The Murder Wall (18 page)

He smiled and stood up as she approached.

She sat down, couldn’t help noticing that he’d ordered French wine, her favourite Sancerre La Fuzelle from the Loire Valley. ‘You shouldn’t have, Ron.’

‘Thought you could do with a treat . . .’ He poured her half a glass. ‘You looked shagged out when I saw you yesterday.’

‘Tell me about it . . .’ Daniels took a sip of her wine, mulling over the day’s events. After seeing Jo she’d rushed back to the MIR to check on progress; it had come as
a relief when she heard that James Stephens had now given an account of his whereabouts on Thursday night, an alibi being checked out by Gormley as a matter of urgency. And the developing situation
with Felicity Wood intrigued her; she’d tasked Brown to follow up on it, first thing in the morning. She put down her glass. ‘Sorry I’m late, Ron. I was just about to leave when I
got a call from the front office to go down there right away. Asian woman, really agitated, so the desk sergeant said, wanting to give me something. Couldn’t speak a word of English by all
accounts, just kept jabbing her finger at an envelope addressed to me. I thought it must be important.’

‘And was it?’

‘Never got chance to find out . . .’ Daniels rummaged in her bag. Retrieving a brown envelope, she passed it over the table. Naylor looked inside and removed a crossed-out photo of a
young Asian male. It was on flimsy, shiny paper with newsprint on the reverse; obviously a clipping from a magazine.

‘Who is he?’

‘Search me. I’ve never seen him before.’

Naylor studied the envelope, which was addressed for Daniels’ personal attention in childish handwriting. He looked up. ‘Maybe it’s her son. Maybe she’s seen you on the
box and is trying to tell you he’s gone missing.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

‘And there was no accompanying message?’

‘No message, no explanation, just that.’

‘She could be a crank,’ Naylor suggested.

‘Or, as you say, someone desperately in need of help.’

‘She’ll be back, if that’s the case.’

‘You’re right. I’m starving, you ready to order?’

They called the waiter and ordered a fillet steak for him, sea bass for her, then got straight down to business. Naylor had brought along a photocopy of the crumpled card taken from Jenny
Tait’s mouth for comparison to the one found in Father Simon’s hands a year ago. They were similar only in as much as they were both prayer cards. Forensic examination had failed to
establish any further link between them.

‘I know what you said about coincidence . . .’ Naylor said tentatively. ‘And I know you want to get the bastard that killed the priest and the young lass from your village,
that goes without saying. But I can’t see it myself. I mean, if he wasn’t a priest—’

‘If he wasn’t a priest, you’d be jumping up and down!’

‘Exactly my point, Kate. Look, if we found a murder victim with a stethoscope round his neck, it would
only
be odd if he was a plumber, not a doctor.’

Daniels knew what he was getting at – of course she did – but that didn’t stop her arguing her corner until their waiter arrived with food. They sat in silence for much of the
meal, contemplating the significance of the prayer card – at least, that was what Daniels was doing. Now that the card was on her radar, she kept hoping it would somehow lead to a result so
that she could finally close the book on the Corbridge case – give David and Elsie Short some peace. But was she just clutching at straws? Naylor noticed her push her plate away, no longer
hungry.

‘Penny for them,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry, Ron. This double murder got to me, it’s still getting to me – I know that. And not just because these people are close to home, but . . . well, just because
they deserve justice and I’ve got nothing to give them. After all this time, we still don’t know if Sarah was attacked because she witnessed a murder, or if Father Simon was murdered
because he stumbled upon her being raped in his bloody church.’

‘Hey, come on . . .’ Naylor reached across the table and put his hand on hers. They’d known each other for years; always platonic, never anything other than good mates.
‘Head down, bum up. You’ll get whoever did this eventually, you know you will—’

She didn’t wait for him to finish. ‘Assuming for one second that Sarah witnessed Father Simon’s murder, and not the other way round, then the card isn’t the only common
ground. The MO is exactly the same. Jenny Tait and Father Simon were both shot in the chest, remember.’

‘True. But half the murders we investigate are shootings these days. It’s like the OK Corral out there. Except this isn’t Tombstone, Arizona.’ He paused. She usually
appreciated his cowboy references. But not tonight. ‘It’s not just that, though, is it, Kate? I’m sensing something more. C’mon, what is it?’

Daniels sighed heavily, lifted her wine glass to her lips. ‘Maybe I just need a few days off to recharge the batteries, get my focus back . . .’ Naylor was no fool. Daniels could see
that he wasn’t buying it. She quickly changed the subject. ‘Why did you never marry, Ron?’

‘No point.’ He wiped his mouth on a serviette. ‘You want a sweet, coffee . . .? The night’s still young.’

Daniels shook her head. ‘I’ve got to—’

‘Dash, I know.’ Taking out his wallet, he caught the eye of a waiter and wrote an imaginary bill on his hand. ‘If you think about it, you just answered your own question.
I’ve seen too many relationships go tits-up. Marriage requires two people in them, not just one. I’m too busy most of the time. That’s my excuse – what’s
yours?’

Daniels didn’t have one.

At least, not one she could tell him about.

45

H
e hid outside in the cold night air, still as a statue, head cocked back slightly, peering through the narrow glass panel in the door, trying to make sense of what he could
hear. The muffled voice of another person in the flat? No: a radio presenter and gentle music.

The coast was clear.

Jamil Malik was asleep on the sofa with just a dim light for company. The anticipation of what he was about to do to him felt like sexual arousal. He’d waited long enough. Silently he
turned the handle, pushed open the door, heart racing slightly, hands damp with sweat, eyes firmly focused on his prey. He moved forward on to the threshold, aiming the beam of light at
Malik’s face.

Malik sat up, shielding his eyes, his voice hardly audible.

‘What do you want? Get out of my house!’

Lowering the torch, he reached deep into his pocket and drew out his weapon, touching Malik’s lips with the tip of the barrel to silence the cunt. It worked. A sharp intake of breath was
followed by irrepressible weeping and a patch of piss growing big around Malik’s crotch.

He gestured for him to kneel on the floor. Malik did as he was told, joining his hands together, pleading for his life as a carriage clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight.

Perfect.

His forefinger began to squeeze the trigger, then he swung round as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He relaxed again as a toddler padded across the carpet, rubbing his eyes with
one hand and trailing a threadbare teddy along the floor behind him with the other. Panic seized Malik. He tried to push the boy away, but the child clung to him, alarmed by the tears running down
his grandfather’s face.

Malik pleaded for the boy’s life.

‘Kill me! Kill me!’

He smiled.

There was a God, after all.

‘What’s your name?’ He spoke the words gently, bending down, gesturing for the toddler to join him. The boy blinked, still wary of the stranger. So he made a silly face until
the child began to giggle, his little milk teeth gleaming in the torchlight. ‘Come, see what I’ve got. Bang, bang.’ And then to Malik: ‘Let him go, and he lives.’

Malik understood. He released his grip, allowing his bony fingers to slip from the child’s pyjamas. But still the boy hesitated. And then, as only a child can, he slowly came round and
walked towards their guest, his innocence and trust plain to see. Malik was praying now, praying for all he was worth.

The sound of his prayers – any prayers – was like a red rag to a bull. He wanted it to stop, but he knew yelling at the old man would alarm the child.

And still Malik prayed aloud, hands joined, eyes closed.

His anger rose, then fell away as Malik’s prayers faded into the background, replaced by others more terrifying than he could ever have imagined, spoken by a voice that transported him
back to a room, equally dim and dingy, to a mother forcing him to his knees to beg for the Lord’s forgiveness for his sins.

He tried to focus on Malik’s hands, but he could only see
hers.

She was yelling at him now, her hands parted from prayer, raised high above her head. Blows rained down on him as he cowered, defenceless.

And then he saw the red mist. Rage took over as he remembered that Malik and his mother had once been close friends. And suddenly he knew what to do. Turning the weeping child round to face his
grandfather, he placed the gun in his tiny hand and guided his fingers on to the trigger. Applying gentle pressure, he felt the child’s body jerk backwards as the gun went off. Malik fell and
the boy ran to him.

Job done, he placed the calling card on the floor . . .

And walked away unperturbed.

46

T
he day had passed in the blink of an eye. There had been some interesting developments that Daniels felt sure would help her find the person responsible for Alan
Stephens’ death, but not enough to get Jo Soulsby off MIT’s radar altogether.

After leaving Naylor, she hadn’t driven straight home. Instead she’d taken a short detour past Francesca’s Restaurant on Manor House Road. Jo had told her that Tom and James
were heading there after an evening visit to the hospital. Her suggestion. Her shout. Anything to stop her sons grabbing a takeaway, she’d said. And, right enough, their battered VW was
parked directly outside.

Daniels slowed the Toyota to walking pace and did a quick recon, just in case. She could see through the window that the place was heaving, could even smell Italian herbs as she drove slowly by.
The brothers were sitting at a table near the door, a menu in Tom’s hand and a fresh pint of beer in front of each of them.

Perfect timing – she was free and clear.

Within minutes she’d been home and changed. Now walking to her front door, dressed in motorcycle leathers and carrying her helmet, she wondered what the hell she was doing. After a
moment’s hesitation, she let herself out and locked the door behind her. The Yamaha Fazer 600 was already outside. She climbed on and rode off into the night, pulling the visor down over her
face.

It wasn’t a long journey. She’d be there in a few minutes, if the cars in front would get their act into gear instead of cruising up and down, checking out the talent. Osborne Road
was in an area that had undergone a transformation in recent years. Bars had sprung up all over the place, many attached to big hotels with terraces out front leading directly on to the tree-lined
street. They all had cool names: Blanc, Bar Polo, Osborne’s, Spy, Bar Berlise. The clientele were well catered for with tall tables, patio heaters and wind breakers – just as well,
given the lack of clothing being worn on a cold winter’s night.

Despite the throaty purr of the Fazer’s engine, laughter and music faded in and out of Daniels’ head as she slowly negotiated round a group of kids making their way across the road,
taking less care than they ought. Arriving at her destination, she came to a stop directly opposite Jo’s house. She didn’t dismount, nor lift the visor on her helmet, just sat astride
the machine for a second or two, watching. The place was in total darkness. With a remote, she opened up the garage, rode in and killed the engine. She dismounted, unzipped her jacket and pulled
out a torch.

Leaving her gloves on, she entered the house.

There were signs that Tom and James had been there: dishes left abandoned on the kitchen table, washing-up in the sink, a newspaper open at an article reporting on Alan Stephens’ death.
Daniels moved through the house quickly, her anxiety rising. If she was discovered creeping around in the dark, there’d certainly be a lot of explaining to do
.
But she soldiered on,
convincing herself that she was trespassing for all the right reasons – ostensibly to prove Jo’s innocence, though what she was expecting to find was anyone’s guess.

She found nothing untoward.

Returning to the kitchen, Daniels opened up the bin and shone the torch inside. Unable to make out what she was looking at, she lifted segments of a torn-up photograph on to the work surface.
Piecing them together, she made an image of Alan Stephens. Gutted, she gathered up the pieces and returned them to the bin.

She got back on her bike and left.

47

T
he minute hand on the dial of an eighteenth-century longcase clock moved forward a notch. For over forty-five minutes, Brown had been reading magazines in the smart waiting
room of solicitors Graham & Abercrombie, situated on Grey Street – some would say Newcastle’s finest example of architecture.

Brown knew about clocks; his grandfather used to repair them. The one he was staring at was a fine example, worth around twelve thousand pounds, give or take. It was made of mahogany, inlaid
with brass, a typical eight-day longcase with five-pillar movement striking the hour on a bell. Thankfully it had only done this once while Brown had been sitting twiddling his thumbs. But it was
gone ten o’clock and he had other calls to make.

Fed up with waiting, he stood and approached a middle-aged woman who was typing on a computer keyboard at the reception desk. She wore a pink cardigan fastened to the neck with tiny silver
buttons. Her bifocals sat lower than the bridge of her nose, her hair was slicked back, her head tilted slightly to one side as she listened through a modern earpiece.

He stared at her intently. ‘Miss, I haven’t got all day.’