The Murder Wall (27 page)
Daniels felt a pang in her chest.
They’d met at a mutual friend’s party, a casual introduction like any other. Except right from the off it was obvious they might become close friends. Always the detective,
she’d spent the evening keeping her ear to the ground, listening in to other people’s exchanges, picking up snippets of gossip here and there, while giving little away of herself. In
her experience, people – partygoers in particular – were often fascinated to find that she was a DCI on a murder investigation team. And so it proved when some of the guys began pulling
her leg, begging to have their collars felt should they misbehave under the influence. She’d taken it on the chin and smiled politely, even though she’d heard it all before. And
afterwards, when she’d turned around to speak to Jo, she’d disappeared without a trace – like Cinderella before the clock struck midnight. Daniels supposed that she’d
returned to the bosom of a family living close by because, during the evening, there’d been talk of sons, an ex-husband, baggage.
With no way of knowing if they’d ever meet again, a curious disappointment had gnawed away at her subconscious for weeks afterwards. And then she’d arrived at work one morning to
find Bright in a foul mood, spouting off about the police service moving in the wrong direction, specifically about the drift from methodical, intelligence-led detection to more modern methods of
catching criminals. He’d promptly put her on standby to meet a new recruit, some academic being forced upon the department by top brass, who, he said, didn’t know their arses from their
elbows.
When Jo Soulsby walked through the door of the crime unit and introduced herself as Northumbria’s new criminal profiler, Daniels’ heart had inexplicably leapt. For a few tense
moments, she’d been unable to formulate speech. They were an item within weeks, working together, living separately, but soul mates all the same.
And since they had split up . . .?
The truth was, Jo’s departure from her life meant she’d had lost something very precious.
And now she wanted it back.
The moment the door had closed on their relationship, her
whole future had vanished into thin air. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since, never went to parties – hardly ever ate out. What would be the point? Without Jo to share in
that special intimacy there was, well, nothing. And so she’d thrown herself into work and resigned herself to life as a single person.
Maybe that was to be her destiny.
Daniels finished her gin. Deciding that music would only make her weepy, she turned off the lights, went back upstairs and curled up on her bed with the TV on. The next few hours were a blur.
She must’ve dozed off, because she woke with a start when she heard a man’s voice. It turned out to be a BBC News 24 presenter outlining government plans for yet another wind farm
development for the Northumberland countryside – an environmental protection initiative that had drawn a raft of objections across the county. Ordinarily she would have paid attention, but at
three twenty-five in the morning, she had no energy to care.
She was about to kill the set when the piece ended and Jo’s picture appeared on screen. Her arrest and remand in custody had made the national news. Daniels listened intently to the
voice-over as the studio cut away to an outside broadcast showing Tom and James Stephens emerging from Newcastle Magistrates’ Court with William Oliver, straight into the path of the waiting
media. Riveted to the TV, salty tears welled up in Daniels’ eyes as her personal nightmare was transmitted to the nation. In all her life, she’d never known such loneliness.
On the screen, Oliver held up a hand to quieten a jost ling crowd of photographers and journalists, then gave a brief statement: ‘Ms Soulsby has been remanded in custody pending her trial
at the Crown Court on a date to be fixed. She will be contesting this matter and we have no further comment to make at this stage.’
Blinded by flashbulbs, the three men then fought their way to a waiting car.
As they were driven away at speed, the anchor man reappeared in the studio. Daniels turned off the set and threw the remote across the room. It smashed against the bedroom wall disintegrating as
it hit the floor, the shattered pieces symbolizing her life and her career. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be back walking the streets quicker than she could say
‘uniform’.
‘I
t’s a long way down . . .’ He forced the kid’s head closer to the railing, making him look over the edge at the people below – so small they
looked like ants. The kid couldn’t struggle with the gun sticking in his ribs, loaded and ready to blow him away; the same weapon the little runt had nicked to order and brought back hoping
for some monetary gain.
Big mistake.
His last?
Probably . . .
Do these street kids never learn?
Passing motorists continued to ignore them, whizzing by in both directions just a few feet behind with no interest in what they were up to. Probably thought they were tourists taking advantage
of the river view, the famous bridges, the heart of a city locals called The Toon. By the time anyone stopped and got out of their car, the little twat would be toast and he’d be long
gone.
He’d never offed one in public before and thought it’d be a blast.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ he said.
Silence.
‘It’s Friday the thirteenth today,’ he said. ‘Unlucky for some, eh?’
‘Kiddin’, aren’t ya?’ the kid said, suddenly full of bravado.
His eyes glazed over with sheer joy. ‘Do I look like I am?’ he chuckled.
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
The kid was really spooked now, his face set in a scowl, a dribble of sweat running down his cheek. Or was it a tear? He glanced nervously along the pavement, then at the twenty-five-metre drop
to the road below. Even if he broke free, there was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. And he’d be as good as dead if he jumped from the point where the river ran beneath them.
He kissed the little shit, laughing as a driver hooted his horn.
‘You queer or sommat, mate?’ The kid flinched, expecting some kind of retribution, but when he didn’t get slapped or hoyed over the railings for his cheek, he seized upon the
opportunity to worm himself a deal: ‘Money’s not the only currency, know what I’m saying? Let us go and I’ll give ya a blow job for free. Best you’ll get round here by
a long chalk. Two, if you want, but that’ll cost extra . . . prob’ly.’
This one had a bit of spunk, at least, he thought. Sad to think he was about to have a tragic accident, or decide to take his life, like the rest of the sad bastards who’d leapt from the
Tyne bridge over the years. One of his mates was talked down once after a concerned member of the public saw him teetering on the edge. Swaying back and forth, back and forth, in two minds whether
or not to end it all. Fuckwit chose life that night, before rocking himself off on a line of coke.
Shame.
Not.
He took a deep breath of fresh night air, excitement growing inside him. He shut his eyes for a moment, visualizing throwing the little scrote from the parapet. Watching him free-fall past the
northern pier before crashing to earth, his body twisted and contorted by the impact, taking out some of the ants below. Passers-by would hear a solid thump, or maybe a splat, as the kid hit the
ground like a squashed tomato, exploding in a spray of red. To his knowledge, no one had ever survived the fall before. He looked at the lad again, imagining his skinny frame twisted on the ground,
distorted and grotesque, lifeless eyes staring back at him, blood oozing from every orifice.
‘Time to say goodbye!’
‘Gan on then,’ the kid said bravely. ‘Get it over with, if you’re gunna.’
‘Tcht, tcht. That’s no way to talk to your elders, now, is it?’
‘Sorry.’
He was, too. He could tell that just by looking at him. Was it really necessary to kill him? Not strictly. The lad had no idea of his identity – what possible threat did he pose?
‘Thing is, son. I just don’t like loose ends,’ he said. ‘Nothin’ personal.’
‘I got no problem with that,’ the kid said, sniffing snot up his nose, wiping tears on his sleeve. ‘Wanted by the buzzies meself, arn I? Don’t take risks ’less I
have to, neither. Won’t tell no one, promise.’
‘Really?’
The kid nodded. ‘Really.’
He relaxed the gun a little and the vice-like grip on the kid’s shoulder. ‘How do I know I can trust you? Think carefully on it, mind. You need to give me the right answer if
you’re gonna save your skin.’
‘You can trust me, honest. I swear on my mother’s life.’
Silly boy.
A lull in the traffic and he was gone.
H
er mood mirrored a depression in the weather. It had been over three weeks since Jo’s arrest and her reputation was in shreds following local and national coverage of
the case. Daniels had made it her business to read every press article. Some portrayed Jo as a cold-blooded killer who’d planned and carried out an execution. It was a cracking good story
from a press point of view, one they resurrected time and again, whenever there was a lull in more newsworthy stories.
It was all bollocks.
And still she hadn’t heard from Jo.
For the first time in her career, Daniels had withdrawn into herself; she’d begun maintaining her distance from the squad, working to an agenda of her own. It had to stop. Keeping her own
company had never been her style. The murder investigation team were getting restless – she could see it in their eyes. Half of them were busy putting the file together for the CPS, the rest
already working another case, assisting Detective Inspector Fowler’s team on the unsolved murder of a well-known prostitute.
Daniels stood alone, isolated and unsure, observing the squad from her office door. Willing herself to enter, she wondered when –
if
– she would recapture the same level of
enthusiasm for her job she’d enjoyed prior to Jo’s arrest. Where the hell was that dedication to duty on which she’d built her reputation, that passion for policework she just
couldn’t live without?
On the far side of the incident room, a telephone rang out loudly and Robson picked it up. With the receiver held between cheek and shoulder, he made like he was rocking a baby in his arms.
Gormley, who was standing nearby, nodded his understanding and left him to it, crossing the room to the coffee machine, deep in thought. Sensing Daniels’ eyes upon him, he looked over in her
direction, his glum expression lifting when he saw her standing there.
He smiled, held up a polystyrene coffee cup, inviting her to join him. Daniels shook her head and went back into her office, unable to summon up the emotional energy to face him just yet. It was
results she needed, not small talk. As she reached her desk, her mobile beeped. She pulled it out of her pocket and sat down to read the text message that had just come in from Bright. It contained
only two words:
She’s gone.
S
tella’s death at a relatively young age brought Daniels abruptly to her senses. She left the office immediately, telling no one, not even Gormley, where she was off to.
She drove straight to Bright’s home and rang the bell. There was no answer at the door and she couldn’t see inside, front or back, because the curtains were drawn. At first, she thought
Bright was hiding away. But then she noticed his car wasn’t on the drive.
She pulled out her phone and rang his bag-man.
‘I’m looking for Bright,’ she said. ‘Any ideas?’
‘None. I thought he was with you.’
Daniels knew the young DC very well. It was obvious he hadn’t yet learned of Stella’s passing. If he had, he didn’t mention it, and neither did she.
She hung up.
Where the hell was the guv’nor?
Her guts churned as she recalled the last time he’d done a runner. One week after his devastating car accident he’d returned home to collect a few personal items to take back to
London, where Stella lay on a critical-care ward. Daniels had arranged to meet him away from the office and got worried when he failed to show. She eventually found him in a pub, too drunk to
stand, sobbing into a glass. She’d never seen him cry, before or since, nor mentioned the incident to another living soul.
Was history now repeating itself?
But if Bright didn’t want to be found, then why text her? Deciding it was a genuine cry for help, she called his number again and again. When he didn’t pick up, she got back in her
car and toured his favourite haunts, putting the phone on redial. Two hours later, she spotted his car outside the Gibraltar Rock – a seafront pub in Tynemouth – doors unlocked, keys
dangling from the ignition, all manner of confidential police documentation on the dash. Scooping it up, she shoved the lot in the boot and locked the car, pocketing the keys as she entered the
pub.
Bright was propping up the bar in the back room, his reaction to his wife’s death sadly predictable, his aggressive attitude less so.
‘Go away,’ he said as she drew up a stool.
He asked for another beer but was refused. The barman was clearly uncomfortable, but stopped short of asking them to leave. Daniels told him not to worry – she’d sort it. Then she
asked for a moment’s privacy, promising she’d have the ‘problem’ removed . . .
‘By the law, if necessary.’
Bright scoffed, turned towards her, trying to focus. ‘I said, get lost.’
‘And what are you going to do if I don’t? Go it alone? Sink enough alcohol ’til you can no longer speak, let alone feel – like you did last time? Stop answering your
phone and push me away? Go for it, guv! Didn’t work last time.’
He didn’t answer.
He’d never change – Daniels knew that.
But
she
could.
Cliché or not, life
was
sometimes far too short. Her mother was the obvious example, and now Stella: two lovely people, cruelly taken before their time. You just never knew the
minute when disaster might strike. It wouldn’t be the first time that death had become the catalyst for change. And it wouldn’t be the last.