Monument to Murder (28 page)

E
MILY CLOSED THE
photograph album. She’d spent much of the evening in tears, leafing through happy memories, grieving for her dead husband and missing child, festering over her spat with Harrison and the rest of her team.

A sharp knock at the door made her jump.

She froze.

She hadn’t heard a car drive up. It was a thirty-minute walk to the nearest village and her only neighbour had gone abroad.

Rachel?

Putting the album down, she rushed into the hallway and was immediately deflated when she yanked open the door. Stamp was on the step, a take-away in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other – a sheepish look on his face.

‘Thought you might like some company?’ he said.

Emily wanted nothing of the kind but moved back to let him in, a plan forming in her head.
Maybe he could still save the day.
Taking the food from him, she put it in the oven, opened the wine and poured them both a large drink. She joined him in the living room, sat down on the sofa and lit a cigarette. He didn’t initiate conversation, just stood by the fireside as she raged about her day, her nightmare situation, lack of support from the police, from colleagues, from him too. From the prison chaplain, a man she described as ‘even more deluded than Walter Fearon.’

‘Can you believe that idiot?’ She stabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, exhaling smoke through her nostrils as she glanced up at him. ‘If God exists, I’d like to know where he is right now. What terrible thing did I do to deserve what he’s dished out lately?’

Her thoughts were all over the place: Robert, Rachel, Fearon – whose
imminent release from prison she was determined to prevent, no matter what the probation officer said. Theoretically, Emily agreed with her. It would’ve been far better if the evil shit had been let out on parole with the threat of instant recall hanging over his head should he put a foot wrong. But it was too late for that now. Besides, would it really make any difference to an offender like him? Emily didn’t believe so. South Yorkshire Probation Service couldn’t keep him under surveillance 24/7.

He’d be up to his old tricks in no time.

Pausing for breath, she took a slug of wine, almost choking on the stuff before carrying on with her tirade. ‘It’s not good enough, Martin! There would be a public outcry if it got out that we release prisoners early, not because they deserve it, but because we’re scared witless that they’ll disappear into the ether if we don’t.’

‘Statistically speaking—’

She glared at him. ‘Don’t you dare quote statistics at me!’

‘I was going to say that the sex offenders’ register—’

‘Is a joke!’ Emily snapped. ‘Prevents re-offending, my arse!’

‘No system for tracking recidivists is perfect.’

‘You can say that again! Sex offenders should serve indeterminate sentences with release dependent on professional risk assessment – end of story!’

‘What do you think I’m doing here?’ Stamp moved away from the fire and sat down. ‘It’s under review, the raison d’être for my research project.’

Emily knew that much was true. ‘But you know as well as I do it’ll take years to implement. Meanwhile, more children go missing and parents like me go through a living hell until they’re found.’

She stopped ranting as the aroma of food reached them. She hadn’t eaten all day and needed to if she was going to avoid
collapsing in a heap in sheer exhaustion. She suspected Stamp hadn’t either. Getting up, she set two places at the table, then went into the kitchen and spooned a small portion of food for her, a generous one for him and left the rest to keep warm in the oven.

Arriving back in the room, she put the food on the table, apologizing for yelling at him. ‘Thanks for this, Martin. I must sound so bloody ungrateful.’

They ate in silence, lost in their own thoughts. His probably on their relationship, hers very firmly on her current situation and what she had in mind to do about it. A few mouthfuls in, she pushed her plate away. She couldn’t face food with her stomach in knots. Then it all got too much for her and she began to weep.

Stamp put down his knife and fork. He leaned across the table, placing a hand on her forearm, his eyes misting up too. ‘It’s killing me seeing you like this, Em. Please let me take care of you.’

‘I don’t need taking care of,’ Emily sobbed. ‘I just need my daughter back.’

‘I know. And I’ll do anything I can to help you.’

‘Will you?’

‘Of course.’

Emily seized her opportunity.

She wanted him to bend some rules.

D
ETECTIVE
S
ERGEANT
R
OBSON
had the floor. He was well into his stride, leaning against a desk at the front of the briefing room, feet crossed at the ankles, summarizing the investigation into Sophie
Kent’s disappearance. On the face of it, East Yorkshire force had done a good job. For months, they had worked the case intensively, pouring huge resources, both human and financial, into finding the girl. Thousands of actions had been raised and logged on to the HOLMES computer system, the intelligence collected, checked and rechecked several times.

‘Eventually the leads dried up,’ Robson said. ‘Lisa spoke to the SIO.’

Kate’s eyes found Carmichael. ‘What you got for me, Lisa?’

‘Kent was questioned at length. He married young. Pregnant girlfriend. Shotgun wedding forced upon the couple by her father, who died within the year. When Sophie was quite young, her mother became terminally ill. She left the family, quote “didn’t want to be tied down by a kid she never wanted” unquote. As far as she was concerned, her life was over before it began.’

‘Nice,’ Maxwell said.

For once Carmichael agreed with him. ‘She’d never make mum of the year—’

‘Unless she was protecting the girl,’ Jo suggested. ‘I mean, making it easy for her. Can’t be pleasant watching your mum fade away and die when you’re eight years old.’

It was fair comment, Carmichael and Maxwell concurred.

‘Anyway,’ Carmichael said. ‘That was the first place they looked, in case Sophie had run off to be with her mum. When investigators found Mrs Kent she was living in a hospice in Staithes, too ill to look after herself, let alone take care of a kid.’

As her young DC carried on talking, Kate glanced to her left. Jo was listening intently and scribbling on a pad. Grateful she’d remained on the case, Kate looked over her shoulder at what was written there, some of it underlined.

It was nice to know they were thinking along the same lines.

Fairly certain in her own mind that the body in the morgue was Sophie Kent, Kate didn’t intend sharing her suspicions with anyone outside of Jo and her immediate team. Not until she had hard evidence to back up her claim. Besides, she didn’t want to upset her friend, Emily McCann. The poor woman had convinced herself that Fearon was behind her daughter’s disappearance. To be perfectly honest, it suited the DCI to let her believe it for a little while longer, even though
she
suspected it wasn’t.

Carmichael was still talking . . .

‘Stamp was eliminated fairly quickly by the woman he was with.’

Jo’s expression said: I-told-you-so. ‘What about Officer Cohen?’

‘Locked down in the prison when the girl went missing with umpteen witnesses.’ Carmichael checked her own notes. ‘Walker and Kent were both off duty, but therein lies the problem: it would appear that they spent most of the day together but gave conflicting statements when questioned. Timings were out by an hour or so. The SIO didn’t have a lot of time for either man.’

‘And Harrison?’

‘Playing golf. His tee-off time confirms that. He was seen at the clubhouse afterwards by several fellow members of the Beverley and East Riding Golf Club.’

‘Who was he playing with?’ Kate asked.

Carmichael made a face.

Robson whistled. ‘So Billy-No-Mates-Harrison hits a ball into the trees, disappears to look for it, goes walkabout for three hours, grabs the girl, then rejoins the course on the fifteenth so everyone sees him walking down the fairway for a pint the steward has already pulled. Very suspicious.’

‘Exactly!’ Carmichael said. ‘My money’s on the golfer . . . or Walker, who also happens to be the girl’s godfather.’

‘Emily never mentioned
that
to me,’ Kate said.

‘Maybe she didn’t know,’ Carmichael countered. ‘Apparently, he was more gutted than Kent when Sophie disappeared. Walker called her
his little princess
.’

Jo sat up straight, on high alert.

Kate could almost see the cogs turning. But before she had a chance to open her mouth, the penny dropped. Bamburgh was a fairytale castle far from home. Fit for a little princess.

Her mobile bleeped twice.

It was a text from Hank that she opened right away:

Daniels looked at the others. Perverting the course of justice, eh?

There were still four in the mix.

L
EAVING THE FRONT
door wide open, Emily ran. Stamp was a few yards ahead, charging towards his BMW, his grey coat flapping in the wind, his arm outstretched, thumb poised over his key fob to open the car doors.

The lights of the car flashed twice.

Stamp got in, threw his coat on the back seat and slammed the door. He turned the engine over, but before he could drive away Emily jumped in the other side, breathless from tearing out of the house after him. She didn’t speak immediately, just stared out of the front windscreen, trying to work out what to say to him.

They had argued when she broached the subject of Walter Fearon. She needed her friend’s help to keep the inmate locked up beyond his release date, a transfer under the terms of the Mental Health Act the best way to achieve that now. Probably the only way – Emily couldn’t do it alone. But he refused to assist, flying off on one before she’d had a proper chance to state her case.

Turning her body to face him, she asked him to come back inside.

He looked at her coldly. ‘You are unbelievable, you know that?’

‘It’s a signature on a bit of paper, that’s all!’ She put her hand on his. ‘Please, Martin. You said you’d do anything to help me.’

‘You’re asking too much, Emily. He’s not mentally ill—’

‘Oh no?’

‘Not according to the law, he isn’t.’

‘Hey, we’re the good guys, remember?’ Emily didn’t want another row but she wasn’t backing down without a fight. She took a long, deep breath to calm the situation and talk some sense into him. If she argued, he’d ask her to get out and drive away. ‘The law
should be on our side, Martin. I’m asking you to section him, not kill him. Can’t you see? It’s the only avenue left open to me so close to his release. If there was any other way—’

‘You can’t seriously expect me to come up with a diagnosis for a medical condition he doesn’t have!’ Stamp shook his head. ‘I won’t do it. Don’t ask me again. I won’t stitch him up.’

‘Don’t be so bloody obstinate!’

His eyes were filled with loathing.

‘What?’ Emily glared at him. ‘You want me to apologize for trying to do the best for my child? Well, think again. Her safety is the one thing on my mind right now. I don’t give a damn about my job or yours. I just want to end this nightmare. Help me, Martin. You’re my only hope.’

‘Just listen to yourself!’

‘No, you listen!’ Emily slammed her clenched fist on the dash. ‘Who cares if one more
fucking
prisoner is locked up longer than he should be? Newsflash: Belmarsh is full of them—’

‘That doesn’t make it right, Emily.’

‘OK, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’ She wasn’t sorry at all. She wanted to slap him for being so bloody PC. ‘You know how dangerous Fearon is. You said yourself he was a lifer in the making. Rachel’s life is on the line here. Please, Martin, don’t make me beg. If not for me, then do it for her. You’ve known her since she was a baby. Whether she’s accepted you or not, you’re the closest thing she has to a father right now.’

Stamp rounded on her, his anger spilling over. He told her how disappointed he was in her. Accused her of emotional blackmail. Playing with his feelings in order to get what she wanted. As far as he was concerned, her idea was preposterous, out of the question, totally unethical.

Emily didn’t care about any of that. She wanted Rachel home where she belonged, out of harm’s way. She didn’t give a shit what she had to do in order to make that happen. She’d kill to get her daughter back.

I
T WAS ALMOST
midnight when Kate Daniels arrived home. She was totally spent but couldn’t bear the thought of another night at the B & B. She hadn’t even shut her front door when the phone rang. She swore under her breath. Ignoring the one in the hallway, she walked into the kitchen, chucked her overnight bag on the bench and picked up without checking who was on the line.

It was a nice surprise to find that it was Jo.

Kate sat down, wishing they were in the same room, talking face to face, a glass of wine, some night music, a few hours of passion ahead of them.
If she could keep her eyes open that long.
A kettle whistled in the background, nailing Jo’s location in her mind. She imagined her standing by the ancient cooker in her tiny seaside cottage surrounded by gadgets and cookery books that were not her own, sitting down on the sofa to drink her tea –
that
sofa – Nelson snoring in his basket next to the wood-burning stove.

There was something wrong with the picture.

Kate wondered if the photo of the two of them was out on display, a reminder of happier times, not hidden away like stolen goods. The image of it sitting on the shelf in the kitchen cupboard on top of tinned tomatoes was so strong she could almost hear the roar of the sea above Jo’s voice. She’d been talking for a full ten minutes, hardly stopping for breath as she recounted another frantic
phone call from Emily McCann. A distraught one by the sounds of it brought on by a bloody awful row with Stamp.

‘She actually asked him to section Fearon?’ Kate said. ‘Good girl!’

‘I might have known how you’d react!’ Jo sounded pissed.

Again.

‘Well, I agree with her, don’t you?’

‘No, you don’t! It would be so wrong to condemn anyone to a mental institution no matter what Emily may think they’ve done. I told her—’

‘Bet that went down well.’

‘She became totally hysterical.’ A heavy sigh from Jo.

‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine. I just hate seeing her so distressed. She’ll see sense when she calms down. At least, I hope she will. Martin and I don’t always see eye to eye but on this occasion I must say I agree with him. We both reminded her that Fearon is an untreatable psychopath, not mentally ill—’

‘Same difference.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Jo said emphatically.

‘Well, if you want to split hairs. You think the general public give a damn about that? All they’re interested in is keeping scum like him off the streets for as long as possible.’

‘That’s what
she
said.’

‘And she’s right. People deserve protection from the likes of him. A medical diagnosis doesn’t change that.’ Kate stood up and opened the fridge. It was almost empty, so she shut it and flipped open the breadbin. No joy there either. ‘Put yourself in her shoes, Jo. She’s desperate—’

‘I know she is, but she’s not thinking straight. Her plan is flawed.
Even if Stamp was willing or stupid enough to involve himself in an illegal conspiracy, she knows as well as we do it takes two psychiatrists to section someone, not one.’ Jo yawned. ‘Look, I’m exhausted and you are too. I’m sorry for calling so late. I’m tired and grumpy and . . .’ There was a pause. ‘I miss you.’

Kate smiled. ‘Miss you too.’

The phone went down.