THERE WAS A loud bang as the double doors of Accident & Emergency burst open. Someone yelled at Kate Daniels, telling her she couldn’t use that entrance. It was for medical personnel only. Ignoring them, she took the lift to the mortuary viewing room. When she got there, the body was already on the slab and pathologist Tim Stanton was standing over it.
Guilt wrapped itself around her.
Stanton had been about to go home after carrying out a lengthy autopsy on an unconnected sudden death when this unfortunate and as yet unidentified assault victim passed away, handing her another murder case and him a headache to boot. There was little point in his going home, he told her, only to get hauled straight back by his favourite Senior Investigating Officer.
Kate appreciated that: she needed answers that only he could provide.
He held up five fingers, a sombre expression on his face.
She spoke via the intercom system. ‘Any ID?’ she asked.
‘No, nothing . . .’ he said. ‘Which isn’t a lot of help to you, is it? Dreadful business. Even his mother wouldn’t recognize him.’
Her phone rang: it was Carmichael.
‘I know who he is,’ she said.
EMILY COULD FEEL her bottom lip quivering. Quickly drying her eyes, she turned round. The doctor reminded her of her father: kind eyes behind steel-rimmed specs, cropped hair, almost white, tie a little askew. He looked jaded, like many of the doctors and nurses she’d seen walking the corridors during the hours she’d sat waiting, a watchful WPC close by – sent by Kate Daniels to guard the room and make sure no one entered who didn’t belong there.
‘Is she OK?’ Emily asked.
The doctor nodded. ‘Severely traumatized but in fairly good shape, considering. It appears she was out of it for much of the time, sedated by the man who took her.’
‘Was she . . . ?’ Emily couldn’t bring herself to use the words sexually abused. ‘I didn’t ask, I just couldn’t bring myself.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘And the answer is no. She appears to have been treated well, fed and watered. The damage is more psychological than physical, I suspect. She’s resting now. You should too. It can’t have been easy for you either.’
Emily’s emotions came flooding out.
It was the best possible news . . .
Rachel was OK.
She was OK!
The sound of footsteps made Emily turn round. Kate was standing behind them, a grim expression on her face. She shook hands with the doctor, thanking him for taking care of Rachel. Then she sat down next to Emily and put her arm around her. Emily broke down then, the stress finally getting to her.
The doctor moved off down the corridor.
‘She’s alive, Em.’ Kate hugged her friend.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Emily said.
Kate glanced away briefly. More guilt. She wasn’t here because of Rachel and didn’t quite know where to begin. So she just came right out with it. ‘I have something to tell you, Emily. Martin Stamp is dead. I’m so, so sorry.’
‘What?’ Emily was stunned. She couldn’t take it in. She wanted to know how. Was it a terrible accident? Was he driving? A heart attack? ‘Oh God! This can’t be happening again.’
She continued to throw questions out in quick succession, hardly stopping for breath.
Kate recognized the trauma in her voice. The same shortness of breath she’d witnessed so many times when families of victims were given shocking news. She’d heard it when she’d delivered the death message to the O’Neils. And again, just a few moments ago when she’d done the same to Stamp’s only living relative, a younger sister, herself a doctor. The woman’s world had collapsed when a Cumbrian police officer knocked on her door; refusing to believe that her brother was dead, she had demanded to speak to the senior officer dealing with the case. After a brief telephone conversation with Kate, the woman was now on her way east to identify her brother’s body – what was left of it.
There was no denial from Emily: just blame and self-loathing.
‘He’s dead because of me,’ she said.
‘That’s not the case,’ Kate reassured her.
‘Isn’t it?’ Combing both hands through unkempt hair, Emily clamped her lips together to stop herself from blubbing again. Accepting a tissue, she wiped her tears away and then pressed Kate for more information. ‘You can’t believe this a random killing? You can’t!’
‘I’m not sure what it is,’ Kate said.
But that wasn’t strictly true. She already knew who was responsible for Martin’s death. Walter Fearon hadn’t showed in Sheffield following his release, neither had he used his rail warrant. He’d left the institution with a prison bag containing a change of clothes and a few personal possessions. Crime scene investigators had found evidence that he’d washed himself in a stream close to where Stamp was discovered fatally wounded. Fearon had changed clothes, attempting to bury his bloodstained jeans and jacket. He’d legged it in a hurry, leaving the bag behind, when disturbed by a man out walking his dog. Stamp would’ve died in situ had it not been for the terrier. No doubt about it. His body might have lain undiscovered for months.
Now there was a manhunt going on and Kate was hoping that Fearon’s luck had finally run out.