The Murder Wall (11 page)

It wouldn’t be the last.

‘I’m not taking paternity leave just yet,’ Robson said.

Daniels was taken aback. ‘Oh?’

He smiled. ‘I could tell you it’s down to my enduring professional integrity, but I’d be lying. Truth is, my mother arrived late last night. She’s hell-bent on stopping
for a fortnight. I’ve talked it over with Irene and I’m yours till she goes home. Irene doesn’t fancy playing referee.’

Daniels tapped his arm. ‘I’m delighted to hear that. We’re run off our feet.’

Gormley sauntered over, adding his own congratulations, telling Robson that having a son would change his life for ever.

‘In a good way,’ he added. ‘First sixteen years are the worst!’

Robson smiled. ‘I appreciate the tip-off.’

Gormley’s phone rang. He took it from his pocket and lifted it to his ear, leaving Daniels and Robson hanging. He listened intently for a few seconds, holding the DCI’s gaze, then
rang off thanking the caller for getting back to him so quickly. ‘The drugs theory is a non-starter,’ he said. ‘Neither Interpol nor Customs and Excise have anything on their
radar.’

Daniels shrugged – it was a long shot anyway.

She turned to Robson. ‘Can you give us a sec, Robbo? Hank and I have something important to discuss.’

Gormley threw her a questioning look as Robson moved off. ‘Something I missed?’

Daniels shook her head. ‘Fancy getting out of here for a bit?’

‘Er, aren’t we a tad busy to go on walkabout?’

‘It’s important.’

‘What is?’

‘Not here,’ Daniels said. ‘Meet me at Sarah’s in ten.’

She suddenly had his undivided attention.

Sarah’s was known as a last resort.

24

S
arah’s Café was just across the road. The place was a dive: dishes abandoned on tables, chairs strewn around at odd angles waiting to be put back where they
rightfully belonged, the untidy mess ignored by a gum-chewing waitress – too busy on the phone to notice, too idle to care. They were sitting at a table by the window, each with an insipid
mug of coffee in their hands. Gormley had no intention of drinking his and was getting impatient to hear what was too important to talk about in the station.

‘Spit it out then,’ he said.

Daniels sat for a moment considering the many motives for taking a person’s life: rivalry for power or love, jealousy, greed, and the most potent of all – revenge. She looked at
Gormley and took a deep breath. ‘I know something, Hank. Something I’m duty-bound to disclose. Something that, for the time being, stays between the two of us –
understood?’

‘You’re the boss.’

‘Jo once told me, in confidence, that Stephens raped her.’

Gormley’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

Daniels knew she was on dodgy ground.

‘And you chose not to disclose it because . . .?’

‘I want you to check it out first.’

‘She reported it?’

‘No further action was taken. It was pre ’91. No such offence if you were married. On the outside he was a model citizen, a church-going Christian with a social conscience. But
behind closed doors, I gather he was a pig.’

‘Am I missing something here?’ Gormley picked up his coffee, grimaced, then put it back down. ‘It’s just . . . well, not to put too fine a point on it, revenge is a
pretty strong motive!’

‘Eighteen plus years ago, maybe . . .’ Daniels thought it unlikely that a person would commit murder nearly two decades after the event. ‘And we don’t think this is a
domestic, right? At least, that was the consensus yesterday when you were offering to moon us from Fenwick’s window!’

‘True,’ Gormley conceded. ‘But we can’t ignore it.’

‘I’m not!’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘If she ever becomes a credible suspect—’

‘Credible? In case you’ve forgotten, her ex is dead and she can’t be found. Anyone else, you’d be getting the cuffs out.’

‘Come on! Do you really believe someone in her position would jeopardize all she has worked for to wreak revenge on an ex-husband she hasn’t lived with for years? I don’t think
so. I didn’t say anything before because . . . well, at the risk of stating the obvious, would you want your personal life broadcast at the station? You know what the rumour squad are like .
. .’ There was an awkward silence between them. ‘Don’t look at me like that! I just . . . well, I see no reason to drag up her past. I think we should keep it to ourselves –
for now, anyway.’

‘You going to tell Bright?’

Daniels shook her head, mention of their boss a reminder of the state he had been in last night and his subsequent visit to her home shortly after six-thirty a.m. She glanced at her watch.
He’d be at Fantasy Island by now – a commonly used nickname for force headquarters – no doubt facing a barrage of questions from the powers that be. More drama. More pressure. And
scant reward for the time he was putting in. Top brass weren’t remotely interested in his personal welfare. Target-driven bollocks was the name of the game nowadays. As far as they were
concerned, Bright could be ready for a straight-jacket just so long as he got results.

Daniels paid the bill and led Gormley from the café. Her revelation about Jo’s past was the only topic of conversation as they crossed the road to the station. Gormley was
uncharacteristically subdued, probably weighing up how she would handle things if the shit hit the fan further down the line. She reassured him she’d take full responsibility should that
happen. No way would he be implicated in any breach of protocol. ‘You happy with that?’ she asked as they passed through reception and made their way along the corridor to the incident
room.

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Of course.’

‘Fine! Whatever you want. It’s your funeral, not mine. Why should I give a shit when you don’t?’ He stopped at the door to the incident room and took a long deep breath,
clearly pissed off. Then, finally, he let the matter drop. ‘Want me to put some pressure on the Home Office?
They
might know where Jo is.’

‘It’s worth a try, but do it quickly. I want her found and I need to nail the sequence of events from the time Stephens left his apartment to the time of his death. Maybe he met
someone either before or after he left the Weston. If he did, someone out there must’ve seen something.’

‘And if it was Jo he met?’

‘We’ll deal with that if and when it arises.’

Gormley could see his boss was troubled. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

Daniels nodded. ‘Monica claims she and Stephens hadn’t had sex for a fortnight.’

‘Is that right?’

‘That’s what she said. Someone had sex with him though, didn’t they?’

‘You think it was Jo?’

‘Not likely, given their history.’

‘But not impossible?’

Daniels felt a knot of tension settle in her neck. ‘I really don’t know what to think.’

A
couple of hours and several phone calls later, Daniels was alone in her office when there was a knock at the door. Robson entered with Carmichael and Gormley in tow: a
delegation, if ever she saw one. Good news, Daniels hoped. Both men sat down, inviting Carmichael to go first. ‘Fitzgerald’s list from the Weston.’ She handed over an A4 sheet and
stood back, waiting for a response.

Daniels gave the list the once-over, wondering why it was taking three of them to present this to her. There must be something else. ‘Terrific, Lisa. Get on to that, will you?’ She
handed the list back. ‘Talk to door security. See if they kept a record of who
actually
turned up, as opposed to who was invited.’

Carmichael was way ahead of her. ‘Already have. As guests arrived, somebody checked their names against the seating plan. I’ve been working my way through it. I’m pretty sure
of where everyone was sitting.’

‘Unless they all played musical chairs,’ Daniels said.

It was a gentle lesson never to take things at face value.

Carmichael was embarrassed. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

Daniels gave a considerate smile. ‘Do what you can, right away.’

She waited for Carmichael to leave, but it soon became apparent that she wasn’t going anywhere. The young DC shared a brief but knowing look with Gormley. Noticing the exchange, Daniels
wondered what was holding her back. From the look of her, Carmichael was about to throw a spanner in the works. She took a deep breath, darting a second look at Gormley. He winked at her and nodded
towards Daniels.

‘OK, this must be good,’ Daniels said. ‘Something else I need to know?’

The hiatus provided her with an opportunity to take in Gormley’s self-satisfied grin. Robson stretched his arms above his head and yawned, too tired to notice. He’d been up half the
night and looked as if he was feeling it. He sat with his mouth open, waiting for Carmichael to speak.

‘Stephens was sat with the Assistant Chief Constable,’ Carmichael said, eventually.

You could have heard a pin drop as Daniels scanned the faces of each detective in turn.

‘She’s good, no?’ Gormley said.

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking extremely proud of his underling, taking none of the credit for himself. It was so like him not to rain on her parade. As a young officer, Carmichael
needed all the praise and encouragement she could get in order to progress to the next level. Daniels was pleased to see Hank Gormley back on form.

‘There’s more . . .’ Carmichael sat down, clearly on a roll. ‘ACC Martin is no longer in the area. His secretary told me he rang in early this morning and took leave at
short notice. He’s scarpered to his holiday home up north. It took a while to track him down, but I got there eventually.’ She grinned at Gormley. ‘He’s none too pleased
with Hank.’

Daniels shifted her gaze. ‘You spoke to him?’

Gormley nodded. But before he could open his mouth, Carmichael was off again.

‘I found out that Stephens made generous donations to Kidney Research, sending his cheques directly to the Chairman. He insisted on anonymity, apparently. As far as the organization is
concerned, he was quite an important guest.’

‘Great!’ Daniels glanced at the ceiling. ‘A high-profile victim and a senior officer withholding evidence. Can it get any worse?’

Carmichael gave a little nod. ‘Yeah, it can. Martin is the Chairman.’

‘Which he failed to mention when questioned . . .’ Gormley was paraphrasing the police caution and clearly enjoying himself at the ACC’s expense. ‘Something that we all
very much hope he may later rely on in court.’

Carmichael and Robson both laughed.

‘Unbelievable!’ Daniels began thinking out loud. ‘If Martin is so well connected to Stephens, then why keep silent about it? What the hell is he up to?’

‘Maybe he’s on the hey-diddle-diddle,’ Gormley offered.

‘Not funny, Hank. But I take your point. Get hold of the charity’s books.’

Everyone stopped talking as Bright entered the room. ‘Kate, there’s been another shooting, a woman this time. I’m tied up. Can you deal?’

Daniels nodded. He handed her the details and left.

25

T
wenty minutes later, the Toyota turned left at a signpost for Houghton-le-Spring. Moments after that, she pulled into an ordinary street that had recently become a crime
scene. Jenny Tait’s terraced house was already secure, taped off to keep the public out, with a uniform guarding the gate, a crowd of onlookers close by. Avoiding Gormley’s smug
expression, Daniels got out of the car and shook hands with Detective Superintendent Ronald Naylor of neighbouring Durham Constabulary who’d come out of the crime scene to greet her.

‘Ron.’

‘Kate.’ Naylor swept his arm out, drawing her attention to a glut of police vehicles parked along the kerb. The insignia on the cars didn’t match. His tone was friendly.
‘Bit of a Mexican stand-off, wouldn’t you agree?’

Daniels was a little embarrassed. ‘Hank said it wasn’t our patch, but the control room was having none of it.’

‘Nasty business . . .’ Naylor looked past her to the Toyota. He held up a thumb to Gormley, who nodded back and settled down in his seat for a nap. ‘We don’t get many of
these round here. I’ve got no witnesses, no motive, no bloody idea where to begin.’

Daniels nodded. ‘Sounds familiar.’

‘Consider yourself stood down, Kate. Call you later?’

‘Yeah, do that.’ She was about to walk away when Naylor spoke again:

‘If you come across any bodies with a prayer card stuffed in their mouths, give us a call, eh?’

Daniels felt the colour drain from her face as the image of Father Simon clutching a prayer card flashed to the forefront of her mind. ‘Does a priest count?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Remember the double murder last Christmas Eve at St Camillus church?’

Naylor nodded. ‘How could I forget?’

‘The priest with a bullet in his chest was holding a prayer card.’

Naylor bit his lip. ‘Yeah well, he would be, wouldn’t he? Tools of the trade and all that. You’d expect—’

‘Keep me informed, Ron. I don’t believe in coincidences.’

‘You serious?’

‘Very.’

Daniels got back in the car and sat for a while, scanning the faces of the crowd behind the police tape, wondering if a killer could be among them. She drove away, hoping against hope that
Naylor’s case might somehow be linked to her unsolved double murder, the one still giving her nightmares. What if the prayer card on Father Simon’s body was a clue to his killer’s
identity and not merely a ‘tool of the trade’? She made a mental note to call Naylor when he’d finished at the crime scene.

Gormley hadn’t picked up on her excitement. He was sitting quietly, studying the list Carmichael had supplied earlier. ‘Know a woman called Felicity Wood?’ he said, looking
up.

‘Should I?’

‘She’s a brief at Graham & Abercrombie.’

‘Don’t think so. Why?’

‘According to this list, she was sitting with Martin and Stephens at the dinner.’

‘Was she now?’

‘I know the name,’ Gormley said. ‘I just can’t place it.’

Daniels made a right turn and then a left out of the housing estate and put her foot down, heading back towards Newcastle along a winding country road that cut its way through lush green
countryside, hedged on either side by drystone walls. In parts, the stones had fallen away, exposing open pasture that seemed to go on and on. A canopy of bare branches met above the centre of the
road, creating a strobe effect as she drove beneath it.