The Murder Wall

by Mari Hannah

  ‘Never mind.’ Daniels managed a smile. ‘If he turns up again, give us a call.’

  They said their goodbyes and Mrs Collins saw them off the premises.

  The detectives walked to the car, a hostile silence between them.

  ‘Drop me at The Bridge,’ Gormley said as they got in. ‘I’ve got an appointment with a taxi driver and a beer.

  50

  Bright’s day had begun well. He’d known all along that he had the right man in custody, despite protestations to the contrary from the suspect’s brief. Confronted with CCTV footage showing the offender leading his victim away from a Bonfire Night gathering, the scumbag had finally coughed. Now he’d been formally charged with the murder of an unfortunate and much-loved little boy.

  Word travelled fast . . .

  Bright found himself mobbed by reporters as he left the office to watch his offender being arraigned. His mobile hadn’t stopped ringing on the way to court. More journos. More questions.

  They all wanted just one thing: a name.

  Assistant Chief Constable Martin was conspicuous by his absence at the full-blown press conference that followed, keeping a low-profile for once, allowing Bright to take centre stage in front of the nation’s media. This raised an eyebrow or two among local journalists and prompted questions from the floor on which Detective Superintendent Bright refused to be drawn. But later, off the record and off camera, he was at pains to make it clear that he had no idea why the ACC wasn’t there to offer condolences to the bereaved family.

  Although a major result for the murder investigation team, celebrations in the office were understandably low key. Bright’s investigation team were fathers too, their respect for the child’s family outweighed any wish to sink more than a jar or too in the police club afterwards.

  It seemed ungracious to party.

  They’d been in the bar for less than an hour when people began to drift off home and Bright began to drift downhill. So what if his offender was facing a lengthy stretch in prison? What fucking good would that do? Bored and alone with nothing to do and no one left to talk to, he began brooding over Stella and decided to take himself off to The Bridge to sink a few more bevies and generally wallow in his grief alone. Only to be hauled out an hour later by Gormley, who just happened to have chosen the same pub for an informal interview with a taxi driver Daniels had been trying to trace.

  Some bollocks to do with Stephens, no doubt.

  They walked back to the station together, a heavy atmosphere between them. In all the years they’d worked together, Bright had never seen Gormley in such a bad mood. He assumed Hank was festering because he was behaving like a complete prick, meddling in Daniels’ case. But when he’d asked him why he was so down in the mouth, Hank had just clammed up.

  Daniels was almost at her office door when the pair of them showed up. She’d been hoping to nip in, grab her things and head off to the hospital, but it looked as though a clean getaway was now out of the question. Judging by Gormley’s expression, her face must have registered her disappointment on seeing them, but she’d regained her composure before Bright had time to notice.

  ‘Congratulations, guv,’ she said. ‘Cracking result. Been celebrating, have you?’

  ‘Good news travels fast . . .’ Bright peered at her through bleary eyes and held her gaze for a little too long. He grinned as only a drunk can, his lips refusing to obey his command. ‘Stick with me long enough, guys, and you might just learn something.’

  ‘Take no notice – he’s pissed! I just dragged him out of The Bridge,’ Gormley said crossly. Opening the door, he stood back, rolling his eyes as Bright forgot his manners and walked in ahead of Daniels. ‘Nice one, guv!’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Bright sat down in Daniels’ chair and put his feet up on her desk.

  Smiling uncomfortably, the DCI went straight to a side table and put the kettle on. Gormley took a seat with his back to the door, shaking his head at the state their guv’nor was in.

  Blissfully unaware of the concern he was causing, Bright looked around the orderly office as if he’d never seen it before. His eyes scanned the desk and shelves for the usual personal odds and ends, but here there were no photos of loved ones, no clues to a life outside the job. Again and again his eyes came back to Daniels as she stood with her back to him, spooning Harvey Nicks coffee from a tin into a cafetière, then pouring water on it. A delicious aroma began to fill the room.

  ‘Here! Get this down you.’ She handed him a mug. ‘You’re a bloody disgrace!’

  The sound of her voice made him sit up and take notice. He looked past her, distracted by movement in the corridor. Following his gaze, she turned to find Maxwell lurking outside, his nose in a filing cabinet, curiosity getting the better of him. Daniels moved round the desk, closed the door and sat back down, unable to tell whether Gormley’s unease was down to Bright’s condition, or Mrs Collins’ revelation earlier. If the latter was true, he wouldn’t want Bright around while he boned her about it.

  Paranoia was setting in.

  Gormley relaxed back in his chair and loosened his tie, avoiding direct eye contact. ‘My meeting with Bob George didn’t quite go according to plan,’ he said.

  ‘Bob who?’ Bright looked at him, frowning comically.

  ‘Our elusive taxi driver,’ Gormley reminded him. ‘Get this – and I’m quoting now: “Before you ask, I never touched her, OK?” Those were his first words.’

  Daniels narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘He thought we’d traced him in connection with Jo, not Stephens.’

  ‘What?’ Bright and Daniels said in unison.

  ‘Yep. You couldn’t make it up.’ Gormley put down his coffee. ‘It seems the firm he works for responded to our call to trace drivers working a late shift on the fifth, early hours of the sixth, right . . .’ Gormley paused, making sure they were still with him. Bright and Daniels nodded. ‘Well, when the call went out, George jumped to the wrong conclusion entirely. I was confused myself when he started banging on about some woman he’d picked up from town at one thirty in the morning—’

  ‘Wait! Now you’ve lost me,’ Daniels interrupted him, mid-flow. ‘What makes you think this woman was Jo?’

  ‘That’s the easy bit,’ Gormley said. ‘George wrote down her address and the exact time he dropped her off. Said she was acting weird and he was worried in case she made any allegations against him later.’

  Daniels frowned. ‘Yeah, right. I expect women do that all the time. Sounds like a man with a guilty conscience, if you ask me.’

  ‘No . . .’ Gormley shook his head. ‘The way he tells it, he was just covering his own back. And, for what it’s worth, I believe him. He said Jo was in one hell of a state physically: her tights were all ripped and she was freaking out over something. He described what she was wearing and the timing of the drop. What he told me ties in exactly with the statement Andy took from Mrs Collins. What’s more, he’ll make a bloody good witness, too. It puts Jo no more than a mile from the crime scene at the relevant time – or there and thereabouts.’

  ‘In other words a ten-minute walk.’ Bright blew out his cheeks, filling the room with the stale smell of beer and cigars. He got up, began pacing up and down, the combination of strong coffee and Gormley’s words sobering him up and – from the sounds of it – setting his imagination off and running. ‘Right! I don’t buy this amnesia crap. You don’t interview Soulsby again in hospital, you hear me, Kate? If she didn’t kill Stephens, maybe she knows who did.’

  Daniels tried to get a word in: ‘Guv, I really think—’

  But Bright wasn’t finished. ‘Psychologists have contact with undesirables, it’s what they do. As soon as she’s discharged, I want her in here under caution. In fact, I intend to have a crack at her myself.’

  Daniels saw Gormley’s jaw bunch as Bright rode roughshod over the discussion without a thought for her position as SIO. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something when Bright slapped him hard on the b
ack, congratulating him for his efforts, hardly stopping to draw breath.

  ‘Do we know when she’s due home?’ he asked.

  When Daniels failed to answer, Gormley did it for her. ‘Couple of days, tops.’

  Daniels suddenly felt claustrophobic. She wanted Bright to stop, wanted to turn back the clock. How the hell had she got herself into this mess? More importantly, how was she going to get herself out of it?

  ‘Excuse me a sec . . .’ she said, getting up. ‘Need a pee, won’t be long.’

  Walking out of her office, she made her way along the corridor to the women’s rest room. Fortunately for her, it was empty when she reached it. She went in, locked the door behind her, turned on the tap and lifted the clear, cold water to her face with cupped hands. As she raised her head from the bowl, the image reflected in the mirror wasn’t pretty. She looked pale and gaunt, her brown eyes underlined with dark circles. A million uncertainties flooded her head. So many questions, none of them with answers: Could any of it be true? Was Jo really capable of murder?

  Wasn’t everyone?

  But why hadn’t she seen it coming? Would she, could she, stand by her now?

  The Kate Daniels who came bursting through her office door looked and sounded a lot less defeated than the one who’d slipped out five minutes earlier. Ignoring Bright, she fired off a direct question to Gormley:

  ‘Did you find out the answer to the original enquiry? Was Bob George the driver who picked up Alan Stephens from the Weston?’

  A glint appeared in Gormley’s eye. ‘It just so happens he did. He says he dropped Stephens off some time before midnight, picked Jo up almost two hours later.’

  Daniels turned to Bright. ‘Then we have ourselves a contamination problem.’

  51

  ‘Things still tough at home?’ Daniels said.

  At a signpost for Tynemouth, she pulled off the central motorway heading east, fully expecting to get stuck at a notorious bottleneck before reaching the coast road. Fortunately, she met no such hazard. New traffic lights had made a big difference in recent months and the road ahead was clear. She glanced to her left. Bright was slumped in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, deep in thought.

  Either he hadn’t heard her or he’d chosen to ignore the question.

  ‘Take some leave, guv. I can cope.’

  ‘And do what, take Stella dancing?’

  His words stung. ‘Guv, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I’m just tired, Kate. I’ll get over it . . .’ Bright ran his left hand through his hair and let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to bite your head off. It’s me who should be sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’ve got broad shoulders. Take after my boss, remember?’

  ‘You’ve been a great help to me in recent months, I don’t know how to—’

  ‘Guv, I’m just worried about you.’

  ‘Don’t, Kate. Please, I couldn’t handle your sympathy.’

  He fell silent again as they passed through a short tunnel and up a slight incline. Cars in front began to apply their brakes at the sight of speed cameras, accelerating as soon as they were able without danger of a £60 fine and three points on their licence. Daniels did likewise, deciding to let the matter drop. Now was not the time to try and talk some sense into her boss. She wondered how long he’d been drinking and wished he’d seek counselling from Occupational Health.

  Jo was out of the question obviously, more’s the pity. A: They didn’t get on. B: She was a prime suspect in her – now their – current case.

  Daniels’ eyes shot to the clock on the dash. Visiting time. She could make it if she hurried. But the man sitting next to her had expressly forbidden it. How could she tell Jo that she wouldn’t be visiting again? As she mulled over this latest dilemma, the miles rolled silently by, neither of them in a mood for chat. When they arrived at Bright’s house, she realized she’d been on automatic pilot, with barely any recollection of the journey.

  The curtains were drawn and a light was on as they pulled up outside. Stella’s part-time carer had obviously been busy, hopefully managing to feed her and get her settled down for the evening. Just as well, Daniels thought. He was in no fit state to look after his wife’s needs. Not tonight, anyway. She killed the engine but he made no attempt to get out of the car, just swivelled his body round to face her.

  ‘We won a salsa competition once, Stella and I.’

  Daniels smiled, unable to imagine him tripping the light fantastic. ‘You kept that quiet, guv. How long have we known each other?’

  ‘Repeat it and you’re off the squad,’ he said.

  She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

  ‘It better be.’ He looked towards the house, his expression morphing into one of dread.

  ‘Want me to come in, guv?’ She cursed as her phone rang. The display showed RON CALLING. ‘Mind if I take this? It’s Naylor.’

  Bright held her gaze for a little too long, shook his head and got out of the car, bidding her goodnight. Daniels watched him trundle heavily up the path to his front door and let himself in without a backward glance.

  ‘Yeah, Ron. What’s up?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this . . .’ Naylor’s voice sounded a little shaky. ‘We’ve got ourselves another one. Birmingham, this time. Guy called Malik. Same MO – well, a shooting, at any rate. And the same signature: a prayer card left at the scene.’

  52

  Daniels could hardly contain herself as she drove to the hospital with Ron Naylor’s words ringing in her ears: another crime scene . . . another corpse . . . another prayer card. The latest victim was a middle-aged Asian named Jamil Malik. Although considerably older now, Naylor was sure it was the same man in the magazine cutting hand-delivered to the station for her specific attention the day before by an agitated woman who hadn’t hung around long enough to be seen.

  At the time, they hadn’t been able to decide if she was just another bloody crank or someone in real trouble; some poor soul who had neither the guts nor the language skills to make herself heard. Now Daniels was wondering if someone altogether more sinister had put her up to it. Had she been forced into making the delivery and then fled, fearing further questions? Had Father Simon’s and Sarah Short’s killer surfaced after all this time? Was he taunting her? Telling her to follow her gut instinct? The idea that at last she might be on to something filled her with joy. But before she could follow that up, she had something equally important to do . . .

  Withholding information was one thing; direct disobedience was altogether more serious, especially when your guv’nor was Superintendent Bright. Even though they enjoyed such a close working relationship, he was not a man to cross. Daniels entered the hospital lift, aware that, if Bright found out where she was, her promising career was as good as over. But he’d given her no choice. She needed a breathing space to work out what to do next. The only way to get it was to persuade Jo to play for time.

  As she exited the lift on the second floor the air seemed rife with hospital gossip. Nurse Baker was chewing the fat with a junior doctor outside her office door. When she caught sight of Daniels, the nurse flushed, stopped talking and looked at her watch. Her plastic smile didn’t fool the DCI.

  Not for one second.

  ‘Visiting time’s over,’ was all Baker said.

  Sensing the tension between them, the doctor made a hasty retreat. The usual preferential treatment for fellow emergency service personnel didn’t apply here; Nurse Baker was in no mood to offer concessions. Daniels forced a smile, prepared to eat humble pie to get back in her good books. She’d never been good at amateur dramatics, but put on her best begging face and said apologetically:

  ‘I’m really sorry, but it’s vital I see her. It can’t wait, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, it’ll have to . . .’ Baker threw back her shoulders, letting Daniels know who was in charge. ‘She’s resting. You’ll have to come back later.’


  Daniels swallowed her pride. ‘Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot. It was my fault entirely. I, I was stressed out, concerned for my colleague. My apologies. Two minutes, that’s all I’m asking, then I’m out of here.’

  ‘Two minutes!’ The nurse tapped her watch. ‘Not a minute more!’

  Sleep under the influence of drugs was one continuous nightmare, controlling Jo’s subconscious, making her see things she didn’t want to see. A black shadow hovered above her head and an indistinct image of a man covered in blood was lying on the floor. He got up and moved towards her. She tried to move away but was pinned to the bed by her sheets, hair stuck to her head in sweaty strands, eyelids glued shut. And still the figure approached. Out of focus, but getting closer . . . clearer . . . closer . . . clearer. Alan reached out to touch her, smiling through bloody teeth. His lips were moving but no words came out. If they did, Jo couldn’t hear them.

  Daniels studied the twisting, writhing form on the bed, tormented by whatever ghosts were invading her dreams. Nervous of waking her suddenly, she waited by her side until, as if sensing her presence, Jo stirred, forcing open her eyelids as if someone had sewn them together with invisible thread.

  The tension in Jo’s body subsided when she saw who was standing over her. ‘They gave me a painkiller,’ she said, wiping sweat from her brow. ‘I went out like a light. I had an awful dream about Alan. It was horrible.’

  Daniels sat down and took her hand. ‘Are you properly awake?’

  Sensing the change in Daniels’ mood, Jo nodded uncertainly.

  ‘I need you to listen to me – we haven’t got much time. There’ve been developments. You’re to be interviewed under caution. You say nothing, do you hear me? Nothing at all. Get a solicitor right away. Plead ill health. Anything to buy time. Can you do that?’

  Another nod. ‘I don’t understand. What developments?’

  ‘I haven’t got time to explain. Trust me, Jo. If they can link you to the crime scene, we’re in deep shit and there’s not much I can do about it.’