by Mari Hannah
Emily wanted to feel again. She wanted to function in the real world, not merely exist as a punchbag, a target for her daughter’s fury. If the truth were known, returning to work had been her escape, her route to salvation from the nightmare of bereavement. But she was, first and foremost, a mother. Leaving Rachel alone was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do.
But was her daughter right?
Was it too soon to return to work?
Emily didn’t feel ready to face the harsh reality of such a taxing job within the suffocating walls of a prison. Maybe she never would be again. But what alternative did she have?
She was the breadwinner now.
She had to start sometime.
Wiping a tear from her cheek with the palm of her hand, she forced her grief away and focused on the file in front of her. An hour later, as satisfied as she could be that a probation hostel afforded at least half a chance of keeping tabs on Fearon, she picked up her pen and signed her name to his discharge report.
He’d had his chance.
She’d tried, without success, to unpick his history and modify his behaviour. To demonstrate how different choices might have altered his path in life. She’d been wasting her breath. Despite all the work she’d put in, he’d steadfastly refused to take responsibility for his actions or show a willingness to cooperate in his sentence planning. If anything he’d got worse in prison. He was stronger and more dangerous than he’d been on reception. One thing was certain: he’d be back.
4
TAKING HIS PHONE from his pocket, Hank Gormley swore under his breath when he saw there was no network signal. It didn’t surprise his DCI. Kate Daniels had worked in Northumberland long enough to know that mobile coverage this far north could never be guaranteed.
‘I’m going to have to find a phone.’ His face brightened. ‘We could try the Lord Crewe.’
‘Or wait ’til we get to Alnwick?’ Kate wasn’t buying a visit to the nearest pub.
‘Boss, I’m busting for a pee!’
They turned their faces from the next gust of sand-blasting wind.
Hank blinked, closing one eye. ‘How long would I need to lie down before this lot covered me up, d’you think?’ He pointed at his shoes, specifically at the thick layer of sand that had formed on the uppers. ‘Maybe Ms or Mrs Bones in there was doing a bit of bronzing and stayed too long. Could be natural causes, couldn’t it? Wind blows, covers her up. No one comes along for weeks and hey presto! She could’ve lain undiscovered for years, never to be seen again.’
‘That’s the most rubbish theory I ever heard!’
‘Why so?’
‘She’s not wearing any sunnies,’ Kate said.
‘Clever! Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘Because you’re rubbish?’ she teased.
They walked back to the car park. Kate was surprised to see the police four-by-four still parked up. A chubby hand reappeared at the window. The little boy attached to it looked frozen now. His shoulders were hunched. His lips, blue. At a rough estimate, he’d been sitting there for a couple of hours at least.
Cursing under her breath, Kate turned to the sound of chattering radios. There was a muddle of bodies to her left, all wearing uniforms. The nearest one binned her cigarette when she saw the DCI heading towards her pointing at the police vehicle.
Kate wanted to punch the dozy cow. ‘Who’s supposed to be looking after my witnesses?’ she asked.
The PC’s expression was blank. ‘Er, not sure, ma’am.’
‘Well find out! And when you have, tell them to shift their lazy arses and get their act into gear. I want that child and his father transported to Alnwick police station and given something to eat and drink immediately. They just found a body, for Christ’s sake!’
The policewoman hurried off.
Rolling her eyes at Hank, Kate got in the car, started the engine and turned left out of the car park heading back towards the village.
There were no parking spaces outside the Lord Crewe on Church Street so she carried on driving with the village green on one side, a short row of pretty cottages, galleries and gift shops on the other – the Copper Kettle Tea Room among them. Not far away, a Japanese tourist was taking a photograph of a traditional red phone box with his mobile. The group he was with were looking through the window of the Old Pantry, a deli Kate knew sold delicious goods like onion marmalade and Francesca’s Figgy Pear Relish, her late mother’s favourite.
‘Fancy stopping at Carter’s for a pork growler?’ Gormley asked.
‘Thought you were dying for the loo?’
‘Doesn’t mean I’m not hungry.’
Hank could always eat, no matter what time of day or night it was. It made no difference if they were, or had recently been, viewing fresh blood and guts or a corpse crawling with maggots. Nothing came between him and his food.
Giving in to his plea for sustenance, Kate stopped further along the road at the Mizen Head Hotel, a place to warm up, grab a quick coffee and make some urgent calls. As Hank went off to find the Gents, her ears pricked up as a woman at the bar recounted a developing weather situation to the big guy serving her. There was no sign of it through the window but snow was apparently moving in from the north, forecast to last several days. A Met Office severe weather warning had been issued.
That was not good news.
Northumbria force covered a wide area. Bamburgh was about as far from its centre as it was possible to get. The high-tech murder investigation suite in Newcastle was fifty-odd miles away, an hour and a quarter by road. Unbelievable though it seemed in the twenty-first century, numpty politicians hadn’t yet recognized the need to dual the A1 through the border regions to Scotland. From Kate’s point of view, that made it too far away to function effectively as an operations base from which to run a case, particularly in winter. The weather here could change in minutes. She couldn’t expect detectives working extended shifts to spend an additional three hours on treacherous roads between home and office.
Returning to the table with a latte for her and a pint of John Smith’s for him, Hank sat down, taking in her disapproving look. ‘What?’ he said. ‘I’m only having the one!’
‘Did I say anything?’
‘You didn’t have to. What’s up?’
Kate nodded towards the bar where the prophet of doom was telling her growing audience that the blizzards currently engulfing Berwick were heading their way.
Hank listened in for a moment, then turned to face Kate. ‘You think we should get digs?’
She nodded. ‘Seems sensible. Local boys will be on house-to-house eventually. There’ll be nowt doing until we hear from Stanton. We’ll be kicking our heels a bit, but we can get an incident room up and running while we wait. Drink up, we’d better get moving.’
5
CONCERNED ABOUT THE threat Fearon posed to the general public, Emily called the manager of the hostel who had reluctantly agreed to take him on release, gave a précis of her report and then hung up.
Through her barred window, dark clouds gathered on the horizon, matching her mood. Shutting her eyes for a moment transported her back in time to the last occasion she’d sat there looking out. It was a memory so vivid she could almost feel a warm summer breeze on naked arms through the narrow opening, smell the scent of flowers being blown across the prison grounds.
The gardeners had worked well that year. The raised beds were awash with colour, softening the austere buildings. It never ceased to amaze her how such able young men could waste their lives in places like these.
A gentle knock on the door pulled her from her reverie.
She looked round as the handle turned.
Psychiatrist Martin Stamp reversed into her office with coffee in both hands, a smile creeping over his handsome face as he caught sight of her. On a year’s secondment from the Home Office, he was conducting research into the dangerousness and treatment of life-sentence prisoners with another of Emily’s closest friends, criminal profiler,
Jo Soulsby, who had followed him into the room. Because their work was strictly confidential, they were using her old office in the admin block, well away from prying eyes. She’d called them to B-wing because she wanted their help.
Jo walked round the desk to Emily’s chair, bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek, patting her back gently, acknowledging the tough day she must be having. Taking a chair by the window, she sat down, crossing her very long legs. ‘There’s hell on in Walker’s office,’ she said.
Emily looked past her to the open door as Stamp kicked it shut.
He grinned at her. ‘She’s right. He’s giving Kent a right dressing-down. You should see his face!’ Handing Jo a coffee, he held the other up to Emily. ‘Want this? I can nip out and get another.’
Emily shook her head as he took off his jacket and made himself at home. She’d been so engrossed in her work she hadn’t noticed the row building in the office beyond. But now her colleagues had mentioned it, she realized she had heard something. It just hadn’t registered on her radar. Muffled angry tones or even full-blown raised voices were not unusual in prison. What might have worried her once had become commonplace over time. She’d learned not to react to every yell, every fight, and there had been a fair few of those in recent years.
Leaving her desk, she opened the door and peered out. The area directly outside her office doubled as a recreation room. A wing cleaner dressed in prison blues was mopping the floor. Another was placing a triangular sign by the gated entrance warning those entering that the surface was wet. They were giggling like a couple of five-year-olds over the heated exchange taking place in the wing office further down.
Emily’s eyes followed their interest . . .
In a room no bigger than ten by twelve, a prison officer was standing to attention, feet slightly apart, hands linked behind his back. Facing him, Senior Officer Ash Walker, an attractive man in a pristine uniform, stared him down, an angry expression on his face.
Wondering why he was in such a state, Emily returned to her desk, focusing her attention on Stamp. If anyone knew what the story was, he would.
‘Any idea what’s going on?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said.
Emily pulled a face.
‘I don’t!’ he declared. ‘I’m a psychiatrist, not a mind-reader.’
It was an old joke. Nevertheless, Emily grinned. She’d known Stamp for years. He’d been a brick since Robert died, holding her hand, both literally and figuratively, trying his best to fill the void – resented by her daughter for his trouble.
Rachel could sulk for England sometimes.
‘You OK, Em?’ As well as a good friend, Jo was an astute psychologist attuned to the sudden change in Emily’s mood. ‘Not worried about anything, are you?’
Emily blushed, realizing she’d left the room temporarily and arrived someplace she’d rather not be. A regular occurrence she could ill afford now she was back at work.
Concentrate.
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
The other two weren’t buying her bullshit.
‘I am! It’s just strange being here, that’s all.’
Taking a Daim bar from his pocket, Stamp ripped off the wrapper and bit into it. ‘Had to bribe a prisoner for this,’ he said. ‘Canteen was closed. Paid double for it, too. Friggin’ daylight robbery. Who says crime doesn’t pay?’
‘You should know better,’ Emily scolded. ‘If Harrison gets wind of it he’ll have you out of here quicker than you can say P45.’
B-wing’s Principal Officer was a formidable figure who ruled his kingdom like a dictator. Harrison was not a man to mess with. Main-grade officers referred to him as ‘God’ behind his back, though never to his face. Ex-military, he’d swapped one institution for another – big fish, little sea – a moron with no respect for inmates or civilian staff. If you weren’t wearing a uniform, your views didn’t count. The next time he smiled would be a first. Martin Stamp was the exact opposite, the consummate professional with a wicked sense of humour and a complete disregard for rules and regulations.
‘Come on then, spill.’ He screwed up the sweet wrapper and lobbed it towards the bin. It missed by a metre. He didn’t bother picking it up. ‘What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait ’til lunchtime?’
‘Walter Fearon . . .’ Emily pushed a prison record across her desk. ‘I’m calling a pre-release case conference. I’d appreciate your input. He’s due out in two weeks and the receiving hostel need to know who they’re dealing with.’
Jo reached for the file.
Stamp shot a hand out and got there first.
Opening the front cover, he studied the contents carefully, his eyes sliding over a long list of sexual offences, each one more serious than the one before. He turned a few pages, his brow creasing as he took in her final handwritten note. Closing the file, he handed it to Jo, keeping his eyes on Emily. ‘He’s not a prisoner who falls within our remit now, but give him time. He’s a lifer in the making, Em. No doubt about it.’
‘How is he presenting?’ Jo looked up from the file. ‘Is he still in denial?’
Emily shook her head. ‘Anything but.’
‘He’s not your average sex offender then?’ Stamp butted in.
‘Believe me, there is nothing average about Walter Fearon,’ Emily replied. ‘He relishes the opportunity to talk, to shock. Oh no, Walter isn’t at all shy. The more detailed he can be about what he’s done, the better he likes it. This guy makes Hannibal Lecter look like a charity worker. He may look and even act like a wimp on occasions, but he’s no such thing – especially where women are concerned. In my view he still needs intensive therapy. I agree with Martin. He’ll kill his next victim.’
6
ALNWICK POLICE STATION was situated in the market town of the same name. The office offered as a temporary incident room was far from perfect. When the DCI complained she was given two choices: take it or sling your hook.
Most of the Murder Investigation Team had arrived and set to work, fixing up the communications, getting the room ready for a new enquiry. Kate didn’t require an archaeologist in the historical sense, but she did need the expertise of a forensic anthropologist to oversee the excavation and determine how long her victim had been in the ground. Before she’d left the crime scene, she’d made it known that she wanted to be present when the body was moved. In the meantime, she’d asked Detective Constable Lisa Carmichael to ring round and see what accommodation was available for her team.
At the height of summer, finding somewhere to stay would have posed a problem. But at this time of the year there would almost certainly be plenty of spare beds. The rest of the squad were already on the phone advising loved ones they wouldn’t be home. There had been no dissent. Even DS Robson – the only detective with a young child at home – agreed to stay local until the enquiry got underway, joking that he’d get a better sleep sharing with a snoring colleague than being prodded by his two-year-old son in the middle of the night.
Various suggestions were thrown in the hat: Hog’s Head, White Swan, Queens Head, hotels conveniently located, not far from the town’s police station. The incident team voted on it, deciding that a B & B might be more practical. As well as offering peace and quiet, it would be less likely to attract the weirdos and groupies who inevitably hung around murder detectives, stifling their ability to do their jobs.
Sitting down at a computer, Lisa Carmichael slipped her warrant card into a slot. She looked different with her hair cut short. It suited her features perfectly, framing her stunning green eyes. Picking up the landline, she dialled out and identified herself. After a very brief conversation, she rang off abruptly, a worried expression on her face.
‘Problem?’ Daniels asked.
Lisa looked up, frowning. ‘Maybe.’
‘No rooms?’
‘Yeah, plenty.’
‘But?’
‘Word’s out already . . .’ Carmichael glanced at the phone. ‘That hotelier was r
ather curious about the bones we found. As well as owning a hotel, he’s a volunteer archaeologist involved in a local research project. He claims there was a dig going on inside and outside of Bamburgh Castle last year. There’s more planned for this summer too. Channel 4’s Time Team filmed there, he said.’
‘Our victim was dressed in modern material, Lisa. Not that there’s much left of it. The bones aren’t old, not in the archaeological sense. But I will need to talk to whoever’s running the project to establish where and when they were digging. Maybe they can throw some light on how and why a section of dunes suddenly broke off like that. Action it, will you?’
Carmichael nodded.
‘Your hotelier too,’ Daniels added.
Lisa’s fingers were already tapping away on the keyboard. In addition to being a lightning-fast typist, she had considerable know-how when it came to the Internet. Not long ago, she’d received a commendation for her work after proving conclusively that a serial killer the team were investigating had used the World Wide Web to track and target his victims. Her tenacity had been instrumental in apprehending Jonathan Forster, though not before he’d confronted Kate in a chilling encounter that could so easily have proved fatal. The events of that night still haunted her in the small hours when she couldn’t sleep. Though the case was considered by many to represent Northumbria MIT’s finest hour, in Kate’s opinion it was the biggest failure of her career to date. Forster had killed seven times before being stopped.
‘Boss?’ Lisa Carmichael pointed at her computer.
The screen was now open at the website of the Bamburgh Research Project. On the left-hand side of the home page was a menu bar. She clicked on Get in Touch. The names and email addresses of the project’s directors and administrators appeared instantly, along with relevant phone numbers.
She looked at her boss. ‘I’ll copy these and send them to your BlackBerry.’