The Murder Wall

by Mari Hannah

  Goose pimples covered Daniels’ skin. She could feel his breath on her neck, even after he’d stopped speaking. She wanted to turn around, wanted to see the whites of his eyes.

  Or did she?

  Was blissful ignorance not a better option?

  Better not to know what was coming.

  Why didn’t he shoot her now?

  Get it over with.

  Daniels swallowed hard and remained silent.

  ‘Because I fucking chose it that way, that’s why!’ Forster stroked her cheek. ‘Bet they were scared shitless that I’d knock on their door. You’re the only one who seems to understand me, Katie.’

  Daniels’ radio was lying on the bed in front of her. She remained with her back to him, not daring to move a muscle, knowing she was done for if she showed an ounce of fear.

  Hearing Forster’s voice again reminded her of his filthy flat, that revolting soiled armchair, the scissors he’d used for his macabre edit of Living Faith. She cringed as he put pressure on her shoulder, forcing her down towards the bed . . .

  ‘Get in the car!’ Gormley yelled.

  Jo was hysterical, shaking so much he thought she was about to have some kind of fit. She kept repeating over and over that they were going to be too late. Forster was an animal. There was no telling what he’d do to Kate.

  Gormley snapped. ‘Get in the damn car!’

  Daniels lunged for the radio but she was too late. Anticipating the move, Forster clubbed her with the gun, then swiped the radio across the bed, sending it crashing to the floor. Stunned from the blow to her head, she looked on helplessly as he kicked it out of reach. He grabbed her by the throat, bringing her round to face him. It was the first time she’d seen him really close up. Or was it? As a warm trickle of blood ran down her face a feeling of déjà vu crept over her. Something about him seemed strangely familiar. And then she realized. They had spoken in the darkness outside St Camillus church. He’d apologized for getting in her way.

  He’d been watching her.

  She focused on a drop of sweat snaking down his forehead. It ran along the line of his eyebrow, down over his cheek and dripped on to his coat. Her phone began to ring and she stopped struggling.

  ‘You spoiled it for me, Katie. Why did you do that when it was all going to plan? You realize I’m going to have to punish you now?’

  ‘I was wrong before.’ Daniels glared at him. ‘Your parents were right to disown you. You deserve all you get. Better still, give me the gun. I’ll save us all the bother before the troops arrive.’

  ‘Not one to squirm, are you, Katie? But don’t try and kid a kidder. I heard you telling them to hang fire before your mate left – and he’s not coming back.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it. That’ll be him on the phone.’

  Forster placed the tip of the gun barrel under her jaw, leaned in and licked her cheek, spreading his saliva all over her face. She wiped it off with the back of her hand and glanced along the hallway. The door was now bolted top and bottom, the chains fastened securely in their latches. A wide grin appeared on his face as desperation showed on hers.

  ‘You know the score, don’t you, Katie? There’s only one way out of here . . . for both of us.’

  Trees rushed past in the darkness as they sped towards Ponteland. Despite her seat belt, Jo had to hang on round the corners as Gormley put his foot down and got on the radio while Jo tried Daniels’ mobile.

  At a T-junction, Gormley turned left on to a single-track road. A short cut, he said, optimistically hoping they wouldn’t meet anyone coming the other way. They hurtled through densely wooded terrain, then a couple of tricky bends. He had to use the full extent of his advanced police driving skills just to keep them on the road.

  On the straight now, he glanced at Jo. ‘Any luck?’

  Jo shook her head. ‘She’s still not answering.’

  Daniels had a plan: play for time, engage Forster in conversation, wait for Gormley to raise the firearms team.

  ‘So what happens now, Jonathan?’

  ‘My Sunday name!’ Forster grinned, exposing grubby teeth, his bad breath filling the air. ‘You must be really worried.’

  ‘Not especially. But I hope you’re not going to leave me in suspense. At least tell me how you managed to get away with it for so long.’

  ‘Guns open doors, Katie. You should get one.’

  ‘What? You just marched up and rang the bell?’

  ‘Why not? Works like a charm. You should’ve seen poor Jenny’s face when she clocked this—’ Forster waved the gun in front of her eyes and took off the safety catch. ‘Silly cow begged me not to shoot her. Even wanted to know why! Can you believe that?’

  Crime-scene photographs of Jennifer Tait leapt into Daniels’ head: a bloody scene, the woman’s dead eyes, her arm extended towards the door to her kitchen, a card stuffed in her mouth. She felt physically sick as Forster rubbed the warm barrel of the gun up and down her bruised cheek, stroking her neck with his free hand, which travelled south until it reached her left breast and down between her legs.

  She grabbed his hand, pushing it away.

  Where the hell were the firearms team?

  He pursed his lips and blew her a kiss. ‘Malik even pissed himself! And in front of his grandson, too. What kind of an example is that, I ask you? Some people!’ He laughed crazily, his eyes flashing. ‘It felt good, teaching the boy to point and shoot. Think I’d like kids one day. Make a good role model, me.’

  ‘You evil shit!’

  ‘Now, now, Katie. Don’t get arsy with me. Your lot had ample opportunity to stop me before I got to him. There was a security operation going on in Birmingham when I got off the train: anti-terrorist squad, the whole nine yards. It was cool. I slipped in and out without being seen. Lucky, or what? Shame they were all looking the other way.’

  ‘You’ve been riding your luck for a very long time, Jonathan. One of these days, maybe even today, it’ll come to an abrupt end.’

  ‘You sound like her . . .’ Forster glanced at his mother’s photograph. ‘She always said I got away with murder. And I have, quite literally. She used to complain when the courts kept letting me off.’

  ‘They did, too, didn’t they?’

  ‘Several times.’ He was gloating now, enjoying himself at her expense. ‘Reckon they must’ve felt sorry for me.’

  ‘It’s them I feel sorry for.’ Daniels meant it. ‘Don’t know how they sleep nights.’

  Forster glanced at his weapon. The anticipation of what was going on inside his head sent Daniels’ heart racing. Her hands were damp with sweat, her eyes firmly focused on his. She watched him carefully, trying to detect how far she could push him. But he looked totally in control, not a hint of anxiety in his voice, no obvious signs of distress on his face. It was unnerving, to say the least. She had to force the words out of her mouth . . .

  ‘You’re screwed, Jonathan. Do you want to spend the rest of your life—’

  Forster traced her lips with his gun to silence her.

  It had the desired effect.

  ‘Oh, I’ve made mistakes, Katie. I admit it. Getting caught the first time was stupid. But I’m smarter these days. And now it’s your turn.’

  Daniels was overcome with conflicting emotions: fear for her own mortality, but also a sense of mourning for all the victims that had gone before. Any trace of sympathy she might have felt for Forster had quickly turned to rage. She willed him to stop talking, but he carried on regardless, his ramblings getting more and more egocentric. Then, suddenly, he swiped his hand out, sending his parents’ photographs flying.

  ‘Why do you hate them so much?’ Daniels chanced her arm. ‘I met them. They’re good people, even if they did make mistakes.’

  ‘You have no idea! Not the slightest idea what they’re capable of!’

  ‘You can’t stand rejection, can you, Jonathan? That’s your problem.’

  ‘Yours, too, from where I’m standing.’

  ‘You like being
centre of attention, don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ He grinned. ‘And when I’m finished with you, everybody will know my name, including her!’

  ‘She certainly will.’ Daniels locked eyes with him. ‘You’ll get your fifteen minutes of fame, followed by the rest of your life inside.’

  ‘No, Katie. That’s not how the story ends.’

  ‘Gormley to Foxtrot. You got an eyeball on the target yet?’

  ‘Foxtrot to Gormley. Negative. I say again, negative.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’ Gormley was yelling now and losing concentration.

  Jo’s hands flew to her face. ‘Watch out!’

  Underestimating a sharp right-hand bend, Gormley had floored the accelerator. He now had to brake sharply, sending the Toyota into a skid. He righted the car, apologized to Jo and pushed a button on his radio:

  ‘Gormley to Foxtrot. Is Daniels alone in the house, or not?’

  ‘Foxtrot to Gormley. Negative, Hank. I’m sorry, but we have a situation developing here.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, where did you get the guns?’

  ‘Being banged up has its uses, Katie. I still have contacts.’

  ‘I bet you do.’

  ‘Nice try. I’ve covered my tracks well, though: a drowning, a suicide . . .’ He grinned. ‘Shame they couldn’t stick around.’

  Daniels fought to stay calm. If she ever got out of there alive, the clear-up rate at MIT looked set to improve. She wondered just how many murder victims Forster was responsible for.

  Was she going to be his last?

  She watched nervously as he fondled the gun before pointing it straight at her.

  He pulled the trigger.

  CLICK.

  Her whole body juddered, her knees nearly buckling beneath her as she realized the chamber had been empty. But already he’d reloaded.

  Now she knew she was in trouble . . .

  ‘Foxtrot to Gormley. Unable to get a shot off at the moment.’

  ‘Copy that, Foxtrot.’ Gormley glanced at Jo in the passenger seat. She looked like a tormented soul, pained by unimaginable thoughts. He put his foot down and got back on the radio. ‘What action are you taking, Foxtrot?’

  ‘Maintaining close observational cordon. As soon as a shot is on, we shoot to kill.’

  ‘God!’ Jo began to hyperventilate.

  Gormley let go of the wheel, grabbed hold of her hand and told her to take deep breaths. ‘These guys are highly trained. They won’t take any chances, Jo. I promise you.’

  ‘And if they don’t have a clear view?’

  ‘They wait . . .’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Until they have no choice but to storm the place.’

  Forster was enjoying the memory of his killing spree. In fact, the more he spoke about it, the more animated he became. That suited Daniels, who was trying to tease as much information out of him as she could.

  So long as he was marching, he wasn’t fighting.

  ‘Did you find Dorothy Smith?’

  ‘Oh, I found her all right – with a little help from my friends. Some idiot left a rucksack unattended, a full set of waterproofs inside. Great camouflage, Katie. Even better protection from her blood . . . And there was a lot of it, before you ask.’

  Daniels tried to block him out by thinking of the last time she and Jo had visited the Lakes. They’d been happy then, staying in a small hotel just two miles from the last sighting of Dorothy Smith.

  ‘I take it she’s dead?’ Cumbria Constabulary still hadn’t found her.

  ‘As a dodo . . .’

  ‘At least tell me where you dumped her body . . .’

  His eyes had grown cold – filled with pure hatred – and his speech suddenly became rushed, manic even. ‘Be patient, boy! Say “excuse me, please” when I’m speaking! Don’t you dare interrupt!’

  He’d flipped.

  As Forster continued to relive snippets of his childhood, Daniels’ concern for her safety grew. Realizing it was just a matter of time before he lost it completely, she knew better than to aggravate him any further.

  His rant continued, a litany of names that meant nothing to her until she realized that his twenty-year fixation with Living Faith had resulted in such familiarity with his targets he’d begun referring to them by diminutives, names that any normal person would use as a term of affection.

  ‘They always made me wait!’ He spat the words through clenched teeth.

  ‘They?’

  ‘The God squad! Who do you think?’

  ‘The ones featured in the—’

  ‘Them! Her! That magazine was the last thing she ever gave me . . . the fucking last thing! Fucking cow! Well, I didn’t want to disappoint her, now, did I? So I did what she wanted. I learned it by heart, each and every word, every face, every name, is carved in here—’ He tapped the side of his head with the barrel of the gun. ‘And now it’s not Living Faith any more, is it, Katie? I’m giving it back to her, page by fucking page . . . They’re all going back to Jesus!’

  Daniels chanced her arm. ‘If you were killing them in order, how come you went back to St Camillus?’

  ‘I knew you’d be there, stupid!’ He chuckled, reacting as if he’d just remembered something. ‘Why were you staring at the tree? Were you thinking about Number Two?’

  ‘Number Two?’ Daniels said.

  ‘The fucking priest. C’mon Katie, get with the programme!’

  Gormley’s clever observation that he was killing his victims in order jumped into Daniels’ aching head. Number One must be Susan Thompson, the woman who had died of natural causes before Forster got to her. Some might say a blessing.

  ‘Oh, I get it. Not the priest – the girl!’ Forster laughed in her face. ‘The one I took just for fun!’

  He was talking about Sarah Short.

  Forster put his head on one side. ‘You sensed I was there, I know you did.’

  He needed a hit now, Daniels could feel it. His eyes were all over her.

  ‘I started without you that night, Detective. Shot my load looking straight at you.’

  Was the shift from Katie to Detective significant? Daniels was sure it was. Forster was winding up for his swansong, was probably at his most dangerous . . .

  As the firearms officer crept nearer to the house he could see Daniels through the window. Forster was partially hidden by the bedroom door, though his gun was clearly visible. The officer spoke calmly and softly into his radio:

  ‘Two-eight-six to Foxtrot. Target is armed. No clear shot.’

  ‘Two-eight-six. You have the eyeball. All other units maintain radio silence.’

  ‘Tell me about Frances Cook.’

  ‘Not very subtle, Detective. What’s up? You look hot.’

  ‘Indulge me.’

  Forster grinned. ‘Frankie wasn’t like you. She was really scared. I met her once or twice when I was a kid. She didn’t remember me at first, needed a little nudge from yours truly. Well, she won’t forget again, will she?’

  ‘She was a friend of your mother’s, wasn’t she?’

  Forster didn’t bite. ‘When she finally realized who I was, she just stared at me, wondering how long she had left – just like you are now.’

  Daniels held her nerve but knew she was running out of time. Jo had told her that he needed to dominate his victims. If he needed her terror to feed his sickness, what would the likely outcome be if she failed to comply? This was hardly a time to test a theory but she had to do something to put him off guard. Slowly, she undid the buttons on her coat. Whatever he’d expected, she was sure he hadn’t expected that. His face flushed in anger as she forced a perfect smile, pulled the scarf from round her neck and teased it over her body.

  It was a risky strategy, but it appeared to be working.

  The hand holding the gun began to shake.

  Daniels moistened her lips and inched back on the bed. He climbed on too, never taking his eyes off her, his smile fading as she began to take con
trol.

  The Toyota screeched to a halt outside the bungalow. Gormley and Jo jumped out, just as a blue statuette crashed through the window, alerting the firearms team.

  Inside the house, Forster was stunned. He didn’t seem to know what was happening. He lunged forward, smashing into Daniels.

  ‘Fucking whore!’ he yelled.

  They fell back on the floor in the space between the two beds. Daniels heard the ‘GO, GO, GO!’ command and the sound of running feet.

  Outside, all hell broke loose as the firearms team rushed forward and a gunshot pierced the night air. As six officers in body armour crashed through the windows and doors, automatic weapons poised to shoot, Gormley and Jo looked on helplessly. Then they heard a shout that put the fear of God into them:

  ‘Shots fired! Officer down!’

  ‘Shots fired. Officer down!’

  Daniels heard it too, followed by a deafening silence. And now she found herself surrounded by a thick blanket of fog. No, not fog. Lakeland mist. Definitely mist. It hung – as if suspended in mid-air – obliterating the upper slopes. The image of Jo was as clear as if she was standing right beside her. They were heading back to their hotel after a day’s hiking. Jo’s face was tanned and happy, her hair blowing in the warm breeze.

  Daniels must’ve blacked out, because now it was dark and the warm breeze had turned into a bitter chill. Jo was still there, but Gormley was with her. They were holding her hands and an ambulance was standing by.

  ‘You’re going to be OK.’ Gormley’s voice sounded shaky. ‘It’s just a graze.’

  It didn’t feel like just a graze. The pain in Daniels’ shoulder was excruciating. She couldn’t make sense of what had happened. She was sure she’d heard a gunshot before the firearms team arrived, followed by another a split second after the first armed officer entered the room. Now blue flashes lit up the night sky and someone she didn’t recognize was loading her on to a stretcher, his voice calm and reassuring.

  She looked up at Gormley as Jo let go of her hand. ‘Forster?’ she asked.

  Hank slowly moved his fingers across his neck. ‘You said you’d make him pay, and now you have. You kept your promise to the victims, Kate. All of them, including young Sarah. You’ve done her proud.’