by Mari Hannah
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Jo’s face suddenly relaxed. She smiled at her visitor with her eyes as well as her mouth, the way she used to when they were together. It stopped Daniels in full flow.
‘What?’ she said.
‘There’s hope for you yet . . .’ Jo filled up. ‘You just referred to the police as they, as if your colleagues had suddenly become public enemy number one, the opposition, a force to be reckoned with.’
Daniels hugged her. ‘When are you going to realize that I’m on your side?’
The Toyota raced out of the hospital grounds. Daniels turned left, flooring the accelerator and heading into town. It had been a long day – she desperately needed to crash – but three prayer cards in separate locations loomed large in her mind as she drove along: Birmingham, Durham and, before that, St Camillus.
There had to be a connection.
Naylor’s contention that a man killed in Birmingham was the same Asian male whose photograph she’d shared with him only yesterday filled Daniels with both horror and excitement, sweeping away feelings of exhaustion, replacing them with relief. If Naylor was right, this could open the door to a potential breakthrough in the Corbridge case; the enquiry that still dogged her, despite her best efforts and those of MIT. After almost a year of painstaking work they had failed to get a result, and remained unable to offer closure to those left behind.
For a moment or two, Daniels was back at St Camillus, fear gripping her as she took in the scene. Then her mind flew forward several months to her face-off with Bright in his office, his galling statement that the Corbridge enquiry was well and truly dead in the water.
No way!
Not as long as she drew breath, it wasn’t.
Anyway, Naylor was now on board.
Two of them couldn’t be wrong.
Could they?
Back in the MIR, Daniels didn’t bother going to her office, just took off her coat and slung it over the back of Gormley’s chair. Reaching into her bag, she took out the cutting of the young Asian male, scanned the image and sent a copy, via email, to both Ron Naylor and her counterpart within West Midlands Police, DCI Vic Nichols. Next, she placed the cutting into an evidence bag – together with the envelope it had come in – and sent them off for forensic examination.
Now all she could do was wait.
53
DC Neil Maxwell yawned. Five hours’ sleep was all he’d managed and it was nowhere near enough. He’d felt decidedly groggy when the alarm went off and since then his day had got progressively worse. Scanning grainy CCTV images for hours on end wasn’t the most stimulating of tasks. Bored to death with it, he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on a desk, then quickly removed them when he heard someone coming. He sat up straight, glad for the interruption, especially when he saw who was striding into the room.
Sensing his eyes on her, Carmichael pointed at the footage running, ignored, on his screen.
‘You might want to rewind that, Neil,’ she said.
Maxwell mumbled something crude under his breath and hit pause. Then restarted it again without rewinding, wondering what it was about him Carmichael didn’t like. She looked really pleased with herself today – more so than usual – as she made a beeline for DS Robson, who was sitting at a desk a few yards away.
Robson looked up as she approached.
‘This just came in, Sarge.’
Carmichael handed over a message that had just arrived from the East City police office. It was addressed to the murder incident room and marked: For the urgent attention of the SIO. Robson’s eyes opened wide as he read it. He handed it back, nodding toward the receiver’s desk.
‘Give it to Harry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on the blower to the boss.’
Just a few miles away, Daniels checked her rear-view mirror and signalled that she was pulling in. As she slowed down, the boy racer behind blasted his horn, made a disgusting hand gesture and sped off. She took his number before answering her phone.
‘What is it, Robbo?’
On the other end of the line, Robson sounded more excited than when his wife gave birth to their son. ‘Our lucky day, I hope,’ he said. ‘Some punter took a firearm into the east end nick around an hour ago – a 9mm semi-automatic knock-off pretending to be a Browning.’
‘Could it be ours?’
‘Absolutely. It’s gone off for analysis.’
‘Good. Anything else?’
‘There is . . . but I’m guessing you won’t want to hear it.’
Silence.
‘Boss?’
‘Yeah, I’m listening.’
‘The gun was found less than a hundred yards from Jo’s office,’ Robson paused for a second to let the information sink in. ‘ACC Martin has obtained warrants for her home and place of work.’
Meltdown.
It was the worst possible news and it hit Daniels like a brick. ‘Who the hell told him?’
‘Dunno, he just . . .’
She lost Robson’s voice as an HGV sped by, hardly registered what he was saying as her thoughts turned to Jo, tuned back in to hear something about Gormley executing a warrant to search Jo’s office.
‘. . . the guv’nor wants you to do likewise at her home . . .’ Robson stopped to take a breath. ‘Boss, you still there?’
Daniels no longer felt like the boss, much less the Senior Investigating Officer. She opened her window to get some air and made a mental note to find whoever was responsible for contacting the ACC and bone them for going over her head.
‘Robbo, I’m losing you . . . my battery’s low.’
She hung up.
54
It was a closed community with a high crime rate, an area of the city where role models came at a premium and doors slammed in the faces of the police. Gormley pulled to the kerb outside a semi-detached house, its windows protected by heavy iron bars and closed-circuit television security cameras above the front door. He got out of the car with Brown in tow and locked it securely, hoping it would still have four wheels by the time they got back.
A couple of young kids skateboarded across the road in front of them, nearly coming to grief as a double-decker bus swung round the corner in a huge arc, its driver shaking his fist, receiving two fingers in return. The kids hopped back on their boards and skated off laughing. Gormley remembered the days when he’d have clipped them round the ear and taken them home for worse from their parents, a time when being a policeman counted for something more than just a big fat lump sum at the end of thirty years – enough of a pension to live on for the rest of your days.
Brown pushed open a rusty iron gate in dire need of a lick of paint. The garden was awash with all kinds of rubbish: pizza boxes, chip wrappers, abandoned cans and bottles chucked over the wall without a second thought. As he depressed the bell push with his thumb, the word WANKER right in his eye line, Gormley wondered whose bright idea it had been to situate the Regional Psychology Service here.
‘Respect agenda, my arse!’ he said.
Brown pulled a face. ‘Did I miss something?’
Gormley shook his head. Blair’s ‘respect agenda’ had left so little trace, what was there to miss? ‘Just thinking out loud.’
A woman’s voice came over the intercom. ‘Yes!’
Brown held up his warrant card to the CCTV camera. ‘Police.’
A buzzer sounded and the door clicked open. They passed through an outer hallway into a narrow corridor, Gormley leading the way. There was a reception desk at the far end where a middle-aged receptionist sat behind thick protective glass, which was just as well, given the clientele. It was Scumbag Central; a side bench was lined with a bunch of them slumped with their legs outstretched, effectively blocking the narrow waiting area. Some were reading, some listening to iPods, the rest just staring blankly at the opposite wall. The nearest one, Gary Henderson, didn’t bother to move as they approached.
‘Shift!’ Gormley said, in no mood to be messed around.
Hen
derson nudged Forster, the next man down, who had his head in a magazine, and then sniffed at the air artificially.
‘What’s that smell, d’you reckon? Shite, pig shite, or just pigs?’
Forster grinned but kept his head down, not wanting to get involved. Gormley smiled reassuringly at the receptionist, figuring she’d have witnessed one or two fights in her time. With the likes of Henderson it was usually a case of when, not if, things would kick off. The wimp on the right was far too old for the shaved head and tattoos he was sporting under thinning hair. Gormley ignored him, eyeballing Henderson instead, bending over him and placing his hands on the bench either side of Henderson’s thighs.
He leaned in close, so close their faces nearly touched. ‘I said shift!’
Henderson smirked.
Gormley swung back his foot, kicked both men’s legs away and then carried on to reception. The woman behind the desk was practically beside herself, eyes darting past him, expecting more trouble as he made his way towards her.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Gormley, this is DC Brown. We need a word.’
The receptionist put her hand out, expecting Gormley to pass his warrant card under the narrow gap of the security window. Instead, he pressed it against the partition, making her examine it through the glass. In all his time in the force he’d never let go of his most prized possession and wasn’t about to start now. She peered over the top of her spectacles, comparing him with his ID. The man in the photo was much younger than the man standing in front of her, but she could still tell it was him. Then Brown produced a search warrant and shoved it beneath the window.
‘We need access to Ms Soulsby’s office,’ he said.
The receptionist unfolded the piece of paper and took forever to read it. When she looked up, she shrank back from the glass, highly agitated. Henderson was on his feet and walking towards them.
Gormley swung round on his heels. ‘Move and I’ll break your arm!’
Henderson backed off, holding up the middle finger of his right hand. As they were buzzed through a door marked PRIVATE, Brown cautioned him to sit down and show some respect.
They found Jo’s office at the rear of the building on the ground floor. Apart from bars at the windows, it was a pleasant enough room: a large mahogany desk in the centre, a comfortable chair, solid-wood bookshelves housing professional manuals, with a small selection of children’s books on the bottom shelf.
They spent over two hours searching before returning to the front desk. Gormley thanked the receptionist for her cooperation while Brown gave her a list of items they were taking away: Jo’s desk diary, her laptop, a mobile telephone receipt and several other documents they thought they might need.
‘We may need to come back,’ Brown warned. ‘We’ll also need a copy of Ms Soulsby’s current caseload.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ the receptionist said.
‘’Fraid so.’
The woman logged on to her computer and typed a command. The printer reset itself, then sprang into action, spewing out a list of sixty or so names. Brown wondered if the people on it would be referred to as clients or patients. Either description was too good for the scum they’d met on their way in.
55
Daniels spent the next few hours trying to find out more about the Malik killing. Naylor had no news. So, instead of waiting for them to come to her, she rang the Birmingham SIO directly. But it was a fruitless exercise. DCI Nichols was about as much help as a chocolate fireguard. Or so it seemed initially . . .
‘It looks very like him.’ Nichols was referring to the cutting she’d sent. ‘I’ll get back to you on that as soon as.’
Daniels took a deep breath and counted to ten.
‘As soon as’ didn’t fill her with confidence.
‘Any witnesses come forward in the house-to-house?’ she asked.
‘Not one, despite our best efforts to allay their fears. I’m sorry, Kate. We’ve got bugger all.’ As he paused for breath, Daniels could hear the buzz and chatter of a busy incident room in the background. ‘Locals aren’t willing to get involved on account of the MO. Can’t say I blame them. They’re terrified. It’s hard to imagine what was going through that cruel bastard’s head when he used a child to pull the trigger.’
Daniels’ ears pricked up.
Maybe Nichols wasn’t such a divvi after all.
‘You have evidence to back that up?’ she asked.
‘Indisputable: the boy’s fingerprints were on the gun and there was gunshot residue on his hands. Can you believe that? It’s a first for me, I can tell you! And the last, if I have anything to do with it,’ he added.
Daniels had to admit this modus operandi was a first for her too. Nichols’ final comment was hopeful, but it lacked any real conviction. He was in no position to offer guarantees to her or the community he served. There was no magic wand either of them could wave in cases like these. All the more reason to work as a team. Thanking him, she asked him to keep her posted and rang off.
Carmichael wandered over, frustration showing on her face as she informed her boss that she’d struck out too. ‘Forensic tests on the weapon found near Jo’s office will be some time coming. There’s a backlog of cases of equal importance, so I’m told.’
‘Is there now? Well you get straight back on to them with another request. I want a comparison test between my gun and the one used to kill Jamil Malik – and I want it now!’ Carmichael nodded. She was already walking away when Daniels called after her: ‘Lisa, don’t bother. I’ll make that call myself.’
Picking up the office phone, Daniels made the call and then left the building asking Carmichael to hold the fort.
Fifteen minutes later, she entered Jo’s house to find SOCO crawling all over it. An officer dressed in a white forensic suit acknowledged her with a nod, stood up and handed over two clear evidence envelopes.
‘I found that in the waste bin in the kitchen,’ she said pointing to the first.
Daniels held it up in front of her face. It contained a torn-up photograph, which came as no surprise to her. Then she held up the second. ‘What’s this?’
‘Demand for unpaid university tuition fees, in which Alan Stephens is named.’
‘Where was it?’
‘In one of the bedrooms upstairs, stuffed under a mattress.’
Daniels’ jaw went rigid. She pulled out her phone and made a call. ‘This is DCI Daniels. I need to ask you a few more questions.’ She listened. ‘Obviously, or I wouldn’t be asking.’ She rolled her eyes at the SOCO. The person she’d called was trying her patience. ‘I’ll be straight there.’
There was an atmosphere in the room. Monica Stephens’ normally calm manner seemed to have deserted her all of a sudden. She appeared nervous, was fussing with cushions on a new sofa, trying her best to avoid eye contact with Daniels.
‘And you didn’t think it worth mentioning before now?’ the DCI asked.
Monica looked up. ‘Alan resented having to pay after the boy reached eighteen.’
‘I take it you didn’t agree with him?’
Monica sighed. ‘No, I didn’t. James had just begun his second year at university, but Alan wouldn’t listen. He said he’d left school at fifteen and it hadn’t done him any harm.’
Daniels was disgusted. ‘And James found out?’
‘Naturally . . .’ Monica clasped her hands together and put them in her lap. ‘He rang here, ranting and raving. My husband had already put Thomas through university and James resented being treated differently. Alan refused to see him, refused to reconsider. They had an awful row. I’m not sure what James said to him, but I’ve never seen Alan so angry.’
Monica got up, walked to the window, and looked out. With her back turned, Daniels couldn’t help noticing that the room had been transformed in the last few days. Maybe now that Alan Stephens was dead his mother would reap the benefits of his considerable wealth.
The DCI pressed on: ‘Is there anything else you omitted to te
ll me?’
Monica turned. ‘What star sign are you, Detective Chief Inspector?’
Daniels didn’t reply.
‘Alan was a Scorpio through and through.’
‘Meaning?’
‘If someone hurt him, he hit back twice as hard. He hid it well most of the time, but Alan had a cruel streak, make no mistake. He threatened to disinherit the boy.’
‘Only James?’
Monica nodded.
‘In whose favour?’
Monica met her gaze head-on. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Who knows what a serial philanderer has up his sleeve?’
Daniels shook her head. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘I’m not in the habit of washing my dirty linen in public, are you?’
‘All the same . . .’
Monica looked guilty now.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I should’ve told you about Alan’s affairs.’ She paused for a moment collecting her thoughts. ‘James is such a sweet boy under all that bravado. I know he blamed me for his parents’ break-up, but deep down he knows I wasn’t responsible. I didn’t want to be the one to point the finger of suspicion at him. He didn’t . . . well, I’m sure he had nothing to do with his father’s death.’
‘I wish I could be so sure.’
Daniels spent another half-hour with Monica. Only when she was absolutely sure the woman had nothing else to give did she leave the house. Walking back to the car, she called Gormley on his mobile and told him what she’d just found out: ‘Stephens had a new will drawn up, cutting James out altogether.’
‘Had he signed it?’
‘Monica’s not sure . . . at least, that’s what she says.’
‘That gives James a reason to kill him. Her, too, considering his infidelity. Maybe she wanted out before Stephens chose to move on permanently.’
Gormley paused. Daniels could hear traffic noises in the background. It sounded like he was crossing a very busy road. Then he was back on the line.
‘Isn’t it time you let Bright in on Jo’s little secret?’
