Monument to Murder (7 page)

T
HE
R
AILWAY
I
NN
wasn’t far from the prison. It was a typical farmhouse conversion with a cosy wood-burner and photographs of a past association with horse racing adorning the walls. The lounge was almost empty. Not surprising on such a grim night. Jo Soulsby and Martin Stamp had taken their drinks to one corner of the lounge so as not to be overheard by the four regulars standing at the bar, all men. At least one of them was a prison officer, a tall skinny guy with two cute border terriers fast asleep on the floor at his feet.

Jo’s glass of red wine was divine, if a little chilly, a bit like the atmosphere across the table. Stamp was silent now, staring into his pint as if it held the answer to his problems. He’d fallen over himself to apologize to her. It turned out he’d been to see Walter Fearon when he had no authority so to do and in her opinion no damned right either.

She wanted to clear the air but was still wound up about his weirdness in the prison corridor after their squash game. To make matters worse, Naylor was due at any second. If
he
got wind of their little spat, policeman or not, the gloves would be off in the car park.

Jo didn’t want that.

Feeling like one half of an argumentative married couple, she scanned the empty tables around her. Other locals would pop in for the last hour, their way of showing support to the landlord for keeping the only pub in the village alive. The prison officer at the bar was watching her, casting the occasional glance here and there, maybe even the odd comment to the others if the smirk on his face was anything to go by.

She looked away, avoiding his eyes.

‘You’ve overstepped your brief,’ she told Stamp.

And he had: flashing his impressive credentials in order to infiltrate the medical wing; convincing the late shift that it was in their patient’s best interests to be seen by a psychiatrist, sooner rather than later, following his suicide attempt. Getting Fearon to open up and, in so doing, feeding his sick fantasies.

Pushing her wine away, Jo took a deep breath and tried to calm down. She’d been angry with him ever since he made his move to step into Robert McCann’s shoes so soon after his death. But now she had more reasons to add to the list. His rough treatment of her was unforgiveable. He’d also blatantly poked his nose into Emily’s professional life. That was both patronizing and unfair.

And still he didn’t answer.

‘I mean it, Martin. I’d like to believe you’re just looking out for her, but she doesn’t need or even want your protection.’ She wasn’t getting through. ‘When she finds out she’ll be bloody furious—’

‘Hold on a second! Didn’t she ask for our input only this morning?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘But nothing! As far as I’m concerned, her request justifies my actions. I just stopped by and had a little chat with him, that’s all.’ He took in the group at the bar and leaned closer, lowering his voice a touch. ‘This kid is dangerous and unpredictable.’

‘I know. I heard you the first time!’

‘And he’s obsessed with Emily.’

‘You think I don’t know that? I work at this prison too, remember?’ She eyeballed him across the table. ‘Sorry to state the obvious but, apart from me, she’s the only woman he sees. His fascination with her must be seen in that context.’

‘Does that extend to the screws?’

‘Excuse me?’ Jo was utterly thrown by his remark.

Stamp eyeballed her. ‘I see the way they look at her.’

Jo’s mouth fell open. ‘I can’t believe you said that out loud. Martin,
listen
to yourself! You’re the one who needs help. You’re acting like a jealous prick.’

He took a long slug of beer, glaring at her over the top of his glass. He’d embarrassed himself and made her feel uncomfortable.

No wonder he wanted to see her outside of work.

‘OK, OK! I admit it,’ he said, buckling under the intensity of her gaze. ‘I’m crazy about her. I blew my chance once. If anything were to happen to her now I’d never forgive myself. I’d lose her all over again. I’m not having that, Jo. And I’m certainly not going to apologize for wanting to make her happy. This inmate, Fearon, he’s—’

‘A manipulative freak is what he is.’ Jo almost laughed. ‘Wake up, man. Ninety-nine per cent of men in prison are sexually frustrated. That’s hardly news, is it? She’s gorgeous and they’re locked away from females! Most straight males in there will have fantasized about her at one time or another. Why should Fearon be any different? Do you seriously think that passed her by? You heard her this morning. She’s hardly written him off as a pathetic loser, has she? She knows precisely how dangerous he—’

‘She doesn’t know he slit his wrists in order to get close to her, does she?’

Jo stopped ranting. ‘He said that?’

‘He didn’t have to. It was written all over his face. Like it or not, she’s vulnerable now. Look, I know what I’m talking about. I think it would be best if she ceased working with him, at least for the time being. And I think you—’

He checked himself, didn’t finish what he was going to say.

Whatever it was, Jo wanted to hear it. ‘Going to patronize
me
now?’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ He was blushing.

‘Go on, I’m sure you could manage if you try
really
hard.’

He ignored the wind-up. Changing the subject, he pointed at her glass and asked if she wanted a refill. She declined, told him what she wanted was an explanation.

‘Emily trusts you, Jo. You’re her friend. You’re also a Home Office psychologist—’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘You could easily take over Fearon’s supervision. No one would bat an eyelid, least of all the Governor.’

‘It’s not the Governor that concerns me.’ Jo glared at him across the table, regretting her decision to bring him along while she waited for Naylor. Even though Stamp had scared her, she wanted to get to the bottom of what was making him act so out of character. Now she wished he’d piss off and leave her be. She leaned forward, picked up her wine and swigged it back in one mouthful. She needed another – but not with him.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh,
I
see.’

There he goes again.
‘What? What do you see?’

‘Female pride is over-rated, Jo. Don’t let it get in the way of good judgement.’

‘You’re a nobber, Martin. And don’t waste your breath, because the answer is still no. You’ve got
no
right to even suggest I get involved. Just think through what you’re asking here. If I took over Emily’s case, what signals would that send to Fearon, not to mention the rest of her clients, and the prison staff, since you brought them into it? Her authority would be totally undermined. She’d be finished. I won’t do it.’

He climbed down a bit. ‘No one’s questioning her professionalism, or yours.’

‘Oh really? Then give us both some credit.’

‘I am!’

‘Are you?’ Jo’s hackles were up and it showed.

Stamp exhaled loudly. He wasn’t done yet. ‘You don’t get it, do you? Fearon seriously believes he’s special to her. Can’t you see how risky that is? You do know she’s the
only
reason he hasn’t asked for Rule 43?’

Now Jo was listening.

That particular regulation meant complete segregation from other inmates. Many sex offenders sought to hide behind it, preferring to spend their whole prison term living in solitary confinement rather than face the wrath of the mainstream population – and for good reason. Even the most vicious of their number couldn’t fight every thug who fancied chancing their arm. The saying ‘safety in numbers’ wasn’t true in this case. Jo had to concede, Stamp had a point. Fearon’s life inside would certainly have been easier if he’d chosen the segregation unit over B-wing.

The hiatus was enough to convince Stamp that he’d won Jo over.

‘Now do you get it?’ he asked smugly. ‘Fearon would rather be bullied for being a nonce by every inmate in that prison than not see Emily on a daily basis. The fact that she’s been away for so long has made him all the more determined. She needs warning that—’

‘No. You need warning!’ Jo bit back. ‘If you seriously believe the two of you have a future together, I’d advise you not to take that tone with Emily. Robert never would have. And mark my words, if you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll call the law.’

The pub door opened and Naylor walked in.

Conversation over.

K
ATE WAS REALLY UNSETTLED
. Not because she wasn’t dining with Jo and Naylor when she damned well ought to be – although the thought had crossed her mind – but because something elusive had been niggling away at her subconscious for the past hour. Something to do with the case she just couldn’t get a handle on.

Detective Chief Superintendent Philip Bright’s voice sounded hoarse down the line. He’d insisted she field all media enquiries herself, show the public that her team were working flat out to identify the victims, reassure them that resources were being allocated commensurate with the severity of the gruesome find at one of the county’s major tourist attractions. In reality, the DCI had half a dozen officers, no forensics or intelligence and bugger all else to go on.

The upside of that was, the press would be similarly stumped.

Handling journalists and television correspondents was a skill Kate had cultivated during her time in the CID. After years of practice, she had it down to fine art. Under her former guv’nor’s guidance she’d discovered how useful the media could be to an SIO with a little give and take. But with huge resources at their disposal they also got in the way on occasions, appropriating information from potential witnesses before the police got to them. It was a dead cert that they had already started digging into her case. It wouldn’t take a genius to work out that the archaeologists involved in research in and around Bamburgh Castle lately would be their first port of call. Thankfully, Carmichael had got in ahead of them and project leaders had given assurances that they would refrain from talking to the media until after they had spoken with the Murder Investigation Team.

One less problem to worry about.

‘You blitzed the missing persons, I take it?’ Bright asked.

‘Doing that now, guv.’

‘Any knowns with a similar MO?’

‘Looking into that too,’ Kate said.

‘Is that a euphemism for “wind your neck in”?’

Hank Gormley made a face, stifling the urge to laugh out loud. Bright was no fool. He’d hand-picked them both years ago, was single-handedly responsible for their collective wisdom when it came to the detection of major incidents. Unfortunately, having achieved his ambition to take charge of the CID, like Naylor and other senior detectives, he was missing the cut-and-thrust of running enquiries himself. As a result, he couldn’t resist the temptation to stick his nose in occasionally.

A phone rang loudly in the background.

Kate willed him to answer it. ‘You want to get that, guv?’

‘No, I bloody don’t. That’s what they pay Ellen for!’ He yelled without covering the speaker. ‘Ellen? ELLEN? Jesus Christ!’

The phone rang twice more and then stopped.

Bright lowered his voice again. ‘Sorry, Wonder Woman has disappeared. I was about to say the Crime Intelligence Unit have done some checking. I can tell you for a fact there are no incidents nationally where two girls went missing together, not since the Grantham enquiry.’

He was referring to a case that had dominated TV screens for months a few years ago: two lovely young girls wearing their favourite outfits, arms linked as they posed for the camera after a gathering to celebrate a family birthday. After tea they had gone to the park. They were never seen alive again. The bodies of Caroline Johnson and Amy Prentice had been dumped in Whatton – eleven miles east along the A52 from where they went missing. An offender named Stobbart was later apprehended.

Daniels swore under her breath.

Bright hadn’t been given vital information.

Falling short of his expectations made her angry. Over the years she’d learned to be prepared. Whether it was a face-to-face meeting, a full-blown press conference or a telephone conversation she always,
always
went in sure of her facts and took nothing for granted. It paid not to piss off the head of CID. And yet she was suddenly on the back foot, steeling herself for an ear-bashing from the man himself.

‘Sorry, guv. I thought you knew—’

‘Knew?’

‘About the timeline . . .’ She rolled her eyes at Hank. As SIO, it was her responsibility to keep their former guv’nor informed of all major developments in a case as high profile as this, and she would have done had Naylor not indicated that he’d take care of it. She chose her words carefully so as not to sound like she was trying to shift the blame. ‘Your conference call with Detective Superintendent Naylor—’

‘Didn’t happen.’ Bright paused. ‘Why? Something I don’t know?’

‘Our victims were buried years apart, guv. Chances are, they didn’t go missing together unless the ten-year-old was abducted, killed and preserved for at least five years. Can’t see it, can you?’

Bright said nothing.

Kate looked out of the window and quickly changed the subject. ‘What’s the weather like your way, guv? It’s a complete white out here, otherwise I’d head back to town. I need stuff urgently for the MIR. Alnwick isn’t well equipped to deal with major incidents, something I hope you’ll put right now you know about it.’

‘Say the word, it’s yours.’

‘Appreciate that, guv.’

‘Don’t mention it. Email your request in the morning. I’ll see you get what you want. In the meantime you stay put, you hear me? The weather is atrocious. The A1 is already down to one lane. Not a gritter in sight. I don’t want you driving round the county in this. And if you have to go out, take Hank along.’

Kate glanced at Gormley.

Their old guv’nor was worried about her driving in the snow. Hardly surprising: he’d lost his wife in a horrific car crash on the M25 in a spate of heavy rain. The articulated lorry they were following jack-knifed during an overtaking manoeuvre, practically wiping out the passenger side of his car. Stella Bright hadn’t died right away. She’d spent several months in hospital and several more in a wheelchair before fading away completely. Bright remained tormented by the experience and still struggled with survivor guilt.

‘Don’t concern yourself, guv. The crime scene is as far as I’ll be going tonight. We’ll take my car, not
his.
That means it’s entirely legal, full of diesel and running like a dream. I have a blanket, a medical kit and a shovel in the boot in case of emergencies, plus Hank. We’ll be as safe as houses.’

Bright told her to keep him posted and rang off abruptly.

It was a dig certainly, one she didn’t deserve, but she wasn’t complaining. Hank made a joke about her falling from grace. But in her head she was at the crime scene with two skeletons lying side by side. And then it hit her, the thing that had been playing at the back of her mind since the briefing.

‘Pearls . . .’ she said. ‘The victims were
both
wearing pearls.’