The Murder Wall

by Mari Hannah

  He obviously had no idea what on earth she was on about. Why should he? Daniels thought to herself. I was the one hiding the truth from him, from all my colleagues, from the whole wide world. What right have I to expect any of the squad to understand? But that didn’t excuse his incompetence.

  ‘I’m not looking for a scapegoat,’ Daniels said. ‘This is a major investigation and I can’t risk another cock-up. Besides, you deserve what’s coming. I hope you’re you man enough to take it?’

  Robson didn’t answer.

  ‘Go on, get lost.’

  ‘Boss . . .’ He pushed back his shoulders and stood tall. ‘I appreciate you not taking me off the squad altogether. I know I’m in the wrong and I’m prepared to take full responsibility for my actions. I’d like a chance to make it up to you, though. I’ll do whatever it takes.’

  The silence in the room was deafening.

  Daniels cleared her throat.

  ‘We’ll see . . . Now get out of here before I change my mind.’

  80

  At the end of a very long day, Gormley was the last man standing in the incident room. With just a desk lamp for company, he was scanning a Police National Computer printout on his desk. He ticked off a name, then reached down and pulled out the corresponding file from a large box on the floor by his feet. The label on the front cover proclaimed: LIFE LICENSEE – PETER BATES.

  ‘Unfortunate name, young Master Bates!’ Daniels read over his shoulder, making him jump. He’d been so engrossed in his work he hadn’t heard her approach. He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘You shouldn’t creep up on people,’ he said.

  ‘Talking of creeps, you found anything?’

  ‘The PNC threw up a list of possibles: some lifers, violent recidivists . . . you name it, they’re on here. And some even fit the profile.’

  ‘Religious freaks included?’

  Gormley nodded.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘A few – it seems the Church has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘You got that right.’

  ‘What is with you and the Church?’

  Daniels pulled up a chair and sat down, suddenly feeling the need to explain herself. Maybe it was time to get it off her chest. ‘When my mother was dying, I caught a priest giving her the last rites before she was ready . . . I think she heard him too.’

  ‘Kate, I’m so sorry—’

  ‘She died the next day . . .’ Daniels’ eyes began to well up. She looked at the floor and then quickly pulled herself together. ‘Anyway, that’s all in the past.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  She knew what he was getting at. It wasn’t something that would ever go away, but it was something she’d have to learn to live with . . . eventually.

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  She shook her head, pointed at the printout on his desk. ‘How far have you got?’

  ‘Not as far as I’d have liked.’

  ‘Well, let me know what you come up with.’ She could see something was bothering him, was beginning to regret having burdened him with her troubles. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You sure we should be cross-referencing the PNC list with Jo’s client list? If I find anything, it’ll make her look more guilty, not less.’

  ‘I’ll take that chance, Hank. She didn’t do it. The evidence will prove it.’

  ‘OK. You off home now?’

  ‘D’you need me to stay?’

  ‘No, you go ahead. I’ll not be long behind you.’

  The moment she got home Daniels dashed upstairs and changed into a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt. But after one look at the exercise bike that had been gathering dust in the corner of her study for the last few weeks, she was checking her watch and changing her clothes again, this time reflective gear more suited for a run outdoors, beanie hat and gloves. Picking up her iPod and earphones, she set off.

  The air was fresh as she ran down her street and out on to the main road, turning left a few minutes later, skirting the edge of Jesmond Dene, a Victorian park covering acres of woodland, presented to the city in the late nineteenth century by local philanthropist, Lord Armstrong. Had it been daylight, she would’ve taken in the beauty of this hidden gem: the network of paths and bridges, the waterfall, the mill, all enclosed within a deep narrow valley. The fabulous scenery drew locals and tourists in droves – five minutes and yet a world away from a thriving party city.

  Daniels had been jogging for a good half-hour when she pulled up on a street corner, began running on the spot. Looking across the road, she saw that the light was on in Jo’s house. She checked her watch – 23.04 – in two minds whether to knock. She was about to do just that when she spotted some movement from within: Kirsten Edwards was walking into the living room with a glass of wine in her hand. She was in conversation with someone not visible from the street, animated, smiling, in a really good mood.

  Daniels jogged away as fast as her weary legs could carry her.

  81

  The journey into work was more chaotic than normal. Overnight temperatures had dropped, freezing the snow into ice and causing a series of accidents across the region. Gormley was already hard at work, sitting alone in the incident room with his radio on. He’d left home extra early, missing the worst of it, but officers from outlying areas were going to have problems getting in. As the traffic report ended, he glanced out of the window just in time to see the Toyota pull up outside.

  He watched Daniels get out and cross the car park, curious to know if she’d spoken to Jo since her release, whether there was any likelihood they’d get back together and, if they did, whether his boss would choose to make it public this time or carry on letting her career take precedence over her life. Moments later, she entered the room displaying renewed vigour, her attitude confident and businesslike, no hint of angst on her face. No one seeing her would suspect that her life was anything but perfect.

  Gormley smiled to himself.

  The two of them were not so very different after all.

  Half an hour later, she began addressing a depleted squad at a hastily arranged briefing to bring them up to speed. ‘OK, we can’t wait for the others any longer. Firstly, can I remind those of you who are here that the offender we are seeking is dangerous, disturbed and most probably armed. He is not, I repeat, not someone you tackle without backup. Is that clear?’ She paused, making sure they all understood. ‘Pay particular attention to anyone who has a connection to, or problem with, religion. Hank is trawling through the national database for any known offenders who might fit the bill. Robbo, I want you on CCTV this time round.’

  ‘I’ll get on to it right away,’ Robson said, managing a weak smile.

  Daniels had to admit it, his attempt at cheerfulness was impressive. Such a laborious task would normally land on the desk of a much more junior squad member. Not to worry. Robbo had been in the job long enough to know that it was part of his penance, the natural order, the way things were done in the murder investigation team.

  ‘I want the rest of you to review each and every piece of evidence.’ She ignored a collective moan as it reverberated round the room. ‘And I do mean everything! Make no mistake, our man is clever. He’s already killed three times that we know of. It’s possible there are other bodies that haven’t yet been found, other unsolved cases where the link has yet to be established . . .’

  She nodded to Carmichael, who got up and pinned two crime-scene photographs side by side on the murder wall next to one of Alan Stephens. The first was of a middle-aged, white female, lying on her kitchen floor with a gaping hole in her chest, her lifeless eyes wide open, a card stuffed in her mouth. The second was of an Asian male, also on the floor, his knees bent beneath his body, a gunshot wound to his head, a card on the floor beside him.

  Carmichael sat back down.

  ‘You’re all familiar with Alan Stephens, but this . . .’ Daniels pointed to the photograph of the white female ‘. . . is Jenny Tai
t, the Durham case. And this . . .’ she moved her hand across to the photo of the Asian male ‘. . . is Jamil Malik, who was found murdered in his flat in Birmingham, a day after his photograph was hand-delivered to this very building by someone we suspect was a man wearing a burka. It was specifically addressed to me.’

  The squad began to chatter excitedly.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve had to keep this from you, but it was a case of the fewer people who knew, the better. It is, however, a development that leads me to conclude that the person we’re looking for either has links with this area or to a case of our own.’

  Daniels paused, letting the information sink in.

  ‘Until we find Monica Stephens’ coat and, more importantly, the card she claims she found at the scene, we cannot conclusively link Alan Stephens to these other two victims. However, there is a possibility – and I stress only a possibility at this stage – that whoever killed these people may also be responsible for the double murder in St Camillus church last year. A single prayer card was found at all three crime scenes: Durham, Birmingham, Corbridge. Same MO, same signature. For those of you without GCSE Maths, that makes five victims in all.’ Daniels held up a prayer card, passed it on, watching as it journeyed round the room until everyone had seen it and she had their full attention again. ‘The sick bastard is toying with us, trying to tell us something. Ironically, the person best placed to help us find this individual is the colleague we arrested and charged with murder. For obvious reasons, Jo Soulsby cannot assist us this time.’

  Seeing a tiny chink in Daniels’ armour, Gormley got to his feet. ‘What we do know is that Stephens, Tait and Malik were all born locally or lived on our patch at some time in the past. And, before you ask, the same goes for the victims in our unsolved double-murder case. It’s down to you to find the link and pinpoint the time-frame.’

  ‘Remember, there is no such thing as random selection . . .’ Daniels was back on track. ‘The geographical location of the crime scenes is less important to our killer than his choice of victim, so you can safely assume he’s not acting on impulse. It would appear that he’s put himself out to find these people, so they must have something in common with him, and/or with each other. Somewhere along the line, this is all tied up with religion, so keep your eyes and ears open at all times.’

  At that very moment, Daniels felt strangely close to the offender she was hunting. Though operating on opposite sides of the law, she could identify with him on more than one level. Hadn’t her own loss of faith been so profound it had very nearly tipped her over the edge? The only difference was that the killer was projecting his rage outward, while she was internalizing hers. Was she searching for a mirror image of herself, she wondered, someone so traumatized that they’d gone beyond the pale? In her mind, she matched their similarities. They both felt justified in what they did. Both were determined to succeed. And Daniels strongly suspected that they both found the thrill of the chase more satisfying than the end result. There were no winners where murder was concerned.

  Just losers.

  A uniformed officer was holding her hand up at the back of the room. ‘What time-frame are we talking about, ma’am?’

  ‘That’s yet to be precisely determined,’ Daniels said. ‘It’s looking like the late eighties. Maybe they all spent time together in a children’s home, went to the same church, same school . . . Remember, three forces are currently searching for the answer to that very question, and murder investigation teams right across the country are also on alert. I will be liaising with the other SIOs – Naylor from Durham and Nichols from Birmingham – and their respective teams will no doubt be in touch with you lot occasionally, although officially we have yet to be “ruled in”. Unofficially, we’re all of the opinion that a link exists. So I want full cooperation with our colleagues in other forces. This is not a points-scoring exercise. Our only priority is finding this killer before he claims another victim.’

  82

  The weather was playing its part. It was bleaching down again; a good excuse to tighten the drawstring of his hood without attracting unnecessary attention to himself. He’d bought his ticket online and entered the bus depot unseen – feeling lucky – with one aim in mind. He saw the unattended rucksack almost immediately, slipped his arms into the straps and hopped on the Kendal bus just as it was about to pull away. The theft was a risk worth taking. There was a hot drink and food inside, enough sustenance for days if he eked it out. Sliding his hand further inside the deep front pocket, he found maps and something resembling thin foil, folded into a small neat parcel. Further still and he hit the jackpot.

  The warehouse was now sectioned off into manageable chunks. Under Carmichael’s watchful eye, the Tactical Support Group – a team of twenty officers – were rummaging through bag after bag, paying meticulous attention to what was inside. She could see on their faces how bored they were.

  Carmichael was bored too.

  And cold.

  It was freezing in the warehouse and she couldn’t feel her feet. And it looked as though Ken Carruthers was going to be proved right: at this rate, the process of combing through the mountain of black plastic bags would drag on for weeks. Her mind wandered off to a warm incident room where many of her colleagues were getting stuck into the enquiry in a more meaningful way. An enquiry that could turn out to be the biggest and most notable the Northumbria force had ever seen. She wanted to be more involved – and she would have been, if Daniels hadn’t insisted that she come down here to keep up the pressure on the TSG, even though it was far from certain that their search would turn up the missing coat.

  Ken Carruthers wandered over and stood next to her. He was wearing a knee-length sheepskin coat, gloves and hat with the earflaps turned down. Good move, Carmichael thought, making a mental note to dress more appropriately tomorrow.

  And there would be a tomorrow . . .

  And the day after . . .

  And the day after that.

  Carmichael was sure of it.

  ‘Nothing doing?’ Carruthers said.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ Carmichael blew on her hands and stamped her feet, which were numb with cold. ‘We knew it was a gamble. An expensive one, but a gamble nevertheless.’

  ‘How long will they keep searching?’

  ‘For as long as it takes.’

  ‘You want a coffee or something?’ He pointed upwards, towards an office in one corner of the warehouse. ‘It’s a little more comfy in there.’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’ll have mine with the lads. It helps to keep up their morale.’ She pointed at a green Waitrose bag on the floor. ‘Got my auntie to make them a nice lemon drizzle cake. Secret family recipe. Should earn me some brownie points. I’ll keep you a bit, if you like.’

  Carruthers smiled, patting his stomach. ‘I can already taste it,’ he said.

  She watched him move off in the direction of his office, which was situated on the mezzanine floor above, accessible via a reinforced steel staircase. It was virtually a glass box on stilts with a good view over the warehouse. A warm fire. Coffee. Maybe even biscuits.

  Just then, Carmichael heard a shout. Looking in the general direction of the call, she saw a TSG officer standing a little way off, holding his left hand in the air.

  The signal could only mean one thing . . .

  His actions resulted in his supervisor rushing over to examine the coat he’d found. Heart pounding, Carmichael made her way towards them. But before she got close enough to see for herself, the supervisor shook his head, frustration showing on his face.

  It wasn’t the one they were looking for.

  He slept . . .

  Not well. She was waging war on his subconscious again, yelling like a woman possessed by the devil, her face contorted with hatred. She towered above him, ordering him to kneel on the floor, say his prayers and beg for the Lord’s forgiveness.

  He cried . . .

  She brought the stick down on his shoulder in the same place as ye
sterday, the gag in his mouth muffling his screams. He turned his face away, towards the locked door. She’d stopped yelling now. A bad sign. When he dared look up, her eyes were black with rage. It was already the third time today she’d done the thing she called discipline.

  He scuttled across the floor as she raised the stick above her head again. Shutting his eyes tightly, he hoped one of her friends would knock on the door and then she’d leave him to go into the room for her meeting. Today was Tuesday. They always came on a Tuesday. Never missed. But the doorbell didn’t ring. Any moment now the stick would come crashing down.

  He waited . . .

  And woke with a start, feeling black and blue. He was breathing heavily and there were beads of sweat on his face. People were staring now. That same accusatory expression he’d seen in her eyes minutes earlier. What for? What the fuck were they all looking at?

  Through the window, a thick mist hung – as if suspended in mid-air – obliterating the upper slopes. The single-decker bus snaked its way around the frozen lakeside, heading for the middle of nowhere.

  Just two miles from Dorothy Smith’s house, a bell sounded. Three middle-aged walkers stood up. He made his move, tagging along close behind like he was one of them.

  As if!

  It would take more than a stupid rucksack to make him like them. They were nothing: nil, zero, zilch.

  As for Dotty, she was only special because he’d chosen to kill her today.

  83

  By close of play, the Murder Investigation Team looked somewhat deflated. Reviewing a case for the second time was never going to be easy, and Daniels knew she’d have to work even harder to keep them motivated in the days ahead. From her position in the doorway, she studied Gormley, his head buried in a pile of files. He looked up as she approached with her coat slung over her arm; his eyes were bloodshot from having read all day.

  ‘Is that the last one?’ she asked.

  Gormley nodded. ‘And we’ve got jack shit.’

  He sounded fed up. Daniels moved a little closer in order to read over his shoulder. Written on the inside front cover of the file were the words, CONFIDENTIAL: LIFE LICENSEE JONATHAN FORSTER. And in a number of boxes beneath were the offender’s personal details, written in capital letters in thick black pen: