The Murder Wall

by Mari Hannah

  ‘Forensics at the scene yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’ Daniels chanced her arm. ‘Don’t you even want to know his name, guv?’

  She’d hit a nerve. Bright bristled, avoiding eye contact. It was obvious he hadn’t been ready for her direct approach. God knows why, he’d known her long enough.

  He sidestepped the question with one of his own. ‘Any press sniffing around?’

  ‘’Fraid so. Chasing you too, I imagine.’ She nodded towards his own crime-scene photographs. ‘Unfortunately, my scene is less than a block away from last night’s celebrations.’ She stressed the word my, hoping he’d back off a bit. ‘The press were on it like a dog on heat. There was nothing I could do. But I think you’ll find in the cold light of day that most of the media interest will be coming your way, not mine.’

  Bright didn’t bite. He just sighed – that same worried look.

  ‘You don’t need to hold my hand, guv . . .’ Daniels pointed through the glass partitioning to the outer office. ‘From where I’m standing, you’ve got enough on your plate.’

  ‘You’re right, I have,’ he said. ‘But this is your first case in overall charge, so let’s just take it gently, shall we?’

  Daniels didn’t quite know how to respond. She’d worked her socks off for this opportunity and he was treating her like a rookie on a first assignment. Her hackles were up and it probably showed.

  He looked at her like a concerned father would. ‘Don’t take it personally, Kate. I don’t doubt your ability, I just want you to know my door’s always open.’

  Bollocks! ‘Is that all, guv?’

  Daniels regretted her tone as soon as the words had left her lips. Despite the fact that they were on first-name terms – though never in front of the squad – there was a fine line which she had just crossed. Bright may have encouraged her to speak her mind on any subject, but he was still her senior officer and deserved her respect.

  ‘For now, yes . . .’ He smiled, an attempt to make amends. ‘Just keep me posted on this one, OK?’

  It was a dismissal.

  Daniels nodded. She wondered whether an apology was required, decided it wasn’t and headed for the door. With her back turned, he spoke again.

  ‘You OK, Kate? If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look it.’

  She turned to face him. ‘I’m fine . . .’ she said, her eyes drawn back to the photograph on his desk. ‘And I apologize, I should have asked after Stella.’

  Bright cleared his throat. Behind his tired eyes, she could see that her concern had been unwelcome, even though she’d supported him through some very dark days following the accident – a crash that had left Stella in a critical condition, fighting for her life. Daniels wondered if he was still waking up in a cold sweat having nightmares at the wheel. Not that he was in any way to blame. An articulated lorry had jackknifed on the M25, wiping out one side of his car. She felt sure he was suffering some kind of survivor guilt. She was equally sure he’d never admit it, for fear of appearing weak.

  ‘No change . . .’ he said. ‘I hate to say it, but I hope to God it’s quick.’

  Walking back down the corridor, Daniels was too slow to avoid Gormley coming the other way. Like any good detective, he didn’t miss a trick. He saw the troubled look on her face before she had time to conceal it.

  ‘Everything OK with you and the guv’nor?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘I’m a detective and you’re no poker player. It’s obvious he’s pissing you off.’

  ‘He’s got a lot on his mind, Hank.’

  Gormley grinned – he knew something she didn’t.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Any idea why the ACC wants you on the case?’

  Daniels bristled. ‘Does he?’

  ‘That’s what he told Bright.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Daniels looked past him to the door of the incident suite.

  She wasn’t the only one holding back.

  4

  A shaft of early morning light peeped through a chink in the bedroom curtains, crossing the delicate contours of Jo Soulsby’s face. Her eyes flickered uncertainly and slowly blinked open. She lay on her back for several minutes, staring at the ceiling, feeling the effects of an extreme hangover and dreading the day ahead.

  Jo showered quickly. But no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t wash away the nightmare of the previous night. Her flight from the Quayside was classic behaviour, given the circumstances. Hadn’t she explained it in very simple terms to a number of patients over the years? Words like ‘emotional’ and ‘trigger’ sprang to mind. She was in trouble and knew it. Trouble brought on by scars of the past, unresolved issues that had festered deep within her psyche, waiting to explode like a loaded gun. She had everything she’d ever wanted: a successful career, a wonderful life, a family she adored. Right now, she wished her sons were around to help her put her own problems first for once instead of helping others understand theirs.

  Walking past her rumpled bed, she resisted the temptation to climb back under the covers. She still had a job to do, couldn’t afford to bury her head in the sand. She sat down and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The image didn’t please her. Her eyelids were red, a bruise just visible on the left side of her jaw. She applied make-up to mask it and put on smart clothes: a crisp white blouse, pinstriped pencil skirt, thick grey tights and a black boxy jacket. Lastly, she added a black leather belt around her waist, attached to which was a key pouch with a thick silver chain dangling from it.

  Jo checked her appearance in the mirror, then padded barefoot down a wide staircase, across an Afghan carpet of muted shades of green and rust she’d bought on holiday years back. She circled the drawing room, turning off lamps left burning from the previous night. She opened the curtains, replaced an abandoned decanter on the sideboard and lifted a half-full tumbler of whisky from the floor beside the sofa.

  By the time she re-entered the hall it was empty.

  In the kitchen, Jo put on the kettle and sat down waiting for it to boil. It was a good-sized room with a four-oven Aga, a table large enough to seat eight, and all manner of paraphernalia she’d accumulated over time. If she was honest with herself, the house was far too big for her needs since her sons had left home. She’d seriously considered downsizing but somehow never managed to gather enough enthusiasm to pack up her stuff and move on. What would be the point? She didn’t need the money and could do without the hassle. Besides, the neighbours were nice. She felt safe here. It was a proper home, providing a haven from the outside world at the end of a shitty day at the office. Once that solid front door was locked, nothing could touch her.

  Jo skipped breakfast altogether. In the hallway, she slipped her feet into sensible court shoes, then instinctively reached up for her brown woollen overcoat. Finding it missing brought her nightmare flooding back. She found it on the back of the sofa where she’d dumped it the night before and carried it to the cupboard under the stairs. Reaching inside, she drew out a roll of black plastic bags, tore one off and placed the coat carefully inside. Then she gulped down a last mouthful of coffee, drew the telephone towards her and keyed a number.

  It had to be done . . .

  ‘This is Criminal Profiler, Jo Soulsby. Please put me through to DCI Daniels.’

  5

  There was frantic activity in the incident room. Telephones rang, computer screens danced, and there was a constant hum of voices as Gormley wandered in from Daniels’ office. He found her standing beside a table resembling a paper mountain, supervising the arrival of several important documents: action forms, forensic submission forms, house-to-house questionnaires, various maps of the area. What wouldn’t fit neatly on the table was being unceremoniously dumped on the floor.

  Gormley put his hand to his ear as if holding a telephone. ‘Jo, line one,’ he said.

  Daniels s
ighed. ‘Later, I’m about to start the briefing.’

  ‘Finally!’ Bright was getting impatient.

  Daniels had almost forgotten he was sitting there waiting for proceedings to get underway. She was keen to move on too, hoping he’d go back to his own enquiry and leave her be. As she called for order in the room, her squad paid attention. DC Carmichael was the last to put her own phone down, a worried look on her face.

  ‘Boss?’ she said. ‘There’s something you need to know.’

  ‘Yes, Lisa.’ Daniels pointed at the TV. ‘After we’ve watched the DVD.’

  Carmichael leapt from her seat, switching the TV on and the lights off before handing Daniels the remote. As the screen came to life, the mood in the room changed. Excited anticipation gave way to calm professionalism as the murder investigation team watched the short transmission. Daniels studied their faces while they took in the crime scene for the first time: not just the blood and gore, but the classy flat, Stephens’ expensive clothes and valuable jewellery, his untouched wallet.

  The television screen went blank. Carmichael switched it off again and turned the lights back on. Daniels thanked her and pointed to the victim’s photograph on the murder wall.

  ‘Nominal One is Alan Stephens,’ Daniels said. ‘What else do we know?’

  ‘You’re not going to like it,’ Carmichael said uncomfortably.

  ‘Something bothering you, Lisa?’ Bright said.

  ‘Stephens’ ex and the mother of his children is someone we all know personally.’

  ‘Does she have a name?’ Bright pushed.

  ‘It’s Jo . . . Soulsby.’

  Bright laughed. ‘Yeah, now pull the other one.’

  ‘I’m serious, guv.’

  All eyes were on Gormley.

  ‘I’ll call her back!’ he said.

  6

  Jo Soulsby left her house via the back door, opened the boot of her BMW and threw in the black plastic bag. She got in the car, checking her appearance once more in the vanity mirror and didn’t like what she saw. She reached into the glove compartment, took out a pair of Gucci sunglasses and put them on.

  So what if the sun wasn’t shining?

  Starting the car, she got the fright of her life when a Dixie Chicks track at full volume began bouncing around the interior. She turned off the CD player, in no mood for ‘Voice Inside My Head’. There were too many voices there already telling her to get a grip, drive straight to the nearest police station, just tell someone.

  Anyone!

  Jo sat for a while considering her options. As far as she was concerned there were umpteen good reasons to delay the inevitable, not least of which was her professional involvement with Northumbria Police. Her colleagues there were experts in dealing with the most serious offences and Kate Daniels would be offended, if not furious, not to be the first point of call. But Jo hadn’t been able to raise her. Maybe she should call someone else. No. Waiting a bit longer made sense. It would give her time to calm down and get her head together. She drove away, unaware that the phone inside her house was ringing off the hook.

  Traffic was light for a weekday. She drove out of her road, along a tree-lined avenue, thinking of all the things she had to do today – and all the reasons why she didn’t want to do them. At the T-junction she turned left heading for a parade of shops on Acorn Road, past a few swanky clothes shops, a couple of bakeries, a mini-market she used regularly.

  Parking was usually a nightmare on the busy street. But Jo was in luck: there was one space available. It was tight but she reversed into it expertly, got out of the car and opened the boot. Taking out the black plastic bag, she ignored an early-bird Big Issue seller setting up outside the newsagent. It was a good choice for a pitch. Any moment now locals would be arriving in their droves for their papers. He stood to make a packet.

  Crossing the road, she approached a dry cleaner’s shop. A light was on inside, but a sign on the door said CLOSED. Peering anxiously through the glass, she knocked, trying to attract the attention of the female assistant inside. The girl pointed to a clock on the wall behind the counter, the dial of which read eight fifty-six. Her expression yelled: Fuck-off-we’re-closed. Jo checked her own watch – it was gone nine – and rapped even harder.

  7

  Gormley put the phone down and shook his head. ‘She’s still not picking up,’ he said.

  ‘Try her mobile, her office . . .’ Daniels looked worried. ‘Just get hold of her before the press do.’

  ‘Poor Jo . . .’ Carmichael was genuinely concerned. ‘That’s going to make things a little tricky round here, isn’t it?’

  Her comment was met with an uncomfortable silence.

  Daniels glanced at Bright. It was hardly a secret that he had no rapport with Jo Soulsby despite her excellent reputation as a criminal profiler. His attitude to psychological profiling was disparaging at best. As far as he was concerned, it was a load of bollocks, an incomplete science – an absolute waste of time. He tolerated her input only because the Home Office insisted that he should. But she was a fellow professional who deserved their respect and – for now at least – he had the good sense to keep his personal feelings to himself.

  Daniels appreciated that and turned her attention back to the squad.

  ‘Let’s concentrate on what we know. Alan Stephens was shot at close range and there was no forced entry at his home. He’d been out to a charity dinner at the Weston Hotel, so maybe he took someone home with him. We’re still looking for a weapon, so when you are out and about keep your eyes and ears open. Given the proximity of the river, chances are it’s in the drink. That doesn’t mean we don’t look.’

  ‘According to his wife, Alan Stephens travelled to the Weston by taxi,’ Gormley said. ‘Assuming for now he got home the same way we need to do a sweep of local firms, see if we can nail the timing a bit.’

  Daniels nodded her approval. ‘Lisa’s already been in touch with the Weston for a guest list and will follow that up. Area Command are gathering CCTV footage and doing the usual with dry-cleaning establishments, rubbish tips, skips, anywhere that clothing or the gun might have been dumped. I’ve asked Hank to hold the fort here while I cover the PM. Those who worked through the night go home and get some shut-eye. The rest of you know what’s required. For now, we concentrate on the victim’s family, past and present. Monica Stephens maintains they were happily married. Maybe they were, maybe not. She was first at the scene, so unless her alibi checks out she’s still a suspect. She’d also have us believe her husband was a nice guy. Well, obviously someone doesn’t think so. Dig up as much background as you can, but bear in mind that Jo Soulsby is a colleague . . .’ Daniels exchanged a look with Bright. ‘So please tread carefully—’

  ‘Whatever the story behind this shooting we’ve got to move quickly,’ Bright said, getting to his feet. ‘And there’ll be no leaks to the media if you know what’s good for you. So if any of you are shagging the press, keep your flies open and your mouths shut! Let’s see how quickly we can put this one to bed.’

  He promptly left the room leaving Daniels to dismiss the squad. As officers began to disperse, she pondered her decision to take the case. There was no doubt she’d screwed up. But now she had to work out what was she going to do about it. Seeing her worried expression, Gormley leaned in close to have a quiet word.

  He never got the chance.

  ‘Sarah Short’s parents are here,’ Robson said, interrupting. ‘They’ve been waiting a while. I said I’d let you know.’

  Daniels sighed. If there was one thing she didn’t need right now, it was another heart-wrenching session with parents still waiting for justice for their daughter. She nodded to Robson and immediately left the room, heading downstairs. On the floor below, she hesitated before entering reception. Through a glass panel in the door, she could see David and Elsie Short huddled together on a hard bench, holding hands as always. Both bore the scars of the past: they were pale, drawn, emotionally spent.

  Assista
nt Chief Constable Martin walked up behind her.

  ‘Sarah Short’s parents again?’ he said.

  There was a distinct lack of compassion in his voice, as if their frequent visits to the station were an inconvenience to him. Daniels nodded. She couldn’t imagine the ACC ever having held the hands of any families of murder or manslaughter victims. Understanding was not on his radar. The man was a complete wanker, a hate figure with a formidable reputation. Not one member of MIT had a good word to say about him – most wouldn’t spit on him if he was on fire.

  ‘How long’s it been?’

  ‘Too long,’ Daniels said. ‘It’s painful to watch.’

  ‘Painful for you too, I imagine. It isn’t every day you come across two bodies. Doubly difficult when they’re known to your family.’

  ‘They’re not . . . well, only in as much as they attend St Camillus church.’

  ‘Still, you feel the loss deeply. I can see that.’ Martin chose his words carefully so as to cause her the maximum grief and embarrassment. ‘There’s no shame in seeing the force psychologist if you ever feel the need to talk, DCI Daniels.’

  Daniels turned, her eyes burning into him.

  ‘Not that I’m suggesting—’

  She cut him dead. ‘I don’t need therapy, sir. Just space to do my job.’

  She opened the door to reception and walked through it. Taking a deep breath, she tried to smile as she entered the room. David and Elsie looked up with hope in their eyes; a hope that was dashed immediately they saw the guilty look on her face.

  ‘What is it, Kate?’ David Short asked.

  Daniels glanced through the glass at the ACC, who was still hovering outside. She swallowed hard, a lump forming in her throat. She could hardly meet David’s eyes.

  ‘Temporarily, I’m off the case.’

  ‘No! They can’t!’ Elsie cried.

  The door from the street opened and Wayne Hood – a well-known local thug, aptly named – walked through it. He acknowledged Daniels with a smug grin and carried on to the front desk, pressing the buzzer for assistance. Receiving a stern look from the DCI, the civilian desk clerk ushered the offender into an anteroom to wait. As the door shut behind him, Daniels took Elsie’s hand.