Monument to Murder (4 page)

D
CI K
ATE
D
ANIELS
gave the go ahead for the victim’s body to be removed from the dunes, plus two metres of earth around it in order to preserve any forensic material that may have been accidentally dropped at the scene. Forensic anthropologist Abbey Hunt had arrived with a couple of assistants in tow. They were fresh from another ‘dig’ that had turned out to be no more sinister than a set of ancient bones unearthed by a JCB on a building site.

Listening to her describe her day brought to mind a call Kate had received the previous February following the discovery of human remains beside a medieval tower in a different part of the county. It had caused quite a stir at the time. But foul play was quickly ruled out, and the Murder Investigation Team stood down soon after. She later learned that the bones had been radiocarbon dated. According to the council’s archaeological team, they had given a fascinating insight into the area’s history.

Hoping for some ‘fascinating insights’ of her own, Kate studied the ground beneath her feet. It was now marked out in a complicated grid system she and Abbey had agreed upon before work commenced. There were all manner of archaeological tools to hand: a tarpaulin for holding sand already sifted, trowels, brushes
and Ziploc bags for any foreign bodies that may or may not turn out to be evidential material she would later use in a court of law.

Abbey had loads of experience of working with the police. She was fifty-three years old, a formidable figure who didn’t suffer fools lightly. She preferred to work with the minimum of people breathing down her neck and was directing operations in her inimitable way, her tone reserved and businesslike, her attention to detail second to none.

The crime scene was in the very best of hands.

So why did she look so worried?

‘Abbey?’ A camera flash lit up the tent, blinding Kate momentarily. ‘Abbey, is everything all right?’

‘No, it bloody isn’t!’ The woman stopped combing a mound of rough grass from around the skull area. A black beetle made a run for it as she stood up, arched her back and crossed her arms. ‘You want the bad news or the really,
really
bad news?’

Kate, who hated games, waited for her to continue.

‘In their present state these dunes are highly unstable.’ Abbey swept her hand out. ‘This whole area could collapse at any moment. As a result, I need to extricate these bones much quicker than I’m comfortable with, which is like asking a tortoise to move like a cheetah. I’m hardly built for that, am I?’

It was a rhetorical question.

Not expecting an answer, Abbey ploughed on. ‘I prefer daylight, to be perfectly honest. Things get missed in artificial light . . .’ Glancing at the CSI photographer, the archaeologist pushed her glasses up on to the bridge of her nose. ‘Leave that, please! Can you step outside a moment? I need a quick word with your SIO.’

When Abbey said ‘jump’, people usually asked: How high?

The photographer made himself scarce.

As soon as he’d cleared the tent, the scientist turned to Kate, an inscrutable expression on her face. Whatever she had on her mind was obviously better said in private.

Kate suspected it wasn’t going to be good.

She wasn’t wrong.

‘There’s a discrepancy between what you thought you saw and what’s actually here, Kate.’ Abbey swept a gloved hand out towards the corpse. ‘This body is not what it seems.’

‘It’s male?’ Kate asked.

‘No, you got the gender right. Let me show you something . . .’ Beckoning the DCI nearer to the corpse, Abbey used the tool in her hand to move a fragment of red-and-white material away from the lower abdominal area. ‘The width of the pelvic bones are a dead giveaway. They’re much wider in females to facilitate childbirth. Not that this poor unfortunate will ever have children of her own. I’m sorry to have to rain on your parade, but what’s left of the clothing and pearls around her neck aren’t age appropriate . . .’ Abbey pointed at the sandy high-heeled shoe on the ground near the body. ‘And that
definitely
isn’t.’

‘It’s a kid?’ Kate knew the answer even before she’d asked the question.

‘No more than ten years old, I’d say.’

‘Are you absolutely sure? I thought it was tricky determining age.’

‘Not so much in children. I can tell from the skull mainly. I’ll do some further tests at the lab. Without getting too technical, it’s all to do with calcium and mineral deposits that form the bones. That’ll determine her age for sure. With the aid of X-rays I’ll be able to give a very accurate prediction. Look here . . .’ Using a soft brush Abbey dusted loose sand away from a perfect set of teeth. ‘See, little evidence of wear or dental decay.’

Kate hoped that in due course an odontologist would be able to give her an identity for the child. But that wasn’t something she could confidently rely on. In any event, it might take weeks or even months before a match was found. In the meantime, it was gratifying to have Abbey’s expertise on board.

‘I’d better get on.’ Abbey pointed at the entrance to the tent. ‘Your colleague can come in again now.’

Kate nodded and stepped outside.

Her crime scene photographer was frozen. He was standing with his back to the biting wind, collar pulled up around his ears, fag in one hand, hot drink in the other. The light was fading as they re-entered the tent. But before he’d even got started, the ground beneath him gave way and he toppled over, almost landing on the corpse.

Hunt went ballistic. ‘Get him out of my bloody crime scene!’

Apologizing – although technically it wasn’t his fault – the photographer scrambled to his feet, sand dropping off his clothing and landing all over the place, giving the scientist even more cause to rebuke him. Simultaneously, they turned toward the DCI complaining about each other. But Daniels was otherwise engaged, staring at the area of ground her CSI colleague had just vacated – her worst nightmare staring back at her.

‘Hold it! Hold it!’ she yelled.

Abbey and the police photographer froze, their focus switching to ground level. To the right of the skeleton being excavated there was a size-ten footprint where the photographer had fallen and two projectiles sticking out of the ground.

With or without skin, Kate knew fingers when she saw them.

O
NCE
P
RINCIPAL
O
FFICER
Ted Harrison got going there was little anyone could do to shut him up. The man was holding court with representatives of no fewer than four departments sitting in a semi-circle round his desk. The meeting, scheduled to last just forty-five minutes, had already been going on for the best part of an hour.

The room itself was stuffy, littered with used coffee cups, the remains of a packet of digestive biscuits, empty water bottles. Prisoner profiles lay in untidy heaps on the floor, along with psychological assessments, parole dossiers and sentence-planning reports. Casting her eye over the mess, Emily McCann felt guilty. Her colleagues were exhausted, itching to draw the meeting to a close. She wanted to go home too but as soon as the day’s business was concluded, casting caution aside, she’d dared to criticize one of Harrison’s men, tackling the thorny subject of Officer Kent – specifically his attitude towards inmate Walter Fearon following his suicide attempt.

As she waited for a response, her attention strayed to the PO’s desk where a hefty document had been pushed to one side. Her eyes scanned the title page: Amanda Drake:
Punishment v Rehabilitation – Both Sides of the Argument
.

Yeah right, Emily scoffed.

Harrison was incapable of seeing both sides of anything. As flexible as a steel girder, he was a patronizing, self-opinionated bully. Someone who liked the sound of his own, very loud, voice. Sensing that a sermon was imminent, Emily fixed him with a glare and got in first.

‘This is not Abu Ghraib, Ted. Fearon is entitled to as much protection as any other prisoner. Deal with Kent or I
will
take it further.’

‘I hear what you’re saying, Emily, I do . . .’ Harrison paused. His
mouth was smiling but his eyes were not. Placing his elbows on the desk, he linked his hands in front of him and rested his chin on top of them. ‘You’re making a serious alleg—’

‘No!’ Emily hit back. ‘I’m stating a fact. Ask Ash Walker if you don’t believe me.’

‘Are you
trying
to make yourself unpopular?’ Harrison asked. ‘Why don’t you go away and think about whose side you’re on. Come and see me again when you’ve given it more thought.’

‘Don’t patronize me, Ted. I—’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Harrison said. ‘I’ve worked with Bill Kent for a very long time. He’s not perfect, but then who is? As a matter of fact, he’s a fine officer.’

‘Is he now?’ Emily could feel the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘May I remind you we have standards on this wing.’ She thumbed over her left shoulder. ‘Last time I looked at the nameplate on that door, your name was on it. That means it’s
your
job to ensure they’re upheld!’ She glanced at other staff in the room. ‘Well? It isn’t the first time Kent has stepped out of line, is it?’

Two of those present avoided her gaze – too bottleless to acknowledge a problem existed – not wanting to get involved. The prison chaplain adjusted his dog collar and looked at the floor. Fortunately for Emily, the woman sitting to his left had more nerve. A probation officer of long-standing, she nodded her head and spoke up.

‘She’s right, Ted. For what it’s worth, I also think Bill Kent has a problem.’

Harrison bristled at the overt challenge to his authority. His views on women were common knowledge: the prison would be much better off without them. He was in charge of this wing; he’d made that clear often enough. Leaning back in his chair, he looked down his nose at them like a headmaster rebuking a pair of insolent pupils.

It was a childish game.

His expression said: toe the line or you’ll be out on your ear.

The probation officer looked away.

Harrison turned on Emily. ‘You don’t want to rock the boat on your first day back now, do you?’

Resolute, Emily made no comment.

‘Suit yourself.’ He was almost smirking. ‘You want to make a complaint, be my guest.’

‘You think I won’t?’ Emily countered.

‘You know where to find the guv’nor,’ Harrison said. ‘It’s your call. This meeting is over.’

E
ACH VIOLENT DEATH
scenario is different: location, motive, modus operandi. Kate Daniels had never worked on two that were the same. Some were straightforward: detected almost immediately. In others, the Murder Investigation Team had a pretty good idea of who might be responsible. All they had to do was put in the legwork to prove it. The rest – thankfully, the minority – were a complete mystery right from the off.

Kate had the distinct impression that her current case would fall into the latter category. Not only because of the time lapse between burial and discovery, but because the perpetrator had gone to great lengths to mask the victims’ ages. The question she was asking herself was: why?

Was this a case of human trafficking gone wrong?

This stretch of coast was remote. A boat could easily sail in unnoticed. Perhaps the girls were foreign. If they were dead on arrival
in the UK, maybe someone had buried them in the first accessible spot . . . Except that made no sense. Why would anyone bother when it was so much easier to chuck a body overboard while you were out in deep water?

Calling the room to order, she was about to start the briefing when Detective Superintendent Ron Naylor suddenly appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a pair of green wellington boots and a three-quarter-length parka jacket covered in fresh snow.

‘Decided to have myself a little trip to the seaside,’ he said.

Bearing in mind his appearance, his comment sounded ridiculous.

Everyone laughed, Naylor included.

He extracted something from his pocket and held it out to Kate with a curious look on his face. Her personal mail: three postcards from three different locations, the same message on each, just four words –
Are You Hungry Yet?
Each card signed with a flamboyant:
F
.

Fiona Fielding
.

Kate could feel herself blushing. These cryptic messages had been dropping into her in-tray with alarming regularity in recent months, sent by an artist who was never far away from her consciousness of late.

Gormley was grinning.

He knew she and Fielding had more than a love of fine art in common.

Popping the cards into her bag, Kate made a mental note to text the artist her home address. She couldn’t keep receiving these curious messages at work. It was funny but rather embarrassing too. It had to stop.

Taking off his coat, Naylor shook it violently and hung it over an open cupboard door. DC Andy Brown passed him a mug of something
hot. The Super sat down, cradling the cup in his huge hands, confirming what the team already knew. There was little to be done until the results of the postmortem were in.

‘And then there were two,’ the DCI said sadly. ‘Abbey filled you in, I take it?’

Naylor nodded. ‘She’s gone with the bodies to the morgue. Her team will continue digging in the morning. For now the scene is secure with an officer posted on overnight watch. Shit duty for some poor sod, but we have to assume there could be more until we’re told otherwise. For all we know that’s a mass grave out there.’

‘What a cheery thought.’ Kate drew in a big breath, wishing they were back at the purpose-built major incident suite in Newcastle. Something was telling her she would need its state-of-the-art technology at her fingertips. ‘I’m already regretting my decision to run the incident from here.’ She sighed, looking around her. ‘What a dog’s bollocks!’

‘What’s up with you?’ Naylor said. ‘It’s not that bad!’

Either Abbey hadn’t told him or Naylor was being very understanding
.

Kate cleared her throat. ‘I hadn’t realized the first one was a kid, guv.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up over it. You weren’t to know. You called it as you saw it. I’d have done the same in your shoes.’

She thanked him for being so understanding, adding, ‘The second victim is a little older. Mid-teens is Abbey’s best guess. Knowing her, it’ll be spot on.’

‘Is she ever wrong?’ Naylor made a face. ‘Bloody woman gets right up my nose.’

‘What is it with you and her, guv?’ Gormley asked. ‘You got history we don’t know about?’

‘You
are
joking?’ Naylor’s mouth turned down at the edges. ‘She’d eat me for breakfast!’

Ignoring their banter, Kate moved on.

‘Lisa ran the unsolved cases through the system, guv. There are none where two young kids went missing together. The press are going to be all over this if we don’t keep a lid on it.’ Kate wondered why he’d come, what on earth possessed him to venture out in such atrocious weather. He normally ran from encounters with Abbey Hunt and there were easier ways of being briefed on a new case. Unlike her former boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Bright, Naylor had never been one to interfere. ‘You sticking around for the briefing or heading back to town?’

‘I might sit in for a bit. Actually, I’m meeting Jo at the Railway later for a bite to eat. Two birds, one stone, seeing as I’m up here. Forty pence a mile doesn’t go far these days. By the looks of the weather, I might have to find a room too.’

‘Win win . . .’ Kate tried for a smile but it didn’t come off.

Naylor didn’t notice. ‘Filled my car up the other day,’ he griped. ‘Cost me nearly ninety quid!’

As he continued his rant about the price of diesel, Kate’s mind strayed. Jo Soulsby was a psychologist who’d worked for Northumbria Police as a criminal profiler for the past few years. She’d resigned recently in order to take up a post at HMP Northumberland. Right now she was probably hard at work only ten short miles away from where they were standing. She wasn’t just an ex-colleague either. She was Kate’s ex: her lover, confidante and the best friend she’d ever had. Their relationship, or former one to be precise, was a closely guarded secret only Hank knew about.

Yeah right
, Kate thought.

A run-in with former Assistant Chief Constable Martin – who’d
since retired in disgrace – had outed her in spectacular fashion when an offender she was chasing sent him an anonymous letter. Though the ACC had no proof of her relationship with Jo, he’d sure as hell be making his mouth go about her private life now, dishing the dirt to anyone who’d listen. Whatever he was saying would eventually filter down to the whole damn force.

Kate sighed.

She found it hard to accept that she and Jo were finished, harder still to define her feelings for someone who steadfastly refused to return her texts. Recent attempts to contact her on landline or mobile had failed. Fair enough. If she didn’t want to talk, Kate wouldn’t push it. No point in chasing a lost cause.

‘Kate?’

A combination of her boss’s voice and Hank’s interest dragged the SIO back into the room. Apologizing for the lapse in concentration, she said, ‘Give her my love when you see her, won’t you, guv?’

‘Are you even listening to me?’ The Super put down his empty mug, a curious expression on his face. ‘I said why don’t you join us?’

‘Maybe next time. I want to get stuff up and running here first.’

Puzzled, Naylor looked around him. The temporary murder wall was almost blank. There wasn’t a thing going on. The squad were bored out of their brains, itching for the enquiry to get under way. A couple of detectives were playing cards. Others were texting or tweeting on mobile phones.

Naylor didn’t question her in front of the troops. Not in words. But when he turned to face her, he held her gaze long enough to let her know that he wasn’t fooled by her avoidance tactics. He knew something was up. He also knew that, whatever it was, it had nothing to do with the investigation.