Monument to Murder Read online

Just then, said BlackBerry rang.

  It was Home Office pathologist, Tim Stanton.

  ‘Hi, Tim . . .’ The DCI tried to sound more upbeat than she felt after a heavy workload the previous week, half-spent preparing a murder file, the other giving evidence in a trial that had lasted a couple of months. Covering the speaker, she thanked Carmichael and moved away, talking into the phone. ‘You done already?’

  ‘There wasn’t much to do . . .’ Stanton broke off as someone spoke to him. Clearly he was still at the scene. Wind distortion on the line prevented Kate from hearing what was being said. Then he was back: ‘Sorry to keep you . . . permission to move is granted. There’s nothing more to be done here until we get her to the morgue. Not an easy task for you guys, due to the physical geography of the area.’

  Daniels couldn’t agree more.

  If the skeleton had been found in concrete it would have been possible to remove it in one solid slab, but with shifting sands, a worsening weather picture, and the risk of further slippage, time was of the essence. She rang off, telling her team that she was heading back to the crime scene to witness the excavation.

  7

  NO MORE THAN twenty metres from Emily McCann’s office, the door to the shower block slammed shut. A single drop of blood hit the floor. Then another . . . and another . . . followed by a loud thump. A pair of steel-rimmed spectacles with one smashed lens skidded across the floor through pubic hairs and lost bars of soap. They came to rest in a pool of watery blood trickling into a nearby drain.

  A few feet away, a young man lay on cracked wet tiles, his childlike face drained of all colour, blood pulsing from gashes to both wrists. Fearon’s steel-grey eyes were open and trained on the door. The last thing he saw and heard before his eyes fluttered closed was a pair of squeaky uniform boots rounding the corner as the door opened inwards.

  ‘Oh fuck!’

  The prison officer wearing those boots slammed his fist against a red button on the wall, sounding the alarm. He took out his radio to report what he’d found, his action resulting in immediate lockdown. And suddenly all hell broke loose as officers ran towards the wing from every direction, yelling and herding the cons back to their cells, summoning medics to the shower block.

  Hearing the commotion, Martin Stamp, Jo Soulsby and Emily McCann abandoned their meeting and came out to investigate. In the recreation area, inmates were arguing with jailers. Emily understood why. Following any emergency situation or security threat there was always an enquiry: questions asked, fingers pointed, blame apportioned. Prisoners could find themselves banged up in their cells for hours on end.

  A giant of a young man Emily didn’t recognize was reluctant to leave. In no mood to be pushed around, he squared up to a rookie officer, shoving him hard against the wall. Within seconds, the prisoner was pinned to the deck, his arm twisted behind his back as half a dozen uniforms rushed to their colleague’s aid.

  Seeing one of their peers so easily overpowered and restrained, other inmates who’d been on the verge of making a fuss thought better of it. They shuffled away to their cells, craning their necks to see what was going on, moaning about rough treatment and the untimely interruption to their daily routine.

  Following the direction of their gaze, Emily rushed towards the shower block, heart kicking hard inside her chest. She pulled up short when she reached the open door.

  Walter Fearon was lying on the wet tiled floor, stark naked, so still she was sure he was dead. Emily tried to speak but no words came out. She looked away, trying to focus on something other than the pool of deep red blood surrounding him. Fearon’s prison blues were folded in a neat little pile in one corner of the steamy room. A pair of worn black plimsolls placed neatly on top reminded her of the ones she had worn at school.

  She looked back at the lad.

  He had multiple injuries on his muscular body, the majority of them self-inflicted. In his right hand he was holding an improvised scalpel: a toothbrush with a razorblade melted into the end.

  The sight of it made her shiver.

  Movement . . .

  Fearon’s eyes fluttered open and shut as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Instinctively, she moved towards him, kneeling down at his side as others arrived at the door . . .

  ‘It’s OK, Walter,’ she whispered.

  ‘Emily, no!’

  Senior Officer Ash Walker’s tone was fierce enough to stop her dead in her tracks. Emily’s hand froze in mid-air as she reached out to touch the bleeding prisoner. Walker rushed to her side, kicking the weapon from Fearon’s fingers, at the same time pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, the significance of which she understood.

  Was the risk of HIV the reason why the officer who’d found him hadn’t stayed around to offer assistance? At least tried to stem the blood? Do something.

  God Almighty! Where was his compassion?

  Emily backed away leaving Walker checking for a pulse. Of all the scenarios she’d imagined, this had never crossed her mind. She felt guilty now for having discussed the prisoner with Jo Soulsby and Martin Stamp, even though everything she’d said about him had been true. Fearon was a dangerous young man. But was it any wonder? From an early age he’d been systematically and brutally abused, both physically and emotionally. The transition from child victim to high profile offender was almost inevitable, sadly.

  He wasn’t born that way: he’d been made like it.

  He’d endured an upbringing of horror beyond imagination.

  But why had he cut himself now when release was imminent?

  In her darkest hour, Emily had contemplated suicide. Only Rachel had stopped her from taking such drastic action. Fearon had no one. It occurred to her that he didn’t want to get out. That the prison afforded him order: food, warmth, a roof over his head – basic requirements the rest of us took for granted. But then so would the hostel she’d arranged for him. Still, when you’d been inside for a lengthy period, change was unsettling.

  She looked up as a medic was bundled into the room to revive him.

  His escort, Officer Bill Kent, arrived by her side, taking in the bloody scene. For a moment, Emily mistook his silence as distress. Glancing to her left, she was taken aback by his indifference. Kent’s eyes were ice cold and unsympathetic, full of loathing, not pity. Not an ounce of concern for a young man’s life. When he spoke, his words rendered her speechless.

  ‘Let the nonce croak,’ he said. ‘The bastard won’t be missed.’

  8

  DCI KATE DANIELS gave the go ahead for the victim’s body to be removed from the dunes, plus two metres of earth around it in order to preserve any forensic material that may have been accidentally dropped at the scene. Forensic anthropologist Abbey Hunt had arrived with a couple of assistants in tow. They were fresh from another ‘dig’ that had turned out to be no more sinister than a set of ancient bones unearthed by a JCB on a building site.

  Listening to her describe her day brought to mind a call Kate had received the previous February following the discovery of human remains beside a medieval tower in a different part of the county. It had caused quite a stir at the time. But foul play was quickly ruled out, and the Murder Investigation Team stood down soon after. She later learned that the bones had been radiocarbon dated. According to the council’s archaeological team, they had given a fascinating insight into the area’s history.

  Hoping for some ‘fascinating insights’ of her own, Kate studied the ground beneath her feet. It was now marked out in a complicated grid system she and Abbey had agreed upon before work commenced. There were all manner of archaeological tools to hand: a tarpaulin for holding sand already sifted, trowels, brushes and Ziploc bags for any foreign bodies that may or may not turn out to be evidential material she would later use in a court of law.

  Abbey had loads of experience of working with the police. She was fifty-three years old, a formidable figure who didn’t suffer fools lightly. She preferred to work with the minimum of people breathing down her neck and w
as directing operations in her inimitable way, her tone reserved and businesslike, her attention to detail second to none.

  The crime scene was in the very best of hands.

  So why did she look so worried?

  ‘Abbey?’ A camera flash lit up the tent, blinding Kate momentarily. ‘Abbey, is everything all right?’

  ‘No, it bloody isn’t!’ The woman stopped combing a mound of rough grass from around the skull area. A black beetle made a run for it as she stood up, arched her back and crossed her arms. ‘You want the bad news or the really, really bad news?’

  Kate, who hated games, waited for her to continue.

  ‘In their present state these dunes are highly unstable.’ Abbey swept her hand out. ‘This whole area could collapse at any moment. As a result, I need to extricate these bones much quicker than I’m comfortable with, which is like asking a tortoise to move like a cheetah. I’m hardly built for that, am I?’

  It was a rhetorical question.

  Not expecting an answer, Abbey ploughed on. ‘I prefer daylight, to be perfectly honest. Things get missed in artificial light . . .’ Glancing at the CSI photographer, the archaeologist pushed her glasses up on to the bridge of her nose. ‘Leave that, please! Can you step outside a moment? I need a quick word with your SIO.’

  When Abbey said ‘jump’, people usually asked: How high?

  The photographer made himself scarce.

  As soon as he’d cleared the tent, the scientist turned to Kate, an inscrutable expression on her face. Whatever she had on her mind was obviously better said in private.

  Kate suspected it wasn’t going to be good.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  ‘There’s a discrepancy between what you thought you saw and what’s actually here, Kate.’ Abbey swept a gloved hand out towards the corpse. ‘This body is not what it seems.’

  ‘It’s male?’ Kate asked.

  ‘No, you got the gender right. Let me show you something . . .’ Beckoning the DCI nearer to the corpse, Abbey used the tool in her hand to move a fragment of red-and-white material away from the lower abdominal area. ‘The width of the pelvic bones are a dead giveaway. They’re much wider in females to facilitate childbirth. Not that this poor unfortunate will ever have children of her own. I’m sorry to have to rain on your parade, but what’s left of the clothing and pearls around her neck aren’t age appropriate . . .’ Abbey pointed at the sandy high-heeled shoe on the ground near the body. ‘And that definitely isn’t.’

  ‘It’s a kid?’ Kate knew the answer even before she’d asked the question.

  ‘No more than ten years old, I’d say.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure? I thought it was tricky determining age.’

  ‘Not so much in children. I can tell from the skull mainly. I’ll do some further tests at the lab. Without getting too technical, it’s all to do with calcium and mineral deposits that form the bones. That’ll determine her age for sure. With the aid of X-rays I’ll be able to give a very accurate prediction. Look here . . .’ Using a soft brush Abbey dusted loose sand away from a perfect set of teeth. ‘See, little evidence of wear or dental decay.’

  Kate hoped that in due course an odontologist would be able to give her an identity for the child. But that wasn’t something she could confidently rely on. In any event, it might take weeks or even months before a match was found. In the meantime, it was gratifying to have Abbey’s expertise on board.

  ‘I’d better get on.’ Abbey pointed at the entrance to the tent. ‘Your colleague can come in again now.’

  Kate nodded and stepped outside.

  Her crime scene photographer was frozen. He was standing with his back to the biting wind, collar pulled up around his ears, fag in one hand, hot drink in the other. The light was fading as they re-entered the tent. But before he’d even got started, the ground beneath him gave way and he toppled over, almost landing on the corpse.

  Hunt went ballistic. ‘Get him out of my bloody crime scene!’

  Apologizing – although technically it wasn’t his fault – the photographer scrambled to his feet, sand dropping off his clothing and landing all over the place, giving the scientist even more cause to rebuke him. Simultaneously, they turned toward the DCI complaining about each other. But Daniels was otherwise engaged, staring at the area of ground her CSI colleague had just vacated – her worst nightmare staring back at her.

  ‘Hold it! Hold it!’ she yelled.

  Abbey and the police photographer froze, their focus switching to ground level. To the right of the skeleton being excavated there was a size-ten footprint where the photographer had fallen and two projectiles sticking out of the ground.

  With or without skin, Kate knew fingers when she saw them.

  9

  ONCE PRINCIPAL OFFICER Ted Harrison got going there was little anyone could do to shut him up. The man was holding court with representatives of no fewer than four departments sitting in a semi-circle round his desk. The meeting, scheduled to last just forty-five minutes, had already been going on for the best part of an hour.

  The room itself was stuffy, littered with used coffee cups, the remains of a packet of digestive biscuits, empty water bottles. Prisoner profiles lay in untidy heaps on the floor, along with psychological assessments, parole dossiers and sentence-planning reports. Casting her eye over the mess, Emily McCann felt guilty. Her colleagues were exhausted, itching to draw the meeting to a close. She wanted to go home too but as soon as the day’s business was concluded, casting caution aside, she’d dared to criticize one of Harrison’s men, tackling the thorny subject of Officer Kent – specifically his attitude towards inmate Walter Fearon following his suicide attempt.

  As she waited for a response, her attention strayed to the PO’s desk where a hefty document had been pushed to one side. Her eyes scanned the title page: Amanda Drake: Punishment v Rehabilitation – Both Sides of the Argument.

  Yeah right, Emily scoffed.

  Harrison was incapable of seeing both sides of anything. As flexible as a steel girder, he was a patronizing, self-opinionated bully. Someone who liked the sound of his own, very loud, voice. Sensing that a sermon was imminent, Emily fixed him with a glare and got in first.

  ‘This is not Abu Ghraib, Ted. Fearon is entitled to as much protection as any other prisoner. Deal with Kent or I will take it further.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, Emily, I do . . .’ Harrison paused. His mouth was smiling but his eyes were not. Placing his elbows on the desk, he linked his hands in front of him and rested his chin on top of them. ‘You’re making a serious alleg—’

  ‘No!’ Emily hit back. ‘I’m stating a fact. Ask Ash Walker if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Are you trying to make yourself unpopular?’ Harrison asked. ‘Why don’t you go away and think about whose side you’re on. Come and see me again when you’ve given it more thought.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me, Ted. I—’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Harrison said. ‘I’ve worked with Bill Kent for a very long time. He’s not perfect, but then who is? As a matter of fact, he’s a fine officer.’

  ‘Is he now?’ Emily could feel the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘May I remind you we have standards on this wing.’ She thumbed over her left shoulder. ‘Last time I looked at the nameplate on that door, your name was on it. That means it’s your job to ensure they’re upheld!’ She glanced at other staff in the room. ‘Well? It isn’t the first time Kent has stepped out of line, is it?’

  Two of those present avoided her gaze – too bottleless to acknowledge a problem existed – not wanting to get involved. The prison chaplain adjusted his dog collar and looked at the floor. Fortunately for Emily, the woman sitting to his left had more nerve. A probation officer of long-standing, she nodded her head and spoke up.

  ‘She’s right, Ted. For what it’s worth, I also think Bill Kent has a problem.’

  Harrison bristled at the overt challenge to his authority. His views on women were
common knowledge: the prison would be much better off without them. He was in charge of this wing; he’d made that clear often enough. Leaning back in his chair, he looked down his nose at them like a headmaster rebuking a pair of insolent pupils.

  It was a childish game.

  His expression said: toe the line or you’ll be out on your ear.

  The probation officer looked away.

  Harrison turned on Emily. ‘You don’t want to rock the boat on your first day back now, do you?’

  Resolute, Emily made no comment.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He was almost smirking. ‘You want to make a complaint, be my guest.’

  ‘You think I won’t?’ Emily countered.

  ‘You know where to find the guv’nor,’ Harrison said. ‘It’s your call. This meeting is over.’

  10

  EACH VIOLENT DEATH scenario is different: location, motive, modus operandi. Kate Daniels had never worked on two that were the same. Some were straightforward: detected almost immediately. In others, the Murder Investigation Team had a pretty good idea of who might be responsible. All they had to do was put in the legwork to prove it. The rest – thankfully, the minority – were a complete mystery right from the off.

  Kate had the distinct impression that her current case would fall into the latter category. Not only because of the time lapse between burial and discovery, but because the perpetrator had gone to great lengths to mask the victims’ ages. The question she was asking herself was: why?

  Was this a case of human trafficking gone wrong?

  This stretch of coast was remote. A boat could easily sail in unnoticed. Perhaps the girls were foreign. If they were dead on arrival in the UK, maybe someone had buried them in the first accessible spot . . . Except that made no sense. Why would anyone bother when it was so much easier to chuck a body overboard while you were out in deep water?

  Calling the room to order, she was about to start the briefing when Detective Superintendent Ron Naylor suddenly appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a pair of green wellington boots and a three-quarter-length parka jacket covered in fresh snow.