Monument to Murder (2 page)

T
HE CALL HAD
reached the control room at 9.43 a.m. from a mobile phone. A child playing ‘hunt the dinosaur’ with his father had stumbled upon an exposed skeleton where a section of dunes had broken away and slid on to Bamburgh beach below – a horrific end to what should have been a perfect morning.

‘
Definitely
human?’ Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels asked.

‘According to first responders,’ DS Hank Gormley replied. ‘Then again, would your average copper know a human from a Stegosaurus?’

Kate laughed.

At a signpost for the village of Bamburgh she left the A1 taking the B road towards the coast. It was a better road in her opinion than one she could’ve taken a few miles back – which meant she was approaching the coastal village from the north side.

Her new Audi Q5 handled well as they passed through the small hamlet of Waren Mill along a winding country road bathed in winter sunshine, a nature reserve and the sweeping sands of Budle Bay on their left.

The car picked up speed, climbing gently now.

Hank had gone quiet. Kate didn’t need to turn her head to know that he was fast asleep. He could nap at a moment’s notice, on a clothes line if he had a mind to. She smiled, keeping her eyes on the brow of the hill, anticipating the glorious view on the other side. She’d seen it many times before and yet it still took her breath away. And there it was – Bamburgh Castle – rising majestically out of the ground on which it stood, a sight of power and beauty, its distinctive red sandstone walls impenetrable to the enemy without, the royal seat of the Kings of Northumbria in days gone by.

Flinching as a bird flew across her windscreen, Kate slowed on the outskirts of the village to observe a thirty-mile-an-hour limit. There were buildings on her right. Some fairly flash houses. The Grace Darling Museum with an RNLI flag on top. Dropping a gear, she turned left into The Wynding and drove downhill past some large seaside villas, one particular art deco example catching her eye.

An overhead sign came into view, a warning: MAX HEIGHT 6'11" – 2.1 MTRS. And another sign: NO OVERNIGHT PARKING.

There would be tonight
.

The car park beyond was a piece of pot-holed rough ground with a mound of grass in the centre but no vehicular access on to the beach. It was full of police vehicles, CSI vans, a couple of Area Command pandas and search teams waiting for instructions.

As Senior Investigating Officer it was Kate’s job to direct operations, tell them exactly how she wanted them to proceed.

She sighed, steeling herself for a long shift.

She’d planned a rare half-day – a swim and a sauna – then dinner with her old man on his birthday at the Black Bull in Corbridge, the Tyne Valley village where she grew up. Secretly she was pleased she had a good
public
excuse to cry off. Ed Daniels couldn’t argue with that, though she was sure he’d try. She’d fled their last birthday celebration – hers – for much the same reason. Only that wasn’t strictly true. In order to avoid a confrontation she’d used the excuse of being needed at the office, leaving him to finish his dinner alone.

A blustery wind whipped around the car as it came to a halt, shaking it like a toy. A man and a small boy Kate assumed were her witnesses were sitting together in a four-by-four with police insignia on its side. The child had a mop of blond hair and striking blue eyes. His face was pushed up against the window, staring out at her.

A podgy little hand appeared, waving.

Waving back, Kate turned away. She’d interview the boy and his father later.

The detectives got out of the car, put on their coats and walked the short distance down on to the beach where clumps of rotting seaweed rolled like tumbleweed in a desert landscape. This part
of the Northumberland coast was stunning but unforgiving too, completely open to the elements. They had to shade their eyes from a sheet of sand being whipped along the shoreline, making wave-shaped ridges on the surface beneath their feet.

A large section of the beach had been taped off to keep the public out, an outer and inner cordon already in place. The crime scene itself was dwarfed by Bamburgh’s fortified ancient castle, inhabited to this day. Built on a plateau of volcanic rock, the magical castle had inspired many a film director to shoot there. But Kate Daniels was less enthused by the isolated location. This exposed stretch of coastline was more often than not deserted. If it
was
a human skeleton, whoever had buried the body there had chosen the spot carefully. She knew she’d have her work cut out to crack this case.

‘DCI Daniels?’ an officer in uniform had fixed his eyes on Hank Gormley.

Wincing, Hank pointed at Kate.

Realizing his mistake, the PC blushed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am—’

‘So you should be . . .’ She was pulling his leg. ‘Don’t let it happen again.’

Relieved at having been let off the hook so easily, the constable lifted the police tape allowing the detectives to duck underneath. Kate scrambled up the dunes to where a tent had been erected, giving her DS a hand up.

Turning when they reached the top, they stood for a moment looking out to sea – a tranquil shoreline with stunning views over the Holy Island of Lindisfarne. A place of pilgrimage and spirituality, a tidal island, accessible only over a causeway, forever at the mercy of strong tides. A draw for visitors from around the world, Christians flocked there in their droves, using the island as a focal point. At school, Kate had studied the island’s
long history, learning of Christian martyrs and pagan attacks, developing a fascination with Celtic Christianity.

‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’ she said without shifting her gaze.

Gormley scanned the horizon. ‘Religious significance?’

‘First impressions are often the best ones, Hank. Hold that thought.’

Tread plates marked a single route to the crime scene tent. On this occasion they were probably superfluous but the detectives used them anyway. Showing ID to a uniformed officer guarding the tent, Kate entered first, Hank close behind.

The skeleton inside was without question human. Surrounded by golden sand and tufts of rough grass, it looked as though it had been carefully placed there, not just dumped in a hole and covered up. It was partially exposed: lying face up, arms bent at the elbows and crossed over the chest, one bony hand resting on top of the other. Some clothing was intact, a flash of red polka dots, a sandy necklace, a high-heeled shoe.

‘Not prehistoric then,’ Gormley said.

‘No . . .’ Kate looked at her watch, then back at her DS. ‘There’s nothing we can do here until Stanton turns up. Summon the squad and give the Super a ring. Tell him I’m setting up an incident room at Alnwick station. If the clothing remnants are anything to go by, the remains are relatively recent.’

As Hank pulled out his phone to make the call, Kate glanced at the skeletal remains. With no detailed physical description of the deceased to go on, she had the uneasy feeling that this case would run and run.

E
MILY
M
C
C
ANN SPENT
the morning going through a pile of case notes that had been left on top of her filing cabinet. She was almost up to speed, having paid careful attention to the new and, by definition, vulnerable inmates who’d arrived at the establishment in her absence. Their sentences ranged from just a few years to life imprisonment, covering a variety of offences: robbery, arson, rape and murder among them.

As resident psychologist, Emily was responsible for the whole of the prison population – staff as well as prisoners. Just over a year ago, her office had been moved from the admin block to B-wing, a sensible decision given that it housed some of the most dangerous offenders, the troublemakers and downright disturbed. There was a downside. Although directly responsible to the prison governor, Emily now had to contend with another man, Principal Officer Harrison.

Pushing that unpalatable thought aside – she hadn’t seen Harrison since Robert’s death – Emily set about prioritizing the most urgent cases. Making a list of those she wanted to call up for interview, she filed the rest away and made herself a cup of tea. Then sat back down to concentrate her efforts on one particular inmate, a young man serving seven years for the rape of a woman old enough to be his grandmother.

Emily felt sick.

It had nothing to do with Walter Fearon’s heinous crime or the prison governor’s insistence that she treat him as top priority on account of his impending release. Letting a dangerous offender back on the streets was deeply troubling and required careful handling but that was not the cause of her nausea. No, the wave of grief came out of the blue – a panic attack – the first that morning. She
knew there would be others. Despite her best efforts to suppress them, there was no escape, no rhyme or reason, rarely any warning. That was the way it was. The way it had been since Robert had been snatched from her so unexpectedly.

She wept, quietly at first, then in huge sobs as the floodgates opened. She wasn’t the only one struggling to cope. Poor Rachel had fallen spectacularly apart since her father’s death. She’d clung on to Emily before she left for work, terrified to let her out of her sight. Her moods were getting worse, her anger more potent. Her stubborn refusal to accept Emily’s suggestion that it was time to move on with their lives had led to hurtful accusations and emotional blackmail designed to stop her mother doing just that.

Emily wanted to
feel
again. She wanted to function in the real world, not merely exist as a punchbag, a target for her daughter’s fury. If the truth were known, returning to work had been her escape, her route to salvation from the nightmare of bereavement. But she was, first and foremost, a mother. Leaving Rachel alone was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do.

But was her daughter right?

Was it too soon to return to work?

Emily didn’t feel ready to face the harsh reality of such a taxing job within the suffocating walls of a prison. Maybe she never would be again. But what alternative did she have?

She was the breadwinner now.

She had to start sometime.

Wiping a tear from her cheek with the palm of her hand, she forced her grief away and focused on the file in front of her. An hour later, as satisfied as she could be that a probation hostel afforded at least half a chance of keeping tabs on Fearon, she picked up her pen and signed her name to his discharge report.

He’d had his chance
.

She’d tried, without success, to unpick his history and modify his behaviour. To demonstrate how different choices might have altered his path in life. She’d been wasting her breath. Despite all the work she’d put in, he’d steadfastly refused to take responsibility for his actions or show a willingness to cooperate in his sentence planning. If anything he’d got worse in prison. He was stronger and more dangerous than he’d been on reception. One thing was certain:
he’d be back
.

T
AKING HIS PHONE
from his pocket, Hank Gormley swore under his breath when he saw there was no network signal. It didn’t surprise his DCI. Kate Daniels had worked in Northumberland long enough to know that mobile coverage this far north could never be guaranteed.

‘I’m going to have to find a phone.’ His face brightened. ‘We could try the Lord Crewe.’

‘Or wait ’til we get to Alnwick?’ Kate wasn’t buying a visit to the nearest pub.

‘Boss, I’m busting for a pee!’

They turned their faces from the next gust of sand-blasting wind.

Hank blinked, closing one eye. ‘How long would I need to lie down before this lot covered me up, d’you think?’ He pointed at his shoes, specifically at the thick layer of sand that had formed on the uppers. ‘Maybe Ms or Mrs Bones in there was doing a bit of bronzing and stayed too long. Could be natural causes, couldn’t it? Wind
blows, covers her up. No one comes along for weeks and hey presto! She could’ve lain undiscovered for years, never to be seen again.’

‘That’s the most rubbish theory I ever heard!’

‘Why so?’

‘She’s not wearing any sunnies,’ Kate said.

‘Clever! Why didn’t I think of that?’

‘Because you’re rubbish?’ she teased.

They walked back to the car park. Kate was surprised to see the police four-by-four still parked up. A chubby hand reappeared at the window. The little boy attached to it looked frozen now. His shoulders were hunched. His lips, blue. At a rough estimate, he’d been sitting there for a couple of hours at least.

Cursing under her breath, Kate turned to the sound of chattering radios. There was a muddle of bodies to her left, all wearing uniforms. The nearest one binned her cigarette when she saw the DCI heading towards her pointing at the police vehicle.

Kate wanted to punch the dozy cow. ‘Who’s supposed to be looking after my witnesses?’ she asked.

The PC’s expression was blank. ‘Er, not sure, ma’am.’

‘Well find out! And when you have, tell them to shift their lazy arses and get their act into gear. I want that child and his father transported to Alnwick police station and given something to eat and drink immediately. They just found a body, for Christ’s sake!’

The policewoman hurried off.

Rolling her eyes at Hank, Kate got in the car, started the engine and turned left out of the car park heading back towards the village.

There were no parking spaces outside the Lord Crewe on Church Street so she carried on driving with the village green on one side, a short row of pretty cottages, galleries and gift shops on the other – the Copper Kettle Tea Room among them. Not far away, a Japanese
tourist was taking a photograph of a traditional red phone box with his mobile. The group he was with were looking through the window of the Old Pantry, a deli Kate knew sold delicious goods like onion marmalade and Francesca’s Figgy Pear Relish, her late mother’s favourite.

‘Fancy stopping at Carter’s for a pork growler?’ Gormley asked.

‘Thought you were dying for the loo?’

‘Doesn’t mean I’m not hungry.’

Hank could always eat, no matter what time of day or night it was. It made no difference if they were, or had recently been, viewing fresh blood and guts or a corpse crawling with maggots. Nothing came between him and his food.

Giving in to his plea for sustenance, Kate stopped further along the road at the Mizen Head Hotel, a place to warm up, grab a quick coffee and make some urgent calls. As Hank went off to find the Gents, her ears pricked up as a woman at the bar recounted a developing weather situation to the big guy serving her. There was no sign of it through the window but snow was apparently moving in from the north, forecast to last several days. A Met Office severe weather warning had been issued.

That was not good news.

Northumbria force covered a wide area. Bamburgh was about as far from its centre as it was possible to get. The high-tech murder investigation suite in Newcastle was fifty-odd miles away, an hour and a quarter by road. Unbelievable though it seemed in the twenty-first century, numpty politicians hadn’t yet recognized the need to dual the A1 through the border regions to Scotland. From Kate’s point of view, that made it too far away to function effectively as an operations base from which to run a case, particularly in winter. The weather here could change in
minutes. She couldn’t expect detectives working extended shifts to spend an additional three hours on treacherous roads between home and office.

Returning to the table with a latte for her and a pint of John Smith’s for him, Hank sat down, taking in her disapproving look. ‘What?’ he said. ‘I’m only having the one!’

‘Did I say anything?’

‘You didn’t have to. What’s up?’

Kate nodded towards the bar where the prophet of doom was telling her growing audience that the blizzards currently engulfing Berwick were heading their way.

Hank listened in for a moment, then turned to face Kate. ‘You think we should get digs?’

She nodded. ‘Seems sensible. Local boys will be on house-to-house
eventually
. There’ll be nowt doing until we hear from Stanton. We’ll be kicking our heels a bit, but we can get an incident room up and running while we wait. Drink up, we’d better get moving.’