Monument to Murder (15 page)

A
FTER HER LUNCHTIME STROLL
, Emily finally got her shit together and came to a decision. With a young man like Fearon under her supervision there was no room for ambiguity. Determined to confront him, once and for all, she made a beeline for Ash Walker’s office and told him of her plan.

Reluctantly, the SO agreed to excuse the prisoner from work so she could call him up and deliver a stark ultimatum: Fearon must agree to an intense concentration on his offending behaviour before release or Emily would break off all contact. There was no point seeing him otherwise.

Emily felt better for having taken control. To her amazement, Fearon didn’t argue. He listened intently to what she had to say, nodding in all the right places, offering his consent, trying his best to convince her he had the capacity to change.

But did he?

Emily stared at him pointedly. ‘I’m serious, Walter. You need to
address these issues if you’re going to stay out of prison. Do we have an agreement or not?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘For what it’s worth, I think your choice is spot on. The alternative is to spend the rest of your days in places like these. That’s not what either of us wants, is it?’

Fearon shook his head. ‘I just don’t like—’

‘What? What don’t you like?’

‘Talking about that sort of stuff, miss. Not with you.’

Emily eyeballed him. ‘It’s never stopped you before.’

‘Are fantasies the same as dreams, miss?’

Already, the facade was gone.

He was laughing at her.

‘Stop wasting my time! You know full well what fantasies are. You wrote about them in your little note, didn’t you?’

Fearon bowed his head and then raised it again. In that split second, he’d morphed from a manipulative and slightly edgy character to a young man on the edge of insanity. It was as if someone had flicked a switch. Emily had witnessed such behaviour changes in other inmates but never in him. She was beginning to wonder if he was borderline schizophrenic – an unsettling thought.

‘It happened again last night, miss.’

He seemed to be looking through her, not at her.

‘What did? This is no laughing matter, Walter. If you’re not going to take this interview seriously, you can get back to your—’

‘I took her away this time . . .’ His eyes were like ice as they fell on the belt round her waist, on the keychain hanging from it. ‘When she wouldn’t have sex with me, I strangled her with a thick silver chain.’

Emily felt sick as the words spilled from his mouth. On and on he went, deeper and deeper into a world that existed only in his imagination. A world of sexual deviancy that was both sickening and menacing. The psychologist listened hard. The filth he was spouting didn’t fit his profile. He was talking about a young girl now, not an older woman. Nothing he said bore any relation to his previous crimes. At least, none she could identify. Until . . .

The truth hit her like a brick.

He was talking about Rachel.

H
OW SHE MANAGED
to get him out of her office, Emily wasn’t sure. Next thing she knew, she was tearing down the main corridor, retching as she ran, ignoring the curious glances of inmates mopping the floor. Trembling violently, she reached the wing gate, her hands fumbling with her key pouch in her panic to get out of there. Sweat ran down her face and stung her eyes as she groped for the bars, trying to stay upright.

Faintly aware of footsteps getting closer, Emily looked over her shoulder convinced that Fearon would be standing there laughing at her. The prison chaplain smiled. Patiently, he stood aside, waiting for her to unlock the gate. When she didn’t, he stepped forward and did it for her. It was then he noticed her keys dangling from the belt around her waist, her fists clinging on to the bars as if her life depended on it.

‘Emily?’ he said. ‘Are you unwell? Do you need help?’

She ignored him and pushed through the gate, hearing him call after her as she raced down the corridor. She had to catch Stamp before he finished for the day.
She just had to.
He had a meeting planned in Newcastle at three o’clock. Her heart was pounding as she ran as fast as she could across the open ground, her legs heavy and uncooperative,
as if she was running through mud. It seemed like another world on A-wing, adding to her confusion as she tried to find Stamp.

An officer pointed her in the right direction.

Finally she came to a halt, staring at a door marked:
Interview in Progress.

Emily took a deep breath and turned the handle. A monster of a youth hauled himself off his chair as she entered the room. Pulling out the now vacant chair, he politely offered it to her. Frozen to the spot, she just stood there, waiting for Stamp to get rid of him. The psychiatrist made an excuse and quickly ushered his interviewee from the room.

Emily sat down.

She was too numb to cry.

For a moment she said nothing. Then her words came tumbling out in an avalanche of expletives, interspersed with sobs. Stamp listened intently to what Walter Fearon had said to her and didn’t interrupt. He let her finish and then calmly gave his take on things. It wasn’t remotely what she expected, let alone wanted to hear.

Why wouldn’t he listen?

Wasn’t she making sense?

She tried again – but still he didn’t get it.

‘Oh, how many more times?’ Emily was yelling but she didn’t care. She stood up and began pacing the room, wringing her hands as her frustration boiled over. Stamp was her friend. Her only support since . . .
Christ, why wasn’t he listening to her?
‘It wasn’t mind games, Martin! He described Rachel to a T – he even described our home.’

‘Emily, please sit down. You’re not thinking rationally.’

‘Oh that’s rich, coming from someone who not ten minutes ago was warning me to watch my back. You were right, OK? Fearon
is
a viable threat. I should’ve listened to you—’

‘No! Can’t you see he’s winding you up?’

‘He’s done that all right.’ She sat down and then stood up again, palming her brow. ‘I wanted to punch the little shit.’

‘He’s enjoying himself—’

‘And I’m playing into his hands, is that it?’

‘You answered your own question, Em.’

‘I suppose you think it’s totally illogical.’

‘I do. You’re so careful to keep your private life private. There are no pictures of Rachel in your office. How could he possibly know?’

‘I don’t know how! But he does!’

Joining her near the window, Stamp gave her a hug. She didn’t resist. It felt good to lean against his chest, to feel strong arms around her, a hand gently stroking her hair. He led her back to the chair, left her for a moment and returned with a tumbler of water and tissues. He wiped away her tears, then sat down beside her and held her hand.

‘Do you trust me, Emily?’

She sniffed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Do you?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Good . . .’ Reaching into his pocket, he took out his mobile phone, dialled a number and waited for the ringing tone. Handing her the phone, he smiled. There was only way to allay her fears.

R
ACHEL
M
C
C
ANN WIPED
her hands and took the pan off the stove. Switching off the radio, she picked up the phone and answered with a cheery hello. No one spoke but she could hear background noise, doors banging in the distance.

The prison.

Crossing one foot over the other, she leaned against the kitchen bench and looked out through the open window. The sun was shining. The snow on the lawn had almost disappeared, but on the driveway it had compacted under the weight of her father’s four-by-four. It was like an ice rink out there.

Rachel sighed.

The line was still open but her mother was obviously not yet free to speak. It was hopeless trying to have a sensible conversation while she was at work. Invariably they would be interrupted by a prisoner, an officer, a more important call. Even her poor dad had taken a backseat where her mother’s job was concerned, though she’d probably never admit it – certainly not now.

‘Mum? Is that you?’ Placing the phone in the crick of her neck, Rachel turned away from the window to stir the contents of the pan. A man’s voice reached her ear. Muffled. Urgent. Whispering? Pound to a penny it was Martin Stamp. ‘Come on, Mum! I haven’t got all day!’

She was about to hang up when her mum spoke. ‘I’m here, Rachel. Sorry, love—’

‘Why should
you
be sorry? You weren’t the one who flew off on one last night.’

‘Forget it, darling. I have.’

Rachel felt guilty then. She had her mother’s looks but her father’s fiery temperament – and boy had she let rip. All because Emily had pointed out the dangers of binge drinking when she’d come home late, having consumed her body-weight in alcohol: double vodkas to drown her sorrows, ginger ale to take the taste away.

Vic was buying. What did she care?

‘You OK, Mum? You sound a bit down.’

Rachel knew whose fault
that
was. Not only had she lied to her mother about where she’d been last night, more especially who with, she’d woken with a stinking hangover and hadn’t managed to rouse herself in time to see her off to work. Consequently, they hadn’t made up. Rachel resolved to put that right the minute she got home.

‘You’re pissed off with me, aren’t you?’ Rachel said.

‘What? No! Makes you say that?’

Rachel smiled. Her mother always asked a question when faced with one she couldn’t or didn’t wish to answer. ‘You are still angry, I can tell.’

‘I’m not, I just thought I’d check in while I’m free.’

‘Hardly free, locked up in there all day.’

Emily laughed. ‘It’s my job!’

Her attempt at humour was forced . . .

Something was up.

Rachel didn’t pry.

‘Just how much alcohol
did
you drink last night?’ Emily’s tone was jokey.

‘Not that much,’ Rachel lied. When her mother asked how she was feeling today, she said she was fine. That was a lie too. She was definitely not fine. Her head felt like someone was banging a drum in there. And that wasn’t all. Someone – she didn’t know who – was creeping around outside. She’d just seen their shadow cross the interior wall. As her mother made out that all was well, Rachel did the same, glancing along the hallway and laughing under her breath at her own paranoia.

Burglars didn’t usually knock.

Rachel hadn’t heard, nor could she see his familiar red van. But, in all probability, it was the postie. In this remote part of Northumberland
it wasn’t unusual for him to deliver mail this late in the day after a period of bad weather.

Besides, he knew the doorbell was iffy.

Her mother’s voice again. ‘Have you been out today?’

‘No, I didn’t feel like it. Not
today
. I’m making a cake for Dad’s birthday.’

‘That’s nice . . .’

‘You don’t mind . . . if we still celebrate, I mean?’

‘Course not, silly!’

Another tap on the door . . .

‘Gotta go, Mum.’

‘Rachel . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I won’t be late tonight, love. I need to pick up some stuff in the village on my way through and then we can do the river walk before it gets dark, if you feel up to it. Do us both good. Sound like a plan?’

‘You mean it?’

A lump formed in Rachel’s throat. They hadn’t done that since her father died. Emily had spent so much time down there with him, sitting with him, watching him fish, she hadn’t been able to face it.

The doorbell drowned out her mother’s response.

‘Ta, Mum. See ya later!’

‘W
HO’S AT THE DOOR
?’

Too late: the phone went down.

Emily was left hanging, a monotonous dialling tone summing up just how she was feeling. She sighed. Whoever it was, Rachel obviously hadn’t been concerned. She’d have heard it in her voice if that had been the case. Returning the mobile to Stamp, she thanked him.

‘For what?’ he asked.

‘For listening.’ Emily looked away.

She was deeply embarrassed for having panicked over Fearon. Grateful that Stamp hadn’t said or done anything to make her feel worse. There were no told-you-so lectures. No digs. No attempt to persuade her to take more time off. Emily suspected that was down to Jo Soulsby’s intervention. She didn’t need either of them to tell her she’d returned to work too early. That much had been obvious since day one.

There . . . she’d finally admitted she was struggling.

When she turned to face him, Stamp was fastening the top button of his shirt. He winked at her, straightened his tie and stood up. Slipping his jacket off the back of his chair, he put it on in readiness to leave. Bending over the table, he scooped up his papers, stuffed the lot into a worn leather briefcase and picked up his car keys.

‘Sorry, Em. I’ve got to run. I’m late as it is.’

Emily glanced at her watch.
Two twenty-five.
‘Shit! I’m late too!’

‘Aren’t you leaving early?’

‘Yes, but I’ve got a training course to run first!’ Emily caught his arm as he made for the door. ‘You will drive carefully, Martin?’

Stamp dropped his head and kissed her on the nose.

L
EAVING
H
ANK
G
ORMLEY
in her office, Kate walked Jo to her car. She watched as the profiler opened the tailgate of her Land Rover Discovery, leaned in and attached a choker chain around her dog’s neck. Nelson leapt out on to the pavement, straining on the leash to reach a bit of rough ground at the side of the station.

Jo led him towards it to have a quick pee.

Kate followed them. ‘You going straight back?’

‘No . . .’ Jo pulled the dog away from a half-eaten burger someone had tossed under a bush. ‘I’m supposed to be in town at a meeting. Only I’m here with you instead.’

‘Thank you. Hope it hasn’t put you out.’

‘No. It was my pleasure . . .’ Jo was smiling. ‘I’m seeing Martin later for a bite to eat. He can fill me in on what I missed. Thought I’d pop home first and pick up my mail. A close friend warned me my security is pants.’

‘Shame, I was half hoping I’d get an invite to that cottage of yours.’

Jo yanked the dog’s chain. ‘Didn’t think you’d be interested.’

‘I love Low Newton-by-the-Sea!’

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’

There was an intense moment of sadness as they stood on the grass facing one another, not knowing what to say. A passing police car tooted its horn. Kate didn’t see who the driver was but waved anyway. When she turned back, Jo was staring at her with those pale blue eyes, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders, her expression serious. She broke the silence. But what she said wasn’t what the detective wanted to hear . . .

‘It wouldn’t work second time round, Kate. Let’s face it, it would never be the same.’

‘How will we know if we don’t try?’

‘I do know,’ Jo said. ‘Anyhow, you’ve moved on.’

‘Says who?’

‘I seem to recall a certain artist.’

It was like a slap in the face. During the last case they had worked together, the two of them had argued – just as they were
doing now. Thinking there was no hope of ever getting back with Jo, Kate had spent the night with Fiona Fielding, only to discover a voice message from Jo next morning asking her to give their relationship another go. Later, when Kate got home, a handwritten note had been pushed through her door.

I guess I have my answer
was all it said.

Bad timing didn’t quite cover it.

‘That was your fault,’ Kate said.

‘It always is . . .’ Jo bent down to remove Nelson’s choker. When she stood up, her hair was a mess, as if she’d just rolled out of bed. ‘
I
wasn’t the one ripping her clothes off, was I? Let me see . . . no, I think I’d have remembered. And I wasn’t the one making mad, passionate love to her either. Stop me if I’m getting warm.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘Wasn’t it?’ Jo gave a wry smile.

‘I’m not denying I slept with her,’ Kate corrected herself. ‘But I didn’t make love to her. Not in the way you mean. It wasn’t like that.’

‘You’re telling me it was a quick shag?’ Jo countered, a smirk crossing her face. ‘Sure it was: so quick it lasted the whole night.’

Kate felt ridiculous standing in the street talking about something as personal as a night she’d spent with an artist she barely knew. She wanted to reach out to Jo, reassure her that it was a one-off. Tell her that sex with Fiona was good but it wasn’t great. Not like it was between the two of them. But that would have been a lie. Fiona was bloody amazing in bed, a woman with an insatiable appetite for all things carnal. There was so much Kate wanted to say, but what was the point? Jo had made her mind up and she was powerless to change it.

Since their separation, their feelings for one another had
become complicated. It was as if they could only function with other people around them. The minute they were on their own, the barriers went up.

They were two grown-ups acting like children.

But if they were arguing it meant they still cared.