girls, but Kate couldn’t allow herself to think that he might kill her too. If she lost her bottle every time she faced danger, she might as well hand in her warrant card now. Assuming Thompson was involved, the way she saw it, he could run but he couldn’t fight. She could fight
and
she could run.

She had the upper hand.

The phone rang.

‘Control here, boss. I’ve spoken to the witnesses. They’re pretty shaken up. They reckon the man they saw seemed anxious. They don’t know if he had a car. They didn’t speak to him, just buggered off. They don’t remember any vehicles in the car park or recall seeing anyone else. And you were right by the way: Hank wouldn’t listen. He’s on his way.’

Of course he bloody is.

‘I’m two minutes away. Coming off Church Street . . . now heading for the car park at the end of The Wynding . . . hold on . . .’ Her eyes scanned left and right as she drove into the car park. ‘No vehicles in the north car park. Uniform 3465, I want you at the south car park, near the castle. Keep your eyes peeled for vehicles.’

‘3465: message received.’

The DCI rang off.

Party time.

E
MILY HUNG UP
. She couldn’t wait any longer for Kate to get off the phone. Opening the Defender’s door she climbed down, her feet sliding on the icy incline as she walked toward her cottage. She listened. No sound beyond that of the countryside. The security light came on as she neared the doorway.

Twenty feet.

Deep breath.

Ten.

There was mud on the step but no sound from within.

Unheard of.

When Rachel was home, music usually filled the house.

Reaching up, Emily eased open the door trying not to make a sound. Her heart was banging in her chest. She didn’t know what she expected to find. She didn’t dare think about it. Her sensible self was telling her to stop all this nonsense. But the mother in her couldn’t push away the image of Fearon in her office, nor wipe away his ugly words.

Then she saw them . . .

Muddy footprints. Too large to be her daughter’s.

The sight made her gasp.

In the hallway now, she was able to see into the living room. Everything appeared normal. Except . . . one of the photographs of Robert had been turned so it was facing the wrong way. Other than that: nothing untoward. But as she crept into the room, her hand flew to her mouth as saw the broken vase on the floor, its scattered flowers wilting in the heat in the room.

A smear on the floor caught her eye.

Blood.

K
ATE RACED FROM
the car. As she ran down on to the beach, two scenarios played out in her head. Thompson could either run or stand his ground. What action would she take if he stood there? Would she kick him in the balls or keep her nerve, excuse herself politely and ask what he was doing there?

Riding a motorbike had taught her a lot. She’d learned to prioritize every second of every mile of every journey. At each hazard, she had a call to make. Depending what action she took, it could hurt, it could hurt a lot, or it could kill her.

Coppers made those calls all the time.

On a scale of one to ten, the fear factor she was facing was probably a five. It wasn’t a six. She had no idea if a weapon might have been used to kill the girls buried on the beach. If she had, that might have nudged it up the scale to a six or even a seven. But based on the knowledge she had – and Jo’s theory that the killings might have been a twisted act of devotion – it was a definite five. In any case, she couldn’t hang around to ponder what ifs.

By the time she reached the beach she was breathless, the phone in her pocket now connected to Hank’s, her earpiece in. Though she wasn’t particularly dressed for it, she began jogging on the spot. Glancing to her right, directly below her crime scene, she saw a figure crouched down, a hood obscuring his face.

At this distance she couldn’t tell if it was Thompson.

‘I can see him, Hank. About a hundred metres away.’

She did a few stretches, never taking her eye off her target.

Then began to jog up the beach towards him.

Seventy metres . . .

Sixty . . .

Fifty . . .

T
RANSFIXED BY THE
sight of blood on the floor, Emily hadn’t heard the front door close quietly behind her. It was more a sense of a presence that made her swing round. Rachel was standing at the front door in work clothes, a pair of her father’s wellington boots over mud-caked jeans, her face red with exertion, hair tumbling down, a badly applied plaster on her thumb.

‘I’m sorry about that, Mum . . .’ She was looking at the mess on the floor. ‘There was no super-glue in the garage. I was trying to find some in the shed, but the top was glued on and I couldn’t get it off.’ She stared at Emily, a worried look on her face. ‘What’s wrong? You look awful.’

Emily’s smile felt forced as she tried to cover her distress. For the second time in a matter of hours she felt very silly, standing there listening to her own heartbeat. Thank God she hadn’t been able to get hold of Kate Daniels.

T
HIRTY METRES
,
TWENTY
, ten, and still the target hadn’t moved. But then . . . Kate stopped suddenly as the man hauled himself off his knees and glanced in her direction.

‘It isn’t Thompson,’ she said. ‘Control, I repeat: it is
not
John Edward Thompson. Officers attending the scene near Bamburgh Castle don’t break your neck. It is not Thompson.’

‘Shit!’ Hank swore under his breath. He sounded both disappointed and relieved. ‘Boss, that doesn’t mean he’s not the arsehole we’re looking—’

Kate hung up.

The man looked at her oddly as she walked up to him. She was tall but he towered over her. Close up, she was able to properly see the whites of his eyes, the fresh grazing to his forehead and cheek, healed over with a dark-red scab.

She’d made the right call.

‘May I ask what you’re doing here, sir?’

‘I’m just paying my respects to the lasses they found.’

She wanted to tell him to pick up his ring of pathetic candles and sod off. Outpourings of grief by complete strangers made her blood boil. What the fuck was he waiting for, a television crew?

If her guts were anything to go by, the whole damn thing was a total waste of time. But the witnesses who rang the control room had clearly been spooked by his behaviour. As soon as they told their friends and neighbours, fear would spread. She’d have to eliminate the idiot from her enquiry now, whether she liked it or not. He’d have to answer a number of questions, give samples and, if possible, account for his movements at the time her victims were buried. Although at the moment that was yet to be determined and, according to Abbey Hunt, it might never be.

‘You have knowledge of what happened here, sir?’

‘No, of course not!’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Yes! What’s it to you anyhow?’

‘Can I have your details please?’

‘No, you can’t. What d’you want them for anyway? Who the hell are you?’

‘I’m the one asking the questions, sir.’ The DCI held up ID. ‘This area is the scene of a serious offence. We’re anxious to trace people who have knowledge of what happened here. You’re telling me you don’t, and that may well be the case. But you must realize that I now need to satisfy myself of that.’ She pointed at the candles. ‘That kind of thing really isn’t helpful. People think it’s suspicious and ring the
police. Then someone like me has to turf up here and speak to the likes of you. See what I’m getting at?’

The man blushed.

He was a dead ringer for Thompson: height, build and stature, but no birthmark. Pete Brooks had heard about his suspicious behaviour, taken down a description, put two and two together and made five. It happened. No one’s fault. It could so easily have gone the other way.