by Mari Hannah
‘Fine!’ She glanced at her food. ‘I don’t want this.’
‘All right!’ he said. ‘Leave the fry-up. Eat some toast.’
Beth dropped her head, exhaling loudly. She hated staying over at his place. Thank Christ it was only a temporary measure while her mum was in hospital for yet more chemotherapy. As soon as she was discharged, Beth would be out of there like a shot.
She chanced another glance in his direction. At forty-five, her father was already grey, but the skin around his eyes was as smooth as a baby’s. Hardly surprising. To get laughter lines you had to smile occasionally. He needed more practice.
Nibbling at the edge of a piece of toast, she continued to observe him. His size alone was enough to intimidate most people. Even sat down, he towered over her. Beth was built like her mum. Small – in every sense of the word – less then five feet, seven stones wet through, size six in clothes, three in shoes.
Another nibble.
His phone rang – a possible escape route.
Setting his cutlery down, he scooped his mobile off the table, his thumb jabbing at the call button. ‘Atkins.’ He listened for what seemed like an age. ‘When was this?’ He pointed at the toast in her hand, encouragement to eat, anger creeping into his voice as the call continued. ‘Has she now? Well you can tell Daniels to stand down. I’m on my way in.’
Shoving his plate away, he stood up, still talking into the phone. Beth cringed when she saw the look in his eyes. Hatred wasn’t too strong a word for it. In response to a question from the person on the other end of the line, he swung round, peering at the computer on the desk behind him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s come in. No, don’t bother, I’ll be there.’ He ended the call, cold eyes on Beth. ‘I have to go out.’
‘What about your meal? You said—’
‘I know what I said. Work is work. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get something at the station.’
‘I thought you were off duty.’
‘I’m on call.’
‘Well, if you’re leaving me on my own, why can’t I stay home? I’m not a kid any more, Dad.’
‘Then stop whining like one.’ He pulled on his jacket, checked his pockets for car keys, wallet, fountain pen. ‘You’re not stopping in that house alone and that’s the end of it. It’s too isolated.’
‘No it’s not!’
‘You think I want you here?’ There was no humour in the question. ‘If you must know, it was your mum’s idea. You don’t like it? Don’t whinge at me. Take it up with her.’
Wounded, but trying not to show it, Beth taunted, ‘What’s the matter, Dad? Am I cramping your style?’
‘Not now, Beth.’ There was little warmth in the kiss he gave her. He walked to the door, paused before reaching it and turned around. ‘If that call just now is as important as I think it might be, I’ll be late. Don’t forget to lock up, and don’t answer the door . . . to anyone.’
As the front door clicked shut, Beth heard a ping as an email dropped into his inbox. In his haste, he’d forgotten to log off. She wandered barefoot across the room to his desk, pyjama bottoms dragging along the floor. Through patio doors that overlooked a tiny garden and car park beyond, she watched him pull out his mobile. He appeared to be accessing the email that had just come in. As he did so, it opened simultaneously on the computer screen in front of her.
Legs buckling beneath her, Beth sank down in his chair.
3
It had taken the best part of an hour to get to Morpeth police station. The town was just seventeen miles away, but they were hard miles on narrow, winding roads. The moment she arrived, Kate had brushed aside the message DCI James I’m-in-charge Atkins had left via Control and launched a full-blown murder enquiry. There might be only two more days until her leave period, but she was damned if she was going to stand on the sidelines while there was work to be done just to assuage his inflated ego.
Despite the gravity of the offence they were dealing with, it was a typical day for the Murder Investigation Team. Alerted by Hank at dawn, detectives had collected all the necessary documentation from HQ and driven to Morpeth to organize their new home. The incident room here had none of the cutting-edge technology they were used to, only a basic whiteboard. Thankfully, the software to run HOLMES – the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System – was up to date, as were the computers they’d brought along.
Kate scanned the room.
Her team had done their best to arrange the room the way it suited them. Everyone was flat out: many on the phone, organizing actions, documenting and processing information as it filtered in from Area Command. All in a morning’s work for a bunch of coppers she was proud to lead.
‘As soon as Forensics are finished with the rope, I want it identified.’ She pointed at Maxwell. ‘Neil, make that your number one priority. Get on to surrounding farms, industrial premises and builders’ yards. Ask them to check outbuildings and garages. Let me know if any is missing. Lisa, do we know who owns the farm next to the gibbet?’
‘The land is leased to John Edward Dodds. Local man. He’s been farming there for years, apparently. Robbo sent a PC out to interview him.’
‘I told her to look out for short-wheelbase vehicles while she’s at it,’ DS Robson said. ‘It rained yesterday. Hank thinks the tracks he found are fresh.’
‘Two birds, one stone, works for me.’ Kate flashed him her best smile. ‘Get in touch. Tell her I want the owner’s name as well as the tenant. Let me know what gives.’
‘Boss?’ DC Andy Brown was approaching from the corridor. ‘This came through from the morgue.’ He handed her a scanned image depicting the tattoo on the victim’s hand. ‘There can’t be many tattooists in the sticks. It’s cleverly done. Want me to follow it up, see if I can identify whose work it is?’
‘That may not be necessary.’ Barring Carmichael, the squad stopped what they were doing and paid attention. ‘There was a missing persons call last night,’ Kate explained. ‘Which means we may have an ID. I’m awaiting confirmation.’ Her eyes landed on Carmichael, the picture of concentration, as always. She was studying the briefing sheet, a curious expression on her face. ‘Lisa? Something wrong?’
Carmichael raised her head. ‘It says here there was no mobile with or near the body.’
‘Maybe the killer took it,’ Andy Brown suggested.
Lisa frowned. ‘Would they, when it could so easily be traced?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Kate said.
‘Can you even get a signal up there?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Good question,’ Hank chipped in. ‘I couldn’t earlier. I got the odd email but my phone was showing “No Service” most of the time.’
‘Still,’ Kate said. ‘I think it’s safe to assume the victim had a phone. What kid doesn’t these days?’
‘Whether he did or didn’t, I doubt he was on a contract,’ Lisa cut in. ‘Boys his age change mobiles on a regular basis. They’re mostly pay-as-you-go. Which isn’t a lot of help to us. If you give me a name and address, I’ll get on to service providers—’
‘No.’ Kate shook her head. ‘Let’s wait for the parents to ID the body.’
Yelling from the corridor rendered the rest of her response inaudible.
Heads turned towards the racket.
The doors of the incident room crashed open. DCI James Atkins appeared, full of hell and bursting for a fight, a detective none of them recognized bringing up the rear.
Whoever he was, he seemed uncomfortable.
Atkins didn’t stand on ceremony. ‘A word.’ He was looking directly at Kate.
‘Something I can help you with?’ she asked.
The eyes of her team were upon her, every detective in the room anticipating trouble. Atkins was known throughout the force as the Angry Man. Not one of her lot would give him houseroom – unless ordered to. She hadn’t yet told them that they were going to be stuck with him for the duration of her absence.
That would go down like a
lead balloon.
Atkins returned their stares until they looked away. He turned theatrically, eyes boring into Kate, his shouty mouth in excellent working order. ‘Somewhere less public, if you don’t mind.’ He nodded in the direction of the corridor.
Remaining in her seat, Kate eyed the stranger accompanying him. He was a tall, fit-looking bloke; immaculately dressed in a pinstriped suit, blue woollen overcoat and stripy scarf. ‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’ She stood up slowly and held out her hand. ‘I’m DCI Daniels.’
‘DS Colin Grant, ma’am.’ It was a firm handshake. ‘Very pleased to meet you.’
‘He’s my bagman, newly promoted,’ Atkins said. ‘Londoner, so don’t talk too fast or he’ll never understand you.’ He pointed at the crime scene stills in her hand. ‘I think those belong to me.’
Kate handed them over.
‘Shall we use my office?’ she said. ‘If the gloves are coming off, there’s plenty of room to swing a punch in there.’
With the exception of Hank, MIT members were just about managing not to laugh out loud. Atkins’ face was like thunder as he strode off. Kate gestured for the two DSs to fall in behind him. When Hank reached the door, he stepped aside, holding it open for Kate, winking as she passed through it.
Before anyone had a chance to take a seat, Atkins rounded on her. ‘Mind telling me exactly what you think you’re doing?’
‘Doing?’ Kate’s eyebrows almost found each other. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘With my case,’ he said.
He hadn’t changed a bit. ‘It wasn’t your case at dawn.’
‘I’m the on-call SIO.’
‘Control said you were incommunicado. That’s code for AWOL, if you didn’t know. It’s Sunday. You being such a stud, I thought I’d give you a break in case you’d had a heavy date last night. Hank and I were at a loose end. The guv’nor asked us to deal until you showed your face. We were happy to stand in.’
Atkins glared at her, unimpressed with the sarcasm. It had taken her a long time to prove she could handle the flak he threw at her. Nowadays she relished the opportunity to suck it up and throw it back at him.
In a battle of wills, he’d never win.
‘No need to get defensive,’ she said. ‘We’re on the same side. I can assure you that everything has been handled exactly as it should—’
‘Got a name, an address?’ He was sifting the photos.
‘We think the dead boy is Elliott Foster.’ Kate could tell from his reaction that the name registered. ‘If it is, he has no form. He’s almost seventeen. Hails from Alwinton village. You can thank me later.’
‘Blimey! That was quick.’ Grant’s appreciation received a scowl from his boss.
Atkins shifted his focus to Kate. ‘Anything else?’
‘Elliott was reported missing late last night by his mother. Both parents are on their way to ID the body. You want me to take that on? I’m happy to be around when they arrive.’
‘No, I’ll sort it.’
‘Suit yourself. From the description of his clothing there seems little doubt it’s him.’
‘Where’s Alwinton?’ Grant asked. ‘I’m not sure I know.’
‘It’s your business to know!’ Atkins barked. ‘Do your bloody homework or sling your hook. There’s no room for slackers on my team.’
Kate’s eyes were on the bully. ‘You know exactly where it is though, don’t you?’
Atkins was still giving his DS hard eyes.
More embarrassed than flustered, Grant pushed a hand through his shiny blond hair, biting the inside of his cheek. If Kate was reading him right, he was stemming a desire to return to London on the next available train. His eyes shifted to Kate and finally to Hank, delivering a message to both of them: wherever he’d worked before, he wasn’t used to being reprimanded publicly.
For a split second, Kate thought he might defend himself. Then, with no wish to get his head bitten off twice, he thought better of it. She felt sorry for him. Atkins’ management style had always left a lot to be desired. He’d not get much out of his new colleague treating him like a rookie fresh out of training school. She’d been there once . . . and some.
The experience had blighted her life.
Hiding her aversion to Atkins, she focused on Grant, wondering what had prompted his move north, letting him know he was among friends. ‘Ours is a big county,’ she said. ‘It’ll take a bit of getting used to. Satnav is a must. And make sure you have a full tank of gas. Petrol stations are few and far between.’
‘Thanks for the tip, ma’am.’
‘My pleasure.’ Kate smiled. ‘I was born and bred here, but there are still places I’ve not heard of. For your information, Alwinton is in the foothills of Cheviot. Think big sky, sheep, cattle and little else. It’s God’s country to some. Hell on earth to those without a soul.’
The newbie relaxed. ‘Where exactly was the IP found, ma’am?’
‘Half-stripped and hanging from Winter’s Gibbet.’
His eyes widened. ‘A gallows?’
‘Yeah,’ Hank said. ‘We still hang ’em up here.’
The southerner smiled at the wind-up. ‘Where can I find it?’
‘The old turnpike road at Hollinghill – otherwise known as Whiskershiels Common. It’s a few miles south of Elsdon village, around fifteen miles from the victim’s home.’
‘Who was Winter?’
‘Good question.’ Kate could see Atkins getting impatient. Ignoring his scowl, she elaborated, just to piss him off. ‘The gibbet is an ancient landmark; aka Steng Cross. In the eighteenth century, the body of Thomas Winter was hung there, within sight of his crime, having been hanged proper at the Westgate in Newcastle. He’d murdered a local woman, Margaret Crozier, who lived at the Raw pele tower close to Elsdon.’
‘Save the history lesson,’ Atkins snapped. ‘What do we know about Foster?’
‘He’s dead.’ Hank enjoyed being flippant with assholes.
‘I was about to ask you that,’ Kate said, before Atkins had chance to respond. He used to live close to the crime scene. As far as she knew, his ex-wife still did. In small Northumbrian villages, most people were acquainted. She had a feeling that her counterpart was holding back.
Hank shot Atkins a sideways glance.
Grant too.
Neither had picked up on the flash of recognition that had crossed the Angry Man’s face when the victim’s identity was revealed. Kate saw it though – as plain as day – and now she had, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Like a game of blink first, her eyes never shifted from his. And still he didn’t admit or deny knowing the boy.
She watched him carefully. If an eyelash had moved, she’d have spotted that too. ‘Elliott Foster has no form,’ she said. ‘He was a good kid by all accounts, a prize wrestler.’
‘Maybe someone was jealous of that,’ Grant offered.
‘Very likely,’ Hank agreed.
Atkins snorted. ‘Pity he couldn’t wrestle himself out of this one.’
‘That’s not remotely funny,’ Kate said.
‘Am I laughing?’ Atkins glared at her.
‘Maybe you should show the victim some respect, given the fact that you’re acquainted,’ Kate said. ‘Or is it his parents you know – his mother, perhaps? Anticipating a positive ID, my team made enquiries. She’s an office manager for a Morpeth law firm, Haynes & Rice. The boy’s father is a joiner at Jewson’s in Hexham. There’s one brother: Adam. Twenty-one. Currently on a tour of duty in Germany. His regiment deployed there six months ago.’
Atkins didn’t thank her. ‘I’ll get in touch with his commanding officer—’
‘It’s sorted.’ Kate said. ‘He’s standing by, waiting for my nod.’
‘You’ve been busy, ma’am.’ Grant was impressed, trying not to show it.
‘I have a good team behind me,’ Kate said. ‘It’s what we get paid for at the end of every month. Same as you.’
‘There’s an army base not
far from the scene,’ Atkins said. ‘Is it operational?’
Kate gave him a pointed look. ‘Soldiers equal trouble, is that it?’
‘Just an observation,’ he said.
Based on prejudice.
Atkins sifted the crime scene photographs. ‘Whoever strung the kid up must be tough, remarkably so if the IP was struggling to get the rope from around his neck.’
‘That assumes he was still alive,’ Hank said.
Kate’s eyes found the floor momentarily. It was an image she didn’t want to think about but, now it was in her head, there it would stay, a permanent scar on her memory. She could almost hear the boy choking and gurgling as the ligature tightened.
‘Winter’s Gibbet has to be fifteen or twenty feet tall,’ she said. ‘Hank made the point that one person couldn’t get him up there, not with muscle power alone. There would need to be more than one, or some kind of mechanical device or pulley. Even so, I’d be very surprised if this involves the military—’
‘Why?’ Atkins asked.
‘The army are welcome in the area. They’re also well paid. The military spend a lot of money, in Otterburn in particular. Surrounding villages wouldn’t survive without them. They go out of their way to foster good relations and keep the locals sweet. There’s no history of tension in the community, of squaddie-bashing either, otherwise I’d have heard about it . . .’
Kate paused. She wasn’t about to be sidetracked, not when she hadn’t finished probing into Atkins’ knowledge of the family.
‘Does the name Elliott Foster ring any bells with you?’
Atkins glanced at his watch, a deliberate ploy to avoid eye contact.
‘C’mon, don’t be shy,’ she chided, not letting him off the hook. ‘You’re among friends here. There must be a reason you’re not disclosing prior knowledge. We’re all dying to hear what it is.’
‘We’ll take it from here,’ Atkins said. He was not only dismissing her, he was disrespecting her, writing her off in front of her subordinates. It wasn’t the first time, either. Kate wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d got to her.