The Murder Wall (16 page)
‘Excellent, Lisa.’ Bright was impressed. ‘What have you done to ensure all these witnesses are traced?’
Carmichael pointed towards the receiver’s desk. ‘Harry is fast-tracking actions as we speak, and detectives from Area Command are lending a hand to get through them ASAP.’
Hearing his name, DS Harry Holt looked up and threw in his contribution. ‘If an action comes back unclear, guv, it’ll bounce straight back to them.’
‘Fair enough,’ Bright said, turning back to Carmichael. ‘You’re certain security collected invitations from everybody?’
‘That’s company policy at the Weston, guv,’ Carmichael said. ‘I interviewed the security staff myself. No invitation was supposed to mean strictly no
admittance.’
‘But if someone made it worth their while, they’d turn a blind eye, right?’
‘That was the impression I got. Security pay is poor.’
Bright nodded. ‘And this was definitely the seating plan they used?’
‘Yeah, but . . .’ Carmichael glanced again at Daniels. ‘They may have played musical chairs.’
Daniels grinned.
Carmichael was learning fast.
Turning to face the assembled squad, she raised her voice to gain their attention and pointed at Carmichael’s chart. ‘Listen up,
everyone! I want you all to familiarize yourself with this plan.’ Taking in the collective nod of heads, she noticed Maxwell attempting to sneak back in without drawing attention to himself.
‘Neil, what’s the state of play with the house-to-house?’
Maxwell turned beetroot. Being singled out was not something he’d anticipated. He promptly knocked his notes off his desk and scrambled around the floor on all fours trying to retrieve
them – irritating Bright in the process.
‘In your own time . . .’ Bright rolled his eyes. Unable to resist an opportunity to pull Maxwell’s leg, he added: ‘You look like you could do with a shot of coffee,
Detective.’
‘No residents on the third floor of Court Mews heard or saw anything, guv,’ Maxwell puffed, trying to gather papers and his thoughts at the same time. ‘The fireworks display
was well advertised and most had made arrangements to go out for the evening. We do have a witness at number 28: Mrs Kim Foreman—’
He stopped mid-sentence. When he looked up from the floor he was sweating profusely and his notes were all mixed up. The guv’nor towered over him, clearly out of patience. The rest of the
squad weren’t helping either; their gawking was making him even more flustered. Finally, he got his act together and stood up, scratching his left ear, something he tended to do when he was
nervous.
‘Mrs Foreman is a dancer at Rivaldo’s nightclub. She began her shift at around seven and was due to work until closing on Thursday night, but she went home early—’
‘Why early?’ Daniels asked.
‘Said she was feeling ill. Anyway, she remembers hearing raised voices, one male, one female, definitely arguing.’
Daniels wanted more. ‘Exactly where does she live in relation to the victim?’
Maxwell bowed his head, trying his best to avoid eye contact with her and with Bright. It was obvious to everyone in the room that he didn’t know the answer.
‘I’ll find out,’ he said.
‘Come on, man!’ Bright said. ‘You must have some bloody idea.’
‘Have you not drawn up a plan?’ Daniels asked.
Maxwell glowered at Carmichael, who was trying not to look smug. ‘Not yet,’ he said.
‘That’s not good enough!’ Bright was almost yelling.
‘Get it done, ASAP,’ Daniels said quietly. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘No, nothing.’ Maxwell’s relief was obvious. At last they were going to move on to someone else and leave him alone.
Bright, however, was not done with him yet: ‘I think you mean nothing else,
thank you, ma’am
.’
Maxwell looked as though he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. He hung his head in shame, steeling himself for a blasting. There was a moment’s silence and then Bright left the
room.
D
aniels was carrying a rolled-up plan of Court Mews as she entered the building with Bright in tow. The crime scene was crawling with SOCOs, who had obviously given the place a
thorough going-over. They’d finished sweeping the living room, had just moved out into the corridor and now stepped to one side to enable the detectives to pass through.
In the living room, Daniels spread the plan out on the sofa. She studied it a while and then looked up thoughtfully. Bright could see she wasn’t happy.
‘Problem?’ he asked.
‘Nothing I can’t handle.’
‘You sure?’
‘Every floor in this block is identical to this one. Kim Foreman claims she heard a heated argument going on at the time of Stephens’ death. Felicity Wood – the woman caught on
CCTV with him at the Weston Hotel – denies any knowledge of it. They live next door to each other on the floor above. As you can see, Wood’s flat is
directly
above us and she
reported hearing a loud bang just after midnight, which she thinks came from inside rather than outside the building.’
‘The shot that killed Stephens?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Will she make a compelling witness?’
‘Should do. She’s a brief with Graham & Abercrombie. D’you know her?’
Bright shrugged. ‘No. Do you?’
Daniels shook her head. She rolled up the plan, securing each end with an elastic band. For a split second, Stephens’ body was back on the floor. Daniels put the plan down and let out a
sigh. Working hard was one thing; keeping secrets was really taking it out of her. Fortunately, Bright hadn’t noticed her stress.
‘Did she investigate the noise?’ he asked.
Daniels shook her head again. ‘Odd, isn’t it? You’d think that someone with the curiosity of a solicitor might have done. I know I would have. She thought it was too risky . .
. her words, not mine. In fact, she wasn’t very forthcoming at all, really. She seems reluctant to get involved, full stop.’
‘I hope you put her in her place?’
‘Give it time, guv . . . I’m not finished with her yet.’
Daniels walked to the window and looked out at the Millennium Bridge; a giant curved structure known locally as the ‘blinking eye’. Her own eyes followed a large party of students
making their way across the river to The Baltic, a converted flour mill, now a centre for contemporary art, the largest gallery of its type in the world. For a miserable November day, it was
attracting a lot of interest. Daniels wondered if there was a special exhibition on. She and Jo Soulsby had been there many times. It was a favourite haunt of theirs. Most days it was crammed with
an eclectic mix of lunching ladies, tourists, art buffs and shoppers. The food was excellent, the view from the rooftop restaurant stunning.
Bright joined her by the window. He looked at his watch. ‘I’m bloody starving. Come on, I’ll shout you lunch before we head back.’
‘I can’t, guv. I’ve got too much on.’
‘We have to eat, don’t we?’
‘I said I’d meet Hank.’
They took the lift to the ground floor, left the apartment building from its main entrance and walked in silence to his car. Bright got in and hesitated before starting the engine.
‘So . . .’ he said. ‘Want to share what’s eating you?’
Daniels knew full well he wasn’t referring to the case, but didn’t let on. ‘Just these conflicting statements, that’s all.’
There was a wry smile on Bright’s face. He hadn’t been fooled for a second. He placed his key in the ignition and waited for the diesel indicator light to go off. ‘Want me to
go and interrogate them?’ he said.
‘Don’t take the piss, guv. All I’m saying is that if Foreman heard an argument and Wood didn’t, what does that tell us?’
He grinned. ‘Wood’s a bit mutton?’
His joke fell on stony ground; Daniels was in no frame of mind for frivolity. ‘I think Wood was the one arguing,’ she said. ‘But who with? And was she the one pulling the
trigger?’
‘Why don’t you bring her in?’
‘I will – when I’m ready.’
‘Any witnesses who might corroborate Foreman’s account?’
‘Only one: Mrs Close from number 25. Someone’s on it.’
Daniels was impatient to get back. Sensing this, Bright turned his engine over. He pulled out of his parking spot and turned right along the river road. Heading west, he took a left at the
roundabout to avoid a well-known bottleneck. Daniels approved. It was a route she would’ve taken too.
‘Now . . .’ Bright glanced sideways at her. ‘What’s really eating you?’
She mimicked him. ‘You
really
have to ask?’
He kept his eyes on the road. ‘You’re still chewing about Sarah Short, right?’
‘Who wouldn’t be, with a psychopathic moron on the loose?’
H
e left the train invisible in a sea of strangers all shuffling towards the exit gate of platform 10b. As he walked towards it, he could see that the filth were out in force,
automatic weapons at the ready, eyes searching for a terrorist with a darker skin than his.
Perfect.
He could slip in and out, do what he’d come to do, right under their very noses. Even as a kid he’d had the luck of the Irish, an uncanny knack of getting away with things when the
chips were down. He smiled, reminded of all the times his mother had accompanied him to court, expecting he’d be put away, only to have to grin and bear it when – seeing his innocent
face and puny frame – the magistrates had ordered the tossers in Probation to write reports, giving him
just one last chance.
No shit!
Juvenile justice? Fucking joke, more like! If that wasn’t permission to do it all over again, he didn’t know what was. They might just as well have handed him the matches to start
the fires, the knives, the guns . . .
This one felt warm against his hip.
He’d use it only the once.
His mother could no longer hurt him or fill his head with the teachings of the Lord. If she thought she could still beat him into submission, she was sorely mistaken. He was much stronger than
she could ever imagine. Who was fucking with whose head now? Killing those she held dear had given him a reason for living, a goal to aim towards, a foundation on which to rebuild his life, an
incentive to survive two decades of being caged like an animal and cast out from society. And now he was back, ready to make up for lost time, willing and able to make the necessary sacrifices.
Just a little longer
.
Until he reached the end of his cherished list.
Then he’d off his father right in front of her.
With a cocky swagger, he disappeared into a city of a million people, none of whom knew his name. He was ready to do his worst. Ready to begin a Jihad of his own; one guaranteed to bring about
his own brand of paradise right here on the streets of Birmingham.
One bombshell.
One Muslim.
Sounds reasonable.
A racially motivated crime . . . that wasn’t.
It cracked him up.
‘I
’m listening . . .’ Bright said, negotiating a tricky left-hand turn.
‘No, guv. If you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,’ Daniels said.
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘OK, you asked, so I’ll tell you. If you insist on overseeing this enquiry, I want out. I’m being kept in the dark and you obviously have no faith in me.’
‘That is absolute rubbish and you know it.’ Bright ran an amber light, just as it changed to red. ‘You can do this job with your hands tied behind your back. The whole team
aspire to be just like you – and why wouldn’t they? There’s nobody I’d rather see make it to the very top, Kate. You’re the best detective I’ve ever worked
with—’
‘Oh, you remembered!’ Daniels bit back. ‘Yeah, well, I am the best, and that’s precisely why I won’t be undermined. I’m serious, guv. And if you don’t
like it, well, tough!’
Bright cursed as he missed the turning. They were both silent for a while. Daniels wished he’d get a move on. Hank was waiting for her back at the station and the atmosphere in the car was
chilly, to say the least. All she wanted from her boss was a little honesty. Was that too much to ask?
Yeah, right! How hypocritical did that sound? Even in her own head!
Daniels looked out of the side window as they cut up off the Quayside and headed into the centre of town. She felt a pang of misery settle heavily in her chest. She’d been on the verge of
telling Bright the truth, confiding in him, asking for his support, but at the last minute she’d lost her bottle and pulled back. She just couldn’t do it. Instead, she’d dug a
hole big enough to bury not only herself but her precious career as well. The way she saw it, telling her boss would’ve seemed more of a betrayal than not telling him. But he’d been her
boss for ever – wouldn’t he have understood?
Hell might freeze over first.
T
he station recreation room was nearly always empty at this time of day, serving as a quiet space where people could talk without fear of being overheard. For years Bright had
used it to brainstorm difficult cases, preferring a less formal environment than an incident room bursting with distractions. Many cases had been broken within those four walls and – while
the informality wasn’t her personal style – Daniels had to concede that it was results that counted in the end.
It was a dingy space, strewn with all sorts of personal paraphernalia: make-up, books, magazines, discarded clothing. A full-size pool table in the corner had been abandoned mid-game. Bright
picked up a snooker cue, set up the triangle in the appropriate spot and took his first shot, striking the cue ball hard, sending the others flying in every direction.
Gormley watched one ball dribble into a side pocket. ‘That was a complete fluke!’
Bright eyed up his next shot and chose the harder of two options, confident he could pot it. ‘So . . .’ He drew back the cue. ‘What’s the story with the ACC?’
‘He’s on his way back from Scotland as we speak, apparently . . .’ Gormley said. ‘Rumour has it he wants my warrant card.’
Bright grinned, potting another ball in the corner pocket. He winked at Daniels and walked round the table, considering all the available angles. But after his show of concentration he missed
the side pocket by a whisper. As Gormley stepped up to take his turn, Bright leaned against the wall, arms folded, feet crossed over one another – a serious expression on his face.