She glanced sideways at the Dutch woman, feeling guilty for having doubted her. Whatever misgivings she may have had about Stephens’ second wife, Daniels knew that none of Jo’s problems had been her doing. Monica was not responsible for Jo’s incarceration – Bright was.
They had hardly spoken on the way to the exhibits room. And now, Monica waited patiently as Daniels scribbled in a ledger, asking the exhibits officer for some privacy. They watched him disappear into the back office, and then Daniels took a large transparent bag from a box he’d left on the counter.
Monica took her time studying the garment inside.
‘Can you say with absolute certainty that this is your coat?’ Daniels asked after a while. She already knew the answer. The coat was foreign, for a start, and Carmichael had discovered a card in the pocket. Still, it was vital to go through the motions of identification.
Monica nodded.
‘Are you completely sure? It’s very important. I can take it out, if you like?’
‘May I?’ Monica pointed at the bag. Daniels handed it to her. ‘Yes, definitely . . .’ Monica indicated a mark on the lapel and used her hand to smooth out the cellophane so the DCI could see it more clearly. ‘You see the pulled thread there? I did it on one of the flowers for the war dead.’
‘A poppy?’
Monica nodded.
Daniels lifted out a second evidence bag containing the card itself. ‘And this?’
On seeing the card, Monica broke down, as if the sight of it brought back the full horror of that night. Daniels had expected as much. She held Monica’s trembling hand and offered to get her a drink of water.
‘No, I’m OK,’ she said. ‘Just give me a moment.’
Daniels sighed. ‘I know how difficult this is for you, Monica. Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to put you through it.’
Taking a deep breath, Monica reached for the card. She examined it closely, rotating the bag so she could view both sides. ‘It looks exactly like the one I found on the night . . . the night Alan was killed.’
‘Are you absolutely certain?’
Monica gave an emphatic nod.
On the floor below, Gormley was being given a hard time. He hadn’t had a proper conversation with his son in weeks and Ryan wasn’t at all happy. As Gormley listened to the tale of woe coming from the receiver clamped between his shoulder and ear, he began doodling on a sheet of paper: the cartoon head of a boy, a cute cat, a house, a cross . . . Suddenly he sat up straight, staring at the doodles.
A cross, a bloody cross.
‘Look, Ryan, I’ve got to go . . .’ Gormley winced. ‘No, of course you’re important to me . . . that’s really unfair, son. You know I do. Look, I’ll call you back, I promise. No . . . I will call you.’
He hung up.
Forster’s file was still lying in his bottom drawer where Daniels had thrown it the night before. He lifted it out, opened the inside front cover and scanned the personal information boxes. Then he scanned them again, just to make sure.
He picked up his mobile.
It was beginning to feel like a very long day, as far as Daniels was concerned. After seeing Monica off, she had gone directly into a strategic case conference, convened at short notice in the major incident suite upstairs. It was chaired by Assistant Chief Constable Martin and involved top brass from two other forces – Durham and West Midlands – as well as a senior officer from the National Crime Faculty. The subject up for discussion? Linked murders and which force should take the lead role in the investigation.
In other words: Who’s going to foot the bill?
Despite Martin’s fervent opposition, it had been decided that Northumbria should have the honour. Daniels couldn’t tell which upset the ACC most: the cost of the enquiry, or the fact that this would put her firmly centre stage in the case of her career. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with the case she might have relished the moment.
As they filed out of the meeting, she was intercepted by Gormley.
‘You get my text?’ He was buzzing with excitement as he brought her attention to a file in his hand. ‘Forster’s our man!’
ACC Martin brushed past them, shooting looks. Turning her back on him, she set off down the corridor with Gormley in tow.
‘I thought you said—’
‘I know what I said, Kate. But I was wrong. C’mon, we’ve got work to do.’ They took the stairs quickly, heading for her office. ‘You know when something niggles you – you don’t know why, it just does?’ Gormley stopped walking as they reached her office door. Opening the file, he turned the page, pointing at a photograph of Jonathan Forster. ‘Well, if this is who I think it is, I met him in the waiting room at Jo’s office. He was a wimp. His mate was behaving like a prick. I wanted to kick his head in, but I restrained myself.’
‘That was big of you . . .’ Daniels held the door open and ushered him in. ‘You sure it was Forster?’
Gormley sat down. ‘I’d bet my last pay packet. I rang Jo’s receptionist, but the dozy cow couldn’t remember – which surprised me, given the fact that the other guy was itching for a fight.’
‘Didn’t she check her records?’
‘Yes. Forster definitely had an appointment that day. See these . . .’ Gormley pulled out two very similar photographs and handed them to Daniels. ‘One is from our own database, the other is a photographic copy that was in one of the files we seized from Jo’s office. On both of these he’s got hair, right?’
‘So?’
Gormley reached for a pen and paper, began drawing as he talked. ‘He’s changed his appearance, Kate. That’s what threw me. When I met him, he had a shaven head and a tattoo underneath the hairline, like this . . .’
He showed her his drawing of a crucifix.
‘There’s no mention of it in his file,’ Daniels said.
‘Exactly my point! Take a look here . . .’ Gormley produced another sheet of paper. ‘This is a photocopy of the inside front cover of Forster’s prison file. Every physical description is listed, including distinguishing marks. But if his tattoo was hidden by hair, it wouldn’t have been noticed.’
‘And therefore not recorded.’
Gormley grinned. ‘Exactly.’
‘Most pond life have tats. They copy each other on account of the fact that they have no imagination. Crosses are common. It’s religious symbolism, but on its own it’s not enough.’
‘Then we’ll just have to find something that is . . .’
They split the file in half and worked late into the night, the hands of the clock winding their way slowly and painfully round the dial. Daniels sighed loudly. Sick of reading, she sat up straight, casting her tired eyes across the litter on her desk: empty sandwich cartons, spent coffee cups and several crisp packets – all cheese and onion. Gormley looked up briefly and then went back to his reading. His capacity to keep going amazed her. Using a paper knife as book marker, she flicked through the remaining pages to see how long it would take her to finish. Right near the back there was a typed report. Her eyes homed in on familiar handwriting, a scrawled reference to a conversation between Jo and one of Forster’s juvenile counsellors.
‘Hank, listen to this. It’s in Jo’s handwriting.’ She began reading aloud: ‘“Mrs Forster is a profoundly religious woman and Jonathan resents this deeply. Paradoxically, this led him, at sixteen, to have a crucifix tattoo engraved under his hairline. A definite attempt to piss off his mother, who, the social worker tells me, is now terrified of him.”’
‘Yes! Oh, you little beauty!’ Gormley rushed round the desk to see for himself. ‘Maybe there is a God, after all!’
Daniels re-read the note, feeling suddenly energized.
‘It’s a religious link, no doubt about it,’ she said.
‘I’m telling you, Kate, this guy makes Dennis Nilsen look like a boy scout.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But you said yourself, he’s a sadistic rapist. This recent spate of killings are hardly his style. Apart from Sarah, who I can’t help thinking just got caught up in something she had nothing to do with, our victims are all middle-aged men and women. They weren’t interfered with. He just shoots them. End of.’
Gormley’s determined expression was hard to argue with.
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘Forster’s our man.’