by Mari Hannah
He didn’t admit or deny it was so.
‘Two: you’re scared. You don’t want to know who we found because if it is Sophie you have to face the fact that she’s never coming home.’ Kate spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. ‘Fear is also entirely logical. We’re not robots, Mr Kent. Believe me when I tell you we feel the pain too, especially where children are involved.’
She paused.
He was nervous, waiting for her to verbalize the third reason. She wasn’t going to make it too easy for him. She wanted him to sweat. She wanted those samples and would do anything to get them. Right now, the only way open to her was to apply a little pressure.
Robson looked at the floor. He knew what was coming.
As so he bloody should. He was a murder detective, a good one too until he fell from grace at work and at home. His own doing. Well, he’d had his last chance. More than one, if the truth were known. Kate wouldn’t stand for a lightweight on her team. It was time they had a little chat. If he couldn’t cut it, it was bye-bye, Robbo.
She eyeballed Kent. He was never going to love her but he’d respect her if she were straight with him. Even the worst scumbags responded to that. And this was no time to lose her bottle. ‘I can see you’ve already worked out the third reason,’ she said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
He didn’t speak.
‘OK, let me spell it out for you. You don’t want to give your DNA because you know full well who is in that Bamburgh grave – because you put her there.’
Still nothing.
‘Have it your own way then.’
‘You people make me sick!’ Kent stood up suddenly, his eyes full of contempt.
Kate braced herself for an attack, verbal or physical, but it never came. The warrant card in her pocket suddenly felt heavier than it had ever done before. If this man was innocent – a homicide victim’s father – then what she’d just accused him of was unforgivable. That didn’t make her feel good. But she had a job to do. And she had to do it no matter whom she upset. Her first responsibility was to her victim.
‘I didn’t murder my daughter.’ Kent didn’t raise his voice as he made his feelings known. ‘And for the record, I do think the police are a bunch of incompetent arseholes. I’ll give you the samples. What’s the point of refusing? You’re going to arrest me otherwise, isn’t that right?’
Daniels didn’t reply.
82
EMILY LOGGED ON to her computer, opened up her inbox and saw the message immediately. For a long while she sat there staring at the screen, her eyes fixed to the subject line: INMATE: X40965 WALTER FEARON. She hesitated, her right forefinger hovering above the mouse. The next few seconds could shape her future in ways she didn’t care to imagine right now. This was a chance, her only chance of keeping Fearon behind bars a while longer.
All was lost if the answer was no.
Taking a deep breath in, she left clicked on the message, skim-read the text, then read it again. It was quite a long and considered reply, but only the first four words registered: The Home Secretary regrets . . .
A noise made her look up.
The door opened and Jo walked in.
Emily tried to act normal but fell woefully short of that.
Jo walked round the desk and got down on her honkers putting them on the same level. ‘What’s up, Em? Can I help?’
Emily couldn’t speak.
‘Martin told me you’d fallen out. Is that it?’
Emily shook her head, pointing at her computer screen.
Jo read the email, the light in her eyes dying as they moved over the text. She gave Emily a hug and a little sympathy. Her quest to keep Fearon in prison had failed miserably, her attempt to involve the Home Office a wasted effort. They both knew that.
‘Did Martin tell you why we had a fight?’ Emily asked.
Jo nodded. ‘And that’s your own business. You have nothing to reproach yourself for and you certainly don’t owe him, or anyone, an explanation. He’ll come round in time. He’s angry now, but he’ll see sense when he gets his head round it. Martin won’t stay mad for long. He’s got a big heart . . . almost as big as his ego.’
Emily managed a smile, appreciating Jo’s attempt at cheerfulness.
Taking a compact mirror and a tissue from her desk drawer, she wiped her eyes. They were all red and puffy. In her race to follow Stamp to work she’d showered quickly and left the house devoid of any make-up, her damp hair scruffed back and clipped in an untidy mess at the nape of her neck.
‘Martin is the least of my problems,’ she said.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Fearon gets out tomorrow.’ Emily lowered the mirror. She was welling up again. ‘I went to see him just now, tried to talk to him. He laughed at me. He’s a serial sex offender whose walls are covered in pornography and he laughed at me! Who makes the damn rules, Jo? Them or us? I spoke to Harrison about it and he laughed at me too. As good as.’
‘Let me guess: happy inmates keeps the lid on the prison, right?’
The answer was in the question.
‘How the hell do they expect us to reduce offending behaviour if they allow the cons to drool over filth like that?’ Emily said. ‘It’s a bloody nonsense! I’m going to speak to the Governor about it later.’
‘Don’t waste your energy. You don’t need another crusade right now—’
‘Crusade? Is that what you think I’m on? For Christ’s sake, Jo! What’s wrong with you? Why won’t anyone listen to me?’
Jo apologized.
Emily just glared at her, an invisible barrier between them. Clearly, Jo had something to add but was searching for the right words. Whatever it was, Emily had the distinct impression she wasn’t going to like it.
‘Have you heard from Kate?’ Jo asked.
‘No, why?’
‘No reason.’
‘Then why ask? Have you heard something?’
‘No—’
‘You’re lying, I can tell.’
‘You need to talk to her, Em. Tell her how you’re feeling.’
‘Yeah, right! Like she has time to listen. At least Lowther goes through the motions occasionally.’ Emily stopped talking as a dreadful thought set her heart pounding. Panic set in and her mouth went dry. ‘You’re trying to tell me she found Rachel—’
‘No, I’m not!’ Jo pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Emily, you need to calm down and get some rest. I think you should go home and make an appointment with your doctor.’
‘I don’t need a doctor. I need Rach!’ Emily was angry now and it showed. ‘You didn’t just come to hold my hand, did you? You came because Kate paid Kent a visit, demanding his DNA. Well I can tell you now she’s on a hiding to nothing. Did you know I was the one put the idea into her head?’
Jo nodded.
‘I tried to take it back, to explain to her that it was all a mistake, but she ran with it anyway. Now it’s all over the prison. She’s wrong, Jo. It’s Fearon, not Kent, needs watching.’
‘No, Emily! You’re the one who’s wrong. It’s illogical to think he’s behind Rachel’s disappearance. You know Kate almost as well as I do. You couldn’t set her on a course of action she didn’t want to take if you tried. If she’s looking at Kent, there’ll be a good reason for it.’
Emily just looked at her.
What on earth did that mean?
83
‘YOU’VE GOT TO talk to her.’ Jo had her eyes fixed on Kate. ‘She’s in a terrible state and it won’t take much to push her over the edge.’ They were walking along the shoreline as the sun went down, the sea crashing on to the beach, Nelson racing ahead, his paws sending out plumes of sand every time he launched himself forward in pursuit of his ball.
Kate wasn’t listening.
Her head was full of possibilities: Kent’s DNA, miners, pearls, fairytale castles. What did it all mean and how did it fit together? When push came to shove, they were all just lines of enquiry that could lead her to a dead end. Bu
t only a brave SIO would drop one of them and put it in for referral.
Easier to pick one up.
‘Kate? Are you listening?’
‘Uhm . . . yeah,’ Kate lied.
She’d spent all afternoon reading statements relating to Sophie Kent’s disappearance. Something niggling at the back of her mind refused to bubble to the surface. The more she thought about it, the further away it seemed. Several names were now written on the murder wall at Alnwick Police Station: John Edward Thompson, Martin Stamp, Ash Walker, Ted Harrison and of course, the girl’s father.
‘It doesn’t sound like you are.’ Jo launched Nelson’s ball in the direction of the car park, ensuring the dog didn’t return to the water. ‘Fearon gets out tomorrow and Emily is beside herself. Don’t you think it’s time you put her out of her misery?’
Kate looked at Jo. ‘You didn’t tell her anything?’
Jo stopped walking.
Seeing the hurt look on her face, Kate apologized.
Combing a hand through her hair, she studied Jo closely, wishing they were on a beach, equally beautiful, but far away: thirty degrees warmer, bikinis and flip-flops on, a sun-lounger and parasol, a good book, a sumptuous hotel bedroom just a step away – a night of unadulterated pleasure ahead of them.
In your dreams.
‘By the way,’ Jo said, as they set off again. ‘Emily knows you visited Kent. Acklington is a tiny village. You were seen. Any news on his DNA?’
Kate shook her head. ‘It’s a priority job. Should have a result later. If our victim ID is confirmed as Sophie Kent, I’ll ’fess up to Emily, I promise. She deserves to know the truth.’
‘Yes, she does.’ Jo paused, her expression grim. ‘It won’t stop her freaking out about Fearon though, will it? It’ll give her something even more scary to contemplate. He may not be old enough to have killed Sophie Kent and deposit her body in Northumberland, but if he’s working in tandem with an older sex-offender . . .’
Her sentence trailed off leaving an uncomfortable silence between them. They both knew that if Rachel had been targeted by Sophie and Maxine’s killer, pound to a penny she was already dead. But they would deal with that when, if, victim ID was confirmed. There was no point either of them dwelling on it now.
They had reached the car park.
Jo opened the tailgate of her Land Rover Discovery. Removing a bright blue towel with doggie paw motif, she called Nelson to heel, slung one leg over him and began rubbing him down. Kate opened the door of her own vehicle, telling Jo she’d call her later when the DNA result was in.
Releasing the dog, Jo stood up to bid her farewell. But before Kate had time to climb in, Nelson shook himself violently, sending a spray of sand and salt water into the interior of her pride and joy.
Half-grimacing, half-smiling, Jo seized Nelson and brought him to heel so Kate could brush the debris off her seat. As she emerged from the car, her expression changed from minor irritation to revelation in a flash.
‘What?’ Jo said.
Kate looked at the ground beneath their feet. Then, hurriedly, she kissed Jo and the dog. Without another word, she got in the car, started up the engine and drove away, sending plumes of sand high into the air.
84
AS JO GOT smaller in her rear-view mirror, Kate spoke a name into her hands-free device. Pulling out into traffic, she floored the accelerator. The phone rang out unanswered. She was about to cancel and call someone else when Hank Gormley finally picked up.
‘Hank, Sophie Kent’s file is on my desk. Grab it and summon the squad for an emergency meeting.’
‘You got something?’
‘I bloody hope so.’
‘You going to share it with me?’
The countryside rushed by as she explained what had been bothering her while walking on the beach with Jo, something finally registering as they said goodbye. It was a first: receiving vital intelligence from a dog. Hank laughed. But before he had a chance to respond to the information, her phone gave an audible alert of a call waiting. She put him on hold while she answered.
It was Matt West from the science lab.
‘Hold on, Matt.’ Switching calls again, Kate said, ‘I’m hanging up, Hank. I’ve got Matt on the line. Can you check out the stuff I mentioned? Mine’s strong and black, if you’re offering. I’m only five minutes away.’
BOTH THE COFFEE and the Murder Investigation Team were waiting when she arrived. There was an air of excitement in the incident room: arguing, banter, general chit-chat as detectives gathered round. An unscheduled meeting usually meant good news.
A complete hush descended as she took the floor, Sophie Kent’s missing-person file in her hand. ‘Ladies and gents, we have an ID,’ she said. ‘DNA match. No dispute. Sophie Kent was the first victim.’
Taking an A4 photograph from the file, she gave it to Carmichael to pass on. Naming a victim was guaranteed to provide a new impetus to the case. It was a breakthrough, yes. A cause for celebration, but a solemn occasion too. That much was evident from the team’s reaction as the image travelled clockwise round the room. Even the most sensitive officers found it difficult to relate to a pile of bones. Kate was glad they were no longer dealing with that. The victim had now taken on a personality. She was real. Vibrant. Pretty, as the photograph showed: a ten-year-old tomboy with deep blue eyes and a cheeky grin. She had a name. Later, her image would be pinned to the murder wall as a reminder to them all.
Time to move on . . .
‘When Sophie went missing, a number of suspects were interviewed at length, some of whom now live on our patch. You all know who they are.’ Kate took a sip of coffee and set her cup down. ‘Let’s just concentrate on Kent for now. At the time, his clothing was retained and a forensic search of his car was carried out. This is where it gets interesting.’
The team were all ears.
‘I was trawling through statements earlier today,’ Daniels continued, ‘and came across a forensic reference that later struck a chord with me. A few grains of sand were lifted from the handbrake casing of Kent’s vehicle. Now we know for definite that she was buried in sand, that physical evidence takes on a new significance. Hank, did you check the continuity of the evidence?’
Gormley nodded. ‘The constituency of the sand was never examined.’
‘Because?’
‘He explained it away. Told investigators he’d recently visited his terminally ill wife at a hospice near Staithes and took a walk along the beach afterwards. I believe this was corroborated at the time – the visit, I mean, not the walk.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not convinced.’
It was rare that two vital pieces of information came along at once. Daniels couldn’t believe her luck. She could see the excitement on the faces of her team. She homed in on Carmichael.
‘Raise an action, Lisa. I want the evidence box collected from Yorkshire. I want that toothbrush and hairbrush. I also want the sand sample taken to Matt West, under blue light if necessary. I need to know if he can establish whether or not the sand found in Kent’s car came from Staithes. That means we need comparison samples collected from both Staithes and from Abbey Hunt, who brought plenty with her when she excavated the victims from our crime scene at Bamburgh. I want it done straight away. Let’s see if we can nail this once and for all. Can I have a volunteer?’
Every hand in the room went up.
85
FEARON LOOKED AROUND his empty cell as keys jangled outside. His escort unlocked the door and, with a scowl that could kill a horse at five hundred metres, told him to move out. As he stepped over the threshold for the very last time, Fearon glanced up and down the corridor both ways. No Kent? Surely the dumb bastard wouldn’t miss a final opportunity to lamp him one before he made his break for freedom?
He was marched down the corridor like a guardsman on parade. Jeers of ‘Nonce!’ rang out as he passed other cell doors. Fuck them, he thought. From here on in, he could watch TV, eat, sleep and crap when he wanted, even wear
his own kit. The cons yelling at him were staying put. They had done their utmost to break him – gobbed in his food, stolen from him, taken a pop every chance they got – but he’d survived. He’d been fending off arseholes like them for years. He was free and clear. End of. Some of those he was leaving behind would live in this shit-hole the rest of their lives.
Giving them the finger, Fearon never looked back.
The journey to the discharge office took no time at all. It had seemed a much longer walk coming the other way. There were others waiting for release. Fearon was told to wait, then given the civilian clothes he’d worn on the day he arrived. They were a little tighter now on account of the bodybuilding he’d been doing, courtesy of Her Maj.
Nice of her to take care of his physique that way.
A yellow line was taped on the floor to stop inmates crowding the no-neck sitting behind the counter. Sensing Fearon’s gaze, the officer looked up, gave him the once-over. The screw was built like a nightclub bouncer: short cropped hair, impressive tats and bulging neck muscles beneath a pockmarked face not even his mother could love.
Consulting the list in front of him, he called out a name and prison number.
‘Two-four-six-seven-zero Johnson, step forward.’
A puny kid Fearon didn’t know shuffled across the line. The screw did the business and then handed him over to another escort for transfer to the main gate and release into the big wide world beyond. As he waited his turn, Fearon’s eyes skimmed an official-looking notice on the wall, promising to care and protect inmates.
His snigger drew a look of suspicion from No-neck.
Finally, his name was called.
The screw beckoned him forwards, counted out the cash Fearon had had in his pocket the day he arrived, along with what he’d earned inside, a dead mobile phone, a crumpled pack of stale cigarettes but no lighter. The bastard had obviously confiscated that. Fearon was handed a travel warrant and discharge sheet with clear instructions what to do when he reached his destination.