Fatal Games: A Kate Daniels Mystery

Dedication

For my very special sons

Paul and Chris

Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Acknowledgements

An Excerpt from Killing for Keeps

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

About the Author

By Mari Hannah

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

THE UNRELENTING DIN beyond his cell door dropped out. It was as if someone had pressed a pause button inside his head. With the signal lost there was silence from within – no yelling, foot traffic, steel doors slamming, keys turning or locks driven home. Those noises were drowned out by the sound of a motorcycle throttling down, changing gear. There was no mistake. He’d heard it many times before. He’d been waiting, praying, to hear it again. If he was any judge, it was around a mile away, heading towards him like a bullet.

She was coming back to him.

Walter Fearon closed his eyes as the flashback began. In his mind’s eye he imagined her as he’d last seen her, sobbing as she left the wing. No furtive glance in his direction. No lover’s kiss goodbye.

Shame that.

He’d been on his knees scrubbing the floor as she approached the exit gate, close enough to reach out and touch her bare legs as she hurried off escorted by one of the screws. The scrawny git had his arm around her too.

That wasn’t on.

No, sir.

Bad news had taken her away, according to his source. The prison grapevine was all well and good but the gen it provided was sketchy. Unreliable. He sucked in a breath, smiling. Good thing he had alternatives.

He had to admit her sudden departure had shaken him up. As the weeks dragged into months, panic had set in. He’d feared she might never return. His heart hammered inside his chest and his hands shook now he knew that not to be the case. He craved her smell. Ached to be close to her. To engage her in a conversation – of his choosing, of course – he was good at the stuff she called manipulation.

Relaxing back on his bunk, he calculated the length of time it would take her to pass through security. He had it down to a fine art. He’d be at the window when she appeared on his side of the perimeter fence. He’d drink her in as she walked across the prison grounds, every step and movement – a couple of hundred metres of poetry in motion. It was time to execute his plan, something spectacular to regain the chick’s attention.

The razor should do it.

WHAT THE HELL were they staring at?

Hadn’t they ever seen a widow before?

Through her dark visor, Emily McCann could feel the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes following her as she skirted the packed car park looking for a vacant space. Keeping her revs steady, applying gentle pressure to her right handlebar, she completed a perfect U-turn manoeuvre, recalling little of the five-mile journey along narrow lanes from home, an isolated cottage in the Northumbrian countryside.

Her mind was on Robert and, to a lesser extent, on her only child. Rachel had begged her to stay home for one more week. But Emily knew that one would’ve stretched to two – two to three – and so on. A further postponement was in no one’s best interests. Let alone hers. She wanted, needed to immerse herself in work.

Stopping short of the gatehouse, she cut the engine and removed her gloves. Pocketing the key, she sat for a moment before pulling her bike on to its stand. Dismounting the machine on shaky legs, she took a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach. A sign on the wall welcomed her back to HMP Northumberland, a Category B prison, the most northerly in England, home to almost a thousand men.

More eyes at the windows . . .

More sympathy . . .

She couldn’t cope with sympathy.

Hesitating then, she was in two minds whether to enter the establishment or climb back on her bike and ride away. That wasn’t really an option. Now more than any time in her life she needed to work – if not for herself, then for Rachel. That thought urged her on, lingered in her head as she approached the gatehouse with a sense of dread, the thick metal chain firmly fastened around her waist feeling heavier than it ever had with each step forward.

Once through the reinforced security gate, Emily removed a numbered tally from the end of the chain, placed it in a chute in the wall and heard it slide into the well beneath. On the other side of a thick glass screen, an officer traded it for a bunch of keys. He smiled politely and went back to his newspaper without a word being exchanged between them.

Attaching her keys to the empty chain, Emily walked away feeling much like she had on her first day at the prison four long years ago: apprehensive, the subject of others’ curiosity, a stranger in an unknown world.

Was the officer in the gatehouse new?

Emily assumed so. She didn’t think she’d seen him before. Or, if she had, she couldn’t recall the encounter. Just as well. She didn’t feel like small talk. Maybe he was too embarrassed to welcome her back for fear she’d lose it in front of everyone. Even people she knew well had dodged her in the street in recent months, darting into shop doorways to avoid a face-to-face encounter, making her feel like a leper when she needed them most.

THE MAJORITY OF prisons are grim. Emily hadn’t noticed how grim until today. Today, the cold steel keys felt strange in her hand as she unlocked the gate to B-wing and took her first tentative steps towards some form of normality. Today she was seeing things in sharp focus, as if doing so for the very first time. Today, as she made her way past officers and inmates going about their business, things were different.

She was different.

When the commiserations were finally over and prison staff had returned to their duties, she shut her office door hoping they’d leave her be. Her desk was exactly as she’d left it on that fateful day: her blue cardigan slung over the back of her chair; the file she’d been reading still open at the same page; the fountain pen Robert had bought her abandoned without its top; a half-empty bottle of water.

Nothing had changed.

Why would it?

Life goes on . . .

For some.

2

THE CALL HAD reached the control room at 9.43 a.m. from a mobile phone. A child playing ‘hunt the dinosaur’ with his father had stumbled upon an exposed skeleton where a section of dunes had broken away and slid on to Bamburgh beach below – a horrific end to what should have been a perfect morning.

‘Definitely human?’ Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels asked.

‘According to first responders,’ DS Hank Gormley replied. ‘Then again, would your average copper know a human from a Stegosaurus?’

Kate laughed.

At a signpost for the village of Bamburgh she left the A1 taking the B road towards the coast. It was a better road in her opinion than one she could’ve taken a few miles back – which meant she was approaching the coastal village from the north side.

Her new Audi Q5 handled well as they passed through the small hamlet of Waren Mill along a winding country road bathed in winter sunshine, a nature reserve and the sweeping sands of Budle Bay on their left.

The car picked up speed, climbing gently now.

Hank had gone quiet. Kate didn’t need to turn her head to know that he was fast asleep. He could nap at a moment’s notice, on a clothes line if he had a mind to. She smiled, keeping her eyes on the brow of the hill, anticipating the glorious view on the other side. She’d seen it many times before and yet it still took her breath away. And there it was – Bamburgh Castle – rising majestically out of the ground on which it stood, a sight of power and beauty, its distinctive red sandstone walls impenetrable to the enemy without, the royal seat of the Kings of Northumbria in days gone by.

Flinching as a bird flew across her windscreen, Kate slowed on the outskirts of the village to observe a thirty-mile-an-hour limit. There were buildings on her right. Some fairly flash houses. The Grace Darling Museum with an RNLI flag on top. Dropping a gear, she turned left into The Wynding and drove downhill past some large seaside villas, one particular art deco example catching her eye.

An overhead sign came into view, a warning: MAX HEIGHT 6'11" – 2.1 MTRS. And another sign: NO OVERNIGHT PARKING.

There would be tonight.

The car park beyond was a piece of pot-holed rough ground with a mound of grass in the centre but no vehicular access on to the beach. It was full of police vehicles, CSI vans, a couple of Area Command pandas and search teams waiting for instructions.

As Senior Investigating Officer it was Kate’s job to direct operations, tell them exactly how she wanted them to proceed.

She sighed, steeling herself for a long shift.

She’d planned a rare half-day – a swim and a sauna – then dinner with her old man on his birthday at the Black Bull in Corbridge, the Tyne Valley village where she grew up. Secretly she was pleased she had a good public excuse to cry off. Ed Daniels couldn’t argue with that, though she was sure he’d try. She’d fled their last birthday celebration – hers – for much the same reason. Only that wasn’t strictly true. In order to avoid a confrontation she’d used the excuse of being needed at the office, leaving him to finish his dinner alone.

A blustery wind whipped around the car as it came to a halt, shaking it like a toy. A man and a small boy Kate assumed were her witnesses were sitting together in a four-by-four with police insignia on its side. The child had a mop of blond hair and striking blue eyes. His face was pushed up against the window, staring out at her.

A podgy little hand appeared, waving.

Waving back, Kate turned away. She’d interview the boy and his father later.

The detectives got out of the car, put on their coats and walked the short distance down on to the beach where clumps of rotting seaweed rolled like tumbleweed in a desert landscape. This part of the Northumberland coast was stunning but unforgiving too, completely open to the elements. They had to shade their eyes from a sheet of sand being whipped along the shoreline, making wave-shaped ridges on the surface beneath their feet.

A large section of the beach had been taped off to keep the public out, an outer and inner cordon already in place. The crime scene itself was dwarfed by Bamburgh’s fortified ancient castle, inhabited to this day. Built on a plateau of volcanic rock, the magical castle had inspired many a film director to shoot there. But Kate Daniels was less enthused by the isolated location. This exposed stretch of coastline was more often than not deserted. If it was a human skeleton, whoever had buried the body there had chosen the spot carefully. She knew she’d have her work cut out to crack this case.

‘DCI Daniels?’ an officer in uniform had fixed his eyes on Hank Gormley.

Wincing, Hank pointed at Kate.

Realizing his mistake, the PC blushed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am—’

‘So you should be . . .’ She was pulling his leg. ‘Don’t let it happen again.’

Relieved at having been let off the hook so easily, the constable lifted the police tape allowing the detectives to duck underneath. Kate scrambled up the dunes to where a tent had been erected, giving her DS a hand up.

Turning when they reached the top, they stood for a moment looking out to sea – a tranquil shoreline with stunning views over the Holy Island of Lindisfarne. A place of pilgrimage and spirituality, a tidal island, accessible only over a causeway, forever at the mercy of strong tides. A draw for visitors from around the world, Christians flocked there in their droves, using the island as a focal point. At school, Kate had studied the island’s long history, learning of Christian martyrs and pagan attacks, developing a fascination with Celtic Christianity.

‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’ she said without shifting her gaze.

Gormley scanned the horizon. ‘Religious significance?’

‘First impressions are often the best ones, Hank. Hold that thought.’

Tread plates marked a single route to the crime scene tent. On this occasion they were probably superfluous but the detectives used them anyway. Showing ID to a uniformed officer guarding the tent, Kate entered first, Hank close behind.

The skeleton inside was without question human. Surrounded by golden sand and tufts of rough grass, it looked as though it had been carefully placed there, not just dumped in a hole and covered up. It was partially exposed: lying face up, arms bent at the elbows and crossed over the chest, one bony hand resting on top of the other. Some clothing was intact, a flash of red polka dots, a sandy necklace, a high-heeled shoe.

‘Not prehistoric then,’ Gormley said.

‘No . . .’ Kate looked at her watch, then back at her DS. ‘There’s nothing we can do here until Stanton turns up. Summon the squad and give the Super a ring. Tell him I’m setting up an incident room at Alnwick station. If the clothing remnants are anything to go by, the remains are relatively recent.’

As Hank pulled out his phone to make the call, Kate glanced at the skeletal remains. With no detailed physical description of the deceased to go on, she had the uneasy feeling that this case would run and run.

3

EMILY MCCANN SPENT the morning going through a pile of case notes that had been left on top of her filing cabinet. She was almost up to speed, having paid careful attention to the new and, by definition, vulnerable inmates who’d arrived at the establishment in her absence. Their sentences ranged from just a few years to life imprisonment, covering a variety of offences: robbery, arson, rape and murder among them.

As resident psychologist, Emily was responsible for the whole of the prison population – staff as well as prisoners. Just over a year ago, her office had been moved from the admin block to B-wing, a sensible decision given that it housed some of the most dangerous offenders, the troublemakers and downright disturbed. There was a downside. Although directly responsible to the prison governor, Emily now had to contend with another man, Principal Officer Harrison.

Pushing that unpalatable thought aside – she hadn’t seen Harrison since Robert’s death – Emily set about prioritizing the most urgent cases. Making a list of those she wanted to call up for interview, she filed the rest away and made herself a cup of tea. Then sat back down to concentrate her efforts on one particular inmate, a young man serving seven years for the rape of a woman old enough to be his grandmother.

Emily felt sick.

It had nothing to do with Walter Fearon’s heinous crime or the prison governor’s insistence that she treat him as top priority on account of his impending release. Letting a dangerous offender back on the streets was deeply troubling and required careful handling but that was not the cause of her nausea. No, the wave of grief came out of the blue – a panic attack – the first that morning. She knew there would be others. Despite her best efforts to suppress them, there was no escape, no rhyme or reason, rarely any warning. That was the way it was. The way it had been since Robert had been snatched from her so unexpectedly.

She wept, quietly at first, then in huge sobs as the floodgates opened. She wasn’t the only one struggling to cope. Poor Rachel had fallen spectacularly apart since her father’s death. She’d clung on to Emily before she left for work, terrified to let her out of her sight. Her moods were getting worse, her anger more potent. Her stubborn refusal to accept Emily’s suggestion that it was time to move on with their lives had led to hurtful accusations and emotional blackmail designed to stop her mother doing just that.

Emily wanted to feel again. She wanted to function in the real world, not merely exist as a punchbag, a target for her daughter’s fury. If the truth were known, returning to work had been her escape, her route to salvation from the nightmare of bereavement. But she was, first and foremost, a mother. Leaving Rachel alone was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do.

But was her daughter right?

Was it too soon to return to work?

Emily didn’t feel ready to face the harsh reality of such a taxing job within the suffocating walls of a prison. Maybe she never would be again. But what alternative did she have?

She was the breadwinner now.

She had to start sometime.

Wiping a tear from her cheek with the palm of her hand, she forced her grief away and focused on the file in front of her. An hour later, as satisfied as she could be that a probation hostel afforded at least half a chance of keeping tabs on Fearon, she picked up her pen and signed her name to his discharge report.

He’d had his chance.

She’d tried, without success, to unpick his history and modify his behaviour. To demonstrate how different choices might have altered his path in life. She’d been wasting her breath. Despite all the work she’d put in, he’d steadfastly refused to take responsibility for his actions or show a willingness to cooperate in his sentence planning. If anything he’d got worse in prison. He was stronger and more dangerous than he’d been on reception. One thing was certain: he’d be back.

4

TAKING HIS PHONE from his pocket, Hank Gormley swore under his breath when he saw there was no network signal. It didn’t surprise his DCI. Kate Daniels had worked in Northumberland long enough to know that mobile coverage this far north could never be guaranteed.

‘I’m going to have to find a phone.’ His face brightened. ‘We could try the Lord Crewe.’

‘Or wait ’til we get to Alnwick?’ Kate wasn’t buying a visit to the nearest pub.

‘Boss, I’m busting for a pee!’

They turned their faces from the next gust of sand-blasting wind.

Hank blinked, closing one eye. ‘How long would I need to lie down before this lot covered me up, d’you think?’ He pointed at his shoes, specifically at the thick layer of sand that had formed on the uppers. ‘Maybe Ms or Mrs Bones in there was doing a bit of bronzing and stayed too long. Could be natural causes, couldn’t it? Wind blows, covers her up. No one comes along for weeks and hey presto! She could’ve lain undiscovered for years, never to be seen again.’

‘That’s the most rubbish theory I ever heard!’

‘Why so?’

‘She’s not wearing any sunnies,’ Kate said.

‘Clever! Why didn’t I think of that?’

‘Because you’re rubbish?’ she teased.

They walked back to the car park. Kate was surprised to see the police four-by-four still parked up. A chubby hand reappeared at the window. The little boy attached to it looked frozen now. His shoulders were hunched. His lips, blue. At a rough estimate, he’d been sitting there for a couple of hours at least.

Cursing under her breath, Kate turned to the sound of chattering radios. There was a muddle of bodies to her left, all wearing uniforms. The nearest one binned her cigarette when she saw the DCI heading towards her pointing at the police vehicle.

Kate wanted to punch the dozy cow. ‘Who’s supposed to be looking after my witnesses?’ she asked.

The PC’s expression was blank. ‘Er, not sure, ma’am.’

‘Well find out! And when you have, tell them to shift their lazy arses and get their act into gear. I want that child and his father transported to Alnwick police station and given something to eat and drink immediately. They just found a body, for Christ’s sake!’

The policewoman hurried off.

Rolling her eyes at Hank, Kate got in the car, started the engine and turned left out of the car park heading back towards the village.

There were no parking spaces outside the Lord Crewe on Church Street so she carried on driving with the village green on one side, a short row of pretty cottages, galleries and gift shops on the other – the Copper Kettle Tea Room among them. Not far away, a Japanese tourist was taking a photograph of a traditional red phone box with his mobile. The group he was with were looking through the window of the Old Pantry, a deli Kate knew sold delicious goods like onion marmalade and Francesca’s Figgy Pear Relish, her late mother’s favourite.

‘Fancy stopping at Carter’s for a pork growler?’ Gormley asked.

‘Thought you were dying for the loo?’

‘Doesn’t mean I’m not hungry.’

Hank could always eat, no matter what time of day or night it was. It made no difference if they were, or had recently been, viewing fresh blood and guts or a corpse crawling with maggots. Nothing came between him and his food.

Giving in to his plea for sustenance, Kate stopped further along the road at the Mizen Head Hotel, a place to warm up, grab a quick coffee and make some urgent calls. As Hank went off to find the Gents, her ears pricked up as a woman at the bar recounted a developing weather situation to the big guy serving her. There was no sign of it through the window but snow was apparently moving in from the north, forecast to last several days. A Met Office severe weather warning had been issued.

That was not good news.

Northumbria force covered a wide area. Bamburgh was about as far from its centre as it was possible to get. The high-tech murder investigation suite in Newcastle was fifty-odd miles away, an hour and a quarter by road. Unbelievable though it seemed in the twenty-first century, numpty politicians hadn’t yet recognized the need to dual the A1 through the border regions to Scotland. From Kate’s point of view, that made it too far away to function effectively as an operations base from which to run a case, particularly in winter. The weather here could change in minutes. She couldn’t expect detectives working extended shifts to spend an additional three hours on treacherous roads between home and office.

Returning to the table with a latte for her and a pint of John Smith’s for him, Hank sat down, taking in her disapproving look. ‘What?’ he said. ‘I’m only having the one!’

‘Did I say anything?’

‘You didn’t have to. What’s up?’

Kate nodded towards the bar where the prophet of doom was telling her growing audience that the blizzards currently engulfing Berwick were heading their way.

Hank listened in for a moment, then turned to face Kate. ‘You think we should get digs?’

She nodded. ‘Seems sensible. Local boys will be on house-to-house eventually. There’ll be nowt doing until we hear from Stanton. We’ll be kicking our heels a bit, but we can get an incident room up and running while we wait. Drink up, we’d better get moving.’

5

CONCERNED ABOUT THE threat Fearon posed to the general public, Emily called the manager of the hostel who had reluctantly agreed to take him on release, gave a précis of her report and then hung up.

Through her barred window, dark clouds gathered on the horizon, matching her mood. Shutting her eyes for a moment transported her back in time to the last occasion she’d sat there looking out. It was a memory so vivid she could almost feel a warm summer breeze on naked arms through the narrow opening, smell the scent of flowers being blown across the prison grounds.

The gardeners had worked well that year. The raised beds were awash with colour, softening the austere buildings. It never ceased to amaze her how such able young men could waste their lives in places like these.

A gentle knock on the door pulled her from her reverie.

She looked round as the handle turned.

Psychiatrist Martin Stamp reversed into her office with coffee in both hands, a smile creeping over his handsome face as he caught sight of her. On a year’s secondment from the Home Office, he was conducting research into the dangerousness and treatment of life-sentence prisoners with another of Emily’s closest friends, criminal profiler, Jo Soulsby, who had followed him into the room. Because their work was strictly confidential, they were using her old office in the admin block, well away from prying eyes. She’d called them to B-wing because she wanted their help.

Jo walked round the desk to Emily’s chair, bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek, patting her back gently, acknowledging the tough day she must be having. Taking a chair by the window, she sat down, crossing her very long legs. ‘There’s hell on in Walker’s office,’ she said.

Emily looked past her to the open door as Stamp kicked it shut.

He grinned at her. ‘She’s right. He’s giving Kent a right dressing-down. You should see his face!’ Handing Jo a coffee, he held the other up to Emily. ‘Want this? I can nip out and get another.’

Emily shook her head as he took off his jacket and made himself at home. She’d been so engrossed in her work she hadn’t noticed the row building in the office beyond. But now her colleagues had mentioned it, she realized she had heard something. It just hadn’t registered on her radar. Muffled angry tones or even full-blown raised voices were not unusual in prison. What might have worried her once had become commonplace over time. She’d learned not to react to every yell, every fight, and there had been a fair few of those in recent years.

Leaving her desk, she opened the door and peered out. The area directly outside her office doubled as a recreation room. A wing cleaner dressed in prison blues was mopping the floor. Another was placing a triangular sign by the gated entrance warning those entering that the surface was wet. They were giggling like a couple of five-year-olds over the heated exchange taking place in the wing office further down.

Emily’s eyes followed their interest . . .

In a room no bigger than ten by twelve, a prison officer was standing to attention, feet slightly apart, hands linked behind his back. Facing him, Senior Officer Ash Walker, an attractive man in a pristine uniform, stared him down, an angry expression on his face.

Wondering why he was in such a state, Emily returned to her desk, focusing her attention on Stamp. If anyone knew what the story was, he would.

‘Any idea what’s going on?’ she asked.

‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said.

Emily pulled a face.

‘I don’t!’ he declared. ‘I’m a psychiatrist, not a mind-reader.’

It was an old joke. Nevertheless, Emily grinned. She’d known Stamp for years. He’d been a brick since Robert died, holding her hand, both literally and figuratively, trying his best to fill the void – resented by her daughter for his trouble.

Rachel could sulk for England sometimes.

‘You OK, Em?’ As well as a good friend, Jo was an astute psychologist attuned to the sudden change in Emily’s mood. ‘Not worried about anything, are you?’

Emily blushed, realizing she’d left the room temporarily and arrived someplace she’d rather not be. A regular occurrence she could ill afford now she was back at work.

Concentrate.

‘I’m fine,’ she said.

The other two weren’t buying her bullshit.

‘I am! It’s just strange being here, that’s all.’

Taking a Daim bar from his pocket, Stamp ripped off the wrapper and bit into it. ‘Had to bribe a prisoner for this,’ he said. ‘Canteen was closed. Paid double for it, too. Friggin’ daylight robbery. Who says crime doesn’t pay?’

‘You should know better,’ Emily scolded. ‘If Harrison gets wind of it he’ll have you out of here quicker than you can say P45.’

B-wing’s Principal Officer was a formidable figure who ruled his kingdom like a dictator. Harrison was not a man to mess with. Main-grade officers referred to him as ‘God’ behind his back, though never to his face. Ex-military, he’d swapped one institution for another – big fish, little sea – a moron with no respect for inmates or civilian staff. If you weren’t wearing a uniform, your views didn’t count. The next time he smiled would be a first. Martin Stamp was the exact opposite, the consummate professional with a wicked sense of humour and a complete disregard for rules and regulations.

‘Come on then, spill.’ He screwed up the sweet wrapper and lobbed it towards the bin. It missed by a metre. He didn’t bother picking it up. ‘What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait ’til lunchtime?’

‘Walter Fearon . . .’ Emily pushed a prison record across her desk. ‘I’m calling a pre-release case conference. I’d appreciate your input. He’s due out in two weeks and the receiving hostel need to know who they’re dealing with.’

Jo reached for the file.

Stamp shot a hand out and got there first.

Opening the front cover, he studied the contents carefully, his eyes sliding over a long list of sexual offences, each one more serious than the one before. He turned a few pages, his brow creasing as he took in her final handwritten note. Closing the file, he handed it to Jo, keeping his eyes on Emily. ‘He’s not a prisoner who falls within our remit now, but give him time. He’s a lifer in the making, Em. No doubt about it.’

‘How is he presenting?’ Jo looked up from the file. ‘Is he still in denial?’

Emily shook her head. ‘Anything but.’

‘He’s not your average sex offender then?’ Stamp butted in.

‘Believe me, there is nothing average about Walter Fearon,’ Emily replied. ‘He relishes the opportunity to talk, to shock. Oh no, Walter isn’t at all shy. The more detailed he can be about what he’s done, the better he likes it. This guy makes Hannibal Lecter look like a charity worker. He may look and even act like a wimp on occasions, but he’s no such thing – especially where women are concerned. In my view he still needs intensive therapy. I agree with Martin. He’ll kill his next victim.’

6

ALNWICK POLICE STATION was situated in the market town of the same name. The office offered as a temporary incident room was far from perfect. When the DCI complained she was given two choices: take it or sling your hook.

Most of the Murder Investigation Team had arrived and set to work, fixing up the communications, getting the room ready for a new enquiry. Kate didn’t require an archaeologist in the historical sense, but she did need the expertise of a forensic anthropologist to oversee the excavation and determine how long her victim had been in the ground. Before she’d left the crime scene, she’d made it known that she wanted to be present when the body was moved. In the meantime, she’d asked Detective Constable Lisa Carmichael to ring round and see what accommodation was available for her team.

At the height of summer, finding somewhere to stay would have posed a problem. But at this time of the year there would almost certainly be plenty of spare beds. The rest of the squad were already on the phone advising loved ones they wouldn’t be home. There had been no dissent. Even DS Robson – the only detective with a young child at home – agreed to stay local until the enquiry got underway, joking that he’d get a better sleep sharing with a snoring colleague than being prodded by his two-year-old son in the middle of the night.

Various suggestions were thrown in the hat: Hog’s Head, White Swan, Queens Head, hotels conveniently located, not far from the town’s police station. The incident team voted on it, deciding that a B & B might be more practical. As well as offering peace and quiet, it would be less likely to attract the weirdos and groupies who inevitably hung around murder detectives, stifling their ability to do their jobs.

Sitting down at a computer, Lisa Carmichael slipped her warrant card into a slot. She looked different with her hair cut short. It suited her features perfectly, framing her stunning green eyes. Picking up the landline, she dialled out and identified herself. After a very brief conversation, she rang off abruptly, a worried expression on her face.

‘Problem?’ Daniels asked.

Lisa looked up, frowning. ‘Maybe.’

‘No rooms?’

‘Yeah, plenty.’

‘But?’

‘Word’s out already . . .’ Carmichael glanced at