left my office . . . He bloody well was! I nearly shit myself.’
As the alarm bell blasted out, Fearon walked away, unperturbed.
Life inside wasn’t so bad.
22
D AY TWO OF the murder investigation had been full on. A sustained information-gathering exercise had begun in earnest with no sign of hangovers from the team or strops from Carmichael after being late to bed and suffering a poor night’s sleep. In the incident room, heads were down, focus exclusively on the job with one aim in mind: to catch those responsible for the unlawful deaths of two little girls.
Kate sucked in a breath and let it out again.
Even with all her years of experience, she was at a loss with this one. She’d contacted the National Crime Faculty requesting a trawlof their database for cases involving bodies buried in sand. It was a long shot, but worth doing.
In the meantime, the DCI had to face facts . . .
Without victim identification, she was totally screwed.
In the absence of any other evidence or intelligence, the crime scene was all she had. Time and again, her mind kept returning to that stretch of dunes. Bamburgh beach was a body deposition site – no more, no less – and, because of the long interval between death and discovery, there was no way of knowing if it was also the attack site, the murder site or just a convenient burial site.
But that was just it . . .
The site wasn’t convenient – not by a long chalk.
Glancing at the murder wall, Kate forced herself to repeat the mantra that all was not lost. At the morning briefing, she’d actioned several lines of enquiry that were, if not exactly bearing fruit, at least throwing up a few possible leads. If the burial site couldn’t help her, maybe offender profiling might. Jo Soulsby wasn’t around to help with that, but after a trawl of the PNC a few local persons of interest had come up.
Two paedophiles in particular had been thrown in the hat by Brown as worthy of attention. This in turn had created a series of other actions for their outside team to deal with. These two individuals were nut-jobs with a bent for dressing their victims up. Along with other relevant data, Brown was now adding their names to the murder wall in thick red pen. They must be traced and, guilty or not, suffer the inconvenience and indignity of closer examination.
Tough.
In the SIO’s opinion, they were both volunteers.
She wondered if they had any links to the village of Bamburgh. Brown had no knowledge of any thus far, so Kate movedon to Carmichael. Her trawl of incidents in and around the area confirmed only what the team already knew to be the case. The pretty coastal village wasn’t exactly the crime capital of Europe. As expected, there had been very few criminal incidents recorded during the relevant years. Lisa was scraping the barrel with only a couple left to check.
It wasn’t looking good.
Undeterred, Kate asked her to go back further still.
What was it about Bamburgh that disturbed her so?
A crime scene was key to any SIO. But in this case it didn’t have the potential to tell her much. Or did it? As she returned to her office, her mind drifted to the view from the dunes: Holy Island. When she’d climbed up from the beach with Gormley yesterday and turned to face the sea, her gut instinct had been that the burial site might in itself be significant. That thought had remained with her ever since. Now she mulled over what might have motivated an offender to bury his victims in that particular spot. Had religion played a part? Or was there some other reason connected to the significance of the location? Maybe one of the archaeologists working on the Bamburgh Research Project could help.
She raised an action on her computer, allocating the task to Lisa Carmichael.
Unlocking the bottom drawer of her temporary desk, Kate pulled out a list Robson had compiled earlier. His efforts had given her a few leads – all of them sad. Missing children whose parents had been in limbo
As the alarm bell blasted out, Fearon walked away, unperturbed.
Life inside wasn’t so bad.
22
D AY TWO OF the murder investigation had been full on. A sustained information-gathering exercise had begun in earnest with no sign of hangovers from the team or strops from Carmichael after being late to bed and suffering a poor night’s sleep. In the incident room, heads were down, focus exclusively on the job with one aim in mind: to catch those responsible for the unlawful deaths of two little girls.
Kate sucked in a breath and let it out again.
Even with all her years of experience, she was at a loss with this one. She’d contacted the National Crime Faculty requesting a trawlof their database for cases involving bodies buried in sand. It was a long shot, but worth doing.
In the meantime, the DCI had to face facts . . .
Without victim identification, she was totally screwed.
In the absence of any other evidence or intelligence, the crime scene was all she had. Time and again, her mind kept returning to that stretch of dunes. Bamburgh beach was a body deposition site – no more, no less – and, because of the long interval between death and discovery, there was no way of knowing if it was also the attack site, the murder site or just a convenient burial site.
But that was just it . . .
The site wasn’t convenient – not by a long chalk.
Glancing at the murder wall, Kate forced herself to repeat the mantra that all was not lost. At the morning briefing, she’d actioned several lines of enquiry that were, if not exactly bearing fruit, at least throwing up a few possible leads. If the burial site couldn’t help her, maybe offender profiling might. Jo Soulsby wasn’t around to help with that, but after a trawl of the PNC a few local persons of interest had come up.
Two paedophiles in particular had been thrown in the hat by Brown as worthy of attention. This in turn had created a series of other actions for their outside team to deal with. These two individuals were nut-jobs with a bent for dressing their victims up. Along with other relevant data, Brown was now adding their names to the murder wall in thick red pen. They must be traced and, guilty or not, suffer the inconvenience and indignity of closer examination.
Tough.
In the SIO’s opinion, they were both volunteers.
She wondered if they had any links to the village of Bamburgh. Brown had no knowledge of any thus far, so Kate movedon to Carmichael. Her trawl of incidents in and around the area confirmed only what the team already knew to be the case. The pretty coastal village wasn’t exactly the crime capital of Europe. As expected, there had been very few criminal incidents recorded during the relevant years. Lisa was scraping the barrel with only a couple left to check.
It wasn’t looking good.
Undeterred, Kate asked her to go back further still.
What was it about Bamburgh that disturbed her so?
A crime scene was key to any SIO. But in this case it didn’t have the potential to tell her much. Or did it? As she returned to her office, her mind drifted to the view from the dunes: Holy Island. When she’d climbed up from the beach with Gormley yesterday and turned to face the sea, her gut instinct had been that the burial site might in itself be significant. That thought had remained with her ever since. Now she mulled over what might have motivated an offender to bury his victims in that particular spot. Had religion played a part? Or was there some other reason connected to the significance of the location? Maybe one of the archaeologists working on the Bamburgh Research Project could help.
She raised an action on her computer, allocating the task to Lisa Carmichael.
Unlocking the bottom drawer of her temporary desk, Kate pulled out a list Robson had compiled earlier. His efforts had given her a few leads – all of them sad. Missing children whose parents had been in limbo
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