Who's Next?: A completely gripping and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Lockhart and Green Book 2)

by Chris Merritt

  ‘This is bullshit. You’re not pinning this on me.’

  ‘We’re not trying to pin anything on anyone. It’s just a simple matter of—’

  ‘I was out for a while, OK?’ The actor was indignant. ‘I was at home, then I went out, then I came home again.’

  ‘What time did you get home?’

  ‘I don’t know, ten or so. Nine, maybe. I didn’t check my watch.’

  ‘Do you live with anyone else?’

  ‘Yes. There are five of us in the house.’

  ‘So, perhaps one of them would’ve heard you come in?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Lockhart nodded. ‘And where did you go, when you were out?’

  ‘Just around. Up by the river. Walking. I like to clear my head, you know?’

  ‘Mm.’ Lockhart did the same, sometimes. But he wasn’t a person of interest in a murder investigation. ‘Can anyone confirm your location?’

  ‘No.’ O’Neill crossed his bulky arms, a confident look on his face. ‘But if you think I’m involved in this, you’re the ones that have to prove it.’ He winked and Lockhart felt like punching the arrogant prick. Instead, he forced himself to smile.

  ‘Well, that’s all for the moment, I think. Thanks for your time, Mr O’Neill.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said, without a trace of sincerity.

  ‘I’ll let you get back to your bouldering.’

  The young man reached for his climbing shoes and, as they both stood, Lockhart pointed to them. ‘I was thinking of getting a pair of those,’ he said. ‘They any good?’

  ‘You climb?’ O’Neill looked surprised.

  ‘Yeah, a bit. Can I?’ He reached out for one of the shoes.

  ‘Scarpa Vapor. They’re pretty decent,’ said O’Neill. ‘Not cheap. They were a present from Mimi.’

  ‘Nice,’ observed Lockhart, turning the shoe over. He glanced inside at the label. It was a size 7.5. He knew climbing shoes ran half a size smaller than regular footwear. That made O’Neill a size eight.

  Fourteen

  Returning to Jubilee House, Lockhart went straight to see Porter. Through the window of the DCI’s corner office, he could see that Porter was absorbed in paperwork. He knocked, waited for the invitation, and entered.

  ‘Dan.’ Porter put down his pen. ‘I’ve just got off the phone to Jemima Stott-Peters. She’s very upset that you’ve been harassing her and Mr O’Neill about her husband’s murder.’

  Lockhart tensed. ‘I wasn’t harassing anyone, sir. I spoke to him for background detail, and he happened to mention that—’

  ‘She’s grieving,’ interjected Porter. ‘Relatives of murder victims are to be treated with the utmost respect at all times.’

  ‘Of course, but I believe that O’Neill and Stott-Peters could be in a relationship, and might have planned to get rid of Stott. We both know the stats, sir. In cases like this, killer and victim are usually close. It’s often domestic.’

  Porter frowned. ‘You think O’Neill killed Stott?’

  ‘Either that, or Stott-Peters might’ve hired someone.’

  ‘And is there any evidence to support this speculation?’

  ‘Xander O’Neill has no checkable alibi for the night of Charles Stott’s murder, a personal grudge against the victim, and the same size shoes as the prints from the crime scene. I think he’s more than a person of interest, I reckon he’s a suspect.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘I’m not hearing anything definitive, Dan.’ He sighed. ‘Look, if he turns up on CCTV footage, a witness puts him at the scene, or we get better forensics than his shoe size, that’s a different matter. Then, you could question him under caution.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Until then, tread very carefully around O’Neill and Stott-Peters, OK? Work through that list of women Stott was involved with. Make sure you chase down all those men with form for violent robbery in the area and look wider if you need to. But do not insult our victims’ loved ones.’

  ‘Does that apply to all victims, sir, or just the famous ones?’ As soon as the words were out, Lockhart regretted them.

  Porter’s eyes widened and he stood, raising himself up to his full height. ‘Don’t forget who’s in charge here.’

  Lockhart knew he’d overstepped the mark. If he wanted to work on his own theory, he needed to be smarter. He had to get evidence that Porter couldn’t ignore.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, lowering his gaze to the desk. Now he could see the documents his boss had been reading. One bore an image of the iconic ‘New Scotland Yard’ sign and was entitled Superintendent Selection Process.

  ‘You’re going for Super?’ asked Lockhart.

  Porter glanced down, a flash of irritation crossing his features. He exhaled slowly. ‘This is strictly for these four walls, Dan,’ he said quietly, dropping back into his chair. ‘I’ve passed the interview. Assessment centre is in three weeks. Scenarios, reports, tabletop exercises, law. God knows how I’m going to find time to prepare.’

  ‘Result on this could really help, though, I’m sure,’ offered Lockhart.

  ‘True.’ Porter pushed the document to one side. ‘What I need you to remember, Dan, is that when there’s a celebrity death, not only is the media scrutiny higher, but the deceased also has… influential friends. Powerful people.’

  ‘You’re worried this could damage your promotion chances?’ Lockhart felt he was starting to understand Porter’s approach to the case. He wondered if that same power and influence had led Stott to think he could make advances towards any woman, perhaps even sexually assaulting some, and get away with it.

  ‘All I’m saying is, people are watching,’ replied Porter. ‘And that goes for you too. If I get the promotion, I’ll be moving on to a DSI post somewhere else. That’ll leave an acting DCI position open here.’

  The implication was obvious. Play your cards right, don’t rock the boat, and it could be you in this seat.

  ‘I don’t have the experience for DCI yet.’

  ‘No? You may be relatively new as DI, but you’ve been SIO on a large case already. You know this team and it’s clear they respect you. No reason why you couldn’t take on the temporary duty. You’d get the extra pay plus responsibility. And, in my experience, if that goes well, these things tend to become permanent. I just need to know I can trust you.’

  The message was clear.

  ‘Sir,’ was all Lockhart replied.

  Fifteen

  ‘So, in your own words, Emma, can you tell me what happened to you last night, please?’ Smith already had a good sense what the woman opposite her would say; the profile fitted the Op Braddock attacks. But she needed to hear it from the victim herself.

  Emma Harrison sat hunched over on the large sofa, cradling a mug of tea in both hands. She had just completed a medical examination to attempt retrieval of forensic evidence from her body, though the time elapsed since the assault, as well as the fact that she’d showered, made it less likely that the procedures would successfully detect material from her attacker. Understandably, Emma had gone home after the attack – terrified and traumatised – and only come here this morning.

  The Havens in Camberwell, where they were meeting, was one of three specialist sexual assault referral centres in London, and covered the city’s southern boroughs. The centres were a joint venture between the NHS and the Met Police, aimed at providing medical, law enforcement, legal and psychological support to victims of sexual crimes. Smith knew that visiting took a lot of courage, and she was determined to help Emma as much as she could.

  ‘I’d been on a night out in Balham, at the pub.’ Emma spoke without looking up at Smith. ‘Had a bottle of wine with a friend. I was taking the bus home and I got off on Bedford Hill, to change buses. There’s another one you can get there that goes a bit closer to my house, but…’ She tailed off, her voice cracking. ‘I should’ve just stayed on it. I’m so stupid.’

  ‘No, you’re not. This wasn’t your fault, Emma.’ Smith gave
those words a moment to sink in. ‘Go on,’ she urged gently.

  ‘It was about half eleven. I was sitting at the bus stop, waiting. Had my earbuds in, listening to some music on my phone. I was on Instagram, just, kind of, scrolling. And then he was there, next to me. I hadn’t heard him at all.’

  Smith had studied the map before meeting Emma. The bus stop where she had been assaulted backed onto a wooded area that was part of Tooting Commons. Smith already knew there were no cameras covering the road.

  ‘What happened next?’

  Emma took a sip of tea. ‘He had a knife, and he just said, “If you scream, I’ll fucking kill you.” I couldn’t react, I didn’t know what to do. Don’t know if it was the wine, or what…’

  ‘You probably did what you needed to do to keep yourself safe. If someone with a knife is threatening to kill you, the smart thing is to do what they say.’ This kind of reassurance was crucial; Smith had seen many victims of sexual assault blaming themselves afterwards.

  Emma didn’t reply. She was trembling slightly.

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away from the bus stop into the trees. I could feel the knife sticking in my ribs the whole time, and I just kept thinking, what if he stabs me, what if I end up bleeding to death and no one even knows I’m here?’ She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  ‘You’re doing really well.’ There was a brief silence and Smith waited for her to continue.

  ‘Then he told me to open my jeans and pull them down. So, I did it. And then he put his fingers inside me.’

  As Emma proceeded to give more details of the attack, Smith found herself becoming angrier and angrier. She wanted to find this bastard herself, and personally make him pay for what he’d done. Empathy for a victim was crucial motivation, but the level of emotion Smith was currently experiencing probably wasn’t helpful. If you’re too fired up, you miss stuff and your decision-making can get skewed. She needed to find the balance between personal connection and objective distance.

  When Emma had finished recounting the man’s distinctive appearance – short, stocky, balaclava and black anorak – Smith was certain it was their Op Braddock suspect. Even the gum-chewing detail matched. But she knew that his sexual assault by digital penetration, wearing gloves, would’ve left little evidence, and she didn’t expect the forensic examination to yield any DNA. This guy was careful. He knew how not to leave traces. And that enraged her even more.

  As Smith crossed the Wandsworth CID office towards Stagg’s desk, the detective stood.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Not good, understandably,’ replied Smith. ‘But they’re looking after her at The Havens. And at least she doesn’t have a stab wound to deal with as well as everything else. Small mercies, eh?’

  ‘And it’s our guy again, yeah?’

  ‘Yup. New location, but same physical description as the other attacks. Only now he’s threatening to kill with his knife, and this sexual assault involved actually penetrating the victim. Digital,’ she added.

  Stagg had balled his fists and clenched his jaw. ‘Bastard.’

  ‘I know. He’s expanding his area and escalating the level of violence. It’s going to be out of control soon.’

  ‘If I thought it’d make any difference, I’d grab a weapon and go sit at a bus stop myself all night.’

  ‘Well, apart from you carrying a “weapon”, Batman, he’s targeting different locations anyway.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Stagg planted his hands on his hips. ‘He’s in front of us, Max. We’ve got to find a way to get ahead of him.’

  ‘What about your cameras idea?’

  ‘Rejected.’ Stagg slumped into his desk chair and slapped his palms on his thighs. ‘Can you believe it?’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Not proportionate.’ The big DS almost spat the word out. Then he rolled his eyes and shook his head in despair. ‘We’ve got the technology to help us catch this scumbag and some lawyers are worried about infringing other people’s so-called human rights by filming them without their knowledge. It’s bollocks, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Makes you wonder what it’d take for them to sign it off.’

  ‘Probably a murder.’

  ‘I bloody well hope it doesn’t come to that.’ Smith looked out across the office at the CID team she knew were stretched to breaking point trying to work dozens of cases without enough staff. Since the Met’s Sapphire teams – set up to specialise in sexual assault investigations – had folded two years back, they were covering that now, too. She spotted an empty desk in the next row.

  ‘Where’s DC Wilkins today?’ she asked.

  ‘He called in sick. Didn’t say why.’ Stagg arched his eyebrows. ‘Gotta be careful these days, can’t ask too many questions, you know?’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘All right.’ He snatched an empty mug off his desk. ‘I’m making a brew. Want one?’

  Smith checked her watch. ‘Cheers, Eddie. But I’d better head back to Putney. I was lucky to get a couple of hours away from the murder case to speak to Emma. I’ll write it up over there. Keep me updated, OK?’

  ‘Course.’ He leant back in his chair. ‘So, you working on that director’s murder this afternoon then?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She grimaced briefly. ‘We’ve still got about fifteen potential suspects to interview who probably aren’t suspects at all. If anything, they’re more likely to be victims in their own right.’

  ‘Serious? Your guy was a sex pest?’

  ‘Worse than that. He assaulted at least two of the women we’ve spoken to so far.’

  Stagg considered this a moment. ‘I shouldn’t say this but, between us, sometimes these guys have got it coming to them. Part of me hopes whoever killed your bloke finds our man too, before he scars anyone else for life. Or before he decides that killing someone is a good idea.’

  Several members of their MIT had expressed similar feelings towards Charles Stott. Smith agreed with the underlying sentiment, though not the vigilante approach to justice.

  ‘No reason to think our Wimbledon murderer is a serial offender,’ she said.

  ‘Unfortunately.’ Stagg gave a lopsided grin. ‘All right, see you later, Max. Hopefully we’ll get a bit of luck on this; otherwise I might end up needing to do something about it myself.’

  He turned back to his computer screen. Smith decided it was best not to ask what he meant by that last comment.

  Sixteen

  Martin Johnson closed his large paper file, pushed it to one side of his desk, and picked up the folder for his next case. He flipped the cover and immediately recalled the initial inquiry: a man who lost his footing on a loose paving slab that was supposed to have been fixed. The man had torn his ankle ligaments and was currently unable to work as a long-distance lorry driver. Johnson smelled a big fat pay-out for this one.

  Work in compensation claims law was never ending. His firm didn’t even need to advertise on TV or in newspapers like some of their rivals. Such was their record of success, they had more people coming to them than they had capacity to take on as clients. The stories varied in terms of physical injury, psychological distress or damage to property, but the bottom line was always the same: someone else was responsible. And that someone needed to pay up.

  Councils, employers, leisure centre operators, the NHS, schools, supermarkets, police; it didn’t matter. They’d all been dragged to court by Johnson and his firm. And they’d all been taken to the cleaners. Some didn’t even make it that far, crying off at the prospect of their public image being destroyed and begging to settle out of court. Business was booming. There was only one thing that wasn’t going according to plan: Eva.

  Eva was a secretary in his firm. He’d personally hired her, over better qualified and more experienced applicants. Why? Because she was young, and she was bloody gorgeous, that was why. It was the part of Johnson’s hiring strategy that he could
never put down in writing. The extra mark he added or subtracted from candidates for such positions. And Eva had blown him away at the interview. He’d made it clear that the firm expected a certain level of appearance from its employees, to maintain the high standards that clients expected, of course. For women, this meant wearing make-up and heels every day in the office. Eva had enthusiastically said this wouldn’t be a problem. There’d been a twinkle in her eye when she’d replied, he’d felt sure of it. A signal that she was interested.

  Everything had gone swimmingly for the first few months. But, when he’d made his move, at the end of a long evening of celebratory drinks following another huge win for a client, she’d rebuffed him. He was certain that after copious champagne and cocktails, Eva would be delighted when he’d started stroking her leg. He’d even booked a hotel room, expecting that she’d drop her knickers that night. But all she’d given him was a firm ‘no thanks, Martin’ as she got up and left. Now the atmosphere in the office was frosty to say the least.

  Johnson worried that Eva might try to file some sort of claim against him. It wouldn’t be the first time that’d happened. His hit rate was about two in three, he guessed. Not bad, given that he only went for women half his age. You had to take the rough with the smooth. Usually he could squash the odd complaint before it became official. It was just a question of how much trouble this one would stir up.

  Chin up, he told himself. It could be a lot worse. He knew the law on this sort of thing much better than Eva – she wasn’t even a lawyer – and was confident he could scare her off long before he was ever called to defend his actions. And, six months from now, there’d be a new young filly in her place, ripe for a ride.

  Besides, it was Friday, which didn’t just mean the end of the week. It also meant he had a solo round of golf to look forward to this evening.

  Seventeen

  It was nearly closing time and Monmouth Coffee was winding down for the day, but Lexi could see why Dan had asked to meet here. It wasn’t just for the incredible aroma wafting from open crates of roasted coffee beans. Despite being in the middle of Borough Market, right by one of the capital’s biggest transport hubs – London Bridge – at rush hour, this café was a chilled oasis. She knew Dan got a little stressed being out in crowded places; they’d been working on that last year in his therapy sessions. Lexi could’ve happily had a beer to celebrate the end of the week but, at almost six p.m. on a Friday, the pubs around here would be insanely busy.