Monument to Murder (3 page)

C
ONCERNED ABOUT THE
threat Fearon posed to the general public, Emily called the manager of the hostel who had reluctantly agreed to take him on release, gave a précis of her report and then hung up.

Through her barred window, dark clouds gathered on the horizon, matching her mood. Shutting her eyes for a moment transported her back in time to the last occasion she’d sat there looking out. It was a memory so vivid she could almost feel a warm summer breeze on naked arms through the narrow opening, smell the scent of flowers being blown across the prison grounds.

The gardeners had worked well that year. The raised beds were awash with colour, softening the austere buildings. It never ceased to amaze her how such able young men could waste their lives in places like these.

A gentle knock on the door pulled her from her reverie.

She looked round as the handle turned.

Psychiatrist Martin Stamp reversed into her office with coffee in both hands, a smile creeping over his handsome face as he caught sight of her. On a year’s secondment from the Home Office, he was conducting research into the dangerousness and treatment of life-sentence prisoners with another of Emily’s closest friends, criminal profiler, Jo Soulsby, who had followed him into the room. Because their work was strictly confidential, they were using her old office in the admin block, well away from prying eyes. She’d called them to B-wing because she wanted their help.

Jo walked round the desk to Emily’s chair, bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek, patting her back gently, acknowledging the tough day she must be having. Taking a chair by the window, she sat down, crossing her very long legs. ‘There’s hell on in Walker’s office,’ she said.

Emily looked past her to the open door as Stamp kicked it shut.

He grinned at her. ‘She’s right. He’s giving Kent a right dressing-down. You should see his face!’ Handing Jo a coffee, he held the other up to Emily. ‘Want this? I can nip out and get another.’

Emily shook her head as he took off his jacket and made himself at home. She’d been so engrossed in her work she hadn’t noticed the row building in the office beyond. But now her colleagues had mentioned it, she realized she
had
heard something. It just hadn’t registered on her radar. Muffled angry tones or even full-blown raised voices were not unusual in prison. What might have worried
her once had become commonplace over time. She’d learned not to react to every yell, every fight, and there had been a fair few of those in recent years.

Leaving her desk, she opened the door and peered out. The area directly outside her office doubled as a recreation room. A wing cleaner dressed in prison blues was mopping the floor. Another was placing a triangular sign by the gated entrance warning those entering that the surface was wet. They were giggling like a couple of five-year-olds over the heated exchange taking place in the wing office further down.

Emily’s eyes followed their interest . . .

In a room no bigger than ten by twelve, a prison officer was standing to attention, feet slightly apart, hands linked behind his back. Facing him, Senior Officer Ash Walker, an attractive man in a pristine uniform, stared him down, an angry expression on his face.

Wondering why he was in such a state, Emily returned to her desk, focusing her attention on Stamp. If anyone knew what the story was,
he
would.

‘Any idea what’s going on?’ she asked.

‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said.

Emily pulled a face.

‘I don’t!’ he declared. ‘I’m a psychiatrist, not a mind-reader.’

It was an old joke. Nevertheless, Emily grinned. She’d known Stamp for years. He’d been a brick since Robert died, holding her hand, both literally and figuratively, trying his best to fill the void – resented by her daughter for his trouble.

Rachel could sulk for England sometimes
.

‘You OK, Em?’ As well as a good friend, Jo was an astute psychologist attuned to the sudden change in Emily’s mood. ‘Not worried about anything, are you?’

Emily blushed, realizing she’d left the room temporarily and arrived someplace she’d rather not be. A regular occurrence she could ill afford now she was back at work.

Concentrate
.

‘I’m fine,’ she said.

The other two weren’t buying her bullshit.

‘I am! It’s just strange being here, that’s all.’

Taking a Daim bar from his pocket, Stamp ripped off the wrapper and bit into it. ‘Had to bribe a prisoner for this,’ he said. ‘Canteen was closed. Paid double for it, too. Friggin’ daylight robbery. Who says crime doesn’t pay?’

‘You should know better,’ Emily scolded. ‘If Harrison gets wind of it he’ll have you out of here quicker than you can say P45.’

B-wing’s Principal Officer was a formidable figure who ruled his kingdom like a dictator. Harrison was not a man to mess with. Main-grade officers referred to him as ‘God’ behind his back, though never to his face. Ex-military, he’d swapped one institution for another –
big fish, little sea
– a moron with no respect for inmates or civilian staff. If you weren’t wearing a uniform, your views didn’t count. The next time he smiled would be a first. Martin Stamp was the exact opposite, the consummate professional with a wicked sense of humour and a complete disregard for rules and regulations.

‘Come on then, spill.’ He screwed up the sweet wrapper and lobbed it towards the bin. It missed by a metre. He didn’t bother picking it up. ‘What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait ’til lunchtime?’

‘Walter Fearon . . .’ Emily pushed a prison record across her desk. ‘I’m calling a pre-release case conference. I’d appreciate your input. He’s due out in two weeks and the receiving hostel need to know who they’re dealing with.’

Jo reached for the file.

Stamp shot a hand out and got there first.

Opening the front cover, he studied the contents carefully, his eyes sliding over a long list of sexual offences, each one more serious than the one before. He turned a few pages, his brow creasing as he took in her final handwritten note. Closing the file, he handed it to Jo, keeping his eyes on Emily. ‘He’s not a prisoner who falls within our remit now, but give him time. He’s a lifer in the making, Em. No doubt about it.’

‘How is he presenting?’ Jo looked up from the file. ‘Is he still in denial?’

Emily shook her head. ‘Anything but.’

‘He’s not your average sex offender then?’ Stamp butted in.

‘Believe me, there is nothing average about Walter Fearon,’ Emily replied. ‘He relishes the opportunity to talk, to shock. Oh no, Walter isn’t at all shy. The more detailed he can be about what he’s done, the better he likes it. This guy makes Hannibal Lecter look like a charity worker. He may look and even act like a wimp on occasions, but he’s no such thing – especially where women are concerned. In my view he still needs intensive therapy. I agree with Martin. He’ll kill his next victim.’

A
LNWICK
P
OLICE
S
TATION
was situated in the market town of the same name. The office offered as a temporary incident room was far from perfect. When the DCI complained she was given two choices: take it or sling your hook.

Most of the Murder Investigation Team had arrived and set to
work, fixing up the communications, getting the room ready for a new enquiry. Kate didn’t require an archaeologist in the historical sense, but she did need the expertise of a forensic anthropologist to oversee the excavation and determine how long her victim had been in the ground. Before she’d left the crime scene, she’d made it known that she wanted to be present when the body was moved. In the meantime, she’d asked Detective Constable Lisa Carmichael to ring round and see what accommodation was available for her team.

At the height of summer, finding somewhere to stay would have posed a problem. But at this time of the year there would almost certainly be plenty of spare beds. The rest of the squad were already on the phone advising loved ones they wouldn’t be home. There had been no dissent. Even DS Robson – the only detective with a young child at home – agreed to stay local until the enquiry got underway, joking that he’d get a better sleep sharing with a snoring colleague than being prodded by his two-year-old son in the middle of the night.

Various suggestions were thrown in the hat: Hog’s Head, White Swan, Queens Head, hotels conveniently located, not far from the town’s police station. The incident team voted on it, deciding that a B & B might be more practical. As well as offering peace and quiet, it would be less likely to attract the weirdos and groupies who inevitably hung around murder detectives, stifling their ability to do their jobs.

Sitting down at a computer, Lisa Carmichael slipped her warrant card into a slot. She looked different with her hair cut short. It suited her features perfectly, framing her stunning green eyes. Picking up the landline, she dialled out and identified herself. After a very brief conversation, she rang off abruptly, a worried expression on her face.

‘Problem?’ Daniels asked.

Lisa looked up, frowning. ‘Maybe.’

‘No rooms?’

‘Yeah, plenty.’

‘But?’

‘Word’s out already . . .’ Carmichael glanced at the phone. ‘That hotelier was rather curious about the bones we found. As well as owning a hotel, he’s a volunteer archaeologist involved in a local research project. He claims there was a dig going on inside and outside of Bamburgh Castle last year. There’s more planned for this summer too. Channel 4’s Time Team filmed there, he said.’

‘Our victim was dressed in modern material, Lisa. Not that there’s much left of it. The bones aren’t old, not in the archaeological sense. But I
will
need to talk to whoever’s running the project to establish where and when they were digging. Maybe they can throw some light on how and why a section of dunes suddenly broke off like that. Action it, will you?’

Carmichael nodded.

‘Your hotelier too,’ Daniels added.

Lisa’s fingers were already tapping away on the keyboard. In addition to being a lightning-fast typist, she had considerable know-how when it came to the Internet. Not long ago, she’d received a commendation for her work after proving conclusively that a serial killer the team were investigating had used the World Wide Web to track and target his victims. Her tenacity had been instrumental in apprehending Jonathan Forster, though not before he’d confronted Kate in a chilling encounter that could so easily have proved fatal. The events of that night still haunted her in the small hours when she couldn’t sleep. Though the case was considered by many to represent Northumbria MIT’s finest hour, in Kate’s opinion it was the
biggest failure of her career to date. Forster had killed seven times before being stopped.

‘Boss?’ Lisa Carmichael pointed at her computer.

The screen was now open at the website of the Bamburgh Research Project. On the left-hand side of the home page was a menu bar. She clicked on
Get in Touch
. The names and email addresses of the project’s directors and administrators appeared instantly, along with relevant phone numbers.

She looked at her boss. ‘I’ll copy these and send them to your BlackBerry.’

Just then, said BlackBerry rang.

It was Home Office pathologist, Tim Stanton.

‘Hi, Tim . . .’ The DCI tried to sound more upbeat than she felt after a heavy workload the previous week, half-spent preparing a murder file, the other giving evidence in a trial that had lasted a couple of months. Covering the speaker, she thanked Carmichael and moved away, talking into the phone. ‘You done already?’

‘There wasn’t much
to
do . . .’ Stanton broke off as someone spoke to him. Clearly he was still at the scene. Wind distortion on the line prevented Kate from hearing what was being said. Then he was back: ‘Sorry to keep you . . . permission to move is granted. There’s nothing more to be done here until we get her to the morgue. Not an easy task for you guys, due to the physical geography of the area.’

Daniels couldn’t agree more.

If the skeleton had been found in concrete it would have been possible to remove it in one solid slab, but with shifting sands, a worsening weather picture, and the risk of further slippage, time was of the essence. She rang off, telling her team that she was heading back to the crime scene to witness the excavation.

N
O MORE THAN
twenty metres from Emily McCann’s office, the door to the shower block slammed shut. A single drop of blood hit the floor. Then another . . . and another . . . followed by a loud thump. A pair of steel-rimmed spectacles with one smashed lens skidded across the floor through pubic hairs and lost bars of soap. They came to rest in a pool of watery blood trickling into a nearby drain.

A few feet away, a young man lay on cracked wet tiles, his childlike face drained of all colour, blood pulsing from gashes to both wrists. Fearon’s steel-grey eyes were open and trained on the door. The last thing he saw and heard before his eyes fluttered closed was a pair of squeaky uniform boots rounding the corner as the door opened inwards.

‘Oh fuck!’

The prison officer wearing those boots slammed his fist against a red button on the wall, sounding the alarm. He took out his radio to report what he’d found, his action resulting in immediate lockdown. And suddenly all hell broke loose as officers ran towards the wing from every direction, yelling and herding the cons back to their cells, summoning medics to the shower block.

Hearing the commotion, Martin Stamp, Jo Soulsby and Emily McCann abandoned their meeting and came out to investigate. In the recreation area, inmates were arguing with jailers. Emily understood why. Following any emergency situation or security threat there was always an enquiry: questions asked, fingers pointed, blame apportioned. Prisoners could find themselves banged up in their cells for hours on end.

A giant of a young man Emily didn’t recognize was reluctant to
leave. In no mood to be pushed around, he squared up to a rookie officer, shoving him hard against the wall. Within seconds, the prisoner was pinned to the deck, his arm twisted behind his back as half a dozen uniforms rushed to their colleague’s aid.

Seeing one of their peers so easily overpowered and restrained, other inmates who’d been on the verge of making a fuss thought better of it. They shuffled away to their cells, craning their necks to see what was going on, moaning about rough treatment and the untimely interruption to their daily routine.

Following the direction of their gaze, Emily rushed towards the shower block, heart kicking hard inside her chest. She pulled up short when she reached the open door.

Walter Fearon was lying on the wet tiled floor, stark naked, so still she was sure he was dead. Emily tried to speak but no words came out. She looked away, trying to focus on something other than the pool of deep red blood surrounding him. Fearon’s prison blues were folded in a neat little pile in one corner of the steamy room. A pair of worn black plimsolls placed neatly on top reminded her of the ones she had worn at school.

She looked back at the lad.

He had multiple injuries on his muscular body, the majority of them self-inflicted. In his right hand he was holding an improvised scalpel: a toothbrush with a razorblade melted into the end.

The sight of it made her shiver.

Movement
. . .

Fearon’s eyes fluttered open and shut as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Instinctively, she moved towards him, kneeling down at his side as others arrived at the door . . .

‘It’s OK, Walter,’ she whispered.

‘Emily, no!’

Senior Officer Ash Walker’s tone was fierce enough to stop her dead in her tracks. Emily’s hand froze in mid-air as she reached out to touch the bleeding prisoner. Walker rushed to her side, kicking the weapon from Fearon’s fingers, at the same time pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, the significance of which she understood.

Was the risk of HIV the reason why the officer who’d found him hadn’t stayed around to offer assistance? At least tried to stem the blood? Do
something
.

God Almighty! Where was his compassion?

Emily backed away leaving Walker checking for a pulse. Of all the scenarios she’d imagined, this had never crossed her mind. She felt guilty now for having discussed the prisoner with Jo Soulsby and Martin Stamp, even though everything she’d said about him had been true. Fearon
was
a dangerous young man. But was it any wonder? From an early age he’d been systematically and brutally abused, both physically and emotionally. The transition from child victim to high profile offender was almost inevitable, sadly.

He wasn’t born that way: he’d been
made
like it.

He’d endured an upbringing of horror beyond imagination.

But why had he cut himself now when release was imminent?

In her darkest hour, Emily had contemplated suicide. Only Rachel had stopped her from taking such drastic action. Fearon had no one. It occurred to her that he didn’t want to get out. That the prison afforded him order: food, warmth, a roof over his head – basic requirements the rest of us took for granted. But then so would the hostel she’d arranged for him. Still, when you’d been inside for a lengthy period, change was unsettling.

She looked up as a medic was bundled into the room to revive him.

His escort, Officer Bill Kent, arrived by her side, taking in the
bloody scene. For a moment, Emily mistook his silence as distress. Glancing to her left, she was taken aback by his indifference. Kent’s eyes were ice cold and unsympathetic, full of loathing, not pity. Not an ounce of concern for a young man’s life. When he spoke, his words rendered her speechless.

‘Let the nonce croak,’ he said. ‘The bastard won’t be missed.’