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

by Chris Merritt

  Porter scoffed. ‘No way,’ he replied, without looking up.

  ‘If it’s stranger violence, or something else signified by the triangle, then a victim or offender profile could really help us.’

  ‘Not happening.’ Porter finally stopped reading his texts and raised his eyes. ‘I know where this is going. My budget doesn’t stretch to your friend, Dr Green. We can’t afford her, and I don’t think we need her input to this case. I’ll tell you what’s going on here: an extremely violent mugger is attacking wealthy men who are out on their own at night in dark, isolated pockets of the city. There are your profiles. Now go.’

  ‘With respect, sir—’

  ‘Go! Get some rest, and we’ll start again tomorrow morning. Bright and early.’

  Lockhart bit back his frustration and nodded. He was already dialling Green’s number before he’d returned to his desk.

  Twenty-Three

  Something needed to change, Lexi thought, as she allowed Netflix to skip the credits and automatically start the next episode. It wasn’t the show that was the problem; Unbelievable was probably the best thing she’d watched on TV in a while. It wasn’t even the fact that she was home, alone, lying on the sofa on a Saturday evening. She could cope without Sarah’s company for one night while her buddy attended a family birthday dinner with her cousins; Lexi had been invited but politely declined. It wasn’t that, either. It was the hangxiety.

  It had started first thing, when Lexi woke up, groggy as hell and maybe still a little wasted from the night before. She’d felt horrible, throwing up twice in the toilet and unable even to look at the breakfast she normally devoured on a Saturday morning. Why did she drink so much last night? She’d found a receipt in her jeans pocket, from a quarter after two in the morning, for a round of drinks in a club that’d cost sixty pounds. One round. She couldn’t even remember what it’d been or who it was for. She didn’t have that kind of money to throw away on alcohol. Then there was the text from an unidentified guy asking her if she wanted a hook-up. Lexi had no recollection of giving out her number. Jeez, she needed to get a hold of herself.

  But the hangxiety wasn’t just about feeling awful and nauseous, and realising that you’d spent money you shouldn’t have. It was a whole lot more than that. Wondering what the hell you’d done between 1 and 3 a.m. when there was just a big blank space in your memory. Hating yourself for spending an entire day on the couch, totally unproductive. She couldn’t face a run or a CrossFit class and had barely been able to stomach so much as a coffee until this afternoon, but even that had only succeeded in making her more jittery.

  Clinical psychologists were trained to solve human problems. To map symptoms to causes. To link thoughts, emotions and behaviour. To find strengths and tap into them to make things better. And she had to be honest. Deep down, she knew that her drinking was the result of what’d happened to her last fall. The case Dan had brought her into. It wasn’t his fault; Lexi couldn’t blame him. If anything, she owed him. She’d gone her own way and, though she’d been right, it was Dan who’d saved her. She could always have said no when he asked her to help. But she’d said yes, and that decision had ended up scarring her, physically and mentally.

  Lexi had told herself a few times over the past couple months that she simply didn’t have time to see anyone about those problems. That she could fix them herself. But it was a lie. She was in denial about how bad this was, about how her control over her life was slipping away. It was as much a reaction to losing Liam as it was the result of what’d happened to her. And her brother Shep’s death by drug overdose years back was still a factor, too. She wasn’t sure she’d fully dealt with that yet, either.

  Maybe if she had a project, something to take her mind off it all?… She knew that wouldn’t be enough, though. She’d been through some major traumas and needed to process them properly. That’s what she spent all day telling her clients at the clinic. We have to face up to these events and deal with them, rather than avoiding them. So that they don’t scare us anymore. What was that old phrase? Physician, heal thyself. That was it. Tomorrow, she would make a plan. And things would start to improve.

  With that resolution, Lexi felt a little better. She returned her focus to the show and watched as Marie, the young woman at the centre of the story, found her life unravelling following a sexual assault. Nobody believed that Marie was telling the truth, because she’d dissociated during the attack and couldn’t remember any details. It made Lexi think of her own experience, three years ago. It hadn’t been anywhere near as bad, thank God, but she still remembered it clearly.

  She’d been walking home from her work placement at a hospital in another part of town, and a man had followed her for a while before catching up with her and claiming that she’d dropped something. But when she’d stopped, he’d tried to pull her into an alleyway, grabbing her breasts before attempting to push her to the ground. She’d yelled and screamed and, though no one had come to help her, the guy had gotten spooked and run away. She was left sitting by a wall, crying, shaking and wishing she’d had some way of protecting herself. It had been six o’clock in the evening, and still light.

  Lexi had reported it to the cops, given a description of her attacker as best she could. But she sensed that, because she hadn’t actually been raped, they weren’t taking it all that seriously. Like it was just a normal thing that happened to women. They never caught the guy. Lexi wondered how many more women he’d attacked since then.

  A noise made her start and she looked up to see her housemate, Rhys, standing in the doorway. He wore his dressing gown and carried a whole pizza on a large plate. The smell of it made her stomach lurch; she’d still not eaten properly all day. Add hangry to hangxious. Way to go, Lexi.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, his eyes on the TV screen.

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘OK.’ He came in and took one of the armchairs.

  Great, thought Lexi. Just when she actually wanted to be on her own, for once, Rhys shows up and decides to be sociable. She told herself to be nice, make an effort. Let him feel welcome. It was a shared house, after all…

  ‘You had a good day?’ she said, hearing the fake cheer in her own voice.

  ‘Not bad.’ Instead of elaborating or reciprocating with a question about her day, he crammed in a whole slice of pizza and proceeded to chew it with his mouth open. The noise made her want to throw up again. Lexi tried to concentrate on the show and block him out. At some point, she glanced across and found that, rather than watching the TV, Rhys was staring at her. He immediately looked away. She felt icky, but tried to return her attention to the screen, nudging the volume a little higher to mask the sound of him eating. It didn’t work.

  ‘It’s episode four,’ she said, thinking that a little conversation might help. ‘You want a quick recap of the first three?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll work it out.’

  ‘Sure.’

  As Rhys carried on munching his pizza open-mouthed, Lexi felt herself physically tensing. If it went on much longer, she was either gonna scream at Rhys, throw the remote at him, or go postal on his ass. Then her cell phone rang. It was Dan. On a Saturday night. OK, she thought, swiping to pick up.

  ‘Lexi.’ The way he said her name sounded serious.

  ‘Hey, gimme a second,’ she told him, hauling herself off the sofa. She felt some of the tension drop as she climbed the stairs and shut the door to her room. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Sorry for disturbing your weekend.’ He sounded stressed.

  ‘It’s all good. You OK?’

  Dan paused a beat before responding. ‘There’s been another murder. Like Charles Stott. Middle-aged guy, beaten to death, triangle on his neck.’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘So, listen, I wondered if you’d be able to do a profile for us. Two profiles, in fact. Suspect and victim. If he’s murdered two people in a week, there could be more.’ He was talking fast. ‘We need to know who w
e should be looking for, and who he might attack next.’

  ‘Dan, seriously, are you OK?’

  She heard him exhale hard.

  ‘There’s some other stuff,’ he replied. ‘But it’s not about work. I’ll tell you another time.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So, what do you reckon?’

  ‘Uh, I thought you weren’t really interested in my theory about the symbols—’

  ‘That was then. We have two victims now. It’s different. You can look at it with fresh eyes. No assumptions, like you said.’

  ‘And what happens if you don’t like my conclusion, again?’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, I just need anything you can give us.’

  Lexi had that creeping sense of dread at getting into this further. But she needed something constructive in her life right now. To do something useful, make an impact. And she sure as hell owed it to Liam, and to Shep, to help wherever she could. If she could save a life, that would go some way to making up for her failures. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘All right, so, you want me to come in?’ she asked. ‘Like, tomorrow or something, read the files?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s where we might have a slight issue.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and you.’

  ‘Right…’

  ‘Porter doesn’t want you working on it.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch. What’d I do to upset him?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s not personal. Well, maybe it is a bit. I suggested a psychologist, he said it wasn’t necessary and we don’t have the budget for you.’

  ‘You know I’ll do it for free, Dan.’

  ‘Cheers. But the problem is, now he’s said no, I can’t bring you in officially. He’s SIO, it’s his decision.’

  ‘So, what do we do?’

  ‘I can copy some of the files,’ he said. ‘And take them home. So maybe you could come over and read them at my place tomorrow? I mean, if you’re free.’

  ‘Sure.’ Had she agreed so quickly because there was an invite to Dan’s apartment? ‘What time?’

  ‘Eight in the evening? Gives us a chance to do some analysis in the day, see what we can gather about the new victim.’

  ‘Eight works.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Dan?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Could we get in trouble for this?’

  ‘If anyone finds out, it’ll all be on me. I’ll protect you, I promise.’

  Dan was the sort of guy who you believed when he said those words. But it didn’t stop there being a risk. She was pretty sure that reading classified police material had to be illegal in some way.

  ‘OK, then,’ she replied. ‘See you tomorrow night.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Lexi rang off. Her dread of a few moments ago had started turning into a buzz. She hoped it wasn’t just the hangxiety returning.

  Day Six

  Twenty-Four

  Smith brought the car to a stop and studied the large detached house set back from the road. Castelnau, the broad street running north to Hammersmith bridge, bisected the exclusive district of Barnes that was contained within a large meander of the Thames. The houses were all spotless white stucco and London brick, each with two or three upmarket vehicles in the driveway. She knew there wouldn’t be a single property here under seven figures. It was the sort of area that Smith could only dream of living in, though it was well within the price range for a law firm partner like Martin Johnson.

  ‘This the place, then?’ She turned to Khan.

  He nodded. ‘Yup.’

  Smith thought he seemed a bit down. He’d been quiet on the way over, and she suspected it was more than simply having to work both days of the weekend. ‘You OK, Mo?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘It’s just you look a bit… out of sorts, that’s all.’

  ‘Said I’m fine.’

  ‘All right, I’m only asking. Come on, let’s have a look inside.’

  On a Sunday morning, the street was eerily quiet. Smith extracted the keys from her pocket, momentarily considering how, two nights ago, the very same bunch was in the pocket of a man who thought he’d be coming back here after his round of golf. Instead, he’d been beaten to death and, for some reason, had had a triangle drawn on his neck. The second middle-aged guy that’d happened to in a week. And Smith had a feeling this killer wasn’t stopping at that. There was a message behind it. But she was buggered if she had a clue what that was. She reached out and inserted the key, twisting it and opening the door.

  No sooner had she stepped inside than an alarm began blaring at her, angry and deafening.

  ‘Christ’s sake, Mo!’ she shouted. ‘Didn’t you check if there was an alarm?’

  ‘I-I must’ve forgot.’

  Smith fished out her mobile and called the security company number listed on the box. She had to go back outside to be heard over the noise. After giving her rank, name and badge number, she was put on hold for a minute – the alarm screaming with increasing urgency – until finally the noise stopped. She thanked the guy and hung up. There was total silence, but she could still hear the alarm pulsing inside her head. A curtain twitched across the street and Smith turned to go back inside.

  ‘That was not what I needed at this time in the morning,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled Khan.

  ‘Big night last night, was it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, what’s your excuse, then?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ His irritable tone reminded Smith of her son during his teenage years.

  ‘How come you’re not on your A-game today?’ Or this entire week.

  Khan shook his head but didn’t say anything.

  Smith closed the door gently and faced him. When he finally made eye contact, she spoke. ‘You’ve not been yourself lately, Mo. What’s up? Come on.’

  She let the silence hang like she was running an interview; people couldn’t help but fill it eventually.

  ‘It’s…’ Khan sucked his teeth briefly. ‘Just my family, innit.’

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re on at me the whole time about getting married. Some second cousin in Karachi they’re trying to set me up with. Uncles and aunts and cousins and what-not all gettin’ involved. Nice Muslim girl, wedding over there, she’ll move here. All you have to do is say “yes”, Mohammed.’

  ‘Sounds stressful.’

  ‘Damn right it is.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s bollocks. I’ve been on a few dates with this girl I met online. Here, in London. She’s great.’

  Smith could see he was fighting his anger.

  ‘But no way could I tell Mum and Dad about her,’ he continued. ‘She’s not Muslim. She don’t even believe in God.’

  Smith thought for a moment. ‘There any way you could talk to them? Let them know the arranged thing isn’t what you want?’

  ‘I tried. Only reply they gave me was that if I wasn’t up for it, I can get out of their house.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah. It is shit. Where am I gonna go?’

  Smith didn’t have an answer for that. She knew Khan’s finances were limited, on a new DC’s salary and with student loan repayments. ‘I’m sure you’ll work it out with them.’

  ‘You don’t know them. Their rules are like… rigid. No debate. It’s pissing me off.’

  ‘All right, well. Let’s do what we’ve got to do here. At least that’ll take your mind off it for a bit, yeah?’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  They walked through into a large, open-plan living space which had obviously been re-fitted recently with a top-spec kitchen area and designer furniture. Together, they began checking the surfaces, drawers, bookshelves and cupboards for anything of interest. Any indication of something that might not be right in this seem
ingly perfect home. Any reason why someone might’ve wanted to kill Martin Johnson. But there wasn’t much to go on here.

  ‘Pretty sick how one guy had all this,’ observed Khan, peering through a set of French doors into a landscaped garden.

  ‘Doesn’t seem like he had much love, though. No partner, no children. Parents dead. Just one younger sister who was living in Australia. PC MacLeod called her yesterday. Said she got the impression they weren’t close. They hadn’t even spoken for six months, and she was his nearest relative.’

  ‘Not all families are close,’ remarked Khan.

  ‘And maybe some are closer than they’d like to be.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘I don’t think Martin Johnson was close to anyone.’ Smith gestured to the walls and bookcases. ‘Can you see a single photo of another human being?’

  ‘Might be some upstairs.’

  ‘OK. You take a look up there. I’ll check out the study.’

  Smith went through into Johnson’s home office, hoping that she never became isolated in the way that their victim appeared to have been. She had her fella, and her son. Her folks were still around, too, though they’d moved out of London. She decided to give them a call after her shift. Something about the loneliness of Martin Johnson’s life had pierced her professional armour. But it didn’t take her long to snap back into work mode when she saw the document on his desk.

  Neatly printed and laid out, as if he’d been examining it just before he left the house. Smith skim read the first few pages. It was a legal piece about sexual assault claims: how they were processed and investigated, and what evidence the Crown Prosecution Service required to reach a threshold of criminal charge. She took out her phone and began photographing the pages, turning them over carefully by the edges. She’d finish this and then see if there were any other similar—

  The smash and tinkle of glass from upstairs made her freeze. Her first thought was that there might be an intruder, or someone in the house.

  ‘Mo?’ she yelled. ‘Mo!’