The Murder Wall (22 page)

‘Shift!’ Gormley said, in no mood to be messed around.

Henderson nudged Forster, the next man down, who had his head in a magazine, and then sniffed at the air artificially.

‘What’s that smell, d’you reckon? Shite, pig shite, or just pigs?’

Forster grinned but kept his head down, not wanting to get involved. Gormley smiled reassuringly at the receptionist, figuring she’d have witnessed one or two fights in her time. With the
likes of Henderson it was usually a case of when, not if, things would kick off. The wimp on the right was far too old for the shaved head and tattoos he was sporting under thinning hair. Gormley
ignored him, eyeballing Henderson instead, bending over him and placing his hands on the bench either side of Henderson’s thighs.

He leaned in close, so close their faces nearly touched. ‘I said shift!’

Henderson smirked.

Gormley swung back his foot, kicked both men’s legs away and then carried on to reception. The woman behind the desk was practically beside herself, eyes darting past him, expecting more
trouble as he made his way towards her.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Gormley, this is DC Brown. We need a word.’

The receptionist put her hand out, expecting Gormley to pass his warrant card under the narrow gap of the security window. Instead, he pressed it against the partition, making her examine it
through the glass. In all his time in the force he’d never let go of his most prized possession and wasn’t about to start now. She peered over the top of her spectacles, comparing him
with his ID. The man in the photo was much younger than the man standing in front of her, but she could still tell it was him. Then Brown produced a search warrant and shoved it beneath the
window.

‘We need access to Ms Soulsby’s office,’ he said.

The receptionist unfolded the piece of paper and took forever to read it. When she looked up, she shrank back from the glass, highly agitated. Henderson was on his feet and walking towards
them.

Gormley swung round on his heels. ‘Move and I’ll break your arm!’

Henderson backed off, holding up the middle finger of his right hand. As they were buzzed through a door marked PRIVATE, Brown cautioned him to sit down and show some respect.

They found Jo’s office at the rear of the building on the ground floor. Apart from bars at the windows, it was a pleasant enough room: a large mahogany desk in the centre, a comfortable
chair, solid-wood bookshelves housing professional manuals, with a small selection of children’s books on the bottom shelf.

They spent over two hours searching before returning to the front desk. Gormley thanked the receptionist for her cooperation while Brown gave her a list of items they were taking away:
Jo’s desk diary, her laptop, a mobile telephone receipt and several other documents they thought they might need.

‘We may need to come back,’ Brown warned. ‘We’ll also need a copy of Ms Soulsby’s current caseload.’

‘Is that
really
necessary?’ the receptionist said.

‘’Fraid so.’

The woman logged on to her computer and typed a command. The printer reset itself, then sprang into action, spewing out a list of sixty or so names. Brown wondered if the people on it would be
referred to as clients or patients. Either description was too good for the scum they’d met on their way in.

55

D
aniels spent the next few hours trying to find out more about the Malik killing. Naylor had no news. So, instead of waiting for them to come to her, she rang the Birmingham
SIO directly. But it was a fruitless exercise. DCI Nichols was about as much help as a chocolate fireguard. Or so it seemed initially . . .

‘It looks very like him.’ Nichols was referring to the cutting she’d sent. ‘I’ll get back to you on that as soon as.’

Daniels took a deep breath and counted to ten.

‘As soon as’ didn’t fill her with confidence.

‘Any witnesses come forward in the house-to-house?’ she asked.

‘Not one, despite our best efforts to allay their fears. I’m sorry, Kate. We’ve got bugger all.’ As he paused for breath, Daniels could hear the buzz and chatter of a
busy incident room in the background. ‘Locals aren’t willing to get involved on account of the MO. Can’t say I blame them. They’re terrified. It’s hard to imagine what
was going through that cruel bastard’s head when he used a child to pull the trigger.’

Daniels’ ears pricked up.

Maybe Nichols wasn’t such a divvi after all.

‘You have evidence to back that up?’ she asked.

‘Indisputable: the boy’s fingerprints were on the gun and there was gunshot residue on his hands. Can you believe that? It’s a first for me, I can tell you! And the last, if I
have anything to do with it,’ he added.

Daniels had to admit this modus operandi was a first for her too. Nichols’ final comment was hopeful, but it lacked any real conviction. He was in no position to offer guarantees to her or
the community he served. There was no magic wand either of them could wave in cases like these. All the more reason to work as a team. Thanking him, she asked him to keep her posted and rang
off.

Carmichael wandered over, frustration showing on her face as she informed her boss that she’d struck out too. ‘Forensic tests on the weapon found near Jo’s office will be some
time coming. There’s a backlog of cases of equal importance, so I’m told.’

‘Is there now? Well you get straight back on to them with another request. I want a comparison test between my gun and the one used to kill Jamil Malik – and I want it now!’
Carmichael nodded. She was already walking away when Daniels called after her: ‘Lisa, don’t bother. I’ll make that call myself.’

Picking up the office phone, Daniels made the call and then left the building asking Carmichael to hold the fort.

F
ifteen minutes later, she entered Jo’s house to find SOCO crawling all over it. An officer dressed in a white forensic suit acknowledged her with a nod, stood up and
handed over two clear evidence envelopes.

‘I found that in the waste bin in the kitchen,’ she said pointing to the first.

Daniels held it up in front of her face. It contained a torn-up photograph, which came as no surprise to her. Then she held up the second. ‘What’s this?’

‘Demand for unpaid university tuition fees, in which Alan Stephens is named.’

‘Where was it?’

‘In one of the bedrooms upstairs, stuffed under a mattress.’

Daniels’ jaw went rigid. She pulled out her phone and made a call. ‘This is DCI Daniels. I need to ask you a few more questions.’ She listened. ‘Obviously, or I
wouldn’t be asking.’ She rolled her eyes at the SOCO. The person she’d called was trying her patience. ‘I’ll be straight there.’

T
here was an atmosphere in the room. Monica Stephens’ normally calm manner seemed to have deserted her all of a sudden. She appeared nervous, was fussing with cushions on
a new sofa, trying her best to avoid eye contact with Daniels.

‘And you didn’t think it worth mentioning before now?’ the DCI asked.

Monica looked up. ‘Alan resented having to pay after the boy reached eighteen.’

‘I take it you didn’t agree with him?’

Monica sighed. ‘No, I didn’t. James had just begun his second year at university, but Alan wouldn’t listen. He said
he’d
left school at fifteen and it hadn’t
done him any harm.’

Daniels was disgusted. ‘And James found out?’

‘Naturally . . .’ Monica clasped her hands together and put them in her lap. ‘He rang here, ranting and raving. My husband had already put Thomas through university and James
resented being treated differently. Alan refused to see him, refused to reconsider. They had an awful row. I’m not sure what James said to him, but I’ve never seen Alan so
angry.’

Monica got up, walked to the window, and looked out. With her back turned, Daniels couldn’t help noticing that the room had been transformed in the last few days. Maybe now that Alan
Stephens was dead his mother would reap the benefits of his considerable wealth.

The DCI pressed on: ‘Is there anything else you omitted to tell me?’

Monica turned. ‘What star sign are you, Detective Chief Inspector?’

Daniels didn’t reply.

‘Alan was a Scorpio through and through.’

‘Meaning?’

‘If someone hurt him, he hit back twice as hard. He hid it well most of the time, but Alan had a cruel streak, make no mistake. He threatened to disinherit the boy.’

‘Only James?’

Monica nodded.

‘In whose favour?’

Monica met her gaze head-on. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Who knows what a serial philanderer has up his sleeve?’

Daniels shook her head. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘I’m not in the habit of washing my dirty linen in public, are you?’

‘All the same . . .’

Monica looked guilty now.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I should’ve told you about Alan’s affairs.’ She paused for a moment collecting her thoughts. ‘James is such a sweet boy
under all that bravado. I know he blamed me for his parents’ break-up, but deep down he knows I wasn’t responsible. I didn’t want to be the one to point the finger of suspicion at
him. He didn’t . . . well, I’m sure he had nothing to do with his father’s death.’

‘I wish I could be so sure.’

Daniels spent another half-hour with Monica. Only when she was absolutely sure the woman had nothing else to give did she leave the house. Walking back to the car, she called Gormley on his
mobile and told him what she’d just found out: ‘Stephens had a new will drawn up, cutting James out altogether.’

‘Had he signed it?’

‘Monica’s not sure . . . at least, that’s what she says.’

‘That gives James a reason to kill him. Her, too, considering his infidelity. Maybe she wanted out before Stephens chose to move on permanently.’

Gormley paused. Daniels could hear traffic noises in the background. It sounded like he was crossing a very busy road. Then he was back on the line.

‘Isn’t it time you let Bright in on Jo’s little secret?’

Daniels kept walking. ‘See you tomorrow, Hank.’

56

V
ehicles were like ghostly shadows on the road into town. Daniels drove slowly and carefully through a thick blanket of fog, conscious of a colleague who, just two years ago,
had lost her life in a pile-up on the M6 motorway during similar weather conditions. She’d been on the way to collect her child from university and bring her home for Christmas when her car
ploughed into the back of a slow-moving bus.

The thought made Daniels shiver.

She was feeling rough today, her sleep having been disturbed more than once by curious dreams she couldn’t understand. She’d tried to settle herself down again and get some kip, but
it was useless. In the end she just gave up, got up, had a shower and set off for work well before dawn. Relieved when the Toyota finally passed beneath the security barrier at the station, Daniels
parked the car and let herself into the building via the back door. Her silent entry to the incident room startled a cleaner engrossed in her work.

‘Jesus, I nearly jumped out me skin!’ the young woman said in a soft Geordie twang. She was pretty, mid to late twenties, oval face, brown eyes and auburn hair pulled back tightly
into a high ponytail – a hairstyle Maxwell cruelly referred to as a Croydon face-lift. ‘You want me out of here? I’m just about done.’

‘No, you carry on. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ In all her years in the police force, it was the first time Daniels had considered how spooky it must be for
a civilian to work in a murder incident room alone, especially at such an ungodly hour. She pointed to her office. ‘You finished in there?’

The girl nodded, then turned away, tiptoeing across the wet floor with her mop and bucket, the smell of disinfectant lingering in her wake. As she set about creating order from chaos, Daniels
did likewise. The squad wouldn’t be arriving ’til seven. She had an hour and a half head start. Closing the door behind her, she slipped off her coat, put on the kettle and waited for
it to boil, then made herself a mug of coffee as black and as bitter as her mood. She alone was to blame for her professional dilemma – didn’t need reminding how inappropriate her
actions had been – but, bizarrely, those same actions had cemented her loyalty to Jo, and she liked the way that made her feel.

Maybe there
was
still hope for them.

But this was no time to indulge in fantasy.

Putting her personal feelings aside, Daniels tried to organize her thoughts, prioritize the many things competing for attention in her head. Alan Stephens may have possessed a ‘cruel
streak’, according to his widow, but it was
her
duty to find the person or persons responsible for his death, to see that he got justice. It mattered not that he was a bad father, a
despicable bully who’d humiliated Jo during their marriage – and Monica, too, by the sounds of it. Whatever Stephens had done in life, he certainly didn’t deserve to have it taken
away so violently. The dead deserved a voice and, whether Daniels liked it or not, she was his.

There were four Post-it notes stuck to her computer screen: one from Bright reminding her to submit her expenses claims and budget projections by the end of the day, the other three from her
father.
Screw him.
She threw them in the bin. She had more important things to do. Picking up the phone, she rang the front desk. ‘This is DCI Daniels. Fetch me CCTV footage of
reception for Sunday night. I’m particularly interested in . . .’
What time was it?
‘Around seven. Yes, that’s right . . . Yes, now!’

Hanging up, she logged on to her computer.

Within minutes, a civilian worker she recognized knocked gently on her door with a disk in her hand and a scowl on her face. Daniels thanked her for the disk, apologized for snapping at her on
the phone, and promised to return it in due course. When the girl had gone, she put the disk into a computer slot, fast-forwarding the footage until the counter on the bottom right-hand corner of
her screen showed six forty-five p.m.