The Murder Wall (10 page)

An uneasy atmosphere descended like a thick black cloud.

Resting his right elbow on the table, James made a fist with his hand and used it to support his right cheek. Fleetingly, he saw his father – not Tom – on the other side of the
table. The image spooked him. He rubbed at his eyes, willing himself to relax. A trick of the light, nothing more; it was getting late. On second thoughts, there was more than a passing
resemblance: the hair on the back of Tom’s hands, the shape of his fingers, the line of his jaw, his facial expressions . . . James ran a hand through his hair and yawned, acting cool while a
ghost walked over his skin.

‘What’s up?’ Tom said, reacting to the intensity of his brother’s stare.

James looked away, too tired to engage in any meaningful conversation.

‘James? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing . . . I was up half the night and some dickhead with a computer game prevented me from getting any shut-eye on the train. I’m off to bed.’

‘Not yet, I want to talk about Mum,’ Tom said. ‘She could be in real trouble.’

‘Oh, lighten up!’ James put his size elevens on the table, then removed them and stood up, scraping the chair on the hard wooden floor as he got to his feet. ‘Just be thankful
she didn’t kill anyone, including herself. It was a fucking accident, that’s all. Things’ll be fine.’

‘She never drinks and drives.’

‘So? She made an exception. We all get bladdered sometimes, even you.’

Tom’s expression darkened. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it across the table. ‘It was at the house when I got here,’ he said.

James took the card, a frown slowly appearing on his brow as he read it. It was a police calling card, a handwritten message from DC Andrew Brown urging their mother to get in touch. He shrugged
and stuffed it in his pocket.

21

B
right was struggling to make supper, stirring a pan on the stove. On the other side of the kitchen, the telephone rang and the kettle began to boil simultaneously. He stopped
what he was doing and rushed over to attend to them. He answered the phone first – more out of habit than necessity – then pulled the whistle out, stopping the din from piercing his
eardrums. It had to be said, he wasn’t having a good day, at work or at home. Pouring water over a teabag already in a china pot, he barked his name into the phone.

A man’s voice came on the line. ‘It’s Trent.’

‘Trent who?’ Bright said impatiently.

‘Sorry, wrong number.’

The line went dead.

Bright looked at Stella, the woman he’d loved with a passion since the day they had met some thirty years before, now a shadow of her former self. ‘Charming,’ he said.
‘You been up to no good, love? Guy called Trent on the phone, no manners, younger than me by the sound of it. Having a clandestine affair, are you? Would have to be a secret with a name like
Trent.’

A tear rolled silently down Stella’s cheek. She was at the kitchen table in her wheelchair, her frame shrivelled, her eyes fixed to a point on the far wall.

‘Dinner won’t be long now, love,’ Bright said.

Of course it would be long!
It always was
.

Bright smiled at his wife, trying hard to mask his feelings. He wasn’t cut out for domesticity in any form. He’d barely coped since the accident, was too proud – or was it too
stupid? – to ask for help. He had struggled to keep up appearances both at home and at work when he was barely hanging on.

Pouring Stella’s tea, he added water from the mains tap to cool the temperature, then tipped it into a child’s beaker and lifted it to her lips, his thoughts turning to a little boy
whose parents were relying on the murder investigation team to bring his killer to justice. And they damned well would, even if they had to work day and night to do it.

And still his wife continued to stare from those vacant eyes, trying to send a message she couldn’t put into words. Bright followed her gaze to the cooker and looked on in horror as the
unappetizing contents of the pan on the stove made their own way out, oozing over the edge into a congealed mess he knew would take hours to clean up.

‘Fuck’s sake!’ he yelled, slamming his fist on the table.

22

D
aniels’ mobile bleeped.

A text from Bright:
Any chance you can swing by?

She sighed. That was all she needed.

It took her around half an hour to reach his home. She patted his arm as she walked past him into the house. Stella was asleep in her wheelchair by the fire, wrapped up warm and cosy with a
blanket over her knees. No hint of any major crisis here. And yet the guv’nor’s grave expression told a different story.

Daniels had known for a while that her boss was a man under immense pressure. But tonight he looked ill and smelled strongly of alcohol.

He sat down, inviting her to do the same. ‘She practically begged me, Kate.’ He was losing his composure in a way she hadn’t thought possible. Until now. ‘I was getting
her ready for bed, the usual routine: bath, teeth, she likes me to brush her hair . . . Then I realized the time and reached for her medication. She takes two pills at night, so I gave her them and
water to wash it down with. Next thing I know she grabs my arm, her eyes pleading with me. I tell you, it bloody near finished me. You want a drink or something?’

‘No thanks, guv . . .’ Daniels glanced at Stella. ‘She’s bound to have good and bad days. She’ll think differently tomorrow.’

‘And if she doesn’t?’

Stella seemed to be in a deep sleep, totally unaware of their conversation. But was she? Daniels’ mother would sometimes repeat things uttered when she’d appeared to be at rest. God
forbid the woman could hear them.

‘You put her to bed . . .’ Daniels said. ‘I’ll make us a coffee.’

The mess on the stove was the least of her worries when she entered the kitchen. It was the room of an obsessive: like walking into a ‘live’ incident room. Case notes and jottings
were spread out across the kitchen bench, crime-scene photographs pinned to cupboard doors. Some were close-ups like the one she’d seen in his office – just a child’s innocent
face – others were more grotesque: wide-angled shots showing the boy lying in the rubbish skip, an arm and a leg twisted unnaturally beneath his body.

He’d obviously been tossed in after death.

Daniels’ heart sank.

This explained the media frenzy, an outcry for police to throw every resource at the case and bring the killer to justice quickly to protect the region’s children. What must the dead
child’s parents be going through? Was it any wonder Bright looked so ill? Combined with a difficult home life, this level-one case might tip him over the edge. It surely would if he insisted
on shadowing her own murder enquiry as he had done up to now.

Scooping everything up, she dumped the lot in his old briefcase, which was lying open on the grubby tiled floor. Fifteen minutes later, wiping her hands on a tea towel, she surveyed a spotless
kitchen. She poured Bright’s now cold coffee down the sink and went upstairs in search of him, half expecting to find him curled up in bed with his wife, exhausted from his ordeal and the
Jack Daniels he’d downed in order to cope with it. She found him sitting on a pink nursing chair at the bottom of the bed, just staring at Stella.

He heard her approach, got up and joined her on the threshold.

‘I’ve got to go . . .’ Daniels said. ‘You going to be all right, guv?’

‘She’s going to be fine.’

‘I was talking about you,’ Daniels said quietly, searching his tired face.

Bright just looked at her. Gone was the bolshie bastard she worked with and looked up to. In his place was a sad, lonely man whose married life had been cut short, a man who inspired her to do
her very best. Daniels hated seeing him like this and hoped he’d get back on track eventually. What other choice did he have?

She pulled on her coat. ‘It wasn’t your fault, guv.’

Bright swallowed hard. Clearly he thought it was. ‘You take care, Kate. Remember, one minute you’re on a high, next you’re on your arse.’

Wasn’t that the truth.
‘Give it time, it’s early days.’

Bright looked at her deeply, his bottom lip quivering as he glanced back at his sleeping wife. ‘Stay, Kate . . . just for tonight.’

Daniels took a deep breath, momentarily wrong-footed. Christ almighty. Now she knew he was losing it. She gave him an awkward hug, patting him on the back.

‘Look after her, guv.’

She turned away . . .

23

T
o Daniels’ surprise, Bright turned up at her house early next morning. He’d had a shave but dark shadows under his eyes suggested he hadn’t been to bed. As
he walked into the house begging for forgiveness for the state he’d been in the night before, she detected a slight whiff of a cigarette.

A hint of what was to come perhaps?

Bright only ever smoked when he had a drink in his hand and, for a fleeting moment, Daniels wondered if he’d started the morning where he’d left off just eight hours ago and was
about to say something they’d both regret. But she was wrong. His apology was grovelling and well rehearsed, which explained the nicotine hit so early in the day. She laughed when he
mentioned an ‘inappropriate request’ to stay the night at his place, lightening the mood between them, putting him at ease as she poured him a coffee.

As far as she was concerned it never happened.

She gave her word that it wouldn’t be mentioned again so long as he agreed to stop putting himself under so much pressure . . .

‘You’ll run yourself into the ground otherwise.’ The smile slid off her face as a grim thought crossed her mind. ‘Guv, who’s looking after Stella?’

‘Neighbour,’ Bright said vaguely.

Daniels looked out at the darkness through black kitchen windows. ‘At this hour?’

Bright registered the doubt. ‘Don’t fret, Kate. I’m not ready to lose Stella yet. Our neighbour is also an old school-mate. Salt of the earth, too. Up at the crack of dawn.
Comes in every day at six. Never misses.’

They left the house together but in separate cars, Bright on his way to headquarters, Daniels en route to the incident room with a manpower problem to sort. She’d assembled a good team: a
dedicated group she trusted to cross-reference each and every piece of information that came into the incident room, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, with Harry Holt – a DS
pushing fifty with almost three decades of experience under his belt – appointed as receiver, and Paul Robson as statement reader. But with the benefit of hindsight she knew she
should’ve chosen differently where the latter was concerned. Robson’s sudden departure on paternity leave was going to leave her short.

Driving into the city, she was forced to consider drafting in his replacement. Carefully sifting the possibilities in her mind, she eventually settled on a newly promoted ex-squad member, DS
Patrick O’Doughty from Northern Area Command. Not that he had many statements to read as yet; so far the house-to-house had failed to turn up a single witness. Which didn’t surprise
her, given the Bonfire Night celebrations. The killer had been one of many thousands of strangers in the city for the occasion. She wondered if he’d planned it that way or just got lucky.

She entered the incident room with the intention of ringing O’Doughty’s line manager. As with every murder she’d ever worked on, over-crowding was proving to be a problem.
Typists, data-entry clerks and squad members were crammed together, sharing desks, frustrated by the lack of facilities afforded to their work. But they would manage in the end. They always did. In
the wider scheme of things, space was less important than just getting the job done.

In her early years as a police officer, Daniels would gladly have worked for no pay – and often did. She believed that, for a woman, self-sacrifice was an integral part of reaching the top
in any profession. Motherhood was the obvious example of what she’d missed out on in pursuit of her career. It was a decision she’d take again tomorrow if she had to.

As she’d just told Bright, life was too short for regrets.

Daniels’ father suddenly entered her thoughts. A smile crossed her lips as she recalled her childhood, the afternoons spent watching cowboy movies with him.
Good times.
He’d
nicknamed her Annie Oakley and teased her a lot. When they’d played make-believe, she was never the gunslinger – always the county sheriff. He’d once told her she was ‘born
to uphold the law’.

Little did she know that his comment would later split them apart.

She wondered if
he
ever had regrets. He was the one who had taught her to take pride in what she did, instilled in her a sense of devotion and commitment – good old-fashioned
qualities that had moulded her into the impressive officer she was. He was the one who’d given her a strong perspective on right and wrong. Daniels swallowed hard. Her father had been an
affectionate, hard-working, proud man with a great sense of humour – until she’d reached the age of ten and everything changed.

Ed Daniels was now a broken man whose emotions – even to this day – were still raw from the miners’ strike. Memories of the bitter and bloody confrontation with the police on
the picket lines, Scargill’s troops versus Thatcher’s, had not diminished. He’d never recovered his status as breadwinner for the family after his pit closed. It nearly killed him
to walk out of the gate on the last day. When Daniels left school at seventeen with above-average grades and a burning ambition to join the police, he’d taken her choice of profession as a
personal betrayal, refusing to give her his blessing. How long would it be until he forgave her for that? She’d always felt that she was born to be a detective, but now Stephens’ death
had changed things and, once again, divided loyalties weighed heavy on her mind.

There was a muddle of bodies around a desk in one corner of the incident room. As it slowly dispersed, Daniels was delighted to see DS Robson emerge from its centre. His wife had given birth
overnight to a boy – Callum, named after a Scottish grandfather on his mother’s side – weighing in at a healthy 2.85 kilos. The mood in the room was buoyant as people arrived for
work and heard the news. They shook hands with Robson before taking their seats, aware that the new arrival would get less attention than it deserved. That came with the territory. It
wouldn’t be the first time pressure of work had prevented a proper celebration to wet a baby’s head.