Monument to Murder (21 page)

A
PPALLED BY WHAT
Walker had told her at lunch, Emily had gone looking for Kent with a view to offering her help without letting on she knew about his daughter’s disappearance. But all afternoon he’d kept his head down, even volunteering to supervise a creative writing class taking place in the prison library, a dull duty for someone who’d never read a book in his life. It was obvious he was ignoring her.

C’est la vie!

She’d done all she could. Time to go home.

Emily hurried to her car. It was freezing outside but a beautiful evening. The night sky was inky black, the stars brighter than she’d seen them in a long while. Turning out of the prison car park she rang Vera Hendry to check on her husband’s progress and let her know there was no rush for him to act as locksmith.

The news wasn’t good.

Since his fall, Reg had been complaining of extreme dizziness. Further examination by his GP revealed a swelling of the optic nerve. Suspecting a slight bleed on the brain, the doctor had ordered the old man to Rake Lane Hospital to undergo a CT scan. The situation wasn’t life-threatening but it wasn’t good either for a man of his age.

Determined not to dwell on another miserable newsflash, Emily drove on, arriving at The Stint around fifteen minutes later. The place was in darkness. She let herself in, stooping to pick up junk mail from the hallway floor. It was the first time in ages she’d come home to an empty house. It hadn’t occurred to her how awful and isolating it must’ve been for Rachel since she’d taken the decision to return to work.

Emily lit the wood-burner, prepared dinner, made the beds and stuck some washing in. As she re-entered the living room to check on the fire, her eyes were drawn to the wall above the hearth where two framed photographs took pride of place. Both were of Robert. In one he was fishing in the river at the bottom of the garden. In the other, he was standing beside his Land Rover Defender, a rifle cocked over his arm, an old black gundog by his side. She remembered taking the photo, poking fun at him, telling him he looked like an advert for the BBC programme,
Countryfile
.

Miss you, Rob.

Swallowing down her grief, she went to the window and looked out. The lane outside was empty. Emily checked her watch. Six fifteen. As she raised her eyes, the headlights of a single-decker lit up the tree-lined road beyond her garden wall. Only half-expecting it to stop outside, she was nevertheless disappointed when it didn’t. Rachel rarely managed the early bus from Newcastle.

She’d be on the next for sure.

Emily was about to turn away from the window when a police car took the brow of the hill at speed, its blues and twos flashing. She watched it get closer . . . and was horrified when it turned into her driveway, its tyres crunching on a mixture of gravel and ice as it came to a sudden stop.

A policeman got out, putting his cap on as he climbed from the vehicle. With her heart in her mouth, Emily edged ever so slowly into the hallway. A blurred profile appeared through the frosted panel of her front door. A flood of mixed emotions ran through her head. She couldn’t see the officer’s expression but she could feel the seriousness of his visit like a heavy vibration through the door.

What was he waiting for?

As he tapped on the door, Emily remembered that the bell was iffy. She didn’t move for what seemed like an eternity. Then, lifting her arm, her hand froze in mid-air as she reached for the latch. She withdrew it again, staring at the blurred shadow of her unexpected visitor, as if leaving the door closed would save her from a fate worse than death.

A knock this time: harder and more businesslike. A face pressed to the glass peering in at her. She took a deep breath, lifted the latch and pulled the open door. The officer was tall, maybe six-three, around forty years old, pale blue eyes framed by fair lashes and intelligent
brows. He had what her mother called good suit shoulders, straight not slouched, that filled his pristine uniform perfectly.

Emily tried to speak but no words came out.

Removing his hat, the policeman stowed it under his left armpit. ‘I’m looking for Ms McCann?’ he said.

‘You found her.’ Emily’s voice caught in her throat.

He pointed into the hallway. ‘Could we talk inside?’

‘Of course . . .’ Stepping back to let him in, a sense of dread wrapped itself around Emily as it had the day a policeman turned up at the prison without warning to inform her of Robert’s sudden death. She offered this one a seat but he remained standing, his eyes searching her face, forming impressions, making judgements.

What the hell for?

‘Do you know why I’m here, madam?’ he asked.

How could she?
Confused, Emily only managed a shake of her head.

‘Did you come straight home from the prison?’ His tone was flat.

How come he knew where she worked?
‘Yes, why?’

‘What time did you leave?’

Emily shrugged. ‘A little after five-thirty.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t. It was around then, I couldn’t say for sure.’

‘You seem rather nervous.’

Emily felt hot. She had a good right to be nervous. There was a policeman standing in her living room asking her ridiculous questions and she didn’t know why. Her answer obviously wasn’t satisfactory and he wanted more. She glanced at her watch. ‘It was no more than half an hour ago. I’ve not been long in. What’s all this about?’

‘Any contact with anyone since you left?’

‘No, yes. I called a friend. Why is that important?’

‘We were alerted by prison staff—’

‘About
what
? I don’t follow. Has there been an escape?’

He didn’t answer.

Did he think she’d assisted an offender to get away, willingly or otherwise?

‘Officer?’ she pushed.

‘No, madam. There’s been no escape.’ His expression was like a reprimand. ‘I’m here for the keys. Where are they?’

‘Oh shit!’ Now she understood.

Feeling like a kid who’d been caught stealing, Emily looked down at the key pouch on her waist, the realization dawning. Leaving one of Her Majesty’s Prisons without handing in her precious keys was tantamount to treason. One of the most serious breaches of security it was possible to make. Potentially, every lock on every gate and every cell door would have to be changed unless the authorities were satisfied that it was purely accidental.

A grovelling apology was in order.

‘I feel such an idiot . . .’ Unclipping the keys from their chain, Emily handed them over. ‘Please assure the Governor they’ve not left my person or passed into the wrong hands. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s easy done, I imagine.’

‘It’s not, actually. Gatehouse security is usually very thorough. I can’t believe I wasn’t stopped as I passed through. I’ve been a bit preoccupied of late.’

‘Yes, I heard about Mr McCann. I’m sorry . . .’ Checking his watch, the policeman made a note in his pocketbook. Looking up, he asked, ‘Have you had any visitors at all since you got home?’

Emily shook her head.

‘Stop anywhere on the way?’

‘No.’

‘You mentioned phoning someone. May I check your phone?’

Emily got her bag and handed over her mobile. Accessing her calls list, the officer wrote down Vera Hendry’s number, asking her who it belonged to. She told him about the old lady, pleading with him not to worry her unnecessarily, explaining that her husband had been admitted to hospital that afternoon. He made the call, noted down his findings, and then called his control room telling them he was now in possession of the keys and that he was satisfied – as far as it was possible to be – that it was a genuine oversight on Emily’s part.

Ending the call, he held the keys up to Emily. ‘I’d better get these back where they belong.’

Repeating her apology, Emily showed him out. It would be up to prison security to determine whether any further action was required. She couldn’t care less. Compared to what was going through her mind when the policeman arrived, the keys going AWOL didn’t even come close. It certainly wasn’t something she’d lose sleep over.

She sighed.

The only emotion she was feeling right now was relief. As long as Rachel was safe, Emily was bulletproof. Nothing else mattered. Waving as the policeman reversed off her driveway, she wondered who had told him about Robert. There were too many people discussing her business and she resented it.

The traffic car sped off the way it had come. Watching its tail lights disappear over the hill, Emily put on her coat and walked down her garden path to the main road to wait for Rachel, grateful that in the countryside the bus would stop anywhere to let its passengers off. A few seconds later, it flew right by.

T
WENTY-TWO MILES AWAY
, Kate Daniels parked her car in the fishing village of Low Newton-by-the-Sea, one of her favourite places along the North Northumberland coast. Taking a bottle of red from the passenger seat, she climbed out, feeling a rush of pleasure as she scanned her surroundings.

Breathing in the fresh salty air, she admired the starry sky, the moonlight dancing on water, the waves crashing on to the shore. Jo’s rented cottage was situated a spit off the beach. Picture perfect, it sat at one end of a single-storey whitewashed terrace with a small porch out front. No wonder she’d chosen to live here.

Jo was a little unkempt when she answered the door, as if she wasn’t expecting company and had just pulled her grey knitted dress over her head and hadn’t bothered to comb her hair afterwards. She was barefoot, her slim legs wrapped in footless tights, toenails painted a deep shade of plum that matched her lipstick perfectly. The neck of her dress was pulled a touch too low at one side revealing a hint of pale lacy underwear.

‘Come in quick before you’re blown away.’ She straightened her dress, wriggling her body into it, hopping on one foot to adjust one leg of her tights. ‘As you can see I’m running a little late, sorry.’

‘No need to apologize.’ Kate stepped inside.

‘Emily phoned. She had a visit from one of your lot. I think it gave her a bit of a fright.’

‘Problem?’ Kate took off her coat.

‘You could say that. She left the prison with the bloody keys!’

‘Oh dear.’

The smell of burning candles and the crackling of logs hit Kate’s senses as she walked into the living room. Handing Jo the wine, she
kicked off her shoes, the warm glow of the fire making her feel right at home. Her eyes scanned the tiny space her ex had made her own in the short time she’d lived there. It was really cosy and she told Jo so.

‘It’s basic but comfortable.’

‘It’s a whole lot more than that!’ Kate said.

There was an awkward moment between them, a beat of time as they abandoned the present in favour of the past. Getting a bolthole at the coast – somewhere they could escape the rigours of life in the fast lane – had been high on their agenda when they were living together. Low Newton-by-the-Sea was their place of choice and the small cottage fit the bill perfectly.

‘It wasn’t intentional, Kate.’ Jo looked away, embarrassed. ‘It was the only one-bedroomed cottage available this close to the beach, I promise you. I needed it for Nelson. I didn’t do it to hurt you. You know I’d never—’

‘Hey! Don’t worry about it. I’d have done the same in your shoes.’

‘Liar!’ Jo smiled nervously, relieved that Kate wasn’t about to make an issue of it. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the rest.’

The tour didn’t take long. This was not a family pad. You could fit the whole cottage into two rooms of Jo’s permanent home – a Jesmond town house not far from Newcastle. There was a double bedroom, a shower – no bath – and a galley kitchen at the rear with stunning views over the shoreline of Newton Haven. And then they were back in the living room where they began. It had enough space for a two-seater sofa, a flat-screen TV, a square dining table, two chairs and little else. To the right of the fire was Nelson’s bed. He was curled up in it fast asleep, next to a huge, empty, log basket.

Jo’s eyes fell on the very spot. ‘Shit! I forgot the logs. Supper’s on the stove. Can you give it a stir while I pop out a sec?’

Kate offered to go.

‘It’s fine,’ Jo said. ‘There are steps down to the log store. You’re liable to break your neck if you’re not used to it. Help yourself to a drink. There’s a bottle breathing on the kitchen bench or soft drinks in the fridge if you prefer. I know you don’t partake on a school night. Won’t be long.’

Kate took three steps into the kitchen.

The cast-iron pot on the stove had no ladle. She called out, ‘Where will I find the—?’

Too late: the front door slammed shut.

Her phone rang:
Hank
.

She didn’t answer. He was more than capable of holding the fort for a few hours without bothering her with trivia. Besides, he was the one hell-bent on getting her and Jo together. Now she was here, Kate had no intention of running out. If the matter was urgent he’d leave a message.

There was a selection of spices and herbs in the first drawer Kate tried. In the next one along, she found a wooden spoon. Dipping it into the sauce, she helped herself. Licking her lips, she smiled. Jo always forgot the pepper. Finding some in a wall cupboard, she added a little and was about to put it back when something struck her as odd: a small framed photograph laid face down on top of a row of tinned tomatoes. Hidden, she suspected, from
her
prying eyes.

Lifting it down, she saw why.

It was a happy snap of the two of them, taken a couple of years earlier on a beach that was, quite literally, two paces beyond the kitchen wall.

She didn’t pack light then.

Hearing the front door opening, Kate quickly replaced it.

T
HEY ATE AS
soon as supper was ready: linguine with a sauce Jo had conjured up from nothing, a few fresh ingredients she had in the fridge, some oregano and olives thrown in, a green leaf salad. To go with it, German sunflower bread steeped in extra virgin olive oil, rubbed with roasted garlic cloves.

Kate couldn’t remember enjoying a meal more.

Passing on the wine, she poured Jo a glass, watching her tuck into her pasta. It felt unsettling being in the same room with her when they hadn’t seen each other socially for months. Eating with her, especially in candlelight with soulful music filling the air, required a level of intimacy she’d missed since they’d split up.

‘I’m stuffed,’ Jo said, pushing her plate away.

‘Me too . . .’ Kate put a hand on her stomach to labour the point. ‘That was delicious, above and beyond considering I invited myself along at such short notice.’

‘You always were pushy.’

‘I never heard you complaining.’

Nelson snorted, making them both laugh, taking the heat out of the conversation. His body twitched. He opened one eye and then closed it again. Rolling over on to his back, he splayed his legs out giving them an eyeful of what Hank Gormley would refer to as his Gutiérrez.

‘God!’ Jo laughed. ‘He’s such a slut. You want dessert?’

Kate blew out her cheeks. ‘No room.’

‘Me neither.’

They cleared away the dishes together, replenished their glasses and returned to the living room where Jo stoked the fire and joined her guest on the sofa. Panic seized hold of Kate. This was the point of the evening when the small talk was over and they would turn their attention to her murder case, safer ground for both of them.
But the photograph she’d found in the kitchen kept edging its way into her thoughts. She wanted to mention it, to ask Jo why she’d felt the need to conceal it. Instead, she said nothing – fearful of spoiling the moment she was hoping still might come.

They talked about the case. Then, to Kate’s surprise, the conversation drifted to more personal matters, the good fun they had enjoyed at home and at work in the preceding years. Relaxed and happy, Jo pulled up a footstool and turned off the standard lamp, plunging them into the past and the room into semi-darkness.

In flickering candlelight, Kate reached for her hand, began stroking it. When Jo didn’t pull away, she leaned across and kissed her gently on the lips. There was no resistance – no words exchanged – just an intense closeness between them. Caught up in the moment, Jo responded, tentatively at first, then with an urgency that surprised and excited her former lover.

Kate groaned as her mobile rang.

Jo pulled away, her expression a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance.

Kate let the phone ring out, cursing Hank. She knew it would be him.
Who else would it be?
When it stopped, she kissed Jo again. This time her whole body responded. Altering her position, she straddled Kate, a mischievous grin spreading over her face, eyes on fire.

‘We’ve a lot to thank him for,’ she said.

Kate felt a pang of guilt.

Crossing her arms, Jo took hold of the hem of her dress, peeling it off in slow motion. Dumping it on the floor, she unclipped her bra, causing it to fall from her shoulders. The sight of her naked flesh took Kate’s breath away. Her pale breasts were full, her dark
nipples enormous. She smelled wonderful. Her skin was soft, her back warm from the fire.

‘If you stay the night—’

‘
If?
’ Kate pulled a face. ‘Where else would I be staying?’

‘There’s no bacon and egg in my fridge.’

‘I’m not on Dukan. Give me toast.’

‘No bread, sorry.’

‘Stop talking.’

They kissed again.

A mobile rang. Jo’s this time.

‘Shit, shit shit!’ She grinned at Kate. ‘I’m ignoring that!’

‘You sure?’

‘Fuck’s sake! Course I’m sure . . .’ Easing herself forward, Jo whispered in Kate’s ear: ‘Don’t make me wait. I’ve missed you so much.’

‘You drive me mad,’ Kate said.

Jo’s desperation had always been appealing. If she was up for sex, she never held back. The woman was shameless and totally uninhibited. Kate ripped off her shirt as the mobile died, leaving only the sound of pounding waves outside, the odd crackle of firewood, her own heartbeat.

Two seconds later the house phone rang. They both tried to ignore it but the answer machine kicked in. Emily McCann’s voice pushed its way into the room. She was very distressed. ‘Jo, if you’re in, please pick up. It’s Rachel. She hasn’t come home!’

Grimacing, Jo shut her eyes.

Kate sighed.

The magic had gone.