The Murder Wall (12 page)
She slowed behind a caravan of vehicles: a farm tractor spewing mud from gigantic tyres; a single-decker with only one passenger on board; an impatient driver of a blue transit van who chanced
his arm by straying from the kerb trying to overtake – irritating Daniels, who was bringing up the rear. She wondered if the maniac ever stopped to consider his own mortality as he put
oncoming traffic in danger.
‘Jesus!’ Gormley said.
Daniels took her eyes off the road a moment to glance at him. ‘What?’
‘I knew I’d come across her name before!’
‘The brief?’
Gormley grinned. ‘She’s a resident of Court Mews.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yep, saw her name on the action list this morning.’
‘Then maybe we should pay her a visit.’
Daniels switched on her blue light, indicating her intention to pull out . . .
F
elicity Wood was a power dresser with a superior attitude. She had on a pair of well-cut navy trousers, an off-white silk blouse and a pair of calf-skin, high-heeled, fuck-me
boots, sharply pointed at the toe. Her outfit screamed a hefty salary, as did her lovely apartment. The view across the Tyne from the picture window was identical to that from the crime scene on
the floor below. A small table in front of it bore the remains of a light lunch, set for only one person Daniels observed.
‘Please sit down.’ Wood picked up her wine glass. ‘Would you like to join me?’
‘Not for me, thanks.’ Daniels hadn’t come to get cosy. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your day off, but I’d like to know about your relationship with Alan
Stephens.’
‘We’re . . . we were, neighbours.’
‘Nothing more? You were his guest at dinner on Thursday night, were you not?’
‘My firm contributes to many fund-raisers, DCI Daniels.’
‘Is that what the ACC advised you to say?’
Wood bristled. Daniels had clearly hit a nerve. ‘If you have a point to make to the ACC, I’d be grateful if you’d make it to him.’
‘It’ll be my pleasure.’ Daniels noted the woman’s anxiety as she forced a smile and reached forward to pick up the wine bottle and refill her glass. ‘Forgive me for
being so blunt, Ms Wood, but did you have sex with Alan Stephens on the night he died?’
‘That’s impertinent!’
‘It’s also a question that requires an answer.’
‘Then no – not that it’s any of your business.’
‘You sure about that?’
Wood took a sip of her wine, meeting Daniels’ gaze over the top of her glass. ‘I think I’d have remembered.’
‘Any chance you’d volunteer a sample of DNA?’
‘Am I being arrested?’ Wood said, with a smug raise of the eyebrow. Daniels had nothing on her and she knew it. ‘Then there’s your answer.’
‘When you returned home from the Weston, you didn’t see or hear anything unusual?’
‘As it happens, I did. A loud bang . . . sometime around midnight. It seemed to come from inside rather than outside the building.’
‘Did you investigate?’
‘Do I look stupid?’
‘You didn’t think it worth mentioning before now?’
Wood lifted her glass, took another sip of wine and moistened her lips. ‘I couldn’t swear to it. It was Bonfire Night. It was noisy.’
‘I see. Well, thank you for your time . . .’ Daniels reached into her pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it over. ‘If you think of anything else, I’d
appreciate a call.’
She left the building and found Gormley leaning on the Toyota, which was parked on double yellow lines right outside Court Mews. When he saw her approaching, he binned his cigarette on the
pavement and ground it out with his foot. Daniels glared at him, picked it up and handed it back.
‘You speak to Wood?’ he said.
‘For what good it did – smarmy, self-opinionated cow.’
‘So you liked her a lot.’
‘And she’s lying. Luckily for us, she’s not very good at it.’
Gormley checked his fag end for burning embers and then put it in his pocket.
They got in the car.
‘Let’s swing past Jo’s house one more time,’ Daniels said.
T
hey parked right outside Jo’s house. As they did so, the curtains of the house next door inched open and an elderly lady peeped out from within. Daniels noticed a
Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the window.
They got out of the car and made their way to Jo’s front door. Gormley pressed the bell and stepped back. They waited . . . and when there was no reply Daniels pointed to the adjoining
property.
‘Let’s try next door,’ she said.
The elderly lady they’d seen at the window opened the door with the chain still secured. She was a fine-looking woman, around eighty years old: extremely alert with steely eyes and curly,
cotton wool hair.
‘Mrs Collins?’ Daniels held up ID. ‘May we have a word?’
The chain came off. ‘Yes, yes. You people did that already. I’m old, not stupid. I know who you are.’
Daniels smiled.
The woman showed them into her living room and sat down in a high-backed chair. Daniels asked how well she knew her neighbour, Jo Soulsby. Mrs Collins told her not very well at all. The last
time she’d seen Jo, she was getting out of a taxi in the small hours of Friday the sixth of November.
A matter of hours after the fatal shooting.
The fact that nobody had seen her since had Daniels wondering why.
‘Can you be more precise on time?’
Mrs Collins thought about this before answering. ‘Around one forty-five in the morning . . . I’d been listening to the
Night Shift
programme on radio, you see. Then I read for
a while – an old P.D. James novel,
Death of an Expert Witness
; I’d bought it the day before at a jumble sale – so I do know how late it was.’
Gormley and Daniels smiled at one another, tickled by the programme title. Neither had heard of it – they were too busy with the real thing – but both had read the book.
‘A fan of our colleague Commander Adam Dalgliesh, are you?’ Gormley asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Collins said. ‘A real gentleman, just like my late husband.’
Daniels pushed on. ‘Was Ms Soulsby alone?’
Mrs Collins nodded. ‘I don’t sleep well since my Jack died. I heard a car pull up and saw her getting out of a taxi. That’s the last time I saw her. Is everything all right
next door?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ Gormley said.
They thanked Mrs Collins for the information and headed back to the murder incident room, stopping at Dene’s Deli on Jesmond Road to collect something decent to eat – the best
sandwiches around, as far as Daniels was concerned.
Back at the office, they grabbed a coffee and got stuck into their lunch: Daniels’ Italian salami and organic sundried tomato and the ‘special’ Gormley had chosen, ‘Last
Mango in Paris’: creamy crab, tuna and mango chutney. They’d just finished eating when Brown stuck his head round the door. Gormley had asked him to trace Jo through her employers, but
his efforts had so far drawn a blank. The Home Office official he’d spoken to point-blank refused to give out any details without first speaking to someone in authority.
‘Understandable, I suppose,’ Daniels said. ‘Given the nature of her work, they’re entitled to be cagey. She has to deal with some evil bastards. No doubt one or two might
pay handsomely for her details.’
‘Doesn’t give him the right to treat me like a prat.’
‘Did he?’ Daniels took in Brown’s nod. ‘Well, we’ll see about that.’
Just then, her phone rang.
‘This’ll be him now, I bet,’ Brown said. ‘I gave him your extension number.’
Daniels picked up. ‘Murder Investigation Team.’
The Home Office official didn’t ask who she was or bother to introduce himself, just demanded to know why the police were sniffing round one of their own. What was it Jo Soulsby had done?
Did Daniels know she was a professional of high standing in her field? There were issues of Data Protection to consider . . . blah, blah. Daniels shook her head and raised her eyes to the ceiling,
letting Brown and Gormley know that it was indeed the Home Office, holding the receiver half a yard from her ear as the man continued his tirade. He was speaking so loudly, they could hear every
word.
Eventually, he stopped to draw breath.
‘Have you any idea who you are talking to?’ Daniels asked.
‘Well, no, I assume . . .’
‘Then piss off and stop wasting my valuable time!’ She slammed the phone down to a spontaneous round of applause from her two colleagues. ‘Officious little prick!’
They got up and followed Brown back into the incident room. As Gormley peeled off, heading for the gents, Daniels eyed the photographs attached to the murder wall: Stephens, Monica, James . . .
Jo.
Where the hell are you?
Daniels looked at her watch. She wanted an update from Ron Naylor, but it was too early to call him. His victim would have to be examined, first in situ, then transported to the morgue for a
full post-mortem. Only then would Forensics get their hands on the card that had niggled her subconscious since she’d learned of its existence.
Two scenarios loomed large in her thoughts, neither of which appealed. Either way, Daniels knew she had a problem. If Naylor’s case and the killing of Sarah Short and Father Simon
weren’t linked then there were two dangerous offenders on the run in bordering counties, a problem that definitely needed sorting. But if the opposite was true, then a serial killer who had
eluded capture for almost a year was lurking out there somewhere – a situation that was so much worse.
H
e was in complete control. His weapons had opened many doors, allowing him to go wherever he chose – invited or not. He knew what he wanted and how to get it, though he
had to admit he’d learned the hard way.
He’d left too many clues on the first tart he’d wasted, ended up captured within days. Twenty years on, every detail of his trial was etched on his brain like the tattoo on his head.
That courtroom – hot and overcrowded – his fate resting in the hands of twelve strangers, none of whom dared meet his gaze. Each glance quickly whisked away when he looked at them,
unfazed by the seriousness of his position, as exhibit after exhibit pointed an accusing finger in his direction.
The jury’s discomfort was laid bare for all to see. When shown photographs of his victim, battered to a pulp like the whore she was, one woman in the jury box was even moved to tears.
Silly tart . . .
Nobody had asked how he felt.
And what about the two of them? He had watched them, huddled together in the public gallery, pretending to give a shit, like the day they put him in care for no reason he could think of –
lied to keep him there – and went through the motions of supporting him. They disgusted him.
But he’d be leaving his parents till last.
Just why they’d spent that day snivelling and holding hands, he couldn’t imagine. Her especially. She’d spent more time teaching Sunday school than taking care of him.
Fucking goody two-shoes.
She was only alive now because he’d decided not to kill her . . . yet. In any case, she was already dying of shame – the slow kind of living death people like her deserved. By the
time he’d finished messing with her head, books would be written about his life, a film perhaps, with some A-list celebrity playing him, maybe even a sequel or a series on the box . . .
Sweet.
He could see it now – his name, their name – up in lights or plastered across every billboard in the country. She’d find that difficult to ignore. That’s why he felt so
angry. Any profiler worth her salt should have given the filth a lead by now, flagged up his record, his obsession with the God squad.
What the fuck did they think they were doing?
Why hadn’t they joined up the dots?
D
aniels looked around the room. Maxwell appeared to be working away quietly for once, his warrant card sticking out of his computer. She wandered over, taking in the soft-porn
magazine he was doing his best to hide.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when she spoke to him:
‘Neil, the Tactical Support Group are whining for some PDFs. Nip down to Admin and get some, will you?’
She didn’t need any personal descriptive forms. It was just a ploy to get rid of him.
A smirk appeared on his face as he moved off probably thinking he’d got one over on her. What he didn’t know was, she was about to do the same to him. As soon as he was out of sight,
she took his seat and began searching the vehicle index. She had to work fast, scrolling down quickly, keeping one eye on the door for him coming back.
Her mobile rang again. She pulled it out of her pocket and gave her name, placing her elbows on the desk, supporting her chin with one hand, holding the phone to her ear with the other. Her eyes
fixed on the screen – flitting here, there and everywhere – as she listened intently to the caller.
Shit!
She hung up and left the building without a word to anyone.
S
he decided to skirt the city rather than risk getting stuck in traffic, approaching the West End from the south side of the river. It took her a few miles out of her way but
it was the right move. On the Gateshead side of the Tyne, she picked up speed, eventually turning right, crossing back over the river on the Redheugh Bridge.
On the north side of the river, Daniels turned left, headed up the West Road for a mile and a half, passing a sign for NEWCASTLE GENERAL HOSPITAL. A block further on, she turned right into the
hospital grounds, screeching to a halt in a spot marked: AMBULANCES ONLY. She got out of the car and raced to the main entrance, quickly searching the information board before approaching the
lifts. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two digital displays, but the lifts were taking too long, both stuck on the floor above.
Entering the stairwell, she took the stairs two at a time with her heart thumping out of her chest, the smell of disinfectant hitting her subconscious like a brick, transporting her back in
time. Two floors up, she lost herself in the narrow hospital corridors, blindly running this way and that with no apparent goal in mind – even less direction. Then suddenly she was still.
