‘It’s all new to me,’ she confessed. ‘I know nothing about birds except those that come into my garden every day.’
‘Do you feed them?’
‘Not as often as I should.’
Martin screwed his face in a show of disappointment. ‘Poor birds,’ he sighed.
Located on the Northumberland coast between Beadnell and Bamburgh, Seahouses was a popular tourist attraction due to its beautiful sandy beaches. Known as the ‘Gateway to the Farnes’, this quaint little fishing village was an Aladdin’s cave of giftshops, arcade amusements, cafes, and fish and chip shops, all centred around its bustling harbour. Most of the fishing vessels were out at sea today, but there were at least a dozen small trip boats hugging the harbour wall in wait of adventurous tourists.
Carrington stopped at a pedestrian crossing to let a young woman with a child in a pushchair cross and could see the iconic Bamburgh Castle in the distance. Once home to the ancient kings of Northumbria, its stunning location not only attracted thousands of tourists to its grounds every year, it was also a major attraction for the Hollywood movie industry.
Her communications earpiece sprang into life.
It was DS Holt who was travelling in convoy with DC Hedley barely a hundred metres behind them. ‘How’s it going?’ asked Holt.
‘Just fine. He’s never stopped talking from the moment we left his foster mother’s house.’
‘What about the Chopwell Wood suspect, has he mentioned anything to you yet?’
‘I’m working on it,’ Carrington replied. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’
‘Roger that.’
As the airwaves fell silent again, Carrington caught the curious look on Martin’s face. She’d tried to engage with him on several occasions about the incident, but he was still refusing to talk. God, she thought, he probably felt like sliding under the car seat rather than talk to her about it. It wasn’t the kind of encounter that any ten-year-old child should ever have to witness, let alone discuss with grown-ups. No psychiatrist herself, it was difficult to imagine what was going through the young boy’s mind. Bad thoughts, probably.
Shortly before ten, they pulled into a small car park overlooking the little fishing harbour. Seahouses was extremely popular, and today was no exception. Not that they were anticipating trouble, but as DS Holt drew up alongside them in an unmarked blue Skoda Octavia, three armed police officers seemed more than adequate protection if any trouble broke out.
Carrington spoke directly to DS Holt through her headset.
‘The boat’s moored up over by the harbour wall. Once I’ve paid my parking ticket, I’ll make towards it and you two can follow.’
‘Don’t rush it. Stay focused,’ DS Savage advised.
‘Will do.’
‘Keep your eyes peeled for stragglers hanging around the fringes,’ Manley added, annoyingly sucking on another hard boiled sweet.
Normally, Carrington kept a cool head in situations such as these. Not today. No sooner had she displayed her parking ticket on the dash screen, when an eerie sensation crept up on her. As her stare hardened, any one of a thousand tourists could be a potential threat, and there was no way of knowing where the danger might spring from.
At the end of the pier they arrived at the boat’s check-in kiosk and paid their money to a man in a blue bib and brace. Deep down, Carrington was quietly looking forward to her venture out to the Farne Islands. The day felt full of promise, despite her headache.
‘Harry and I will catch up with you later,’ said DS Holt as the three-armed police made their final preparations.
She watched as Detective Constable Manley ran a check on every passenger stood in the queue and signalled his approval. As the last person scrambled aboard, the captain slipped the mooring lines and made towards the harbour entrance. Having sat quietly throughout, a man in a Beanie hat and bright green trousers stood to take a few photographs with an expensive looking camera. Swaying unsteadily on his feet, he nearly lost his balance on several occasions before he finally sat down again.
The islands are split into two groups according to the skipper’s running commentary and are known simply as the Inner Group and Outer Group. The Inner Group, which they were now heading for, consisted of several islands including Knoxes Reef and the East and West Wideopens. At very low tide they were all joined together, but not today they weren’t. The tide was in and they were separated by a heavy two-metre swell.
‘Look,’ Martin suddenly pointed out. ‘Razorbills and puffins – thousands of them.’
A stout man in a white baseball cap aimed his camera at them, and shouted, ‘They look like sea parrots to me, son.’
Martin screwed his face up, annoyed at the man’s stupid remarks. ‘They’re actually a member of the auk family and breed here between April and late July.’
‘Is that so,’ the man smiled mischievously. ‘So, what happens to them for the rest of the year?’
‘They fly out to sea, overwintering on the water and return here to raise their young.’
‘You certainly know your onions.’
Martin cocked his head to one side and addressed the man directly. ‘Puffins don’t nest on the rocks, they dig rabbit-like burrows to nest in.’
Having met his match, the man turned sheepishly away as though thoroughly humiliated.
As the boat pitched and yawed in the heavy swell, they slowly made their way around the Inner Farne. Keen not to miss the lighthouse where the Victorian heroine Grace Darling along with her father had rescued survivors from the wreck of the Forfarshire, Carrington stood to take a closer look. As for the doe-eyed grey seals that lolloped on rocky ledges and frolicked in the sea, she couldn’t have cared less. It was a wonderful sight; but the rocking motion of the boat and cold salt spray wafting in her face had left her feeling queasy. Gripping the handrail with both hands, she was determined to ride it out. It was a weird sensation, but to everyone’s amazement young Martin kept up with his running commentary throughout.
Within seconds of the captain warning of choppy waters ahead, the passengers were thrown into sudden turmoil. To the sounds of human voices in various stages of dismay and excitement, the boat pitched and rolled in a heavy swell as it made its way back to the harbour. Buffeted in all directions, huge clouds of sea spray were sent in all directions, as passengers held on for dear life.
◆◆◆
Back on dry land, and now working in close protection mode, the three-armed officers approached the car park with caution. As Carrington stepped aside to let an old man in a wheelchair pass through, she kept a close eye out for any suspicious movements. Seahouses was busy, and it only took a second. A knife to the throat, a bullet to the head, that’s how these people liked to operate.
‘That man over there,’ Martin suddenly announced. ‘He looks like my Uncle Arthur.’
Everyone froze.
It was only a fleeting glance, but Carrington’s reaction was instantaneous. Immediately grabbing hold of the boy, her free hand reaching towards the Glock pistol, she felt an adrenaline rush. In what seemed to her to be in slow motion. . . not fifty metres away the suspect had homed in on them and was closing down at speed.
Not a short man, thickset, with a rounded rubbery face and balding hairline, he carried the look of uncertainty in his glances.
Who is he? Carrington wondered.
‘Holy shit,’ Manley called out. ‘It’s him––’
‘Not so fast,’ the sergeant replied, calmly tugging on Manley’s shirt sleeve. ‘He’s much too tall to be our suspect.’
With no time to think, time seemed to go into suspension.
Unfazed, DS Holt sucked in air through gritted teeth. ‘If it is him, he could be carrying a gun.’
Manley patted his pistol holster. ‘I’m on it, Sarge.’
‘Don’t get carried away, let’s see what transpires first.’
The distance between them closing, Carrington bundled Martin into the back seat of the unmarked pool car and told
him to lie down. There was little doubt what the stranger was intending to do, and everything was moving so quickly. As she slid to the rear of the vehicle, she unholstered her Glock pistol and pointed it to the ground by both hands.
She teased back the safety catch and prepared to take aim.
‘Take him from both sides,’ she shouted. ‘I’m locked and loaded.’
Manley moved first.
Stepping to his right, his hand was hovering over his pistol holster like a gunslinger in a Western Movie, Carrington felt the hairs on the back of neck prickle. Holt moved next – darting to his left and crouching low as he went.
The man approaching faltered, then stopped.
‘What is this?’ he protested.
He wasn’t as tall as Holt had first made him out to be, not more that five-foot six. He wore a white button-down sweatshirt and black pants and carried a cross-body bag over his shoulder. After a moment of posturing, Manley rushed forward spun him round and slammed his body against the nearest car’s bonnet.
‘What the hell is going on?’ the man shouted.
With one hand holding the man’s arm up his back, the other holding his warrant card to his face, Manley read him his rights.
It was over in seconds.
As Holt ran forward and applied his handcuffs, he spun the man around again. He was muttering something inaudible, but the sergeant never took his eyes off him as he searched the man’s pockets. Recovering the suspect’s iPhone, Holt punched a number into the keypad and waited for the phone to boot up.
‘He’s not our man,’ the sergeant announced.
The stranger looked at him confused. ‘Who the hell did you think I was?’
‘Sorry,’ said DS Holt, removing the man’s handcuffs. ‘You’re free to go, sir.’
‘What’s happening?’ the man insisted.
Holt returned the man’s iPhone and pointed towards the harbour wall. ‘Thank you for your cooperation, please be so kind as to move away from the area.’
Still protesting his innocence, the man stormed off in a huff.
Yet another false alarm, Carrington thought. Everyone was getting tetchy and it was definitely time to make tracks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Earlier that morning
Relaxed in the knowledge that young Martin Kennedy was now in safe hands, Jack Mason entered Newcastle law courts unaware of the events taking place further north. They were now entering the fourth day of the trial, and the media circus never ceased to amaze him. Some cases hung in the balance and getting a conviction could be extremely difficult at times. Not so in this case. The prosecution evidence stacked against Angelica Glebova, an 18-year-old Estonian illegal immigrant charged with two counts of murder, was overwhelming, and there was little doubt the jury would find her guilty.
With little room for manoeuvre, Glebova’s defence lawyers were claiming their client was still suffering from traumatic brain injuries following a stolen police vehicle chase she was involved in. They were getting nowhere, of course. Mr Armstrong QC, counsel for the Crown Prosecution, had thrown their claims out of the window as utter nonsense. By the time he’d finished, everyone in Courtroom One was under no illusions where the truth lay.
The case was a complex one and centred around her dead partner, serial killer Patrick Stanley – responsible for five counts of murder. Having lured their prey back to Stanley’s house, they strangled and dismembered their victims’ bodies using a surgical power saw. And to muddy the water, to overcome the difficult task of getting rid of the bodies they had transported them around in suitcases and dropped them off at local refuge tips. Everyone accused had the right to a fair trial, Mason thought, but these crimes had gone ‘beyond the pale’.
As he walked down the long marble corridor towards Waiting Room One, Mason kept getting flashbacks. He could vividly recollect being stabbed by the serial killer, but the rest was lost in a haze of confusion. In truth he owed his life to a lot of people, including a quick-thinking ship’s medical doctor, paramedics, emergency crash teams, and the surgeons at Newcastle Royal Victoria Infirmary who had stopped massive internal haemorrhaging. He’d been extremely lucky, and every single one of them had contributed to saving his life.
‘Ah, DCI Mason,’ the Area Commander said as he approached from one of the side rooms carrying a bundle of case files under his arm. ‘What time are you due in the witness stand?’
‘Ten-thirty, sir.’
‘Fingers crossed, eh?’
Dressed in police uniform, Area Commander Gregory seemed in a jovial mood, which was always a sign to tread cautiously. Mason took a step back. ‘Yes, sir. Let’s hope the jury agrees with us.’
‘It’s all going swimmingly well according to Mr Armstrong QC, and we should get the conviction we are looking for. It’s a pity Patrick Stanley won’t be around to face the music, but his death will save the taxpayer a lot of money.’ The Area Commander stared at him quizzically. ‘The strange thing is, we’re getting reports that Stanley’s been seen hanging around the court building. Have you heard anything to that effect?’
‘No, sir. I haven’t.’
‘Just as a precautionary measure I’ve bolstered up our security arrangements. It’s probably nothing, but you never know with these things.’
Mason thought a moment. ‘You obviously have some reservations, sir.’
‘With this amount of media coverage, we cannot be seen to be doing nothing.’ The Area Commander shook his head. ‘Mind, it’s probably a hoaxer who wants to have their two-penneth. . . better safe than sorry, eh?’
‘No show without punch.’ Mason chuckled somewhat relieved.
Gregory fell silent, thinking.
God forbid that Patrick Stanley was still alive, Mason thought. Despite a huge search operation taking place after throwing himself off the Amsterdam Ferry, the Suitcase Man’s body had never resurfaced again. Missing, presumed drowned wasn’t the result the police had been hoping for, as it always left an element of doubt in people’s minds. Even so, the River Tyne was notorious for its strong tidal undercurrents around the North Shields Ferry Terminal, so it may well have been washed out to sea.
‘Any more news from Special Branch, sir?’
‘No, it’s all gone quiet.’
‘That’s odd. I would have thought they’d be in regular contact with you?’
‘Not lately, they haven’t. I suspect they’re onto something.’
‘There is that aspect to it.’
Gregory held his gaze. ‘I hear you’ve despatched young Martin Kennedy to Seahouses for the day. Do you think that’s wise?’
Mason was quick to react. ‘As a matter of fact, I ran it past the National Crime Agency and they were quite happy with our security arrangements. Besides, a boat trip to the Farne Islands might do the lad the world of good.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Letting off steam, sir. The boy’s bored out of his mind at being cooped up in a safe house all day, and I was hoping he might open up and tell us a few of his concerns about what took place in Chopwell Wood.’
‘There is that element to it, I suppose.’ Gregory stared at his watch. ‘The last thing we want is for him to go wandering off on his own again.’
‘Not with a trained security team around him, he won’t.’
‘Tell me,’ said Gregory pensively. ‘What arrangements have we put in place with his current school?’
‘Regarding what, sir?’
‘His identity. . . how secure is it?’
‘Other than social services and what he’s told his foster mother, I doubt anyone knows his background.’
The Area Commander hesitated and then said. ‘Children talk, Jack. If Martin doesn’t know the danger, he’s in, then he’s bound to engage with other children about his past.’
‘He’ll not do that, sir. Even the specialist teams couldn’t get a squeak out of him about what he saw in Chopwell Wood, so I doubt he’ll want to discuss it with school mates.’
>
‘It’s not my understanding of kids. They like to fantasise, show off in front of their peers. We need to keep a watchful eye on him, make sure he doesn’t let the cat out of the bag!’
‘Not with the amount of team effort that’s gone into the operation, sir. Even if he does, what use is it to them?’
Gregory checked his watch again as if time was a premium. ‘Before I forget, there’s been another break-in at the Sanderson Law Chambers. Ponteland are currently dealing with it, and I’ve asked Tom Hedley to get involved.’
‘Anything stolen?’
‘It’s still early days,’ Gregory replied. ‘One of the clerks believes it could have been an opportunist thief, as they’d masked one of the windows with heavy duty duct tape before smashing it to gain entry. It set off the burglar alarms and Forth Bank Police Station were onto it within minutes.’
‘Coincidence perhaps?’
‘Let’s hope so, but I doubt it’s connected.’
They were joined by the court usher, a stout man with a hooked nose and wearing a long black gown. ‘Ah, Detective Chief Inspector Mason,’ he said, staring down at his clipboard. ‘I have you down for Courtroom One at ten-o’clock.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I’d be obliged if you could make your way to the waiting room, sir.’
‘And Miss Glebova,’ Mason asked. ‘Will she be in attendance today?’
The usher wrinkled his nose. ‘In body, but not in mind, I’m afraid.’
‘Still refusing to cooperate, is she?’
The usher nodded. ‘Those were your words not mine, sir. She’s a strange individual, that one. Never says peep in court, just sits and stares at the judge all the time.’
‘Past experience tells me she’s faking it.’ Mason shrugged. ‘But it’s up to us to prove she’s guilty and she’s obviously making us work for our money.’
‘Only time will tell.’ The usher smiled, as he took off down the corridor and disappeared into the back of the building.
‘I’ll leave you to get on with it,’ the Area Commander acknowledged. ‘It seems you have a rather busy day in front of you.’
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