The Murder Wall (26 page)

He paused, inviting Jo to tender an alibi.

None was forthcoming.

Oliver intervened. ‘Can we just stick to the facts?’

Carmichael’s eyes flitted from Oliver to Jo and back again. She rested her forearms on the table so she could read over Bright’s shoulder, no doubt grateful that Daniels had been
‘inexplicably delayed’.

‘Mrs Soulsby,’ Bright continued, ‘we have a witness who will testify that you were in a dirty and confused state when you arrived home. Can you explain that?’

‘I can’t help you.’ Jo turned her head away, unaware of Daniels’ presence in the room next door. The two women were looking straight at each other on opposite sides of a
party wall. Bright glanced at his notes and fired off another question, giving Jo no time to dwell on the last.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘the weapon used to kill Alan Stephens was found close to your office. Do you wish to comment on that?’

He relaxed back in his seat, using his steely eyes to intimidate Jo.

The silence in the room was deafening.

‘Superintendent!’ Oliver damn near exploded. ‘You can do better than that, surely? I asked for evidence! Have you found gun residue on my client or her clothing?’ He
waited for Bright to respond. ‘No, I didn’t think so. Your question is irrelevant. I’ll let you in on a little secret: that gun was discovered closer to
my
home than it was
to Ms Soulsby’s office. Are you going to arrest me, too?’

Carmichael was enjoying the battle. She was getting the lesson of her police career. Bright wasn’t in the least put off by Oliver’s sarcasm. Sensing her adulation, he loosened his
tie and revved up for the kill, pushing a package in Soulsby’s direction.

‘Do you recognize this? It’s your coat. The one you took to the dry cleaner’s within hours of your ex-husband’s death.’

Jo chose not to answer.

‘Refusing to comment will do you no good in the long run, as you well know. This is your opportunity to set the record straight.’

J
o watched Bright pour himself a beaker of water. He took a sip, letting his comment linger a while in everyone’s mind. She was frustrated with all the questions. The man
asking them was not someone she had much time for. And she knew the feeling was mutual – they’d never seen eye to eye. By reputation, he was apparently good at his job, a detective
others – including Kate Daniels – tried to emulate.

Did he really think she looked like a killer?

Jo thought about this for a while. She had to concede that most killers she’d ever come across looked like your average person. They bore no distinguishing features, marking them out from
the rest of society. Most went about their business just as she did: working, spending time with family and friends, eating, drinking, sleeping . . .

Suddenly very tired, she wanted the interview to come to an end so she could go home and climb into bed. She was innocent, and Bright had no evidence to prove otherwise.

‘I haven’t lived with him for years . . .’ Jo pinched the bridge of her nose, meeting her accuser’s eyes across the table. ‘You know that to be the case,
Superintendent. What reason would I have to kill him?’

‘I’m coming to that,’ Bright said confidently, keeping his trump card up his sleeve for just a moment longer.

O
n the other side of the party wall, Daniels’ face was red with anger and frustration. She knew what was coming and cursed her guv’nor under her breath. She could
remember sitting where Carmichael was now. Watching Bright in action that first time had seemed amazing. It felt like only yesterday, not some ten years ago. He was skilled at interviewing
suspects, knew instinctively which buttons to press and how hard to press them. He’d taught her so much: how timing was almost as important as the evidence itself, spotting the precise moment
to turn the knife. That was the key to getting a confession. Tripping the suspect up, forcing them to make the mistake that would put them inside for a very long time. But with all that was going
on in his life, Daniels began to wonder whether he was losing his touch.

Couldn’t he see he was getting it wrong?

Despite the police surgeon’s assertion that Jo was fit to be interviewed, Daniels suspected she was still traumatized by the accident. Bright would make mincemeat of her and nothing Oliver
could say or do would stop him. He was on the brink of asking another question when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

‘Come!’ he yelled, glancing at Carmichael.

From her position in the observation room, it was clear to Daniels that they both expected
her
to come walking through the door. She grew anxious when Robson entered, carrying a package
of some kind, which she assumed must be another exhibit, something vitally important to the case.

‘For the benefit of the recording, DS Robson has entered the room.’ Bright couldn’t mask his disappointment. He got to his feet, joining Robson in a corner. They stood with
their backs to Daniels, talking in low whispers. She couldn’t see their faces, nor hear what was said, but their muted conversation didn’t last long.

Dismissing Robson, Bright took the package. As he turned back to the others, Daniels detected a familiar look – a triumphant look that put the fear of God into her. He approached the table
and sat down, fingering the package in his hand before placing it very deliberately on the table, halfway between himself and Jo. This piece of drama was calculated in its intent, a classic method
of raising the stakes and putting the suspect under pressure.

‘Mrs Soulsby, have you ever visited number 24 Court Mews?’

‘It’s Ms Soulsby . . . and no, I have not.’

‘Are you certain about that?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So you have
never
been in Alan Stephens’ apartment before?’

‘That is what I said.’

‘Are you familiar with the term “provable lies”?’

‘You patronizing bastard! You know I am!’

Picking up the package he’d so carefully and theatrically placed in the centre of the table, Bright opened it to reveal an unremarkable and commonplace photo frame with a mounted picture
of Alan and Monica Stephens inside. He held it aloft so that Jo and Oliver could see it clearly.

‘For the benefit of the recording, I’m showing Ms Soulsby exhibit FMD0811, a photograph . . .’ He paused for effect. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’

‘No.’

‘Any idea who the subject is?’

‘Alan . . . and his current wife, I presume.’

‘Explain to me how your prints came to be on this photo frame.’

Jo faltered, processing this. ‘They can’t have been!’

Jo stared at Oliver and shook her head. The solicitor remained poker-faced and said nothing. There was a short pause as Bright let the gravity of the information sink in.

In the viewing room, Daniels sat down. She felt so betrayed, it was hard to concentrate, even harder to accept what she’d just heard. The fingerprint bureau had produced the trump card:
irrefutable evidence that Jo had visited Stephens’ apartment, if not on the night of the murder, then at some time in the past. She’d given Jo every opportunity to take her into her
confidence. Whatever the reason for her silence, Jo had created yet another blindside for Daniels to deal with.

Didn’t she know that whoever knows the truth has the most power?

Bright was staring at Jo across the table, savouring his moment of victory, letting his suspect reconsider her position. He shuffled a few papers and stood up. As he walked away from the table,
Jo appeared to relax a little. She obviously thought the interview was over.

Daniels knew it wasn’t . . .
not in a million years.

‘In the past, you alleged that Alan Stephens raped you, is that correct?’

Bright said it matter-of-factly, as if he’d been talking about something inconsequential like the wintry weather outside. It was done for a purpose and left Jo visibly stunned. Turning her
face away from him, she looked towards the two-way mirror separating the adjoining rooms. Looking hurt and betrayed, her anger was so near to the surface it very nearly brought tears to her eyes as
she sensed Daniels watching the proceedings.

She turned back to face her accuser. ‘That’s a lowballer, Superintendent. Pity your lot weren’t a bit interested when it happened. I could have done with your
support.’

Bright pushed a little harder, unconcerned with her distress. He was enjoying himself, playing to the audience, an audience of one. From the look of her, Carmichael sensed their suspect was near
to breaking point.

‘You hated him, didn’t you?’ Bright waited. ‘DIDN’T YOU?’

In the observation room, Daniels flinched, urging Jo not to let him wind her up, wondering when Oliver was going to start earning his big fat fee.

As if he’d read her thoughts, Oliver suddenly spoke up. ‘That is quite enough! You’re now being hostile, Superintendent. My client needs a break.’

Jo was seething, struggling to keep a lid on her temper. Daniels noticed that her face had lost its colour and her lips had gone pale. They always did when she was angry.

Then she began to fight back. ‘You’re a bully, Bright – just like he was,’ she said. ‘Yes, I hated him. I hated him with a passion, if you must know. But
there’s no law against that.’

She locked eyes with him across the table, holding his stare until he looked away. Bright placed the framed photograph back inside the envelope it had arrived in, smiling to himself as he did
so.

‘This alleged rape sounds like—’

‘HE DID RAPE ME!’ Jo yelled.

‘Of that I have no doubt,’ Bright said, his tone more sympathetic. ‘That’s why you killed him – for revenge. Isn’t that the truth of it?’

Jo’s jaw hardened. She didn’t answer.

‘You were seen on the Quayside at the relevant time in a dishevelled state.’

‘Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know. I told you, I can’t remember.’

‘The murder weapon was found near your office.’

Oliver insisted they take a break.

Bright ignored him and rounded on Jo. ‘The victim is your ex-husband, a man you claim raped you and readily admit you hated. You deny being in his apartment, yet we discovered your
fingerprints inside. I think you killed him and you’re pretending to suffer from a loss of memory because you have no other option. Josephine Soulsby, I will be formally charging you with the
offence of murdering Alan Stephens, contrary to common law . . .’

J
o’s admission of hatred resonated in Daniels’ mind long after she’d left the observation room. She made off quickly down the corridor to avoid bumping into
her boss. It didn’t surprise her that Jo hadn’t completely broken down. She’d vowed never again to allow herself to be bullied and had risen from the ashes of domestic violence a
much stronger person. Today she’d proved that, giving as good as she’d received under extreme pressure.

The murder investigation team had their heads down as Daniels re-entered the incident room. Seconds later, she felt a light jab in the back. Turning round, she came face to face with Bright. He
didn’t look best pleased.

‘You’d better have a good excuse, Kate. Going AWOL in the middle of a major incident is not to be recommended. You and I need to talk . . .’ He sighed, searching her eyes for a
moment. ‘We’re going for a drink, if you’d like to join us.’

‘Think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Suit yourself.’

As he stormed off with Carmichael in tow, Daniels picked up her bag and followed suit, slamming the door behind her, drawing the stares of the majority of those in the MIR.

Gormley approached Maxwell’s desk. ‘What was that all about?’

Maxwell shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you ask me, she’s losing it.’

Through the window, Gormley saw the Toyota racing away.

65

B
eing first to tell Jo’s sons what had happened to their mother seemed the very least Daniels could do. Thomas and James sat motionless in Jo’s living room, unable
to take it all in. There were tears, expressions of disbelief, outpourings of anger.

And sarcasm from James. ‘This
is
a wind up, right?’

There was an awful silence as Daniels shook her head, not quite knowing what to say. A million questions followed: Is she all right? Where is she now? Can we see her? How often can we visit if
she’s remanded? How do you go about it? Can we take her stuff? What’s Oliver doing? What the fuck is going on?

Daniels leaned forward and spoke gently. ‘I’m going to stick my neck out here. But I must warn you, I’ll deny ever having said anything if what I’m about to tell you is
repeated. Understood?’

Responding to the gravity in her voice, Tom and James both nodded.

‘I do
not
believe that your mother killed your father . . .’ Daniels wondered if she was digging her own grave. ‘And I will do everything in my power to prove it. You
have my absolute word on that.’

‘Then why?’ It was almost a wail from Tom.

Daniels sighed heavily. ‘Most of the evidence against her is circumstantial and I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you. You’ll have to speak to her solicitor about that. All
I can say is that it amounts to enough to sustain a charge of unlawful killing. She’ll appear at the magistrates’ court later today.’

W
hen she got home, Daniels had a shower, put on a robe and went back downstairs to the living room. She poured herself a large gin and decided to put on some music. Her index
finger trailed along her CD collection, each disc a reminder of a specific point in her life: Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Jackson Browne, her mother’s favourites she’d listened to from
an early age. James Morrison, James Blunt and David Gray, whose lyrics and voice had moved her to tears the first time she’d heard him sing. And, last but not least, the Dixie Chicks Jo loved
so much.

A little grin appeared on Daniels’ lips, reminded of Jo’s reaction to her music collection the first time she’d visited the house. ‘All your taste is in your
mouth,’ she’d said, making them both laugh out loud. She glanced around at her books, her art, much of it influenced by Jo. In pride of place were three limited-edition prints; deeply
atmospheric images captured by French photographer, Marc Riboud, Jo had bought as a birthday surprise – misty mountain landscapes she would treasure for the rest of her days. They were
beautiful, sensual, much like the woman who’d bought them.