The Murder Wall

by Mari Hannah

  ‘The shot that killed Stephens?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Will she make a compelling witness?’

  ‘Should do. She’s a brief with Graham & Abercrombie. D’you know her?’

  Bright shrugged. ‘No. Do you?’

  Daniels shook her head. She rolled up the plan, securing each end with an elastic band. For a split second, Stephens’ body was back on the floor. Daniels put the plan down and let out a sigh. Working hard was one thing; keeping secrets was really taking it out of her. Fortunately, Bright hadn’t noticed her stress.

  ‘Did she investigate the noise?’ he asked.

  Daniels shook her head again. ‘Odd, isn’t it? You’d think that someone with the curiosity of a solicitor might have done. I know I would have. She thought it was too risky . . . her words, not mine. In fact, she wasn’t very forthcoming at all, really. She seems reluctant to get involved, full stop.’

  ‘I hope you put her in her place?’

  ‘Give it time, guv . . . I’m not finished with her yet.’

  Daniels walked to the window and looked out at the Millennium Bridge; a giant curved structure known locally as the ‘blinking eye’. Her own eyes followed a large party of students making their way across the river to The Baltic, a converted flour mill, now a centre for contemporary art, the largest gallery of its type in the world. For a miserable November day, it was attracting a lot of interest. Daniels wondered if there was a special exhibition on. She and Jo Soulsby had been there many times. It was a favourite haunt of theirs. Most days it was crammed with an eclectic mix of lunching ladies, tourists, art buffs and shoppers. The food was excellent, the view from the rooftop restaurant stunning.

  Bright joined her by the window. He looked at his watch. ‘I’m bloody starving. Come on, I’ll shout you lunch before we head back.’

  ‘I can’t, guv. I’ve got too much on.’

  ‘We have to eat, don’t we?’

  ‘I said I’d meet Hank.’

  They took the lift to the ground floor, left the apartment building from its main entrance and walked in silence to his car. Bright got in and hesitated before starting the engine.

  ‘So . . .’ he said. ‘Want to share what’s eating you?’

  Daniels knew full well he wasn’t referring to the case, but didn’t let on. ‘Just these conflicting statements, that’s all.’

  There was a wry smile on Bright’s face. He hadn’t been fooled for a second. He placed his key in the ignition and waited for the diesel indicator light to go off. ‘Want me to go and interrogate them?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t take the piss, guv. All I’m saying is that if Foreman heard an argument and Wood didn’t, what does that tell us?’

  He grinned. ‘Wood’s a bit mutton?’

  His joke fell on stony ground; Daniels was in no frame of mind for frivolity. ‘I think Wood was the one arguing,’ she said. ‘But who with? And was she the one pulling the trigger?’

  ‘Why don’t you bring her in?’

  ‘I will – when I’m ready.’

  ‘Any witnesses who might corroborate Foreman’s account?’

  ‘Only one: Mrs Close from number 25. Someone’s on it.’

  Daniels was impatient to get back. Sensing this, Bright turned his engine over. He pulled out of his parking spot and turned right along the river road. Heading west, he took a left at the roundabout to avoid a well-known bottleneck. Daniels approved. It was a route she would’ve taken too.

  ‘Now . . .’ Bright glanced sideways at her. ‘What’s really eating you?’

  She mimicked him. ‘You really have to ask?’

  He kept his eyes on the road. ‘You’re still chewing about Sarah Short, right?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be, with a psychopathic moron on the loose?’

  39

  He left the train invisible in a sea of strangers all shuffling towards the exit gate of platform 10b. As he walked towards it, he could see that the filth were out in force, automatic weapons at the ready, eyes searching for a terrorist with a darker skin than his.

  Perfect.

  He could slip in and out, do what he’d come to do, right under their very noses. Even as a kid he’d had the luck of the Irish, an uncanny knack of getting away with things when the chips were down. He smiled, reminded of all the times his mother had accompanied him to court, expecting he’d be put away, only to have to grin and bear it when – seeing his innocent face and puny frame – the magistrates had ordered the tossers in Probation to write reports, giving him just one last chance.

  No shit!

  Juvenile justice? Fucking joke, more like! If that wasn’t permission to do it all over again, he didn’t know what was. They might just as well have handed him the matches to start the fires, the knives, the guns . . .

  This one felt warm against his hip.

  He’d use it only the once.

  His mother could no longer hurt him or fill his head with the teachings of the Lord. If she thought she could still beat him into submission, she was sorely mistaken. He was much stronger than she could ever imagine. Who was fucking with whose head now? Killing those she held dear had given him a reason for living, a goal to aim towards, a foundation on which to rebuild his life, an incentive to survive two decades of being caged like an animal and cast out from society. And now he was back, ready to make up for lost time, willing and able to make the necessary sacrifices.

  Just a little longer.

  Until he reached the end of his cherished list.

  Then he’d off his father right in front of her.

  With a cocky swagger, he disappeared into a city of a million people, none of whom knew his name. He was ready to do his worst. Ready to begin a Jihad of his own; one guaranteed to bring about his own brand of paradise right here on the streets of Birmingham.

  One bombshell.

  One Muslim.

  Sounds reasonable.

  A racially motivated crime . . . that wasn’t.

  It cracked him up.

  40

  ‘I’m listening . . .’ Bright said, negotiating a tricky left-hand turn.

  ‘No, guv. If you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,’ Daniels said.

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘OK, you asked, so I’ll tell you. If you insist on overseeing this enquiry, I want out. I’m being kept in the dark and you obviously have no faith in me.’

  ‘That is absolute rubbish and you know it.’ Bright ran an amber light, just as it changed to red. ‘You can do this job with your hands tied behind your back. The whole team aspire to be just like you – and why wouldn’t they? There’s nobody I’d rather see make it to the very top, Kate. You’re the best detective I’ve ever worked with—’

  ‘Oh, you remembered!’ Daniels bit back. ‘Yeah, well, I am the best, and that’s precisely why I won’t be undermined. I’m serious, guv. And if you don’t like it, well, tough!’

  Bright cursed as he missed the turning. They were both silent for a while. Daniels wished he’d get a move on. Hank was waiting for her back at the station and the atmosphere in the car was chilly, to say the least. All she wanted from her boss was a little honesty. Was that too much to ask?

  Yeah, right! How hypocritical did that sound? Even in her own head!

  Daniels looked out of the side window as they cut up off the Quayside and headed into the centre of town. She felt a pang of misery settle heavily in her chest. She’d been on the verge of telling Bright the truth, confiding in him, asking for his support, but at the last minute she’d lost her bottle and pulled back. She just couldn’t do it. Instead, she’d dug a hole big enough to bury not only herself but her precious career as well. The way she saw it, telling her boss would’ve seemed more of a betrayal than not telling him. But he’d been her boss for ever – wouldn’t he have understood?

  Hell might freeze over first.

  The station recreation room was nearly always empty at this time of day, serving as a quiet space wher
e people could talk without fear of being overheard. For years Bright had used it to brainstorm difficult cases, preferring a less formal environment than an incident room bursting with distractions. Many cases had been broken within those four walls and – while the informality wasn’t her personal style – Daniels had to concede that it was results that counted in the end.

  It was a dingy space, strewn with all sorts of personal paraphernalia: make-up, books, magazines, discarded clothing. A full-size pool table in the corner had been abandoned mid-game. Bright picked up a snooker cue, set up the triangle in the appropriate spot and took his first shot, striking the cue ball hard, sending the others flying in every direction.

  Gormley watched one ball dribble into a side pocket. ‘That was a complete fluke!’

  Bright eyed up his next shot and chose the harder of two options, confident he could pot it. ‘So . . .’ He drew back the cue. ‘What’s the story with the ACC?’

  ‘He’s on his way back from Scotland as we speak, apparently . . .’ Gormley said. ‘Rumour has it he wants my warrant card.’

  Bright grinned, potting another ball in the corner pocket. He winked at Daniels and walked round the table, considering all the available angles. But after his show of concentration he missed the side pocket by a whisper. As Gormley stepped up to take his turn, Bright leaned against the wall, arms folded, feet crossed over one another – a serious expression on his face.

  Daniels knew he was thinking about the fruit-bat in the cells. By the time they had got back to the station her guv’nor was chomping at the bit, ready to have another go at him. But the suspect’s brief had disappeared, summoned by a High Court judge in another murder case, and now the interrogation would have to wait for his return.

  ‘You think Martin has the balls to kill, guv?’ she asked.

  Bright gave the honest answer. ‘Depends what’s at stake, I suppose. You be careful what you accuse him of, Kate. He can be an out and out bastard when he wants to be. You cross him, he’ll shaft you first chance he gets.’

  Daniels wondered if that was why he was shadowing her case. Was he trying to protect her from an ACC who took pleasure in ending careers? Didn’t he know by now she was capable of standing on her own two feet? Gormley’s voice interrupted her train of thought.

  ‘To hell with that!’ he said. ‘Martin knows something, and I want to know what it is. He once told me I’d never make detective as long as I had a hole in my arse. Now it’s payback time.’

  Bright chuckled. ‘Talking about arses, what time does he get in?’

  ‘Skye’s quite a drive,’ Daniels said. ‘It’ll probably be sometime in the early hours.’

  The Super had an evil look on his face. He snatched the mobile from his belt and scrolled through his phonebook. When Martin’s name appeared he punched the call key and listened. The number rang out for a few seconds before switching to a voicemail service: The mobile you are calling may be switched off. Please try again later.

  ‘This is Detective Superintendent Bright, sir . . .’ Bright’s tongue was firmly planted in his cheek. ‘I need to speak with you urgently. A good time would be in my office at eight a.m. tomorrow, if that’s convenient.’

  Daniels winced as he hung up.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  She grinned, checking her watch. ‘C’mon, Hank. Playtime’s over.’

  ‘Fancy a jar down the pub later?’ Bright said. ‘Assuming I wind up my case.’

  ‘I’m in,’ Gormley said.

  Bright looked at Daniels.

  ‘I can’t tonight, guv.’ She pulled an apologetic face. ‘I’m meeting Ron Naylor later and I’ve got a million things to do.’

  Bright watched as she moved away, stopping at the coffee machine on her way out of the door. She dropped a fifty-pence piece into the slot. When nothing happened, she kicked the machine. Still no joy. She kicked it again, adding another dint to several others that were already there.

  What was it that drew him to her? Her feisty personality, perhaps; her strong sense of right and wrong; or something altogether more basic than that? Her natural beauty? Her scent? The way her lips moved when she talked?

  What the hell did Naylor have that he didn’t?

  Gormley looked at him. ‘Your tongue’s hanging out, guv.’

  ‘Sorry . . . I was miles away.’

  Gormley knew exactly where he was.

  41

  The phone rang on Harry Holt’s desk. On the next desk down, Maxwell looked up, irritated by the interruption. He chose to ignore the phone; seconds later it went quiet.

  Seconds after that, it rang again.

  Brown’s eyes conveyed contempt. ‘You going to get that this time?’ he said.

  Maxwell didn’t move. ‘If it’s important, they’ll call back.’

  ‘I think you’ll find they just did!’

  Shaking his head, Brown got up and answered the phone himself. He didn’t immediately recognize the caller but the urgency in the voice of a young PC from Area Command was enough to raise his curiosity. He was desperate to speak to the receiver.

  ‘Whoa, slow down.’ Anticipating a long story, Brown grabbed a pen and paper, took a seat. ‘Harry’s in the bog, mate. You’ll have to make do with me. DC Brown, how can I help?’

  The caller cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been given an action to interview a Mrs Close at Court Mews apartment block. D’you know anything about that?’

  ‘No. But did you?’

  ‘What?

  ‘Trace the witness!’

  ‘Oh, right, yeah I did. Mrs Close told me she travelled up in the lift with Felicity Wood at around eleven o’clock on Thursday night. As she searched for her key, the witness claims she heard Wood’s high heels on the hallway above. Almost immediately, the lift went down, then came straight back up and she heard someone knock on the door to Wood’s apartment. She definitely had company on the night of the murder!’

  Brown stopped writing. He leaned back in Harry’s chair, crossed one leg over the other and poured cold water over the revelation: ‘Doesn’t necessarily mean Wood was lying. Maybe someone got the wrong door? It happens.’

  ‘Don’t think so. Close was adamant the lift didn’t go down again.’

  Brown sat up straight, pressed the caps lock on the computer keyboard and entered the name: FELICITY WOOD. Immediately, a transcript of Wood’s original statement popped up on the screen. As he studied the data, he thought back to a conversation he’d had with Daniels earlier in the day. She’d had a gut feeling that the solicitor wasn’t on the level – it looked as though she was being proved right.

  ‘OK, thanks, leave it with me.’ Brown put the phone down just as Gormley walked in. ‘You seen the boss, Hank?’

  A roar went past the window as the Toyota sped away.

  ‘I think you’ll find she just left,’ Gormley said.

  42

  She couldn’t move. Something was holding her down, putting pressure on her right shoulder. She was cold: very, very cold. She could hear an awful grinding sound. Light flashing. Movement too. A hand pressing on her left hip. A voice, close and yet far away. Words, muffled and unrecognizable, as if spoken through a thick wet blanket.

  Talk to me, pet . . .

  . . . talk to me . . .

  Jo woke in a panic. The sight of Daniels keeping vigil by her bedside was a clear reminder that her problems hadn’t gone away. For several seconds, they just looked at one another, regretting the harsh words of their previous meeting.

  ‘I had a dream . . .’ Jo said. ‘You’d bugged my room. Should I be talking to you while I’m in here?’

  ‘Are all psychologists paranoid?’ Daniels grinned and made a meal of looking furtively over her shoulder towards the door. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not wearing a wire. I’d show you, only I might get rumbled.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  An intense moment of regret . . .

  Jo got serious. ‘Why are you here? Come to ask me some more questions?’

  Da
niels noticed that the bruising round Jo’s eyes had begun to disappear. The shape of her face was returning to normal and she’d regained a little colour and a familiar twinkle in her eyes. She wanted to tell her she was there because she cared, because she had regrets, because . . .

  Fuck it! She’d never listen. What would be the point?

  ‘You know you’ll be formally interviewed?’ she said instead.

  Jo swept a lock of damp hair off her sweaty face. ‘By you?’

  ‘No, not by me. I promise.’

  As SIO, Daniels wondered just how she was going to keep that promise. How exactly could she justify dodging an interview with the prime suspect? She shoved the thought to the back of her mind.

  ‘Right now I’m here as a mate, Jo. Not a Senior Investigating Officer. If there’s anything you need to tell me, no matter what it is, now’s the time. If . . .’

  She broke off, couldn’t get the words out. She’d asked a question she didn’t really want to know the answer to. It was something she’d learned not to do very early in her police career. And now Jo was staring at her, looking through her, almost, as if she was an alien.

  ‘Will you just listen to yourself!’ Jo was angry again, but also disappointed. ‘I hated him, you know I did. But not enough to kill him.’

  ‘Even after what the bastard did to you? I could’ve killed him myself.’

  Jo said nothing.

  ‘You can see how it looks?’

  ‘D’you think I need reminding? Even Tom and James have their doubts. I can see it in their eyes, even though they’re trying to hide it. Please tell me they’re not suspects too.’

  Daniels was desperate to throw her a crumb of comfort. But James had lied about his whereabouts and, well, it just wasn’t that simple. Gormley had recalled him for interview. ‘You know how it works, Jo. As soon as their alibis check out, you’ll be the first to know. Right now, I want to talk to you about the accident.’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t remember a thing.’

  ‘Your car came off a road heading away from the coast towards the A1, just north of Morpeth. Your receptionist said you’d been to Acklington Prison on Friday afternoon for an interview.’ Nothing was registering. ‘One of your lifers nearing his tariff date?’