It had been the same with Sara when her parents had died five years before. They had been returning from a holiday when their car slid off an icy road, plunging them into a freezing river. According to the doctor, they would not have known what happened, but it gave Sara sleepless nights for months afterwards.
***
‘We had better find this woman before anyone else is killed,’ Rory said to Keith. Both men were nursing sore heads from the previous night.
So far, they had only drawn blanks. There were no murders attributed to minors, certainly not females, but the team back in London felt, as did Keith, that the number 1 was significant. If Ingrid Bentham had committed a murder as an adult, she would still be in prison, or at least a secure hospital for the criminally insane.
And her fingerprints would have been easily traceable, which concerned everyone. It was assumed that even if there was only a suspicion of wrongdoing as a child, her fingerprints would be on record, but in fact that was subject to the discretion of the department handling the case and the local legal jurisdiction.
Rory thought that there should always be a fingerprint record, but he was aware that there had been a period when the rights of the child, innocent or otherwise, had been paramount. Pure foolishness, he thought, but the rules were the rules.
‘What do you reckon? Think carefully,’ Keith said. He was getting edgy, wanting to get back to London. There was another murder. Keith assumed it was the man he had seen in Gloria’s bedroom that night. He wanted to be involved, and Newcastle was even colder than London.
At least in London, he reasoned, there was always a warm fire in his favourite pub, although he wasn’t much of a drinker nowadays, apart from special occasions such as the night before. He had been in his younger days, but now the bladder could not take the punishment, and the hangovers, mild and quickly dealt with in his youth, played havoc with the migraines that he had become prone to. He knew that his body had seen better days, but apart from the occasional moan, he did not complain.
‘There was a case some years ago. A young boy, nine years old if my memory is correct. He died under suspicious circumstances,’ Rory said.
‘Suspicious, what do you mean?’ Keith asked.
‘There was an old quarry out near where he lived. He was found at the bottom of it. His death was recorded as death by misadventure, but…’
‘What does that mean?’
‘The marks at the top showed scuff marks, as if there had been a tussle of some sort.’
‘Who was involved with the investigation?’
‘I was, but it was some years ago.’ It concerned Rory that it had slipped his mind. His mother had suffered from dementia; he hoped he was not starting to suffer the same condition.
‘How many?’ Keith asked.
‘Thirteen, maybe fourteen.’
‘It’s around the right time. Do you still have your notebook?’
Rory fumbled around in a filing cabinet that was close to his desk. ‘Here it is,’ he said.
‘12 December, 2004. Duncan Hamilton, aged nine, discovered at the bottom of Titmarsh quarry, no suspicious circumstances.’
‘You said it was suspicious,’ Keith reminded him.
‘I’ve just read you the first entry. Later on, we found the scuff marks at the top of the quarry. It was a hell of a drop; the poor kid would have been dead on impact with the ground below.
‘14 December, 2004. Interviewed Charles and Fiona Hamilton, parents of the deceased. One other child, Charlotte, not present.’
‘Not the most enjoyable part of policing,’ Keith said.
‘Not at all, but it comes with the job description.’
‘Do you remember what they said?’
‘In my notes. “Parents distraught. Fiona Hamilton heavily sedated on doctor’s advice. Broached the subject of a possible fight or altercation at the quarry. Charles Hamilton was furious and stormed out of the interview.”’
‘What did you expect?’
‘His reaction was understandable. There they were, coming to terms with their son’s death, and I’m there, casting doubt as to whether it was an accident. Even so, his storming out seemed to be an overreaction.’
‘You persevered?’
‘Had to. If he had been pushed, then it was murder.’
‘15 December, 2004.’ Rory Hewitt referred back to his notes again.
‘“Charles Hamilton stated that his son, as well as the other children in the neighbourhood, often went up to the quarry, although they, or at least his son, had been warned not to.”’
‘Tell a child, especially a boy, and they will want to go,’ Keith said. He remembered his youth. There was a fast-flowing river near his parents’ house. They had warned him about the dangers, but the chance to catch a few fish always drew him there. He remembered that he had almost drowned once as he was attempting to manhandle a fish onto the bank. He didn’t tell his parents, but he never went fishing there again.
‘Exactly, and we were willing to accept the fact that maybe they were playing there, and he had slipped. Ready to accept that the scuff marks were as a result of Duncan attempting to hold on, or someone trying to prevent him falling.’
‘It didn’t end there, did it?’ Keith said.
‘I thought it had. Pursuing other children, possibly raising a case against them for the accidental death of a minor, would have tainted them for life. Young boys do stupid things, believing in their infallibility; most survive, although Duncan Hamilton did not. Maybe they were daring each other to look over the edge. Who knows?’
‘What happened to change your mind about the case?’
‘It’s in my notes. “17 December, 2004. Travelled to the Hamiltons’ house to interview. Charlotte Hamilton, the elder child, was in the front garden.”’
‘And?’
‘She was singing a song.’
‘And the
