The Murder Wall (28 page)
Somehow she managed to persuade Bright to leave. Helping him into the Toyota, she took him home and dumped him on the couch to sleep it off, alerting his neighbour to look in on him later.
Daniels went home too.
Now, sitting cross-legged on her bed – no longer prepared to put off the inevitable – she was trying to pen a letter to Jo. But the words wouldn’t come. How
could
she
explain her decision to compartmentalize her life? Why was it so important to reach the very top in her career? What did she have to prove and, more importantly, to whom?
It was tempting to blame her father for the trouble she was in, but, if Daniels was being perfectly honest, the responsibility lay with her. So what if he hadn’t shown her enough
affection, or told her, just once, that he was proud of her achievements? That was
his
problem, not hers. No. No matter which way she dressed it up,
she
was the one making all the
wrong decisions. She’d chosen to lead a double life, and now she was paying the price.
And so, unfortunately, was Jo.
The words on the page smacked of lame excuses. She screwed up the sheet of paper and threw it on the floor, where it landed among several other failed attempts. She started again just as
BBC’s
Crimewatch
began.
Y
anking the ring-pull off his can, Gormley took a long swig of beer as the camera zoomed in on Kirsty Young. The Scottish presenter was looking particularly attractive tonight
in a crisp white shirt and black jacket, her tousled hair hanging loose around her shoulders, her long legs crossed.
When she launched into an appeal for information into the murders of Jenny Tait and Jamil Malik, Gormley’s ears pricked up. He knew Daniels would be watching too. She was convinced there
was a link between those murders and the Corbridge case – young Sarah Short and Father Simon – even though she couldn’t yet prove it. He was inclined to go along with that. Why
else would the killer have sent
her
a cutting of his next victim? Why hadn’t he sent it to Naylor, the detective in charge of the Tait investigation?
Perched on a tall stool, a grave look on her face, Kirsty told viewers: ‘Police need your help with these two brutal murders. We’re joined in the studio by senior detectives from
Durham and West Midlands and, as always, we have a team of operators ready to take your calls. First, though, let’s hear from Detective Superintendent Naylor of Durham Constabulary . .
.’
Gormley smiled and took another swig from his can. In his dark suit and conservative blue tie, Naylor resembled an older version of football legend Alan Shearer. He seemed perfectly at ease, and
there was a definite presence about him that said:
Don’t-fuck-with-me.
Reaching for the remote, Gormley turned up the volume.
‘Yes, that’s right, Kirsty. We now know these two cases are linked. In both incidents, a Catholic prayer card like this one –’ Naylor held up a card ‘– was
left at the scene.’
Gormley put down his beer and grabbed the phone. Keeping one eye on the set, he dialled Daniels’ number.
She answered almost immediately.
‘You got the TV on?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Seems Ron got the thin end of the wedge.’
‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? I’ve waited all my life for a case like that!’ Gormley squashed his empty beer can, placed it on the floor and picked up another.
Yanking the ring-pull, he took a long drink. ‘You think this appeal will do any good?’
‘You want the truth?’
‘Shouldn’t you be there?’
‘Why?’
‘Er, hello? Hand-delivery photos of the deceased!’
‘Ron and I discussed that . . .’ She sounded distracted. ‘He thinks we should keep it to ourselves for the time being and see what gives. If we put it out for general
consumption now, we’ll likely attract the cranks, weirdos and copycats. He’s got a point, actually. Neither of us wants an
I’m Jack
scenario.’
Gormley considered this for a moment. The furore over the ‘Ripper’ hoax had reared its ugly head not so very long ago, almost thirty years after it had derailed the hunt for Peter
Sutcliffe, the real Yorkshire Ripper. The hoaxer had since been jailed for eight years – and rightly so – because thousands of innocent men across Wearside were questioned
unnecessarily, wasting precious time and resources, resulting in detectives in Yorkshire taking their eye off the ball.
‘D’you think there’ll be others?’ Gormley asked.
‘Warning photos? Who knows? I really don’t know what to think any more.’
‘You sound like you need a drink!’
‘Jesus! Why is it that men think a drink is an answer to everything?
Daniels looked back at the TV where an image of Jenny Tait was being replaced by a picture of her house, now a crime scene. She hadn’t meant to bite Gormley’s head off. He’d
been a brick in recent weeks: fielding her calls, covering for her while she ran round and round in circles, trying to find evidence that would prove Jo’s innocence, never once
complaining.
He chuckled. ‘You talking about me, or men in general?’
‘You, my father, Bright . . . need I go on?’ Daniels covered the speaker with her hand as a sob caught in the back of her throat.
‘Kate?
Daniels couldn’t speak. In the television studio, a large man she’d never seen before was invited into shot by Kirsty Young. A new caption appeared at the bottom of the screen:
Detective Chief Inspector Victor Nichols – West Midlands Police.
‘Kate, what’s wrong? Apart from the obvious,’ Gormley added soberly.
Daniels turned down the sound. ‘Stella—’ She broke off, unable to hold on to her grief any longer.
There was a short pause as Gormley put two and two together.
‘Christ! Why didn’t you say?’
‘He’s devastated, Hank. Completely fucked up.’ She glanced down at the pad on her knee, at the screwed-up letters on her bedroom floor, her mind flashing back to the interview
between Jo and Bright, two of the dearest people she knew, both rocked by events of recent weeks. Where would it all end?
She pressed a button and the phone went dead.
F
uck!
The lardy geezer on screen was pissing him right off now. What did the arsehole want, an Oscar? DCI Nichols was Mr Sincerity, that’s for sure. He was standing right next to Kirsty Young,
pointing at a photo of the rag-head, his voice all serious, like he gave a damn.
Yeah, right!
No mention of the hotshot toddler so far –
his
finest hour.
No mention of Daniels either.
It really wouldn’t do.
Two victims?
They’re ’aving a laugh.
Discounting the one he’d offed as a lad, his tally was a fuck sight more than that. And he wasn’t finished yet. Oh, no! Not by a long chalk. His list was good and long, his game plan
well rehearsed. Shame a few had gone to meet
Him
a little early. Couldn’t help that now, could he? No arguing with natural causes now, was there?
Plenty more where they came from.
His fist closed around his scissors as a bitch copper on screen had the gall to move on to another case – some bollocksy burglary – botch job, too, by the looks. Now who’d give
a shit about that? Raising his arm, he brought it down, slamming his fist into the table so hard the scissors stuck fast and he had to use both hands to free them.
They hadn’t heard the last of him. Not yet.
D
aniels was trying to concentrate on paperwork, but her mind kept straying back to her visit with Jo, now only a matter of hours away. And then she needed to drop in on David
and Elsie Short – and her father? – Bright, too, if she could possibly manage it.
What was she thinking? She had to manage it. Never mind that she’d just about reached her limit after weeks of juggling the demands of her new role as Acting Superintendent – Bright
having been on compassionate leave since Stella’s funeral – as well as her continued campaign to disprove the case against Jo, which had to be conducted in her own time and beneath the
ACC’s radar.
The rap of knuckles on wood was followed by Robson’s head appearing round the door. His eyes were like piss holes in the snow, his shirt could have done with ten minutes on an ironing
board, and he had the look of a man in the grip of a monster hangover. She could swear he’d worn the same clothes yesterday. It wasn’t like him, and it worried her. Now she came to
think about it, he’d been looking pretty miserable for weeks. But she had neither the time nor inclination to indulge that thought. She gave him a list of things to do, told him she would be
incommunicado for the rest of the day, then grabbed her things and left the office.
She made it to Low Newton Remand Centre within the hour, entering the prison with a feeling of trepidation – and no idea she’d be walking out again less than ten minutes later. Or,
to be more accurate,
running out
. Back behind the wheel of the Toyota, she fumbled with the ignition key in her desperation to get as far away from the place as fast as she possibly could.
Whatever preconceptions she may have held before visiting Jo, she could never, ever, have anticipated what would happen inside that grim visiting room.
What had already happened.
Had it been possible to floor the accelerator, she would have. But a prolonged cold spell meant that the surrounding fields and meadows were white with snow, and the winding lane that was her
only exit was like a bobsleigh run in places. So she crawled along, in slow motion almost, with Jo’s hushed voice echoing in her head:
It’s too late to make it right, Kate. I
won’t be sending you another VO. I just wanted to tell you to your face.
As soon as she’d said her piece, Jo had risen to her feet and signalled to a female prison officer to escort
her back to her cell. She hadn’t faltered once, nor did she cry; it was as if she’d rehearsed what she had to say. And her words had cut through Daniels like a knife.
She didn’t mean it. How could she possibly?
Slowing down at a crossroads, Daniels turned left on to the A1. Heading north now on freshly gritted roads, she picked up speed, steeling herself for more misery to come. If she could have put
off her visits to David and Elsie Short, and the guv’nor, she would have. But cancelling wasn’t an option. No matter how bad she was feeling right now, she knew they would be feeling
much worse.
I
t was already dark. She’d been on the road for an hour and was now heading north west across country. Leaving the dual carriageway, she crept past the turn-off for her
father’s cottage, craning her neck to see if his car was parked in its usual spot. It was. Despite their differences, she knew he’d be furious if he found out she’d gone by the
road-end without calling in. Especially on Christmas Eve.
She checked the clock on the dash . . . no time . . . and ploughed on.
Ten minutes later, the road narrowed at a thirty-mile speed-limit sign. The countryside gave way to housing on one side, then on both. The marketplace was on her left as she drove into Corbridge
and parked up, her hands clammy on the steering wheel as she looked towards the church and thought back to the night she went in to light a candle and discovered two bodies.
Notwithstanding her recent personal crisis, Daniels’ failure to bring the killer to justice had been, and still was, the disappointment of her career. What could she say to the parents of
Sarah Short on this, the first anniversary of their daughter’s death? What words could she use that wouldn’t sound like empty promises?
Until her untimely death, Sarah had been a young woman with a brilliant future ahead of her. It was a sad irony to think that she had aspirations to work in criminal law after completing her
degree at Oxford. Her murder had robbed the Shorts of a loving, intelligent child in the very prime of her life, and Daniels hadn’t been able to offer them even the small consolation of
justice for her killer.
She got out of her car knowing that the individual responsible would surely kill again. Engrossed in her thoughts, she pulled up sharply as a man stepped into her path, less than twenty metres
from St Camillus’ gate. They did a little dance, as people do when they get in each other’s way. Finally he moved politely to one side and stood to let her pass. She sighed, angry at
her reaction to a total stranger.
Just past the churchyard, the Christmas tree was another reminder of her gruesome find twelve months ago, transporting her back to that night and the harrowing weeks that followed. MIT had
thrown every resource into solving the case yet failed to turn up a single witness. It was as if a spaceship had beamed the person responsible in and out of the village.
No . . . there were no words that could convey the sorrow she was feeling, or give hope of a result in the near future. The best she could offer the Shorts was her personal reassurance that the
case would never be closed. The last time she’d seen them, they’d begged her for that. It was their right. And Daniels intended to see it was respected.
E
very surface in the cosy room was taken up with photographs of Sarah Short as a happy child and teenager. Some showed her posing with her parents, and Daniels was shocked by
the contrast with David and Elsie Short as they were now. Both had aged considerably in the last twelve months. David’s hair was almost white now and he’d lost a lot of weight,
particularly from his face. His hands were shaking as he placed a second cup of tea down on the table in front of him.
‘We lit a candle at church today,’ he said, looking up.
‘David!’ Elsie glared at her husband.
‘I’m sorry, Kate,’ David said, realizing. ‘That was insensitive. I’d forgotten how . . . what you were doing, when you found . . .’
His voice trailed off – he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
‘How can you still believe?’ Daniels said. ‘I just know I couldn’t.’
‘Go home, Kate,’ he said gently. ‘Make it up with your father. He needs his only child. From the state of you, I’d say you need each other.’
