The Murder Wall

by Mari Hannah

  Brown made a face.

  Daniels raised her eyes to the ceiling, not knowing who to speak to first. ‘Oh, for God’s sake! Andy, do as I say! Jo, butt out! This is strictly a police matter. Put Hank back on!’

  Jo ignored her. ‘Kate, listen to me. You can’t take risks with Forster.’

  Daniels waited until Brown was clear of the van. ‘Jo, what’s your status?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is this radio secure?’

  Jo took a moment, presumably to check with Gormley. ‘Yes, go ahead.’

  ‘Then get used to it. It’s what I do. What do you care, anyhow?’

  94

  Brown’s backside was numb. It was the third consecutive night he’d spent in the back of the transit van, keeping pointless observations on the front door of Brandon Towers while a colleague did the same at the back. In that time, he’d witnessed a dozen or so criminal acts and public order offences: exchanges of money for drugs, two assaults, four incidents of criminal damage and five separate acts of urinating in a public place. Just now he wished that he could do the same himself.

  Checking his watch, comforted by the fact that his replacement was due, he began counting down the minutes ’til he could go home to a warm bed.

  Friday, 15th January arrived with a hard frost and brilliant winter sunshine, sweeping away the gloom of the past few days. A search of Brandon Towers had led to the conclusion that Forster was clever and sophisticated. Having escaped from the tower block via an old maintenance shaft, he had now gone to ground.

  In the murder incident room, DC Lisa Carmichael was on the phone making enquiries. Daniels suspected that the outcome was a foregone conclusion. She didn’t have to wait long to have her suspicions confirmed.

  ‘OK thanks, you’ve been a great help.’ Carmichael put the telephone receiver back on its cradle and shook her head. ‘Forster’s not signed on with the DSS.’

  ‘And the close protection team?’

  ‘Report a no-show with Jo.’

  ‘Figures . . .’ Daniels sighed. ‘He could be anywhere, doing anything – which is why we need to go the extra mile to find him. Hank said you’d managed to locate copies of the magazine?’

  Carmichael nodded.

  ‘Same issue?’

  ‘Complete set,’ the DC said proudly. She shivered. ‘This guy gives me the creeps, boss. We’ve nicknamed him The Editor for cutting out those articles. I reckon he must’ve thumbed that magazine a thousand times.’

  ‘Call him what you like as long as you’re as good at locating people through unofficial channels as he is.’ Daniels put a hand on her young DC’s shoulder. ‘You’re doing brilliantly, Lisa. People are in grave danger and I need your expertise to get him off the streets. Think you’re up to it?’

  Carmichael nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ll give it my best shot.’

  Lisa worked tirelessly, with surprisingly quick results. Within hours she’d found a reference to Alan Stephens in a local newspaper’s archive: the article reported his appointment as fund-raising director for Kidney Research – a role he’d accepted just days before his death. Although his address hadn’t been printed in the publication, Daniels didn’t think it would have taken a resourceful offender like Forster very long to find him.

  Two phones rang simultaneously.

  Carmichael and Daniels both picked up.

  A few minutes later, Daniels ended her call. ‘OK, keep me posted.’

  ‘I’ll tell her.’ Carmichael rang off too.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Daniels said.

  ‘I had someone in technical support give Forster’s computer the once-over. He’s definitely been tracking his victims via the Internet. They already sent me a batch of deleted files; information he dumped in his recycle bin thinking he’d got rid of it permanently. He’s not clever enough to realize we have ways of retrieving data from his hard drive. Jenny Tait’s retirement was among the second batch of recovered files. She’d had a long career as a nurse, apparently, devoted her entire adult life to looking after others. It’s sickening, when you think about it.’

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ Daniels said. ‘Forster was practically illiterate when he went inside. The education department targeted him for specialist help, extolling the virtues of his right to read and write. Later, they praised his new-found computer skills, held him up as some kind of success. If you ask me, they just made him more dangerous.’

  ‘That’s rehabilitation for you.’

  Daniels pointed at the Living Faith magazine on Carmichael’s desk. ‘He’s been staring at the pages of that magazine for the past two decades planning this. Don’t take this the wrong way, Lisa, but I want you to forget the ones we know are dead already. It’s too late to help them now. Try and trace the targets ringed in red. Forster’s finding his victims somehow. Either he’s been hacking into government databases, or there’s information about this lot in the public domain. By the way, don’t waste your time looking for Dorothy Smith – she’s just been reported missing.’

  Leaving Carmichael to her work, Daniels turned her attention to Forster’s parents. On the surface they seemed nice enough, and yet they’d abandoned their son when he most needed them, a copy of Living Faith their only gift to him in over twenty years. No doubt it had been passed on with all good intentions, yet in a bizarre twist of fate, their gift had kick-started an unhealthy obsession which had culminated in the deaths of innocent people. Years of frustration and resentment had gone into creating the monster that Forster had become – and all because he’d been ignored, overlooked. This wasn’t some halfwit scrambling around in the dark; Forster was clever, imaginative and thorough – his plan well rehearsed and meticulously constructed over a lengthy period of time.

  Typing a command on the keyboard in front of her, Daniels brought up a list on screen. She updated the outstanding action to trace Dorothy Smith with just two words: REPORTED MISSING. The list made chilling reading:

  SUSAN THOMPSON:

  DECEASED (Natural Causes)

  SEAMUS DOWD :

  ACTION – TRACE

  ALAN STEPHENS (Newcastle):

  VICTIM (Deceased)

  JENNY TAIT (Durham) :

  VICTIM (Deceased)

  JAMIL MALIK (Birmingham):

  VICTIM (Deceased)

  DOROTHY SMITH (Cumbria):

  REPORTEDMISSING

  NATHAN BAILEY:

  DECEASED (Natural Causes)

  FRANCES COOK:

  ACTION – TRACE

  IAN COCKBURN (Australia):

  SAFE AND WELL

  KEVIN BROUGHTON:

  DECEASED (Natural Causes)

  MALCOLM WRIGHT:

  ACTION – TRACE

  MAUREEN RICHARDSON:

  ACTION – TRACE

  Gormley wandered over and stood behind her. He was having trouble getting used to a pair of bifocals, a recent acquisition. He hadn’t been able to put off the evil day any longer and had finally owned up to failing eyesight. Tipping his head back slightly, he peered at the screen to see what was making her look and sound so glum.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Pound to a penny the bastard’s got another one . . .’ Daniels pointed to the screen. ‘Dorothy Smith hasn’t been seen for days. My guess is she’s already dead. Cumbria force is joining the hunt. Which is good – we need all the help we can get.’

  ‘Welcome to the party,’ Gormley said drily, pulling up a chair. ‘So, assuming Dorothy Smith is dead and Ian Cockburn is far enough out of harm’s way, that only leaves four.’

  ‘Three,’ Daniels corrected him, updating the list again. ‘Malcolm Wright is safe and well in Cherbourg. He’s scared shitless. The French authorities are making arrangements to babysit him.’

  ‘They better hurry up.’

  ‘That’s what I told them.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, studying the computer screen.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Gormley was troubled.

  ‘What?�
�

  ‘Leaving aside those who have died of natural causes, there’s a pattern here. He’s killing them in order: Alan Stephens, Jenny Tait, Jamil Malik . . . and now Dorothy Smith is missing.’

  ‘You’re forgetting Seamus Dowd.’

  Gormley looked up at Dowd’s name. ‘Maybe he’s dead but we just haven’t found his body yet. Or Forster hasn’t traced him yet – which wouldn’t surprise me, given that we can’t.’

  Daniels looked down at the list again. ‘If you’re right, then Frances Cook is next.’

  Forster smiled to himself as his fingers flew over the keys, typing a message next to her name on the School Reunion website.

  Hi Frankie!

  Can’t believe we lost touch after leaving school. It’d be great to see you again. I’m in Berwick at the weekend, if you fancy meeting up. You probably don’t even remember me. I remember you though!

  Virtual hugs . . .

  JJ xx

  95

  Something was still troubling Gormley as he entered Forster’s flat. In the living room – if anybody could actually call it living – two Scenes of Crime Officers were conducting a second painstaking search. Dusting powder was everywhere and one officer was busy tipping the entire contents of Forster’s desk into an evidence bag.

  Gormley acknowledged them both, then moved on, allowing them space to get on with the important job of finding any clue that might lead them to Forster. Stepping over items left abandoned on the floor, he entered the bedroom, where another SOCO was running a gloved hand along the inside of an empty chest of drawers. Cupboard doors were hanging open and in some places the floorboards were up; nothing short of what he’d expected to find. The room was a complete shit-pit: soiled sheets covering a saggy double mattress on the floor; empty bottles and an overflowing ashtray on an upturned beer crate doubling as bedside table; and dirty clothing scattered everywhere.

  Walking back to the living room, the soles of his shoes stuck to the filthy lino with each step. The stench in the flat was getting to him, despite the open balcony door. The officer on her hands and knees looked up as he arrived.

  ‘Find anything useful?’ he asked.

  She didn’t bother removing her disposable dust mask, just shook her head and went back to work. Stepping out on to the balcony, Gormley lit a cigarette. Leaning against the railing, he looked out over the cityscape, savouring a brief moment of peace and quiet. In the foreground, a lovely old church sat incongruous amidst seven tower blocks, its huge carved doors boarded up against the vandals and piss-heads. The word ‘Godforsaken’ jumped into his head as he wondered how long it had been since any cleric had set foot in the place.

  He took another long drag on his cigarette, his elbow shifting on the vertical support of the safety rail as he moved his arm. On closer inspection, it was more like a piece of heavy-duty scaffolding pole than anything else, with a grille attached to stop small children falling through – an absurdity, given its dangerous condition. Crouching down to examine it properly, he noticed that a T-shaped coupling had come loose. Not for the first time, from the look of it. Pulling the top off, he saw a roll of papers hidden inside. He dug them out and was horrified when he realized what he’d found.

  Despite several attempts to contact Daniels and umpteen messages left on her voicemail, she still hadn’t called back. This left Gormley with no alternative but to take matters into his own hands.

  He drove straight to Jo’s office at breakneck speed. Entering reception, he came face to face with Henderson, who glared at him through drug-fuelled eyes.

  ‘I’d sling my hook, if I were you, pal,’ Gormley said.

  Realizing that the DS was in even less of a mood for fun and games than he’d been the last time they met, Henderson backed off.

  ‘Buzz me in, please,’ Gormley said to the receptionist.

  Seconds later, he burst through the door to Jo’s room unannounced. She was sitting by the window with her head in a file, dressed casually in a pair of snug-fitting jeans and a petrol blue cardigan, matching the pumps on her feet. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and she looked a little pale but otherwise more like her old self. Barring a touch of lipstick, she wore no make-up. She looked very different from how she had at the station.

  ‘I’m busy, Hank. Can this wait?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid it can’t,’ he said, grabbing her coat and bag.

  Ignoring her protests, Gormley escorted her from the building, put her in his car and drove away at speed. It was raining hard, the windshield wipers moving quickly and noisily, and Jo’s complaining was making his head ache. Only when he explained that she might be in grave danger did she put a sock in it, though not for long. Insisting he pull over, she demanded to know what the hell he thought he was doing.

  Gormley took his foot off the accelerator, stopped the car and turned to face her.

  ‘On whose authority am I being taken in?’

  ‘Mine!’ Gormley snapped. He couldn’t stop himself being angry with her, even though he had no real cause. ‘And you’re not being taken in – not to the station, anyhow. I need to get you to a safe house.’

  ‘What makes you so sure I’m at risk?’ she said.

  Gormley reached into his pocket, removed the rolled-up photographs he’d found hidden on Forster’s balcony. As Jo unfurled the images of her and Daniels kissing on her doorstep, her hands began to shake.

  ‘He’s been watching me at home?’

  Gormley saw the panic set in. He wished he’d kept quiet. She’d been through hell, and now he was adding to her distress. He’d have liked to offer some comfort, but didn’t know how.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘He won’t get to you. I’ll make damn sure of that.’

  ‘Does Kate know?’

  ‘Not yet. But if I don’t protect you, she’ll string me up by my balls. So, are you going to give me any more grief, or what?’ He paused. ‘Have you two been in contact today?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘You’re friends . . .’ Gormley looked out of the window, avoiding eye contact and choosing his words carefully. ‘I just thought you might have.’

  Jo’s eyes narrowed. ‘She told you, didn’t she?’

  ‘Only when she had to, when I forced her because she was wrecking her career.’

  ‘You resent me, don’t you?’

  ‘D’you blame me? You landed her right in the shit.’

  ‘That wasn’t how it was!’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘No, Hank. Kate and I had something special. It was her idea to keep it secret, not mine. That’s why it didn’t last. She’s only got herself to blame. I certainly didn’t ask her to compromise her position on the murder investigation team. She did that all by herself!’ Glancing again at the photographs, Jo looked as though she could do with a drink.

  Now Gormley thought about it, he could do with one himself.

  Daniels was stunned to hear of the discovery. She needed authorization for a safe house and had absolutely no idea how the hell to get it without disclosing the evidence to Bright. If he saw the photographs, he was bound to think she’d lied about her relationship with Jo being over. And there was no question that they could form part of a criminal case in a public court of law.

  That would definitely finish her career.

  ‘Jo’s in danger how?’ Bright asked, creeping up behind them.

  Daniels jumped. ‘Guv! You scared me half to death!’

  ‘I found a photo of Jo in Forster’s flat,’ Gormley said, thinking on his feet.

  ‘You’re joking!’ Bright whistled. ‘C’mon, let’s see it then.’

  A tense moment.

  Daniels smiled uncomfortably at her boss. Convinced that the shit was about to hit the fan, she braced herself for a dressing-down. Keeping Bright engaged in conversation, she glanced over his shoulder, her eyes following Gormley to his desk. He looked back at her, spreading his hands in a gesture that said: What the fuck do I do now?

  Turning hi
s back on them, Gormley opened his desk drawer. After a quick look around to ensure that nobody was paying him any attention, he cut one of the photographs of Jo and Daniels in two. Aware that his actions, if discovered, would result in kissing his pension goodbye, he slipped one half in his pocket and took the other half to Bright.

  The guv’nor looked at it briefly then gave it back. ‘Is that it?’

  Gormley shrugged. ‘What were you expecting, a Page Three pose? He’s a dab hand with the scissors, this freak.’

  ‘Close protection it is, then,’ Bright said.

  He had no hesitation in financing the safe house. Which was just as well, Gormley told him, because Jo was already there. They assigned two officers to stay with her round the clock and agreed that Carmichael should keep her company through the day and work remotely from there.

  ‘I’ll take the night shift,’ Gormley volunteered.

  ‘Good idea.’ Bright glanced at Daniels. ‘She’s practically one of us, after all.’

  Daniels felt like smacking and hugging him at the same time. It was painfully obvious that he was trying his best to make amends.

  Then he went and spoiled it.

  ‘With any luck, it might get us back in the ACC’s good books,’ he said.

  ‘Fat chance!’ Gormley smirked.

  As Bright walked away, Daniels put her hands together and mouthed the words: Thank You. Gormley winked at her, using his fingers like scissors. She smiled and blew out her cheeks. That was a close call.

  The isolated bastle house was located to the north west of the Northumbria force’s area, deep within Border Reiver country. The police regularly used it as a safe house. With its metre-thick stone walls and built-in fortifications it was perfectly constructed for keeping unwanted visitors out.

  While Daniels and Gormley peered over her shoulder, Carmichael logged on to a familiar website. She placed a cursor into a search box and began typing out a name:

  Forename: