The Murder Wall

by Mari Hannah

  ‘Well I’m buggered!’ Gormley said. ‘Looks like we were wrong about Maxwell. You were right to give him a second chance, after all.’

  Following his point of view as he craned his neck to look out of the window, Daniels saw two familiar figures making their way along the road, so deep in conversation they were oblivious to anyone else. DS Robson was barging his way through a group of kids loitering outside the Diamond pub. Yanking open the door, he stood back, allowing the ACC to enter first. Robson began remonstrating with the youngsters, telling them all to clear off.

  Daniels was disappointed to think that he might be Martin’s snout. Looking back, she wondered if that was the real reason he didn’t take paternity leave when he’d had the chance. Although forced to admit she’d set a lousy example of late, she demanded loyalty from her team. She was gutted to discover that one of her protégés had so little of it.

  Loyalty.

  Her greatest strength?

  Or her Achilles heel?

  Probably a bit of both, she thought. There was little doubt that the investigation into Alan Stephens’ death had tested her to the full in the past few months. The case had nearly torn her apart. But would she really do things any differently, given the same set of circumstances? Daniels didn’t think so. She’d realized that for most people there comes a time when difficult choices made life impossible.

  This was hers.

  ‘Can you believe that?’ Gormley’s voice interrupted her internal war. He was staring at the front door of the Diamond pub where Robson was still arguing with local youths.

  ‘Did it occur to you that it might be entirely innocent?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, and maybe I’m going to make Chief before I retire!’ Gormley hit back.

  A voice came over the radio: ironically it belonged to Maxwell. ‘November One to Daniels. Maureen Richardson is in safe hands. I repeat, Maureen Richardson has been located and is now in protective custody.’

  ‘Nice one!’ Gormley lifted his right hand, inviting a high five.

  Daniels ignored it and got back on the radio. ‘Daniels to November One. That’s fantastic news, Neil. Tell the squad the drinks are on me – soon as we get back.’

  ‘Boss?’ Maxwell sounded anxious.

  ‘Still here, November One.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Daniels was touched. ‘I hope we don’t need it.’

  She killed the radio, started up the Toyota, indicating her intention to pull out as Gormley began to vent his anger at Robson’s deceit. The man himself glanced furtively over his shoulder, as if somehow he could feel eyes bearing down on him.

  ‘Yeah . . . we’re watching you, son,’ Gormley said through gritted teeth.

  Daniels leaned forwards, turned the blue lights and the siren back on, putting the fear of God into Robson as they sped off into traffic.

  At the entrance to a cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Ponteland, Daniels killed the lights, turned off her engine and coasted slowly to the kerb.

  She got on the radio. ‘Daniels to Foxtrot . . . now in position. What can you see?’

  ‘Lights on front and rear, ma’am. One elderly male identified a few minutes ago. He was talking to someone, I couldn’t see who. He’s no longer in view.’

  ‘Did he look agitated?’

  ‘Hard to say from this distance, but I didn’t get that impression, no.’

  ‘Anything look suspicious?’

  ‘Negative.’

  ‘Hold your positions. I repeat, hold your positions.’ Daniels could feel the hair on the back of her neck standing to attention, her heart beating a little faster in her chest. She turned to face Gormley. ‘Showtime! Give me that number.’

  Gormley reached for his wallet, removed a small piece of paper and read out a telephone number as Daniels pushed the corresponding buttons on her mobile phone. Lifting it to her ear, she listened patiently for someone to pick up. Seconds later, the ringing stopped and an elderly female recited the number back to her.

  ‘. . . double one, four, three, four.’

  Daniels cleared her throat, hoping she sounded calmer than she felt.

  ‘Is that Mrs Enid Forster?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Is everything in the house all right, Mrs Forster?’

  Still no response.

  She’d most likely watched the evening news.

  Following her appeal for Maureen Richardson to come forward, Daniels had felt obliged to disclose the fact that she urgently needed to find and question Jonathan Forster, a man she was honest enough to admit could be armed and dangerous. She then issued a warning that under no circumstance should he be approached by members of the public. If that wasn’t enough to scare his parents, nothing was. ‘Mrs Forster, are you alone?’

  Her question was met with an icy silence; confirmation that it had caused a good deal of anxiety to the old lady on the other end of the line. Then Daniels heard a heavy knock. It sounded as if the receiver had gone down on a hard surface.

  Or had it been dropped?

  As Daniels glanced at Gormley, her whole body tensed. ‘Mrs Forster, are you still there? I need to know if just you and your husband are at home at present.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Detective Chief Inspector Daniels. We spoke at the station a few days ago. I need you to stay calm, Mrs Forster. Is your son Jonathan at home?’ The line went silent again. Daniels had expected as much. The poor woman was probably apoplectic by now, terrified at the prospect of being reunited with her son. She tried again. ‘Mrs Forster, this is very important. Please stay on the line and answer my question . . . is Jonathan there with you?’

  ‘No, dear. I told you last time. We haven’t seen him since . . . for many years.’

  Daniels felt herself relax. ‘OK, I’m coming to the door.’

  Gormley shook his head vigorously.

  Daniels raised her hand to shut off his objections. ‘When I ring the bell, I’d like you to answer the door.’ She paused, allowing time for the information to sink in. ‘When I ring the bell, Mrs Forster, and not before, OK?’

  The old lady’s voice was hardly audible. ‘Right-o, I understand.’

  ‘I’m putting the phone down now and I’m coming to the door.’ Daniels rang off and got back on the radio. ‘Daniels to Foxtrot, did you copy that?’

  ‘Foxtrot to Daniels . . . affirmative.’

  ‘Daniels to Foxtrot, hold your positions. I think it’s legit, I’m going in.’

  Gormley leaned towards the radio, raising his voice. ‘We’re going in.’

  ‘No!’ Her tone of voice was uncompromising. ‘I’m not taking any risks with you, Hank. You’ve got family to think of, I haven’t. The firearms team will cover my back. When I’m done, you can take Forster’s parents to the station. That’s an order, understood?’

  ‘Oh, right! I forgot. You always stick to the rules.’

  ‘I’m not joking, Hank!’

  ‘Neither am I! What are you going to do, sack me? I’m following you up that path whether you like it or not, so you better let Foxtrot know, unless you want them to shoot me dead. It’s your call. Anyway, I’d rather go out shouting “Yahoo!” at the moon than being force-fed semolina in an old people’s home.’

  Daniels heard a chuckle from one of the firearms team and killed the radio. She could see Gormley was in no mood to back down. They just looked at one another for a long moment, daring each other to blink first.

  ‘Don’t waste your breath, Kate.’ There was no humour in his voice now. ‘I’m warning you, you’ll have to chain me to the fucking car.’

  Daniels knew it would be a waste of time arguing. ‘Come on, then. What are you waiting for?’ She got back on the radio. ‘Daniels to Foxtrot . . . Two . . . I repeat two officers approaching the house. Hold your positions.’

  ‘Foxtrot to Daniels . . . affirmative.’

  They got out of the car and began to walk slowly and deliberately up the road, their eyes scanning hedges an
d gardens as they went. Suddenly every whiff of air, every movement, every sound, took on a new and potentially dangerous significance. Though she couldn’t and didn’t expect to see the firearms cordon, Daniels was confident that she was already in their night-sights. They walked on up the garden path to the front door, side by side, scanning the borders on either side.

  It was ominously quiet.

  Daniels raised her hand to the doorbell.

  Just then, the door was flung open with enough force to give them both a fright. She smiled anxiously at Gormley as Mrs Forster ushered them inside. As the door closed behind her, Daniels noticed the substantial fortifications: the control panel of a state-of-the-art electronic security alarm, a number of thick chains, supplemented by heavy-duty sliding bolts, top and bottom. Clearly the old couple feared someone.

  It didn’t take a genius to work out who that might be.

  The bungalow was almost clinical, with little colour or warmth to recommend it as a place in which to spend much time. In the living room, pieces of religious symbolism adorned every wall, every bookcase, every available surface: Christ’s crucifixion, resurrection, the Holy Virgin, doves, crosses, so many objects of righteousness it made Daniels feel uncomfortable. This was the very antithesis of Forster’s depravity, but it appalled her to think that a child, any child, could have been brought up in a house like this.

  Mrs Forster’s weeping was non-stop, the rosary beads in her arthritic hands affording little comfort so far as Daniels could see. Gormley was doing his level best to reassure her, while Mr Forster just stood there – too terrified of his own flesh and blood to be of any use to his wife. They took no persuading to leave the house, were practically begging for police protection, anxious to get as far away as possible as quickly as they could.

  When Mrs Forster crossed herself, Daniels looked at her with utter contempt, couldn’t find it in her heart to give either of them any sympathy. She turned away and radioed in: ‘Daniels to Foxtrot . . . Gormley’s on his way out with two witnesses, I repeat, two witnesses. I’m staying put. Foxtrot to remain in situ until stood down.’

  ‘Foxtrot to Daniels . . . copy that.’

  Grabbing Gormley by the arm, Daniels led him into the hallway, out of earshot.

  ‘Take my car and get them to the local nick. Tell the duty DI to make them comfortable until I get there and decide what to do with them. Get a search team down here – you know the drill. Tell them I want the whole works. Then get over to the safe house, make sure Jo’s OK.’

  Gormley was about to say something, when Mr and Mrs Forster suddenly appeared next to him with their coats on, ready to leave. He held an imaginary phone to his ear. Daniels nodded her understanding and watched him shepherd the couple outside. She waited for the door to shut before taking a good look around.

  The first bedroom she came to smelt faintly of candle grease. It was furnished with a single bed and more religious paraphernalia, including a prayer mat on a hard wooden floor in front of some kind of holy shrine. Further down the corridor was an equally austere bedroom. Larger than the first, it too had just the basic furnishings: an old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe, two single beds with a table in between. A small reading lamp was on the bedside table, along with two framed photographs of Forster’s parents and a pale blue statuette of Jesus.

  Putting on a pair of rubber gloves, Daniels hooked her little finger inside a brass pull-ring on the wardrobe door and tugged. The door creaked as it came open. There were very few belongings inside: some clothes hung neatly from a brass rail; shoes lined up in perfect symmetry on a closet organizer on the floor; a couple of shoe boxes on a shelf above.

  Daniels shivered. There was no heating in the room and the house gave her the creeps. Determined to leave no stone unturned, she removed one of the boxes, took off the lid and tipped the contents out on to the bed. There were some old photographs, many letters and a large brown envelope held together with a thick rubber band. She spread the items out. Turning the photographs face up, she became increasingly angry.

  Jesus Christ!

  Her mobile rang, startling her. She flipped it open. ‘Daniels.’

  Gormley was on the other end. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah . . . you alone?’

  ‘Negative . . . but you’re not on speaker.’

  He was still with Forster’s parents.

  Daniels described the stuff she found. ‘And not a single snap of Forster, even as a baby. They created a monster, Hank. It’s as if they obliterated his memory, as if he never existed at all.’

  ‘I’m pulling into the station now. Will do the necessary, then shoot off to relieve Carmichael. I’ll call you from there. Any message?’

  ‘Tell Jo . . .’ Daniels hesitated. ‘Doesn’t matter, I’ll tell her myself.’

  She hung up, pocketed her phone and went back to the box. Removing the rubber band from the envelope, Daniels slid her gloved hand inside. Prayer cards – hundreds of them – spilled out through her fingers and on to the floor.

  99

  Inside the fortified farmhouse, the sound of tyres on gravel alerted Carmichael and Jo. The CCTV monitor had a split screen showing both front and rear doors. The right-hand screen was active, triggered by Daniels’ four-by-four moving into shot. Gormley was locking the car and making his way to the back door looking straight at the camera, his features distorted by the wide-angled lens.

  He waved.

  Carmichael unlocked the door and locked it again as soon as he was inside. Seconds later, he joined them in the kitchen, took off his jacket and sat down. Carmichael put the kettle on and made a pot of tea. Though she looked as washed out as she felt, she seemed in no hurry to go home, despite the fact that she’d been on duty for sixteen hours straight.

  ‘I just discovered something really interesting . . .’ Carmichael said. ‘Several jpegs in a deleted folder on Forster’s computer.’

  Her words and her reluctance to leave made Gormley uneasy. He loosened his tie, then tossed it on the table, glancing at Jo in the process. She looked equally concerned by this development.

  ‘I’ll take care of them later, Lisa,’ Gormley said, trying to sound disinterested. ‘You get off home.’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ Taking three mugs from a cupboard, Carmichael set them down on the kitchen bench and began pouring the tea. ‘It’s really no bother, I—’

  ‘Just leave me the information and I’ll sort it!’ Gormley insisted.

  It was a heavy hint that she should leave. Carmichael didn’t argue, but she didn’t look happy either. Glancing at the steaming mug of tea in front of her, she pushed it away and pointed to a yellow Post-it note stuck to her computer screen.

  ‘That’s the designated file name . . .’ She’d clocked Gormley’s agitation. ‘Am I missing something here?

  ‘Lisa, would you mind . . .’ Jo intervened, her expression apologetic as she handed Carmichael her coat. ‘I really need to speak with Hank privately.’

  Caught on the back foot, Carmichael put on her coat and gathered up her bag from the floor. ‘Didn’t see that coming,’ she said. ‘Well, I’ll see you two lovebirds tomorrow then.’

  After she’d gone, Gormley shook his head.

  Jo laughed out loud. ‘Oh what a tangled web,’ she said.

  The letters were similarly marked, all of them stamped HER MAJESTY’S PRISON. There were scores of them, but, as far as Daniels could tell, very few had actually been opened. She noticed that they had not all come from one institution and concluded that Forster must have been shipped around the country, from one prison to another, with alarming regularity during the course of his life sentence.

  No surprise there, then.

  She sat down on the bed to read the letters, all written in pencil on lined A4 paper. The handwriting was childish and tiny, as if a spider had walked across the pages. In letters written shortly after his imprisonment, Forster vehemently denied any wrongdoing and begged his parents to believe him, saying he’d been ‘fitted up’ by
police. In each one he was adamant he wanted to go home. In letters written later, Daniels found that the tone had completely changed. He’d become highly agitated, slagging off his parents for rejecting him out of hand. It was clear that he hated his mother with a passion. These were the ramblings of an unhealthy mind, pages and pages of disturbed, incoherent thoughts. All of the letters were unsigned, concluding with the words: The End.

  Back at the safe house, Gormley took his tea and sat down at the computer with Jo looking over his shoulder. He put on his specs, typed in the file name Carmichael had left stuck to the computer monitor, and set the folder to view as a slide show.

  The first photographs that came up on screen were no surprise. They were images of Daniels and Jo kissing on her doorstep, matching the hard copies Forster had hidden on his balcony. It was hard to tell who was the most embarrassed but, as the slide show continued, discomfort was replaced by horror as the location then changed.

  They watched in silence as the images faded and then dissolved. There were scores of photographs, all with Daniels as their subject: with Jo, with Gormley, with Bright, in different locations – including one where she was standing alone outside St Camillus’ church – and, finally, either entering or leaving the family home of David and Elsie Short.

  The realization hit Gormley like a sledgehammer.

  ‘Christ! It’s not you he’s been watching, it’s Kate!’

  Daniels jerked forward as the gun nudged the small of her back. Her whole body tensed. Forster was standing right behind her, large as life, close enough to kill her with his bare hands. He spoke just four words:

  ‘Took you long enough.’

  She froze.

  His words echoed in her head, confusing her, projecting her back to Jo’s bedside: Took you long enough. Jo had used those exact words following her accident. Only this time, Daniels’ reaction was very different. This time she could not afford to get emotional, not if she was going to make it out of there alive. Forster’s sinister laughter brought her crashing back to reality.

  ‘Wanna know why they’re still alive?’ he whispered.