The Murder Wall (4 page)

Walking past her rumpled bed, she resisted the temptation to climb back under the covers. She still had a job to do, couldn’t afford to bury her head in the sand. She sat down and stared
at her reflection in the mirror. The image didn’t please her. Her eyelids were red, a bruise just visible on the left side of her jaw. She applied make-up to mask it and put on smart clothes:
a crisp white blouse, pinstriped pencil skirt, thick grey tights and a black boxy jacket. Lastly, she added a black leather belt around her waist, attached to which was a key pouch with a thick
silver chain dangling from it.

Jo checked her appearance in the mirror, then padded barefoot down a wide staircase, across an Afghan carpet of muted shades of green and rust she’d bought on holiday years back. She
circled the drawing room, turning off lamps left burning from the previous night. She opened the curtains, replaced an abandoned decanter on the sideboard and lifted a half-full tumbler of whisky
from the floor beside the sofa.

By the time she re-entered the hall it was empty.

In the kitchen, Jo put on the kettle and sat down waiting for it to boil. It was a good-sized room with a four-oven Aga, a table large enough to seat eight, and all manner of paraphernalia
she’d accumulated over time. If she was honest with herself, the house was far too big for her needs since her sons had left home. She’d seriously considered downsizing but somehow
never managed to gather enough enthusiasm to pack up her stuff and move on.
What would be the point?
She didn’t need the money and could do without the hassle. Besides, the neighbours
were nice. She felt safe here. It was a proper home, providing a haven from the outside world at the end of a shitty day at the office. Once that solid front door was locked, nothing could touch
her.

Jo skipped breakfast altogether. In the hallway, she slipped her feet into sensible court shoes, then instinctively reached up for her brown woollen overcoat. Finding it missing brought her
nightmare flooding back. She found it on the back of the sofa where she’d dumped it the night before and carried it to the cupboard under the stairs. Reaching inside, she drew out a roll of
black plastic bags, tore one off and placed the coat carefully inside. Then she gulped down a last mouthful of coffee, drew the telephone towards her and keyed a number.

It had to be done . . .

‘This is Criminal Profiler, Jo Soulsby. Please put me through to DCI Daniels.’

5

T
here was frantic activity in the incident room. Telephones rang, computer screens danced, and there was a constant hum of voices as Gormley wandered in from Daniels’
office. He found her standing beside a table resembling a paper mountain, supervising the arrival of several important documents: action forms, forensic submission forms, house-to-house
questionnaires, various maps of the area. What wouldn’t fit neatly on the table was being unceremoniously dumped on the floor.

Gormley put his hand to his ear as if holding a telephone. ‘Jo, line one,’ he said.

Daniels sighed. ‘Later, I’m about to start the briefing.’

‘Finally!’ Bright was getting impatient.

Daniels had almost forgotten he was sitting there waiting for proceedings to get underway. She was keen to move on too, hoping he’d go back to his own enquiry and leave her be. As she
called for order in the room, her squad paid attention. DC Carmichael was the last to put her own phone down, a worried look on her face.

‘Boss?’ she said. ‘There’s something you need to know.’

‘Yes, Lisa.’ Daniels pointed at the TV. ‘After we’ve watched the DVD.’

Carmichael leapt from her seat, switching the TV on and the lights off before handing Daniels the remote. As the screen came to life, the mood in the room changed. Excited anticipation gave way
to calm professionalism as the murder investigation team watched the short transmission. Daniels studied their faces while they took in the crime scene for the first time: not just the blood and
gore, but the classy flat, Stephens’ expensive clothes and valuable jewellery, his untouched wallet.

The television screen went blank. Carmichael switched it off again and turned the lights back on. Daniels thanked her and pointed to the victim’s photograph on the murder wall.

‘Nominal One is Alan Stephens,’ Daniels said. ‘What else do we know?’

‘You’re not going to like it,’ Carmichael said uncomfortably.

‘Something bothering you, Lisa?’ Bright said.

‘Stephens’ ex and the mother of his children is someone we all know personally.’

‘Does she have a name?’ Bright pushed.

‘It’s Jo . . . Soulsby.’

Bright laughed. ‘Yeah, now pull the other one.’

‘I’m serious, guv.’

All eyes were on Gormley.

‘I’ll call her back!’ he said.

6

J
o Soulsby left her house via the back door, opened the boot of her BMW and threw in the black plastic bag. She got in the car, checking her appearance once more in the vanity
mirror and didn’t like what she saw. She reached into the glove compartment, took out a pair of Gucci sunglasses and put them on.

So what if the sun wasn’t shining?

Starting the car, she got the fright of her life when a Dixie Chicks track at full volume began bouncing around the interior. She turned off the CD player, in no mood for ‘Voice Inside My
Head’
.
There were too many voices there already telling her to get a grip, drive straight to the nearest police station, just
tell
someone.

Anyone!

Jo sat for a while considering her options. As far as she was concerned there were umpteen good reasons to delay the inevitable, not least of which was her professional involvement with
Northumbria Police. Her colleagues there were experts in dealing with the most serious offences and Kate Daniels would be offended, if not furious, not to be the first point of call. But Jo
hadn’t been able to raise her. Maybe she
should
call someone else. No. Waiting a bit longer made sense. It would give her time to calm down and get her head together. She drove away,
unaware that the phone inside her house was ringing off the hook.

Traffic was light for a weekday. She drove out of her road, along a tree-lined avenue, thinking of all the things she had to do today – and all the reasons why she didn’t want to do
them. At the T-junction she turned left heading for a parade of shops on Acorn Road, past a few swanky clothes shops, a couple of bakeries, a mini-market she used regularly.

Parking was usually a nightmare on the busy street. But Jo was in luck: there was one space available. It was tight but she reversed into it expertly, got out of the car and opened the boot.
Taking out the black plastic bag, she ignored an early-bird
Big Issue
seller setting up outside the newsagent. It was a good choice for a pitch
.
Any moment now locals would be
arriving in their droves for their papers. He stood to make a packet.

Crossing the road, she approached a dry cleaner’s shop. A light was on inside, but a sign on the door said CLOSED. Peering anxiously through the glass, she knocked, trying to attract the
attention of the female assistant inside. The girl pointed to a clock on the wall behind the counter, the dial of which read eight fifty-six. Her expression yelled: Fuck-off-we’re-closed. Jo
checked her own watch – it was gone nine – and rapped even harder.

7

G
ormley put the phone down and shook his head. ‘She’s still not picking up,’ he said.

‘Try her mobile, her office . . .’ Daniels looked worried. ‘Just get hold of her before the press do.’

‘Poor Jo . . .’ Carmichael was genuinely concerned. ‘That’s going to make things a little tricky round here, isn’t it?’

Her comment was met with an uncomfortable silence.

Daniels glanced at Bright. It was hardly a secret that he had no rapport with Jo Soulsby despite her excellent reputation as a criminal profiler. His attitude to psychological profiling was
disparaging at best. As far as he was concerned, it was a load of bollocks, an incomplete science – an absolute waste of time. He tolerated her input only because the Home Office insisted
that he should. But she was a fellow professional who deserved their respect and – for now at least – he had the good sense to keep his personal feelings to himself.

Daniels appreciated that and turned her attention back to the squad.

‘Let’s concentrate on what we know. Alan Stephens was shot at close range and there was no forced entry at his home. He’d been out to a charity dinner at the Weston Hotel, so
maybe he took someone home with him. We’re still looking for a weapon, so when you are out and about keep your eyes and ears open. Given the proximity of the river, chances are it’s in
the drink. That doesn’t mean we don’t look.’

‘According to his wife, Alan Stephens travelled to the Weston by taxi,’ Gormley said. ‘Assuming for now he got home the same way we need to do a sweep of local firms, see if we
can nail the timing a bit.’

Daniels nodded her approval. ‘Lisa’s already been in touch with the Weston for a guest list and will follow that up. Area Command are gathering CCTV footage and doing the usual with
dry-cleaning establishments, rubbish tips, skips, anywhere that clothing or the gun might have been dumped. I’ve asked Hank to hold the fort here while I cover the PM. Those who worked
through the night go home and get some shut-eye. The rest of you know what’s required. For now, we concentrate on the victim’s family, past and present. Monica Stephens maintains they
were happily married. Maybe they were, maybe not. She was first at the scene, so unless her alibi checks out she’s still a suspect. She’d also have us believe her husband was a nice
guy. Well, obviously
someone
doesn’t think so. Dig up as much background as you can, but bear in mind that Jo Soulsby is a colleague . . .’ Daniels exchanged a look with Bright.
‘So please tread carefully—’

‘Whatever the story behind this shooting we’ve got to move quickly,’ Bright said, getting to his feet. ‘And there’ll be no leaks to the media if you know
what’s good for you. So if any of you are shagging the press, keep your flies open and your mouths shut! Let’s see how quickly we can put this one to bed.’

He promptly left the room leaving Daniels to dismiss the squad. As officers began to disperse, she pondered her decision to take the case. There was no doubt she’d screwed up. But now she
had to work out what was she going to do about it. Seeing her worried expression, Gormley leaned in close to have a quiet word.

He never got the chance.

‘Sarah Short’s parents are here,’ Robson said, interrupting. ‘They’ve been waiting a while. I said I’d let you know.’

Daniels sighed. If there was one thing she didn’t need right now, it was another heart-wrenching session with parents still waiting for justice for their daughter. She nodded to Robson and
immediately left the room, heading downstairs. On the floor below, she hesitated before entering reception. Through a glass panel in the door, she could see David and Elsie Short huddled together
on a hard bench, holding hands as always. Both bore the scars of the past: they were pale, drawn, emotionally spent.

Assistant Chief Constable Martin walked up behind her.

‘Sarah Short’s parents again?’ he said.

There was a distinct lack of compassion in his voice, as if their frequent visits to the station were an inconvenience to him. Daniels nodded. She couldn’t imagine the ACC ever having held
the hands of any families of murder or manslaughter victims. Understanding was not on his radar. The man was a complete wanker, a hate figure with a formidable reputation. Not one member of MIT had
a good word to say about him – most wouldn’t spit on him if he was on fire.

‘How long’s it been?’

‘Too long,’ Daniels said. ‘It’s painful to watch.’

‘Painful for you too, I imagine. It isn’t every day you come across two bodies. Doubly difficult when they’re known to your family.’

‘They’re not . . . well, only in as much as they attend St Camillus church.’

‘Still, you feel the loss deeply. I can see that.’ Martin chose his words carefully so as to cause her the maximum grief and embarrassment. ‘There’s no shame in seeing
the force psychologist if you ever feel the need to talk, DCI Daniels.’

Daniels turned, her eyes burning into him.

‘Not that I’m suggesting—’

She cut him dead. ‘I don’t need therapy, sir. Just space to do my job.’

She opened the door to reception and walked through it. Taking a deep breath, she tried to smile as she entered the room. David and Elsie looked up with hope in their eyes; a hope that was
dashed immediately they saw the guilty look on her face.

‘What is it, Kate?’ David Short asked.

Daniels glanced through the glass at the ACC, who was still hovering outside. She swallowed hard, a lump forming in her throat. She could hardly meet David’s eyes.

‘Temporarily, I’m off the case.’

‘No! They can’t!’ Elsie cried.

The door from the street opened and Wayne Hood – a well-known local thug, aptly named – walked through it. He acknowledged Daniels with a smug grin and carried on to the front desk,
pressing the buzzer for assistance. Receiving a stern look from the DCI, the civilian desk clerk ushered the offender into an anteroom to wait. As the door shut behind him, Daniels took
Elsie’s hand.

‘I won’t rest until he’s behind bars, Elsie. I promise you.’

David held on to his anger. He could see Daniels was hurting too. ‘Come on, dear,’ he said. ‘Kate has a job to do.’

Daniels looked at him. ‘David, please—’

‘You don’t need to explain.’

‘I do . . .’ She hated disappointing them, yet again, but they deserved to know the truth. ‘It’s just that we’ve exhausted every possible avenue and the evidence
just isn’t there. I have to be honest with you: we’ve run up against a brick wall.’

David put his arm round his wife, as if doing so would protect her from Daniels’ harsh words. ‘You’re dropping the investigation?’

Elsie was appalled. ‘You can’t!’