The Murder Wall

by Mari Hannah

  PRISON NUMBER:

  K67889

  SURNAME:

  FORSTER

  FORENAME(S):

  JONATHAN

  ALIAS:

  FOSTER, JOHN

  SEX:

  M

  HEIGHT:

  188 CM

  COMPLEXION:

  SWARTHY

  HAIR COLOUR:

  BROWN

  EYE COLOUR:

  GREY

  BUILD:

  STOCKY

  SHAPE OF FACE:

  SQUARE

  BIRTH PLACE:

  NCLE/TYNE

  Gormley turned the page, showing her Forster’s previous convictions.

  Daniels eyed the list. ‘He sounds like a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘He is. But he’s not our guy. It’s not his style.’

  ‘OK, grab your coats everybody. Let’s call it a day.’ Daniels watched the squad pack up and move off, saying goodnight as they filed out of the door.

  Gormley stayed put. ‘Think I’ll hang around for a bit.’

  ‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’ Daniels said. ‘Put it away – I said it’s time to go.’

  As he muttered his dissent, she leaned over him, closed the file, opened up his bottom drawer and threw it in. She knew he was avoiding going home, so she asked him to go for a quick drink, at which point he stood up and put on his coat, wrapping a petrol-blue scarf around his neck.

  ‘You sure you want to be seen in the boozer with an old man like me?’ he said.

  ‘Do you see a queue of younger ones?’ Daniels slipped on her coat and did up the buttons. ‘Anyway, I always tell people you’re my dad.’

  Gormley grinned as they headed into the corridor. Just then the phone rang. He looked at Daniels, his step faltering.

  ‘I’d better just get that.’

  She shouted for him to leave it and walked out the door, turning off the lights.

  The warehouse had still not given up its secrets. After a very long day, Carmichael caught the eye of the TSG unit leader and mouthed the word Sorry.

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘You look it.’

  ‘Ten more minutes?’ She put her hands together, pleading for his patience.

  ‘OK.’ He made a face. ‘But the drinks are on you if we find it.’

  She left him to it, returning to Carruthers’ office on the floor above to make a few calls. She was still on the phone half an hour later when the unit leader radioed his men to wrap it up. He’d hardly finished giving the order when an indistinct, but definite, shout came from the far end of the long corrugated shed. Carmichael glanced through the observation window. Probably another false alarm. There had been umpteen similar shouts since the search began. None of them had come to anything. She would never admit it – at least not to the industrious TSG – but she held out little hope of ever finding the coat.

  Turning away again, she carried on with her conversation, oblivious to the heightened excitement going on in the warehouse below. Several men were making their way towards one officer who was standing still with his arm raised in the air. There was some discussion between them, then everyone turned their attention to Carruthers’ office.

  Carmichael was at the viewing window, but with her back to the glass.

  The unit leader got on the radio. ‘Lisa, you might want to get down here.’

  Turning to look at them, Carmichael hung up the phone. Within seconds, she was running down the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her, her grin widening by the second.

  A muddle of officers parted to let her through.

  ‘Is it the one?’ she asked.

  The TSG leader looked up. ‘Think so. The rest of the stuff in the bag fits. You’re going to need to take out a mortgage at the pub,’ he teased.

  Putting on a pair of latex gloves, Carmichael bent down to take a closer look. The designer label was right, it was a full-length cashmere coat matching Monica’s description – stylish, camel in colour, with two front pockets and a chic slit up the back. The right-hand pocket was empty. She took a deep breath, teased open the left, and could hardly believe her luck when she saw there was something inside.

  ‘Fuck me, Danny – I think you’re right!’

  The TSG officer grinned.

  Taking a small pair of tweezers from her bag and expertly attaching them to one corner of a small card, Carmichael lifted it free and dropped it into an evidence bag so she could examine it in more detail without fear of contamination. On one side was a picture of a saint with writing underneath: S. Camillus De Lellis. On the reverse, there was a reference to St Camillus, Universal Patron of the Sick and Dying. Underneath was a small prayer, beseeching the Good Lord to grant eternal happiness.

  Carmichael felt like she’d already found hers.

  Finnegan’s was an old-fashioned long bar with more standing room than seating. It was packed to the rafters with off-duty officers, many of whom were watching an overhead TV. A European football game was at stalemate with only seconds left on the clock. Gormley glanced at the screen just as a goal was scored. The ball thundered into the net, giving the goalkeeper no chance.

  As the ref blew his whistle, the whole place erupted. Chairs scraped the hard wooden floor as fans hurried for the late bus and the noise level peaked as excited conversations merged with one another before dying to a steady hum.

  Gormley acknowledged the barman with a nod, then pushed the only available bar stool towards Daniels. She sat down facing him, supporting her cheek with one elbow on the bar.

  ‘Why d’you say Forster’s not our guy? Not that I brought you out to talk shop.’

  ‘’Course not.’ Gormley ordered a dry white wine and soda for her and a pint of Theakstons for himself. ‘He’s a scumbag, plain and simple. Likes to rape young girls – at least, he did when he was sixteen. He’s got no recent form, but give him time. He’s only been out two years.’

  ‘Why is he on the list if his profile doesn’t fit?’

  Gormley shrugged.

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘West end. I was only halfway through his file when you kidnapped me. You sure you don’t want me to work on? I’m happy to—’

  ‘You want the night shift now?’ Daniels accepted her wine from the barman and took a sip. ‘Tomorrow’s fine, Hank. You’re no good to me if you burn yourself out.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Gormley said drily. ‘I can’t wait to get home.’

  She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again as a young woman pushed in between them. As the barman took her order, Gormley noticed some football fans vacating a table near the door. They left the bar and made a beeline for it. No sooner had they sat down than Daniels’ pocket began to chirp.

  ‘Jesus! Mobiles really bug me sometimes . . .’ She took out her phone. ‘I’m going to start switching the damn thing off.’

  Gormley grinned. Clearly she wasn’t irritated enough to ignore it.

  ‘Yeah, Lisa. What’s up?’

  Gormley took a long drink and used the back of his hand to wipe excess froth from his top lip. The pub door opened, letting more punters in, the noise of passing traffic forcing Daniels to cover her free ear – a mixture of excitement and disbelief crossing her face as she listened.

  ‘You’re kidding me? . . . You sure? . . . No, don’t. I’ll meet you there in ten.’

  She hung up.

  Gormley was more than a little intrigued. ‘Come on then, spill. From the look on your face, I’d say at least some of that was good news.’

  ‘We got lucky.’ Daniels picked up her wine. ‘You’re not going to believe this, Hank: the TSG found the coat.’

  ‘And the card?’

  She was too stunned to answer.

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The card?’ Gormley pressed. ‘Did they find it?’

  Daniels just stared at him, a list of names running through her head: Father Simon, Sarah Short, Jenny Tait, Jamil Malik . . . and now A
lan Stephens. ‘It’s him, Hank! Just how many people has this maniac killed?’

  84

  Getting there had been a cinch. Much less problematic than he’d expected, given the prevailing weather conditions. He didn’t know how, when, if, he’d get back to Newcastle tomorrow, but that was the least of his problems. He’d come here to do a job on her and planned to stay until it was done. Assassination was his new best friend – the only one he could rely on. Like a drug to his system, it sent a rush of pleasure through his whole body. He needed a hit now.

  Almost two months had gone by since Number Five. And in that time he’d missed his little ritual:

  The guns . . .

  The cards . . .

  The scissors . . .

  Especially the scissors.

  Now here he was, primed and ready. But there was no sign of Dotty.

  He’d been waiting in the shadows for hours, working himself into a lather, thinking of all the trouble he’d gone to, tracking her down – and for what? The house was in total darkness. A little cottage with a little gate; a little path leading up to a little front door for the little bitch he’d come to see. She was exactly like his mother, making him wait ’til she was ready. He didn’t like it then and he didn’t like it now. What was he supposed to do, hang around in the freezing cold for ever?

  He consoled himself with thoughts of that other bitch being hauled over the coals by her bosses. If only he could have had a ringside seat to watch the fallout after his little intervention. She’d probably been taken off the case by now. Though he hoped not. He intended to introduce himself to Daniels. Maybe to both of them, now the other dyke had received a get-out-of-jail card. He smiled: that would certainly float his boat. Or should he take Soulsby out first? That way he wouldn’t have to share.

  He’d never been good at sharing.

  The snow was falling heavily again, falling silently to earth in the picture-postcard garden, a reminder of Corbridge, in many ways. Should he break in and wait? Move on to the next one? Fuck, no! That would spoil everything! No! Dotty was Number Six. Not seven. Number SIX. That’s just the way it was – plain and simple – the way it had always been. They had decided that, not him.

  85

  ‘Who?’ Gormley said. ‘What you on about?’

  Daniels looked at the mobile phone in her hand, resisting the urge to call Carmichael back, to check that she’d heard her right and hadn’t been dreaming. She pulled her chair closer to the table and dropped her voice to a whisper.

  ‘It’s him, Hank. He killed them all! The TSG just found the proof.’

  ‘Yes!’ Gormley punched the air in celebration, his enthusiasm wavering as he saw Daniels’ brow crease.

  ‘The card came from St Camillus,’ she said. ‘Would you credit that?’

  Overriding his objections, Daniels sent Gormley home and walked back to the station alone. She went straight to the exhibits room to examine the recovered items and make sure they’d been properly logged, then she sent Carmichael packing too.

  Daniels was too wired, too excited for sleep after the latest revelation. She wandered into the incident room and stood for a moment looking around. Despite the introduction of HOLMES – Home Office Large Major Enquiry System – a computerised programme that replaced the antiquated manual process of compiling and cross-checking data, murder enquiries still generated mountains of paperwork and much of it had landed on Gormley’s desk.

  Turning his desk lamp on for company, she sifted a few files that were sitting there, skimming through some, ignoring others. Then she opened his bottom drawer and took out the file she’d thrown in earlier, the one he’d been reviewing before she’d dragged him off to the pub.

  Spreading it out on the desk she wondered what it was about this ‘scumbag’ that had triggered his inclusion on the PNC list. Forster was a lifer, yes. But he’d been captured within days leaving forensics all over the place and had absolutely nothing in common with the cold-blooded, calculated killer she was seeking.

  Gormley was right: his profile simply didn’t fit. She scribbled a note for Gormley and stuck it to the front of the file:

  Waste of bloody time. Don’t bother going over it again.

  See you tomorrow.

  Kate

  86

  She glanced sideways at the Dutch woman, feeling guilty for having doubted her. Whatever misgivings she may have had about Stephens’ second wife, Daniels knew that none of Jo’s problems had been her doing. Monica was not responsible for Jo’s incarceration – Bright was.

  They had hardly spoken on the way to the exhibits room. And now, Monica waited patiently as Daniels scribbled in a ledger, asking the exhibits officer for some privacy. They watched him disappear into the back office, and then Daniels took a large transparent bag from a box he’d left on the counter.

  Monica took her time studying the garment inside.

  ‘Can you say with absolute certainty that this is your coat?’ Daniels asked after a while. She already knew the answer. The coat was foreign, for a start, and Carmichael had discovered a card in the pocket. Still, it was vital to go through the motions of identification.

  Monica nodded.

  ‘Are you completely sure? It’s very important. I can take it out, if you like?’

  ‘May I?’ Monica pointed at the bag. Daniels handed it to her. ‘Yes, definitely . . .’ Monica indicated a mark on the lapel and used her hand to smooth out the cellophane so the DCI could see it more clearly. ‘You see the pulled thread there? I did it on one of the flowers for the war dead.’

  ‘A poppy?’

  Monica nodded.

  Daniels lifted out a second evidence bag containing the card itself. ‘And this?’

  On seeing the card, Monica broke down, as if the sight of it brought back the full horror of that night. Daniels had expected as much. She held Monica’s trembling hand and offered to get her a drink of water.

  ‘No, I’m OK,’ she said. ‘Just give me a moment.’

  Daniels sighed. ‘I know how difficult this is for you, Monica. Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to put you through it.’

  Taking a deep breath, Monica reached for the card. She examined it closely, rotating the bag so she could view both sides. ‘It looks exactly like the one I found on the night . . . the night Alan was killed.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain?’

  Monica gave an emphatic nod.

  On the floor below, Gormley was being given a hard time. He hadn’t had a proper conversation with his son in weeks and Ryan wasn’t at all happy. As Gormley listened to the tale of woe coming from the receiver clamped between his shoulder and ear, he began doodling on a sheet of paper: the cartoon head of a boy, a cute cat, a house, a cross . . . Suddenly he sat up straight, staring at the doodles.

  A cross, a bloody cross.

  ‘Look, Ryan, I’ve got to go . . .’ Gormley winced. ‘No, of course you’re important to me . . . that’s really unfair, son. You know I do. Look, I’ll call you back, I promise. No . . . I will call you.’

  He hung up.

  Forster’s file was still lying in his bottom drawer where Daniels had thrown it the night before. He lifted it out, opened the inside front cover and scanned the personal information boxes. Then he scanned them again, just to make sure.

  He picked up his mobile.

  It was beginning to feel like a very long day, as far as Daniels was concerned. After seeing Monica off, she had gone directly into a strategic case conference, convened at short notice in the major incident suite upstairs. It was chaired by Assistant Chief Constable Martin and involved top brass from two other forces – Durham and West Midlands – as well as a senior officer from the National Crime Faculty. The subject up for discussion? Linked murders and which force should take the lead role in the investigation.

  In other words: Who’s going to foot the bill?

  Despite Martin’s fervent opposition, it had been decided that Northumbria should have the honour. Daniels couldn’t tell w
hich upset the ACC most: the cost of the enquiry, or the fact that this would put her firmly centre stage in the case of her career. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with the case she might have relished the moment.

  As they filed out of the meeting, she was intercepted by Gormley.

  ‘You get my text?’ He was buzzing with excitement as he brought her attention to a file in his hand. ‘Forster’s our man!’

  ACC Martin brushed past them, shooting looks. Turning her back on him, she set off down the corridor with Gormley in tow.

  ‘I thought you said—’

  ‘I know what I said, Kate. But I was wrong. C’mon, we’ve got work to do.’ They took the stairs quickly, heading for her office. ‘You know when something niggles you – you don’t know why, it just does?’ Gormley stopped walking as they reached her office door. Opening the file, he turned the page, pointing at a photograph of Jonathan Forster. ‘Well, if this is who I think it is, I met him in the waiting room at Jo’s office. He was a wimp. His mate was behaving like a prick. I wanted to kick his head in, but I restrained myself.’

  ‘That was big of you . . .’ Daniels held the door open and ushered him in. ‘You sure it was Forster?’

  Gormley sat down. ‘I’d bet my last pay packet. I rang Jo’s receptionist, but the dozy cow couldn’t remember – which surprised me, given the fact that the other guy was itching for a fight.’

  ‘Didn’t she check her records?’

  ‘Yes. Forster definitely had an appointment that day. See these . . .’ Gormley pulled out two very similar photographs and handed them to Daniels. ‘One is from our own database, the other is a photographic copy that was in one of the files we seized from Jo’s office. On both of these he’s got hair, right?’