The Murder Wall

by Mari Hannah

  ‘Lucky bastard.’

  Daniels didn’t react to his retort. She knew the poor bugger hadn’t shared intimacy with Stella since the crash. Their relationship would never again resemble married life. He was now Stella’s carer, not her husband, an insufferable situation for them both. Stepping to one side, they watched an undertaker’s van arriving at a speed in the car park with less respect for its occupant than seemed proper. It parked near the back door of the morgue. Two men got out, unloaded a body, then disappeared inside with it.

  Bright’s car was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Can I drop you anywhere, guv? We can talk on the way.’

  Bright shook his head, pointing at a second car approaching. He acknowledged his driver with a wave as he pulled into a vacant space beside the undertaker’s van.

  ‘Anything on the house-to-house?’ he asked.

  Daniels shook her head. ‘Don’t fret, guv. I have everything under control.’

  ‘As I knew you would,’ he said, a look of pride spreading over his face.

  She wanted to ask him outright why he was shadowing her and tell him how his interference made her feel. Then a better question entered her head. ‘You going to tell me why the ACC wants me on this case when he can’t stand the sight of me?’

  Bright moved towards his car, an avoidance tactic if ever there was one. Daniels followed him, hell-bent on getting an answer. As she arrived at the side of the car, he got in and wound down the window. She glanced at his driver, knowing she couldn’t backchat in front of him.

  ‘Then at least let me work both incidents, guv. Sarah’s killer is still out there. We both know he’ll kill again . . .’

  17

  He stared at the scissors he’d used to cut out the faces of the dead ones and thought about how easy it had been.

  His mother had told him never to answer the door to strangers. If her mother had done the same, she clearly hadn’t listened. Jenny’s expression had turned from mild curiosity to terror when he produced the gun. Though why she was so surprised, he couldn’t quite imagine. Hadn’t she known it was coming? Hadn’t he made her feel it? Watching her. Following her. Scaring her half to death.

  He liked it best when they were women.

  Liked it even better when she began to beg . . .

  Like a dog.

  Eyes like saucers as she inched away from him, screaming at first, then begging for mercy, pleading with him – tears running down her cheeks. She’d aged considerably from the image he’d been staring at for as long as he could remember; brown hair faded to washed-out grey, lines around her mouth like a cat’s bum, ugly thin lips no longer smiling at him as they had done for so very long.

  And then?

  Then she began to calm herself, tried talking to him, pleading with him to stop and think about what he was doing – appealing to his better nature.

  Ooops! Problem there . . .

  So he lifted the gun and put her right back in her box. And, give her her due, she wound her neck in like a good little victim – just as he knew she would – until he mentioned his mother’s name and the realization dawned.

  Poor, dear, Jenny.

  That’ll teach her to choose her friends more carefully.

  In his mind’s eye, he still sees her as she used to be. Not as she was when he left her, covered in her own blood – the card sticking out of her cat’s bum – dead eyes searching his face for the answer to a question she didn’t live long enough to ask: what had she ever done to deserve such a sorry end?

  Curiously, not telling her had given him the greatest pleasure of all.

  18

  Barring several emergency vehicles, the country lane was deserted. The darkness was illuminated by flashes of blue light and a felled tree was being hauled from the road by a crane. Soaked to the skin, a paramedic was doing his best to help the female casualty trapped inside. On the other side of the vehicle, under pressure from the medical team to hurry the job along, a fire crew were using cutting equipment to prise open the door, their job made worse by swirling, squally winds blowing red-hot metal fragments high into the air in every direction.

  ‘Talk to me, pet . . .’ The paramedic leaned in through the smashed window of the upturned car. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Jo couldn’t move. Her arms – or was it her legs? – refused to obey her instructions. She must be having one of those dreams again, where she felt like she was awake when really she was asleep. When images weren’t joined up and – no matter how hard she might try – she just couldn’t open her eyes.

  What was that?

  ‘. . . whaaat’s yououour naaaame?’

  There it was again.

  ‘. . . whaaat’s yououour naaaame?’

  Jo was really frightened by the moaning voice and the high-pitched sound that hurt her ears. And she was cold. So very cold. And yet, her head was burning like it was on fire and something warm was crawling diagonally from left to right across her forehead, down and down over her eye and into her ear where it curled up and got bigger until it slithered away again down the right side of her neck to God knows where.

  ‘She’s in a bad way . . .’ someone yelled. ‘You’ve got to get in there now.’

  Who was?

  Jo couldn’t see anyone. She couldn’t see – full stop.

  ‘Hold on, bonny lass . . .’ a voice said. This one had a Scottish accent. ‘We’re going to get you out of there. Before you know it you’ll be buying us a drink at the pub down the road.’

  At last, the metal gave way and they were in.

  Fire officers stepped back to allow the medical team in. Within no time at all they had Jo Soulsby out of the car and on to a stretcher. As critical seconds ticked by, they loaded her through the back door of a waiting ambulance. The senior paramedic worked quickly, placing an oxygen mask over her face and then hooking his patient up to a monitor which suddenly sprang into life.

  Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

  No vital signs.

  Nothing.

  A waiting ambulance driver saw what was happening and slowly moved his hand across his throat. The paramedic scowled at him before attempting resuscitation, even though it seemed pointless.

  19

  Daniels burst through the door to the incident room, her stomach churning on two counts: Bright’s refusal to level with her and the fact that she was in dire need of sustenance. It was time for the evening briefing and she’d been working flat out for the best part of fourteen hours.

  ‘Sorry, sorry . . .’ She held up her hands in apology and looked around the room. ‘I could murder something to eat. Anyone seen Robbo?’

  No sooner had the words left her lips, than DS Robson appeared. He produced a sandwich on a plate from behind his back and presented it to her waiter-fashion, a filthy tea towel draped over his arm.

  ‘Enjoy your dinner, ma’am,’ he said.

  Greedily, Daniels took a big bite before assuming her position at the front of the room. She spoke with her mouth full, wondering what was keeping Gormley.

  ‘Where’s Hank?’

  Blank faces stared back at her.

  ‘OK, let’s get on with it . . .’

  The murder investigation team stopped what they were doing and paid attention. Daniels had no sooner started than the door opened and Gormley crept into the room like a naughty child coming late to assembly. She waited for him to take a seat before scanning the room, finding DC Brown from his crop of strawberry-blond hair.

  ‘Any news on Jo, Andy?’

  Brown shook his head. ‘I’ve tried her home three times. Her office haven’t seen her since late morning.’

  ‘What time’s she due back?’

  ‘She’s not, boss. She saw one client this morning, cancelled everything else and left.’

  Daniels looked at him for a long time. ‘They gave her my message?’

  Brown nodded.

  ‘What about her sons? You manage to get hold of them yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Thom
as is on two weeks’ leave. I’ve got feelers out for James with the welfare department at Sheffield Uni. They’re getting back to me.’

  ‘And Jo’s address is definitely current?’

  ‘According to our records.’

  ‘Check again. Personnel records are rarely kept up to date,’ she reminded him.

  ‘No, she definitely lives there,’ Brown said. ‘I checked with a neighbour. I also took a peek through the letterbox . . .’

  He broke off, a curious look on his face.

  ‘And?’ Daniels pushed.

  Brown looked embarrassed. ‘There are two suitcases in her hallway, boss.’

  Daniels stifled a grin as the squad began to mutter among themselves. She told them to settle down, then began pouring cold water on the implication that Jo Soulsby was about to make a run for it.

  It wasn’t her intention to sound overly dismissive, but somehow it came out that way. ‘Oh, come on, where’s your loyalty? This is Jo you’re on about. Remember her? Intelligent, consummate professional, one of the good guys – our side of the law! If she were guilty, believe me she’d have legged it by now. She’s got nerves of steel, that one. You’ve seen the scum she works with.’

  ‘Yeah, Andy, button it. She’s practically one of us,’ Gormley added. ‘This isn’t an offence carried out in a fit of pique and it’s certainly no domestic. It’s too clinical. In fact, if it turns out a woman is responsible, I’ll show my arse in Fenwick’s window! How’s that for confidence?’

  Lisa Carmichael, sitting at the front, made a derogatory remark about Gormley’s hairy arse being an affront to human decency, especially in the window of Newcastle’s favourite department store. The squad chuckled as Hank feigned a sulk. But all Daniels could think of was two suitcases in a hallway. She moved swiftly on.

  ‘The victim’s mother can’t take us any further. She’s in her eighties and I wouldn’t be surprised if the shock of losing her second son doesn’t finish her off. Monica Stephens bothers me, though. I’m not sure she’s on the level.’

  Brown waved his briefing notes in the air to attract Daniels’ attention. ‘If Monica hails from Rotterdam might there be a drugs connection?’

  ‘I wouldn’t rule that out,’ Daniels said. ‘Or anything else for that matter.’

  ‘I’ll have the drugs squad check it out,’ Gormley said.

  ‘Good idea, Hank. Tell them it’s urgent.’ Daniels headed for the water cooler. She filled a plastic cup and took a sip before continuing. ‘Monica claims she last saw her husband just after seven when he was collected by taxi. The charity dinner was in aid of Kidney Research. Apparently his brother died of acute kidney failure years ago and he’s been fund-raising ever since. Is there any progress on that list?’

  Carmichael spoke up. ‘I managed to track down a man called Michael Fitzgerald, the MC at the dinner. He confirmed that Stephens did turn up. It was a big do by all accounts, with some very high-profile guests. I’ve got Fitzgerald compiling a list of everyone who was there.’

  ‘He’s taking his bloody time about it,’ Daniels said.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ Carmichael picked up the phone. ‘I’ll get on to him again.’

  Daniels took another drink, perched herself on the edge of a desk and looked at the tired faces of her team. She couldn’t afford to take her foot off the pedal for a second.

  ‘OK, tomorrow morning I want you all in here at seven o’clock sharp. By lunchtime I want to know who Stephens sat with at the dinner, who he talked to, what time he left the Weston and his mode of transport home.’

  The door to the incident room opened. A uniformed officer entered, apologizing for the interruption. She made a beeline for Robson. His eyes grew big as she passed him a note. It was the news he’d been waiting for: a message to say that his wife had gone into labour. Robson quickly got to his feet, announcing that he was about to become a father for the very first time. Daniels watched him struggle to put on his jacket.

  ‘Just a minute,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘Where the hell d’you think you’re going?’

  Robson’s jaw dropped. He stopped grinning.

  Daniels waved him away. ‘Only kidding, you idiot! Go on, get out of here.’

  Before she’d even finished speaking, Robson was tripping over his own feet in the rush for the door. Then, realizing he’d left his mobile and his car keys on the desk, he ran back into the room to find them.

  Daniels shook her head and turned to Gormley. ‘Hank, you’d better drive him. He’ll never make the hospital.’

  20

  On the high-dependency unit, Jo Soulsby lay motionless in bed, her head heavily bandaged, her face covered with abrasions. Sandra Baker, a pretty nursing sister, was checking a drip at her bedside. Jo opened her eyes ever so slightly. The nurse’s image was blurred. It faded away to nothing as she drifted back to unconsciousness.

  Hours later – or was it days? Jo couldn’t possibly tell – she was wading through a confusion of thick muddy memories when a hand gently stroked her arm. Then came a voice . . . it sounded familiar, but Jo wasn’t altogether sure to whom it belonged.

  ‘Can you hear me? Mum?’

  Tom Stephens’ voice seemed faint and far away. Jo felt like she was being hauled back to consciousness through a keyhole. She opened her eyes, straining to focus. All she could see was a dark shadow looming above her, then little by little a profile began to register. Her eldest son was tall and blond with a tanned complexion and a striking resemblance to his father. He took her hand and looked deep into her eyes.

  Jo’s face was so bruised it was difficult to manage even the faintest smile. Her lips felt rubbery and numb, like she’d been anesthetized by a dentist. Her mouth was parched. She swallowed painfully and tried to answer. The noise that came out sounded nothing like speech.

  ‘Don’t talk . . .’ Tom said. ‘James is on his way. I thought he’d be here by now.’

  No sooner had he uttered the words than the door burst open and – like an uninvited gatecrasher – James Stephens fell through it, stopping dead when he saw the state his mother was in. He was a paler version of Tom: tall, with ashen blond hair tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He threw down his backpack and grinned nervously.

  ‘Some people will go to any lengths to get attention,’ he said.

  Winking at Tom, James leaned over the bed and kissed his mother, cradling her injured face in his hands. Jo pointed at a water jug on the cabinet beside her bed. Pouring a small amount into a glass, he lifted it to her mouth and wiped a dribble from her chin with the sleeve of his jumper. His mother’s voice was hardly audible when she whispered in his ear . . .

  ‘You smell like a brewery.’

  James pointed at his own chest. ‘Moi?’

  Jo nodded, ever so slightly.

  ‘Makes two of us,’ he said.

  Leaving her side to collect a chair from under the windowsill, James shot a worried look at Tom. But by the time he’d returned to Jo’s side, his cheeky smile had reappeared. He placed the chair back to front at the head of the bed, straddled it and leaned forwards, placing his chin on his forearms.

  He looked his mother straight in the eye. ‘Let’s get one thing straight: I haven’t come all this way for a lecture, I get enough of those in Sheffield. I was worried about you. I had a few pints on the train to ease my nerves, that’s all. Now I’ve seen you’re perfectly OK, I promise to remain teetotal for the rest of my days. Deal?’

  But Jo had already fallen into a deep sleep.

  They left a message by her bedside to say they’d be back the following morning, drove home in silence and let themselves in. Tom headed straight for the bathroom. He was bursting for the loo. James went into the kitchen, took off his jacket and threw it over a chair.

  His wallet fell out on to the floor.

  He bent down to pick it up, filled with anger and regret.

  The wallet was lying open, the photograph inside nearly as old as James was – its subject, an imma
culately dressed man about town. He stared at it intently. Other fathers posed with children on their knee dressed in Paddington Bear pyjamas listening to stories to match. Not his. His father was an egotistical megalomaniac, a selfish bastard who didn’t deserve to be in his wallet at all – never had – never would be again. He took the photograph out, tore it into little pieces and threw it in the bin.

  ‘Old girlfriend?’ Tom asked, entering from the hallway, coat still on.

  ‘Something like that.’ James sat down.

  Tom followed suit. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yes I’m OK!’ James sighed loudly. ‘Sorry, I’m knackered. You think the police are aware that Mum had been drinking?’

  A worried look crossed Tom’s face. ‘D’you think she had?’

  ‘Don’t be so naïve!’ James eyed him with disdain. ‘She reeked of the stuff.’

  An uneasy atmosphere descended like a thick black cloud.

  Resting his right elbow on the table, James made a fist with his hand and used it to support his right cheek. Fleetingly, he saw his father – not Tom – on the other side of the table. The image spooked him. He rubbed at his eyes, willing himself to relax. A trick of the light, nothing more; it was getting late. On second thoughts, there was more than a passing resemblance: the hair on the back of Tom’s hands, the shape of his fingers, the line of his jaw, his facial expressions . . . James ran a hand through his hair and yawned, acting cool while a ghost walked over his skin.

  ‘What’s up?’ Tom said, reacting to the intensity of his brother’s stare.

  James looked away, too tired to engage in any meaningful conversation.

  ‘James? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing . . . I was up half the night and some dickhead with a computer game prevented me from getting any shut-eye on the train. I’m off to bed.’

  ‘Not yet, I want to talk about Mum,’ Tom said. ‘She could be in real trouble.’

  ‘Oh, lighten up!’ James put his size elevens on the table, then removed them and stood up, scraping the chair on the hard wooden floor as he got to his feet. ‘Just be thankful she didn’t kill anyone, including herself. It was a fucking accident, that’s all. Things’ll be fine.’