Monument to Murder (30 page)

I
T WAS TOO
early in the day to be pissed off, but Kate was – and it showed. Robson had the skills to handle a simple request. She’d ordered him to find Kent and take his DNA. He’d carried out the first task but blown the second and returned empty-handed.

‘What do you mean, he won’t give any samples?’

‘He refused point-blank,’ Robson said.

‘On what grounds?’

‘He said we already had Sophie’s DNA.’

‘Yes, we know that!’ Kate yelled. Robson shifted his weight from one foot to another, looking like a troubled man. She wondered if he was dipping into his bank account again, gambling away money he didn’t have. ‘Didn’t you explain that there might’ve been a problem at the lab?’

‘Yes, although I wasn’t very specific. I didn’t want to tell him any lies.’

‘Did I ask you to?’

‘No, boss. But—’

‘No buts, Robbo! I thought I made myself clear.’

‘You did. But short of arresting him, what was I supposed to do? I told him there might have been a mix-up with forensics and he just said, “That’s your problem.” ’

‘Well, he got that right! It’s a big problem now!’ Kate gave him a severe look. ‘OK, get him in here . . . No, cancel that. I’ll speak to whoever dealt with him in 2001. The SIO, the FLO,
any-bloody-O
.’ She pointed at him, a fierce look in her eye. ‘
Don’t
disappear . . . you and I are going back just as soon as I’ve made the call.’ She looked around her. ‘Ailsa, you got a number for me?’

Ailsa nodded, avoiding eye contact with Robson.

‘Get the FLO on the phone. I’ll take it on line one.’

The call was put through within seconds. The DCI was calmer by then but still concerned that Robson wasn’t up to speed and had taken the easy way out. Despite the time she’d given him to get his shit together, he’d come up short – probably because he didn’t want a complaint against his name. Well, she had one. If she’d sent Hank it would’ve been job done. Hell, Lisa would’ve handled it better. It wasn’t a popularity contest.

Identifying herself to the FLO, she explained her dilemma: Kent’s refusal to cooperate, her theory that either a mistake had been made or else he’d switched the DNA to hide Sophie’s identity in the event she was ever found.

‘What’s he like?’ she asked. ‘I mean
really
like.’

‘He’s an arse . . .’ The comment was spoken in a pronounced Welsh accent, the officer’s voice fading out as he turned his head away from the phone to yell at someone behind him, telling them to quieten down. The background noise ceased immediately. ‘Sorry ’bout that, ma’am. It’s like a zoo in here. I’m in the staff canteen. If you’re asking did Kent kill his daughter, then no I don’t think he did. That’s the impression
I got, anyway. He had no wife or partner at home so I spent more time with him than most. The man was in chunks.’

Kate tried to keep an open mind but she’d met parents who’d fallen apart before. She’d even sat next to one or two in front of the national press. She’d listened to their sob stories, heard their pathetic pleas for their kids to come home, knowing full well they weren’t going to because they had killed the poor buggers. On the other hand, if Kent were innocent, he needed careful handling. If she put a foot wrong, she risked being branded as insensitive by everyone with a bony finger to point in her direction.

Thanking the FLO for his time, she hung up, grabbed her coat and went in search of Robson, still angry with him for cocking up the first visit. Kent could well be an innocent man, but Robson should have dealt with his refusal to give DNA, used gentle persuasion to get those samples, which is precisely what
she
was now planning to do. Up close and personal she’d be in prime position to make a judgement and, if necessary, a difficult call. If he wouldn’t budge, she’d lock him up. She didn’t have time to mess about.

T
HE PHONE WOKE
her suddenly. Reaching out from the covers, Emily grabbed it from her bedside table, almost dropping it in her rush to pick up. Speaking Rachel’s name as she answered, she shuffled up the bed, taking in Walker’s fit upper body as he woke too, reaching out for her hand, smiling at her through sleepy eyes.

It was Stamp’s voice and not her daughter’s that reached her ear.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘I have an idea.’

Emily swung her legs over the edge of the bed, drawing the
duvet around her, pushing the phone closer to her ear so Walker couldn’t hear who was on the other end. Who was she kidding? It was the other way round, more like. Stamp would go ballistic if he knew she was with another man.

Walker sat up too, a question on his face. With a quick shake of the head, she let him know that it was not Rachel on the other end of the line.

‘Can you hold on a second?’ she said into the phone.

‘Sure can.’ All trace of their spat had gone from Stamp’s voice.

Walker glanced at his watch, a horrified expression crossing his face as he realized the time. He tapped his wrist, his way of telling her he was very, very late for work. She nodded her understanding. To her relief, he got up immediately, pulled on his kit and gestured his departure. Her hand closed like a vice around the speaker as he whispered his apologies and made a quick exit, kissing her cheek on the way out of the bedroom, telling her he’d see her at work.

‘Hello?’ Emily said as the door closed. ‘Martin, are you still there?’

‘Certainly am – and on my way over.’

‘No!’ Emily didn’t want him to see her now. She’d never hide her guilt. They had a future together potentially whereas she and Ash didn’t. They had talked about it last night as they lay in the darkness. He understood that their night of sex wouldn’t be repeated. He’d fulfilled a need and that was that. Stamp was still talking. She had to put him off. ‘Can’t it wait ’til I get to work?’

‘You’ve changed your tune,’ he said. ‘You OK?’

‘Yes, of course I am.’ She lied. ‘I’m just about to jump in the shower, that’s all.’

‘Nice image,’ Stamp said, before he could stop himself.

‘Later then?’ Emily relaxed. ‘My office, ten o’clock?’

S
TAMP SMILED AS
he skirted a herd of cattle a farmer was shooing into a field on his left, one of which was refusing to obey his instructions. Taking the bend in the road, he applied the brake suddenly and let out a gut-wrenching bawl as he noticed Walker’s battered VW in the lane outside Emily’s home.

‘Martin?’ Her velvet voice again. ‘Did you get that?’

Stamp felt so sick, he couldn’t reply.

Level with the driveway now, he surveyed the scene. Emily had left her car out overnight, something she never did. It was parked at an angle to the front door as if she’d driven up in a hurry and couldn’t wait to get inside. It didn’t take a genius to work out what had gone on.

‘Did you hear me, Martin?’ Her voice again.

Stamp’s emotions lurched between anger and betrayal. He didn’t respond to the hands-free. Just then, the front door opened and Walker stepped outside, still tucking in his shirt as he ran to his car.

I
NSIDE THE HOUSE
, Emily flinched as the front door slammed and the phone went dead simultaneously.
Oh God, no!
Hanging up, she fled to the window. Opening the curtains, she looked out at the worst scene she could possibly have imagined, powerless to do anything about it. Walker waved at Stamp, got in his car and drove off. The psychiatrist glanced at her bedroom window, his arms resting on the steering wheel. She could see his devastation from where she was standing. He started his car and floored the accelerator. Seconds later he was gone.

A
S SOON AS
Emily reached the prison, she went in search of him. Martin Stamp had been good to her since Robert died, so much so she felt she owed him an explanation. She found him on another
wing, interviewing a young man who had agreed to take part in his research.

With a deep breath, she decided to take a chance.

‘Could you give us a minute?’ she asked.

Greaves, the inmate being interviewed, got to his feet. He’d been detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for battering a ‘friend’ to death over a girl they were both keen on. He was a lovely lad: quiet, reserved, the absolute antithesis of the vicious thug his crime suggested he might be. His file contained glowing character references from his local priest, his family and friends, none of whom could shed any light on his loss of self-control, many having sworn under oath that they hadn’t witnessed him losing his rag before. The sitting judge and jury thought differently.

Such a waste . . .

Of two lives, not one.

Emily stepped aside as he left the room, thanking him as he passed her by. When the door closed behind him, Stamp got to his feet. He was in a foul mood and immediately began stuffing his documents and laptop into his briefcase.

‘Don’t sulk, Martin. It doesn’t suit you.’

‘We’ve got nothing to say to one another, Em.’

‘Since when? If you’re referring—’

‘Since I saw Walker sneaking out of your house at the crack of dawn. It brought new meaning to the words
a good screw
—’

‘He wasn’t sneaking . . .’ Emily glanced out of the window, her attention drawn to Walter Fearon, who was tending the garden a little way off. ‘Bloody marvellous,’ she said under her breath.

‘What?’ Stamp looked up.

She used her eyes to point out Fearon. ‘At your recommendation they take him off wing cleaners because he’s a risk to me and put
a bloody spade in his hand.’ Emily shook her head. ‘Does anyone round here have a clue about security?’

‘You know what, Emily? In the last few weeks, I’ve seen a dark side to your personality I don’t even recognize. You used to be so fair-minded, the champion of the underdog, the person who everyone could count on to do the right thing. You’ve changed – and not in a good way.’

Was it any wonder?

Emily didn’t bite. In her position, she couldn’t afford principles. Her daughter was in danger and the gloves were off. She wished he’d spare her the psychoanalysis and told him so.

‘Are you telling me I’m on my own?’ she asked.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’re acting like a schoolboy. Jealousy didn’t do Greaves any good, did it?’ She regretted the words as soon as they had left her mouth. She wanted to take them back. She didn’t want to fall out with him. She still needed his help. But from where she was standing it looked like she’d just blown her last chance. Should she leave him be? Let him calm down? There was no time for that. ‘This morning you said you had an idea.’

‘Yeah, a bad one.’ He was walking towards her. ‘Forget it.’

She blocked his exit. ‘So you’re not going to help me?’

He just glared at her. They were standing so close Emily could feel the heat – not to mention the hostility – coming off him. She was about to step aside when he spoke again. ‘Know what the worst-case scenario is? Fearon gets out, does what he does best and like a boomerang comes right back, serving life!’

She slapped him hard.

O
N THE GABLE
end of C-wing, Fearon took a breather, sweat pouring down his face. He was part of a gardening party being supervised
by Kent, and was supposed to be working on the section of lawn closest to the corner of the building. He’d been given instructions to dig up the grass to make way for a new flower bed. Except the soil was rock solid and proving difficult to shift.

They were kidding, weren’t they?

Fearon looked around him. He wasn’t dreaming. There were no dinosaurs about, so this wasn’t a scene from the Flintstones. It was slave labour, plain and simple. And it wasn’t on. The blisters on his hands were weeping. The only upside was that it was so fucking cold, he couldn’t feel pain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Stamp and Walker were approaching each other from opposite directions, some shitty looks passing between them. Their body language was choice. Fearon continued to observe the interesting dynamics. They were on a collision course, neither one giving way to the other. The SO’s gait slowed as he neared the psychiatrist, the two men sizing up one another like a couple of prize fighters at a weigh-in.

What was all that about?

‘A word,’ Walker said.

Ducking behind the wall so he could listen in, Fearon kept his head down. He pretended to work, knowing that if Kent saw him slacking he’d be hauled away for yet another bollocking. The dickhead was in one of his moods again. For a moment there was silence. Fearon assumed that Stamp and Walker had moved away but, seconds later, his ears pricked up as the psychiatrist said something intriguing . . .

‘Come to gloat?’ His tone was hard, abrasive.

‘You tell me,’ Walker replied. ‘You’re the shrink. Shame you can’t recognize your own shortcomings.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Stamp again.

‘With Rachel missing, Emily needed some company,’ Walker
said. ‘I obliged. I just happened to be there when you weren’t. Right time, right place.’

‘I bet you were.’

‘Sex is a great healer, pal. You should try it sometime.’ There was a short pause. Then Walker spoke some more. ‘You don’t see it, do you? Don’t ask me why, but it’s you she really wants. She told me so herself last night after . . . well, let’s not get into that. I’m sure I don’t need to draw you any pictures.’

No!

Meltdown.

Emily and Stamp?

Fearon’s knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip on the garden fork. He smashed it into the ground with brute force, feeling the vibration travel up his arm, through the right side of his neck and into his head. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. He threw down the fork. He’d had enough. But as Kent came charging towards him, he smiled, a vindictive plan forming in his mind.

T
HE PRETTY VILLAGE
of Acklington wasn’t far away, a short distance inland from the coast, less than a mile and a half from the prison where Kent worked. If you didn’t know anyone who lived there, there would be no point ever stopping. Blink and you’d miss it – population less than five hundred.

When Kent opened the door, he looked neither happy nor surprised. Robson did the introductions and asked if they could step inside. Grunting his consent, the prison officer stood aside to let them in. Kate’s driving glasses steamed up as she entered the house.
Removing them, she slipped them into her jacket pocket, eyeing the shabby room.

An open window wouldn’t go amiss. It was like a sauna in there.

An ironing board stood open in the centre of the room. Water bubbled out of the holes of the iron and on to the carpet beneath. A pile of uniform shirts had been dumped on the sofa waiting for attention. The flat-screen TV was tuned to a foreign football game. No photographs of Sophie on display, the DCI noticed.

Interesting.

‘You know why I’m here?’ Kate asked.

‘Guess so,’ he replied. ‘But I haven’t changed my mind. I’m not going to either.’

‘I don’t want to give you any more grief, Mr Kent. It would really help us if you’d cooperate.’

He didn’t answer.

‘OK, you leave me no choice. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I think we may have found Sophie, even though samples taken at the time she went missing tell us different. I need to clarify who my victim is once and for all. The only way to do that is to obtain samples from you. I take it Sophie is your biological child?’

‘As far as I’m aware! Although, knowing my late wife, that can’t be guaranteed.’

An evasive answer or an honest one?

‘You do see our problem?’ Kate said.

Hard eyes fixed on her.

Shifting the ironing board out of his way, Kent sat down, dropping his head into his hands. The DCI waited. She couldn’t tell if he was going to admit switching his daughter’s samples, leap up and lamp her one, or just crumble. He did none of those things, although he was visibly upset.

Kate asked herself if his grief was genuine. Or had he replayed this moment a million times over in the past decade to the point that he was able to treat them to an Oscar-winning performance? If so, he was playing a blinder.

She waited for him to look up. ‘Will you give consent?’

‘No . . . I won’t.’

Pressing her lips together, she fought the urge to tell him not to be such a dick.
Time to up the ante.

‘After what I’ve told you, there are three reasons why you’d refuse to give a sample of DNA. One: you don’t think we’ve done our jobs properly and you’re angry. If that is the case, I can only apologize, sir. I’d be livid too, in your position.’

He didn’t admit or deny it was so.

‘Two: you’re scared. You don’t want to know who we found because if it is Sophie you have to face the fact that she’s never coming home.’ Kate spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. ‘Fear is also entirely logical. We’re not robots, Mr Kent. Believe me when I tell you we feel the pain too, especially where children are involved.’

She paused.

He was nervous, waiting for her to verbalize the third reason. She wasn’t going to make it too easy for him. She wanted him to sweat. She wanted those samples and would do anything to get them. Right now, the only way open to her was to apply a little pressure.

Robson looked at the floor. He knew what was coming.

As so he bloody should. He was a murder detective, a good one too until he fell from grace at work and at home.
His own doing
. Well, he’d had his last chance. More than one, if the truth were known. Kate wouldn’t stand for a lightweight on her team. It was
time they had a little chat. If he couldn’t cut it, it was bye-bye, Robbo.

She eyeballed Kent. He was never going to love her but he’d respect her if she were straight with him. Even the worst scumbags responded to that. And this was no time to lose her bottle. ‘I can see you’ve already worked out the third reason,’ she said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

He didn’t speak.

‘OK, let me spell it out for you. You don’t want to give your DNA because you know full well who is in that Bamburgh grave – because you put her there.’

Still nothing.

‘Have it your own way then.’

‘You people make me sick!’ Kent stood up suddenly, his eyes full of contempt.

Kate braced herself for an attack, verbal or physical, but it never came. The warrant card in her pocket suddenly felt heavier than it had ever done before. If this man was innocent – a homicide victim’s father – then what she’d just accused him of was unforgivable. That didn’t make her feel good. But she had a job to do. And she had to do it no matter whom she upset. Her first responsibility was to her victim.

‘I didn’t murder my daughter.’ Kent didn’t raise his voice as he made his feelings known. ‘And for the record, I do think the police are a bunch of incompetent arseholes. I’ll give you the samples. What’s the point of refusing? You’re going to arrest me otherwise, isn’t that right?’

Daniels didn’t reply.