Children are innocent. It’s the adults who corrupt them, who bring sin into their lives. And God knows this. So, if a child dies, he or she goes straight to heaven.
When he heard that, he thought for a while about sending himself there… but then he realised that he might be able to do so much more with his life if he could help others. Things changed, later, but he never forgot those words. They were guiding him now.
With the media and the police watching, he knew he had to be careful. Not make any mistakes. But that wasn’t enough to make him stop. He couldn’t resist the compulsion to save one more child and make another angel.
He’d rescue Jordan from the rest of his life on earth, just as soon as he got the chance.
And, if everything went according to plan, that would be tomorrow.
Forty-Nine
‘Can you tell me what you were doing between eight p.m. and midnight on January tenth, please, Eric?’
Smith looked squarely across the table in the interview room at Lavender Hill police station. The man opposite her wore the standard issue grey sweatshirt and jogging bottoms of The Met’s custody suites. After his outburst at the church, she’d expected Eric Cooper to ‘no comment’ his way through this initial interview. Instead, he’d answered her questions calmly and politely, which had got her copper’s nose twitching; surely an innocent man would be tearing his hair out by now, incredulous at his presumed involvement in two murders? Of course, the duty solicitor assigned to him had tried to paint this assistance as proof of his client’s good character. But Smith knew better than to take that at face value.
‘Yeah, January tenth, um…’ Cooper chewed his lip. ‘What day was?—’
‘Last Sunday night.’
‘Sunday… Sunday…’ He tipped his head back, wrinkled his nose in concentration. Smith imagined it wasn’t exactly a memory palace he was searching, more a garden shed, if that. Cooper didn’t seem the brightest button, but Smith knew criminals who’d pulled the wool over the cops’ eyes about that, too.
The solicitor leant across. ‘My client may need to check his personal records for—’
‘I was at home,’ Cooper said suddenly. ‘Watching TV. Made myself some beans on toast for dinner. With cheese on top.’
Smith felt a tiny burst of adrenalin. If they could show it was him driving the Scout van near the church that night, they’d have caught him lying.
‘And you didn’t go out at all?’ she asked.
Cooper’s eyes darted left and right. ‘No, wait. I did. I took the van out.’
‘What van’s that, Eric?’
‘The Scout van. I volunteer as a leader there.’
This was good. He’d admitted it was him driving it; that’d save them the hassle of checking some other way.
‘And what were you doing in it?’
‘Oh, um.’ Cooper blinked a few times. ‘I had to get petrol. I noticed the other week we were low, and I wanted to give it a full tank.’
‘I see.’ Smith reached into a manila file and produced a printed document with a list of vehicles. One was highlighted. ‘Is this the van you’re talking about?’
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘Is that the registration plate of your Scout van?’ She tapped the paper.
Cooper shifted forward, squinted at the columns. ‘Er, yeah, that’s it.’
‘This is a record from our Automatic Number Plate Recognition, or ANPR, system. It shows that you were on the Upper Richmond Road at approximately 11:30 p.m. that night.’
‘Yeah, sounds about right.’
‘Bit late to be getting petrol, isn’t it?’
He shrugged. ‘I’d only just thought of it. And there’s a garage down that way that’s open then.’
‘It’s also in the window when we believe Charley Mullins was placed in St Margaret’s church,’ she let the words hang a few seconds, ‘which is just a hundred metres from where you were that night, Eric. Driving a van big enough to transport a body.’
His mouth opened slightly, but he didn’t respond.
‘So,’ Smith continued, ‘you just happened to be getting petrol at approximately the same time and place as the second murder victim was put in the church?’
Cooper had no alibi for Donovan Blair’s murder, or for the night before he discovered Donovan’s body in the church. He couldn’t account for his whereabouts on Friday night, either, when Charley had disappeared. And Smith didn’t like this petrol story.
‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he said eventually.
That line again, thought Smith. Subtly different from I didn’t do it. It was time for a direct question.
‘Did you kill Charley Mullins?’ she asked.
Cooper stared straight back at her. ‘No.’
‘Why did you do it, Eric?’ She watched him closely, but his body language didn’t appear to betray any particular discomfort. ‘Donovan, and then Charley. Was it about power? Or risk, perhaps. Had you done something to them, and you didn’t want them telling anyone about it? Is that it?’
‘I’m sorry, Detective.’ The solicitor laid a hand on the table. ‘But this is highly speculative. My client has admitted to driving the vehicle in question, but he has already denied both murders. And he’s cooperating fully with this interview. So, unless you have any other evidence you wish to share, please move on, and either charge or release him.’
Smith slid the ANPR paper back towards herself and returned it to the file. Cooper hadn’t tripped himself up, but she’d got more than she’d expected from this interview. They didn’t have enough to charge him, yet, but there were still about sixteen hours until they had to let him go. And they had a few more cards up their sleeve.
‘I think we’ll leave it there for now, Eric,’ said Smith. She ended the recording. ‘We’re searching your flat at the moment,’ she added, ‘and when we’ve finished, I’ll be back for another chat.’
For the first time since his arrest at the church, Cooper looked worried.
Back at the MIT office, Smith headed straight for the kitchen. A strong coffee and half a dozen biscuits would keep her going for another hour or two. She crammed one in as she walked to her desk.
‘How’d you get on, Max?’ Lockhart came over to join her as she kicked the chair back and dropped into it. She brushed crumbs off her jacket and swallowed hastily.
‘Well, it was him in the van, guv. He admitted that much.’
‘OK, great. It’s a start.’
‘He’s denied everything else, though. His alibis are crap, but I need something decent to confront him with. Something solid that he can’t just shrug away with a vague excuse.’
‘You reckon he’s lying?’
‘Hard to tell.’ She popped another biscuit into her mouth. ‘He’s coming across as Mr Helpful right now.’
Lockhart shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Maybe we’ll get something from his home. Team should be back soon.’
‘Any luck on Charley’s phone?’ she asked. ‘Did we check the place where it stopped moving?’
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Leo and Priya were down there earlier, but they couldn’t see any sign of it. It’s basically woods out that way. Needle-in-haystack stuff.’
‘Bollocks.’ Smith tipped her chair back. ‘What about the restaurant?’
Khan jumped in to answer. ‘One member of staff remembered that Charley had dinner with the man in the flat cap,’ he said. ‘They couldn’t say much about him, though. He was older than her, twenties or early thirties, they reckoned, and clean-shaven. But he kept his cap on and collar up most of the time. And he paid cash, so there’s no card transaction we can trace.’
‘I’m guessing they didn’t pick out Cooper as flat-cap man, either.’
Khan shook his head.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ cried Smith.
‘I’m working on CCTV from outside the restaurant, now,’ offered Khan. ‘We might track flat-cap away from the restaurant. Then, if it links up with Cooper, boom! He’s got something to
explain.’
‘And how long’s that gonna take?’ Smith was exasperated.
‘I dunno, I’m doing my best, innit?’ Khan protested.
Smith knew it wasn’t his fault. They were all frustrated. But, before she could say any more, DC Guptill strode in. She was grinning.
‘What’ve you got, Priya?’ asked Lockhart. ‘Please tell me there was another phone in Cooper’s flat.’
A direct communications link between their suspect and victim would be about as concrete as Smith could hope for. She’d like to see Cooper wriggle out of that.
‘No,’ replied Guptill, her smile broadening. ‘But we did find this.’
She held up a small, brown paper evidence bag. Smith could see the contents through its clear plastic window. And her heartbeat accelerated as she realised what it was.
A reel of white ribbon.
Fifty
Lexi often told her clients to be in the moment. Not to get too caught up in ruminating on the past or worrying about the future. That was easier said than done, obviously, and she often struggled to take her own advice. But, considering her dad’s health situation, the murder case she was working on, and a long day at the clinic, she was managing pretty well to focus on the here and now. On her and Tim.
They were in his apartment, and he’d cooked dinner. She’d had half a glass of red wine, a scattering of tealights were burning gently, some chilled Four Tet beats were on in the background, and Tim had just placed two deep, steaming bowls of food in front of them. Almost perfect, except for the topic they’d both been avoiding so far: Tim’s encounter with Dan.
‘Yemeni winter vegetable stew,’ announced Tim, sweeping his hand over the table with a flourish.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Smells awesome.’ Lexi felt a tingle of anticipation at the delicious dinner. And what might come after that…
He handed her a spoon. ‘I’d love to say I’d travelled there and brought the recipe back. But I just got it from Ottolenghi in The Guardian.’
She laughed. ‘His stuff is always on point.’
Lexi tasted the stew. It was incredible; rich, warm and well-spiced. She told Tim about her plan to travel to Israel and the Palestinian West Bank one day, when the Covid situation allowed. Syria, sadly, was probably still too dangerous to visit. Tim listened intently, and then told her about a trip he’d made to Lebanon a few years back. For a while, Lexi got lost in his stories and another glass of wine. They finished eating and Tim cleared the bowls away. She was just about to suggest they take their wine glasses to his bedroom, but he spoke first.
‘So, er, how’s it going helping the police on that case, then?’
Instantly, the atmosphere changed. Lexi was reminded of the shocking crime scene photos she’d been shown, the profile she’d sent to Dan that afternoon, and the link to Tim she hadn’t yet told Dan about. And immediately felt herself on edge again.
‘Uh…’ She took a sip of wine, gave herself a second to think. ‘Well, like I said before, I can’t talk about it. It’s confidential.’
‘Come on,’ he urged, rinsing the bowls and putting them to one side. ‘You must be able to tell me something.’
‘Tim,’ she said firmly.
‘I can’t help it, I’m curious!’
‘And I’m not allowed to talk about it. Even if I was, it’s not what I wanna be discussing right now.’
‘Hm.’ Tim busied himself at the sink, his back turned.
They fell into silence for a moment. Lexi drank some more wine, hoping the awkwardness would pass. Wondering how she could get back the cosy, romantic feel that was there a minute ago.
‘He’s an interesting guy, Dan Lockhart,’ said Tim casually. ‘I googled him. He was a soldier before he became a detective. A war hero by all accounts.’ He threw a glance over his shoulder. ‘Did you know that?’
Lexi didn’t really want to engage in this conversation, but she couldn’t ignore Tim either.
‘Yeah,’ she replied, but didn’t say any more. The fact that he’d been her client at the trauma clinic was confidential, too.
‘Do you reckon he’s killed anyone?’ Tim sounded excited.
She knew he had, but again, that information had been shared with her in confidence. ‘I dunno… maybe. It’s not really—’
‘Sounded from the news articles like he had.’ Tim gave a tight laugh. ‘Not that I was stalking him.’
‘Sure.’
Tim dried his hands on the dish towel. ‘How did the two of you meet?’
Lexi hated this. All she wanted to do was have sex with her boyfriend and forget about everything else, and instead he was grilling her about Dan and forcing her into more little white lies.
‘There was a case at the clinic, couple years ago,’ she said. ‘Trauma patient with an active police investigation. We were in touch on that, and then he asked me for some input on a case a while back.’
‘Cool.’ Tim nodded. ‘I had a good chat with him yesterday, when he came to the school.’
‘OK.’ Lexi knew she should end this conversation right now.
‘Think I was able to help them out,’ added Tim, as he sat down next to her.
‘Great.’ She took a gulp of wine.
‘Did he say anything about it to you?’
There was no way she could tell the truth about that.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I mean, there’s a lotta stuff he can’t tell me.’
‘Right, right. I bet there is.’ Tim looked at her just long enough for her to start feeling uncomfortable. She had to break the silence.
‘So, you knew something about it?’ she asked. As soon as the words were out, she wished they’d never escaped.
‘What? No!’ Tim’s face burned with indignation, his eyes wide. ‘What, you-you think I was?…’
‘That’s not what I meant, Tim—’
‘Has Dan Lockhart told you he thinks I’m involved?’
‘Hell, no!’
‘Because if he has,’ Tim raised a finger at her, ‘then I’ll need to give him a call.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
Tim plucked his phone off the counter. ‘He gave me his card—’
‘Hey! Stop.’ Lexi laid a hand on his arm. ‘Please.’
He’d unlocked his screen, but she had his attention now. He was breathing quickly.
‘Dan didn’t tell me anything,’ she said. ‘And all I meant to say was that it’s cool you helped out.’
Tim’s expression shifted slowly from concern to relief as his arm fell. ‘OK,’ he mumbled, the phone hanging limply at his side.
‘Let’s not talk about this anymore.’ Lexi topped up their glasses from the bottle.
He ran both hands through his hair and took a deep breath. ‘God, you’re right. Sorry.’
Lexi laid a hand on his leg and met his eyes. ‘Tell me another travel story,’ she said.
‘Well, if you insist.’ He managed a smile, his body relaxing.
She inclined her head. ‘I do.’
As Lexi listened, she tried to be in the moment like she had been before. But she couldn’t shake the question that she’d let slip out. So, you knew something about it?
It was exactly what she’d meant.
Thursday
14th January
Fifty-One
A single reel of white ribbon. That was all they had. It hadn’t even been conclusively matched to the material that bound the victims’ hands together in a prayer pose. Lockhart almost felt like offering a prayer himself, now, because he knew that this was their last shot at Eric Cooper before his custody period expired in less than two hours. And he needed a miracle to obtain adequate evidence for the CPS to authorise a charge of murder before that deadline.
DSI Porter had managed to refrain from giving Cooper’s name to the press since his arrest, but he had mentioned that a suspect was in custody. Journalists were sniffing around Jubilee House, and a couple of the hacks had somehow managed to get hold of Lockhart’s phon
e number, leaving voicemails to ask him for a comment, either on or off the record. He could just imagine the headlines now if they released their only suspect without charge. The finger pointing by the media, the accusations of incompetence directed at him and his team. But that gloomy train of thought was broken by the sound of footsteps down the corridor, getting louder.
Lockhart composed himself. The door to the interview room opened and Eric Cooper was led in by a uniformed custody officer, his lawyer following closely behind. The brief gave his name to Lockhart, but there was no need for introductions with Cooper.
The verger and scoutmaster was more impassive than when Lockhart had first encountered him in the churchyard of St Mary the Virgin in Mortlake. But there was a rash of stubble on his jaw and he looked weary. Lockhart guessed the thin mattress in his cell hadn’t provided a good night’s sleep. And tiredness made it more likely that he’d slip up.
‘Take a seat, Mr Cooper.’
He did as asked, his lawyer sitting next to him. Lockhart had DC Guptill on his side of the table. Despite DS Smith being a much more experienced interviewer, he wanted to bring in a new face, shake things up a bit. And Guptill had proven herself more than capable of handling interviews at the school on Tuesday.
‘I’d like to remind you,’ said the lawyer, ‘that in the absence of a charge or an extension of custody, my client is due to be released at eleven a.m. today.’
‘Thank you, we’re aware of that,’ replied Lockhart.
‘And, thus far, he’s willingly and wholly cooperated with your investigation.’
Lockhart stared at the brief for a moment, then turned to their suspect.
‘Mr Cooper,’ he began, ‘having spent the night here and had a chance to reflect on your conversation with my colleagues yesterday, is there anything you’d like to tell me?’
Cooper’s brow furrowed. Then he shook his head. ‘No.’
Lockhart and Guptill ran through the key dates in Op Paxford again: the nights when Donovan and Charley were believed to have been murdered, and when their bodies were placed in the churches. Cooper confirmed that he had no alibi for the first three occasions, and reiterated that his drive in the Scout van the night before Charley’s body was found was to fill the vehicle up with petrol. He denied having anything to do with either crime, and maintained that he didn’t even know Charley Mullins. It was time to open up a new line of questioning.
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