The Murder Wall

by Mari Hannah

  She got back on her bike and left.

  47

  The minute hand on the dial of an eighteenth-century longcase clock moved forward a notch. For over forty-five minutes, Brown had been reading magazines in the smart waiting room of solicitors Graham & Abercrombie, situated on Grey Street – some would say Newcastle’s finest example of architecture.

  Brown knew about clocks; his grandfather used to repair them. The one he was staring at was a fine example, worth around twelve thousand pounds, give or take. It was made of mahogany, inlaid with brass, a typical eight-day longcase with five-pillar movement striking the hour on a bell. Thankfully it had only done this once while Brown had been sitting twiddling his thumbs. But it was gone ten o’clock and he had other calls to make.

  Fed up with waiting, he stood and approached a middle-aged woman who was typing on a computer keyboard at the reception desk. She wore a pink cardigan fastened to the neck with tiny silver buttons. Her bifocals sat lower than the bridge of her nose, her hair was slicked back, her head tilted slightly to one side as she listened through a modern earpiece.

  He stared at her intently. ‘Miss, I haven’t got all day.’

  She didn’t look up. ‘Shouldn’t be long now . . .’

  Brown stood his ground, putting the woman off. She stopped typing, removed the earpiece and spoke high-handedly with an accent he couldn’t quite place, except it was nowhere in the North East.

  ‘I already told you, Ms Wood is in conference with a senior partner and cannot be disturbed . . . for anyone.’ She smiled. ‘It’s more than my job’s worth to—’

  ‘Then please tell her that her presence is required at City Central police station in connection with a murder enquiry.’

  The receptionist’s smile dissolved. ‘I’ll check how long she’ll be.’

  ‘How kind.’

  No sooner were the words out of Brown’s mouth than a side door opened and Wood appeared. She ushered him into an office to die for, a huge room with large Georgian windows facing south over equally fine buildings across the street.

  ‘Please be brief, I’m very busy.’

  ‘With respect, I’m here in connection with a murder enquiry, madam. It’ll take as long as it takes.’

  Wood walked round her desk and sat down, placing a physical barrier between them. ‘I’ve already had a conversation with your boss, PC Brown. What is it this time?’

  ‘DC Brown. Just one or two questions . . .’

  She waited.

  ‘I’ve come to see if you have anything to add to your original statement.’

  Despite her best efforts, Wood couldn’t hide her anxiety. ‘I’d have let you know, if that were the case.’

  Brown exhaled through his teeth. ‘Then we have a dilemma. You see, we have a witness who claims you had company on the night of the fifth. Yet you failed to mention that when questioned. Of course, the witness could be mistaken . . . but she seems pretty sure.’

  He didn’t think for one minute that the solicitor would take his word for it right off – he was a policeman, after all. And he was right. Wood made no comment, but he thought he saw a slight increase in her facial colour. It was hardly detectable, but there nevertheless.

  ‘What witness?’ she asked eventually, trying not to sound remotely worried.

  ‘So it’s true then?’

  ‘It most certainly is not!’

  The solicitor took a deep breath, embarrassed by her sudden outburst. She smiled at him through perfect teeth. Brown formed the opinion that she was a woman who could wrap most men around her little finger with that smile. Well, it wouldn’t work. Not this time. She definitely wasn’t his type.

  ‘I was alone all evening,’ Wood said. ‘Your witness is mistaken.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Brown smiled. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

  Now she was worried. A look of panic crossed her face like a dark shadow. It was obvious she hadn’t expected to be let off quite that easily. In fact, she looked totally bemused.

  ‘That’s it? You waited all that time for the answer to one simple question?’

  Brown walked away without another word, pleased with himself for putting Felicity ‘Up Herself’ Wood in her place after keeping him waiting so long. As he turned to close the door behind him, he allowed himself a moment to savour the guilty expression on her face.

  48

  The garage forecourt was busy as Assistant Chief Constable Martin filled up his Jaguar. In his peripheral vision he could see his wife, Muriel, taking another swig from the flask of Bombay Sapphire she’d concealed in her bag before they set off.

  He got out his wallet and headed inside to pay.

  Just as he got to the door, his Barbour jacket began to vibrate. By the time he took out his phone, the caller had rung off. Martin pressed the recall button, keeping one eye on Muriel as two German bikers entered behind him. One of them began complaining – in his native tongue – about the lack of refreshment facilities on offer. It was a cheek to call it a service station the other one said.

  This was Britain, what did they expect?

  Martin was fluent in five languages: French, German, Spanish, Dutch and Russian, all acquired at Cambridge with a view to securing a job as an interpreter for the Foreign Office. Quite why he’d changed his mind in favour of policing wasn’t clear, even to him. Except that it had opened up the more exciting option of working for Interpol at their headquarters in Lyon.

  Until Muriel came along.

  The ringing tone in his ear stopped and Martin stared at the phone display. The signal had dropped out. He tried again. As he waited for an answer, Martin thought about his dreams of international policing and how they had come to nothing. His one and only claim to fame was that he was the youngest officer in Britain ever to reach the rank of Assistant Chief. His failure to make Chief Constable needled him more than he cared to admit.

  More customers entered. He stepped back in the line, allowing them to go first, and in the process caught sight of his reflection in a mirrored panel that ran down the side of a shelving unit displaying cheap sunglasses. He didn’t like what he saw: he had dark circles under his eyes and was sporting a five o’clock shadow.

  Martin was in a foul mood. He’d intended to make the journey down yesterday but only made it as far as the Skye road bridge, which was closed due to strong winds. The ferry across Loch Alsh, the only other route connecting the island to the mainland, had been suspended, resulting in several hours of delay and an enforced night in a lumpy four-poster in the only available B & B. His wife had been giving him earache the entire journey and he was four hours late for an appointment with Bright.

  Too bad – the bastard would just have to wait.

  When Felicity Wood came on the line, she sounded frantic. Her speech was so hurried he could hardly make out what she was saying.

  ‘Wally, thank God. Can you talk?’

  ‘If you’re quick, Muriel’s in the car.’

  ‘I had the police here. They know! I’m really worried.’

  Martin forced himself to breathe as the sight of half a face flew into his head. Blood on white walls. Bits of brain and bone on the floor. He was finding it difficult enough to cope, without Felicity’s anxiety making matters worse.

  ‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘Are you in the office?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m bloody scared. I want you back here.’

  ‘I’m on my way. And stop panicking. I could get time for this.’ Martin flushed as the Germans stopped talking and turned to look at him, intrigued by his conversation. He moved out of the queue and stood with his back to them, lowering his voice. ‘You didn’t tell them anything?’

  Silence.

  ‘Felicity?’

  Wood stopped snivelling. ‘I’m not sure I can keep up the pretence. And why the hell should I? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, calm down!’ Martin whispered through clenched teeth. A horn blasted outside and he looked out of the window; Muriel was
furiously tapping her watch, urging him to get a move on. On the other end of the phone, Wood started to cry. The Jaguar’s horn blasted again. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll sort it, I promise you. I need to find out what they know and what they think they know. I’ve got somebody on the squad. Don’t worry. Just sit tight.’

  49

  It had been a long shift. Bob George had been driving his taxi since six a.m. He was about to knock off for lunch when a call came over his radio; something to do with urgent police enquiries concerning a fare he’d picked up the previous Thursday night. He thought little of it. Calls from the law were a regular occurrence in his profession. In fact, if he was honest, he’d been expecting their call.

  Dropping a gear, he drove on, cursing under his breath. Fearing a possible law suit, should an accident occur, his boss had forbidden drivers to use or even carry mobiles in his cabs. Some did. But George didn’t think it worth the risk. The pay wasn’t bad. And he figured that working for a prize wanker was better than not working at all.

  Parking his cab on double-yellow lines on a busy street in the city’s east end, he dashed into a phone box that stank of stale sweat and worse. The names and telephone numbers of prostitutes he knew covered every available surface, written in permanent ink. Some even had pictures, graphic descriptions of what was on offer. He noticed that Joy and Brandy only came as a pair these days.

  Jamming his foot in the door to let in some air, George held a hand against his free ear and spoke loudly against the traffic. He gave his name, the company he worked for, and asked to speak with Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley. When eventually he came on the line, George had to shout down the phone to make himself heard. They arranged to meet and rang off.

  Less than half a mile away, Daniels sat in her Toyota watching the offices of Graham & Abercrombie.

  Her entire morning had been spent fighting with admin and filling in bloody forms to keep the wheels on her SIO’s wagon turning: sanctioning overtime, signing off on expenses claims, compiling budgetary reports . . . Tasks that wouldn’t advance her investigation in real terms, but essential if she was to avoid it grinding to a sudden halt. When Brown got back from his interview with Felicity Wood, Daniels had seized upon the opportunity to leave her desk and follow up the lead in person.

  And there she was: the woman herself, definitely rattled and dressed to kill, hurrying from the building and climbing straight into a taxi that had just pulled up outside. Daniels waited for the cab to pull away again, then tailed it for a short journey across town until it stopped near the entrance to Exhibition Park.

  The solicitor got out, paid the driver and told him not to wait.

  Keeping a close eye on her target, Daniels entered Exhibition Park a little way behind Wood. She was clearly in a hurry, rushing along a tarmac path for a hundred yards or so, arriving at the boating lake where ACC Martin was waiting for her. He was dressed in civvies and was not looking his best. Daniels kept them under observation, recording their clandestine meeting on a tiny state-of-the-art video camera. As Wood and Martin parted, they kissed.

  Daniels made a call: ‘Hank, meet me at Paul Hope’s office. Fifteen minutes.’

  The interior walls of the Northern Counties School for the Deaf were covered in examples of fingerspelling and signing resources for the deaf. One of the organization’s volunteers, Paul Hope, was the accredited go-to ‘expert witness’ in video transcription, able to lip-read so well that he could provide hard copy for use as evidence in criminal cases. Daniels and Gormley had consulted him many times before.

  The three of them were sitting together in one of the classrooms watching a silent video. Daniels was manipulating the controls, while Gormley took notes. Hope was staring intently at the two figures on the screen: Wood and Martin. They appeared to be arguing.

  ‘She’s talking about the police,’ Hope said. ‘“They know . . .” Rewind please.’

  Daniels hit rewind.

  ‘“They know I had company when Stephen was killed?”’ Hope peered at Martin on screen. ‘“Say nothing. If this gets out, I’m finished . . .”’

  ‘You certain, Paul?’ Daniels asked.

  ‘Pretty much, or something very like it.’

  Gormley stopped scribbling, looked at Daniels excitedly.

  ‘I’ll check – go back again.’ Hope waited for Daniels to rewind the footage. ‘Yep, definitely: “You mean we are?” And he says if he’d meant that, he’d have said it.’

  On screen, Martin turned his back.

  Daniels grimaced. ‘Shit!’

  The camera focused on Wood, who was by now clearly agitated.

  Hope was off again: ‘“No, of course not. I did what we agreed.”’ He watched carefully as Martin turned towards the camera, running his hand through his hair.

  Daniels got in on the act. ‘“Pull yourself together?”’

  Hope smiled. ‘Very good!’

  She grinned. ‘Didn’t get the last bit, though.’

  ‘“You’re a bloody solicitor, aren’t you?”’

  Gormley raised a hand, inviting a high five. Daniels obliged. Things were looking up.

  They thanked Hope for his help and went back to the car. Gormley took out his notebook and began flicking though it.

  ‘This’ll wipe the supercilious smile off Martin’s face,’ he said.

  ‘Beats an orgasm.’ Daniels’ grin was as wide as the Tyne.

  ‘Beats two.’

  The phone rang and Daniels picked it up. Hearing Robson’s voice, she put the call on speaker:

  ‘. . . Mrs Collins asked if you’d pop in.’

  ‘Hope she’s got cake,’ Gormley said. ‘I’m bloody starving.’

  Daniels dug him in the ribs. ‘She say why, Robbo?’

  ‘Only that it might be important.’

  She rang off and took a sharp right, heading east along the West Road. The route took them past the General Hospital, reminding her of Jo. Not that she needed reminding: the woman had never been far from her thoughts since the day they met.

  An image of Francesca’s flashed through Daniels’ thoughts, her slow drive-by last night making absolutely sure Tom and James Stephens were safely out of the way before raiding their mother’s home. Having obtained Jo’s permission beforehand, technically it wasn’t a burglary. Even so, Daniels couldn’t help feeling a tad guilty.

  Mrs Collins opened the door before they had time to press the doorbell; evidently she’d been waiting for them. They followed her through into the living room. Gormley took a seat, but Mrs Collins remained standing and so did Daniels, hands clasped behind her back. It was her intention to keep the visit brief.

  ‘I’ve not seen Mrs Soulsby yet,’ Mrs Collins began, ‘but her sons have been coming and going. I’m a Neighbourhood Watch volunteer, you see, so I notice these things.’

  Gormley stifled a grin and looked away.

  Mrs Collins tapped her walking cane hard on the wooden floor to regain his attention. It had the desired effect. Like a naughty schoolboy in the headmistress’s study, Gormley sat up straight in anticipation of a dressing-down. It didn’t take long to arrive.

  ‘This is not a joke, Detective. I’ll have you know we play a vital role in crime reduction. Your job would be much harder without us.’

  ‘We appreciate that, Mrs Collins.’ Realizing he’d blown his chance of cake and cuppa, Gormley looked genuinely downcast. ‘However, we are really very busy just now, so unless there’s anything else . . .?’

  Aside from wasting our bloody time . . .

  Gormley stood up, keen to be on his way, but Mrs Collins wasn’t quite done. She pointed at the chair with her stick and held the pose until he sat back down again.

  Daniels was unable to make up her mind whether the feisty octogenarian was an extremely helpful witness or a lonely old dear who just needed someone to talk to. In the end she decided probably a bit of both.

  ‘As a matter of fact there is something else . . .’ Mrs Collins began.

  Gormley
smiled, trying his very best to look interested.

  Fuck! Daniels’ heart sank as a horrible thought occurred to her. Watching Mrs Collins closely as she sat down and made herself more comfortable, Daniels’ fists were so tightly clenched behind her back she thought she might draw blood. This pillar of the community was about to disclose an unscheduled, if not suspicious, visitor to the house next door.

  How the hell would Daniels explain that one to Hank?

  ‘Her boyfriend’s been here too,’ Mrs Collins said finally.

  Gormley and Daniels shared a look.

  ‘Not that we were ever introduced,’ the old lady said. ‘He used to stay over a lot, though, turning up at all hours of the day and night. I thought they’d split up, but he was back here last night. Not for long, mind. No point. There was no one home.’

  ‘Does he have a car?’ Gormley asked.

  Mrs Collins shook her head. ‘One of those motorbike contraptions. Awful things. Parked it in her garage, which struck me as odd, bearing in mind she wasn’t there.’

  Gormley’s smile dissolved. He glanced sideways at his boss.

  Daniels held her bottle, staring straight ahead, not a flicker of guilt on her face, her mind racing back to the times she’d ride into Jo’s garage, pull her bike on to its stand and dismount. Then she’d wait for Jo to press a buzzer on the wall, closing the up-and-over door and shutting out the street. Only then would Daniels remove her helmet, put it on the seat and shake her hair free. Only then would they kiss – two people passionately in love.

  Like ice-woman, Daniels froze Gormley out, her eyes firmly planted on the old lady who continued to elaborate until, finally, she ran out of steam and things to say.

  ‘Did you get the registration number?’ Daniels asked casually.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ Mrs Collins was crestfallen. ‘My eyes aren’t so good nowadays.’