Monument to Murder

by Mari Hannah

‘So soon?’ Jo was surprised.

  ‘Rush job. Plastics expert just confirmed a positive match on all three sets.’

  ‘Three sets?’ Jo asked.

  Kate explained about her own set of pearls. Her hope that they might be a match for those found on Nominal One – the unidentified child who’d been in the ground the longest – and those supplied by a local woman who claimed to have received hers on Coronation Day 1953.

  ‘Their manufacture and composition is identical,’ she said, before rewinding slightly. ‘Given the killer’s return to the crime scene, it goes without saying that the burial site is crucial. That much was obvious from the moment the second body was unearthed. We’re assuming the offender might have lived or holidayed in Bamburgh at some time in the past.’

  ‘Do you still have a beat bobby there?’ Jo asked.

  Kate shook her head. ‘There used to be a police house in the village, but it’s now in private hands. These days it’s just a case of someone doing a drive-through to show the flag occasionally. Once upon a time we’d have gone to see the collator. By the time he’d had a fag and made himself a cuppa, he’d have recalled every last incident and told us, “I know what this is about . . .” And we’d have been in possession of stuff it would take us months to assemble nowadays.’

  ‘But you have super-duper computer systems.’

  ‘They’re only as good as the person who inputs the information,’ Hank told her. ‘Good indexers are hard to come by.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Kate said. ‘If you use HOLMES in the way it was intended, following all its rules and conventions, then it’s a fabulous tool. But free-text searches don’t actually work very well. If the terms are too broad, you get too many responses. It’s like Google: key in the wrong search criteria and you’re screwed. I’ve raised an action to trace all officers who’ve been stationed in, or had responsibility for Bamburgh in the past. I’m hoping to jog a memory or two.’

  ‘Retired officers too, I take it?’ Jo said.

  Hank nearly inhaled his tea. ‘That’ll not be hard. There’ll only be three of them in the last half-century. Once they get in there, you need a shoe horn to get them out. Salty Sam was there for twenty-odd years that I know of!’

  Jo chuckled. ‘Who’s Salty Sam?’

  ‘Tell you over a pint sometime.’ He paused. ‘You miss having a laugh with us, doing something worthwhile, don’t you?’ He didn’t look at Daniels and therefore had no idea that she’d tuned him out. ‘We miss having you around, Jo. Well, personally I can take you or leave you. But Kate does. Don’t you, boss?’

  ‘The Coronation was a long time ago . . .’ Kate was thinking out loud rather than addressing the others. ‘Even if the offender was a kid in 1953, he’d have to be over fifty-eight years old by now, if my maths are correct. What do you reckon, Jo?’

  Gormley sighed, exasperated with her insensitivity.

  ‘What?’ Kate realized she’d missed something.

  Hank was already staring into space.

  ‘Forget it,’ Jo said. ‘Wasn’t important.’

  ‘Will someone tell me?’

  Jo carried on as if she hadn’t heard her. ‘I don’t think you’re looking for an elderly male.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Hank asked.

  Now they were tuning Kate out.

  ‘I think it’ll be someone much younger,’ Jo said. ‘The offspring of a recipient of the pearls, or someone who’d been given them to play with, as Kate was.’

  ‘But therein lies our problem,’ Kate butted in. ‘If we’re looking for a descendant of a female recipient, wouldn’t it be a woman? I mean, what man would want to hold on to a set of cheap plastic pearls? I’m not ruling out a female offender altogether, but I don’t believe a woman was responsible, do you?’

  Gormley gave an emphatic: ‘No.’

  ‘Me either,’ Jo said. ‘But I agree that after the crime scene those pearls are the most significant clue to follow. It can’t be a coincidence that the victims were wearing similar jewellery. Logic would suggest it must mean something to the killer.’

  ‘Yeah, but what?’ Hank asked. ‘Our crystal ball isn’t working today.’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Jo said. ‘The more we talk about this case, the more inclined I am to think it might involve an act of devotion.’

  Hank’s interest grew. ‘Like a sacrifice, you mean?’

  ‘God, I hope not,’ Kate said. ‘We’ve got enough to cope with.’

  ‘Sacrifice is not a word I’d care to use,’ Jo said.

  ‘But you wouldn’t rule it out?’ Gormley pushed.

  ‘Or in,’ Jo countered. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  ‘What word would you use?’ Words like tribute and homage barged into Kate’s thoughts. ‘Are you suggesting the crazy bastard is somehow marking his respect?’

  ‘Nah,’ Gormley screwed up his nose. ‘People lay flowers to mark respect, not dead bodies!’

  ‘Not if they’re completely unbalanced,’ Jo reminded him.

  Running the scenario in her head, Kate picked up her pen and wrote: MO searches: crimes involving any kind of devotion/sacrifice. She looked at Jo, still trying to come to terms with such an outlandish theory. ‘You think these murders were triggered by the long-term effects of separation? A permanent one? A death?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Blimey, you two are fun to be with.’ Hank looked at the SIO. ‘How d’you make that leap?’

  ‘I’ve been around Jo long enough to have picked up some tips.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He grinned. ‘What tips would they be?’

  ‘Shut up and concentrate, Hank! There’s a clear parallel here. This is beginning to make sense to me. My pearls were kept for that very reason.’ Registering Jo’s confusion, she added, ‘Long story – my father’s twin sister died shortly after receiving them – I won’t bore you with the details.’

  ‘I didn’t know Ed had a sister!’

  ‘Neither did I, until yesterday. We already know that the death of a family member can be completely devastating, psychologically speaking. Remember Makepeace?’ She was referring to a previous murder case where a man had taken revenge several years after the death of his only daughter. ‘Would it make a difference if the bereaved person was very young at the time?’

  ‘Why?’ Jo asked.

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Then why ask?’ Jo pressed her.

  ‘It has no bearing on the case,’ Kate sighed. ‘Or maybe it does . . . My dad lost his twin sister when he was four years old. It’s a wonder he remembers her at all. Instead of dealing with it, he buried it. I’m talking figuratively, not literally. You should’ve seen him when he was telling me about it. All these decades later, it’s obvious that he still hasn’t come to terms with it.’

  ‘It’s not uncommon,’ Jo said. ‘I’m not talking about your father in particular, but kids who lose significant family members can become completely detached, unable to form bonds like the rest of us. The human psyche is complex. Some people withdraw. In extreme cases – rare ones, thankfully – it can lead to the equivalent of mental meltdown. The majority internalize it—’

  ‘And the minority?’ Hank asked.

  ‘A tiny percentage may say and do things the rest of us would find abhorrent. A killer’s motivation isn’t always fuelled by hate, Hank. Love is as powerful an emotion. In this context it’s twisted love, but love all the same. For some, the trauma of losing a loved one is so strong they are driven to kill.’

  ‘Like Nilsen, the Muswell Hill Murderer,’ Hank offered. ‘Weren’t his crimes sparked by loss?’

  ‘It’s true Nilsen claimed his grandfather’s death sowed the seeds of his psychopathy, but he was a necrophiliac, murdering his victims to feed – no pun intended – his fascination with corpses. I don’t buy his explanation for killing those young men—’

  ‘I agree,’ Kate said. ‘He was a sexual predator offloading his guilt.’

  ‘I take it there was no sexual
element in this case?’ Jo queried. ‘You never mentioned—’

  ‘We can’t tell,’ Kate said. The room descended into silence for a while. Then she spoke again. ‘Maybe we are looking for someone exactly like my old man, an adult who was a child when they lost a female family member, someone who later inherited her stuff. Think about it: the demographic of Bamburgh is white, middle class, wealthy . . . elderly. Stop me if this seems too much of a long shot.’

  ‘No, I think you’re on the right track,’ Jo said. ‘As far as I’m concerned it’s highly plausible. A female recipient dies and the pearls are a reminder of that person – a beloved mother or grandmother perhaps? You said yourself the victims were dressed in adult clothing.’

  ‘We’d assumed that was done to put us off the scent. To conceal the fact that the victims were kids.’ Kate’s focus shifted to Jo. ‘Maybe we were wrong! Maybe the killer dressed his victims up to look like an adult to replicate the person he’d lost. It’s worth a trawl of parish records, a cross-reference to the names of miners our outside team comes up with.’

  Her words hung in the air. The notion that Bamburgh Castle or Holy Island – two of the most revered places in Northumberland – could be some kind of macabre monument to murder stunning them into silence.

  37

  AFTER HER LUNCHTIME STROLL, Emily finally got her shit together and came to a decision. With a young man like Fearon under her supervision there was no room for ambiguity. Determined to confront him, once and for all, she made a beeline for Ash Walker’s office and told him of her plan.

  Reluctantly, the SO agreed to excuse the prisoner from work so she could call him up and deliver a stark ultimatum: Fearon must agree to an intense concentration on his offending behaviour before release or Emily would break off all contact. There was no point seeing him otherwise.

  Emily felt better for having taken control. To her amazement, Fearon didn’t argue. He listened intently to what she had to say, nodding in all the right places, offering his consent, trying his best to convince her he had the capacity to change.

  But did he?

  Emily stared at him pointedly. ‘I’m serious, Walter. You need to address these issues if you’re going to stay out of prison. Do we have an agreement or not?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I think your choice is spot on. The alternative is to spend the rest of your days in places like these. That’s not what either of us wants, is it?’

  Fearon shook his head. ‘I just don’t like—’

  ‘What? What don’t you like?’

  ‘Talking about that sort of stuff, miss. Not with you.’

  Emily eyeballed him. ‘It’s never stopped you before.’

  ‘Are fantasies the same as dreams, miss?’

  Already, the facade was gone.

  He was laughing at her.

  ‘Stop wasting my time! You know full well what fantasies are. You wrote about them in your little note, didn’t you?’

  Fearon bowed his head and then raised it again. In that split second, he’d morphed from a manipulative and slightly edgy character to a young man on the edge of insanity. It was as if someone had flicked a switch. Emily had witnessed such behaviour changes in other inmates but never in him. She was beginning to wonder if he was borderline schizophrenic – an unsettling thought.

  ‘It happened again last night, miss.’

  He seemed to be looking through her, not at her.

  ‘What did? This is no laughing matter, Walter. If you’re not going to take this interview seriously, you can get back to your—’

  ‘I took her away this time . . .’ His eyes were like ice as they fell on the belt round her waist, on the keychain hanging from it. ‘When she wouldn’t have sex with me, I strangled her with a thick silver chain.’

  Emily felt sick as the words spilled from his mouth. On and on he went, deeper and deeper into a world that existed only in his imagination. A world of sexual deviancy that was both sickening and menacing. The psychologist listened hard. The filth he was spouting didn’t fit his profile. He was talking about a young girl now, not an older woman. Nothing he said bore any relation to his previous crimes. At least, none she could identify. Until . . .

  The truth hit her like a brick.

  He was talking about Rachel.

  HOW SHE MANAGED to get him out of her office, Emily wasn’t sure. Next thing she knew, she was tearing down the main corridor, retching as she ran, ignoring the curious glances of inmates mopping the floor. Trembling violently, she reached the wing gate, her hands fumbling with her key pouch in her panic to get out of there. Sweat ran down her face and stung her eyes as she groped for the bars, trying to stay upright.

  Faintly aware of footsteps getting closer, Emily looked over her shoulder convinced that Fearon would be standing there laughing at her. The prison chaplain smiled. Patiently, he stood aside, waiting for her to unlock the gate. When she didn’t, he stepped forward and did it for her. It was then he noticed her keys dangling from the belt around her waist, her fists clinging on to the bars as if her life depended on it.

  ‘Emily?’ he said. ‘Are you unwell? Do you need help?’

  She ignored him and pushed through the gate, hearing him call after her as she raced down the corridor. She had to catch Stamp before he finished for the day. She just had to. He had a meeting planned in Newcastle at three o’clock. Her heart was pounding as she ran as fast as she could across the open ground, her legs heavy and uncooperative, as if she was running through mud. It seemed like another world on A-wing, adding to her confusion as she tried to find Stamp.

  An officer pointed her in the right direction.

  Finally she came to a halt, staring at a door marked: Interview in Progress.

  Emily took a deep breath and turned the handle. A monster of a youth hauled himself off his chair as she entered the room. Pulling out the now vacant chair, he politely offered it to her. Frozen to the spot, she just stood there, waiting for Stamp to get rid of him. The psychiatrist made an excuse and quickly ushered his interviewee from the room.

  Emily sat down.

  She was too numb to cry.

  For a moment she said nothing. Then her words came tumbling out in an avalanche of expletives, interspersed with sobs. Stamp listened intently to what Walter Fearon had said to her and didn’t interrupt. He let her finish and then calmly gave his take on things. It wasn’t remotely what she expected, let alone wanted to hear.

  Why wouldn’t he listen?

  Wasn’t she making sense?

  She tried again – but still he didn’t get it.

  ‘Oh, how many more times?’ Emily was yelling but she didn’t care. She stood up and began pacing the room, wringing her hands as her frustration boiled over. Stamp was her friend. Her only support since . . . Christ, why wasn’t he listening to her? ‘It wasn’t mind games, Martin! He described Rachel to a T – he even described our home.’

  ‘Emily, please sit down. You’re not thinking rationally.’

  ‘Oh that’s rich, coming from someone who not ten minutes ago was warning me to watch my back. You were right, OK? Fearon is a viable threat. I should’ve listened to you—’

  ‘No! Can’t you see he’s winding you up?’

  ‘He’s done that all right.’ She sat down and then stood up again, palming her brow. ‘I wanted to punch the little shit.’

  ‘He’s enjoying himself—’

  ‘And I’m playing into his hands, is that it?’

  ‘You answered your own question, Em.’

  ‘I suppose you think it’s totally illogical.’

  ‘I do. You’re so careful to keep your private life private. There are no pictures of Rachel in your office. How could he possibly know?’

  ‘I don’t know how! But he does!’

  Joining her near the window, Stamp gave her a hug. She didn’t resist. It felt good to lean against his chest, to feel strong arms around her, a hand gently stroking her hair. He led her back to the c
hair, left her for a moment and returned with a tumbler of water and tissues. He wiped away her tears, then sat down beside her and held her hand.

  ‘Do you trust me, Emily?’

  She sniffed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Good . . .’ Reaching into his pocket, he took out his mobile phone, dialled a number and waited for the ringing tone. Handing her the phone, he smiled. There was only way to allay her fears.

  38

  RACHEL MCCANN WIPED her hands and took the pan off the stove. Switching off the radio, she picked up the phone and answered with a cheery hello. No one spoke but she could hear background noise, doors banging in the distance.

  The prison.

  Crossing one foot over the other, she leaned against the kitchen bench and looked out through the open window. The sun was shining. The snow on the lawn had almost disappeared, but on the driveway it had compacted under the weight of her father’s four-by-four. It was like an ice rink out there.

  Rachel sighed.

  The line was still open but her mother was obviously not yet free to speak. It was hopeless trying to have a sensible conversation while she was at work. Invariably they would be interrupted by a prisoner, an officer, a more important call. Even her poor dad had taken a backseat where her mother’s job was concerned, though she’d probably never admit it – certainly not now.

  ‘Mum? Is that you?’ Placing the phone in the crick of her neck, Rachel turned away from the window to stir the contents of the pan. A man’s voice reached her ear. Muffled. Urgent. Whispering? Pound to a penny it was Martin Stamp. ‘Come on, Mum! I haven’t got all day!’

  She was about to hang up when her mum spoke. ‘I’m here, Rachel. Sorry, love—’

  ‘Why should you be sorry? You weren’t the one who flew off on one last night.’

  ‘Forget it, darling. I have.’

  Rachel felt guilty then. She had her mother’s looks but her father’s fiery temperament – and boy had she let rip. All because Emily had pointed out the dangers of binge drinking when she’d come home late, having consumed her body-weight in alcohol: double vodkas to drown her sorrows, ginger ale to take the taste away.