The Murder Wall (44 page)
Daniels fought to stay calm. If she ever got out of there alive, the clear-up rate at MIT looked set to improve. She wondered just how many murder victims Forster was responsible for.
Was she going to be his last?
She watched nervously as he fondled the gun before pointing it straight at her.
He pulled the trigger.
CLICK.
Her whole body juddered, her knees nearly buckling beneath her as she realized the chamber had been empty. But already he’d reloaded.
Now she knew she was in trouble . . .
‘F
oxtrot to Gormley. Unable to get a shot off at the moment.’
‘Copy that, Foxtrot.’ Gormley glanced at Jo in the passenger seat. She looked like a tormented soul, pained by unimaginable thoughts. He put his foot down and got back on the radio.
‘What action are you taking, Foxtrot?’
‘Maintaining close observational cordon. As soon as a shot is on, we shoot to kill.’
‘God!’ Jo began to hyperventilate.
Gormley let go of the wheel, grabbed hold of her hand and told her to take deep breaths. ‘These guys are highly trained. They won’t take any chances, Jo. I promise you.’
‘And if they don’t have a clear view?’
‘They wait . . .’
‘For how long?’
‘Until they have no choice but to storm the place.’
F
orster was enjoying the memory of his killing spree. In fact, the more he spoke about it, the more animated he became. That suited Daniels, who was trying to tease as much
information out of him as she could.
So long as he was marching, he wasn’t fighting.
‘Did you find Dorothy Smith?’
‘Oh, I found her all right – with a little help from my friends. Some idiot left a rucksack unattended, a full set of waterproofs inside. Great camouflage, Katie. Even better
protection from her blood . . . And there was a lot of it, before you ask.’
Daniels tried to block him out by thinking of the last time she and Jo had visited the Lakes. They’d been happy then, staying in a small hotel just two miles from the last sighting of
Dorothy Smith.
‘I take it she’s dead?’ Cumbria Constabulary still hadn’t found her.
‘As a dodo . . .’
‘At least tell me where you dumped her body . . .’
His eyes had grown cold – filled with pure hatred – and his speech suddenly became rushed, manic even. ‘Be patient, boy! Say “excuse me, please” when I’m
speaking! Don’t you dare interrupt!’
He’d flipped.
As Forster continued to relive snippets of his childhood, Daniels’ concern for her safety grew. Realizing it was just a matter of time before he lost it completely, she knew better than to
aggravate him any further.
His rant continued, a litany of names that meant nothing to her until she realized that his twenty-year fixation with
Living Faith
had resulted in such familiarity with his targets
he’d begun referring to them by diminutives, names that any normal person would use as a term of affection.
‘They always made me wait!’ He spat the words through clenched teeth.
‘They?’
‘The God squad! Who do you think?’
‘The ones featured in the—’
‘Them!
Her!
That magazine was the last thing she ever gave me . . . the fucking last thing! Fucking cow! Well, I didn’t want to disappoint her, now, did I? So I did what she
wanted. I learned it by heart, each and every word, every face, every name, is carved in here—’ He tapped the side of his head with the barrel of the gun. ‘And now it’s not
Living
Faith any more, is it, Katie? I’m giving it back to her, page by fucking page . . . They’re all going back to Jesus!’
Daniels chanced her arm. ‘If you were killing them in order, how come you went back to St Camillus?’
‘I knew
you’d
be there, stupid!’ He chuckled, reacting as if he’d just remembered something. ‘Why were you staring at the tree? Were you thinking about
Number Two?’
‘Number Two?’ Daniels said.
‘The fucking priest. C’mon Katie, get with the programme!’
Gormley’s clever observation that he was killing his victims in order jumped into Daniels’ aching head. Number One must be Susan Thompson, the woman who had died of natural causes
before Forster got to her. Some might say a blessing.
‘Oh, I get it. Not the priest – the girl!’ Forster laughed in her face. ‘The one I took just for fun!’
He was talking about Sarah Short.
Forster put his head on one side. ‘You sensed I was there, I know you did.’
He needed a hit now, Daniels could feel it. His eyes were all over her.
‘I started without you that night, Detective. Shot my load looking straight at you.’
Was the shift from Katie to Detective significant? Daniels was sure it was. Forster was winding up for his swansong, was probably at his most dangerous . . .
A
s the firearms officer crept nearer to the house he could see Daniels through the window. Forster was partially hidden by the bedroom door, though his gun was clearly visible.
The officer spoke calmly and softly into his radio:
‘Two-eight-six to Foxtrot. Target is armed. No clear shot.’
‘Two-eight-six.
You
have the eyeball. All other units maintain radio silence.’
‘T
ell me about Frances Cook.’
‘Not very subtle, Detective. What’s up? You look hot.’
‘Indulge me.’
Forster grinned. ‘Frankie wasn’t like
you.
She was really scared. I met her once or twice when I was a kid. She didn’t remember me at first, needed a little nudge from
yours truly. Well, she won’t forget again, will she?’
‘She was a friend of your mother’s, wasn’t she?’
Forster didn’t bite. ‘When she finally realized who I was, she just stared at me, wondering how long she had left – just like you are now.’
Daniels held her nerve but knew she was running out of time. Jo had told her that he needed to dominate his victims. If he needed her terror to feed his sickness, what would the likely outcome
be if she failed to comply? This was hardly a time to test a theory but she had to do something to put him off guard. Slowly, she undid the buttons on her coat. Whatever he’d expected, she
was sure he hadn’t expected that. His face flushed in anger as she forced a perfect smile, pulled the scarf from round her neck and teased it over her body.
It was a risky strategy, but it appeared to be working.
The hand holding the gun began to shake.
Daniels moistened her lips and inched back on the bed. He climbed on too, never taking his eyes off her, his smile fading as she began to take control.
T
he Toyota screeched to a halt outside the bungalow. Gormley and Jo jumped out, just as a blue statuette crashed through the window, alerting the firearms team.
Inside the house, Forster was stunned. He didn’t seem to know what was happening. He lunged forward, smashing into Daniels.
‘Fucking whore!’ he yelled.
They fell back on the floor in the space between the two beds. Daniels heard the ‘GO, GO, GO!’ command and the sound of running feet.
Outside, all hell broke loose as the firearms team rushed forward and a gunshot pierced the night air. As six officers in body armour crashed through the windows and doors, automatic weapons
poised to shoot, Gormley and Jo looked on helplessly. Then they heard a shout that put the fear of God into them:
‘Shots fired! Officer down!’
‘S
hots fired. Officer down!’
Daniels heard it too, followed by a deafening silence. And now she found herself surrounded by a thick blanket of fog. No, not fog. Lakeland mist. Definitely mist. It hung – as if
suspended in mid-air – obliterating the upper slopes. The image of Jo was as clear as if she was standing right beside her. They were heading back to their hotel after a day’s hiking.
Jo’s face was tanned and happy, her hair blowing in the warm breeze.
Daniels must’ve blacked out, because now it was dark and the warm breeze had turned into a bitter chill. Jo was still there, but Gormley was with her. They were holding her hands and an
ambulance was standing by.
‘You’re going to be OK.’ Gormley’s voice sounded shaky. ‘It’s just a graze.’
It didn’t feel like just a graze. The pain in Daniels’ shoulder was excruciating. She couldn’t make sense of what had happened. She was
sure she’d heard a gunshot before the firearms team arrived, followed by another a split second after the first armed officer entered the room. Now blue flashes lit up the night sky and
someone she didn’t recognize was loading her on to a stretcher, his voice calm and reassuring.
She looked up at Gormley as Jo let go of her hand. ‘Forster?’ she asked.
Hank slowly moved his fingers across his neck. ‘You said you’d make him pay, and now you have. You kept your promise to the victims, Kate. All of them, including young Sarah.
You’ve done her proud.’
Daniels felt herself welling up and bit down hard on her bottom lip. Gormley came to her rescue, made a bad joke and attempted a smile, unaware that a pulsating vein on the side of his forehead
was giving him away. He stood back as paramedics lifted the stretcher into the ambulance and then climbed in after her, holding his hand out for Jo to do the same.
‘You scared the hell out of me,’ she said, almost breaking down.
Daniels managed a smile. ‘I’m fine.’
Gormley cleared his throat. ‘As in Fucked up, Insecure—’
‘As in
fine,
Hank,’ Daniels said. ‘For Christ’s sake, stop fretting or I really
will
start believing you’re my dad.’
‘What does it feel like to go from hero to zero?’ he said.
‘What d’you mean?’ Jo asked.
‘Well . . .’ Gormley gestured to a second stretcher heading their way, this one carrying a body bag. ‘He’s the victim now. Not that we give a shit, eh? It wouldn’t
surprise me if Professional Standards haven’t already launched an investigation.’
Daniels smiled at them both.
‘That’s what I love about this job,’ she said.
K
ate Daniels made a full recovery. She left the Royal Victoria Infirmary that same night, having discharged herself – against her doctor’s advice. Her injury was
not life threatening. She was bruised and sore, but still alive. That didn’t mean she wasn’t hurting like hell for the relatives of Father Simon, Sarah Short, Alan Stephens, Jennifer
Tait, Jamil Malik, Dorothy Smith and Frances Cook – victims she would never forget.
There had been times in the past few months when Daniels almost lost the will to live, but her encounter with Forster had concentrated her mind. And now? Now she was able to see that life, no
matter how difficult, was so much better than the alternative. Her friend and colleague, Jo Soulsby, arrived in the nick of time, just as she was leaving the hospital. They stayed close in the
coming few days, recapturing the wonderful connection they had once enjoyed. For the time being, at least, it remained the camaraderie of fellow professionals. Whether it would ever be anything
more was debatable.
But, where there was life, there was always a modicum of hope.
James Stephens had been able to clear up the uncertainty over a torn-up photograph found in his mother’s bin. Had he known that it had formed part of the ‘evidence’ against
her, he’d have come forward sooner. As a gesture of goodwill, Monica Stephens had pledged money from her late husband’s estate to both of his sons. James intended to use his to finance
a gap year before completing his education at Sheffield University. Thomas had yet to decide.
Four weeks later, Daniels returned to work to great applause from the murder squad. Detective Superintendent Phillip Bright had accepted a commendation from the Chief Constable for his
team’s sterling work in apprehending a serial offender who had blighted the lives of so many. ACC Martin was not available for comment. He had resigned his post with immediate effect,
following sensational allegations over his personal life which very nearly eclipsed press coverage of a murder investigation involving several forces, the biggest manhunt Northumbria force had ever
known. Insiders suspected that the resulting media frenzy into his best-kept secret was being fuelled either by his estranged wife, Muriel, or by someone within his own force.
Jonathan Forster looked set to join the ranks of Britain’s most notorious killers, although he wasn’t alive to enjoy it. Following a post-mortem examination, his body was released
for burial and taken to the West Road Crematorium where a short ceremony took place. There were no mourners present.
Within a month or so of Forster’s demise, Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley would apply for an order for the destruction of an item used in connection with a series of crimes; namely a
computer containing sensitive information on several victims – not to mention photographic evidence proving that the late Jonathan Forster had been stalking a senior member of Northumbria
Police. Inexplicably, no mobile phone or camera belonging to the said offender was ever recovered, despite extensive searches of his flat and the adjoining property. Gormley had this to say:
‘It’s just one of life’s little mysteries. We may never know what happened to them.’
T
his book has been a long time coming. Any mistakes are entirely my own. I would like to acknowledge everyone who has helped make it happen.
Specifically, I owe thanks to my wonderful publishing director, Wayne Brookes, and the team at Pan Macmillan. Also, to the entire staff of Blake Friedmann, Literary, TV & Film Agency.
Special thanks go to my agent, Oli Munson, who was the first to take an interest. He
got it
from day one and has worked tirelessly on my behalf since the day we met. And to my copy-editor,
Anne O’Brien, for working so hard on my behalf and doing such a brilliant job on the manuscript.
For helping to promote my work and setting me on the road to publication, I’d also like to mention here Claire Malcolm and Olivia Chapman at regional writing agency New Writing North.
To my sons, Paul and Chris, also Kate and Caroline, four of the coolest kids I know: we got there in the end! To other friends and family I may have ignored during the latter stages of writing
this novel, I make no apology.