Monument to Murder (11 page)

K
ATE
D
ANIELS COULDN
’
T CONCENTRATE
. Despite freezing temperatures, the weather had improved sufficiently that the local kids were out in force. A game of basketball was going on below her office window, punctuating her thoughts with the constant clatter of the ball hitting the backboard of a net attached to the house across the street, followed by the roar of laughter and occasional bad language between teenagers having a bit of fun. She’d been good at netball as a girl, even played for her county once upon a time.

Part of her wished she could join them.

‘You look like you’re somewhere else,’ Hank said as he walked through the door.

She nodded toward the window. ‘Just listening to the exuberance of youth. Wishing I was their age with nothing better to do than throw a ball around, take the piss out of my teachers and smoke behind the bike sheds.’

Gormley smiled. ‘It’s not like you to reminisce.’

He was right – it wasn’t – but she’d been doing little else the last few hours. Even during the morning briefing she’d been replaying her trip home last night. After a nightmare journey, she’d gone into her study to face something she should’ve faced ages ago but hadn’t had the guts. Standing on a chair, she’d opened up an overhead cupboard and lifted out a shoebox. Then she’d sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the three-letter-word written neatly on the side:
MUM.

Registering the faraway expression on her face, Gormley asked, ‘You feeling OK? You look a bit pale.’

His boss nodded, trying to drag herself into the present. But
a memory a quarter of a century old sucked her in again. Kate touched her hair. She could feel her mother’s hands gently lifting it off her face as she prepared the birthday girl for her party. Transported back in time, she remembered the cake with ten candles on it standing proud on the table, the feel of every brushstroke as her mother wove her hair into a plait and tied it with a yellow ribbon to match her party dress. The same yellow ribbon Kate had used to secure a shoebox containing her mother’s precious keepsakes following her death.

And now, in her head at least, she was in her study, untying it again.

Breathe . . .

In her mind’s eye, she raised the top off the box and peered inside: a parcel of letters, some old photographs, various items of cheap jewellery, a folded silk scarf. Lifting out the scarf, she peeled away the corners as if her actions might cause the delicate fabric to disintegrate in her hands. Wrapped inside were two sets of rosary beads, her own and her late mother’s. Placing them beside her on the floor, she drew the scarf to her face, inhaling deeply, allowing the memory of her mum’s scent to engulf her.

‘You sure?’ Hank asked. ‘You don’t look too good.’

Kate managed a nod. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a string of plastic pearls almost identical to the ones recovered from their ten-year-old victim. She handed them to Gormley. ‘Very like our samples, am I right?’

He examined them for a moment. ‘Looks that way. Where d’you get them?’

‘Home . . .’ she said. ‘My home.’

He didn’t understand. Why would he?

‘They belonged to my mum – a gift from my paternal grandmother.
They must be forty or fifty years old. As soon as I saw the exhibits Neil collected yesterday I knew I’d seen some just like them.’ She pointed at the pearls, the pearlescent paint missing in places. ‘I was allowed to play with those as a kid, but was told to keep them safe. Don’t suppose I ever questioned why. I certainly got the impression that they were special somehow.’

‘Special?’

‘Yes . . . no, I don’t know, Hank. I’ve been racking my brains all night, trying to remember, but I just can’t.’ Using her index finger, she tapped her right temple. ‘The answer is in there somewhere, but it’s evading me. I have this feeling that these pearls might have a past connection with an area not so far away from here.’

‘Now you’ve lost me.’ Gormley sat down.

‘Have you never wondered how a miner’s daughter like me was born and brought up so far away from a pit village?’

He shook his head. ‘Thought never crossed my mind.’

‘It’s odd though, yes?’

‘S’pose.’

‘My family haven’t always lived in the Tyne Valley. On both sides they were miners going back generations. Mum was from Durham, my old man was Ashington born and bred—’

‘That’s only twenty miles away—’

‘Exactly. It’s a bit of a long story . . .’ Kate waved Hank to the seat across the desk and waited while he made himself comfortable. ‘My old man inherited his cottage from an uncle he never even knew he had – a childless widower. He was an engineer by all accounts, an entrepreneur who started his own business and did rather well. My father’s inclusion in his will came as a complete surprise. He’d not long married my mum, but he was already down the pits by then, earning OK money, enough to feed and clothe them at any rate.
He wanted to sell the cottage on, but Mum wouldn’t hear of it. She persuaded him to keep it and carry on working, using it only for holidays. They didn’t move in until I came along. Not many miners had their own homes and none were mortgage free, so when the pits closed they were better off than most.’

‘Nice uncle.’ Gormley held up the pearls. ‘You sending these off for comparison?’

‘I certainly am.’

‘You going to ask your old man about them?’

Kate grimaced. ‘Do I have a choice?’

Taking an envelope off her desk, she wrote instructions on the front and held it open. Hank dropped the pearls inside. She stuck it down, hoping her father would shed some further light on what had made the pearls an heirloom to be passed on. A little local knowledge could go a long way.

Picking her mobile off the desk, she dialled his number, wondering if he’d be home from his weekly visit to his favourite haunt. He was an avid reader of political thrillers, a founder member of a reading group that met at Corbridge Village Hall, and a staunch supporter of the ‘Save Our Libraries’ campaign.

His phone rang out unanswered.

She looked at her watch. It was almost one. The meeting ought to be over by now.

The voicemail kicked in. At the tone she left a message: ‘Dad, it’s me. Can you call me when you get this? It’s very important. Thanks.’ Hanging up, she made a mental note to call him later. But before she had a chance to pocket her mobile, it rang in her hand.

It was him.

Her father didn’t bother to introduce himself. There was no friendly greeting. No: Hi, how you doing, love? No explanation as
to why he’d ignored the phone a moment ago, merely a curt and frosty: ‘Is something wrong? You said it was important.’

Kate glanced around her, hackles rising.

The incident room was busy. Phones were ringing: always a good sign that information was beginning to come in. Civilian staff were tapping away at their computers, updating HOLMES. The rest of her team were too engrossed in what they were doing to pay her any heed.

She went back to her call. ‘I need to see you. Will you be in later?’

‘You’re coming here?’

She didn’t bite. She’d not set foot inside his house for a good while. Not since their last major blow-up.
When was that?
There had been so many. She was too wired to recall. ‘I’m in Alnwick, Dad. Not sure what time I can get away, but I’ll be there – probably late afternoon or early evening, depending on the weather and traffic. Is that OK?’

Ed Daniels agreed it was and promptly rang off.

E
MILY HADN
’
T HEARD
the fracas going on a hundred metres away. The first she knew of it was when the alarm sounded. Word that a prisoner was missing from a working party spread like wildfire. No one told her which prisoner it was, but a full security alert was now in operation and a search was ongoing close to the perimeter fence, the obvious place to start looking for an escapee.

Kent and his working group had been bundled into the Governor’s office and were being questioned by the head of security. Unconcerned, Emily got on with her work.

So deep was her concentration, the tapping noise hardly registered at first.

It was irritating more than anything. It sounded as if it was coming from below ground: probably the ancient plumbing, unable to cope with radiators turned up high after the sudden drop in temperature.

The noise stopped and Emily went back to making notes in a case file. When the tapping resumed, she put down her pen and looked around, trying to identify the source.

The clock above her office door moved forward a notch.

It was nearly quarter to four and already getting dark.

She went to the window and looked out in the half-light beyond . . . and shrank back as Fearon’s face suddenly appeared, pressed hard against her window, flattened and distorted, a menacing expression in his eyes.

That was it. She’d had enough of his nonsense.

By the time the litter-picking party were led back to C-wing, Emily and Walker were waiting by the entrance, ready to intercept them. Despite the fact that he was bringing up the rear, Fearon clocked them from way down the corridor. He never took his eyes off Emily as he shambled along towards her, a smirk on his face.

Walker pushed his key into the wing gate and turned it.

He glanced at Emily. ‘Want me to deal with him?’

‘Thanks, Ash, but this is something I need to do for myself.’

‘OK.’ Reluctantly he nodded for her to proceed. ‘If he gives you any lip, though, he’s mine.’

‘Fair enough.’

Jones was first in, top dog as usual. He obviously knew what had happened because, as he passed Emily by, he smiled and said: ‘Shall I do him, miss? Say the word and I’ll stick him in the showers.’

Ignoring his remark, Emily glared at Kent. There was only one way Jones could have found out what had gone on outside her office window. It had to have come from one of the prison staff, and it wouldn’t take a Mensa member to work out which one. Jones grinned, pleased to have witnessed obvious aggro between two people he hated with a passion. He moved off as Singh caught up with him, his right eye all puffed up, a dribble of blood on his chin.

When SO Walker asked if he needed medical attention, Singh shook his head.

‘What happened, Ajit?’ Emily asked.

Singh’s eyes flitted past them.

Emily looked over her shoulder.

Jones was standing a little way off – eyes fixed firmly on Singh – his powerful arms crossed over his chest, his tongue pushing out his left cheek, an unspoken message writ large on his ugly mug:
Grass and you’re dead.

Singh’s voice was hardly audible. ‘I don’t want no trouble, miss.’

‘That isn’t an answer,’ Emily persisted. ‘I asked you a question.’

‘I slipped. Please, miss, you have to believe me.’

‘You sure about that?’

The inmate couldn’t look her in the eye.

And who could blame him, with Jones looking on? The poisonous shit was enjoying his moment. Laughing at them. He could afford to do as he pleased. Unlike Singh, he wasn’t getting out early. He had nothing to lose. Emily asked the SO to remove him immediately. Walker nodded to one of his men, the fittest of the bunch if his physique was anything to go by. The young officer sprang into action, helping Jones along with a sharp shove in the back.

Emily waited until he was out of sight then turned to Singh. ‘I have your parole decision.’

He searched her face optimistically.

Smiling, she held up a thumb. ‘You deserve it.’

Punching the air in celebration, the inmate rushed off to pass on the good news to his personal officer, the member of staff who’d supported him throughout his sentence and recommended the granting of parole. Emily turned. Fearon was being held beyond the wing gate, his face streaked by the shadow of the bars. As Emily beckoned him inside, Kent released his grip on the prisoner’s arm. Fearon shuffled forward, shoulders hunched, head bowed, pretending he was sorry for what he’d done.

Unmoved by this show of contrition, Emily stepped in front of him, blocking his entry. ‘Try that again and I’ll take you to the Governor myself. What on earth did you think you were doing?’

Fearon’s glasses were so plastered with filth it was hard to see the message in his eyes.

Ash Walker turned to the psychologist. ‘Want him on report?’

‘Damn right.’ She moved aside, allowing Fearon to continue on his way. As he passed her, she added, ‘And if he tries to make an application to see me, it’s refused.’

Fearon’s step faltered.

He’d overheard. He was meant to. As he turned to look at Emily, her mind was made up.
If he wanted war, he’d get war. Two could play at that game.

A
N OWL HOOTED
, disturbed by tyres on gravel, as the Q5 swept to a halt outside a five-bar gate. Keeper’s Cottage lay nestled in a woodside clearing at the end of a long narrow driveway. Typically
Northumbrian, the single-storey, stone and slate former gamekeeper’s cottage stood alone.

There wasn’t another house for almost three miles.

Cutting her headlights, Kate Daniels leaned against the headrest, letting her tired eyes become accustomed to the dark, taking a moment to compose herself before getting out of the car. In her time as a police officer she’d interviewed murderers and rapists. Chased armed robbers through crowded streets with sirens screaming. Hunted down the most evil drug dealers, even gone undercover, putting her life at risk. Nothing fazed her. But the prospect of meeting her father had reduced her to a small girl who was about to be denied pocket money.

To put it mildly, she was dreading the encounter.

Taking a long, deep breath, she hoped her luck was in tonight. She was counting on her father providing vital information that would take her enquiry in the right direction. Problem was, in order to drag it from him she’d first have to step into a happy world she’d buried long ago.

And so would he.

The familiar smell of a real coal fire floated in the air as she got out of the car. Though she had no key, she didn’t think to knock. Residents in this part of the world felt no need to lock their doors to keep intruders out. Even at night. Even after a double murder in the village church a couple of years ago that had shocked the community to the core. Open house was a way of life here. It had been for hundreds of years. It would take more than a depraved killer to change that.

Kate pushed open the door. By the sounds of it, her father was making himself busy in the tiny scullery at the rear of the house. Not wanting to startle him, she called out as she approached along the narrow hallway.

‘I’m not deaf!’ he grumbled as she walked in. He didn’t look up from the dishes in the sink. ‘There’s tea in the pot. Probably stewed now, but don’t blame me. It was fresh when you drove up.’

Kate hadn’t thought she’d been sitting outside that long.

Putting her briefcase on the floor, she unhooked a clean mug from a peg on the wall and took a carton of milk from the fridge. She’d drink his tea, not because she was thirsty but to keep the peace. As she poured it out, she noticed two of her favourite chocolate biscuits laid out on a plate on the kitchen bench, a nice reminder that her father had a heart. But then he went and spoiled the moment by walking away.

She found him in the living room. He was standing with his back to a roaring fire, waiting for her to explain herself. Kate sat down, apologized again for disappointing him on his birthday, then tried to steer the conversation away from her failure in the good daughter contest. ‘This is an odd question, Dad, but do you remember a string of pearls I played with as a little girl?’

His frown was a major disappointment to her.

Hoping she hadn’t wasted her time driving all this way, she tried again. ‘I seem to remember Mum telling me that Grandpa gave them to her.’

‘Grandpa?’

She gave a little nod.

When she was a youngster, to avoid confusion, her maternal grandfather was referred to as Pops, her paternal grandfather as Grandpa. Her father didn’t speak for a little while. He seemed sad all of a sudden but his melancholy didn’t last long.

‘Your grandpa would’ve given her the world if she’d asked for it,’ he said. ‘He loved your mum. Maybe the pearls were your nan’s.’

Sadie Daniels had died young, long before Kate was born. But
still . . . there was a story to the string of pearls she’d found, she was certain of it. Before leaving the office she’d sent them off for analysis, requesting comparison with those recovered at her crime scene.

Searching her father’s face, she took care not to lead him. ‘They weren’t real, Dad. They were plastic. The type you pull apart and snap together. You know the sort I mean? Kids’ stuff.’

A flash of recognition crossed his face.

‘You remember them, don’t you?’

‘Every miner’s daughter got a set back then. The boys got a football.’

What on earth was he on about?

Her father was one of four boys.

For a long while he said nothing. He just stared at the floor, considering. Kate, seeing he was upset, struggled to understand the cause. Eventually, he raised his head. Picking up on her confusion, he swallowed hard and sat down beside her. Taking a deep breath, he began speaking.

‘I had a twin sister . . .’ The words caught in his throat. He paused: a moment of inner torment that seemed to last for ever. Kate didn’t pressure him. She could see how the memory grieved him. She didn’t touch him either, knowing it would push him over the edge. ‘Her name was Mary,’ he said. ‘She died when we were four. Hit and run.’

Kate couldn’t believe she was hearing this for the very first time. Then a conversation with her mother jumped into her head. Before she was born, her parents had agreed that if they had a boy her mum would choose her name, a girl and her father would. He chose the name Mary but then changed his mind when registering her birth, an action he’d never fully explained to Kate’s mum.

Now she knew why.

Mary Daniels.

It didn’t sound right.

Her father’s face was pained by the memory of his dead sister. Kate felt sorry for him. He’d lost all the women in his life: his mother, sister, wife,
her.
As an only child, she was the sole surviving female, the only one capable of carrying on the family name.
So, it was curtains for clan Daniels.
Another guilt trip he could lay at her door.

‘I’m so sorry, Dad. I didn’t know.’

‘Makes no odds now . . .’ He looked at her accusingly. ‘Your lot were next to useless when it happened. That’s what my dad told me, anyway. The police never did find the person responsible.’

God! Why did he always blame her for everything?

‘What did you mean when you said everyone got a set “back then”?’

‘The Coronation,’ he said.

‘So that would have been 1953?’

‘The Miners’ Welfare organized street parties to celebrate. A few sandwiches and cake, that’s all. But the weather was atrocious and most were moved inside. It tanked it down. The roads were all flooded, but we didn’t care . . .’ Ed Daniels’ mood lifted momentarily. ‘Aye, it was a grand day.’ Then his eyes were empty again. ‘Mary was dead within the year.’