Monument to Murder (8 page)

O
FFICER
K
ENT EYED
the inmates on free association, unhappy that his SO had rostered him for another night shift, punishment for his outburst against Fearon.

On one side of the cavernous room, laughter drifting through an open door – the television room. Nearby, a group of four inmates were playing cards, generally having a laugh, egged on by a gaggle of supporters. To their left, other inmates sat writing letters home or reading books. The rest were banged up in their cells by choice, keeping their heads low and their hopes high for early release, a privilege afforded for good behaviour and a clean prison record.

It was a different story on the other side of the room.

Wing bullies Saunders and Jones weren’t going anywhere fast. Both were serving twelve for the attempted murder of a drugs rival, neither making any attempt to mend their ways. They had collared the pool table and were clearly in cahoots over something. Odds on, it wasn’t about turning the other cheek during their long stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

Saunders wasn’t your stereotypical bully: no shaved head, battle scars or visible tats. A Mancunian just turned twenty, he had boy-band looks and pulling power too, if his mailbag and cell wall were anything to go by. He had no less than four different women on the go, two of whom had spawned the next generation of gangsters, none of whom had an inkling of the others’ existence.

Yet.

Kent could feel an anonymous letter coming on.

Saunders looked innocent enough. But beneath his pretty-boy image an evil bastard lurked. He took great pleasure in hurting people – including his harem, if he felt so inclined. Jones on the
other hand fit the profile of an inner-city thug perfectly. He was hated and feared throughout the establishment by staff and cons alike. He had bad skin, a mean mouth, stood no taller than five three. What he lacked in height, the vicious little shit made up for in immorality. Like Saunders, he enjoyed inflicting pain. Simply put, he was a very nasty piece of work.

Kent’s fellow officer nodded towards the pool table. ‘What’s their sketch?’

‘Something unsavoury, by the looks.’ Kent scratched his crotch. ‘Any intel from security?’

‘Kiddin’, aren’t ya? The snouts wouldn’t dare.’

‘Search team find anything?’

‘Not a damn thing. Dogs never even got a whiff.’

‘Figures.’

Both officers fell silent.

Saunders and Jones had a foolproof operation running on the inside just like they did on the out. Prison or not, it was business as usual for them. They carried out their evil deeds secure in the knowledge that they wouldn’t be grassed up, stashing their drugs and weapons in other mugs’ cells, absolving themselves of blame should the screws get lucky. Consequently, any associated punishment doled out by the governor didn’t touch them. Instead it passed down to the weaklings whose sentences kept getting longer and longer.

For Saunders and Jones, cooperation was key.

Not many refused this pair.

None did so a second time.

They grinned at one another, aware that they were under scrutiny. Neither gave a fat rat’s arse. They would make their move when they were good and ready. Not before. They had all the time in the world.

Taking his shot cleanly, Saunders made the pocket and high-fived Jones.

Game over.

Two prisoners waiting to take their turn moved forward. Then stepped away again when Saunders blanked them out, setting up the triangle for another game like he owned the place.

‘I need a crap.’ Kent’s colleague tapped his radio. ‘Yell if you need me.’

Kent nodded, his eyes continually scanning the association room.

No sooner had his fellow officer disappeared than the atmosphere in the room changed. Tension was building. A shifty look passed here and there – mostly in Jones’ and Saunders’ direction. Inmates were fine-tuned to recognize trouble. A few were packing up their stuff in readiness to retire; odd behaviour, given the fact that their free association period had another half-hour to run.

It had been a quiet week so far: not many fights, no riots, no security alerts. Other than Fearon’s shenanigans that morning, it was boringly normal considering the scum contained therein. A situation too good to be true, Kent figured.

It wouldn’t last.

Jones was lying across the pool table, one leg outstretched behind him, his tongue touching his upper lip in concentration as he eyed the balls on the table. Alerted by the sound of keys jangling in the corridor beyond, he abandoned his shot and stood up, shifting his gaze from the green baize towards the wing gate.

A nod to Saunders was almost imperceptible.

Kent had seen it.

The radio pinned to his chest announced that an inmate was being escorted on to the wing. Kent glanced at the gated entrance,
receiving a nod of acknowledgement from the escort as he came into view.

A shove in the back helped Fearon on his way.

The escort gave the thumbs-up sign: transfer of prisoner complete.

Relocking the gate, he turned away, his boots echoing in the corridor as he disappeared from sight. Exposed and alone, Fearon remained at the gate for a while. Looking pale but otherwise unscathed from his antics in the shower block, he stood there taking in the scene, checking out the territory. He was a lot of things: stupid wasn’t one of them. Like the duty officer, he sensed trouble the moment Saunders reached for his pool cue.

Kent didn’t move. Just sat back in his chair, keeping one eye on the toilet door, one on the situation. This could all turn nasty in a heartbeat. He was a lone member of staff on the wing now.

He looked at Saunders . . .

The toilet door . . .

Saunders . . .

The toilet door . . .

Still no sign of his fellow officer.

How long can one crap take?

Any minute now that door would open and his colleague would reappear.

But it didn’t.

He
didn’t.

Then, suddenly, it all kicked off.

Saunders smashed his cue into Fearon’s gut as he walked past the pool table: payback for having been locked in his cell for most of the afternoon. Doubled up in pain, Fearon hit the deck. Saunders dragged him violently to his feet, kneeing him in the groin, gobbing in his face.

Kent glanced at the toilet door.

No joy.

A glob of spittle slid off Fearon’s broken specs and down one cheek as he tried to remain upright, his steel-grey eyes burning into his attacker, a clear warning that this wasn’t over. Saunders hit him with the cue again, this time full in the face, blood spurting from a cut lip. Winded and bloodied, Fearon made no attempt to fight back. Glaring at the screw being paid to protect him, he sloped off to spend another night alone in his cell.

Kent smiled.

No more than the cunt deserved.

T
HE SMELL OF
fried bacon hit the DCI as she left her room and headed down two flights of creaky stairs. It was still dark outside. And cold.
So bloody cold.
The B & B’s ancient central heating system was struggling to cope. It had limped into life before six, the pipes gurgling and banging beneath her windowsill. The shower was inadequate too. The water ran hot one minute, cold the next, dribbling from the shower head. Thank Christ she hadn’t washed her hair.

Kate had just come off the phone with forensic scientist Matt West. What he’d had to say had thrown up more problems than it solved, leading to a drain on precious and finite resources, financial as well as physical. His words echoed in her head as she entered the breakfast room.

It was an oblong room with a deep bay window at one end. Surprisingly, three of her team had beaten her down. Hank was
busy eating his bodyweight in saturated fats. Robson was texting, Brown reading last night’s
Evening Chronicle
, both still waiting to be served. They were obviously hung-over and seated at the largest of three tables in the room. No sign of Maxwell or Carmichael yet, but so far no civvies. The detectives had the room to themselves.

It had been past eleven-thirty when Kate turned in the night before. The rest had stayed on, a chance to spend some down time together, something they rarely did outside of the odd retirement bash. Lengthy shifts were hardly conducive to socializing beyond their working day. So they milked it for all it was worth when it did happen.

Wondering what time they’d eventually got to bed, Daniels was delighted to think that the owner of the B & B might also have been awake half the night.

If her guests couldn’t rest, then why should she?

Hank looked up from his food. ‘Sleep well, boss?’

‘Like a baby,’ she said.

‘Really?’

‘No! My bed had lumps in it. It squeaked every time I turned over. The duvet kept slipping off and when I ran to the’ – she made inverted commas with her fingers – ‘shower, I could see my own breath it was so damned cold in my bathroom. You?’

‘He did. I never.’ Robson stopped texting, pocketing his phone. ‘Forget what I said about the bairn yesterday. I’ll take Callum as a room-mate over Hank any day of the week. The missus sent a text. Can you believe it? Little bugger didn’t wake ’til six. The very first time he’s slept all night in nearly
two
years and I’m playing house with a snoring pig.’

Gormley laughed and yawned at the same time.

He handed Kate a menu as she sat down beside him, directly
opposite the other two. The stench of second-hand beer across the table almost took her breath away. That too was par for the course. CID officers away from home tended to work hard and play even harder. Thankfully their powers of recovery matched their appetite for alcohol. With a good breakfast inside them it would be game on, as usual.

The door opened and Carmichael appeared. ‘Wish I’d brought some warmer kit.’ Her voice had dropped an octave. ‘Whose idea was it to stay in the B & B from hell?’

‘Er, that would be yours!’ Hank grinned. ‘Looking a little shabby this morning, Lisa. Sit down before you fall down.’

Shivering as she approached, arms wrapped around herself, Carmichael slumped down in a chair, chucking her room key on the table, knocking over the salt. Not bothering to pick it up, she scowled at the others, her sunny personality nowhere in sight.

‘What a dump!’ she said.

‘Morning!’ a cheery female voice behind them said.

Carmichael held her tongue as a woman of indeterminate age arrived in the breakfast room: grey-blonde hair cut short, very little slap, a red pinny over boyfriend jeans. She had an order pad in her hand and a big smile on her face, a hint that she was happy to have her premises full in mid-winter with paying guests who wouldn’t argue the toss when it came to settle up at the end of the day – ones unlikely to give her any grief during their stay.

Kate didn’t imagine that was a given.

There were some glum faces round the table.

Robson requested kippers, Brown a full English, Kate poached eggs on toast, Carmichael a bacon sandwich on white bread with brown sauce to go with it. Gormley ordered more coffee, adding the words ‘fresh this time’.

Putting down his knife and fork, he pushed his plate away.

‘So what’s up?’ He was looking at the SIO.

‘Up?’ Kate was aware of all eyes turned towards her. ‘Other than this place, you mean?’

‘I’ve seen that look before. It usually means business. I’m guessing you got hold of Matt.’ Gormley glanced at his watch. ‘What pearls of wisdom did our eminent scientist have to impart at this ungodly hour?’

Daniels raised an eyebrow. ‘If this case wasn’t so sad, that might’ve been funny, Hank.’

‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘That bed
was
lumpy.’

A chuckle went round the table.

Two fresh pots of coffee arrived along with a shamefaced DC Maxwell. The DCI asked the waitress if there were any other guests staying. She wasn’t astounded to hear that there weren’t. Returning guests in this B & B was a stretch, even for her imagination. Requesting some privacy, she waited until the woman had taken Maxwell’s order and cleared the room before speaking.

‘It won’t surprise you to hear that the pearls found on our victims were not real. They were plastic fakes. Cheap imitations, like poppers kids play with. You know the ones I mean: male and female on either end, the type that snap together to make a chain?’

There was a nod of heads around the table.

‘Not lesbian chains then?’ Maxwell quipped.

Hank Gormley nearly spat out his coffee.

Too tired to respond, Carmichael focused her attention on her boss. She may have been feeling down in the mouth but her mind was still very much on the job. ‘Any identifying marks on the pearls?’ she asked.

Kate shook her head. ‘Unfortunately not. But I can say they
aren’t identical. According to Matt, one set are well made but contain a high level of toxic additives that would never be allowed in present-day manufacture. The others are contemporary; chatty imitations of the first, but with no obvious health-and-safety risks. I’ve asked him to fax a photo to the incident room and provide a section of both for comparison. We need to identify the manufacturers and distributors ASAP.’

The comment drew a collective groan around the table.

‘Sorry, guys, but that’s just how it is.’ Her eyes fell on DS Robson, the team’s statement reader. ‘Robbo, you’re on missing persons today.’ Kate turned to Maxwell. ‘I’m sorry to change your brief, Neil. I want you on the train to the forensic science lab as soon as you’ve eaten.’ She thumbed out the window where snow was beginning to fall again. ‘You’re not driving down in this and we can’t risk the post. Hank will run you to Alnmouth station after breakfast. There’s a train at 7.47 that will get you into York at half nine. You can either hop on a train to Harrogate and take a taxi the rest of the way or get a taxi from York direct. It’s up to you.’

‘That’s hardly fair, is it?’ Carmichael blurted out. ‘It’ll take him most of the day to get there and back, longer if there happens to be the wrong kind of snow on the tracks. Any old excuse and he’ll be gone for a fortnight!’ She flushed up and shot a hacky look at Maxwell, who could hardly contain his joy. ‘How come
he
gets a couple of extra hours’ kip while we’re all slaving away?’

Carmichael really
was
in a bad mood. It wasn’t like her to whinge about who did what, even less to be so grumpy first thing in the morning. Whatever the reason behind her attitude, she did have a point. On the face of it, Maxwell had scored an easier day than most.

For a moment nobody spoke.

Kate put down her toast. ‘The answer is in the question, Lisa. British weather and British Rail is a lethal combination. It might not be such a cushy number when you come to think of it.’ Maxwell’s joy melted away. ‘You’re not on your jollies, Neil. I want you back here tonight. No excuses.’

Carmichael brightened instantly but she didn’t look good.

Serve her right for drinking with Hank.

Kate moved on. ‘The interesting thing in all of this is the significance of the pearls to the sick bastard who killed those kids. That’s symbolism, plain and simple.’

‘For what?’ Brown was frowning at the DCI.

‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘We find out why, we find him.’