The Murder Wall (17 page)

Daniels knew he was thinking about the fruit-bat in the cells. By the time they had got back to the station her guv’nor was chomping at the bit, ready to have another go at him. But the
suspect’s brief had disappeared, summoned by a High Court judge in another murder case, and now the interrogation would have to wait for his return.

‘You think Martin has the balls to kill, guv?’ she asked.

Bright gave the honest answer. ‘Depends what’s at stake, I suppose. You be careful what you accuse him of, Kate. He can be an out and out bastard when he wants to be. You cross him,
he’ll shaft you first chance he gets.’

Daniels wondered if that was why he was shadowing her case. Was he trying to protect her from an ACC who took pleasure in ending careers? Didn’t he know by now she was capable of standing
on her own two feet? Gormley’s voice interrupted her train of thought.

‘To hell with that!’ he said. ‘Martin knows something, and I want to know what it is. He once told me I’d never make detective as long as I had a hole in my arse. Now
it’s payback time.’

Bright chuckled. ‘Talking about arses, what time does he get in?’

‘Skye’s quite a drive,’ Daniels said. ‘It’ll probably be sometime in the early hours.’

The Super had an evil look on his face. He snatched the mobile from his belt and scrolled through his phonebook. When Martin’s name appeared he punched the call key and listened. The
number rang out for a few seconds before switching to a voicemail service:
The mobile you are calling may be switched off. Please try again later.

‘This is Detective Superintendent Bright, sir . . .’ Bright’s tongue was firmly planted in his cheek. ‘I need to speak with you urgently. A good time would be in my
office at eight a.m. tomorrow, if that’s convenient.’

Daniels winced as he hung up.

‘What?’ he said.

She grinned, checking her watch. ‘C’mon, Hank. Playtime’s over.’

‘Fancy a jar down the pub later?’ Bright said. ‘Assuming I wind up my case.’

‘I’m in,’ Gormley said.

Bright looked at Daniels.

‘I can’t tonight, guv.’ She pulled an apologetic face. ‘I’m meeting Ron Naylor later and I’ve got a million things to do.’

What was it that drew him to her? Her feisty personality, perhaps; her strong sense of right and wrong; or something altogether more basic than that? Her natural beauty? Her scent? The way her
lips moved when she talked?

What the hell did Naylor have that he didn’t?

Gormley looked at him. ‘Your tongue’s hanging out, guv.’

‘Sorry . . . I was miles away.’

Gormley knew exactly where he was.

41

T
he phone rang on Harry Holt’s desk. On the next desk down, Maxwell looked up, irritated by the interruption. He chose to ignore the phone; seconds later it went
quiet.

Seconds after that, it rang again.

Brown’s eyes conveyed contempt. ‘You going to get that this time?’ he said.

Maxwell didn’t move. ‘If it’s important, they’ll call back.’

‘I think you’ll find they just did!’

Shaking his head, Brown got up and answered the phone himself. He didn’t immediately recognize the caller but the urgency in the voice of a young PC from Area Command was enough to raise
his curiosity. He was desperate to speak to the receiver.

‘Whoa, slow down.’ Anticipating a long story, Brown grabbed a pen and paper, took a seat. ‘Harry’s in the bog, mate. You’ll have to make do with me. DC Brown, how
can I help?’

The caller cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been given an action to interview a Mrs Close at Court Mews apartment block. D’you know anything about that?’

‘No. But did you?’

‘What?

‘Trace the witness!’

‘Oh, right, yeah I did. Mrs Close told me she travelled up in the lift with Felicity Wood at around eleven o’clock on Thursday night. As she searched for her key, the witness claims
she heard Wood’s high heels on the hallway above. Almost immediately, the lift went down, then came straight back up and she heard someone knock on the door to Wood’s apartment. She
definitely
had company on the night of the murder!’

Brown stopped writing. He leaned back in Harry’s chair, crossed one leg over the other and poured cold water over the revelation: ‘Doesn’t necessarily mean Wood was lying.
Maybe someone got the wrong door? It happens.’

‘Don’t think so. Close was adamant the lift didn’t go down again.’

Brown sat up straight, pressed the caps lock on the computer keyboard and entered the name: FELICITY WOOD. Immediately, a transcript of Wood’s original statement popped up on the screen.
As he studied the data, he thought back to a conversation he’d had with Daniels earlier in the day. She’d had a gut feeling that the solicitor wasn’t on the level – it
looked as though she was being proved right.

‘OK, thanks, leave it with me.’ Brown put the phone down just as Gormley walked in. ‘You seen the boss, Hank?’

A roar went past the window as the Toyota sped away.

‘I think you’ll find she just left,’ Gormley said.

42

S
he couldn’t move. Something was holding her down, putting pressure on her right shoulder. She was cold: very, very cold. She could hear an awful grinding sound. Light
flashing. Movement too. A hand pressing on her left hip. A voice, close and yet far away. Words, muffled and unrecognizable, as if spoken through a thick wet blanket.

Talk to me, pet . . .

. . . talk to me . . .

Jo woke in a panic. The sight of Daniels keeping vigil by her bedside was a clear reminder that her problems hadn’t gone away. For several seconds, they just looked at one another,
regretting the harsh words of their previous meeting.

‘I had a dream . . .’ Jo said. ‘You’d bugged my room. Should I be talking to you while I’m in here?’

‘Are all psychologists paranoid?’ Daniels grinned and made a meal of looking furtively over her shoulder towards the door. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not wearing a wire.
I’d show you, only I might get rumbled.’

‘Spoilsport.’

An intense moment of regret . . .

Jo got serious. ‘Why are you here? Come to ask me some more questions?’

Daniels noticed that the bruising round Jo’s eyes had begun to disappear. The shape of her face was returning to normal and she’d regained a little colour and a familiar twinkle in
her eyes. She wanted to tell her she was there because she cared, because she had regrets, because . . .

Fuck it! She’d never listen. What would be the point?

‘You know you’ll be formally interviewed?’ she said instead.

Jo swept a lock of damp hair off her sweaty face. ‘By you?’

‘No, not by me. I promise.’

As SIO, Daniels wondered just how she was going to keep that promise. How exactly
could
she justify dodging an interview with the prime suspect? She shoved the thought to the back of her
mind.

‘Right now I’m here as a mate, Jo. Not a Senior Investigating Officer. If there’s anything you need to tell me, no matter what it is, now’s the time. If . . .’

She broke off, couldn’t get the words out. She’d asked a question she didn’t
really
want to know the answer to. It was something she’d learned not to do very early
in her police career. And now Jo was staring at her, looking through her, almost, as if she was an alien.

‘Will you just listen to yourself!’ Jo was angry again, but also disappointed. ‘I hated him, you know I did. But not enough to kill him.’

‘Even after what the bastard did to you? I could’ve killed him myself.’

Jo said nothing.

‘You can see how it looks?’

‘D’you think I need reminding? Even Tom and James have their doubts. I can see it in their eyes, even though they’re trying to hide it. Please tell me they’re not
suspects too.’

Daniels was desperate to throw her a crumb of comfort. But James had lied about his whereabouts and, well, it just wasn’t that simple. Gormley had recalled him for interview. ‘You know how it works, Jo. As soon as their alibis check out, you’ll be the first to know. Right now, I want to talk to you about the accident.’

‘Like I said, I don’t remember a thing.’

‘Your car came off a road heading away from the coast towards the A1, just north of Morpeth. Your receptionist said you’d been to Acklington Prison on Friday afternoon for an
interview.’ Nothing was registering. ‘One of your lifers nearing his tariff date?’

Jo’s expression was blank.

Daniels fed her a little more information, hoping to prompt recall. ‘He has a parole review coming up and his behaviour was causing concern, apparently. The Governor was thinking of
shipping him back to Dartmoor but wanted the benefit of your advice before making the arrangements.’

‘Which inmate?’

‘Woodgate?’

‘Oh . . .’

‘You
do
remember him?’

‘He’s not easy to forget. He’s not the most popular person on the planet. Look, I’m sorry, Kate, but it’s like a black hole. I really couldn’t say if I saw
him or not. Didn’t they find my BlackBerry after the accident?’

‘I don’t recall seeing it in the report I read. I’ll check.’ Daniels’ spirits lifted. If she could help Jo to remember her last appointment at work – where
she’d been, who with – perhaps they could work their way back to Thursday the fifth.

Some cognitive interviewing just might work.

Jo’s face paled as Daniels’ voice trailed off. It was as if the seriousness of her situation had suddenly hit home. She looked small and insignificant against the white sheets, like
a frail old lady who didn’t understand where she was or how she’d got there.

‘I know you’re scared,’ Daniels whispered, ‘but I’m not going anywhere. We’re in this together. I promise.’

43

I
n Interview Room 2, James Stephens sat nervously waiting for the questions to begin. Gormley clasped his hands in front of his waist and studied the young man in front of him.
He bore many similarities to his own son, Ryan; a son he might lose unless his marriage situation improved. Gormley’s wife, Julie, had finally reached her limit: she’d had enough of
playing second fiddle to his job, his working all hours, their cancelled social arrangements. She’d given him an ultimatum: take her and Ryan seriously or they’d move to the south coast
to begin a new life without him.

Pushing away that worrying thought, Gormley turned on the tape deck and cautioned the lad. Seeing no reason to pussyfoot around, he launched straight in. ‘Mr Stephens, is there anything
you would like to add or change from the information you gave DCI Daniels when you came in to help us with our enquiries?’

James looked a little sheepish. He shook his head.

‘For the benefit of the tape, James Stephens has shaken his head. Could you please answer the question?’

‘No,’ James mumbled. ‘I’ve nothing to add.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’

‘That’s interesting. You see, according to Sheffield CID, you weren’t actually present at your Halls of Residence when you said you were.’

James shrugged.

Gormley wasn’t taken in by the young man’s bravado. His body language was giving him away: rapid eye movements, hands in front of his genitals, knee moving up and down as one foot
continually tapped the floor. But even though it was obvious the kid was shitting himself with fear, Gormley knew he was no killer – he’d stake his pension and his reputation on it.

‘So where were you?’ he said.

James’ eyes darted to the LED on the recorder.

‘Look, son, I’d like nothing better than to sit here all evening talking to you, on account of the fact that my wife is a pain in the arse and I’ve got nowt special to go home
for. But I’m betting you have more important things on, so why not do yourself a favour and just tell me the truth?’

James shifted in his seat. ‘Technically, I was – telling the truth, I mean.’

‘You’re going to have to do better than that.’

‘I
was
in Sheffield . . .’ James looked like a little boy caught with his hands in the sweetie jar. ‘Only . . . I haven’t been entirely honest about my living
arrangements.’

Gormley grinned. Hooking one arm over the back of his chair, he studied the lad’s features more closely. There was definitely something in James’ appearance that reminded him of his
son. Perhaps it was the mop of blond hair, or maybe the piercing blue eyes. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, probably because he hadn’t seen much of Ryan in recent
weeks. He’d been too busy keeping his head down, staying out of the way.

James smirked as young men do when they’re embarrassed. But there was some other emotion in play, one Gormley thought he recognized.

Conceit?

Pride, perhaps?

‘Care to elaborate?’ he pressed.

James chose not to answer.

Gormley sighed and looked at his watch. ‘Interview terminated at seven fifty-seven p.m. . . .’ He turned off the tape, relaxed back in his chair and shut his eyes. ‘Wake me
when you’re ready to talk.’

The silence didn’t last long.

‘I was shagging my tutor, if you must know.’

Gormley opened his eyes. ‘Then why the hell didn’t you just say so, you idiot?’

44

R
on Naylor was waiting – as Daniels knew he would be – in The Living Room restaurant on Grey Street, as agreed.
He scrubs up well, for a copper
, she thought,
as a waiter took her coat. Always the policeman, she knew he’d sit facing the door, careful never to turn his back on potential trouble – a useful tip drummed into them at training
school that now came as second nature. Subconsciously or otherwise, he’d have clocked everyone in the place, could probably tell her what they had on, what mood they were in, and whether or
not they were up to no good.