The Murder Wall

It took longer than she’d anticipated to gather the documentation: several days and scores of man-hours to assemble a mountain of paperwork, the most comprehensive profile of an offender MIT had ever seen. Daniels instructed them to begin with the most recent stuff and work their way back, but they soon tired of wading through Forster’s life of crime and began questioning her strategy. There were mumblings of dissent: Hope she’s right . . . We could be wasting our time . . . Eggs in one basket didn’t work last time.

After several hours’ reading, she knew just how they felt. The page in front of her was dancing, the words merging into thick black blobs, so she sat up straight, taking a break, stretching her arms above her head. Out of the window, a pale blue cloudless sky offered brief respite from the four walls of her office. Two gulls caught her eye. A joyous sight, they soared high above the rooftops, gliding effortlessly on the wind heading for the coast.

Shutting her eyes, Daniels suddenly felt a wave of regret. She’d never again walk on a beach with Jo, never look into those pale blue eyes or share the ecstasy of a perfect mate. It was time to accept that they would never be together.

Pushing away the suffocating emptiness she’d been feeling the past few days, Daniels wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. On the other side of her battered desk, Gormley had his head down, oblivious to her sadness – or so she’d thought. Without lifting his head, he extended his arm, handing her a handkerchief.

Her excitement evaporated when she discovered that the invitation was strictly business, not pleasure. Jo had done some checking, and turned up some dead files on Jonathan Forster she felt Daniels needed to see.

They were sitting in her living room, Jo cross-legged on her sofa, reading from a psychological assessment on her lap. ‘I’m quoting now: From when he was quite young, he used to kill small birds and rodents just for the fun of it. End quote.’ Jo looked up. ‘There are several references to similar behaviour over the years, some I knew about, some I didn’t.’

The extract made Daniels’ blood boil. ‘If that isn’t an indicator that he’d turn out to be an evil shit, I don’t know what is.’

‘He’s a creature of habit, Kate. This repetitive behaviour doesn’t surprise me.’ Uncrossing her legs, Jo stretched them out on the couch. ‘He was a jealous, overbearing child, prone to tantrums if he didn’t get his own way. As a juvenile, he got his rocks off perving through windows, graduating to indecent exposure, sexual assault, rape and, finally, murder.’

‘Correct. He has to dominate and control. That’s what makes him so dangerous.’ Jo dropped the report into a box on the floor, where it landed with a solid thump. ‘If he is your man, then it’s this need that turned him from rapist to killer in eighty-eight.’

A pile of files with yellow Post-it notes marking the sections Jo wanted to discuss sat on the table between them. They had only got through half of them and there was still a way to go. As Jo picked up the next one, Daniels rubbed her tired eyes and then suddenly had a light-bulb moment.

‘Creature of habit, you say?’ She leapt from her seat and on to the floor, began searching the box of dead files.

Sensing a change in atmosphere, Jo lifted her head. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense,’ she said. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Hang on, it could be nothing.’ Daniels found one particular file, opened it and shuffled through several pages as she spoke. ‘Didn’t you tell me that he had some kind of religious magazine in his possession when he was released on life licence? True Faith, something like that?’

‘Close!’ Jo laughed. ‘True Faith is the Newcastle United fanzine, you idiot!’

‘There’s a note in here somewhere . . .’ Daniels went back to her search. ‘Here it is!’

She pulled out a short scribbled note, handwritten on an A5 Probation letterhead. Her heart raced as she noticed the date: 10th October 1988 – the day Forster got life. She re-read the note quickly, unclipped it from the file and handed it to Jo.

10th Oct, ’88

For the attention of Reception Officer, HMP Durham

Ref: Jonathan Forster

Following the passing of a life sentence today, I attended the cells to carry out a post-sentence interview and risk assessment on the above prisoner, having first spoken to his parents, neither of whom felt able to face him personally.

I sought special permission from the Senior Prison Officer on duty to hand over two items: a small crucifix and a religious magazine. His parents hope that these items will give him guidance in the dark months and years to come and assist him to come to terms with what he has done.

Forster accepted the items from me, but refused to speak about his sentence. When I pressed him, he became abusive and I terminated the interview. No risk assessment was carried out, therefore I recommend that he is placed on suicide watch until seen by a member of the medical staff. His parents have also asked that you refer him to the prison chaplain at the earliest opportunity.

Matthew Spencer – Crown Court Liaison Officer

Daniels suddenly felt charged with electricity. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck and goose pimples covered her skin. Several images flashed through her mind, vying for her attention: a woman in a black Burka, a photograph of Jamil Malik, the magazine cutting she’d passed across the table to Naylor at the Living Room restaurant. She looked at the letter again. Could this be the break she’d been looking for? It could so easily have been discarded soon after it was written, or become detached from the file over time.

‘You’re thinking the photo of Malik could have come from the same magazine?’

‘You do know his mother never visited throughout the two decades he was inside?’

‘There you go! What was it you said about men like him? Can’t cope with rejection in any form? Our backs are against the wall here, Jo. If it is the same magazine – a gift from a mother who doesn’t love him – isn’t it possible that it has become a symbol of his hatred over the years?’

‘Anything is possible where the human psyche is concerned,’ Jo said. ‘But what would that have to do with Alan and the others?’

‘Honestly? I haven’t got the first idea.’ Daniels thought for a moment. ‘You told me that Alan was a bit of an evangelist in his youth. Maybe he featured in the magazine, wrote an article for it, who knows? Maybe Jamil Malik did too. His cousin said he was deeply religious. What if the photograph was cut from this magazine?’

‘I need to chase it up, find out who publishes Living Faith, how often and whether Forster received it on a regular basis during his sentence. I’ll get Gormley to check if it’s mentioned elsewhere in the system.’ Daniels stood up, began pacing up and down. She could read Jo like a book, could see she was far from convinced. ‘Look, when I was a custody officer, if I took possession of a magazine in someone’s property I would write down Living Faith magazine and the issue date. If it was pristine or dog-eared, I’d write that down too.’

‘That’s because you’re Polly Perfect. Not to mention – personality wise – ah, let me see . . .’ Jo began counting on her fingers ‘. . . borderline obsessive/compulsive, anal retentive, possibly manic depressive, oh, and . . .’ She touched her lip. ‘Did I mention paranoid?’

‘That is my point. I’d do it because it’s professional to be exact. A good custody officer might write “one church magazine”; a crap one would write “one magazine”. . . See what I’m saying?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’m amazed it was mentioned at all, but thanks to some other “screwed-up” professional, maybe we just got lucky.’

Their business concluded, Jo excused herself. Daniels gave Gormley a quick call to set the ball rolling, leaving instructions for someone to collect Forster’s parents first thing next morning to help with their enquiries. She hung up and was pleasantly surprised when Jo reappeared with an open bottle of wine and two glasses.

Daniels couldn’t: she had far too much to do. ‘That would be nice,’ she said.

Jo put on some music, a Dixie Chicks album: Home. They drank and made small talk, avoiding the elephant in the room until the lyrics of one particular song hit home: ‘I Believe in Love’.

Daniels swallowed hard as Jo looked intensely into her eyes from across the room, the words of the song affecting them both. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.