The Murder Wall (3 page)

T
he sun was low in the sky, the morning rush hour in full flow. Traffic was backed up in all directions on the busy street below. Kate Daniels was preoccupied with her
thoughts, gazing down through a grubby window. It had been one of those nights. She had a feeling that the coming day could be worse . . .
a lot worse
.

On their journey back from the crime scene, Gormley had given her space to think. He’d asked no questions, though she suspected he had many on his mind. By the time they reached the
station, she’d decided to declare a conflict of interest and withdraw from the case. Then, at four in the morning, Detective Superintendent Bright had called her and put paid to that.

‘You’ll be acting Senior Investigating Officer throughout this enquiry Kate. It’s your chance to shine. There’s not another DCI on the force deserves it more. I know
you’ll do a good job.’

His words and his endorsement should have been music to her ears, had it not been for one small matter: Daniels had prior knowledge of the victim, and that was against the rules. It wasn’t
that she was too gutless to tell him the truth, more a case of shielding someone with a grudge against Stephens.
Question was: was it a big enough grudge to push a reasonable person over the
edge?

If Bright had been taken back by her hesitation, he didn’t let on. He ended the call abruptly, as though he had far more important things to do. Daniels wondered if perhaps he’d
agree to swap cases. She immediately called Brooks in the control room for some background information. What he told her had made her sick to the stomach . . .

In the early hours, a missing boy had been found strangled to death, dumped in a council skip like a piece of garbage. Bright had vowed to find those responsible. There was no way he would
trade. It wasn’t just a matter of continuity, it was the human angle too. Every detective she’d ever known took it personally where children were involved. The Super would want to nail
the bastard himself –
and rightly so
.

The decision facing Daniels was simple: come clean with her boss or put an exemplary career at risk. It was a tough call; she’d always taken great care to keep her personal and
professional life separate, gone to great lengths to further her ambition in the force. She was about to encounter what Gormley would call ‘the buggeration factor’. Why now, when things
had been going so well for her, was it all going horribly wrong?

People hurried about their business in the street below, unaware they were being watched. At a bus stop, strangers queued, hands in pockets. A couple of women sheltered in a nearby doorway. In
the next one down a vagrant held out a bowl to a female passer-by. She threw in loose change and walked on. The young man ahead of her lost his baseball cap. It whipped high into the air,
eventually coming to rest in the middle of a busy junction. He dashed into the road after it, taking his life in his hands, expertly avoiding a passing bus. On its side, a political advertisement
spelt out the words: THE CHOICE IS YOURS.

That was an understatement if ever she saw one.

Daniels pulled the cord on the vertical blinds, deflecting the sun’s glare. Turning from the window, she lifted her briefcase off the floor where she’d dumped it during the night,
preferring to work in the incident room when no one else was around, rather than the tiny office she’d been allocated by some faceless civilian who clearly didn’t understand, much less
care, about her needs. She took out her mobile and punched numbers into the keypad. When no one answered she flipped its cover closed and threw it back in her bag.

The makeshift incident room was old-fashioned and untidy, with peeling paint, tatty office furniture and little room to swing a cat. Not only was it too small, but it was located in a part of
City Central police station already earmarked for renovation. Officers from the Murder Investigation Team (MIT) were hooking computer screens together with miles of wires, enough to send the Health
and Safety manager into a rage. Screens came to life with the force logo as staff arrived in dribs and drabs. Gormley was writing the name ALAN STEPHENS on the dry white marker board, an ancient
piece of kit not remotely like the electronic murder wall in the Major Incident Suite situated on the floor above. He looked old standing next to fresh-faced DC Lisa Carmichael who was new to MIT
and eager to make a good impression.

‘You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this, Sarge . . .’ Carmichael said. ‘I’m so excited.’

Gormley bristled. ‘Murder victims are people, Lisa. Flesh and blood, like you and me. It’s not a game. See how you feel after your first post-mortem. I could arrange one today, if
you like? The Super has an interesting case on. Would that be exciting enough for you?’

Shamefaced, Carmichael clammed up and wandered aimlessly away. The DCI patted her on the arm as she walked by. It wasn’t like Gormley to be so grouchy.

‘That was a bit harsh, wasn’t it?’ Daniels said. ‘What the hell is eating you?’

Gormley just looked at her like butter wouldn’t melt.

‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about, Hank. Lisa’s young and keen. She could go all the way. I asked you to take on her supervision because you’re the best and
you know how to have fun at the same time. At least, you used to. She doesn’t deserve to have her enthusiasm dampened just because you have marital problems, so don’t take the piss. You
owe her an apology.’

Gormley stopped pretending. ‘I know, I’ll sort it.’

‘See you do.’

Daniels pulled a packet of Benson & Hedges from his top pocket without asking. Under a NO SMOKING sign, she lit up.
Another thing for Health and Safety to complain about!
She
hadn’t tasted nicotine for months and felt instantly dizzy. She coughed, bent down and immediately stubbed the cigarette out on the side of a bin. As she handed the packet back, DS Paul
Robson’s frustration caught her attention. He tapped his watch and rolled his eyes as DC Neil Maxwell wandered in off sick leave: large as life and late, as usual. For the third time in as
many weeks, his malingering had left MIT short. He was the weak link in the chain and it was no secret that she wanted him out.

Maxwell plonked his lazy arse down at an empty desk just as Detective Superintendent Phillip Bright appeared in the doorway looking every bit the impressive officer he was. His clothes were
immaculate as always: a crisp dark grey suit, white shirt and silver tie matching a spotted handkerchief in his breast pocket. A hint of aftershave reminded Daniels of one her father used to
wear.

Bright’s appointment as head of MIT eight years before had come as no surprise. He was highly respected throughout the force and had a proven track record in murder detection. He’d
also been instrumental in guiding Daniels to make the right career choices. Her path mirrored his own; so much so that she almost felt like his shadow. Wherever he had gone, she had gone too. One
day he would become force Crime Manager, which effectively meant he would take charge of the CID. When he did, she was hoping to step into his formidable shoes.

‘Morning, sir. Can I help?’ Maxwell was back on his feet, sucking up as usual.

Aware of the problems his sickness had created for a squad already understaffed and under pressure, Bright wafted him away as if he were an irritating fly, concentrating instead on Daniels.

‘Got a minute, Kate?’ He pointed at the bundle of crime-scene photographs in her hand. ‘You may as well bring those with you.’

Gormley raised a quizzical eyebrow as Daniels followed Bright from the room almost breaking into a trot to keep up with him. They didn’t speak as they moved along a noisy corridor and up a
flight of stairs to the building’s west wing, eventually arriving at a brand-new facility and a door marked: MAJOR INCIDENT SUITE – No Unauthorized Entry.

The room was a stark contrast to the one they had just left, pleasantly air-conditioned, an open-plan layout designed to make best use of natural light and equipped with all the latest
technology. Bright’s squad were hard at work as they passed through to his private office, which still reeked of fresh paint.

He sat down at an imposing desk that wouldn’t look out of place at the Kennedy Space Centre. Daniels imagined herself sitting behind it.
Houston, we have a problem.
She remained
standing, her eyes scanning his new desk with its fancy videophone, state-of-the-art computer, a pile of crime-scene photographs that were even more distressing than her own. The subject bore no
physical injuries. He looked like any child does when they are sleeping peacefully, except she knew that not to be the case. Her eyes shifted a foot to the left to a happy snap of her boss’s
wife taken at a police fund-raiser weeks before Stella Bright was confined to a wheelchair. She was posing in the foyer of the city’s Malmaison Hotel in a party dress and high-heeled shoes,
her shapely dancer’s legs on show for all to see.

If Bright saw Daniels looking, he didn’t let on. He reached out to take the bundle of photographs she was holding. ‘Mind if I take a look?’

Tell him.

Daniels held his eyes for a moment and then handed them over. ‘This one’s not going to be straight, guv. We’ve identified the victim, but there’s very little to go
on.’

He took a cursory look at the photos, sifting them through his hands until he’d seen them all. She thought he looked troubled and waited for him to tell her what was on his mind . . . but
he sat for a moment considering. He was taking a special interest in her case and she was desperate to know why given that he was in the crucial first few hours of an enquiry of his own.

‘Forensics at the scene yet?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’ Daniels chanced her arm. ‘Don’t you even want to know his name, guv?’

She’d hit a nerve. Bright bristled, avoiding eye contact. It was obvious he hadn’t been ready for her direct approach. God knows why, he’d known her long enough.

He sidestepped the question with one of his own. ‘Any press sniffing around?’

‘’Fraid so. Chasing you too, I imagine.’ She nodded towards his own crime-scene photographs. ‘Unfortunately, my scene is less than a block away from last night’s
celebrations.’ She stressed the word
my
, hoping he’d back off a bit. ‘The press were on it like a dog on heat. There was nothing I could do. But I think you’ll find
in the cold light of day that most of the media interest will be coming your way, not mine.’

Bright didn’t bite. He just sighed – that same worried look.

‘You don’t need to hold my hand, guv . . .’ Daniels pointed through the glass partitioning to the outer office. ‘From where I’m standing, you’ve got enough on
your plate.’

‘You’re right, I have,’ he said. ‘But this is your first case in overall charge, so let’s just take it gently, shall we?’

Daniels didn’t quite know how to respond. She’d worked her socks off for this opportunity and he was treating her like a rookie on a first assignment. Her hackles were up and it
probably showed.

He looked at her like a concerned father would. ‘Don’t take it personally, Kate. I don’t doubt your ability, I just want you to know my door’s always open.’

Bollocks!
‘Is that all, guv?’

Daniels regretted her tone as soon as the words had left her lips. Despite the fact that they were on first-name terms – though never in front of the squad – there was a fine line
which she had just crossed. Bright may have encouraged her to speak her mind on any subject, but he was still her senior officer and deserved her respect.

‘For now, yes . . .’ He smiled, an attempt to make amends. ‘Just keep me posted on this one, OK?’

It was a dismissal.

Daniels nodded. She wondered whether an apology was required, decided it wasn’t and headed for the door. With her back turned, he spoke again.

‘You OK, Kate? If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look it.’

She turned to face him. ‘I’m fine . . .’ she said, her eyes drawn back to the photograph on his desk. ‘And I apologize, I should have asked after Stella.’

Bright cleared his throat. Behind his tired eyes, she could see that her concern had been unwelcome, even though she’d supported him through some very dark days following the accident
– a crash that had left Stella in a critical condition, fighting for her life. Daniels wondered if he was still waking up in a cold sweat having nightmares at the wheel. Not that he was in
any way to blame. An articulated lorry had jackknifed on the M25, wiping out one side of his car. She felt sure he was suffering some kind of survivor guilt. She was equally sure he’d never
admit it, for fear of appearing weak.

‘No change . . .’ he said. ‘I hate to say it, but I hope to God it’s quick.’

Walking back down the corridor, Daniels was too slow to avoid Gormley coming the other way. Like any good detective, he didn’t miss a trick. He saw the troubled look on her face before she
had time to conceal it.

‘Everything OK with you and the guv’nor?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, why shouldn’t it be?’

‘I’m a detective and you’re no poker player. It’s obvious he’s pissing you off.’

‘He’s got a lot on his mind, Hank.’

Gormley grinned –
he knew something she didn’t
.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘Any idea why the ACC wants you on the case?’

Daniels bristled. ‘Does he?’

‘That’s what he told Bright.’

‘You sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

Daniels looked past him to the door of the incident suite.

She wasn’t the only one holding back.

4

A
shaft of early morning light peeped through a chink in the bedroom curtains, crossing the delicate contours of Jo Soulsby’s face. Her eyes flickered uncertainly and
slowly blinked open. She lay on her back for several minutes, staring at the ceiling, feeling the effects of an extreme hangover and dreading the day ahead.

Jo showered quickly. But no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t wash away the nightmare of the previous night. Her flight from the Quayside was classic behaviour, given the
circumstances.
Hadn’t she explained it in very simple terms to a number of patients over the years?
Words like ‘emotional’ and ‘trigger’ sprang to mind. She was
in trouble and knew it. Trouble brought on by scars of the past, unresolved issues that had festered deep within her psyche, waiting to explode like a loaded gun. She had everything she’d
ever wanted: a successful career, a wonderful life, a family she adored. Right now, she wished her sons were around to help her put her own problems first for once instead of helping others
understand theirs.