THEY HAD HARDLY said goodbye when the text came in. Kate reached into her pocket. Instead of pulling out her phone, she pulled out her car keys. Handing them to Hank, she told him to go on ahead and wait for her in the car. As he set off along the narrow winding path through the dunes, she turned towards the advancing sea, her eyes dwelling on the dramatic scenery as she accessed the message she suspected was from Jo.
It was.
DID YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT THE CASE OR NOT?
Kate smiled. About the case. About them. About any bloody thing so long as they were talking and she had Jo’s ear. She wasn’t arsed what the topic was.
Glancing along the strip of sand to her right, she caught sight of Jo about seventy-five metres away. She was making her way slowly off the beach, head bowed, her sole focus the phone in her hand.
Seconds later, she was gone.
On the fringes of the dunes, Kate sat down on a tuft of rough grass. She was about to respond to the message when a second text arrived in the light blue chat box beneath the first.
WHAT’S THE STATUS OF THE ENQUIRY?
Daniels keyed a quick reply: NOT ON THE PHONE. CAN YOU GET AWAY FROM THE PRISON FOR AN HR OR TWO THIS PM?
S’POSE.
I CAN MAKE AN OFFICIAL REQUEST IF THAT WD HELP.
NOT NECESSARY. ANY EXCUSE AND I’M GONE FROM THERE.
OK. ASK FOR ME @ FRONT DESK. I’LL COLLECT YOU.
I STILL HAVE A KEY.
NOT TO ALNWICK NICK YOU DON’T!
DOH! I FORGOT. WILL I BE SHOT FOR NOT HANDING IT IN?
Daniels grinned. I’VE ALREADY TOLD BRIGHT YOU’RE COMING BACK.
There was a short pause: GIVE ME AN HOUR.
JO MADE IT to Alnwick Police Station a few minutes earlier than expected and was escorted upstairs by someone who happened to be entering the station at the same time. She looked amazing in a figure-hugging navy suit; shirt unbuttoned a touch, high-heeled boots – a complete contrast to the dog-walking gear she’d been wearing at the beach.
She sat down beneath the windowsill.
Kate looked outside.
The sun had disappeared and it was beginning to cloud over. More heavy snow was forecast. By the looks of the sky it wouldn’t take long to arrive. It meant a longer stay at the B & B for the whole team, a thought that didn’t exactly fill her with joy. She was about to ask Jo a question when her office door opened and Hank walked in, a mug of tea in his hand.
They got straight down to business.
Jo agreed to work up a profile in an unofficial capacity and was briefed on the case. The more she knew, the better equipped she would be to make a judgement on the type of perpetrator they should be looking for. The only thing Kate omitted was the fact that she had a suspect in her sights.
In truth, there was no hard evidence against John Edward Thompson beyond the knowledge that he was local to the area and liked to dress his victims up. So what if he’d legged it when confronted by a police officer earlier in the day? That didn’t mean he was a candidate for a double murder. They would have to wait until he was picked up to determine that.
‘I requested a comparison on the kids play pearls,’ she concluded. ‘We may have got lucky with the provenance of—’
‘So soon?’ Jo was surprised.
‘Rush job. Plastics expert just confirmed a positive match on all three sets.’
‘Three sets?’ Jo asked.
Kate explained about her own set of pearls. Her hope that they might be a match for those found on Nominal One – the unidentified child who’d been in the ground the longest – and those supplied by a local woman who claimed to have received hers on Coronation Day 1953.
‘Their manufacture and composition is identical,’ she said, before rewinding slightly. ‘Given the killer’s return to the crime scene, it goes without saying that the burial site is crucial. That much was obvious from the moment the second body was unearthed. We’re assuming the offender might have lived or holidayed in Bamburgh at some time in the past.’
‘Do you still have a beat bobby there?’ Jo asked.
Kate shook her head. ‘There used to be a police house in the village, but it’s now in private hands. These days it’s just a case of someone doing a drive-through to show the flag occasionally. Once upon a time we’d have gone to see the collator. By the time he’d had a fag and made himself a cuppa, he’d have recalled every last incident and told us, “I know what this is about . . .” And we’d have been in possession of stuff it would take us months to assemble nowadays.’
‘But you have super-duper computer systems.’
‘They’re only as good as the person who inputs the information,’ Hank told her. ‘Good indexers are hard to come by.’
‘He’s right,’ Kate said. ‘If you use HOLMES in the way it was intended, following all its rules and conventions, then it’s a fabulous tool. But free-text searches don’t actually work very well. If the terms are too broad, you get too many responses. It’s like Google: key in the wrong search criteria and you’re screwed. I’ve raised an action to trace all officers who’ve been stationed in, or had responsibility for Bamburgh in the past. I’m hoping to jog a memory or two.’
‘Retired officers too, I take it?’ Jo said.
Hank nearly inhaled his tea. ‘That’ll not be hard. There’ll only be three of them in the last half-century. Once they get in there, you need a shoe horn to get them out. Salty Sam was there for twenty-odd years that I know of!’
Jo chuckled. ‘Who’s Salty Sam?’
‘Tell you over a pint sometime.’ He paused. ‘You miss having a laugh with us, doing something worthwhile, don’t you?’ He didn’t look at Daniels and therefore had no idea that she’d tuned him out. ‘We miss having you around, Jo. Well, personally I can take you or leave you. But Kate does. Don’t you, boss?’
‘The Coronation was a long time ago . . .’ Kate was thinking out loud rather than addressing the others. ‘Even if the offender was a kid in 1953, he’d have to be over fifty-eight years old by now, if my maths are correct. What do you reckon, Jo?’
Gormley sighed, exasperated with her insensitivity.
‘What?’ Kate realized she’d missed something.
Hank was already staring into space.
‘Forget it,’ Jo said. ‘Wasn’t important.’
‘Will someone tell me?’
Jo carried on as if she hadn’t heard her. ‘I don’t think you’re looking for an elderly male.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Hank asked.
Now they were tuning Kate out.
‘I think it’ll be someone much younger,’ Jo said. ‘The offspring of a recipient of the pearls, or someone who’d been given them to play with, as Kate was.’
‘But therein lies our problem,’ Kate butted in. ‘If we’re looking for a descendant of a female recipient, wouldn’t it be a woman? I mean, what man would want to hold on to a set of cheap plastic pearls? I’m not ruling out a female offender altogether, but I don’t believe a woman was responsible, do you?’
Gormley gave an emphatic: ‘No.’
‘Me either,’ Jo said. ‘But I agree that after the crime scene those pearls are the most significant clue to follow. It can’t be a coincidence that the victims were wearing similar jewellery. Logic would suggest it must mean something to the killer.’
‘Yeah, but what?’ Hank asked. ‘Our crystal ball isn’t working today.’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Jo said. ‘The more we talk about this case, the more inclined I am to think it might involve an act of devotion.’
Hank’s interest grew. ‘Like a sacrifice, you mean?’
‘God, I hope not,’ Kate said. ‘We’ve got enough to cope with.’
‘Sacrifice is not a word I’d care to use,’ Jo said.
‘But you wouldn’t rule it out?’ Gormley pushed.
‘Or in,’ Jo countered. ‘Not yet anyway.’
‘What word would you use?’ Words like tribute and homage barged into Kate’s thoughts. ‘Are you suggesting the crazy bastard is somehow marking his respect?’
‘Nah,’ Gormley screwed up his nose. ‘People lay flowers to mark respect, not dead bodies!’
‘Not if they’re completely unbalanced,’ Jo reminded him.
Running the scenario in her head, Kate picked up her pen and wrote: MO searches: crimes involving any kind of devotion/sacrifice. She looked at Jo, still trying to come to terms with such an outlandish theory. ‘You think these murders were triggered by the long-term effects of separation? A permanent one? A death?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Blimey, you two are fun to be with.’ Hank looked at the SIO. ‘How d’you make that leap?’
‘I’ve been around Jo long enough to have picked up some tips.’
‘Oh yeah?’ He grinned. ‘What tips would they be?’
‘Shut up and concentrate, Hank! There’s a clear parallel here. This is beginning to make sense to me. My pearls were kept for that very reason.’ Registering Jo’s confusion, she added, ‘Long story – my father’s twin sister died shortly after receiving them – I won’t bore you with the details.’
‘I didn’t know Ed had a sister!’
‘Neither did I, until yesterday. We already know that the death of a family member can be completely devastating, psychologically speaking. Remember Makepeace?’ She was referring to a previous murder case where a man had taken revenge several years after the death of his only daughter. ‘Would it make a difference if the bereaved person was very young at the time?’
‘Why?’ Jo asked.
‘No reason.’
‘Then why ask?’ Jo pressed her.
‘It has no bearing on the case,’ Kate sighed. ‘Or maybe it does . . . My dad lost his twin sister when he was four years old. It’s a wonder he remembers her at all. Instead of dealing with it, he buried it. I’m talking figuratively, not literally. You should’ve seen him when he was telling me about it. All these decades later, it’s obvious that he still hasn’t come to terms with it.’
‘It’s not uncommon,’ Jo said. ‘I’m not talking about your father in particular, but kids who lose significant family members can become completely detached, unable to form bonds like the rest of us. The human psyche is complex. Some people withdraw. In extreme cases – rare ones, thankfully – it can lead to the equivalent of mental meltdown. The majority internalize it—’
‘And the minority?’ Hank asked.
‘A tiny percentage may say and do things the rest of us would find abhorrent. A killer’s motivation isn’t always fuelled by hate, Hank. Love is as powerful an emotion. In this context it’s twisted love, but love all the same. For some, the trauma of losing a loved one is so strong they are driven to kill.’
‘Like Nilsen, the Muswell Hill Murderer,’ Hank offered. ‘Weren’t his crimes sparked by loss?’
‘It’s true Nilsen claimed his grandfather’s death sowed the seeds of his psychopathy, but he was a necrophiliac, murdering his victims to feed – no pun intended – his fascination with corpses. I don’t buy his explanation for killing those young men—’
‘I agree,’ Kate said. ‘He was a sexual predator offloading his guilt.’
‘I take it there was no sexual element in this case?’ Jo queried. ‘You never mentioned—’
‘We can’t tell,’ Kate said. The room descended into silence for a while. Then she spoke again. ‘Maybe we are looking for someone exactly like my old man, an adult who was a child when they lost a female family member, someone who later inherited her stuff. Think about it: the demographic of Bamburgh is white, middle class, wealthy . . . elderly. Stop me if this seems too much of a long shot.’
‘No, I think you’re on the right track,’ Jo said. ‘As far as I’m concerned it’s highly plausible. A female recipient dies and the pearls are a reminder of that person – a beloved mother or grandmother perhaps? You said yourself the victims were dressed in adult clothing.’
‘We’d assumed that was done to put us off the scent. To conceal the fact that the victims were kids.’ Kate’s focus shifted to Jo. ‘Maybe we were wrong! Maybe the killer dressed his victims up to look like an adult to replicate the person he’d lost. It’s worth a trawl of parish records, a cross-reference to the names of miners our outside team comes up with.’
Her words hung in the air. The notion that Bamburgh Castle or Holy Island – two of the most revered places in Northumberland – could be some kind of macabre monument to murder stunning them into silence.