The Murder Wall (36 page)
Jo nodded, her expression darkening. In the time she’d been supervising Jonathan Forster, she’d formed the opinion that his was a case where ‘life’ should have meant just
that. For the last two years, she’d tried to peel back the layers of his past, to get beneath his thick skin, to talk some sense into him – show him that he could so easily take a
different path . . .
She’d been wasting her breath.
Within the confines of her office, he’d emptied the contents of his polluted mind, worn his sentence like a badge and refused to see beyond his own twisted logic. If he
was
involved, then Daniels had a problem.
‘You’d better make yourself comfortable,’ Jo said.
It was a clear warning that they were in for a long session. Daniels called Gormley on his mobile and told him she’d meet him back at the office. Jo rang her secretary, told her not to
disturb them and asked for a pot of coffee, then fetched Forster’s file from a grey filing cabinet behind her desk. There was no question of doctor/patient confidentiality here.
There was no time to lose.
Daniels relaxed a little. It felt good to be on the same side once again. But before they got down to business, she had something important to say about the events of the past few days. It was
the first chance she’d had to talk to Jo face to face and she didn’t know when she’d get another. Jo sat down again, curious as to what was coming.
From the look on Daniels’ face, something was.
‘Bright knows,’ she said bluntly.
‘About us?’
Daniels nodded.
‘How?’
‘What makes you think I didn’t tell him?’
‘Did you?’
Daniels flushed. ‘Anonymous letter, delivered to HQ with a copy to Martin. Thought I should give you the heads up, in case—’
‘They won’t say anything to me,’ Jo said calmly. ‘I’d like to see them try!’
‘No . . . I don’t suppose they will.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘I told Bright the truth. We
were
involved, but not any more.’
‘Bet that went down well. And Martin?’
‘Has no proof whatsoever. Let’s just say I’m not his favourite DCI right now. You told me it would come back and bite me on the arse, and now it has.’
‘And you’re still alive? Still in the job? Well, goodness me!’
So the subject was now closed, and they were no closer to resolving their differences. Daniels was convinced she’d be blackballed from going any further in the job. But somehow that
didn’t seem to matter any more.
Changing the subject, they got down to business and talked about Forster for nearly two hours, going over his psychological assessment in minute detail. The information Jo provided was pure
gold; the picture she painted guaranteed to put the fear of God into most right-minded people.
‘. . . as I said, he has all the characteristics of an anger rapist. It’s not unusual for attacks to increase in severity over time.’
‘Whether or not they involve a sexual element?’ Daniels queried.
Jo was thoughtful for a moment. ‘His attack on the young girl he killed was horrific and unpremeditated, but the source of his anger was definitely his mother.’
‘And now what? He’s displacing his anger?’
‘Possibly . . . his perception of women is that they’re whores: hostile, self-centred, disloyal. Rejection is an obvious trigger for guys like this. They become enraged and strike
out whenever their masculinity is threatened. Don’t underestimate him, Kate. He might look and act like a wimp, but he’s an evil little shit, make no mistake.’
‘But why would he be killing men as well as women?’
‘You’re the detective. I’m sure you’ll work it out.’
‘Please, Jo. I’m struggling here.’
‘I don’t have all the answers, Kate. You know that. The guy’s been locked up for over twenty years! Who knows what nasty things have happened to him during that time. Such a
prolonged period of incarceration might have sparked off a fury the magnitude of which we can only guess at. People change – even damaged ones – and not always for the
better.’
‘OK . . . thanks for the insight.’ Daniels gathered her stuff. ‘I’d appreciate it if you kept this meeting between the two of us. Bright will go nuts if he finds out
I’ve discussed the case with you.’
Jo reacted as though she’d been slapped. But Daniels was already rising to her feet and hadn’t seen it. She was half expecting Jo to embrace her when she stood up too and was caught
off guard by her angry tone.
‘Shame
you’re
not capable of change!’
Daniels was lost for words.
Jo marched over to her filing cabinet, replaced Forster’s file, then went to her bookshelves, the top three of which housed hundreds of professional journals she’d collected over the
years. On a shelf lower down, one book in particular caught her eye: Jean Piaget’s
The Child’s Conception of the World.
As she watched Jo remove it from the shelf, Daniels’
stomach lurched at the sight of the front cover, which featured a child’s drawing of a little girl with lots of freckles. Jo opened the front cover. Inside, there was a personal inscription,
beautifully crafted by its writer.
She brought the book to Daniels and handed it over, still open.
It was a moment of real heartache for Daniels as she stared at her own handwriting. She had bought the book many years before. Knowing nothing of psychology, beyond that which she’d
observed on the city streets, she’d loitered for ages in the bookstore, agonizing over which book to buy. In the end, it was the freckles that tipped the scales. How Jo had laughed when she
found out.
Well, she wasn’t laughing now.
‘Take it!’ she said. ‘I won’t be needing it any more.’
Their moment of closeness had dissolved without trace. It was a cruel way of saying their relationship was over. For good.
Devastated, Daniels slipped the book into her pocket and left.
D
aniels was staring out of the window. Gormley suspected she hadn’t told the whole truth about her meeting with Jo earlier. She was brooding about something. He
didn’t know what, but suspected it had little to do with the case.
A knock at the door surprised them both. Maxwell poked his head in, asking for a second of their time. Daniels beckoned him in, curious to know what he wanted. Since his transfer to another
team, he hadn’t been seen for dust. She wondered if he’d come cap in hand, thinking he could get his old job back. If so, he didn’t have a hope in hell.
‘What do
you
want?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘If you’re sniffing around for Martin, you’re wasting your bloody time.’
Maxwell’s brow creased, as if he had no idea what she was on about.
‘Well? Spit it out, now you’re here.’
He handed her a disk. ‘I found more footage of Jo Soulsby while working on another enquiry . . . I think you should take a look at it, boss.’
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Gormley snapped. ‘Haven’t you heard the news?’
‘She’s been bailed, Neil,’ Daniels explained. ‘Expects to be cleared of all charges. Given that she’s done nothing wrong, why would I be remotely interested in
whatever’s on this disk?’
Maxwell hesitated. ‘Because she was in another part of town, being dragged up a back alley by two thugs.’
Complete silence.
Oh my God!
Daniels felt sick. Outraged. She couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Maxwell had drawn her a picture she just couldn’t get out of her head.
Poor, poor, Jo.
What she must have gone through.
Daniels was close to losing it, unable to conceal her disgust.
‘. . . I couldn’t actually see what happened,’ Maxwell continued. ‘But it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to fill in the blanks. I only wish we’d found it
sooner. To be raped by Stephens was gross, but to suffer at the hands of two morons in the street, well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. She’s innocent, all right.’
Gormley stood up, about to usher him from the room.
Daniels put her hand up to stop him. ‘No, Hank. It’s OK, this is important. It ties up a lot of loose ends, explains why Jo hung around in town, her blocked-off memory, why she was
in a state when the taxi picked her up.’
She didn’t really know what else to say. What to think. Maxwell was an unlikely source of closure. Gone were the smart-arse remarks, the snide glances. It was as if this latest shocking
revelation was too awful even for
him
to contemplate. His lips were moving again but Daniels didn’t hear a word of his apology, the shame he felt for the way he’d behaved, his
request to be given another chance.
D
aniels had been sitting in her vehicle for a good half-hour, observing the entrance to the Regional Psychology Service. In that time, the door had opened only twice, allowing
a couple of women back out on to the street.
According to the receptionist, Forster was still inside. Daniels couldn’t bear the thought that he was probably in a room with Jo, sharing the same air, when she now had knowledge that he
might conceivably have killed her ex. Wondering how she was coping with that, Daniels glanced at her watch. Forster’s weekly reporting was scheduled to last just half an hour.
He’d be out any second now.
While she waited, the conversation she’d had with Jo following Maxwell’s revelation that she’d been attacked reverberated round her head. After several attempts to call her, Jo
had finally answered her phone. But she point-blank refused to discuss the thugs in the alley; refused to be a victim again. The police hadn’t been interested when she reported Stephens for
rape. As far as she was concerned, they had nothing more to say to one another. Then the phone went dead.
Daniels willed the door across the street to open again.
It did.
She put her hand to her earpiece. ‘Here we go.’
A scruffy man left the building, hesitating at the gate just long enough to light a cigarette. He set off along the road with an arrogant strut, picking his nose as he went, wiping his hands on
the back of his jeans. It was the first time Daniels had seen him in the flesh, though something about him struck a chord. He was a very different person than the one Gormley had described. Not a
wimp frightened of his own shadow, but an arrogant, cocksure lowlife with an evil look in his eye.
Gormley’s favourite saying popped into her head at the exact same time it came out of his mouth:
If it looks like shite . . .
‘. . . and it smells like shite,’ Gormley said, ‘then it’s probably shite.’
Daniels smiled.
Although it was getting dark, the streetlights were good enough to make the identification. She got out of her car, making sure she wasn’t seen, conscious that Forster might very well be
armed. She followed at a safe distance. It looked as though he was heading for the address Jo had given her. He turned right off the main road, in no hurry, stopping to pass the time of day with a
young boy coming the other way, a glance over his shoulder forcing Daniels to retreat into the shadows of a shop doorway. She caught his reflection in the glass and thought she saw something change
hands. Her earpiece confirmed that Gormley had seen it too.
‘Probably an arrestable offence . . . want me to pick him up?’
Daniels spoke quietly into her sleeve. ‘Negative, Hank. We want to get the bastard for something much bigger than a poxy heroin deal. But first, we need proof. Something concrete we can
act on. We can’t risk this thing going tits-up a second time.’
As if sensing their interest, Forster looked back over his shoulder again, then took off downhill towards the entrance to Brandon Towers, a block Daniels knew well. Built in the sixties to
combat overcrowding, it had since become home to many of the region’s criminals, the socially disaffected and the downright unfortunate. The exterior walls were covered in graffiti, the whole
place in need of pulling down.
Forster went in through the main entrance. Daniels stood a while, considering what to do next. She gave Gormley permission to return to base, watched him drive off, and then turned away.
T
en floors up, Forster stood well back from the window and looked down on the street, watching the good detective walk back in the direction of her car. He raised his gun,
lining her up in his sights and feigned a shot. BANG!
M
onday 4 January was the start of the working New Year and Bright was struggling to come to terms with the fact that his glittering police career was crashing around his ears.
He wasn’t coping without Stella; the woman behind the great man, the woman without whom he’d never have made it this far. Throughout their long and happy marriage she’d smoothed
the ups and downs, supported him through the good and bad moments – always willing to take a back seat.
How he wished she’d been in that seat on the night of their accident.
He sat up straight, cupping his hands together in front of his chest. Looking around him, he could see that he wasn’t the only one flagging; his team were suffering too. Daniels looked
particularly jaded this morning. He didn’t know why, but he had the distinct impression she was deliberately trying to avoid him.
Well, he’d see about that.
She turned as he approached her at the coffee machine. ‘Want one, guv?’
‘No, you’re all right,’ he said.
He was on the verge of suggesting they step into his office for a private word, when in walked Ron Naylor.
‘Phil. Kate.’
Bright felt instantly angry, but his anger turned to smugness as he watched Naylor give his DCI a winning smile. The rumour about her sexual preference obviously hadn’t reached Ron yet. It
would. Martin would make sure it did.
Bright found himself smiling. Maybe Naylor still thought he was in with a chance. Why else come all this way during a major investigation?
‘How’s it going this end?’ Naylor asked.
‘Not good, I’m afraid.’ Daniels held up her polystyrene cup. ‘Coffee?’
‘No thanks, I’m wired enough already.’