Monument to Murder (33 page)

M
ARTIN
S
TAMP GLARED
at the barman as he covered the last of the beer pumps with a tea towel and dimmed the lights, notice of his intention to close up. He had no truck with the guy. He was OK as pub landlords go, a family man who lived on the premises, a village publican who tried his best to accommodate everyone – especially him tonight.

Saying goodnight he staggered off, pulling his car keys from his pocket, dropping them in the process. The ground came up to meet him as he bent to pick them up, his arm refusing to obey his brain. Or was it his eyes?

There were two sets of keys on the floor, not one.

He swayed as a size ten boot closed over them.

‘Do yourself a favour . . .’ the barman retrieved the keys and held them up between forefinger and thumb. ‘Take a walk and leave these with me. I’ll make sure the car is secure. I know your place. I’ll drive over and collect you first thing in the morning.’

E
MILY REACHED THE
junction. She checked road signs. It had been ages since she’d been here. Rachel had mentioned the dirt road of a woodland park where her father used to ride his trial bike. It wasn’t far. But which way was it? Right or left?

Right, definitely right, towards the village.

Or was it left?

Making a decision, she turned left. But after just a few hundred metres she realized her mistake. It was right. Definitely right. She should’ve known.

Calm down.

You can do this.

Emily swung the car round and raced back the other way, conscious that the phone call from her daughter might well have been a set-up, an elaborate trap to lure her away from the safety of her home. Rachel had been sobbing so hard when she called, she could hardly speak.

Was someone with her, forcing her to make the call?

Horrendous scenarios scrolled through Emily’s head. Fearon was out now. The sick bastard was a killer in waiting. If he had her daughter, there was no telling what he would have done to her. What he might be doing this moment. Emily didn’t consider the danger to herself. Rachel’s safety was her only concern.

Would he trade – her for Rachel? Unlikely. Fearon hadn’t an ounce of compassion in his body. But maybe she could find a way to help her daughter escape, even if it meant sacrificing her own life.

Spotting the turn-off, her eyes searched the eerie darkness as her headlights snaked along the road. She parked up. Apart from the ticking of the engine, all was still. Cautiously, she opened the door and stepped out into the night, calling her daughter’s name.

T
HE SOUND OF
the flick knife was unmistakable as the blade left its casing. There was no warning. Not much feeling either, just a punch to the back of the ribcage, then warmth as blood seeped into clothing. The second blow was worse. It sent a spray of red mist from the neck. Another blow. Now the blood gushed out with an audible spatter as it hit the surrounding vegetation.

Staggering . . .

Falling . . .

Knees buckling . . .

Hitting the ground head first on frozen soil. It was useless trying to crawl. It just made the blood pump harder.

It was cold, so very cold.

Breathe . . . breathe . . .

Rolling over was excruciatingly painful.

Face up now. A beautiful night. Clouds moving swiftly across the moon like mist. Tranquillity. Treetops. The hoot of an owl. Then silence. There were worse places to die than alone in this beauty spot. Except that wasn’t strictly true.
He
was here – like the Angel of Death hovering a few feet above – fist clenched around the handle of the blade. Then like an image on the cinema screen, everything visible faded to black.

T
HE HAIRS ON
Sam Bradshaw’s neck stood up as his Border terrier suddenly bared its teeth and began to bark. Trying to get Spike to heel was useless at the best of times. The stubborn little bugger was going crackers in the undergrowth. Sam shone his torch to the left, listening for the sound of movement. Apart from a deep growl from the dog, all was quite. But Sam could smell nicotine on the air and he was desperate to get out of there.

‘Spike! Heel!’

Sam sighed, his eyes scanning the woods.

He’d been walking here for years but tonight would be the last time. He was well spooked and was never coming back. Gingerly, he left the path to retrieve the dog. But as he lowered the beam, the ground began to turn red. Balking at the sight of blood, Sam called the dog again but still it wouldn’t come. He was in sight now, pawing at wet leaves beneath the overhanging branches of a tree.

Sam bent down, managed to get a lead on the terrier and pull him away.

The body was almost covered with branches. All that was visible was the left hand, palm up, a brief glimpse of what looked like denim. The figure groaned. Sam ran.

T
HERE WAS A
loud bang as the double doors of Accident & Emergency burst open. Someone yelled at Kate Daniels, telling her she couldn’t use that entrance. It was for medical personnel only. Ignoring them, she took the lift to the mortuary viewing room. When she got there, the body was already on the slab and pathologist Tim Stanton was standing over it.

Guilt wrapped itself around her.

Stanton had been about to go home after carrying out a lengthy autopsy on an unconnected sudden death when this unfortunate and as yet unidentified assault victim passed away, handing her another murder case and him a headache to boot. There was little point in his going home, he told her, only to get hauled straight back by his favourite Senior Investigating Officer.

Kate appreciated that: she needed answers that only he could provide.

He held up five fingers, a sombre expression on his face.

She spoke via the intercom system. ‘Any ID?’ she asked.

‘No, nothing . . .’ he said. ‘Which isn’t a lot of help to you, is it? Dreadful business. Even his mother wouldn’t recognize him.’

Her phone rang: it was Carmichael.

‘I know who he is,’ she said.

E
MILY COULD FEEL
her bottom lip quivering. Quickly drying her eyes, she turned round. The doctor reminded her of her father: kind eyes behind steel-rimmed specs, cropped hair, almost white, tie a little askew. He looked jaded, like many of the doctors and nurses she’d seen walking the corridors during the hours she’d sat waiting, a watchful WPC close by – sent by Kate Daniels to guard the room and make sure no one entered who didn’t belong there.

‘Is she OK?’ Emily asked.

The doctor nodded. ‘Severely traumatized but in fairly good shape, considering. It appears she was out of it for much of the time, sedated by the man who took her.’

‘Was she . . . ?’ Emily couldn’t bring herself to use the words sexually abused. ‘I didn’t ask, I just couldn’t bring myself.’

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘And the answer is no. She appears to have been treated well, fed and watered. The damage is more psychological than physical, I suspect. She’s resting now. You should too. It can’t have been easy for you either.’

Emily’s emotions came flooding out.

It was the best possible news . . .

Rachel was OK.

She was OK!

The sound of footsteps made Emily turn round. Kate was standing behind them, a grim expression on her face. She shook hands with the doctor, thanking him for taking care of Rachel. Then she sat down next to Emily and put her arm around her. Emily broke down then, the stress finally getting to her.

The doctor moved off down the corridor.

‘She’s alive, Em.’ Kate hugged her friend.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Emily said.

Kate glanced away briefly. More guilt. She wasn’t here because of Rachel and didn’t quite know where to begin. So she just came right out with it. ‘I have something to tell you, Emily. Martin Stamp is dead. I’m so, so sorry.’

‘What?’ Emily was stunned. She couldn’t take it in. She wanted to know how. Was it a terrible accident? Was he driving? A heart attack? ‘Oh God! This can’t be happening again.’

She continued to throw questions out in quick succession, hardly stopping for breath.

Kate recognized the trauma in her voice. The same shortness of breath she’d witnessed so many times when families of victims were given shocking news. She’d heard it when she’d delivered the death message to the O’Neils. And again, just a few moments ago when she’d done the same to Stamp’s only living relative, a younger sister, herself a doctor. The woman’s world had collapsed when a Cumbrian police officer knocked on her door; refusing to believe that her brother was dead, she had demanded to speak to the senior officer dealing with the case. After a brief telephone conversation with Kate, the woman was now on her way east to identify her brother’s body – what was left of it.

There was no denial from Emily: just blame and self-loathing.

‘He’s dead because of me,’ she said.

‘That’s not the case,’ Kate reassured her.

‘Isn’t it?’ Combing both hands through unkempt hair, Emily clamped her lips together to stop herself from blubbing again. Accepting a tissue, she wiped her tears away and then pressed Kate for more information. ‘You can’t believe this a random killing? You can’t!’

‘I’m not sure what it is,’ Kate said.

But that wasn’t strictly true. She already knew who was responsible for Martin’s death. Walter Fearon hadn’t showed in Sheffield following his release, neither had he used his rail warrant. He’d left the institution with a prison bag containing a change of clothes and a few personal possessions. Crime scene investigators had found evidence that he’d washed himself in a stream close to where Stamp was discovered fatally wounded. Fearon had changed clothes, attempting to bury his bloodstained jeans and jacket. He’d legged it in a hurry, leaving the bag behind, when disturbed by a man out walking his dog. Stamp would’ve died in situ had it not been for the terrier. No doubt about it. His body might have lain undiscovered for months.

Now there was a manhunt going on and Kate was hoping that Fearon’s luck had finally run out.

E
MILY TOLD
K
ATE
that Martin had made her believe that life was worth living after Robert died and she’d pushed him away. They had fought over Fearon and she wouldn’t listen when he tried to put things right between them. Rachel was all she could think of.

‘That’s as it should be,’ Kate tried to reassure her.

Emily hugged herself. She wasn’t convinced.

Kate cleared her throat. ‘If it’s any consolation, he wouldn’t have felt a thing. According to the pathologist, he was extremely intoxicated—’

‘And whose fault was that?’ Emily paused for reflection. ‘He died here, in this hospital, didn’t he?’

He had. On the floor below, while the woman he loved sat within spitting distance, crying over a drama totally unconnected to his death.

‘Kate?’

‘Sorry?’ Kate was miles away.

‘I’m not daft,’ Emily said. ‘Martin must’ve been alive when they found him or they wouldn’t have brought him here. He’d have gone straight to the morgue.’

‘You’re right, he was still breathing. But he was close to death, Emily. The body shuts down to protect itself in situations like these. Believe me when I tell you he didn’t suffer. It would’ve been very quick.’

She didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t. Photographs had been sent to her iPad by crime scene investigators. It had been a frenzied attack: no fewer than seven stab wounds to the chest, one in each eye, the face slashed so badly that flaps of skin hung down where his cheeks once were. In her considered opinion, it had been a deliberate attempt to destroy his handsome features. According to Stanton, his jacket resembled Shredded Wheat by the time the last blow was struck. The injuries were some of the worst either of them had come across.

Fearon must’ve been covered in blood.

‘It should have been me,’ Emily cried again.

‘Martin wouldn’t have wanted that. He loved you, Em. We could all see it.’ Kate changed the subject to Rachel. ‘I expect they’ll keep her in for observation.’

Emily gave a nod. ‘I didn’t think she had it in her, but she’s come out fighting.’

‘You should rest. You look exhausted.’

‘I want to be with her when she wakes up.’ Emily swivelled round to face the DCI. ‘On the way here, she described an older man she’d been seeing – this Vic character Jane Lowther was on about. Fearon must have been pulling the strings, though. He must have! Is he still on the loose?’

‘We’re checking all known associates. If we haven’t already picked him up by then, come lunchtime every force in the country will be looking for him.’ Taking hold of Emily’s hand, Kate chose her words carefully. Her friend was in a bad way but might hold vital information she was desperate for. ‘It’s important I find Rachel’s abductor at the earliest opportunity, Em. Did her description of him mean anything to you?’

Emily shook her head.

‘Are you certain?’ Kate pressed her.

‘Yes! Kate, listen to me. What about Fearon? He’s been in and out of institutions since he was a small boy. He’s streetwise. He knows every trick in the book and every low-life within a hundred miles. You’ve got to find him before he kills again.’

‘We’ll get him . . . eventually.’

‘And when you do?’

‘All I can do is build a case. The rest is up to the courts.’

Glancing at her watch surreptitiously, Kate realized that Jo would be there soon. Just as well. The SIO had so much to do and she didn’t have time to sit and hold Emily’s hand, much as she might like to.

‘You don’t understand, do you?’ Emily didn’t wait for an answer. ‘It’s a power thing with Fearon. It’s me he really wants.’

‘I don’t believe he had anything to do with Rachel’s disappearance, Em.’

Emily urged her to reconsider.

Kate listened carefully. What if Emily was right and she was wrong? Maybe Fearon
was
complicit in Rachel’s abduction somehow. Sex offenders often stuck together. ‘Working in tandem’ was the phrase Jo had used. It wasn’t impossible that he’d masterminded Rachel’s abduction from the comfort of his cell, but in order to do so he would have had to join forces with whoever killed Sophie and Maxine. And that was a stretch. Could it be that he was in cahoots with the older man, Vic? Whatever the story, the abandoned prison bag would put him away for the rest of his life.