The Murder Wall (43 page)

He waved.

Carmichael unlocked the door and locked it again as soon as he was inside. Seconds later, he joined them in the kitchen, took off his jacket and sat down. Carmichael put the kettle on and made a
pot of tea. Though she looked as washed out as she felt, she seemed in no hurry to go home, despite the fact that she’d been on duty for sixteen hours straight.

‘I just discovered something
really
interesting . . .’ Carmichael said. ‘Several jpegs in a deleted folder on Forster’s computer.’

Her words and her reluctance to leave made Gormley uneasy. He loosened his tie, then tossed it on the table, glancing at Jo in the process. She looked equally concerned by this development.

‘I’ll take care of them later, Lisa,’ Gormley said, trying to sound disinterested. ‘You get off home.’

‘Don’t be daft!’ Taking three mugs from a cupboard, Carmichael set them down on the kitchen bench and began pouring the tea. ‘It’s really no bother,
I—’

‘Just leave me the information and I’ll sort it!’ Gormley insisted.

It was a heavy hint that she should leave. Carmichael didn’t argue, but she didn’t look happy either. Glancing at the steaming mug of tea in front of her, she pushed it away and
pointed to a yellow Post-it note stuck to her computer screen.

‘That’s the designated file name . . .’ She’d clocked Gormley’s agitation. ‘Am I missing something here?

‘Lisa, would you mind . . .’ Jo intervened, her expression apologetic as she handed Carmichael her coat. ‘I really need to speak with Hank privately.’

Caught on the back foot, Carmichael put on her coat and gathered up her bag from the floor. ‘Didn’t see that coming,’ she said. ‘Well, I’ll see you two lovebirds
tomorrow then.’

After she’d gone, Gormley shook his head.

Jo laughed out loud. ‘Oh what a tangled web,’ she said.

T
he letters were similarly marked, all of them stamped HER MAJESTY’S PRISON. There were scores of them, but, as far as Daniels could tell, very few had actually been
opened. She noticed that they had not all come from one institution and concluded that Forster must have been shipped around the country, from one prison to another, with alarming regularity during
the course of his life sentence.

No surprise there, then.

She sat down on the bed to read the letters, all written in pencil on lined A4 paper. The handwriting was childish and tiny, as if a spider had walked across the pages. In letters written
shortly after his imprisonment, Forster vehemently denied any wrongdoing and begged his parents to believe him, saying he’d been ‘fitted up’ by police. In each one he was adamant
he wanted to go home. In letters written later, Daniels found that the tone had completely changed. He’d become highly agitated, slagging off his parents for rejecting him out of hand. It was
clear that he hated his mother with a passion. These were the ramblings of an unhealthy mind, pages and pages of disturbed, incoherent thoughts. All of the letters were unsigned, concluding with
the words:
The End.

B
ack at the safe house, Gormley took his tea and sat down at the computer with Jo looking over his shoulder. He put on his specs, typed in the file name Carmichael had left
stuck to the computer monitor, and set the folder to view as a slide show.

The first photographs that came up on screen were no surprise. They were images of Daniels and Jo kissing on her doorstep, matching the hard copies Forster had hidden on his balcony. It was hard
to tell who was the most embarrassed but, as the slide show continued, discomfort was replaced by horror as the location then changed.

They watched in silence as the images faded and then dissolved. There were scores of photographs, all with Daniels as their subject: with Jo, with Gormley, with Bright, in different locations
– including one where she was standing alone outside St Camillus’ church – and, finally, either entering or leaving the family home of David and Elsie Short.

The realization hit Gormley like a sledgehammer.

‘Christ! It’s not
you
he’s been watching, it’s Kate!’

D
aniels jerked forward as the gun nudged the small of her back. Her whole body tensed. Forster was standing right behind her, large as life, close enough to kill her with his
bare hands. He spoke just four words:

‘Took you long enough.’

She froze.

His words echoed in her head, confusing her, projecting her back to Jo’s bedside:
Took you long enough.
Jo had used those exact words following her accident. Only this time,
Daniels’ reaction was very different. This time she could not afford to get emotional, not if she was going to make it out of there alive. Forster’s sinister laughter brought her
crashing back to reality.

‘Wanna know why they’re still alive?’ he whispered.

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 . . .

‘G
et 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!’

D
aniels 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
.’

T
rees 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.’

D
aniels 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.’

‘G
ormley 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.’

‘I
f 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.’