The Murder Wall (34 page)

And there would be a tomorrow . . .

And the day after . . .

And the day after that.

Carmichael was sure of it.

‘Nothing doing?’ Carruthers said.

‘’Fraid not,’ Carmichael blew on her hands and stamped her feet, which were numb with cold. ‘We knew it was a gamble. An expensive one, but a gamble
nevertheless.’

‘How long will they keep searching?’

‘For as long as it takes.’

‘You want a coffee or something?’ He pointed upwards, towards an office in one corner of the warehouse. ‘It’s a little more comfy in there.’

‘If it’s all the same to you, I’ll have mine with the lads. It helps to keep up their morale.’ She pointed at a green Waitrose bag on the floor. ‘Got my auntie to
make them a nice lemon drizzle cake. Secret family recipe. Should earn me some brownie points. I’ll keep you a bit, if you like.’

Carruthers smiled, patting his stomach. ‘I can already taste it,’ he said.

She watched him move off in the direction of his office, which was situated on the mezzanine floor above, accessible via a reinforced steel staircase. It was virtually a glass box on stilts with
a good view over the warehouse. A warm fire. Coffee. Maybe even biscuits.

Just then, Carmichael heard a shout. Looking in the general direction of the call, she saw a TSG officer standing a little way off, holding his left hand in the air.

The signal could only mean one thing . . .

His actions resulted in his supervisor rushing over to examine the coat he’d found. Heart pounding, Carmichael made her way towards them. But before she got close enough to see for
herself, the supervisor shook his head, frustration showing on his face.

It wasn’t the one they were looking for.

H
e slept . . .

Not well. She was waging war on his subconscious again, yelling like a woman possessed by the devil, her face contorted with hatred. She towered above him, ordering him to kneel on the floor,
say his prayers and beg for the Lord’s forgiveness.

He cried . . .

She brought the stick down on his shoulder in the same place as yesterday, the gag in his mouth muffling his screams. He turned his face away, towards the locked door. She’d stopped
yelling now. A bad sign. When he dared look up, her eyes were black with rage. It was already the third time today she’d done the thing she called
discipline
.

He scuttled across the floor as she raised the stick above her head again. Shutting his eyes tightly, he hoped one of her friends would knock on the door and then she’d leave him to go
into the room for her meeting. Today was Tuesday. They always came on a Tuesday. Never missed. But the doorbell didn’t ring. Any moment now the stick would come crashing down.

He waited . . .

And woke with a start, feeling black and blue. He was breathing heavily and there were beads of sweat on his face. People were staring now. That same accusatory expression he’d seen in her
eyes minutes earlier. What for? What the fuck were they all looking at?

Through the window, a thick mist hung – as if suspended in mid-air – obliterating the upper slopes. The single-decker bus snaked its way around the frozen lakeside, heading for the
middle of nowhere.

Just two miles from Dorothy Smith’s house, a bell sounded. Three middle-aged walkers stood up. He made his move, tagging along close behind like he was one of them.

As if!

It would take more than a stupid rucksack to make him like them. They were nothing: nil, zero, zilch.

As for Dotty, she was only special because he’d chosen to kill her today.

83

B
y close of play, the Murder Investigation Team looked somewhat deflated. Reviewing a case for the second time was never going to be easy, and Daniels knew she’d have to
work even harder to keep them motivated in the days ahead. From her position in the doorway, she studied Gormley, his head buried in a pile of files. He looked up as she approached with her coat
slung over her arm; his eyes were bloodshot from having read all day.

‘Is that the last one?’ she asked.

Gormley nodded. ‘And we’ve got jack shit.’

He sounded fed up. Daniels moved a little closer in order to read over his shoulder. Written on the inside front cover of the file were the words, CONFIDENTIAL: LIFE LICENSEE JONATHAN FORSTER.
And in a number of boxes beneath were the offender’s personal details, written in capital letters in thick black pen:

G
ormley turned the page, showing her Forster’s previous convictions.

Daniels eyed the list. ‘He sounds like a nasty piece of work.’

‘He is. But he’s not our guy. It’s not his style.’

‘OK, grab your coats everybody. Let’s call it a day.’ Daniels watched the squad pack up and move off, saying goodnight as they filed out of the door.

Gormley stayed put. ‘Think I’ll hang around for a bit.’

‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’ Daniels said. ‘Put it away – I said it’s time to go.’

As he muttered his dissent, she leaned over him, closed the file, opened up his bottom drawer and threw it in. She knew he was avoiding going home, so she asked him to go for a quick drink, at
which point he stood up and put on his coat, wrapping a petrol-blue scarf around his neck.

‘You sure you want to be seen in the boozer with an old man like me?’ he said.

‘Do you see a queue of younger ones?’ Daniels slipped on her coat and did up the buttons. ‘Anyway, I always tell people you’re my dad.’

Gormley grinned as they headed into the corridor. Just then the phone rang. He looked at Daniels, his step faltering.

‘I’d better just get that.’

She shouted for him to leave it and walked out the door, turning off the lights.

T
he warehouse had still not given up its secrets. After a very long day, Carmichael caught the eye of the TSG unit leader and mouthed the word
Sorry.

He gave her a wry smile. ‘You look it.’

‘Ten more minutes?’ She put her hands together, pleading for his patience.

‘OK.’ He made a face. ‘But the drinks are on you if we find it.’

She left him to it, returning to Carruthers’ office on the floor above to make a few calls. She was still on the phone half an hour later when the unit leader radioed his men to wrap it
up. He’d hardly finished giving the order when an indistinct, but definite, shout came from the far end of the long corrugated shed. Carmichael glanced through the observation window.
Probably another false alarm. There had been umpteen similar shouts since the search began. None of them had come to anything. She would never admit it – at least not to the industrious TSG
– but she held out little hope of ever finding the coat.

Turning away again, she carried on with her conversation, oblivious to the heightened excitement going on in the warehouse below. Several men were making their way towards one officer who was
standing still with his arm raised in the air. There was some discussion between them, then everyone turned their attention to Carruthers’ office.

Carmichael was at the viewing window, but with her back to the glass.

The unit leader got on the radio. ‘Lisa, you might want to get down here.’

Turning to look at them, Carmichael hung up the phone. Within seconds, she was running down the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her, her grin widening by the second.

A muddle of officers parted to let her through.

‘Is it the one?’ she asked.

The TSG leader looked up. ‘Think so. The rest of the stuff in the bag fits. You’re going to need to take out a mortgage at the pub,’ he teased.

Putting on a pair of latex gloves, Carmichael bent down to take a closer look. The designer label was right, it was a full-length cashmere coat matching Monica’s description –
stylish, camel in colour, with two front pockets and a chic slit up the back. The right-hand pocket was empty. She took a deep breath, teased open the left, and could hardly believe her luck when
she saw there was something inside.

‘Fuck me, Danny – I think you’re right!’

The TSG officer grinned.

Taking a small pair of tweezers from her bag and expertly attaching them to one corner of a small card, Carmichael lifted it free and dropped it into an evidence bag so she could examine it in
more detail without fear of contamination. On one side was a picture of a saint with writing underneath:
S. Camillus De Lellis
. On the reverse, there was a reference to St Camillus,
Universal Patron of the Sick and Dying
. Underneath was a small prayer, beseeching the Good Lord to grant eternal happiness.

Carmichael felt like she’d already found hers.

F
innegan’s was an old-fashioned long bar with more standing room than seating. It was packed to the rafters with off-duty officers, many of whom were watching an overhead
TV. A European football game was at stalemate with only seconds left on the clock. Gormley glanced at the screen just as a goal was scored. The ball thundered into the net, giving the goalkeeper no
chance.

As the ref blew his whistle, the whole place erupted. Chairs scraped the hard wooden floor as fans hurried for the late bus and the noise level peaked as excited conversations merged with one
another before dying to a steady hum.

Gormley acknowledged the barman with a nod, then pushed the only available bar stool towards Daniels. She sat down facing him, supporting her cheek with one elbow on the bar.

‘Why d’you say Forster’s not our guy? Not that I brought you out to talk shop.’

‘’Course not.’ Gormley ordered a dry white wine and soda for her and a pint of Theakstons for himself. ‘He’s a scumbag, plain and simple. Likes to rape young girls
– at least, he did when he was sixteen. He’s got no recent form, but give him time. He’s only been out two years.’

‘Why is he on the list if his profile doesn’t fit?’

Gormley shrugged.

‘Where does he live?’

‘West end. I was only halfway through his file when you kidnapped me. You sure you don’t want me to work on? I’m happy to—’

‘You want the night shift now?’ Daniels accepted her wine from the barman and took a sip. ‘Tomorrow’s fine, Hank. You’re no good to me if you burn yourself
out.’

‘You’re right,’ Gormley said drily. ‘I can’t wait to get home.’

She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again as a young woman pushed in between them. As the barman took her order, Gormley noticed some football fans vacating a table near the
door. They left the bar and made a beeline for it. No sooner had they sat down than Daniels’ pocket began to chirp.

‘Jesus! Mobiles really bug me sometimes . . .’ She took out her phone. ‘I’m going to start switching the damn thing off.’

Gormley grinned. Clearly she wasn’t irritated enough to ignore it.

‘Yeah, Lisa. What’s up?’

Gormley took a long drink and used the back of his hand to wipe excess froth from his top lip. The pub door opened, letting more punters in, the noise of passing traffic forcing Daniels to cover
her free ear – a mixture of excitement and disbelief crossing her face as she listened.

‘You’re kidding me? . . . You sure? . . . No, don’t. I’ll meet you there in ten.’

She hung up.

Gormley was more than a little intrigued. ‘Come on then, spill. From the look on your face, I’d say at least some of that was good news.’

‘We got lucky.’ Daniels picked up her wine. ‘You’re not going to believe this, Hank: the TSG found the coat.’

‘And the card?’

She was too stunned to answer.

‘Kate?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The card?’ Gormley pressed. ‘Did they find it?’

Daniels just stared at him, a list of names running through her head: Father Simon, Sarah Short, Jenny Tait, Jamil Malik . . . and now Alan Stephens. ‘It’s him, Hank! Just how many
people has this maniac killed?’

84

G
etting there had been a cinch. Much less problematic than he’d expected, given the prevailing weather conditions. He didn’t know how, when, if, he’d get back
to Newcastle tomorrow, but that was the least of his problems. He’d come here to do a job on her and planned to stay until it was done. Assassination was his new best friend – the only
one he could rely on. Like a drug to his system, it sent a rush of pleasure through his whole body. He needed a hit now.

Almost two months had gone by since Number Five. And in that time he’d missed his little ritual:

The guns . . .

The cards . . .

The scissors . . .

Especially the scissors.

Now here he was, primed and ready. But there was no sign of Dotty.

He’d been waiting in the shadows for hours, working himself into a lather, thinking of all the trouble he’d gone to, tracking her down – and for what? The house was in total
darkness. A little cottage with a little gate; a little path leading up to a little front door for the little bitch he’d come to see. She was exactly like his mother, making him wait
’til she was ready. He didn’t like it then and he didn’t like it now. What was he supposed to do, hang around in the freezing cold for ever?

He consoled himself with thoughts of that other bitch being hauled over the coals by her bosses. If only he could have had a ringside seat to watch the fallout after his little intervention.
She’d probably been taken off the case by now. Though he hoped not. He intended to introduce himself to Daniels. Maybe to both of them, now the other dyke had received a get-out-of-jail card.
He smiled:
that
would certainly float his boat. Or should he take Soulsby out first? That way he wouldn’t have to share.