by Mari Hannah
Daniels suddenly felt charged with electricity. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck and goose pimples covered her skin. Several images flashed through her mind, vying for her attention: a woman in a black Burka, a photograph of Jamil Malik, the magazine cutting she’d passed across the table to Naylor at the Living Room restaurant. She looked at the letter again. Could this be the break she’d been looking for? It could so easily have been discarded soon after it was written, or become detached from the file over time.
But it hadn’t.
And that excited her.
‘Well!’ she said. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘You’re thinking the photo of Malik could have come from the same magazine?’
‘Got any better ideas?’ Daniels said, wounded by Jo’s disbelieving tone.
‘You do know his mother never visited throughout the two decades he was inside?’
‘There you go! What was it you said about men like him? Can’t cope with rejection in any form? Our backs are against the wall here, Jo. If it is the same magazine – a gift from a mother who doesn’t love him – isn’t it possible that it has become a symbol of his hatred over the years?’
‘Anything is possible where the human psyche is concerned,’ Jo said. ‘But what would that have to do with Alan and the others?’
‘Honestly? I haven’t got the first idea.’ Daniels thought for a moment. ‘You told me that Alan was a bit of an evangelist in his youth. Maybe he featured in the magazine, wrote an article for it, who knows? Maybe Jamil Malik did too. His cousin said he was deeply religious. What if the photograph was cut from this magazine?’
‘This has really got you going, hasn’t it?’
‘I need to chase it up, find out who publishes Living Faith, how often and whether Forster received it on a regular basis during his sentence. I’ll get Gormley to check if it’s mentioned elsewhere in the system.’ Daniels stood up, began pacing up and down. She could read Jo like a book, could see she was far from convinced. ‘Look, when I was a custody officer, if I took possession of a magazine in someone’s property I would write down Living Faith magazine and the issue date. If it was pristine or dog-eared, I’d write that down too.’
‘That’s because you’re Polly Perfect. Not to mention – personality wise – ah, let me see . . .’ Jo began counting on her fingers ‘. . . borderline obsessive/compulsive, anal retentive, possibly manic depressive, oh, and . . .’ She touched her lip. ‘Did I mention paranoid?’
Daniels grinned. ‘So, I’m screwed up!’
‘What’s your point?’
‘That is my point. I’d do it because it’s professional to be exact. A good custody officer might write “one church magazine”; a crap one would write “one magazine”. . . See what I’m saying?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’m amazed it was mentioned at all, but thanks to some other “screwed-up” professional, maybe we just got lucky.’
Jo smiled. ‘You’re really good at this detective lark, aren’t you?’
Daniels flushed. Yeah, but at what cost?
Their business concluded, Jo excused herself. Daniels gave Gormley a quick call to set the ball rolling, leaving instructions for someone to collect Forster’s parents first thing next morning to help with their enquiries. She hung up and was pleasantly surprised when Jo reappeared with an open bottle of wine and two glasses.
‘You can stay for a drink?’
Daniels couldn’t: she had far too much to do. ‘That would be nice,’ she said.
Jo put on some music, a Dixie Chicks album: Home. They drank and made small talk, avoiding the elephant in the room until the lyrics of one particular song hit home: ‘I Believe in Love’.
Daniels swallowed hard as Jo looked intensely into her eyes from across the room, the words of the song affecting them both. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.
On the doorstep, they kissed and said their goodbyes.
It was a fleeting moment of intimacy.
But it was a start . . .
92
From the window, Daniels watched the Traffic car arrive at speed. Two officers got out and opened the back doors. Forster’s parents looked fragile as they stepped from the vehicle. They shuffled across the car park as if they were entering a village hall for a coffee morning, the old man greeting everyone by tipping his trilby hat.
Gormley put down the phone and let out a frustrated sigh.
‘No joy?’ Daniels said, turning to face him.
He shook his head. ‘According to the librarian, Living Faith was discontinued years ago. It was an amateur publication, written by some obscure prayer group, apparently – all faiths, all denominations. They don’t have any copies on file and no idea where we might find one.’
‘Damn! Well, nothing else we can do for now – let’s see if Forster’s parents can help . . .’
The meeting had been going on a while. Right from the start it was clear that Forster’s parents hadn’t grasped the seriousness of the situation. Worse still, their collective elderly brain cells were unable to recall passing Living Faith to Matthew Spencer on the day of their son’s trial.
It was a bitter blow.
Daniels hoped she wasn’t wasting her breath as well as her precious time. From the blank expressions facing her, she’d formed the opinion that Mrs Forster was probably her best bet in terms of providing the information she required. Drawing her seat a little nearer – engaging the old lady face to face – she tried not to sound patronizing.
‘I don’t mean to rush you, Mrs Forster. But I can’t stress how vital it is that we trace the person who wrote that magazine . . .’ Daniels paused. ‘Is there anyone, anyone at all, who might remember? Perhaps someone you know who might have kept a copy?’
Mrs Forster looked at her husband, then back at the DCI. ‘I’m sorry, dear . . .’
Daniels stood up, frustrated once again. ‘OK, thank you for your time.’
‘We appreciate you coming in,’ Gormley said. ‘I’ll arrange for an officer to—’
‘There is someone!’ Mr Forster suddenly spoke up. ‘Though I’m not entirely sure she lives round here any more.’
Daniels sat down again with renewed anticipation. Maybe the old codger wasn’t as dim as he looked. Mr Forster patted his wife’s hand gently and bit his lip, the skin round his watery eyes creasing into a million wrinkles as he beamed at them from across the table.
‘You remember, dear . . .’ He looked at his wife. ‘The kind lady, the one who used to bring along those wonderful rock buns with the lemon peel we all enjoyed so much. Jennifer, wasn’t it?’
The atmosphere in the room was heavy with expectation. Daniels was on the edge of her seat, but the old couple appeared to be in a fog of nostalgia – in no hurry to aid their enquiries any time soon.
Tickled by the memory, Mrs Forster gave a little giggle. ‘He’s right you know – delicious, they were. Trust a man to remember something like that. My mother always said that the way to a man’s heart—’
Daniels cut her off – she’d had enough. ‘Jennifer? I need a surname.’
Mr Forster cleared his throat. ‘Jennifer Wright – or was it Wight? I’m sorry, Detective Chief Inspector Daniels . . . I’m not entirely sure.’
‘No, dear, not Wight,’ Mrs Forster volunteered. ‘It was Tait. That’s right: Jennifer Tait.’
It was a eureka moment.
Daniels wanted to scream with joy but her mouth felt suddenly dry. She didn’t need to look at Gormley to see that he was just as excited as she was. The atmosphere between them was charged with electricity. Crime-scene photographs flashed before her eyes: a middle-aged woman lying dead on her kitchen floor, hand outstretched, begging for help.
Poor, dead Jenny Tait was beyond helping them now.
Pushing away the image, she decided not to upset the couple by telling them their former friend was dead, or burden them with the knowledge that they’d proved the vital link between their son and a victim of homicide. They would learn that
soon enough. Daniels gestured towards the door with a flick of her head. Gormley understood. He rose to his feet immediately and ushered them from the room, apologizing for any inconvenience their visit to the station might have caused.
Two minutes later he was back.
Bright followed him in and pulled up a chair. ‘Any luck with Darby and Joan?’
‘Couple of oddballs,’ Daniels said. ‘Next to useless as witnesses.’
Gormley played along. ‘What she means is, they don’t know what day it is, guv.’
‘Shit!’ Bright exclaimed. ‘They haven’t seen their son?’
Gormley winked at Daniels.
Realizing he’d been had, Bright pulled a face. ‘You bastards!’ He sat down and listened carefully as Daniels paced up and down, talking ten to the dozen, hands never still. He laughed out loud when she got to the part about the lemon peel. He didn’t know why, but he had reason to believe she’d been missing of late, lost in her own darkness. He hoped he wasn’t responsible.
Assistant Chief Constable Martin’s call to her mobile had come out of the blue as she was on her way to work. Assuming he wanted to discuss her arrest and remand in custody, and not her affair with Kate Daniels, she was completely surprised when it turned out that he needed her professional expertise as a profiler.
It was the first time she’d been back to the station since her arrest and her confidence deserted her the moment she set foot inside the building. Checking in with the desk sergeant, she made her way to the second floor where she’d arranged to meet the ACC. She loitered a while outside the office, feeling utterly unprepared to resume her duties. Surely, if she changed her mind, Martin would understand? Then, finally, she convinced herself she had to start somewhere.
After all, she’d done nothing wrong.
Taking a deep breath, she was about to tap on the door when Carmichael entered the corridor from the stairwell. After a moment of awkwardness, the young DC stuck out her hand and smiled, said something about no hard feelings, adding that the murder investigation team, her especially, was pleased to see her back.
‘I’m pleased to be back,’ Jo said, then covered her discomfort with a little humour. ‘I’ve never been one to bear a grudge, Lisa. Well, not for long, anyway.’
As Carmichael moved off, Jo heard familiar voices as the door to the incident suite opened further down the corridor. Bright, Gormley and Daniels walked through it, completely unaware of her presence.
‘So . . .’ Bright addressed Daniels directly, a big smile on his face. ‘Now you’re back to your old self, where do we go from here?’
Daniels looked puzzled. ‘Why are you asking me?’
‘Because, as SIO, it’s your call,’ Bright said. ‘And this time I guarantee there’ll be no interference from me.’
‘But Martin said—’
‘Until I’m told otherwise, I’m still in charge here, Kate. That means I make the decisions about who does what. Consider yourself in the driving seat.’
Daniels welled up. ‘You mean it, guv?’
He smiled.
‘I don’t think she’s up to it,’ Gormley said, poker-faced. She punched his upper arm and he made his eyes go big, put his teeth together, grinning like a ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘What do you want me to do, boss?’
Daniels wasted no time. ‘Tell Andy to get down to Brandon Towers right away. I want that place under obs at all times. If he sees Forster, he’s not to approach him. He doesn’t know we’re on to him and I want to keep it that way. When you’ve done that, alert the firearms unit. I’m sick of running round in circles. Let’s get him locked up.’
Bright winked at Gormley. ‘She’s bound to get the next rank now.’
His words were like music to Daniels’ ears. Her joy was cut short, however, when she noticed Jo standing a little way off. Her unspoken message was loud and clear: some things never change.
93
The sun peeked out from behind a cloud, reflecting on the windows of Brandon Towers. Brown looked up at the building, wondering if any one of the hundreds of offenders living there had clocked him. For the third time in the past half-hour, his radio crackled into life.
Daniels was getting impatient. ‘Any luck with the target, Andy?’
Brown pushed a button on his radio. ‘Negative. Not a murmur, boss.’
‘OK, I’m going in. Armed response is standing by, so no heroics. If he shows, give me a shout. We can’t afford to lose him.’
The tenth-floor corridor was dimly lit and covered in graffiti.
Daniels listened at the door to number 36. Silence. She looked around . . . no one coming . . . and deftly picked the lock. The door creaked as she pushed it open. Stepping over junk mail on her way in, she crept along the hallway, pulling on latex gloves, listening to the sound of music coming from the adjoining flat.
Porn covered the living-room walls. What little furniture there was in the room was frayed and worn. A computer on a desk had been left on, beside it a shot glass and an empty vodka bottle lying on its side. In the opposite corner, a heavily soiled armchair made Daniels recoil at the thought of the gross acts that might have caused the staining.
At the back of the flat, the small kitchenette stank of rotting food. The bin was overflowing and dishes were piled high in a sink of greasy brown water. There was a half-eaten sandwich on the bench. Daniels put pressure on the bread with her hand. It was fresh . . .
Forster hadn’t been gone long.
Daniels could hear her own heartbeat as she returned to the living room, wondering how long she had before he came back. She worked quickly, searching the drawers of the desk, finding nothing but more porn, unpaid bills and a bit of dope. There weren’t many places to hide the magazine, if indeed he felt the need to hide it at all. She scanned every available surface, her eyes finding the filthy armchair again and again.
It wasn’t a task she relished, but it had to be done.
Crouching down beside the chair, she was about to lift the cushion when she heard it. A voice – hardly audible – but a voice nevertheless.
A faint whisper, nothing more.
Daniels swung round, training saucer-like eyes on the door. Then she relaxed again, scolding herself for losing her bottle.
In the adjoining flat, Forster sat back in his armchair and smiled to himself.
She thinks I’m just in her imagination.
He pinched himself.
No . . . I’m definitely here.
He watched her carry on with her search, lifting the cushion gingerly.
Bingo!
Taking hold of the filthy magazine with two fingers, Daniels headed back to the desk. She set it down flat, studying the front cover before turning it over and scrutinizing the back. Using the tip of a pen, she lifted the first page, conscious of spoiling prints. On each of the first five pages, some faces had been removed very carefully and precisely. Her eyes shifted to the left; lying on the desk was a pair of scissors he’d probably used to cut them out. As she read the associated articles, the realization dawned . . .
Oh my God!
Focusing on the holes where the dead ones used to be, she worked quickly, turning over several more pages, finding other faces ringed in thick red marker pen.
‘Their time will come, Katie.’
The whispering voice was the most chilling sound Daniels had ever heard. Resisting the temptation to run, she stared at the dancing image of the screen saver on the computer in front of her. Just inches above the screen, she saw it – a tiny red light on the webcam. Feeling the colour drain from her face, she leaned towards the camera lens, looking straight at it, and almost puked as she realized he was watching her remotely.
Sick bastard! He was good . . . he was very good.
Daniels felt a chill run down her spine as the music from the adjoining flat suddenly stopped. In a split second, she grabbed the mouse and launched the camera, bringing up a tiny screen – just in time to see it shut down at the other end.
She
reached the safety of the transit van in double-quick time. Brown immediately called for backup and made her a hot, sweet mug of tea. It tasted awful, but she drank it down anyway. It hadn’t yet stopped her hands from shaking, but she thought she could feel it doing its job.
The sound of Gormley’s voice on the radio was comforting, even though he was giving her such a hard time. ‘You should’ve known better!’ He sounded out of breath. ‘Andy said he’d never seen you so spooked.’
Daniels gave Brown a look. ‘Did he, now?’
Brown turned crimson and looked at his feet.
‘I’m serious, Kate!’ Gormley yelled. There was some background noise on the radio; the muffled sound of someone arguing, perhaps? Daniels couldn’t make out who was speaking or what the conversation was about. Gormley probably had his hand over the mouthpiece. Then she heard another sound. High heels on a solid-wood floor?
‘Kate, are you listening to me? That bastard might have killed you.’
‘Well, I’ve still got all my arms and legs, so none of that matters now, does it? I tell you, Hank, technology is brilliant for scum like him. As long as he leaves the webcam switched on, he could be spying on us from Timbuktu or from the comfort of an armchair on the other side of a party wall.’
More muffled conversation.
‘I rest my case!’ Hank said.
Through blacked-out windows, Daniels could see several police vehicles arriving. Officers began piling from vans: some armed, some with sniffer dogs, all fired up with the hope of finding Forster before he managed to slip away.
‘Hold on, Kate . . .’ Gormley was calm now. ‘There’s someone here wants a word in your shell-like.’
‘Just a sec, Hank,’ Daniels cut him off. ‘Andy, tell them to seize the computer and get it to Carmichael right away.’
Brown hesitated, in two minds whether or not he should leave her alone.
‘Go on! What are you waiting for?’
‘You sure you’re OK?’
Jo’s frantic voice came over the radio. ‘No she’s not OK, you idiot! You stay right where you are and use your mobile, you hear me? Andy?’
