The Murder Wall

by Mari Hannah

  Daniels kept walking. ‘See you tomorrow, Hank.’

  56

  Vehicles were like ghostly shadows on the road into town. Daniels drove slowly and carefully through a thick blanket of fog, conscious of a colleague who, just two years ago, had lost her life in a pile-up on the M6 motorway during similar weather conditions. She’d been on the way to collect her child from university and bring her home for Christmas when her car ploughed into the back of a slow-moving bus.

  The thought made Daniels shiver.

  She was feeling rough today, her sleep having been disturbed more than once by curious dreams she couldn’t understand. She’d tried to settle herself down again and get some kip, but it was useless. In the end she just gave up, got up, had a shower and set off for work well before dawn. Relieved when the Toyota finally passed beneath the security barrier at the station, Daniels parked the car and let herself into the building via the back door. Her silent entry to the incident room startled a cleaner engrossed in her work.

  ‘Jesus, I nearly jumped out me skin!’ the young woman said in a soft Geordie twang. She was pretty, mid to late twenties, oval face, brown eyes and auburn hair pulled back tightly into a high ponytail – a hairstyle Maxwell cruelly referred to as a Croydon face-lift. ‘You want me out of here? I’m just about done.’

  ‘No, you carry on. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ In all her years in the police force, it was the first time Daniels had considered how spooky it must be for a civilian to work in a murder incident room alone, especially at such an ungodly hour. She pointed to her office. ‘You finished in there?’

  The girl nodded, then turned away, tiptoeing across the wet floor with her mop and bucket, the smell of disinfectant lingering in her wake. As she set about creating order from chaos, Daniels did likewise. The squad wouldn’t be arriving ’til seven. She had an hour and a half head start. Closing the door behind her, she slipped off her coat, put on the kettle and waited for it to boil, then made herself a mug of coffee as black and as bitter as her mood. She alone was to blame for her professional dilemma – didn’t need reminding how inappropriate her actions had been – but, bizarrely, those same actions had cemented her loyalty to Jo, and she liked the way that made her feel.

  Maybe there was still hope for them.

  But this was no time to indulge in fantasy.

  Putting her personal feelings aside, Daniels tried to organize her thoughts, prioritize the many things competing for attention in her head. Alan Stephens may have possessed a ‘cruel streak’, according to his widow, but it was her duty to find the person or persons responsible for his death, to see that he got justice. It mattered not that he was a bad father, a despicable bully who’d humiliated Jo during their marriage – and Monica, too, by the sounds of it. Whatever Stephens had done in life, he certainly didn’t deserve to have it taken away so violently. The dead deserved a voice and, whether Daniels liked it or not, she was his.

  There were four Post-it notes stuck to her computer screen: one from Bright reminding her to submit her expenses claims and budget projections by the end of the day, the other three from her father. Screw him. She threw them in the bin. She had more important things to do. Picking up the phone, she rang the front desk. ‘This is DCI Daniels. Fetch me CCTV footage of reception for Sunday night. I’m particularly interested in . . .’ What time was it? ‘Around seven. Yes, that’s right . . . Yes, now!’

  Hanging up, she logged on to her computer.

  Within minutes, a civilian worker she recognized knocked gently on her door with a disk in her hand and a scowl on her face. Daniels thanked her for the disk, apologized for snapping at her on the phone, and promised to return it in due course. When the girl had gone, she put the disk into a computer slot, fast-forwarding the footage until the counter on the bottom right-hand corner of her screen showed six forty-five p.m.

  She settled down to watch.

  On screen, the door to reception opened and a surly-looking thug walked in: a regular visitor to the station, she recognized him immediately. The duty officer reached under the front desk, pulled out the sign-on register and leafed through it. At the appropriate page, he turned the book around. The offender signed it and walked off without a word. As he left the building, a woman in a burka entered holding up an envelope and pointing at the front, just as the desk sergeant had described.

  Daniels sat back, rapt, watching the silent exchange. The desk sergeant reached out for the envelope, but the woman withdrew it from him, again jabbing her forefinger at the name on the front. The officer gestured towards a bench behind her and turned away to pick up the phone. When his back was turned, the woman stood up, dropped the envelope on the counter and left the building hurriedly. Daniels rewound the footage and then ran it again, freezing the image and zooming in on the figure in the burka . . .

  The envelope . . .

  Her hand . . .

  Or was it his?

  Jesus! He’s got some nerve.

  She immediately rang Ron Naylor, making no apologies for getting him out of bed. They arranged to meet later and then she turned her attention back to the Stephens case. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours, and it was almost four in the afternoon before she lifted her head again.

  Sitting back now, she was aware of telephones ringing, detectives hypothesizing, arguing the case on the other side of her office door. She could hear Gormley spouting off about lack of forensics in the case. Brown threw his thoughts into the mix, pointing to the growing body of circumstantial evidence against Jo Soulsby. He wouldn’t yet describe it as compelling, but he agreed with Bright. Soulsby was beginning to emerge as the only real suspect.

  If Daniels was honest with herself, if it hadn’t been Jo she’d have been inclined to agree with them. Not this time, she thought, looking out of the window at the last dregs of the sun on the horizon. This time, she was determined to prove them all wrong. Somewhere in the city streets below, the real killer was out there.

  57

  He’d looked at it again today.

  The shop doorway stank of piss and offered little shelter from the pouring rain. He smiled as a patrol car cruised by, its female occupant giving him the once-over before driving on, presumably with more important things to do.

  How wrong could a person be?

  Her colleagues were no nearer catching him now than they had ever been. He was already planning his next move and the pigs were the least of his worries. He was hungry for the scissors, impatient for the next cut, but Number Six was proving harder to track down than the others and a little more diligence was required.

  It wasn’t a race, he reminded himself; he was in it for the long haul, content to savour the moment, congratulate himself on his achievements so far.

  He had all the time in the world to find Dotty.

  Patience is a virtue! a caustic voice echoed inside his head.

  Her fucking voice, the one that refused to go away, the one that made him cringe, affecting him deeply, waking him, sweating and crying in the night, her finger wagging in front of his face as he cowered beneath the covers. He’d been hearing it a lot lately. But, just as there was no hiding place for him back then, there was none for them now.

  His smile faded . . .

  Anger boiled inside him as something came to him in a flash. He could’ve, perhaps should’ve, taken the opportunity when he’d had it: asked Malik where his next target was, or Jenny, for that matter. They’d have known. And if they’d refused to spill, he’d have enjoyed torturing them until they squealed. He could still ask his mother, but that would give the game away. He wanted to drip-feed her. Let her hear of their deaths through the grapevine, bit by agonizing bit, until the cruel bitch knew he was coming for her.

  No, he’d find Number Six and he’d do it alone.

  Up at the second-floor window, he could see Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels staring out, concentration etched on her face. It gave him a warm feeling to think that, right at that very m
oment, they were thinking of each other, like a couple of lovesick teenagers too shy to make the first move, yet whose every waking moment was spent waiting for the day when they would finally get it together.

  Sooner or later she’d realize that his victims were all God people, and then she’d be gagging to make his acquaintance.

  Oh, how he longed for that day.

  58

  ‘DCI Daniels’ phone . . . hello? . . . Daniels’ office.’

  Jo hadn’t anticipated Gormley answering the phone. Flustered, she covered the speaker, trying to decide what to do next. She considered ringing off, but she needed to talk. And nobody but Kate Daniels would do.

  Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her.

  ‘I need to speak to DCI Daniels right away,’ she said.

  ‘Jo?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me . . .’ She wished he’d just fuck off and get Kate, even though she knew it was part of his job to field the DCI’s calls. ‘Can I speak to her or not?’

  ‘Hang on. I’ll see what I can do.’

  The line clicked. As Jo waited, she imagined Gormley striding off into the bowels of the busy police station, tracking his movements in her mind’s eye, until suddenly he was back on the line.

  ‘Jo?’

  ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, she was here a minute ago but she just left. Is there anything . . .?’

  Jo put down the phone.

  Ten minutes later, a bell rang indicating the start of visiting time. Through the open blinds on her door, she watched people passing her room bearing gifts: flowers, fruit, biscuits, balloons on a string. Jo closed her eyes and snuggled down in bed, then opened them again when she heard a gentle knock at the door. Excitement faded to disappointment when her visitor entered, for no other reason than she’d hoped, prayed, that Kate Daniels would come.

  Kirsten Edwards smiled at her through perfect teeth. She was a striking Irishwoman with auburn hair, green eyes and the figure of someone half her age. She wore well-cut clothes, brown suede boots and carried an expensive handbag to match. Over her other arm was an enormous bouquet, a mixture of white lilies, carnations and roses that must’ve cost a fortune. She stood for a while, examining her surroundings – the bedclothes, the chair, the jug of warm water – and looking decidedly uncomfortable, as if her very presence in the building would cause her to catch some awful disease. Then, visibly steeling herself, she approached the bed and placed the flowers on Jo’s lap.

  Jo felt ugly compared to the vision of loveliness embracing her, filling her nostrils with the heady scent of Agent Provocateur. Then, over Kirsten’s shoulder, she caught sight of her preferred visitor, hovering anxiously outside the door. Their eyes met briefly, then Daniels gave a little wave and walked away, causing Jo to burst into floods of tears as she disappeared from view, knowing Kate had risked everything to visit.

  Misreading her sorrow, Kirsten pulled away and sat down on the chair beside the bed. Handing Jo a tissue, she waited for her to compose herself. ‘Poor you,’ she said. ‘For what it’s worth, these places give me the creeps too.’

  ‘I didn’t have a lot of choice.’ Jo dried her eyes. She wanted to leap out of bed and race down the corridor before Daniels reached the lift, to let her know before she left the hospital, for what she assumed would be the final time, just how much she appreciated her support. But she knew that in her present state she wouldn’t make it past the door. Instead, she sniffed at the bouquet and put on a brave face. ‘These are lovely, Kirsten. Thank you so much.’

  Baker popped her head in, caught Kirsten’s attention and tapped her watch.

  Kirsten raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘The obergruppenführer says I’ve got five minutes, tops. She says you’re overtired and need to rest. Doctor’s orders, apparently.’

  ‘You think she’s bad, you should meet the night sister!’ Jo managed a weak smile.

  Kirsten tried to mask her distress at Jo’s injuries but she couldn’t quite manage that. ‘I can’t believe it . . .’ she said, her eyes scanning every bruise, every graze on Jo’s face. ‘You looked absolutely fabulous on Thursday.’

  Jo said nothing for several seconds.

  ‘You saw me on Thursday?’

  59

  The wine bar was busy with partying customers all talking at once. It was subtly lit with a wooden floor and a distinct Mediterranean feel, the walls adorned with now-defunct covers of long-playing records. There was plenty of low seating and high stools at the bar, all of which were taken.

  The waitress emerging from behind the bar had to be Kirsten Edwards. Daniels was sure it was the same woman she’d seen at Jo’s bedside earlier in the evening, only now her hair was tied up and she was dressed in jeans, a silk shirt and high-heeled boots. Daniels wondered if Jo and this stunning woman were now, or had ever been, an item.

  ‘Ms Edwards?’ Daniels said.

  The waitress nodded, scanned the bar and held up a finger. ‘One second . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she took in a female customer’s hand raised in the air. She had a word with the barman before approaching Daniels with her hand extended. ‘You must be Kate Daniels.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Daniels didn’t waste any time. ‘I take it you know why I’m here?

  ‘Jo explained everything. Can I get you a glass of wine, soft drink, coffee . . .?’

  Daniels shook her head, wondering if ‘everything’ meant everything or whether it was just a figure of speech. She decided to chance her arm: ‘What is your relationship with Jo, exactly?’

  Kirsten was a little taken aback. ‘Is that relevant?’

  Daniels let it go. ‘Can you confirm you were together on Thursday night?’

  ‘We were out together, yes. Me, Jo, and four friends from university. She wasn’t keen to go at first. Reunions aren’t really her style. She and I get together now and then, but the others had drifted apart. You know how it is.’

  Daniels knew exactly how it was. She hadn’t kept in touch with any of her school friends – could hardly remember any of their names – and social networking definitely wasn’t her style. Kirsten raised an arm, attracting the attention of a staff member, and pointed at some abandoned glasses with a disapproving look on her face. As the barmaid scurried off to collect them, Kirsten turned back.

  ‘Sorry, I have to keep on top of them or the place would be a tip,’ she said, a wry smile appearing on her face. ‘You’re wondering why a law graduate is waiting tables in a wine bar, right?’

  Daniels had been wondering no such thing. She was too busy reflecting on Kirsten’s relationship with Jo. This wasn’t the woman who had come between them. But were they just good friends? Or had things moved beyond that?

  She played along. ‘My apologies, I’m not usually that obvious.’

  ‘I own it and several others like it,’ Kirsten explained.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Daniels lied. ‘What made Jo change her mind?’

  Kirsten smiled, almost flirting. ‘I can be quite persuasive, Kate.’

  60

  In the morning, she drove straight to headquarters, having rung ahead to warn Bright she was on her way. But when she got there, he wasn’t in his office. His bag-man told her that he’d gone out for a walk to clear his head. Wondering if that was a metaphor for having been drunk the night before, Daniels thanked him and left the building.

  She found him in the grounds, watching a company of new recruits marching on parade. The dog handler with him acknowledged her with a nod and moved off, a young German Shepherd biting at his heels. Feeling her presence as she arrived by his side, Bright commented on how quickly his twenty-five years in the force had passed by. She found herself agreeing with him – her own fifteen years had gone in the blink of an eye. He turned and looked at her intently. For a moment, she thought he was going to say something really personal, but instead he warned her against treading on certain toes. He didn’t have to spell out who it was he was referring to.

  ‘I’m damned if I’ll treat hi
m differently just because he happens to be a senior officer,’ Daniels bit back. ‘Martin’s definitely lying, guv. And I’m hell-bent on getting to the bottom of it.’

  ‘He’s also the ACC,’ Bright reminded her. ‘Why d’you think we’re not having this conversation in my office?’

  ‘That makes no odds, does it?’ A pause. ‘Well, does it?’

  ‘All I’m saying is, take care in the way you go about it – unless you fancy traffic duty for the rest of your days. I know it might not always be apparent, but your career matters to me. It always has.’

  ‘I appreciate that, guv.’

  ‘Good. Now, what else is happening? We any further forward?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. I now know where Jo was until around midnight on the fifth. I need time to follow it up, trace other potential witnesses. It shouldn’t take long.’

  Bright listened carefully to what she had to say. Daniels told him about the reunion, about the statement she’d taken from Kirsten Edwards, the need to find the others to corroborate her story. For a while he remained silent, but she could see from the look on his face that he was doing the maths.

  ‘Midnight, you say?’

  Daniels nodded soberly. She knew what was coming.

  ‘Then if the taxi didn’t pick her up until around one thirty, an hour and a half is unaccounted for.’

  ‘That’s why I need to—’

  ‘That’s time enough to commit genocide, let alone kill Stephens!’

  Daniels drove back to town in double-quick time. On reaching the incident room, she headed straight for Gormley’s desk and asked him to join her in her office. She walked in ahead of him, threw herself down on her seat and waited for him to shut the door before speaking.

  ‘Any progress on Monica Stephens’ alibi?’ she asked.

  ‘Airport CCTV caught her and her mate arriving around nine twenty-five; Monica leaving alone at eleven forty-seven; Teresa Branson boarding a plane around the same time. Her trip was a round robin by the way, Helsinki, London and back to Newcastle. They’re both in the clear . . .’ Gormley sat down. ‘You OK?’