Monument to Murder (19 page)

T
HE PRISONER WAS
lean and strong, not an ounce of fat on him. He had a six-pack worthy of a professional footballer. He worked on it too. Every minute he got the chance. Kent had had enough of watching him pump iron in the state-of-the-art gym it would cost the tax-paying public five hundred quid a year to match.

Where was the justice in that?

He despised this one more than most. Not because he spent hours in the gym preening in front of a mirror, then shuffled back to his cell like he didn’t have the strength to fight his way out of a paper bag. Or because of the offence that brought him to the prison in the first place. There were worse sexual deviants under lock and key at HMP Northumberland. Neither was it because he had a thing about women – though clearly he had – particularly those in authority. It was because he was a creep: period.

As a wing cleaner, Fearon was right there every time a skirt stepped foot inside the gate. Kent had hidden in the shadows on numerous occasions observing him observing them – psychologist Emily McCann especially. The arsehole was besotted with her.

Kent felt his anger rising as he thought about McCann. She had never been
his
greatest fan. There’d been a time when they got on OK, but recently she’d been making that lovely mouth of hers go. Now he was on the back foot, his PO and SO demanding that he get his shit together, insisting that a little chat with her could do him some good.

He sniggered.

Other way round, more like.

Pity her sympathies lay with the nonce.

Kent looked around him. There were eight inmates exercising in total. As usual, Saunders and Jones had collared the elliptical
trainers. Three others were on treadmills – two walking, one running. Singh was lifting weights on a flat bench behind them while his partner took on water.

The room stank of sweat.

Fearon was lying on the deck, a hard vinyl mat beneath his body. He was working through a gruelling series of sit-ups that would make a fit man weep, a thin veil of sweat on his upper lip but no sign of effort on his face. Kent couldn’t plant one on him in full view of everyone. He decided to bide his time, wait until his colleague’s back was turned before making his move.

And there it was.

As Fearon got up off the floor, Kent seized his opportunity to take a pop at him. It was like punching a brick wall. ‘Grab your kit and come with me!’ he said.

Hearing the commotion, his colleague looked round, nonplussed. ‘What gives?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

Over the officer’s shoulder, Saunders and Jones were pissing themselves laughing having witnessed what had taken place. The rest of the cons had seen it too, but they looked away, minding their business. Fearon wasn’t popular.

Kent tensed.

Only one prisoner could cause him any trouble and the little twat was fast approaching, a complaint already forming on his lips.

Time to head him off at the pass.

‘Looking forward to going home later, son?’ Kent’s eyes held a warning.

Ajit Singh backed off.

‘Thought so.’

Job done.

Placing Fearon in an arm lock, Kent hauled him out through the gym door, yelling at his oppo to keep his eye on the others. The corridor beyond was empty. For a moment, he wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. If the lad turned on him now he knew he’d be in trouble despite his combat training.

‘Stand still!’ he bawled. ‘Or I’ll break your fucking arm.’

He would too, the mood he was in.

Fearon went limp. Raising his head, he eyeballed the screw, a look of sheer hatred passing between them. Despite the damage he could do, Kent was willing him to kick off. Any excuse to get stuck into him for real. But Fearon was too clever to fight with a member of staff so close to his release date. His present sentence couldn’t be extended, but a new assault charge would queer his pitch good and proper, putting paid to his plans to visit Emily McCann. So he just stood there, showing no emotion, good or bad.

Drawing his arm back, Kent hit him again, in the stomach this time, bringing up some of his breakfast. Expecting some form of retaliation, he stepped away, lifting his fists ready to defend himself. Wiping vomit from his bottom lip, Fearon smiled as SO Walker rounded the corner.

Game over.

For now . . .

T
HE WALK TO
C-wing was long and silent apart from two pairs of boots squeaking on the highly polished floor and Fearon’s gym shoes padding along beside them. SO Walker led the way, having listened to Kent’s explanation as to what had taken place outside the gym. He hadn’t asked Fearon for his version of events, merely invited Kent to escort the prisoner to his office for, as he put it, ‘a more detailed conversation.’

Kent knew he was in for some stick. Not in front of Fearon. The two officers went back a long way and, whatever the story, Walker would never undermine one of his own with a prisoner present. As the nonce assumed the position on one side of Walker’s desk, the SO walked round behind it and sat down.

He didn’t look happy.

Closing the door, Kent moved forward and stood to attention, shoulder to shoulder with Fearon, ready to blag his way out of a tricky situation. He didn’t want to deceive his SO, but what other choice was there? This time he’d gone too far. His job was on the line.

Ash Walker sat in his chair, his eyes shifting from man to boy and back again, searching their faces for the truth.

Kent’s jaw was so fixed he thought it might lock. Though his own gaze was trained on the wall opposite, he could feel the SO’s eyes boring into him and wondered which one of the two he was going to believe. He relaxed then.
If in doubt, close ranks.
That was how it was. How it had always been. Uniforms backed each other up. No question.

No contest.

‘Assaulting an officer is a very serious breach of discipline,’ Walker said. He picked up a pen, opened an A4 incident log, looking directly at the inmate. ‘Mind telling me what happened again? Just for the record. I’ve heard one explanation, now I’d like yours.’

He waited . . .

‘C’mon! You’re always making your mouth go, Fearon. Now’s your chance to put the record straight.’

‘I never touched him. I was going through my training programme. I got up and he elbowed me for no good reason.’ Placing his left hand on his right side, Fearon winced. ‘I think he bust
a rib too. He’s always on my case. You know that as well as I do. Check your logbook if you don’t believe me. See how many times I’ve been to see the Governor on his say so. It ain’t on. Know what I’m saying?’

‘You’re alleging Officer Kent singles you out for special attention?’

‘Yeah, I am.’

‘I see. He makes your life hell for the fun of it?’

‘Yeah, exactly!’

‘And Ms McCann too, I suppose? Is she part of this conspiracy?’

Fearon clammed up.

‘Why would either of them do that?’ Walker asked. ‘You sure it isn’t the other way round?’

‘I never done nowt to him, man. He’s making it up. He’s a fucking psycho! Everyone knows what he’s like.’

‘Oh, so now I’m part of the problem.’

‘No, sir. You ain’t got eyes in the back of your head. I understand that, dunni? But I got rights too, y’know . . .’ Fearon looked to his right. ‘I want this wanker off my case.’

‘Shut it!’ Walker glanced at his log, his pen poised to record the incident. There was a moment of silence while he considered what action to take. ‘I’ve had about enough of you, Fearon. You’ve been a pain in the arse since you arrived on this wing, not just to my staff but to Ms McCann and everyone else you come in contact with. I’ve put up with your antics long enough. Maybe you need a change of scenery.’

‘No!’

‘Excuse me? Did I say you had a choice?’

A look of panic flashed across Fearon’s face. ‘Don’t move me, please, sir. I take it back. I’m the problem, not Officer Kent. I swear I won’t make no complaint. I ain’t moving wing, man. No way!’

Kent fought hard to keep a straight face.

The nonce was almost begging.

Ash Walker crossed his arms over his chest and sat considering his options. Kent could read his mind. The prison was full to capacity. Moving Fearon out would mean moving some other poor bugger in; one who probably didn’t deserve, let alone want, to shift. Movement for movement’s sake upset the status quo. The resulting disruption would cause a ripple effect throughout the prison. They all knew that. Besides, what wing PO would be daft enough to accept the agitating bastard?

Kent wanted to laugh his cock off.

He was home and dry.

The SO pointed at Fearon. ‘You piss me off one more time and you’re transferring, you hear me?’ Fearon nodded, even said thanks. Walker looked at the clock above the door and said, ‘Fulham-Chelsea are on Sky tonight at eight o’clock. Shame you’ll miss it. Now get out of here before I change my mind. This incident never happened, you got me?’

Another nod from Fearon.

But he didn’t move quick enough for Walker’s liking. ‘I said GET OUT!’

Dragging his feet, Fearon trundled out, slamming the door behind him.

‘Keep your eye on him today and bang him up early,’ Walker said. ‘Straight after his evening meal.’

Kent turned to leave.

‘No, Bill. Sit down. We need a word.’

Kent remained on his feet. He knew what was coming: another lecture, another pep-talk, so much sympathy he was drowning in the stuff. He was sick of it – sick of working with nonces like
Fearon – sick of every damn thing and everybody: Fearon, Harrison, McCann, even Ash Walker, now he came to think of it.

‘You’re due some leave,’ Walker said. ‘Take it!’

‘No thanks.’

‘I’m telling, not asking. Get on the phone and arrange it.’

‘Not my style, boss.’

‘Fuck’s sake! Then go and see Emily. She’ll help you, I know she will.’ Walker dropped his voice a touch as a work party of inmates were led past the office. ‘Look, I understand it’s difficult for you, but you can’t lose your rag with the cons and expect to get away with it. It’s not on, you hear me?’ Walker sighed loudly. ‘Consider yourself on a final.’

Kent headed off.

‘And, Bill . . . ?’

Turning as he reached the door, Kent waited.

‘Don’t mess with him, or me,’ Walker said. ‘You’ll end up losing.’

C
ONCENTRATING ON A
minor theft and forgetting the arrest for murder was a decision Kate Daniels was comfortable with for the time being. John Edward Thompson obviously thought his luck was in when she handed him over to spend a night in the cells. According to the custody sergeant, he’d cooperated during the charge-room process, insisting that he neither required nor wanted a solicitor present. He’d been no bother during the night; not a peep from him, in fact.

Interesting . . .

She was observing him on CCTV.

He was sitting at a table chewing his nails. He looked dishevelled, having slept in his clothes. His hair was greasy and stuck to his scalp and he could do with a wash. No wonder Carmichael was keeping her distance by the door. What interested Kate most was the fact that Thompson seemed unconcerned about being held in custody overnight. Then again, why should he? He knew the drill. He was an old hand now.

Time for a little chat.

In interview, he stuck to the same story. He’d run because he’d been shoplifting, nothing more. Daniels now knew he was telling the truth, having sent Gormley on a mission to recover the coat, which was right where Thompson told them it would be. What’s more, Hank had identified it as coming from the shop from which their suspect had done a runner.
Probably had his DNA all over it.
Shop security had even provided CCTV that showed a hint of a police uniform at the front door.

‘Told ya!’ Thompson smirked.

He was getting cocky now – a bit too cocky – and it made the DCI’s heart sing. In her experience, if you told someone you were arresting them for murder and they hadn’t done it, they did one of three things: they went berserk, put up a wall of silence or screamed for their brief and made an official complaint. Thompson had done none of these things.

So why hadn’t he made his mouth go?

They had broken his door down in the middle of the night, hauled his arse to Alnwick, and taken the piss out of him unmercifully. And yet he’d taken the lot on the chin without kicking up a fuss. In her mind, that meant only one thing. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself or his previous offending because he had something to hide.

That something was probably serious.

‘It looks like you’re going to prison unless you help us.’ She eyeballed him across the square Formica table, pausing a moment, allowing him to sweat. ‘If I were you, I’d use my loaf. You may well have proved beyond reasonable doubt that you ran from us because you were thieving. But if you cast your foggy mind back to last night, I didn’t arrest you for theft in the first place, did I? That other matter hasn’t gone away.’

‘Shame . . .’ Carmichael tutted. ‘Not so clever now, eh, pal?’

The put-down hit home.

Thompson’s bravado disappeared and he asked for a brief.

Carmichael grinned. ‘You hear something, boss?’

‘Don’t think so.’ Daniels glanced at Thompson’s custody record. ‘Oh look! At 0440 hours the suspect declined a solicitor. See here?’ She pushed the record across the table, using her index finger to point to a specific entry. ‘The custody sergeant has even signed his name right there next to it in case a judge should want to see it too.’

‘I changed my mind,’ Thompson huffed.

‘Tell you what,’ Daniels said. ‘You help me and I’ll forget I ever saw that CCTV. How does that sound to you?’

She and Carmichael had called up Thompson’s police record earlier. Years ago he’d dressed a couple of young girls up in adult clothing before abusing them. He’d stopped short of killing them, but he’d left them in a terrible state: degraded and traumatized, unable to sleep, fearful of men. He’d snatched one of them from her home in broad daylight while her mother was in the garden hanging out her washing.

Walked right in through the front door.

That took nerve.

It was one of two reasons he’d come up as a possible suspect. The
other was that he’d gone to prison in May 2002 and come out again in November 2005, which meant he was capable of having committed both offences that fell within Daniels’ timeframe, such as it was. Since the enquiry began, the SIO had been asking herself why the long interval between victims. The obvious conclusion was that the offender had been locked up and therefore unable to commit an offence in the intervening years.

Thompson’s incarceration spanned the gap perfectly.

When questioned in connection with Munro’s enquiry, he’d insisted he was living and working on the Continent from August 1995 to September 2001.
So what?
A cheap flight from Spain was no barrier to murder. Relaxed border controls within Europe meant passports were rarely scanned – another change in the law that made the job of murder investigation teams across the globe more difficult. He could’ve been back and forth a hundred times without being detected.

A TIE action had never put him out of the North Yorks enquiry but neither had it put him in. With no hard evidence to implicate him, he had been released. Munro’s frustration over the phone was palpable. The DCI was nearing retirement and wanted to detect this one before he handed in his warrant card. Kate totally understood how that would eat away at him. Major incident teams throughout the country faced exactly the same issues on a daily basis. Staff had to pick up and drop actions and incidents, constantly reevaluating and feeding their priorities. As a result, some cases were left undetected, marring the end of a fine career. She hoped that wouldn’t happen to her.