Monument to Murder (10 page)

M
AXWELL WAS LATE
. His away-day at the forensic science lab had turned into a ’mare, just as Daniels had predicted. Apparently the journey from hell was too kind a description. After an initial short delay at Newcastle Central Station, everything had gone swimmingly until the train stopped and sat in the middle of nowhere for the next two and a half hours.

No heating in the carriage.

No refreshments.

No power: full stop.

‘And no frigging explanation either,’ he grumbled, rubbing his upper arms to get the circulation going. ‘First the guard asks us to disembark, then to board again. We were on and off that many times I lost count. You should’ve seen the older passengers, the mothers with kids – it was chronic. By the time we eventually got going again and limped into York, the train was nearly three hours late.’

Even Lisa Carmichael was showing signs of sympathy.

‘The return leg wasn’t much better. I thought I was home and
dry ’til my cab got stuck in the snow.’ Maxwell was so blue it looked as though he would never thaw out. ‘I walked the last mile.’

‘Job done though, eh?’ Lisa was trying her best not to laugh. ‘Grab yourself a hot shower. Give us the samples and I’ll make sure the boss gets them. She’s just next door.’

Maxwell shivered, his teeth still chattering. ‘I handed them to the exhibits officer downstairs. Grey-haired guy, don’t know his name.’

‘He’s a copper,’ Hank said drily. ‘He’s bound to have grey hair. Most likely spends all his days trying to work out if he’s got enough years in so he can leave before he’s sixty-bloody-eight.’

‘I’d pack it in now if I could afford it,’ moaned Maxwell. ‘After the day I’ve had.’

‘Do me a favour!’ Carmichael again. ‘Sitting on a train all day is hardly night shift, is it? Besides, what the hell would you do if you left? Take up golf? You’re not exactly the sporty type, are you, Neil?’

‘I’m sure I’d find something.’ Maxwell gave her a lecherous once-over and got a black look in return. He made light of it with a joke. ‘Maybe I’ll ask for a transfer to the Tweet Squad.’

Hank looked bewildered. He wasn’t into social networking.

‘I was playing with this on the train—’ Maxwell held up his new iPhone. ‘It may have passed you by, Sarge, but every area command in the country is now on Twitter.’

‘Are you serious?’

Maxwell nodded. ‘Unfortunately. I’m sure the public will rest easy in their beds once they know you can join an online forum to discuss policing in the twenty-first century.’

‘What the hell do they put on there?’ Hank was sure this was a wind-up.

‘Bloody allsorts.’ Maxwell blew on his hands. ‘A hit and run, a
nasty arson, appeals for information on every bloody incident and accident, at least one request for help in tracing a sex offender . . .’

‘Thought that was our job.’

‘So did I,’ Lisa joined in. ‘But Neil’s right. You can even, wait for it,
ask a cop a question
. . . oh yes you can!’

‘I’d like to ask one.’ Daniels’ voice sounded behind them. ‘Gimme the link and I’ll ask why they’re not out there locking people up.’

They hadn’t noticed her re-enter from the side room she’d commandeered as her office. She’d been in there for several hours, cogitating, having ordered the team to leave her be unless there was any significant progress to report.

‘I couldn’t agree more, boss,’ Maxwell said. ‘Pound to a penny, some arsehole will get off at court because they’ve been outed on Twitter. That’s not what it was designed for, in my humble opinion.’

‘What was it designed for?’ It was a serious question from Gormley.

Lisa laughed.

There was no answer from Maxwell either: he was too busy telling the DCI what an awful day he’d had. He got no sympathy.

Eventually the gathering dispersed. It was time to knock off. Kate sent them back to the B & B, intending to join them as soon as she’d viewed the samples collected from the forensic science lab. As she made her way downstairs she was still reviewing the day’s events in her head, chewing over the possible significance of Bamburgh and why it had been chosen as a burial site.

On the floor below, she pushed a buzzer on the exhibits room counter and waited for a response. After signing for two separate evidence bags, she opened them up and laid the samples out, checking the labels to see which body they’d been taken from. The sample from the most recent victim was exactly as Matt West had
described it: a small section of very cheap, popper-type imitation pearls made of extremely hard plastic. The pearlescent effect was not a coating but an integral part of the manufacturing process. Kate returned them to the bag. The second sample was similar. But these pearls felt waxy to the touch. They were also much softer than the first sample, coated to look like the real thing. Some of the coating had worn away, exposing white plastic underneath.

Her heart began to race.

A rare stroke of luck?

She’d seen an identical set before.

D
AY THREE OF
the murder investigation, 12 February. Skipping breakfast, Kate headed straight to the incident room hoping for some quiet time before the others got in. The samples she’d received from Matt West had set her imagination off and running. Holding them in her hands the night before had triggered a strong childhood memory, one that bothered her so much she’d called Gormley and told him she wouldn’t be coming back to the B & B. Instead she’d jumped in the car and driven home to check out a hunch.

On arrival at the incident room, she set about preparing for the morning briefing. She’d already decided that she would hold off mentioning the pearls until she’d had a chance to develop her theory. No point raising expectations only to have them dashed if it didn’t work out. Instead she busied herself recording her thoughts about the scene in large capital letters on a whiteboard which she placed in a prominent position where everyone would see it.

An hour later, the team were assembled and gathered around her, wanting answers.

‘Where are we with scene issues?’ she asked.

Blank faces stared at her. Heads shook, shoulders shrugged.

‘OK, why Bamburgh? You want a place to bury a victim there are easier sites to pick. Ones where you won’t see a Labrador attached to some dog-walker every fifteen minutes. There are deserted strips all along this coastline where you’d not run into another living soul. So why that particular stretch of beach, in full view of the castle and Holy Island? It has to be significant.’

‘The girls might’ve been trafficked from abroad, come in on a boat under cover of darkness—’

‘Five years apart?’ Kate eyeballed Maxwell. ‘I considered that too, Neil, but then discounted it. If they were DOA, they’d have been dumped at sea. No, those bodies were carefully placed. Whoever buried the first victim returned to the exact same site five years later to bury the second. To be that precise, bearing in mind this was before everyone started carrying phones loaded with GPS navigation apps, you’d have to pace it out from a fixed position – the castle or car park. I’d be inclined to suggest the latter. The castle is quite a hike inland over rough ground. It would’ve been too risky. If a local happened to see someone arriving by boat and acting suspiciously, they’d probably jump to the conclusion they were smuggling drugs or burgling the castle – it’s happened before, remember? – and the first thing they’d do is phone the law.’ She focused on Robson. ‘How we doing with missing persons, Robbo?’

‘Not good. You have the full list, boss. The fact that there are no local kids missing makes the burial site more significant, not less, in my opinion. As you pointed out, it’s a detour from any major road. Whoever we’re looking for travelled across open countryside
and woods, both of which are a damn sight more accessible than Bamburgh beach, and much less risky.’

‘Unless they were already in the area,’ Kate reminded him.

‘There’s no evidence of that. As I said, we have no reports of kids missing locally.’

‘That’s assuming they were reported missing in the first place,’ she continued. ‘For obvious reasons, not all kids are. Check with social services and education for any cases where kids were taken out of school without prior warning. You never know, we might just get lucky.’

‘I’m on it already, but it’ll take time.’

The DCI turned to Carmichael. ‘Lisa, why Bamburgh? Tell me
you
have something more for me.’

‘I’m still struggling, to be honest. Bamburgh’s such a quiet place. Very few suspicious incidents recorded in the village. The odd complaint here and there, mainly kids messing around, barbecues on the beach and such. Couple of fights. Nothing serious. Nothing we haven’t already looked into and dealt with.’

‘All right, go back and cross reference each incident with every B & B and hotel on our list. And don’t forget the action for the Research Project team. I’m hoping they might help us. What about house-to-house? They come up with anything?’

‘Sergeant Yates says not. His team are knocking on doors, but the information they’re getting is sketchy for the times you specified. Some hoteliers’ books were full, others not. There was plenty of availability in winter but pretty much full house throughout the summer months. You know what that means . . .’

Daniels did indeed.

She and Jo had once gone camping near Keswick on a typical Bank Holiday weekend. It began raining not long after they arrived.
Within hours, the campsite was knee-deep in water that had drained off the surrounding hills. They’d packed up their stuff and driven around in a desperate attempt to find alternative accommodation. Every hotel and B & B for miles around was full to the gunnels. Tourist Information couldn’t help. The last person they spoke to suggested a cousin who lived on a farm and took in paying guests occasionally.
Cash only, mind – she doesn’t take cheques or cards.
Carmichael was right. In the leisure industry, the black economy was rife; a sobering and depressing thought for a DCI trying to find out who was or wasn’t in the vicinity at the time her victims were buried.

‘These two paedophiles,’ she asked, ‘what’s the story with them?’

‘There’s only one still in the frame, boss,’ Brown said. ‘I just had it confirmed. The other is no longer with us—’

‘As in deceased, or moved away?’

‘Dead. Vigilante group mashed his brains to a pulp four years ago. The Ricky Nichols enquiry, remember?’

Kate nodded.

How could she forget?

As murder investigations go, it had been a difficult one to crack. Locals had zero sympathy for the victim. Disgusted with the paltry sentences handed down by the judiciary, they preferred the permanent removal of paedophiles from their midst. By whatever means. There had been plenty of eyewitnesses to the killing, but none who were willing to come forward. Most were extremely hostile to the police, seeing them as defending the rights of dangerous sex offenders instead of protecting innocent kids. As far as they were concerned, it was a case of good riddance to bad rubbish. If they’d had their way, Ricky Nichols’ killers would have been given a medal instead of a prison sentence.

‘Doesn’t mean he wasn’t responsible for our offences,’ Daniels
said. ‘Raise an action to have him eliminated. What about the other one?’

‘We’re still trying to find him.’ Robson flipped open a small notebook, removed a photograph and handed it to her. ‘John Edward Thompson. Thirty-eight years old. Last known address: Claymore Place, Blyth.’

Kate was staring at the photograph. Thompson’s mugshot showed a man with vacant eyes. A prominent birthmark the colour of port wine spread from his right eye down his cheek.

‘What did he do?’ she asked.

‘Dressed his last victim in an adult nurse’s uniform. She was just thirteen. He subjected her to serious sexual assault – buggery, to be precise – for which he got four years. She lived, but has since attempted suicide three times.’

‘Jesus!’ Gormley shook his head, his jaw bunching. ‘Don’t you want to feel
his
collar?’

‘Is there anything else to put him in or out?’ the DCI asked.

‘Hard to say. He’s a bit of a traveller, by all accounts. Not in the Romany sense – he just moves around a lot, dosses down wherever he can.’

‘How come?’ Brown cut in. ‘I thought scum on the sex offenders’ register had to have a permanent address.’

‘His brief appealed on grounds of a human rights violation,’ Robson explained. ‘His name was removed. He’s not come to our notice for any offence in a decade or more. Last time was October 2001. He spent a night in custody at this very station for possession of Class A. Magistrates committed him to Crown. He did time for intent to supply from May 2002 to November 2005. Got out early. Good behaviour, would you believe?’

‘That puts him in then,’ Gormley said.

‘I want a TIE action out for him right now,’ Daniels said.

‘Because?’ It was Robson who’d asked the question. He was curious to know what had prompted her decision to take such drastic action, focusing their efforts on this particular individual. A Trace, Implicate or Eliminate action was a very big deal, one that involved a family tree, an associates’ tree, the compilation of every bit of information ever written about the offender – going back to his birth, if necessary – in order to put him in or out of the frame.

Her pause was like a big question mark.

‘Because we’ve got sod-all else,’ she said finally. ‘Because, like Hank, I want to make his life hell. And because I say so – need I say more?’

The squad were ecstatic. A TIE action usually had that effect.

Suspect number one coming right up
. . .

K
ENT WAS IN
a foul mood. Punishment for going AWOL during lunch was usually swift – a few days on the block was the norm – but in Fearon’s case it hadn’t been as harsh as it ought to have been.

No, siree.

Having put the fear of God into Emily McCann on her second day back at work, the fucker had escaped the long walk to the Governor’s office. And that was down to her. When security had rushed into the wing, batons drawn, the silly cow had insisted she didn’t want to make an issue out of it.

‘He’s been through a lot lately,’ she said.

With the day shift standing around gawping, waiting to see what action he’d take, Senior Officer Ash Walker had no choice
but to disagree. It wasn’t something he could let go, he told her, not without imposing some form of penalty, else they’d all be at it. But after a long discussion in his office – a closed-door job – he’d acquiesced and the psychologist got her way. Kent was furious. It was nepotism, plain and simple: the SO clearly had the hots for her.

Half an hour later, Kent was summoned to Walker’s office and consigned to the great outdoors to supervise a group of offenders on litter-picking duty outside C-wing, Fearon included. It was no more than a slap on the wrist for misbehaving. The nutter would be laughing his cock off.

Well, he’d see about that.

Kent was standing at the gable end of C-wing, shoulders hunched, his breath clearly visible in the icy air. Debris was being blown across the prison grounds. His skin was red raw, his nose dripping like a tap. Blowing on his hands, he stamped his feet, his temper boiling over. He couldn’t feel his extremities.

Just who was being punished here?

Resentment bubbled up inside Kent. He watched like a hawk as Fearon edged his way along the wall. Unaware that he was under scrutiny, he was shoving litter into a black plastic bag he could hardly hang on to in the gusty wind. Somehow he’d managed to wheedle his way into Harrison’s favours. Although the Principal Officer normally left the selection of offenders’ duties to lesser mortals, he’d personally intervened to select Fearon’s employment within the establishment.

Unheard of.

Wing fucking cleaner, no less!

A warm and cushy number he didn’t deserve. God knows how the bastard had swung it. Wouldn’t surprise Kent if the nonce was doing a little trading, giving the PO a regular blowjob in return for
such a big-ass favour. Whatever the sketch, it meant the fuckwit was in Kent’s face all day and every day. No one argued with Harrison’s little arrangement. The PO had justified his decision on security grounds, telling wing staff it was the best way to keep a close eye on Fearon. Keep your friends close . . .

Bollocks!

There had to be more to it than that – not that Kent would ever find out. Right now, he didn’t care. He was too busy freezing his fucking ass off guarding this working party. The only upside: Fearon was as cold and miserable as he was.

Kent had a shovelful of muck in his eyes but didn’t dare turn his back for fear of losing control of the cons under his supervision. If that happened,
he’d
be the one for the high jump.

Already on a final warning, he couldn’t afford that.

No sooner had he filed that worrying thought away than an argument broke out between Jones and Singh. Just a bit of pushing and shoving at first. Then Jones waded in. Fists flew, feet too as he put the boot in good and proper. His language was choice. Singh, who was about the same height but less powerfully built, went down hard and curled up in a foetus-like ball in order to protect his head. Knowing that Jones was a racist pig who wouldn’t stop unless forced to, Kent moved in to break it up.

The moment his back was turned, Fearon made a run for it. Within seconds, he was round the side of the building and out of sight. Moments later, a siren sounded and HMP Northumberland was plunged into a full lockdown.