Monument to Murder

by Mari Hannah

‘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.

  13

  THE 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.

  14

  THE WORK OF the forensic pathologist had always fascinated Kate. Tim Stanton was one of the best she’d ever come across. A Bachelor of Medicine, Fellow of the Royal College of Pathology and honorary lecturer at Edinburgh University, he’d made significant contributions to major investigations over the years, examining scores of murder victims, young and old.

  As devoted to his work as she was to hers, Kate regarded the married father of two as a personal friend as well as a professional colleague. Watching him now, she mourned the fact that they rarely, if ever, saw each other socially. There was a simple explanation for that: their meetings only took place across the stainless-steel slab of his examination room or at her grim crime scenes. Either way, there was always a third party present – one who’d drawn their last breath.

  Hardly dinner-table conversation, was it?

  Tim had barely mentioned Abbey Hunt when the door burst open and the woman herself marched in fresh from the shower. At least a foot shorter than the DCI, her hair was still damp and tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore no make-up, a pair of navy cargo pants and a pale blue V-neck T-shirt revealing a flabby spare tyre.

  Her barefoot technology footwear obviously wasn’t up to much.

  Grabbing a newly laundered white coat from a shelf near the door, she slipped her arms into it and walked towards them buttoning it up. A smile played on her lips as she came closer, an I-know-something-you-don’t expression forming on her round face.

  ‘Have you told her yet?’ she said.

  ‘Told me what?’ Kate said.

  Stanton shook his head.

  Abbey turned to face Kate. ‘That’s what I love about Tim, he’s so self-sacrificing, so gallant. He knows how much I ache to be the one to drop a bombshell.’

  ‘Bombshell’ sounded ominous.

  Kate waited, her eyes darting left and right between the two medics, the hairs rising on the back of her neck at thoughts of a breakthrough in her case. Abbey was savouring the moment but itching to divulge her findings. Despite her casual appearance and jocular attitude, which for some reason was never on display when Naylor was around, she was a meticulous and committed professional of international standing. If she had something to say, it was probably worth hearing. No matter how small her insight, Kate was sure it would kick-start her enquiry.

  At least, she hoped it would.

  Walking between two stainless-steel tables, Abbey glanced at t
he skeletal remains lying on each and then refocused her attention on Daniels. ‘Tim probably told you that the manner of death is undetermined. Accidental is out of the question. If that were the case, the girls would’ve been found before now. A suicide pact only works if they had the ability to bury themselves after the event—’

  ‘Unless a third party was involved,’ the DCI cut in.

  ‘Quite so. Thank you for reminding me.’ Abbey dropped her head a touch, peering over the top of square-framed specs. ‘So . . . given the fact that they were buried together, are we all agreed that these two unfortunate young women were in all probability murdered?’

  Trying to work out where this was leading, Kate cocked her head on one side, her eyes sliding over what was left of her two young victims. Apart from a well-healed fracture in the older girl’s right tibia that might prove useful in identifying her, preliminary examination of the bones had proved inconclusive. Stanton had already told her he’d found no obvious signs of trauma that would indicate fatal violence on either victim: no caved-in skulls or bullet holes; no nicks on hands or arms to suggest defence injuries; no ligatures round their necks. Furthermore, no instruments of death had been found by crime scene investigators in the vicinity of the bodies. In short, there was nothing at all on which a reconstruction might be based.

  Replaying Abbey’s monologue in her head, Kate suddenly realized what she was getting at. The anthropologist’s words had been chosen carefully, designed to mislead in the short term so she could emerge victorious and put the SIO in her place. Again. No malice intended, simply a bit of humorous banter between fellow professionals to lighten the seriousness of the proceedings.

  Kate wasn’t fooled.

  The words ‘buried together’ could be taken two ways.

  Abbey grinned. ‘I see our clever DCI is awake and paying attention, Tim.’

  ‘Her default setting,’ Stanton replied. ‘But then I guess you already knew that.’

  ‘So, they were buried in the same place . . .’ Kate interrupted, ‘but not at the same time. Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘And we’re not talking weeks.’ Abbey pointed at the shorter of the two skeletons. ‘As a ballpark figure, I’d say this one’s been buried for around ten years, the other about five. I need to complete more tests to be absolutely sure, but I’m confident enough for you to work on that assumption, yes.’

  Thanking them, Kate left the morgue immediately. No point hanging around any longer; better to let the medical examiners get on with it. She didn’t need telling that cause of death might never be established. To be certain how her victims died she might even require an offender to cough.

  No pressure there then.

  15

  IT WAS ALMOST five-fifteen when their squash game ended. Having a court within the confines of the prison was a wonderful facility, Jo thought. What better way for staff to end a shitty day than by smashing a little green ball around to the point of exhaustion? Especially when it represented Principal Officer Do-As-I-Say Harrison from B-wing who’d upset Emily McCann on her first day back.

  ‘Good game!’ Stamp said. ‘I see you haven’t lost your touch.’

  He was being kind; he was much the better player, the more athletic of the two. Always had been, even at uni. Jo’s cheeks were burning, her clothes so drenched they stuck to her skin, whereas he hadn’t even broken sweat.

  Retrieving her sports holdall from the rear of the court, she tucked her racquet inside, slung it over her shoulder and walked towards him extending her right arm. They shook hands awkwardly, a sporting gesture between two old friends that seemed formal and somehow inappropriate.

  Jo was so out of breath she could hardly speak. ‘Return match later this week?’

  Stamp nodded. ‘Suits me.’

  ‘I’ll see if the court’s available on my way out and confirm by text.’

  ‘Actually, I need a word. You up for a quick drink on the way home?’

  ‘Can’t, sorry. Wish I wasn’t, but I’m tied up.’

  What had seemed like a good idea at the time now felt like a chore to Jo. It had been a long day. Much as she liked Ron Naylor, she’d just as soon cancel their arrangement, go home and sink her aching body into a hot bath. She loved the quaint little place she’d rented at the coast. She’d always wanted a traditional Northumbrian cottage overlooking the sea and now she had one. Adorable it was too.

  Pity Kate wasn’t there to share it.

  Taking in the clock on the wall, Jo missed the rejection on Stamp’s face.

  ‘Actually,’ she said. ‘I’d better get a wriggle on.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’ he asked. ‘Or is it a secret?’

  Jo shook her head as she made her way off court. ‘Detective Super I used to work with.’

  A twinge of regret edged its way into her thoughts. If she was honest, she missed Naylor and the rest of Northumbria Police’s Murder Investigation Team, Kate Daniels in particular. Finding out that her ex had moved on with a local artist – the delectably gorgeous Fiona-bloody-Fielding – Jo had thought it best to cut and run. But had she acted hastily? Not only had she failed to get Kate out of her head, but the research job at the prison was a bloody disaster. It bored the tits off her most of the time.

  There: she’d finally admitted she’d made a mistake.

  ‘Hello?’ Martin Stamp waved a hairy hand in front of her face. ‘Earth to Jo . . . I said it’s a woman’s prerogative to be late.’

  Jo gave an emphatic: No! ‘It’s also impolite to keep people waiting.’

  ‘C’mon,’ he pleaded. ‘Half an hour? It’s about Em.’

  Why didn’t that surprise her?

  ‘Please,’ Stamped begged. ‘I’m seriously worried about her.’

  ‘Don’t be, Martin. She won’t thank you for it.’ Jo made a move for the door on legs so weak she could hardly stand up, her anger boiling over as she walked past him. ‘And stop playing the bloody hero, why don’t you?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he yelled after her.

  Ignoring the question, Jo entered the eerie corridor. This part of the prison was deserted at night. She didn’t want to talk about Emily behind her back. She was a good mate to both of them. It would feel like a betrayal.

  Stamp caught up with her, barring her way as she reached the shower-room door, demanding an explanation for her throwaway remark. His behaviour reminded her of what he was like before he grew up – an immature hothead. It also brought to mind her late ex-husband: easy-going one minute, petulant the next.

  Her eyes flew to the door handle on which Stamp had a vice-like grip.

  ‘Move please, Martin.’

  He stood his ground, refusing to budge. ‘Not until you tell me what you meant.’

  ‘Can your ego stand what I have to say?’

  He didn’t answer.

  Jo was really pissed now. Bullying was her pet hate. Controlling men a close second. She’d put up with an abusive husband and had vowed never to be a victim again. ‘You want the truth or the toned-down version?’

  Still no response.

  Her sarcasm wasn’t helping. She calmed herself, tried talking some sense into him. ‘Martin, I know Emily has leaned on you big-style since Robert died, but you’re rushing her. She’s not ready for another relationship. Don’t pressurize her. Keep supporting her by all means but be sensible about it. Do the decent thing. Accept that you can’t take up where you left off two decades ago.’

  ‘Who said I want to?’

  Jo tried not to snigger. ‘I’m a lot of things but blind isn’t one of them. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Recapturing a lost love is never that simple. It takes time and patience, only one of which you appear to have. Emily’s not going anywhere, so why the rush?’ She glanced again at the door handle. ‘Now, are you planning to let me in there, or shall I call security?’

  But Stamp was sulking, unwilling to let the matter drop.

  Jo tried again. ‘Look, all I’m saying is g
ive the woman some space!’

  ‘We’re talking at cross purposes here . . .’ he insisted. ‘I do have feelings for her, of course I do, but this isn’t about what I stand to gain. It’s more a question of what she might lose.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  He scanned the corridor. ‘Not here—’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! Cut the melodrama.’

  Jo fell silent as a group of off-duty prison officers left the gymnasium. Instead of heading towards the two of them, they turned the other way, pulling their coats on as they headed for the main exit, shouting their goodbyes. She felt like calling after them, telling them she would walk out with them, but thought better of it. They would misinterpret her actions. By morning it would be all round the prison that she and Stamp had been fighting.

  As they disappeared through a double door, Stamp opened the shower-room door and pushed her inside.

  ‘Get off me!’ Jo yelled. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

  ‘Shh, keep your bloody voice down!’ Stamp put his ear to the door and listened before continuing: ‘I can explain everything. Please, Jo . . . meet me at the pub and hear me out.’

  Jo’s pulse raced.

  No point screaming. The officers were long gone.

  ‘I told you, I’m busy,’ she said. ‘Now get out of here.’

  Stamp wouldn’t release the door.

  ‘Martin, stop it! You’re freaking me out.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ He let go of the door handle, shifting his hand to her forearm. His touch made a shiver run down her spine. Responding to the fear in her eyes, he spoke again. ‘Jo, don’t be scared. Please . . . accept my apology. I don’t know what came over me. That was totally out of order—’

  ‘Damn right it was.’

  ‘I said I’m sorry!’

  Jo liked Martin but he was beginning to unnerve her.

  Despite his apology, his eyes were like two black pools, devoid of any emotion. Looking down at her arm, she tried to shrug his hand away but he wouldn’t let go. His fingers had closed around her wrist so tightly his knuckles were white. He just stood there, a weird look on his face that made the hair stand up on her neck. She had to get out of there. Fast.