The Murder Wall (38 page)

‘Creature of habit, you say?’ She leapt from her seat and on to the floor, began searching the box of dead files.

Sensing a change in atmosphere, Jo lifted her head. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense,’ she said. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Hang on, it could be nothing.’ Daniels found one particular file, opened it and shuffled through several pages as she spoke. ‘Didn’t you tell me that he had some kind of
religious magazine in his possession when he was released on life licence?
True Faith
, something like that?’

‘Close!’ Jo laughed. ‘
True Faith
is the Newcastle United fanzine, you idiot!’

Daniels laughed too.

‘It was
Living Faith
,’ Jo said. ‘Why?’

‘There’s a note in here somewhere . . .’ Daniels went back to her search. ‘Here it is!’

She pulled out a short scribbled note, handwritten on an A5 Probation letterhead. Her heart raced as she noticed the date:
10th October 1988
– the day Forster got life. She re-read
the note quickly, unclipped it from the file and handed it to Jo.

D
aniels suddenly felt charged with electricity. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck and goose pimples covered her skin. Several images flashed through her mind, vying for
her attention: a woman in a black Burka, a photograph of Jamil Malik, the magazine cutting she’d passed across the table to Naylor at the Living Room restaurant. She looked at the letter
again. Could this be the break she’d been looking for? It could so easily have been discarded soon after it was written, or become detached from the file over time.

But it hadn’t.

And that excited her.

‘Well!’ she said. ‘What do you reckon?’

‘You’re thinking the photo of Malik could have come from the same magazine?’

‘Got any better ideas?’ Daniels said, wounded by Jo’s disbelieving tone.

‘You
do
know his mother never visited throughout the two decades he was inside?’

‘There you go! What was it you said about men like him? Can’t cope with rejection in any form? Our backs are against the wall here, Jo. If it
is
the same magazine – a
gift from a mother who doesn’t love him – isn’t it possible that it has become a symbol of his hatred over the years?’

‘Anything is possible where the human psyche is concerned,’ Jo said. ‘But what would that have to do with Alan and the others?’

‘Honestly? I haven’t got the first idea.’ Daniels thought for a moment. ‘You told me that Alan was a bit of an evangelist in his youth. Maybe he featured in the magazine,
wrote an article for it, who knows? Maybe Jamil Malik did too. His cousin said he was deeply religious. What if the photograph
was
cut from this magazine?’

‘This has really got you going, hasn’t it?’

‘I need to chase it up, find out who publishes
Living Faith
, how often and whether Forster received it on a regular basis during his sentence. I’ll get Gormley to check if
it’s mentioned elsewhere in the system.’ Daniels stood up, began pacing up and down. She could read Jo like a book, could see she was far from convinced. ‘Look, when I was a
custody officer, if I took possession of a magazine in someone’s property I would write down
Living Faith
magazine and the issue date. If it was pristine or dog-eared, I’d write
that down too.’

‘That’s because you’re Polly Perfect. Not to mention – personality wise – ah, let me see . . .’ Jo began counting on her fingers ‘. . . borderline
obsessive/compulsive, anal retentive, possibly manic depressive, oh, and . . .’ She touched her lip. ‘Did I mention paranoid?’

Daniels grinned. ‘So, I’m screwed up!’

‘What’s your point?’

‘That
is
my point. I’d do it because it’s professional to be exact. A good custody officer might write “one church magazine”; a crap one would write
“one magazine”. . . See what I’m saying?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’m amazed it was mentioned at all, but thanks to some other
“screwed-up” professional, maybe we just got lucky.’

Jo smiled. ‘You’re really good at this detective lark, aren’t you?’

Daniels flushed.
Yeah, but at what cost?

Their business concluded, Jo excused herself. Daniels gave Gormley a quick call to set the ball rolling, leaving instructions for someone to collect Forster’s parents first thing next
morning to help with their enquiries. She hung up and was pleasantly surprised when Jo reappeared with an open bottle of wine and two glasses.

‘You can stay for a drink?’

Daniels couldn’t: she had far too much to do. ‘That would be nice,’ she said.

Jo put on some music, a Dixie Chicks album:
Home.
They drank and made small talk, avoiding the elephant in the room until the lyrics of one particular song hit home: ‘I Believe in
Love’.

Daniels swallowed hard as Jo looked intensely into her eyes from across the room, the words of the song affecting them both. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

On the doorstep, they kissed and said their goodbyes.

It was a fleeting moment of intimacy.

But it was a start . . .

92

F
rom the window, Daniels watched the Traffic car arrive at speed. Two officers got out and opened the back doors. Forster’s parents looked fragile as they stepped from
the vehicle. They shuffled across the car park as if they were entering a village hall for a coffee morning, the old man greeting everyone by tipping his trilby hat.

Gormley put down the phone and let out a frustrated sigh.

‘No joy?’ Daniels said, turning to face him.

He shook his head. ‘According to the librarian,
Living Faith
was discontinued years ago. It was an amateur publication, written by some obscure prayer group, apparently – all
faiths, all denominations. They don’t have any copies on file and no idea where we might find one.’

‘Damn! Well, nothing else we can do for now – let’s see if Forster’s parents can help . . .’

T
he meeting had been going on a while. Right from the start it was clear that Forster’s parents hadn’t grasped the seriousness of the situation. Worse still, their
collective elderly brain cells were unable to recall passing
Living Faith
to Matthew Spencer on the day of their son’s trial.

It was a bitter blow.

Daniels hoped she wasn’t wasting her breath as well as her precious time. From the blank expressions facing her, she’d formed the opinion that Mrs Forster was probably her best bet
in terms of providing the information she required. Drawing her seat a little nearer – engaging the old lady face to face – she tried not to sound patronizing.

‘I don’t mean to rush you, Mrs Forster. But I can’t stress how vital it is that we trace the person who wrote that magazine . . .’ Daniels paused. ‘Is there anyone,
anyone at all, who might remember? Perhaps someone you know who might have kept a copy?’

Mrs Forster looked at her husband, then back at the DCI. ‘I’m sorry, dear . . .’

Daniels stood up, frustrated once again. ‘OK, thank you for your time.’

‘We appreciate you coming in,’ Gormley said. ‘I’ll arrange for an officer to—’

‘There is someone!’ Mr Forster suddenly spoke up. ‘Though I’m not entirely sure she lives round here any more.’

Daniels sat down again with renewed anticipation.
Maybe the old codger wasn’t as dim as he looked.
Mr Forster patted his wife’s hand gently and bit his lip, the skin round his
watery eyes creasing into a million wrinkles as he beamed at them from across the table.

‘You remember, dear . . .’ He looked at his wife. ‘The kind lady, the one who used to bring along those wonderful rock buns with the lemon peel we all enjoyed so much.
Jennifer, wasn’t it?’

The atmosphere in the room was heavy with expectation. Daniels was on the edge of her seat, but the old couple appeared to be in a fog of nostalgia – in no hurry to aid their enquiries any
time soon.

Tickled by the memory, Mrs Forster gave a little giggle. ‘He’s right you know – delicious, they were. Trust a man to remember something like that. My mother always said that
the way to a man’s heart—’

Daniels cut her off – she’d had enough. ‘Jennifer? I need a surname.’

Mr Forster cleared his throat. ‘Jennifer Wright – or was it Wight? I’m sorry, Detective Chief Inspector Daniels . . . I’m not entirely sure.’

‘No, dear, not Wight,’ Mrs Forster volunteered. ‘It was Tait. That’s right: Jennifer Tait.’

It was a eureka moment.

Daniels wanted to scream with joy but her mouth felt suddenly dry. She didn’t need to look at Gormley to see that he was just as excited as she was. The atmosphere between them was charged
with electricity. Crime-scene photographs flashed before her eyes: a middle-aged woman lying dead on her kitchen floor, hand outstretched, begging for help.

Poor, dead Jenny Tait was beyond helping them now.

Pushing away the image, she decided not to upset the couple by telling them their former friend was dead, or burden them with the knowledge that they’d proved the vital link between their
son and a victim of homicide. They would learn that soon enough. Daniels gestured towards the door with a flick of her head. Gormley understood. He rose to his feet immediately and ushered them
from the room, apologizing for any inconvenience their visit to the station might have caused.

Two minutes later he was back.

Bright followed him in and pulled up a chair. ‘Any luck with Darby and Joan?’

‘Couple of oddballs,’ Daniels said. ‘Next to useless as witnesses.’

Gormley played along. ‘What she means is, they don’t know what day it is, guv.’

‘Shit!’ Bright exclaimed. ‘They haven’t seen their son?’

Gormley winked at Daniels.

Realizing he’d been had, Bright pulled a face. ‘You bastards!’ He sat down and listened carefully as Daniels paced up and down, talking ten to the dozen, hands never still. He
laughed out loud when she got to the part about the lemon peel. He didn’t know why, but he had reason to believe she’d been missing of late, lost in her own darkness. He hoped he
wasn’t responsible.

A
ssistant Chief Constable Martin’s call to her mobile had come out of the blue as she was on her way to work. Assuming he wanted to discuss her arrest and remand in
custody, and not her affair with Kate Daniels, she was completely surprised when it turned out that he needed her professional expertise as a profiler.

It was the first time she’d been back to the station since her arrest and her confidence deserted her the moment she set foot inside the building. Checking in with the desk sergeant, she
made her way to the second floor where she’d arranged to meet the ACC. She loitered a while outside the office, feeling utterly unprepared to resume her duties. Surely, if she changed her
mind, Martin would understand? Then, finally, she convinced herself she had to start somewhere.

After all, she’d done nothing wrong.

Taking a deep breath, she was about to tap on the door when Carmichael entered the corridor from the stairwell. After a moment of awkwardness, the young DC stuck out her hand and smiled, said
something about no hard feelings, adding that the murder investigation team, her especially, was pleased to see her back.

‘I’m pleased to be back,’ Jo said, then covered her discomfort with a little humour. ‘I’ve never been one to bear a grudge, Lisa. Well, not for long,
anyway.’

As Carmichael moved off, Jo heard familiar voices as the door to the incident suite opened further down the corridor. Bright, Gormley and Daniels walked through it, completely unaware of her
presence.

‘S
o . . .’ Bright addressed Daniels directly, a big smile on his face. ‘Now you’re back to your old self, where do we go from here?’

Daniels looked puzzled. ‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Because, as SIO, it’s your call,’ Bright said. ‘And this time I guarantee there’ll be no interference from me.’

‘But Martin said—’

‘Until I’m told otherwise, I’m still in charge here, Kate. That means I make the decisions about who does what. Consider yourself in the driving seat.’

Daniels welled up. ‘You mean it, guv?’

He smiled.

‘I don’t think she’s up to it,’ Gormley said, poker-faced. She punched his upper arm and he made his eyes go big, put his teeth together, grinning like a
ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘What do you want me to do, boss?’

Daniels wasted no time. ‘Tell Andy to get down to Brandon Towers right away. I want that place under obs at all times. If he sees Forster, he’s not to approach him. He doesn’t
know we’re on to him and I want to keep it that way. When you’ve done that, alert the firearms unit. I’m sick of running round in circles. Let’s get him locked
up.’

Bright winked at Gormley. ‘She’s bound to get the next rank now.’

His words were like music to Daniels’ ears. Her joy was cut short, however, when she noticed Jo standing a little way off. Her unspoken message was loud and clear:
some things never
change.