Monument to Murder

by Mari Hannah

  Vic was buying. What did she care?

  ‘You OK, Mum? You sound a bit down.’

  Rachel knew whose fault that was. Not only had she lied to her mother about where she’d been last night, more especially who with, she’d woken with a stinking hangover and hadn’t managed to rouse herself in time to see her off to work. Consequently, they hadn’t made up. Rachel resolved to put that right the minute she got home.

  ‘You’re pissed off with me, aren’t you?’ Rachel said.

  ‘What? No! Makes you say that?’

  Rachel smiled. Her mother always asked a question when faced with one she couldn’t or didn’t wish to answer. ‘You are still angry, I can tell.’

  ‘I’m not, I just thought I’d check in while I’m free.’

  ‘Hardly free, locked up in there all day.’

  Emily laughed. ‘It’s my job!’

  Her attempt at humour was forced . . .

  Something was up.

  Rachel didn’t pry.

  ‘Just how much alcohol did you drink last night?’ Emily’s tone was jokey.

  ‘Not that much,’ Rachel lied. When her mother asked how she was feeling today, she said she was fine. That was a lie too. She was definitely not fine. Her head felt like someone was banging a drum in there. And that wasn’t all. Someone – she didn’t know who – was creeping around outside. She’d just seen their shadow cross the interior wall. As her mother made out that all was well, Rachel did the same, glancing along the hallway and laughing under her breath at her own paranoia.

  Burglars didn’t usually knock.

  Rachel hadn’t heard, nor could she see his familiar red van. But, in all probability, it was the postie. In this remote part of Northumberland it wasn’t unusual for him to deliver mail this late in the day after a period of bad weather.

  Besides, he knew the doorbell was iffy.

  Her mother’s voice again. ‘Have you been out today?’

  ‘No, I didn’t feel like it. Not today. I’m making a cake for Dad’s birthday.’

  ‘That’s nice . . .’

  ‘You don’t mind . . . if we still celebrate, I mean?’

  ‘Course not, silly!’

  Another tap on the door . . .

  ‘Gotta go, Mum.’

  ‘Rachel . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I won’t be late tonight, love. I need to pick up some stuff in the village on my way through and then we can do the river walk before it gets dark, if you feel up to it. Do us both good. Sound like a plan?’

  ‘You mean it?’

  A lump formed in Rachel’s throat. They hadn’t done that since her father died. Emily had spent so much time down there with him, sitting with him, watching him fish, she hadn’t been able to face it.

  The doorbell drowned out her mother’s response.

  ‘Ta, Mum. See ya later!’

  ‘WHO’S AT THE DOOR?’

  Too late: the phone went down.

  Emily was left hanging, a monotonous dialling tone summing up just how she was feeling. She sighed. Whoever it was, Rachel obviously hadn’t been concerned. She’d have heard it in her voice if that had been the case. Returning the mobile to Stamp, she thanked him.

  ‘For what?’ he asked.

  ‘For listening.’ Emily looked away.

  She was deeply embarrassed for having panicked over Fearon. Grateful that Stamp hadn’t said or done anything to make her feel worse. There were no told-you-so lectures. No digs. No attempt to persuade her to take more time off. Emily suspected that was down to Jo Soulsby’s intervention. She didn’t need either of them to tell her she’d returned to work too early. That much had been obvious since day one.

  There . . . she’d finally admitted she was struggling.

  When she turned to face him, Stamp was fastening the top button of his shirt. He winked at her, straightened his tie and stood up. Slipping his jacket off the back of his chair, he put it on in readiness to leave. Bending over the table, he scooped up his papers, stuffed the lot into a worn leather briefcase and picked up his car keys.

  ‘Sorry, Em. I’ve got to run. I’m late as it is.’

  Emily glanced at her watch. Two twenty-five. ‘Shit! I’m late too!’

  ‘Aren’t you leaving early?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve got a training course to run first!’ Emily caught his arm as he made for the door. ‘You will drive carefully, Martin?’

  Stamp dropped his head and kissed her on the nose.

  39

  LEAVING HANK GORMLEY in her office, Kate walked Jo to her car. She watched as the profiler opened the tailgate of her Land Rover Discovery, leaned in and attached a choker chain around her dog’s neck. Nelson leapt out on to the pavement, straining on the leash to reach a bit of rough ground at the side of the station.

  Jo led him towards it to have a quick pee.

  Kate followed them. ‘You going straight back?’

  ‘No . . .’ Jo pulled the dog away from a half-eaten burger someone had tossed under a bush. ‘I’m supposed to be in town at a meeting. Only I’m here with you instead.’

  ‘Thank you. Hope it hasn’t put you out.’

  ‘No. It was my pleasure . . .’ Jo was smiling. ‘I’m seeing Martin later for a bite to eat. He can fill me in on what I missed. Thought I’d pop home first and pick up my mail. A close friend warned me my security is pants.’

  ‘Shame, I was half hoping I’d get an invite to that cottage of yours.’

  Jo yanked the dog’s chain. ‘Didn’t think you’d be interested.’

  ‘I love Low Newton-by-the-Sea!’

  ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’

  There was an intense moment of sadness as they stood on the grass facing one another, not knowing what to say. A passing police car tooted its horn. Kate didn’t see who the driver was but waved anyway. When she turned back, Jo was staring at her with those pale blue eyes, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders, her expression serious. She broke the silence. But what she said wasn’t what the detective wanted to hear . . .

  ‘It wouldn’t work second time round, Kate. Let’s face it, it would never be the same.’

  ‘How will we know if we don’t try?’

  ‘I do know,’ Jo said. ‘Anyhow, you’ve moved on.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘I seem to recall a certain artist.’

  It was like a slap in the face. During the last case they had worked together, the two of them had argued – just as they were doing now. Thinking there was no hope of ever getting back with Jo, Kate had spent the night with Fiona Fielding, only to discover a voice message from Jo next morning asking her to give their relationship another go. Later, when Kate got home, a handwritten note had been pushed through her door.

  I guess I have my answer was all it said.

  Bad timing didn’t quite cover it.

  ‘That was your fault,’ Kate said.

  ‘It always is . . .’ Jo bent down to remove Nelson’s choker. When she stood up, her hair was a mess, as if she’d just rolled out of bed. ‘I wasn’t the one ripping her clothes off, was I? Let me see . . . no, I think I’d have remembered. And I wasn’t the one making mad, passionate love to her either. Stop me if I’m getting warm.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ Jo gave a wry smile.

  ‘I’m not denying I slept with her,’ Kate corrected herself. ‘But I didn’t make love to her. Not in the way you mean. It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘You’re telling me it was a quick shag?’ Jo countered, a smirk crossing her face. ‘Sure it was: so quick it lasted the whole night.’

  Kate felt ridiculous standing in the street talking about something as personal as a night she’d spent with an artist she barely knew. She wanted to reach out to Jo, reassure her that it was a one-off. Tell her that sex with Fiona was good but it wasn’t great. Not like it was between the two of them. But that would have been a lie. Fiona was bloody amazing in bed, a woman with an insa
tiable appetite for all things carnal. There was so much Kate wanted to say, but what was the point? Jo had made her mind up and she was powerless to change it.

  Since their separation, their feelings for one another had become complicated. It was as if they could only function with other people around them. The minute they were on their own, the barriers went up.

  They were two grown-ups acting like children.

  But if they were arguing it meant they still cared.

  40

  JO GOT IN her car and drove off without another word. With no arrangement to meet again, Kate returned to the office in a foul mood. Hank was still there, helping himself to her coffee. He made her one too and then sat down, taking an open bag of cheese and onion crisps from his pocket.

  ‘Low fat . . .’ He grimaced. ‘They taste rank.’

  ‘So bin them,’ she said.

  ‘No need, I added salt. They’re better now. Want one?’

  Kate laughed even though she felt like crying.

  He was too busy with his snack to notice her eyes filling up. Recovering quickly, she did her usual and immersed herself in work. On this occasion, it was a long list of items she wanted to tackle at the evening briefing. By mid-afternoon, they were ready for a break. Yawning, Hank leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head, grinning as if he’d won the force lottery.

  She asked what was so amusing. Her own sense of humour had gone walkabout. He said something facetious about all being well now that the Dream Team was back in action, which she didn’t find in the least bit amusing or comforting. Getting up, she drew down the window blind, a message to outsiders that they were not to be disturbed.

  Gormley made a face. ‘Am I in for a bollocking?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ She didn’t attempt to mask her anger as she sat down. He was treading on very thin ice interfering in her private life and she told him so. He’d stage-managed a meeting with Jo in the name of work. That wasn’t on. ‘I didn’t raise the issue on the way home from the beach, but it’s time I did. So keep it buttoned, eh? If I want your input, I’ll ask for it.’

  ‘What’s up with you?’ He made a meal of looking over his shoulder. ‘There’s no one else here, Kate—’

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘My point being, there’s no need to go off on one. A blind man on a galloping horse could see you missed having her around.’

  ‘So you took it upon yourself to arrange a meet?’

  ‘How the hell did I know she’d be on the . . . beach.’

  Kate rolled her eyes. What-do-you-take-me-for?

  Gormley knew he’d been rumbled. ‘She told you, didn’t she?’

  ‘About you meeting her in Alnwick yesterday? Yes, she told me.’

  ‘Now that was pure chance, I swear.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for a second.’

  ‘So what’s the problem? It’s what you wanted, right? Seeing her again, I mean.’

  ‘Since when do you know what I want?’

  ‘Oops! Sorry, my mistake. I thought I did.’

  Kate glared at him stony-faced. It was ridiculous arguing with him when he was acting in her best interests. She should be thanking him, not berating him, allowing her pride to get in the way. If she carried on like this, she’d have no one to confide in. She should apologize at once.

  ‘Knock you back, did she?’ Hank said before she could open her mouth.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Now he really was taking the piss. ‘You’re hardly in a position to play Cupid, are you? Maybe you should get your own house in order before organizing mine.’

  He just looked at her. Inscrutable. ‘Y’know what? You can be an arsy cow sometimes. But you’re dead right. Aren’t you always? I’ve made a complete bollocks of home life. Julie and I are about as far apart as we ever were. Ryan hates my guts. Even the neighbours can’t stand the sight of me. That’s why I thought I’d spread a little sunshine your way. But hey!’ He held up his hands. ‘I’ll stay out of your business in future, no need to ask twice.’

  Kate swallowed her guilt.

  She could see she’d hurt him. She ought not to have dragged his marital problems into their silly spat but she was too prickly to apologize. He thought he was helping. She thought he’d gone too far. End of. It was as well their relationship was strong enough to survive a difference of opinion. He was her number one fan; her professional partner as opposed to her personal one. He’d forgive and forget before the day was out. She couldn’t believe they were having a go at each other. Still, she wished she could take back what she’d said.

  Jo would laugh if she knew they were fighting over her.

  Sending him off to brief the team, Kate left the station without telling him where she was going, something she never ever did. She needed some time alone – time to get her focus off Jo Soulsby and on to the job. Time to cool down. The best way to achieve that was a visit to the morgue.

  41

  DARK CLOUDS THREATENED to dump their load across Northumberland as Emily left the prison with an errand to run. It was something she should’ve done long ago; something far more important than some arsehole rookie officer showing off to his mates during her training course.

  Two young officers had really got up her nose. They were being charged with the containment of some of the most serious sex offenders and yet they were behaving like adolescent schoolboys. The victims of those sex offenders deserved better. Angered at the suggestion that women were a bunch of cock-teasers who deserved what they got, Emily had displayed photographs of beaten and murdered women, real crime scenes where the victims had been horribly disfigured.

  That made them pay attention.

  As her presentation came to an end, her mind drifted to one sex offender in particular, more especially his threat to commit murder. A horrible thought kept gnawing away at her subconscious – one she could hardly bear to contemplate. It was Fearon’s preoccupation with her that had put her daughter’s life at risk.

  Rachel was safe now, but for how long?

  Today’s events had put things into perspective. From this moment on, her daughter was her one and only priority. Handing in her keys at the gatehouse, Emily felt drained and exhausted as she accepted her tag in return. Her head ached after the seminar, the first in a series of six in-depth discussions she was scheduled to carry out over the coming weeks. Hopefully it would do some good, challenge idiotic notions like the ones she’d come up against this afternoon. That sort of thing couldn’t be overlooked, let alone tolerated, in or out of the prison environment.

  Checking underneath Robert’s rusty old Defender before she got in – force of habit drilled into her by security staff – Emily put on her seatbelt and turned over the engine. The vehicle sounded like a tractor but she couldn’t bring herself to part with it. She put it in gear and moved off, desperate to catch the hardware store in Felton before it shut up shop for the day.

  Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up outside. A sign on the door said CLOSED but a light from the window offered a glimmer of hope. She tried the handle.

  No joy.

  She peered through the glass in the door. The shop was a veritable Aladdin’s cave, crammed with all kinds of gadgets: pots, pans, brooms, items and equipment for every conceivable use. The owner was hunched over his counter, balancing the day’s takings by the looks of it. A poster behind him screamed: HOLLER IF THERE’S SOMETHING YOU NEED THAT I DON’T SELL! That was the type of shopkeeper Reg Hendry was, why he’d survived where others had failed, why he was still in business in a village this small. But he was as deaf as a stone and hadn’t heard her knock.

  Emily knocked again, harder this time.

  The old man looked up, walked round the counter to unbolt the door, a bell tinkling as he pulled it open. He couldn’t afford to turn good customers away even though he’d been open since eight o’clock that morning. He stepped aside to let her pass, following her gaze as she scanned the untidy shelves, so many items it was hard to disting
uish one thing from the other.

  ‘Something pacific you were after?’

  She tried not to laugh. Reg was a master of the malapropism.

  ‘I need some locks,’ she said. ‘Bolts too, if you have any.’

  ‘Window or door?’

  ‘Both. I was hoping you could advise me.’

  ‘Expecting a break-in are you?’ The old man had hit a nerve. He noticed Emily’s concern but pretended he hadn’t. ‘Best if I fit them, eh? No extra charge.’

  ‘Would you? That would be really kind.’

  ‘I’ll nip out tomorrow. Afternoon OK with you?’

  Emily nodded. ‘I’ll pop home from the prison and make you a cuppa. Hang on! Isn’t tomorrow your half-day?’

  ‘Every day’s a half-day at my age, flower.’ He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I never could refuse the ladies, but don’t tell the wife.’

  42

  AFTER A BRIEF visit to the morgue, Kate got in her car and drove around for a while, needing time to think, time to calm down after her spat with her favourite DS. Time to call Jo. She’d already tried her twice. She was about to try again when her mobile rang.

  Hank.

  ‘You speaking to me yet?’ he asked.

  She smiled. ‘No.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Robson interrupted at the other end. It sounded urgent. Hank asked her to hold on. He didn’t bother covering the speaker and she heard every word that passed between them. Pete Brooks from the control room wanted to speak to her urgently but her phone was engaged and he couldn’t get through. Something about her suspect, John Edward Thompson, a.k.a. JET – due to his initials, she assumed, and not because he could run like a bastard when cornered by the police.

  ‘Boss?’ Hank was back.

  ‘I heard,’ she said. ‘Hanging up now.’

  Maybe, just maybe, this could be the break she’d been waiting for.

  PULLING ON TO the drive of her isolated cottage, Emily couldn’t fail to notice the open garage door. It was an engineering enthusiast’s garage, full of assorted tools and motoring memorabilia, including a bookshelf crammed with Robert’s old car manuals. Not one but two of his treasured motorcycles stood side by side, both of them polished to perfection.