by Mari Hannah
Erm, he didn’t think so. No, sir! He was going to be far too busy for that.
‘The warrant will get you to Sheffield and is valid for today only, is that clear?’
‘Crystal.’ Fearon signed for his personal effects.
The screw handed him a half-sheet of paper. ‘These are your reporting instructions. Now get lost.’ Fearon turned away. As he made for the door, the officer had one last dig: ‘See you soon, loser.’
Fearon grinned. ‘Not if I see you first.’
Once outside the main gate, he felt many pairs of eyes on his back. Slinging his prison-issue bag over his shoulder, he gingerly made his way past a police traffic car. The driver gave him hard eyes as he walked by and then returned his focus to the main gate. Fearon relaxed. The pigs weren’t after him. Not this time. Gate arrests were common. The police liked nothing better than to wait for a release date to pick someone up for outstanding offences. Today must be his lucky day. No one could spoil it. Not the Five-O, Kent or Harrison, certainly not that slag, Emily McCann. He just couldn’t wait to get reacquainted with her.
Taking a final look behind him, he pulled up sharp.
‘Well, well,’ he chuckled.
Life was good.
This day was just getting better and better. He knew an arrest when he saw one. Kent was being helped into the police car at the main gate. Fearon waved at the cunt as the car sped by.
86
KATE DANIELS SAT tapping her fingers on the surface of her desk. Even though she was expecting Matt West to be put through to her office, she jumped when the phone rang out. There was no time for small talk. It was too late for Sophie Kent and Maxine O’Neil, but assuming Rachel McCann was still alive, Kate might just save her if she moved fast.
‘Tell me what I need to know, Matt.’
Closing her eyes, she listened intently to the answer he gave.
‘Sample A is not consistent with the original statement given by Kent. It doesn’t match sample B: sand from Staithes. But it does match sample C: sand from your crime scene at Bamburgh. Although both locations are on the east coast, their properties are very different.’
Kate opened her eyes.
Matt’s verbal report was clear. There was no hesitation, no ambiguity. These were hard facts – something she could work with – expert witness testimony that would hold up in a court of law. Unequivocal forensic evidence linking Kent’s car to the Northumberland coast around the time his daughter went missing.
The words ‘provable lies’ sprang to mind.
It was a Eureka moment, a godsend to an SIO struggling with a complex case spanning a decade or more. It put Kent bang smack in the frame for his daughter’s murder. Thanking Matt, she put down the phone as a traffic car pulled into the car park outside her window, Kent’s gaunt face peering out from within.
THE INTERVIEW STRATEGY was simple. Drip-feed the information and let the suspect trip himself up. When she put it to the guv’nor, he agreed. She didn’t hang around. Within fifteen minutes, Kent was seated in front of her and Gormley, with Naylor and Jo Soulsby watching via a video link next door.
Gormley introduced everyone and cautioned the suspect for the benefit of the tape, asking him once more if he wanted a solicitor present. He told them no, he’d done nothing wrong.
‘Mr Kent,’ Daniels began, ‘I won’t beat about the bush. When your daughter went missing ten years ago some sand was recovered from the handbrake casing of your car.’
‘Was it? I don’t recall that.’
‘Then let me remind you. When asked about it, you told detectives that it must’ve come from a visit to Staithes. Remember now?’
‘No, yes . . . vaguely. I was in a state of shock back then. With Sophie missing, I didn’t know what I was doing or saying half the time.’
‘Do you have any further explanation as to how it got there?’
‘No idea. If that’s what I said, then that’s what I meant. It’s the only explanation, unless it came off someone else.’
The DCI wanted more. ‘Such as?’
‘I dunno, people who’d been in my car.’
‘Anyone in particular? I need names, Mr Kent.’
‘Why?’ When Daniels didn’t answer, Kent moistened his lips and reeled some off: Stamp, Harrison, Walker and two other men – one of whom she already knew to be deceased.
‘Clever!’ In the adjoining room, Superintendent Naylor’s eyes remained firmly fixed on the screen as he watched the interview progress. ‘And a tad convenient.’
‘How’s she doing?’ Jo asked.
‘She’s wondering if that was a deliberate ploy to queer her pitch.’
IN THE INTERVIEW room, the DCI spoke again. ‘You seem very sure about that.’
‘We were on the same darts team,’ Kent said with confidence. ‘We all took turns to drive. Ask them, if you don’t believe me.’
‘I shall.’ Kate glanced at the notes she’d made prior to the interview. It was important to hit him with the right questions. ‘There were two items, a hairbrush and a toothbrush, recovered from your home. Items you allege belonged to Sophie.’ She showed him the exhibits and asked him for confirmation, allowing him a little time. ‘Mr Kent? Do they belong to your daughter?’
Kent shifted in his seat. ‘I don’t lie to the police. The CID collected them from her bedroom. Of course they’re hers. Looks like them, anyway.’
‘Looks like them isn’t good enough,’ Daniels said. ‘Are they identical in every way? Very similar? Did she have stuff like this? Tell me what you meant by that.’
‘She did have items like that, yes. That’s all I can say. I’m not big on little girls’ personal possessions. Are you?’
The DCI sat back and rolled her eyes at her DS, his cue to join in.
Linking his hands, Hank placed both elbows on the table. ‘You’re big on little girls though, aren’t you, Mr Kent? You’ll be telling us next that the darts team had access to your house as well as your car.’ His expression was sceptical. ‘I bet each one of the people you mentioned had been there at one time or another. Am I right?’
‘’Fraid so,’ Kent said. ‘I’m a friendly kinda guy.’
There was a short pause.
Daniels picked up the questioning: ‘Do you like it here in Northumberland, Mr Kent?’
This seemed to throw him. ‘Why is that important?’
‘I’m just making conversation, trying to understand why you chose to settle in this part of the world.’ He didn’t answer. ‘I like it here too. Out of interest, before you were transferred to HMP Northumberland, had you ever been to Bamburgh?’
‘SHE’S GOOD.’ NAYLOR winked at Jo. ‘But I’m better.’
Jo grinned, enjoying his banter.
KENT DIDN’T REPLY. He looked nervous.
‘I’ll ask you again,’ Daniels said. ‘Had you ever been to Bamburgh before you came to work here? It’s a simple enough question.’
‘No,’ Kent said.
‘On holiday perhaps?’
He shook his head.
‘Never?’
‘No!’ He was angry now. ‘Christ’s sake, woman! I never wanted to come here in the first place. I didn’t have a choice. I came to live in this region because of a job change.’
‘Yes, I know all about that,’ she said.
Naylor glanced sideways. ‘Wait for it! She’s going for the jugular. He’s dead meat.’
DANIELS HELD THE suspect’s gaze. A film of sweat had appeared on his brow. For the first time since the interview started he looked scared. It was as if he had only just realized the trouble he was in. Well, he’d blown his opportunity for legal counsel and she wasn’t stopping now.
Time to give him a nudge.
‘I’d love to believe what you say, really I would. But your evidence can be disproved. The sand recovered from your vehicle has now been forensically examined. It doesn’t come from Staithes. In fact, experts tell me it’s a physical impossibility. Geology is obviously not your subject . . .
’ She paused – but there was no reaction. Her suspect just sighed and looked away. So she pushed a little harder. ‘Do have any idea where the sand came from, Mr Kent? No? OK, then I’ll tell you. It came from Bamburgh beach.’
Kent’s head shot up. ‘You’re having a laugh! I’d never set foot in this county until I came to live here, well after Sophie disappeared!’ He glared at her. ‘I don’t recall how the sand got there. The police said there was sand. I just assumed it must’ve come from Staithes. Either you’re trying to fit me up here, or someone very close to me is.’
IN THE VIEWING room, Jo huffed. ‘Five minutes ago he couldn’t remember any sand at all!’
Naylor didn’t answer, just stared at the monitor in front of them. Kent was back-pedalling fast, telling the DCI he had no bloody idea how sand particles had found their way into his car, that his head had been in a mess at the time. He acknowledged that these were damning discrepancies in the statement he’d given, ones that now made him look guilty when he was anything but.
Daniels again. ‘Are you guilty?’
‘No.’
‘I think you are. You knew fine well where the sand came from. You said Staithes to save your arse, but you knew all along it was Bamburgh. That’s why you didn’t want to give me a DNA sample, isn’t it, Mr Kent?’
He said nothing.
NAYLOR LOOKED UP as Daniels entered the room, drinking water from a bottle. The interview had gone well. But she wasn’t celebrating and the Super knew why. She had evidence enough to charge him. He’d lied about the sand. Probably planted dodgy DNA samples to throw police off the scent should his daughter’s body ever turn up. As far as motive was concerned, he was the single parent of a girl neither he nor his late wife wanted in the first place. He’d had plenty of opportunity to kill her. He had a car, so he had the means to dispose of her body. But . . .
‘He could have done it,’ Daniels said weakly, palming her brow. ‘But I’m not convinced.’ Her eyes flitted over the other three: Naylor, Gormley and Jo – in that order. ‘Go on then. Hands up who thinks he did it.’
No one moved.
‘Shit! That’s what I thought. Did you see his face when I said the sand was from Bamburgh? He was incredulous. That’s why I held off asking him where Rachel was. If he didn’t kill his daughter, he hasn’t got her. More worryingly, and he said it himself, if he didn’t do it then someone very close to him did. Don’t ask me why, but I think he’s on the level.’
87
LIVE MUSIC MEANT the pub was always packed to the rafters. Not that Stamp was paying attention to the pretty folk singer in the corner captivating her audience with a melancholy tune. His focus was on prison officer Ash Walker, who was standing on the other side of the room enjoying a pint with one of the dog handlers from the prison.
Stamp was pissed, in both senses of the word.
He’d been in the pub since shortly before seven, getting more and more agitated as the evening wore on. He’d eaten nothing all day. The alcohol he’d consumed had gone straight to his head. He was over-emotional as well as angry. The last time he’d been this drunk was the day Emily married Robert McCann.
What a fool he was.
The presence of his coat draped over the seat next to him was intended to dissuade others from sitting down to pass the time of day. Grabbing his wallet from his inside pocket, he got up and pushed through the crowd to the bar where he ordered another Famous Grouse.
‘Straight, no ice,’ he said. ‘Make it a double this time.’
The barman hesitated. ‘You sure you haven’t had enough, Doc?’
‘Just pour, will you? What are you anyway, the alcohol police? Who the hell’s counting, apart from you?’
‘You’ve been putting a few away, that’s all.’
He had too. He’d started on Tyneside Blonde with whisky chasers and then dropped the beer in favour of the shorts. This was probably his eighth this session and they were numbing his sensibilities nicely.
‘Something wrong, Martin?’ the barman asked.
‘You could say that. You going to sell me that drink or do I have to go elsewhere?’
‘I shouldn’t . . .’ He turned away and lifted a glass to the optic. ‘Two measures, yeah?’
‘That’s what I said.’
The music stopped and the crowd showed their appreciation. Stamp looked over his shoulder. Some people were leaving. But Walker and his mate were sitting at a table near the door. Whatever was amusing them, it was sure to include Emily McCann, he thought. Served her right. She deserved no sympathy. She wouldn’t get any either when he caught up with her.
He’d had it with her.
Having paid for his drink, he went back to his seat. As he did so, a burst of laughter reached him, the coarse, boisterous variety he assumed was the two men having a laugh at his expense.
Or Emily’s.
Across the room, Ash Walker caught his intense gaze. He got up and wandered over in Stamp’s direction, pint in hand. ‘Buy you a drink before closing?’ he said. ‘No hard feelings.’
Stamp told him to shove his feelings up his arse.
Seeing Walker get the brush-off, his mate finished his beer, pulled on his coat and joined them. He nudged Walker. ‘I’m off home before the wife comes looking for me.’ Then to Stamp, ‘I’m going your way, pal. Wanna lift?’
Stamp gave him a hard stare. ‘If I do, I’ll call a taxi.’
88
EMILY STRUGGLED BENEATH his weight even though it was useless. The more she fought, the more she realized she couldn’t get away. He had her pinned to the chair, her arms clamped in the vise-like grip of his fingers, his ugly, chewed nails digging into the skin on her wrists. Through filthy, smeared lenses, his eyes looked evil. She could smell strong alcohol on his breath as he laughed in her face, a sound so chilling it cut right through her.
Anyone looking on would know she was dreaming from the rapid movements going on beneath her eyelids, her incoherent mumblings, the way her body twitched and writhed under the blanket wrapped around her.
The telephone rang, shocking her to consciousness.
Disorientated, it took her a moment to realize she’d fallen asleep in a fireside chair. Groggily, she reached out and grabbed the handset. It was ten past eleven according to the living-room clock. Having just woken, her voice was deep, almost rasping as she answered with her name, only to be met with an icy silence at the other end.
The line was open but no one spoke.
Fearon?
‘Hello . . .’ Emily shivered. ‘This is Emily McCann. Who’s there?’
She tried to remember if she’d locked the door before falling asleep. Whether she had or hadn’t, in their present state, the locks wouldn’t stop anyone determined to get in. Reg Hendry was home from hospital but was still in no condition to fit new ones.
Why hadn’t she let Ash Walker do it when he offered?
Still no response from the phone.
Emily sat up straight, discarding the blanket, shoving her feet into her shoes. She listened intently, not knowing if she’d just imagined hearing her daughter’s voice because the urge to hear it was so strong. Was she still dreaming?
No. There it was again – weak and trembling – but definitely real.
Rachel was alive!
89
THE VEHICLE WAS a piece of shit – a three-door Suzuki Vitara – but it suited his needs perfectly. It had off-road capability and wasn’t flash enough to draw the attention of nosey parkers even if parked in dense woodland. Passers-by wouldn’t give it a second glance. If they did, it would be just another poacher or a shag-wagon being used by a couple of saddos trying to get their rocks off in a lonely spot.
And this one sure was lonely.
Tyres crunched on frozen ground as he pulled off the track, slowed and stopped, well out of sight of the main road. He was agitated but also excited, like a cheetah waiting for an unsuspecting gazelle to offer itself as bait. Lighting a cigarette, he smoked it in the car before rea
ching into his jacket pocket. Taking out his weapon, he headed off into the night.
RACING ALONG A country road at breakneck speed, Emily checked her rear-view mirror. Headlights were fast approaching from behind. One set only. Applying her brake, she indicated left, slowing her vehicle to a crawl while keeping her revs steady, should the approaching car stop.
It didn’t.
It overtook and sped off round the next bend.
Blowing out her cheeks, Emily punched Kate Daniels’ number into the keypad of her mobile. Engaging first gear, she pulled on to the road again. Steering one-handed, she floored the accelerator as the number rang out.
Kate picked up, answering with her name and rank.
She was still at work.
‘Rachel’s alive!’ Emily said.
COVERING THE PHONE, the DCI yelled above the din of the incident room. The urgency in her voice made everyone turn their heads in her direction. There was a hushed air of expectation as she resumed the conversation.
‘She’s at home?’
‘Not yet. She rang me five minutes ago. She escaped. I’m on my way to meet her now.’
‘No, Emily, it’s unsafe! You must wait for backup. It’ll take us at least fifteen minutes to reach you . . .’ Covering the speaker, Kate told Hank Gormley to grab their coats. The rest of her team had all stopped what they were doing, barring Carmichael who was busy on a call. Kate picked up a pen. ‘Escaped from where exactly?’
The line went dead.
‘Shit! Hank, come with me.’
THERE WAS NO time for debate. Racing out of the MIR, Kate redialled Emily’s number but she didn’t pick up. They needed to find her fast. Problem was, they didn’t have a clue where she was heading. If Rachel was alive she’d have vital information to share. Kate didn’t believe in the Almighty but she prayed for the girl to be OK.