Monument to Murder (5 page)

I
NCENSED WITH
H
ARRISON
for giving her such a hard time, Emily didn’t hang around after the sentence-planning meeting. As soon as it broke up she was out of there, returning briefly to her office to dump her case-notes before heading straight for the medical wing with her bag slung over her shoulder.

As she shut the gate behind her, she glanced back through the thick steel bars. Like a smiling assassin, Principal Officer Harrison was standing in his doorway shaking hands with the chaplain but looking right past him in her direction. Wishing she could wipe that supercilious smirk off his face, she turned away, determined to deny him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d got to her.

She’d felt vulnerable since losing Robert. It was as if her confidence had died and been buried along with his body. It had taken all her resolve to crawl out of the black hole she’d fallen into when the news of his death reached her. Now this ignorant arsehole was trying to push her back in it again.

Well, she’d see about that
.

Turning the key in the heavy metal gate, she rattled the bars to make sure it was properly locked, a habit she’d developed years ago. Her shoes squeaked on the highly polished floor as she turned and hurried down the corridor feeling the weight of Harrison’s beady eyes between her shoulder blades.

Emily couldn’t afford to dwell on Harrison.

She had more important things to do.

Once out of sight of the wing she slowed her gait, took a long, deep breath and tried to focus on the task ahead. It was then she realized she should’ve called first. Medical staff liked to be informed when staff wanted to visit the sick. She hoped it wouldn’t lead to
yet another row.
Assuming Fearon was even there
. Last she’d heard, he’d been shipped out by civilian ambulance to Alnwick Infirmary for treatment, attached to a burly prison officer, despite his poorly condition.

It wouldn’t be the first time an escape plan had masqueraded as a suicide attempt.

Preoccupied with that thought, she failed to notice Martin Stamp emerging from the prison library. But he saw
her,
more especially the look on her face, a confusion of worry and anger.

Doing an about turn, he fell into step, asking what was up.

Emily kept on walking, giving chapter and verse on her spat with Harrison, ranting about his superior attitude, how embarrassed she’d been when he slapped her down in front of fellow professionals.

‘Welcome back to the mad house,’ Stamp grinned.

Unable to see the funny side, Emily didn’t respond.

‘C’mon, lighten up! Don’t make a crap day even worse—’

‘The man’s a bloody moron! If he talks to me like that again, I swear I’ll . . .’ Emily didn’t finish her sentence. Inmates were fast approaching from the opposite direction, escorted by two prison officers who were members of Harrison’s inner circle. They said hello as they passed by. She could tell by looking at them that they already knew what had taken place. Word spread quickly in institutions like this.

She waited until they were out of earshot.

‘See that?’ She glanced at Stamp. ‘They’ll all close ranks if I go running to the guv’nor.’

‘Then use that psychology degree of yours and tackle Kent yourself.’

‘That’s easier said than done, Martin. The PO has marked my
card. He’ll be watching every move I make. It’s all right for you. For a start, you’re a bloke. In twelve months you’ll be gone. I, on the other hand, will be here banging my head against a brick wall ad infinitum with that fucking idiot making my life hell at every opportunity.’

‘Ever thought Kent might be in need of counselling?’

Emily stopped walking. ‘You know something I don’t?’

‘Maybe . . .’

She caught his arm. ‘Well? Are you going to tell me or what?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ He seemed profoundly troubled all of a sudden.

Emily bristled. He knew her well enough to know that whatever was said wouldn’t go any further. Besides, she’d helped him out in the past. They had always been close. Back when they were at university, they’d dated for a while, going their separate ways after graduating. Even in those days Martin would cheerfully break every rule in the book but he would never betray a confidence. Where secrets were concerned, his sense of morality was delightfully old-fashioned. Endearing almost. She knew she’d be wasting her time trying to pry information out of him.

More was the pity
.

He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.

For a moment, she wondered if he was going to reconsider and compromise his precious principles. But if the thought had crossed his mind, he dismissed it in a flash.

‘Have a word with Ash Walker,’ he said. ‘Maybe
he
can throw light on Kent’s behaviour.’

That wasn’t a bad idea.

SO Walker had always been her go-to man for help and support. He wasn’t the only decent prison officer at HMP Northumberland
by any means. There were plenty of those. But he had been her first ally on the wing when she’d taken up her current post. He knew Kent as well as anyone.

‘I’ll do that,’ Emily said. ‘I’ll catch you later, Martin. I really need to see Fearon now.’

‘Be careful . . .’ Stamp looked deep into her eyes, ramming home the warning. ‘I mean it, Em. He may be weak, but he’s extremely dangerous.’

Emily gave a curt nod and raced off before he could stop her.

D
ETECTIVE
S
UPERINTENDENT
N
AYLOR
paced the incident room. He grew more like former Newcastle United and England striker, Alan Shearer, as each day passed. Except, and this was unusual in this part of the world, what he knew about football you could write on a postage stamp. His hair was so thin on top he’d stopped trying to comb it over, opting instead for a virile baldness. He had nice eyes and a ready smile, more accurately described as a cheeky grin.

A fiercely ambitious man, Naylor had climbed the ladder to his present rank without difficulty. He’d recently confided that the higher position was not all it was cracked up to be. He longed to get his hands dirty instead of sitting at a desk delegating the interesting stuff to others.

Probably the reason he’d visited the crime scene.

His obvious discontent made Kate question her future too. Could she really give up the job she loved to attain the next rank, knowing full well she’d be forced back in uniform before she made detective super? The very thought made her angry. She’d already
given up so much in pursuit of her career, including a close and loving relationship with Jo Soulsby.

As her boss moved away in search of a decent place to park himself, Kate scanned the room. Hank Gormley was sitting close by, facing the murder wall, Detective Sergeant Paul Robson to his left. Both had their legs stretched out in front of them, crossed at the ankle in relaxation pose. Next to them DCs Andy Brown and Neil Maxwell shared a desk but were otherwise ignoring each other in favour of their mobile phones. Maxwell was getting to grips with a new 3G device, the signal of which kept dropping out, displeasing him no end. At the back of the room, three civilian indexers were crammed together in a confined space waiting for something to do: phones to answer, intelligence to input into the HOLMES system,
any bloody thing
.

The identity of the victims would be a start.

Waiting for news from Alnwick mortuary was frustrating, not to mention a complete waste of everyone’s time. But the hiatus provided Kate with the opportunity to ring her father and cancel her arrangement to take him out to dinner, a task she’d managed to avoid thus far.

With a sense of unease – expecting an earbashing – she picked up the nearest internal telephone, dialled nine for an outside line, followed by his home number.

He answered on the fourth ring. ‘Three-o-three.’

A wry smile crept over Kate’s face when she heard his voice. Rigid was the word that best described her father. He was stuck in a time warp, viewing change as a threat rather than an opportunity, insisting on answering with his old phone number, ignoring the additional three-digit prefix that had been introduced years ago.

‘Happy birthday!’ she said, heart in mouth.

She shook her head as Hank hauled himself off his chair and made a ‘drink?’ gesture by waggling a hand in front of his face. In her right ear, her father was expressing surprise at the number of cards he’d received.

‘That’s nice.’ She hoped she didn’t sound patronizing. ‘Have you seen the news?’

‘No, should I have? I’ve been out for a haircut.’

Kate winced.

Ed Daniels always visited the barbers for a short back and sides when he wanted to look his best. Torn by conflicting emotions, she felt guilty for having to disappoint him on his big day. Dinner was out of the question now,
unless
. . . did she have time to nip out and see him before Stanton’s report came in? She looked out at the snow falling in big fluffy flakes. Corbridge was almost fifty miles away. She’d never make it.

‘There’s been an incident, Dad.’

‘You don’t say.’ He sounded more angry than disappointed.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not like I arranged it just to piss you off.’

She could feel his irritation down the line. Her swearing and backchat angered him. It wasn’t how he’d brought her up. He held the view that children should know their place and show respect to their parents at all times. Earning that respect didn’t come into it. His crackpot philosophy got right up her nose. As did his silence, calculated to provoke her.

And it was working . . .

Had he forgotten how old she was?

What she did for a living?

Kate was annoyed too now – with herself, for allowing him to get under her skin. She’d tried her very best to meet him halfway. At every opportunity the stubborn old git made it so bloody difficult.
He’d never forgiven her for joining the police when she had won a place to study veterinary medicine at Edinburgh.
His
choice, now she came to think of it. Since then, each time she cried off on a prearranged social event due to the demands of her job – a frequent occurrence, unfortunately – he took great pleasure in reminding her that there was more to life than work.

Well, actually there wasn’t
.

She’d made her choice fifteen years ago . . .

It was time he got over it.

Kate sighed. She ought to be used to her father’s disapproval by now. He’d behaved the same way when she told him about her relationship with Jo. Now
that
was a hanging offence. A complete abomination in his eyes and no doubt those of his precious church.

Taking a deep breath, she counted to ten, wishing her mother was still around to let her off the hook and share his special day. But mentioning her now would only upset him further. So the dutiful daughter apologized again.

He put down the phone without another word.

Kate needed some air. Putting her coat on, she left the building, telling the others she wouldn’t be long. It was only a short trudge to Alnwick morgue. Tim Stanton, the on-call Home Office pathologist, was about done by the time she arrived. Unfortunately, he had no news on how her victims had met their deaths. But he did have information that might help, he told her.

‘That’s quick.’ Kate glanced at the skeletons lying on adjacent slabs. ‘I was steeling myself for a longer wait, given the condition of the bodies.’

‘We aim to please . . .’ Stanton scratched his head. ‘Abbey’s observations are correct. They
are
both children, one much younger than the other.’ He pointed at the nearest set of bones which were
shorter than the others but not by much. ‘This unfortunate young girl is about nine or ten years old, the other around fifteen or sixteen. Their clothing was a definite ploy to mislead—’

‘Or a prop in someone’s bizarre fantasy,’ she reminded him.

‘Indeed,’ he said.

‘Don’t suppose you can tell if there was a sexual element from the remains?’

‘Sorry, I can’t help you, Kate.’

That’s what she’d thought. Maybe it was better not to know.

T
HE SMALL MEDICAL
ward had barred windows and four beds, all of which were occupied. That wasn’t unusual. By their very nature prisons were unhealthy pressure-cooker environments locked down tight. People got sick. Was it any wonder, with hundreds of repressed men forced to live cheek by jowl – all vying for a place in the pecking order – resentful of being under the microscope 24/7?

Hell-bent on corrective measures, successive governments had spent substantial sums building and improving institutions like HMP Northumberland in an effort to curb criminal behaviour and punish wrongdoing. But within the walls of prisons, a subculture of aggression reigned. Racism was rife. Violence and hostility between individuals and groups was commonplace, resulting in physical as well as psychological damage to inmates, some of whom required hospital treatment from time to time.

Emily scanned the room.

Three patients were sitting up in bed: two reading, one staring into space – almost catatonic. In the bed furthest from the door,
Fearon lay pale and childlike, both wrists bandaged, a male medic keeping observation from a nearby desk. A short, stocky, Asian man of indeterminate age, he smiled at Emily as she crossed the room. He didn’t question her turning up on spec, just advised that Fearon’s prognosis was favourable. His wounds had been sewn up and he was otherwise fit and healthy. He’d live to fight another day and would be back on the wing before she knew it.

‘Tonight, in all probability,’ he added.

‘That soon?’ Emily was appalled. ‘Surely not!’

The medic levelled steely eyes at her. ‘You didn’t buy that crap, did you? It was a con.’

‘I saw it with my own eyes.’

‘You saw blood, Emily. It always looks worse than it is. His wounds were superficial. He’d have run the blade the length of his arm if he really wanted to end it all, but these cuts were lateral. Disfiguring, yes, but carefully choreographed. No question. Designed to shock, to draw attention. Who knows what’s going on in that depraved mind of his.’

‘He was unconscious!’

‘Was he?’ The medic smirked. ‘He cut over old scars, Emily. He knew exactly where to do it and he knew that it wouldn’t kill him. Pathetic. Anyway, we need the bed.’

We need the bed?

She took that as a euphemism for the medical team not wanting Fearon on the hospital wing for any longer than was absolutely necessary. And who could blame them? This particular patient was an unknown quantity – unpredictable in the extreme – an individual who could flip at a moment’s notice. It was a question of ward security; the needs of one patient balanced against the safety of the other three.

The medic was warning her off, just as Stamp had done.

Emily felt a shiver run through her.

Watch out
.

Fearon is trouble.

She took a deep breath. ‘Despite what you say, I insist you place him on suicide watch tonight. I want assurances. If he’s sent back to B-wing before I come in tomorrow, please make sure the night shift get the message.’ She was leaving nothing to chance. ‘I’d be grateful if you would write my request down too.’

‘As you wish.’

Emily waited for a note to be made. ‘OK if I sit with him?’

The medic nodded. ‘Be my guest.’

She turned away and walked over to Fearon’s bedside. Lying there, he seemed so ordinary: asleep, peaceful, innocent, a young man without a care in the world. Looking at him now, it was hard to imagine that beneath those closed eyelids lurked the hardest, certainly the coldest, pair of steel-grey eyes she’d ever seen. Eyes that looked through you like you weren’t even there: the manifestation of a psychopath. And yet he was not much older than her only child.

Emily looked at her watch. Four p.m.

Despite the fact that it was her first day back at work, she was in no rush to get home. After their terrible row that morning, Rachel had gone off in a huff and sent a text informing her mother she would be staying overnight at a friend’s place. She hadn’t said which friend.
That would be far too easy
. When Emily called to find out, Rachel got stroppy all over again, reminding her she was nearly twenty years old.

Whatever
.

It wasn’t like her to be so secretive. She’d spent a few nights out
lately and Emily had a feeling she might be seeing someone new, although Rachel had refused to confirm or deny it. As far as she was concerned, there could only be one explanation for that. Whoever it was, you could bet your bottom dollar
she
wouldn’t approve of him. Emily had spent many a sleepless night recently going over the possibilities in her mind: an undesirable rogue, an older man, a manipulative freak who might be taking advantage of her daughter’s vulnerability.

Or was she the weak one, unable to face the prospect of going home to an empty house? It was bad enough with Rachel in it, but it was totally insufferable being alone there. So, in the vain hope that a gesture of kindness might do some good, Emily sat down to keep vigil at Fearon’s bedside, taking a book from her bag in order to pass the time.

Within a matter of minutes she became so engrossed in the exploits of a fictional hero that she was oblivious to her surroundings. Which was a little unfortunate because the patient in the bed was awake and watching her.