Monument to Murder (12 page)

E
MILY
M
C
C
ANN WAS
pleased to be home, a gin and tonic in her hand, her feet up in front of the fire after a long hot bath. Then the phone rang:
the prison.
Fearon had caused a lot of trouble during
the day – and enjoyed doing it – but he was now extremely agitated, according to officers watching over him. Alone in his cell on the punishment block, he’d flown into a rage, begging for writing materials on which to scribble down a grovelling apology, rapping on the cell door so hard he’d opened the wound to his right wrist, drawing blood.

‘Oh, he’s sorry all right.’

Not because he scared me,
Emily thought.
That’s what turns him on.

‘He’s sorry because I’m angry with him . . . Well, tough.’

She listened as the officer explained his dilemma. Fearon had woken the rest of the cons. There was bedlam on the wing and he needed to restore calm. Appeasing one prisoner was the best way to do it. Fearon wanted assurances that she’d see him next morning.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Give him what he wants if it’ll shut him up. You guys have a hard enough job without having to put up with that all night.’

They said goodnight and rang off.

Emily returned to the sofa and tried to unwind, but she couldn’t help thinking about Fearon, imagining the state he was in. She’d told him time and again that he was a reckless hothead. Not her fault if he didn’t listen. There’d been times when her sessions with him had been so difficult that she’d found it necessary to debrief with another staff member afterwards. Though each session lasted no more than an hour, she always emerged feeling wrung out. Completely and utterly exhausted. Sometimes it took several hours before she could clear her head of the despicable images he painted.

The clock struck the hour.

Rachel had left no note to say where she’d gone or what time she’d be home. Wondering where she was, Emily got up and threw a log on the fire. She poured herself another drink and sipped it
absent-mindedly as she tried to process the day’s events, specifically Fearon’s behaviour and the risk he posed. She shuddered, picturing the smirk on his face as he sat in her office chair, relishing her unease as he recounted what he’d put his victims through, flirting with her while describing every morbid detail.

Pathetic:
she was old enough to be his mother.

But therein lay the problem . . .

Fearon had never been interested in girls his own age. He seemed incapable of a loving relationship with anyone. It was all about power with him: sex too, but with an element of fear ever present. Horror even. His penis was a weapon, an instrument of terror. That was what made him so dangerous.

His victims were all forty plus. Emily didn’t need Stamp to tell her that. She knew fine well what Fearon was up to. According to Ash Walker, he’d been gutted when she’d suddenly disappeared from work after Robert died. He’d taken her absence personally. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Talked about her constantly, as if afraid she’d left him and would never return.

By the time she’d heard about that, Emily was in a place too dark to realize the significance. Too numb to care. Robert was dead and that was all she could think about. But then things had taken on a sinister twist. After he’d cut his wrists, Fearon had openly admitted he’d done it to get her attention:
Because you don’t love me any more.

Emily shivered.

Just how deluded was he?

She hadn’t shared that conversation with anyone, not even Jo Soulsby. And certainly not Stamp. That would have been guaranteed to set him off. He was right about one thing, though: Fearon had a dangerous and deep-seated obsession with older women. He’d turned his focus on her and she’d have to watch her back.

As she drank the last of her gin, her eyes drifted to Robert’s picture on top of the piano, smiling at her as he sat astride his bike. He was not a handsome man on the outside but he’d had a big, big heart. He’d loved her with a passion.

Emily suddenly felt guilty.

It had only been a few months since he’d passed away and yet she’d been tempted to let Stamp into her life. Her desire to overcome loneliness was strong, her urge to have sex even stronger. She didn’t care that Rachel might disapprove – or anyone else, for that matter. She wanted – needed – to feel alive again. In her head, she could almost hear Robert’s voice . . .

Knock yourself out, babe! I just want you to be happy.

She wiped a tear from her cheek, her sadness turning to anger. The prison staff had been sloppy while she was off work. Fearon had obviously overheard them talking about her loss. The day before yesterday, he’d woken up in the prison hospital and told her it was the best day of his life when he heard the news that her old man had croaked.
She must be gagging for it now
, he’d told himself.

The ramblings of a deranged mind. But all the same . . .

She’d fled the ward in tears.

Bile rose in her throat as she recalled his joy. Her fury didn’t end with him. Prison staff had no business discussing her in the presence of men like Fearon. They should’ve kept their mouths shut.

Well, maybe Emily couldn’t turn back the clock, but she could and would make a stand. It was time to show Fearon who was boss.

She’d told him once that every action resulted in a reaction and today she’d proved it. Never in his worst nightmares had it occurred to him that she might push him away. But that was exactly what she’d done. Much to SO Walker’s obvious delight: a brief respite from Fearon was like a day off, so high maintenance was he.

No doubt Kent had been pleased about it too,
the bastard.

Emily sighed.

Fearon could barely handle being banged up in solitary overnight – what would happen if they moved him to another wing when he got out? What if she didn’t keep her promise and refused to see him tomorrow? The day after? The day after that? In his present state, he’d surely flip.

With only a couple of weeks to go till his release, time was running out. If
she
didn’t work to correct his behaviour in the final days of his sentence, who would? If she managed to get through to him, it might just save another woman’s life.

Much as she would have liked to wash her hands of Walter Fearon, she wasn’t ready to give up on him just yet.

K
ATE CLIMBED INTO
her car and reversed at speed off her father’s drive, eager to get back to the incident room at Alnwick station. Her father had seemed OK when she left him. She’d hung around a while, to make sure. Buoyed by the information he’d provided, she’d called ahead, telling Carmichael to fire up that computer of hers and find out all she could about Ashington Miners’ Welfare . . .

‘I need a contact, Lisa. And I need it yesterday.’

‘For what, boss?’

Explaining about the pearls she’d found in the shoebox at home and what she’d discovered since with her father’s help, Kate asked Lisa to find a local historian. By the time she arrived at the office, Carmichael had located one and sent a Traffic car to fetch him to
the station. Chris Ridley had been given a cup of tea and briefed that the SIO was on her way.

‘Good to meet you, Mr Ridley. I’m DCI Kate Daniels, Murder Investigation Team.’ Kate extended her hand and received a firm handshake from the spritely and switched on septuagenarian. ‘Thanks for coming in at such short notice. I won’t keep you a moment longer than absolutely necessary.’

The old man sat down. Told her he was happy to help in any way he could. His son had joined Lothian & Borders force, was now a DCI himself with a formidable reputation for solving complex cases. She didn’t know the officer, but she’d heard good things of him and told Ridley so.

‘In my job it pays to know the competition,’ she said.

Ridley grinned proudly.

‘I need your help to solve a puzzle . . .’ She sat down beside him. ‘But before I get into that, I must stress that this is extremely sensitive. What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room.’

‘Goes without saying,’ he said.

Hank, who’d kept the old man company while they waited for the DCI to return, considered him thoroughly trustworthy, an assessment Daniels agreed with wholeheartedly. With a family member in the force, he understood the exigencies of the job, the need to keep information confidential.

‘We’re dealing with the recent discovery on Bamburgh beach,’ Kate said. ‘You probably heard about it.’

‘Yes, terrible business.’

‘It’s pretty grim.’

Mr Ridley took off his reading specs. He peered across the room, squinted at the murder wall, specifically at blown-up photographs of both victims: bones, skulls, the lot. Had the images been more
than skeletal remains they would almost certainly have been covered up. Obviously, Hank hadn’t thought it necessary and Kate was satisfied that his call had been right on this occasion.

She cleared her throat to regain his attention. ‘Items of children’s play jewellery were found on both victims,’ she said. ‘It’s imperative that I trace where it came from.’

‘There are two victims?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

‘I hadn’t realized—’

‘Thing is, I’m struggling to identify the jewellery. As a result of enquiries elsewhere, I’ve been led to believe that there may be some connection with the Ashington area around the time of the Coronation.’

‘Which is where I come in.’

‘Exactly.’

Chris Ridley was intrigued. ‘In what respect?’

‘Let me show you something . . .’ She handed him a photograph of the pearls.

The old man put his specs on and studied them carefully, then looked up, waiting for her to explain their relevance.

‘I’ve been told that local youngsters may have been given imitation jewellery like this as a remembrance gift at a celebratory party financed by the Ashington Miners’ Welfare in 1953.’

‘That’s true, some were . . . I had no kids of my own at that stage, but I do remember the parties the Welfare put on . . .’ He glanced at the murder wall. ‘Is that how long they’ve been there?’

‘No. Despite their condition, they were buried within the last decade.’

‘Oh, I thought—’

‘You said
some
?’ Kate interrupted. ‘You mean, not all girls got a set?’

‘That’s correct. I seem to remember the miners themselves chose the wee gift their kids would get. It wasn’t one big party for the whole community, you understand, but a series of street parties. Not every kid got the same. Some girls got tiaras, some got pearls. The boys all got footballs.’

‘So I hear. That’s an odd choice, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Didn’t the boys want a themed gift too?’

‘You mean a sword, a crown, something royal to mark the occasion?’

She nodded.

The old man chuckled. ‘Unless you could play a bit, you went down the mines in those days, pet. What would you choose?’

The term ‘pet’ made Hank Gormley smile. No offence was meant by it and none was taken by the DCI. It was a term of endearment a man of Ridley’s age would automatically use in this part of the world, without consideration of the title, rank or status of the female he happened to be talking to.

‘Bobby Charlton signed for Man U about then, didn’t he?’ Hank said.

The historian grinned. ‘Young lads like me thought that was far more exciting than a change of monarchy. Bunch of Philistines, we were. Some round here still are.’ His eyes lit up. ‘But he’s Sir Bobby now, isn’t he? It might tek us a while, but some of us Ashington lads get there in the end.’

‘You’re a big fan, I take it?’ Kate said.

‘Of Bobby? Not many round here aren’t . . .’ Ridley winked at Hank, dragging him into the conversation. ‘I can see your sergeant here agrees with me.’

‘I do indeed.’

‘Aye, they broke the mould after Charlton and Robson. Charlton especially. He was – and still is – a canny lad, just like his uncle before him.’

He was referring to Jackie Milburn, ex Newcastle United and England centre forward – known affectionately as ‘Wor Jackie’ – undoubtedly Ashington’s most famous son.

Kate quickly changed the subject, ending Chris Ridley’s trip down Memory Lane. ‘Is it possible to say how many children we’re talking about?’ she asked.

‘Off the top of my head, no . . .’ The historian paused for thought, then frowned. ‘Geography determined which miners’ children went to which parties. If I’d had kids, they’d have gone to the one for folk living on the two Victorian terraces close to Ashington town centre. A couple of my fellow miners are still alive. We were the lucky ones. A lot died of lung disease, sadly.’ He looked again at the photograph of the pearls. ‘I can make enquiries, if you’d like. Shouldn’t be too difficult. There’ll be a receipt somewhere, no doubt. Every penny had to be accounted for, much like Police Federation funds. The Coronation celebrations would have been well documented at the time.’

‘That would be very helpful,’ Kate said. ‘This is an important line of enquiry. Can you give us a rough estimate of how many sets of pearls were given out?’

‘Coronations don’t happen every day of the week,’ the old man reminded her. ‘It was a rare treat. Not too many though, I don’t think. Only kids of ten years and under would have been given them.’

The DCI hoped he was right. Her own set of pearls had been handed down the generations. Because they belonged to a relative who had died soon afterwards, they held a special significance
to her family. She suspected that many more – probably most – would’ve been regarded as junk and thrown away.

‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Ridley. If we were talking about pearls in their thousands, that would be hard for us. Less than a hundred, still difficult. A couple of dozen and we’re in business. We need to trace the recipients or their descendants, irrespective of whether or not the pearls are still in their possession. That way I can rule them in or out of our investigation.’

‘I understand.’

‘To your knowledge, did many people actually keep them? Do you recall anyone in your family hanging on to Coronation memorabilia?’

The old man shrugged. ‘My wife’s not a hoarder, pet. If we had any, they’d be long gone now, I should think. But I’ll ask around, see what I can find out.’

Kate’s eyes scanned the incident room. It was late and therefore quiet; phone traffic negligible, civilian staff long gone. Directing the old man to an empty desk with a phone in one corner of the room, she encouraged him to use his local knowledge and ring round his acquaintances to find out more. His expertise had given her a mini breakthrough.

Suddenly, things were looking up.