The Murder Wall (35 page)

He’d never been good at sharing.

The snow was falling heavily again, falling silently to earth in the picture-postcard garden, a reminder of Corbridge, in many ways. Should he break in and wait? Move on to the next one? Fuck,
no! That would spoil everything! No! Dotty was Number Six. Not seven. Number SIX. That’s just the way it was – plain and simple – the way it had always been.
They
had
decided that, not him.

85

‘W
ho?’ Gormley said. ‘What you on about?’

Daniels looked at the mobile phone in her hand, resisting the urge to call Carmichael back, to check that she’d heard her right and hadn’t been dreaming. She pulled her chair closer
to the table and dropped her voice to a whisper.

‘It’s him, Hank. He killed them all! The TSG just found the proof.’

‘Yes!’ Gormley punched the air in celebration, his enthusiasm wavering as he saw Daniels’ brow crease.

‘The card came from St Camillus,’ she said. ‘Would you credit that?’

Overriding his objections, Daniels sent Gormley home and walked back to the station alone. She went straight to the exhibits room to examine the recovered items and make sure they’d been
properly logged, then she sent Carmichael packing too.

Daniels was too wired, too excited for sleep after the latest revelation. She wandered into the incident room and stood for a moment looking around. Despite the introduction of HOLMES –
Home Office Large Major Enquiry System – a computerised programme that replaced the antiquated manual process of compiling and cross-checking data, murder enquiries still generated mountains
of paperwork and much of it had landed on Gormley’s desk.

Turning his desk lamp on for company, she sifted a few files that were sitting there, skimming through some, ignoring others. Then she opened his bottom drawer and took out the file she’d
thrown in earlier, the one he’d been reviewing before she’d dragged him off to the pub.

Spreading it out on the desk she wondered what it was about this ‘scumbag’ that had triggered his inclusion on the PNC list. Forster was a lifer, yes. But he’d been captured
within days leaving forensics all over the place and had absolutely nothing in common with the cold-blooded, calculated killer she was seeking.

Gormley was right: his profile simply didn’t fit. She scribbled a note for Gormley and stuck it to the front of the file:

86

S
he glanced sideways at the Dutch woman, feeling guilty for having doubted her. Whatever misgivings she may have had about Stephens’ second wife, Daniels knew that none
of Jo’s problems had been her doing. Monica was not responsible for Jo’s incarceration – Bright was.

They had hardly spoken on the way to the exhibits room. And now, Monica waited patiently as Daniels scribbled in a ledger, asking the exhibits officer for some privacy. They watched him
disappear into the back office, and then Daniels took a large transparent bag from a box he’d left on the counter.

Monica took her time studying the garment inside.

‘Can you say with absolute certainty that this is your coat?’ Daniels asked after a while. She already knew the answer. The coat was foreign, for a start, and Carmichael had
discovered a card in the pocket. Still, it was vital to go through the motions of identification.

Monica nodded.

‘Are you completely sure? It’s very important. I can take it out, if you like?’

‘May I?’ Monica pointed at the bag. Daniels handed it to her. ‘Yes, definitely . . .’ Monica indicated a mark on the lapel and used her hand to smooth out the cellophane
so the DCI could see it more clearly. ‘You see the pulled thread there? I did it on one of the flowers for the war dead.’

‘A poppy?’

Monica nodded.

Daniels lifted out a second evidence bag containing the card itself. ‘And this?’

On seeing the card, Monica broke down, as if the sight of it brought back the full horror of that night. Daniels had expected as much. She held Monica’s trembling hand and offered to get
her a drink of water.

‘No, I’m OK,’ she said. ‘Just give me a moment.’

Daniels sighed. ‘I know how difficult this is for you, Monica. Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to put you through it.’

Taking a deep breath, Monica reached for the card. She examined it closely, rotating the bag so she could view both sides. ‘It looks exactly like the one I found on the night . . . the
night Alan was killed.’

‘Are you absolutely certain?’

Monica gave an emphatic nod.

O
n the floor below, Gormley was being given a hard time. He hadn’t had a proper conversation with his son in weeks and Ryan wasn’t at all happy. As Gormley listened
to the tale of woe coming from the receiver clamped between his shoulder and ear, he began doodling on a sheet of paper: the cartoon head of a boy, a cute cat, a house, a cross . . . Suddenly he
sat up straight, staring at the doodles.

A cross, a bloody cross.

‘Look, Ryan, I’ve got to go . . .’ Gormley winced. ‘No, of course you’re important to me . . . that’s really unfair, son. You know I do. Look, I’ll call
you back, I promise. No . . . I
will
call you.’

He hung up.

Forster’s file was still lying in his bottom drawer where Daniels had thrown it the night before. He lifted it out, opened the inside front cover and scanned the personal information
boxes. Then he scanned them again, just to make sure.

He picked up his mobile.

I
t was beginning to feel like a very long day, as far as Daniels was concerned. After seeing Monica off, she had gone directly into a strategic case conference, convened at
short notice in the major incident suite upstairs. It was chaired by Assistant Chief Constable Martin and involved top brass from two other forces – Durham and West Midlands – as well
as a senior officer from the National Crime Faculty. The subject up for discussion? Linked murders and which force should take the lead role in the investigation.

In other words:
Who’s going to foot the bill?

Despite Martin’s fervent opposition, it had been decided that Northumbria should have the honour. Daniels couldn’t tell which upset the ACC most: the cost of the enquiry, or the fact
that this would put her firmly centre stage in the case of her career. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with the case she might have relished the moment.

As they filed out of the meeting, she was intercepted by Gormley.

‘You get my text?’ He was buzzing with excitement as he brought her attention to a file in his hand. ‘Forster’s our man!’

ACC Martin brushed past them, shooting looks. Turning her back on him, she set off down the corridor with Gormley in tow.

‘I thought you said—’

‘I know what I said, Kate. But I was wrong. C’mon, we’ve got work to do.’ They took the stairs quickly, heading for her office. ‘You know when something niggles you
– you don’t know why, it just does?’ Gormley stopped walking as they reached her office door. Opening the file, he turned the page, pointing at a photograph of Jonathan Forster.
‘Well, if this is who I think it is, I met him in the waiting room at Jo’s office. He was a wimp. His mate was behaving like a prick. I wanted to kick his head in, but I restrained
myself.’

‘That was big of you . . .’ Daniels held the door open and ushered him in. ‘You sure it was Forster?’

Gormley sat down. ‘I’d bet my last pay packet. I rang Jo’s receptionist, but the dozy cow couldn’t remember – which surprised me, given the fact that the other guy
was itching for a fight.’

‘Didn’t she check her records?’

‘Yes. Forster definitely had an appointment that day. See these . . .’ Gormley pulled out two very similar photographs and handed them to Daniels. ‘One is from our own
database, the other is a photographic copy that was in one of the files we seized from Jo’s office. On both of these he’s got hair, right?’

‘So?’

Gormley reached for a pen and paper, began drawing as he talked. ‘He’s changed his appearance, Kate. That’s what threw me. When I met him, he had a shaven head and a tattoo
underneath the hairline, like this . . .’

He showed her his drawing of a crucifix.

‘There’s no mention of it in his file,’ Daniels said.

‘Exactly my point! Take a look here . . .’ Gormley produced another sheet of paper. ‘This is a photocopy of the inside front cover of Forster’s prison file. Every
physical description is listed,
including
distinguishing marks. But if his tattoo was hidden by hair, it wouldn’t have been noticed.’

‘And therefore not recorded.’

Gormley grinned. ‘Exactly.’

‘Most pond life have tats. They copy each other on account of the fact that they have no imagination. Crosses are common. It’s religious symbolism, but on its own it’s not
enough.’

‘Then we’ll just have to find something that is . . .’

T
hey split the file in half and worked late into the night, the hands of the clock winding their way slowly and painfully round the dial. Daniels sighed loudly. Sick of
reading, she sat up straight, casting her tired eyes across the litter on her desk: empty sandwich cartons, spent coffee cups and several crisp packets – all cheese and onion. Gormley looked
up briefly and then went back to his reading. His capacity to keep going amazed her. Using a paper knife as book marker, she flicked through the remaining pages to see how long it would take her to
finish. Right near the back there was a typed report. Her eyes homed in on familiar handwriting, a scrawled reference to a conversation between Jo and one of Forster’s juvenile
counsellors.

‘Hank, listen to this. It’s in Jo’s handwriting.’ She began reading aloud: ‘“Mrs Forster is a profoundly religious woman and Jonathan resents this deeply.
Paradoxically, this led him, at sixteen, to have a crucifix tattoo engraved under his hairline. A definite attempt to piss off his mother, who, the social worker tells me, is now terrified of
him.”’

‘Yes! Oh, you little beauty!’ Gormley rushed round the desk to see for himself. ‘Maybe there
is
a God, after all!’

Daniels re-read the note, feeling suddenly energized.

‘It’s a religious link, no doubt about it,’ she said.

‘I’m telling you, Kate, this guy makes Dennis Nilsen look like a boy scout.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But you said yourself, he’s a sadistic rapist. This recent spate of killings are hardly his style. Apart from Sarah, who I can’t help thinking just got
caught up in something she had nothing to do with, our victims are all middle-aged men and women. They weren’t interfered with. He just shoots them. End of.’

Gormley’s determined expression was hard to argue with.

‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘Forster’s our man.’

87

A
s they waited to gain entry to the Regional Psychology Service, Gormley had time to notice a new addition to the graffiti on the door. Under the word WANKER someone had taken
a thick-tipped permanent marker and added SPERM DONORS REQUIRED.

He glanced sideways. ‘You
sure
you want to do this without talking to Jo first?’

The door clicked open before Daniels had a chance to answer.

The receptionist was waiting behind her security screen. She gave a welcoming smile as they walked in. Daniels explained why they were there and detected a slight reluctance from the woman. But
she made no fuss; just directed them down the corridor, even offered to make them a cup of tea.

When they reached Jo’s office, Daniels stopped short of the door.

Gormley gave her a second. ‘You
really
want to do this?’

‘I do, OK? She’ll kill me when she finds out, but that’s
my
problem, not yours.’

They entered the office and put on the lights.

‘I’ll take the desk,’ Daniels said. ‘You start with the filing cabinets.’

They had only just got started when the door flew open and Jo stormed in. The room temperature seemed to drop several degrees as the three of them stood there, no one knowing quite what to say.
Jo was dressed casually in cords and a sweater, her hair tied back carelessly, leaving wisps hanging loose around her face. She was obviously well and truly hacked off.

‘Ever heard of search warrant?’ she asked.

Daniels bit her lip. In her wildest dreams she hadn’t expected to meet her like this. She wondered why the woman on reception hadn’t warned them Jo was in the building. You could cut
the atmosphere with a knife. Gormley removed his hands from the drawer he was searching, made his excuses and left.

‘Well?’ Jo barked. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing here?’

‘We have a warrant—’

‘Which you know perfectly well has now expired!’ Jo walked to the filing cabinet and slammed the drawer shut. ‘Could you not have had the courtesy to call me first?’

‘I’ve been calling you for days.’

Daniels moved towards her but Jo stepped away.

‘I’m not ready to make nice, Kate.’

A little grin appeared on Daniels’ face. ‘Not Ready to Make Nice’ was the title of one of their favourite Dixie Chicks songs, the one they used to play when they’d had a
row and neither of them wanted to back down.

Jo went and sat at her desk, leaving Daniels isolated in the middle of the room.

‘You going to tell me what you hope to find here?’ she asked.

Feeling a little bit silly and a lot sad, Daniels said, ‘Can I at least sit down?’

Jo nodded towards a chair.

‘The truth is, I’m not sure.’ Daniels sighed. ‘One of your clients is beginning to emerge as a likely candidate for Alan’s murder and at least two others.
He’s our best suspect yet, but I don’t really understand him and I need to, if I’m going to catch him.’ She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket – the
photograph Gormley had copied from Forster’s police record – and handed it over. ‘I know you’re officially barred from working on the case, but MIT need your help, Jo.
I
need your help. He
is
still on your caseload?’