The Murder Wall (6 page)

Bright was sitting at his desk, reading a murder investigation manual. Daniels noticed that beside Stella’s photograph there were now four expensive fountain pens lined up in perfect
symmetry.

‘Maxwell said you wanted to see me, guv.’

Bright pointed to a chair and waited for her to sit. He leaned across his desk and handed over the manual. ‘New edition, hot off the press. It’ll come in handy for reference if
you’re stuck and I’m not around.’

He meant no offence and none was taken. Daniels knew how detailed the procedural manual was. An SIO’s bible: a thick strategic document, several hundred pages long, covering every aspect
of murder investigation.

‘Thanks.’ She took it from him. ‘Guv, I need a word . . .’

‘Maybe later, Kate. I’m a little pushed for time.’

‘I need to speak to you now.’

He waited, a curious look on his face.

‘Thing is . . .’ She stalled; she just couldn’t tell him. ‘I’m still bogged down with the Corbridge enquiry. I can’t just—’

‘Kate, I thought we had an agreement. That case is well and truly dead in the water. This incident takes priority now. I know it must be hard for you to accept, given your personal
interest, but that’s just the way it is.’

‘Move on, is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m afraid so. I know it sounds harsh—’

‘But, guv—’

‘No!’ Bright took a breath. When he spoke again, his tone was more sympathetic. ‘Look, headquarters want this shooting resolved ASAP. Use your loaf, you could make Super out of
it – and not before time in my opinion.’

It wasn’t like him to patronize her. He was her mentor, always had been. He’d been pushing for her promotion for a number of years. It was down to him she’d come this far.
Problem was, any decision on her future wasn’t just his to make. She watched him line up his blotter with the edge of his desk and thought of all the tossers promoted ahead of her even though
she had proved her worth repeatedly. She was sick of being passed over.

Maybe this was her big chance.

‘And David and Elsie Short?’ She still wasn’t happy. ‘I gave them my word.’

‘Then more fool you for making promises you can’t keep. I’m sorry, Kate. We’ve got no evidence and no prospect of any either. That’s just the way it is and
it’s high time you accepted that.’

Daniels stood there, knowing deep down that he was right. In spite of her best intentions she’d allowed herself to get personally involved with David and Elsie Short and was in grave
danger of losing her perspective on the case. But it remained in her mind constantly and she just couldn’t let it go.

Bright was staring intently at her now. ‘What’s up, Kate?’

‘You want the truth?’

‘C’mon, don’t play games.’

‘OK . . . firstly, Sarah Short and Father Simon deserve justice, however long it takes. And secondly, your inducement is making me nervous.’

‘I thought you were desperate for the next rank.’

‘I was . . . am!’

‘Then don’t balls it up . . .’ He was trying to encourage her but was going the wrong way about it. A worried look spread across his face all of a sudden. ‘Your
reluctance has nothing to do with Jo Soulsby, by any chance?’

‘Why should it? You surely can’t think she had something to do with this?’

He didn’t answer and she seized the opportunity to change the subject.

‘Guv, what is Stephens’ connection with headquarters exactly?’ There was no point holding back. Bright had taught her always to question authority, including his own.
‘Someone been caught with their pants down again?’

He sat back, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. ‘Let it go, Kate.’

She could tell she’d hit the nail right on the head. The question was: whose pants? Moreover, what did that have to do with Alan Stephens? When Bright got to his feet, she knew their
conversation was over. Whoever was calling the tune must be pretty high up. But that didn’t explain why he was keeping her in the dark. If someone was leaning on him, why didn’t he just
say so?

He always had before.

She felt guilty as she rushed back down the stairs. Withholding the truth from Gormley earlier had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. On the
contrary, she just didn’t want to implicate him in her deception. But there had been nothing impetuous about not telling Bright she had prior knowledge of a murder victim. That was bordering
on stupidity, and now there was definitely no going back . . .

11

F
ive miles from the windswept Northumbrian coast, a grey and forbidding building rose like a giant blot on an otherwise beautiful landscape, surrounded by barbed wire to
prevent escape. Like most of Her Majesty’s prisons, Acklington had been sited well away from the nearest residential area – and for good reason.

It was beginning to rain as Jo Soulsby drove her BMW into the staff car park, trying hard to focus her mind on her job. She was exhausted, would have been back at home in bed had she not
promised the Home Office an urgent assessment on a disruptive lifer – but she’d managed somehow to struggle through. At least this was to be her last professional visit of the day.

Jo checked her briefcase. Her mobile showed several missed calls and the battery icon had turned red, indicating a critically low charge. She switched the damn thing off and threw it on the seat
in frustration. She got out of the car and locked it. The wind howling through the perimeter fence was loud enough to wake the dead, the rain almost horizontal now. Pulling her coat close, she ran
towards the gatehouse. Senior Officer Young was waiting there to greet her.

‘Rough night?’ he asked.

Embarrassed by the comment, Jo averted her eyes. ‘I could think of better ways of spending my time than being locked up in here,’ she said. ‘Especially with him.’

Young checked the professional visitor log. He grimaced when he saw who she’d come to see. ‘Think yourself lucky,’ he said. ‘Some of us are stuck with him
twenty-four-seven.’

Pushing a button underneath his desk, he activated the electronically controlled reinforced-steel door. It clunked loudly and slowly began to slide open. Jo moved forward into position and the
outer door closed behind her. Despite many years of working in prisons with some of Britain’s most disturbed criminals, she still hated the feeling of being trapped between the two sets of
doors.

The inner door clunked, faltered, and at last she was inside. Only then did she remove a numbered tally from the end of the chain hanging from her belt. She placed the tally in a security chute.
Young took charge of it and, in return, handed her a large bunch of keys allowing her unrestricted access to the prison. As she attached the keys to the empty chain, he smiled at her through the
thick security glass, his fake American accent sounding muffled through the barrier:

‘Y’all have a good day, now. Y’hear?’

Managing a thin smile, Jo moved on into the grim building and hurried along a secure corridor to the vulnerable prisoner unit. She was dreading her interview with Prisoner 7634 Woodgate, serving
life for his part in the gang rape of a woman half his age. Although she was duty-bound to go through the motions of a life sentence review, the very idea that he might get out any time soon was
abhorrent. In the interests of public protection, she would not recommend his release to the Secretary of State and intended to make that quite clear.

But first she needed to find a phone.

12

D
aniels was stationary at the traffic lights at the north end of the Tyne Bridge, waiting to gain access to the Swan House roundabout. In the centre of the island, looming high
above the city, was a former government block converted to apartments and renamed 55° North. She stared up at it, wondering why on earth anyone would want to live above a traffic nightmare.
Like the engine of her Toyota, her mind idled until she realized that the lights were stuck on red. She rang the control room asking what was going on. Nobody seemed to know. She thanked them for
nothing and rang off. There was only one way she was getting out of here – though technically it was against the rules.

Sod that, she thought. I’m on police business.

Engaging her blue light, she felt like a bully pushing to the front of the queue, but, like magic, her actions had the desired effect. Traffic parted and at last she was on her way home . .
.

The leafy suburb of Jesmond was a cosmopolitan area with good shops, hotels, restaurants and trendy bars. Although it was very different from the rural area where Daniels had spent her
childhood, she liked the fact that it still retained a villagey feel. No mean feat, considering the massive change in population in the past fifteen to twenty years. During that time, professionals
had been squeezed out by landlords buying up larger properties to let to students from local universities. The more they could cram in, the better they liked it. Some houses, including hers, were
still in private hands, but it had to be said they were few and far between – and not everyone was happy.

Turning into Holly Avenue, Daniels glanced at her watch cursing the time it had taken her to get there. Fortuitously, there was a parking space just yards from her front door. She managed to
squeeze – but only just – between two abandoned cars belonging to college lecturers who lived next door. By the time she’d reached her own front door, the neighbour’s cat
had caught up with her and crouched down waiting to run in too.

Shooing it away, Daniels opened the door. Stepping over mail lying on the hall floor she had to squeeze past her motorcycle just to get in. The post would have to wait. She needed to get a move
on if she was to meet Stanton on time. Quickly she made her way to the back of the house, entering a modern kitchen with clean lines and no clutter. It was decked out with all the latest
labour-saving gadgetry in keeping with her busy lifestyle. Shards of light filtered through natural wooden blinds.

It was her favourite space in the whole house.

There was some milk in the refrigerator. She checked it was in date and drank straight from the carton. It bothered her that Jo Soulsby might hear from the press that the father of her children
was dead. Picking one of two mobiles from the front pocket of her bag, she checked the display
.

No joy.

Discarding the first, Daniels picked out the second. She dialled Jo’s number and was met with the same voice message she’d heard ten times already that morning:

‘The mobile you are calling may be switched off. Please try again later.’

Putting the mobiles back in her bag, she grabbed fruit from a bowl and stuffed that in too. A flashing LED on her BT answerphone caught her eye. She pushed the playback button and listened to
the automated message:
To listen to your messages, press one, to save
. . .’ Daniels hit one, cutting off the voice. She heard a beep but the caller had rung off without speaking. She
stared at the phone as if it would somehow reveal the identity of the caller. The automated voice again:
You have no more messages
. . . She hung up. The calls button didn’t enlighten
her: it showed three calls in quick succession. On each occasion the number was withheld. Then suddenly one of the mobiles rang loudly in her bag.

She pulled it out. ‘Hello?’

The line was open but no one spoke.

A weak mobile signal? A payphone perhaps? Bugger!
Only one person had access to that particular line. Either someone had the wrong number or the caller was desperate for help . . .

W
ithin half an hour, Daniels was showered and on her way again. Driving back to the city, she made a mental list of all the things she needed to do to get the enquiry underway.
In the foyer of Court Mews, she shook hands with Tim Stanton. A tall, good-looking fifty-year-old, he had worked for the northern region for only seven years, during which time he’d built up
an excellent reputation in his field of expertise. His impressive qualifications included Bachelor of Medicine, Fellow of the Royal College of Pathologists and Honorary Lecturer in Pathology at the
University of Edinburgh. He was held in high regard by the police and well liked by Daniels herself.

Though they shared the ability to function with very little sleep, quite how he managed to look so fresh remained a mystery to her. Despite a shower and change of clothes, she still felt jaded
from being up all night.

Outside Stephens’ fourth-floor apartment a male officer was on sentry duty.

Daniels held up her warrant card. ‘This is Mr Stanton, Home Office Pathologist, and I am DCI Daniels.’ She checked her watch. ‘I make it five past one. Time our entry and
don’t let anyone else in here while the body is being examined. Understood?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The officer stood aside to let them through.

At the door to the victim’s apartment, Daniels bent down and opened up a large box containing forensic clothing. Reaching inside it, she withdrew two packets and handed one over to Stanton
just as the lift arrived on their floor. Waiting for the door to open, she was rattled when Bright emerged from the lift and fought hard not to let it show – Super or no Super, she’d
have given him a piece of her mind if Stanton hadn’t been there. What the hell did he think he was playing at?

Bright exchanged pleasantries with Stanton as they all got kitted up. Zipping up her forensic suit, Daniels slipped blue plastic overshoes over her own, reminded of a house-hunting expedition
she’d undertaken with her mother years before. It had been a gloomy Sunday afternoon. Following their usual visit to church and a pub lunch, she’d driven her mother to a new housing
development. Her father declined to join them with the usual lame excuse that he was too busy.

Fingering the plastic material in her hands, Daniels could almost hear her mother’s laughter, see her moving around the show home looking the picture of health in a new red dress –
unaware of the cancer eating its way into her lung. They’d clomped around with blue plastic feet in a house they could ill afford, giggling like a couple of teenagers.