Lost Souls

by Chris Merritt

  He’d said it was good to have dreams. He explained to her how he’d had tough times at her age, which was why he wanted to help her out now, if he could. That made sense to her. She felt sorry for him that he’d been through that, but he seemed to have made a success of his life since those days. It made her think that maybe she could, too. Charley realised she was enjoying hanging out with him, getting his attention.

  Once the burgers arrived, and she began to feel even more at ease, her early nerves having subsided, she moved on to tell him about other stuff she wanted to do. Not just going to parties, but hosting them. Big nights where she could choose the music, invite whoever she wanted, drink, smoke, and talk to some older boys who weren’t idiots, like the guy she’d slept with recently. Even though the adults at The Beacon were pretty chilled, they’d never allow that. She just needed someone to give her the venue, and she’d fix up everything else. There was even a DJ that she knew. OK, not exactly knew, but he was the brother of a girl in her class at school. Or cousin, maybe.

  He stopped chewing for a moment and blinked a few times, like he’d just thought of something.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘A place. Somewhere you could have a party.’

  ‘No way! Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Only problem is…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, no one’s supposed to be using it. It’s a place I know from work.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We’re not really allowed in there. But it’d be perfect for what you want.’

  ‘Sounds amazing.’

  He took a sip of beer. ‘Do you wanna see it?’

  Charley felt a swell of excitement in her chest. She wanted to shout YES, but forced herself to play it cool. ‘Uh-huh. Sure, whatever.’

  ‘You free tomorrow? After school some time?’

  She definitely was, but made a show of taking out the phone they’d given her at The Beacon, checking the diary app. ‘Er, yeah, should be.’

  ‘Great. We’ll go check it out.’

  ‘OK, awesome.’

  ‘But, um,’ he hesitated, picked up a handful of fries, ‘I’m not supposed to have the keys to it. So, it’s kind of a secret.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she replied. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

  Twenty-One

  The first forty-eight hours were the most important in a murder investigation. From basic detective’s training to Blackstone’s Manual and the senior investigator course, that’s what they told you. After six years working in MITs, Lockhart agreed. Evidence, memories and leads were freshest within that window. But you didn’t always get lucky. And this was one of those cases.

  Lockhart was painfully aware that it was day three since Donovan Blair’s body had been found, and perhaps day five since he was killed, according to Dr Volz’s post-mortem. They’d spoken to everyone they could track down who knew the kid, and they didn’t have a single credible suspect yet. They didn’t even have a murder scene. It wasn’t good enough.

  Yet, instead of getting out there to do something about it, Lockhart had been obliged to spend most of the day in meetings and briefings. He’d played sidekick to a pumped-up DSI Porter in a press conference, taken some shit from Burrows and endless questions from her superiors in a presentation to the brass, and spent the rest of his time completing decision logs and staff rosters. That was the life of an SIO, he guessed. It reminded him why he’d spent so many years avoiding command in the military and concentrating on just being a soldier instead.

  Now, though, like it or not, he was in charge of this investigation. The responsibility to get justice for Donovan Blair lay squarely at his door. And, if the pressure wasn’t already high enough, Green’s words had been in his mind all day: Not Child. Children. Plural. He hoped she was wrong about that. As the team pulled up chairs, sorted their notebooks and hot drinks, he knew he had to set the direction, keep them motivated. All under the watchful eye of Burrows, already sitting impassively to one side, arms folded.

  ‘Guv.’ Smith’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He was pleasantly surprised to see a large paper bag of Portuguese custard tarts being offered to him. ‘D’you want one?’ she asked. ‘Instant morale.’

  ‘Cheers, Max. Nice one.’

  Lockhart had eaten the pastry in one go and washed it down with a gulp of black coffee before Smith was even back in her seat. He got everyone’s attention and asked for an update on the CCTV and house-to-house inquiries.

  ‘We might have something,’ said DC Guptill. ‘Night before Donovan’s body was found, an elderly man who lives in one of the streets behind the church was putting his bins out around eleven p.m. He says he saw a dark van at the end of the road, next to the church. He remembers it because it wasn’t usually there.’

  ‘OK, good.’ It was thin, but a vehicle was potentially a solid lead. He added it to the whiteboard under ‘Witnesses’. ‘Do we have a reg, make, model? And can he be any more precise than “dark”?’

  ‘Afraid not, guv. He didn’t have his glasses on, and the street lighting’s limited. Grey, blue maybe. He wasn’t sure.’

  ‘But we’ve been checking local CCTV for dark-coloured vans around that time,’ added Andy Parsons.

  ‘All right. And?’ Lockhart half-turned to them, his marker pen still raised in anticipation.

  ‘There’s no cameras directly on the back of the church, it’s all residential. We’ve started on the main roads and have a couple of possibles. We’re just running down the plates and registered owners now.’

  ‘Anyone of interest?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Lockhart felt his heart sink. This killer had really covered their tracks. He had to decide whether to keep two detectives looking for a van that might not even be connected to their crime, or put his resources elsewhere. Best-case scenario would be that the suspect vehicle could lead them to a person, or an address, perhaps even the murder scene. Worst case, it was a complete waste of their time.

  ‘OK. Finish up what you’ve got so far, but don’t spend too much longer on it. Trace everyone who’s come up in connection with Donovan so far on the PNC and see if any of them is the registered owner of a dark-coloured van.’

  ‘Guv.’ Guptill made notes. Parsons looked disappointed, but nodded.

  ‘Right.’ Lockhart indicated the ‘Suspects’ column on their board. ‘The scene and victim had been cleaned thoroughly, meaning that we have almost no forensic traces. We’ve had nothing back from Donovan’s clothing or body, except for Eric Cooper’s fingerprints. They’re on Donovan’s top and on the altar, which is consistent with Cooper’s story of touching him before realising he was dead. He says he was at home the previous night, alone, but we have no way of verifying that. So, he remains a person of interest.’

  He glanced at Burrows. The DSI was staring at him, lips pursed, arms still folded. As if she was just waiting for him to screw up.

  ‘The stats tell us that in about a third of cases, it’s the parents who are responsible for a child’s murder. Here, it appears that both Donovan’s foster parents and birth parents have good alibis. We believe his foster parents, Roger and Trish Hughes, were in Yorkshire, visiting Roger’s mother. Have we confirmed that?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Khan sat up. ‘ANPR has hits on their car going north on the M1 last Friday morning, and coming back down south on Tuesday evening.’

  ‘But we can’t be sure they were both actually in the car?’

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘OK.’ Lockhart added a question mark next to their names. After what he’d heard about Roger Hughes, he wasn’t ruling them out just yet. ‘Max, you tracked down his birth parents?’

  Smith cleared her throat. ‘Yup. Dad’s in prison for Class A drug possession with intent to supply. Mum’s in a residential rehab clinic outside Bristol. Both confirmed there from the time Donovan went missing until now.’

  Lockhart made a note next to their names. They were in
the clear.

  ‘All right. I’ve listed everyone else here who we know was in Donovan’s system. His teacher, his football coach, his charity contact and social worker. No one has a single conviction, as you’d expect, working with children. None of them have a motive, either. Same goes for Eric Cooper. We can rule them out by alibi where possible, but at this stage, they’re not even suspects. Luce, you’ve checked other potential offenders, haven’t you?’

  ‘Um, yes.’ Berry looked down at her notebook. ‘I mean, there are lots of people who’ve been violent towards children, but nothing like this, and no one that I can find connected to Donovan.’

  Lockhart put his hands on his hips. He knew they were struggling.

  ‘So,’ he resumed, ‘in terms of our victim, then, we know that Donovan was being bullied at school. That may have prompted him to run away. The wounds on his left arm, sustained in the weeks before his death, indicate he was injecting drugs. Hopefully, we’ll be able to find out what, when the tests come back, and that may give us a lead.’

  ‘So, what’s your theory about his murder?’ Burrows’ voice cut through like an ice pick.

  ‘Based on what we’ve got, ma’am, our best guess is that a stranger assaulted Donovan while he was spending time on the streets. He might’ve got into an argument, said the wrong thing to the wrong person. Perhaps he threatened to go to the police over something he knew about, maybe something drug-related.’

  ‘What does Dr Green say?’

  ‘She, ah…’ He wasn’t sure how much to share; Green hadn’t even done a formal offender profile yet and lots of what she’d suggested was speculative, to say the least. ‘She thinks the perpetrator may have known Donovan.’

  ‘But you think it’s a stranger.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Burrows let out a snort of exasperation.

  ‘And your plan is?’

  ‘I propose to check local hostels and help centres, get out on the streets, engage the homeless community and find out if anyone saw him. Someone must know something.’

  Even as he said the words, he knew that was already a long shot. But looking around the room, he could see the determination in his colleagues’ faces. It was late, but no one seemed ready to go home just yet.

  Twenty-Two

  ‘Ja, Lexi, just rip it off the ground!’

  The words of encouragement, delivered in the staccato South African accent of her CrossFit coach, Erica, came from behind as Lexi took her grip. There was nowhere to hide with a deadlift. Either you got the barbell off the ground and stood up straight, or you didn’t. It was an awesome exercise for building strength, but keep adding weight and pretty soon it got too much and you’d fail, your weak spots immediately exposed.

  It was a little like how Lexi’s life felt right now, with the worry about her dad, the tension with Tim this week, and the new case she was helping Dan with. And all that on top of her full-time job as a trauma therapist, which was tough at the best of times. She was loading her mental barbell, for sure, and it was just a question of when she would be unable to lift it anymore. That was ironic, because the real, physical deadlift was a great way to deal with stress. She’d missed CrossFit when the gym had shut for months during the Coronavirus lockdowns last year.

  She pulled the bar and felt the tension go through her legs, butt and back as she straightened up, then lowered the bar to the mat again.

  ‘Ach, nice job, Lexi!’ yelled Erica from across the gym. ‘Don’t stop there, keep going.’

  Lexi nodded her acknowledgment at the praise. She was already feeling way better from the workout. She’d checked in with her dad by text at lunchtime – just as he was getting up across the pond in Connecticut – and was due to make a call to him and her mom this evening. But there wasn’t a whole lot else she could do to help him, much as she wanted to. She’d noticed her general anxiety levels going up big time in the past twenty-four hours. Lexi often advised her clients at the clinic not to stress about things that were outside their control. But taking her own advice was easier said than done.

  She repeated the deadlift two more times.

  ‘Come on, Lexi! Sixty’s too easy, isn’t it? I want to see you do sixty-five kilos.’

  ‘Uh, OK. Sure.’

  Erica always pushed her out of her comfort zone. Sometimes, it meant Lexi did something she didn’t think she was capable of. Other times, well… the phrase epic fail sprang to mind.

  As she slid the extra plates on, she thought about Tim. Things were going a little better with him, now, too. They’d spoken today, cleared the air. He didn’t seem to be mad at her anymore, which was good, although part of her felt that there hadn’t really been anything to be mad at in the first place. Sure, it was a shame to have to change their plans, especially when Tim had wanted to cook them a nice dinner, but helping Dan and his team on the case was really important.

  It’d made her wonder a little more about Tim and his story. Lexi knew there was something difficult in his background, and maybe in time he’d open up to her about that. Clearly, he’d interpreted her cancelling their date as a rejection. What past experiences had made him think that way? His reaction was definitely more than just the stress of going back to work at school.

  She chalked her hands, bent and gripped the bar. Pressed her teeth together, her jaw tight. Then pulled the barbell up and stood. It was harder, for sure, but she managed it. Just.

  ‘Told you that last set was too easy,’ said Erica with a wry smile, circling her mat. The coach pointed to her barbell. ‘Two more of those, please.’

  Lexi did as instructed. It was a struggle, her muscles shaking on the last rep, but she made it.

  ‘That’s great! Five more kilos now.’

  ‘You sure? Seventy?’

  ‘Ja, of course! Just do it.’

  Somewhat reluctantly, Lexi fetched the extra weights and began adding them. The idea of Tim ‘forgiving’ her had also made her think about Donovan Blair and the case. The prayer pose, the idea of forgiveness. But whom did the killer want to be forgiven? Was it themselves, or Donovan, somehow?

  Lexi was reminded of her therapy session two days ago with Gabriel Sweeney. The young man, who’d had a childhood full of trauma – even being homeless at times – had blamed himself for his difficulties at first. Then, his rage had become directed at those who’d wronged him. Now, he was moving towards forgiving them, letting go of some of that anger. There were some similarities between what Donovan and Gabriel had been through.

  The care taken in preparing Donovan’s body after death and placing him in a church suggested that the killer had empathy for his victim. So, maybe they weren’t seeking forgiveness for themselves or for Donovan, but for the people who’d harmed him. Neglectful, absent parents, other abusers or drug dealers, perhaps. She’d call Dan when she got back home to mention that possibility, though she wasn’t sure if it’d help much. Lexi knew there was something she still hadn’t seen yet.

  She looked down at the barbell. Seventy kilos. More than she’d ever lifted before. Lexi took her grip once more, gave a few short, sharp breaths to psych herself up, and growled as she pulled on the bar. It came off the mat, but just a few inches, and she could feel her back rounding. She doubled her effort, straining every fibre, but she couldn’t go any higher. Not without losing her technique completely and risking injury, anyway. The weights thudded back to the mat and she let go, gasping. She tried once more, with the same result. Lexi knew she’d reached her limit. And, for the time being, there was nothing she could do about it.

  Twenty-Three

  He had no choice but to keep going. He couldn’t stop now, not when he was so close to achieving his aim. His contact with her over the past couple of days had gone exactly as planned. Though it hadn’t been all that difficult, he’d managed to hook her in, just as he’d intended. And it would soon be time to save her.

  There was no question that Charley Mullins needed saving. He could see her life was poised on the brink of collap
se. It was simply a question of when, not if, things would start to go badly downhill. She was pretty and precocious, which was a dangerous combination. Thirteen going on eighteen. He wasn’t interested in her sexually, of course – he wasn’t a pervert – but he could see the way older boys and even men already looked at her greedily. One of them had even got his filthy hands on her already, just as he’d suspected. And that interest in her was only going to grow.

  She wouldn’t be able to cope with the attention, to know when to say no. He was sure of that. She was far too trusting – as he had easily proven – and, crucially, she was much too keen on getting attention. He couldn’t blame her for that; it was the natural outcome of being neglected by her parents. He understood that as well as anyone. But in a thirteen-year-old girl who’d already hit puberty in a world full of predators, it was a recipe for disaster.

  But it wasn’t just the sharks circling her in the water, scenting blood, that was the reason she needed his help. It was all the stuff she was getting into. He was certain she would’ve tried to shoplift those trousers in H&M the other day if he hadn’t offered to buy them for her. He’d seen her checking around for security staff and cameras, calculating if she could get away with nicking them. It wasn’t her first time stealing, he could tell. He’d done enough of that himself in the past, and could recognise a kindred spirit in her. The desire for something you can’t have. The feeling that you’re owed nice stuff because of what you’ve been through.

  Then there was the binge drinking. She’d confided in him that she’d been experimenting with that, too. Told him about the vodka the older boys at The Beacon had bought for her, and how she’d hidden their contents in water bottles under her bed. He didn’t ask what they’d wanted in return for the favour, or what they expected her to do for them down the line. Perhaps after she’d drunk half a bottle…

  The thought of it made him physically sick and, for a moment, he wavered, wondering if he should be going after the bad guys instead. But he reminded himself that they were everywhere. Get rid of one and another would immediately take their place. The only way to deal with the problem was to take away their potential victims. The most vulnerable ones. And she was certainly in danger, especially now she’d made a start on drugs. He knew that all too well.