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

by Chris Merritt

  My watch says it’s almost ten thirty. The guy I’ve been waiting for should be coming any time now. The mallet in my pocket has a reassuring weight. I like the thump sound it makes when it connects with bone. One surprise strike is all I need, then the fun can begin. The payback, the justice.

  It’s almost completely silent in the graveyard. There’s just the rustle of tree branches in the slight wind, the occasional chirrup of a robin, and my own breathing. Then a new sound. Footsteps on the path. Getting louder.

  Showtime.

  Ernesto was buzzing. The Zumba class had been amazing. It was as if the music had taken over his body and, once he’d felt that start to happen, he’d just let go. They’d moved and danced for almost a full hour straight, but it’d seemed like only a few moments. Now, walking home, he could feel his thighs trembling from the exertion. The night air was helping him cool down, but he was looking forward to a shower when he got to his flat. That wasn’t the only thing he was anticipating.

  Earlier, Paul had texted to ask what he was doing after Zumba. Since Paul knew the class ended at 10 p.m. and they both had work tomorrow, his question wasn’t about going out afterwards. Back in Colombia, where Ernesto had grown up, it wouldn’t be unusual to start your night out at ten thirty. But here in London people didn’t do that. He didn’t do that, not on a weekday, anyway. Ernesto wasn’t one of those party-animal guys who was on the scene every night. And Paul knew that. Which meant his message was about one thing, and one thing only. And that was absolutely fine with Ernesto.

  As he strolled through the graveyard, thinking again what a cool set it would make for a movie – so gothic and creepy – he let himself begin fantasising about Paul. He was picturing the bathroom of his apartment, clouded with steam, warm and inviting. He imagined hot water against his skin, flowing over his body. Then Paul, opening the shower door and stepping inside with him. The texture of his beard, the touch of his strong hands…

  His excitement growing, Ernesto took out his phone. They’d agreed he would text Paul when he got home to say that he was in, and Paul would come over. He lived in Brixton, which was only ten minutes in an Uber. From the graveyard, it was still another fifteen minutes’ walk to Ernesto’s house, but he couldn’t wait. If he texted now, Paul would get there even faster.

  He went into his messages, tapped on Paul’s last one, and began a reply. Then he heard something behind him and stopped, turned. No one was there. He blinked, squinting into the darkness. Ernesto had never seen another soul walking through here at night before. Probably because the place shut in the afternoon. At this time, he always hopped over the low wall to get in. That was a little naughty, but the dead didn’t mind. And it was so worth it for the most atmospheric shortcut in town. Satisfied he was alone, he continued walking.

  Seconds later, he heard the quick footsteps and spun just in time to see a dark shape coming up on him, a swinging arm. Ernesto raised his hands, but he was too slow. The impact on the side of his face sent him backwards, sprawling, flailing, and he smacked into the path, his phone flying from his grip. The wind was knocked from him and he clutched his stomach. He tried to shout but somehow couldn’t form words, only panicked, mangled noises. Then a body was over him. Another almighty blow connected with his ribs, and this time he screamed louder, screwing his eyes shut and desperately clawing air until his nails raked flesh. A face.

  The attacker growled in what sounded more like annoyance than pain, as if Ernesto’s best efforts to defend himself were merely an inconvenience. He opened his eyes again and tried to keep fighting, thrashing his limbs. But then he saw the object raised again, high above him, and when it came back down and connected, everything went black.

  Day Nine

  Thirty-Six

  As Lockhart reached the crime scene perimeter, he surveyed the vast expanse of gravestones and grass, interspersed by old trees. Streatham Cemetery was one of the few large burial sites in London he hadn’t been to before, not that he was crossing them off some morbid mental list. It was a typical Victorian cemetery; a massive plot of land set aside to meet demand for places to bury the dead. A hundred and fifty years ago, London’s population was swelling through migration by those searching for work, but life expectancy in the city was just forty. The maths was simple, and the answer was big graveyards.

  Londoners might live longer these days, but their ultimate fate hadn’t changed. The capital drew people in from all over the world but remained indifferent to their existence. Whatever they succumbed to, they all ended up six feet underneath her surface. Decaying, disintegrating and eventually merging with her soil. London literally absorbed its citizens; they became part of her fabric in death as much as in life.

  Lockhart briefly wondered if this gloomy train of thought was the effect cemeteries had on him. Then the voices got his attention. He followed the sound and saw a couple of reporters and a photographer making their way towards him, shouting questions. Did he know what was going on? Was it another victim of the serial killer? What could he tell them? He deflected everything with a single palm, firmly raised, and the words: ‘no comment for the minute’. Before they could intercept him, Lockhart flashed his warrant to the PC at the outer cordon who swiftly raised the tape for him to duck beneath. He spotted DCI Porter on his phone over by one of the two chapels. After signing in with the CSM, Lockhart walked over to his boss and caught the end of his call.

  ‘Of course, ma’am,’ said Porter. ‘I’ll have a full update for you within the hour.’

  Lockhart knew it would be DSI Burrows on the line, channelling pressure from the Chief Super above her down to Porter. Pressure that would surely make its way to the rest of the MIT before long.

  His boss rang off and tucked the phone inside his jacket, peering over Lockhart’s shoulder towards the journalists.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Dan.’ Porter spoke in hushed, angry tones. ‘How did that lot get here so bloody fast?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’ Lockhart shoved his hands in his coat pockets. ‘Probably have to give them something soon, though. They’re already asking if this is linked to the other two. And it doesn’t look as though they’re going anywhere.’

  ‘All right. I’ll deal with my own media strategy, thanks very much.’ He ran a hand over his smooth, shaved head. ‘Three bodies in nine days. Fuck knows I didn’t need this right now.’

  Lockhart said nothing. He felt the urgency of catching this killer as much as Porter. But for him, homicide cases were always about the victims, not about the investigators. Now wasn’t the time to call the boss on his lack of empathy, though. Lockhart wasn’t the one going for promotion, despite what Porter had said a few days ago. And he guessed that if the big man found out about him briefing Green, let alone the bus stop covert cameras, it’d be more than the acting DCI role he could lose. A scuffing of shoes came from behind them and they turned to see Khan approaching.

  ‘And I don’t need this, either,’ muttered Porter.

  ‘Sir.’ Khan acknowledged Lockhart with a small nod. ‘Boss.’

  ‘Anything?’ asked the DCI wearily.

  ‘Just spoke to the groundsman who found our victim this morning. He was in the gatehouse last night – he lives there – but he didn’t hear nothing. Then again, he had the telly on, and the attack was—’ Khan pointed but Porter cut him off.

  ‘I know where it was. Right over the other side. There’s a tent there. With a body in it.’

  Khan didn’t reply but his jaw worked aggressively at some gum.

  Porter sighed. ‘Have we started house to house?’

  ‘No.’ Khan frowned. ‘I thought the uniforms were gonna do that.’

  ‘Well, there’s only two of them here at the moment, and as you can see, they’re busy keeping uninvited press out of our crime scene. So, get over the road and start knocking on doors.’

  For a second, Khan looked as if he was going to protest. But he bit his lip, mumbled an affirmative reply, and went off. Lockhart watched him leave, remember
ing his reaction to the press leak. Khan was one of the first on the scene here today, and the journalists hadn’t been far behind. Lockhart didn’t want to throw accusations around, but something was definitely going on with Khan. Maybe he’d have a word with Smith, later; she spent more time with him than anyone else in the MIT.

  Porter had indicated that he thought one of them was responsible for unauthorised contact with the media and said that an email audit would be conducted in due course. This had damaged morale and trust in the team at a time when they needed everyone to put in extra hours and effort. Lockhart wondered what they’d find in his emails. He was pretty sure his contact with Stagg and Green had been by phone only… But he couldn’t worry about that now. The most useful thing he could do was focus on this crime scene.

  ‘We got a duty pathologist?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope.’ Porter shook his head. ‘There’s nobody available. Even though that’s what “duty” meant, the last time I checked.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I haven’t even seen the body yet,’ said Porter. ‘Let’s suit up.’

  Thirty-Seven

  Lockhart had run towards the Taliban sniper inside the house in Afghanistan, taking him to the ground and throwing wild punches with a kind of uncontained rage that seemed to belong to someone else. The guy had defended himself, at first, blocking Lockhart’s early strikes while trying to squirm out from under him, and managed to land a couple of knees to his stomach and ribs. But that wasn’t enough. When Lockhart’s fist slammed into his face, the sniper’s resistance seemed to evaporate. Perhaps Lockhart should’ve stopped there. But it was as if that alien force was still in control of his body. All he could see was the corpse of Private Billy Ross, the young lad from his unit this guy had just shot. And he kept punching.

  ‘Dan!’ Porter’s voice brought him sharply out of the scene. ‘I said, do you agree?’

  Lockhart felt nauseous. His heart was palpitating. Now he understood why these flashbacks were coming to him. ‘Er… sorry, sir, I wasn’t quite—’

  ‘Do you agree, it’s the same killer?’

  Green used to tell him that those physical reactions were just part of the memory. It might feel as though the event was happening again, but he was safe. Trying to get his fight-or-flight response under control, Lockhart stooped to examine the victim.

  The dead man lay on his back, his face bruised and swollen. Trails of blood had dried around the nose and mouth. Again, there was a triangle drawn on his neck, but this time it had a horizontal line through it.

  ‘Looks that way,’ observed Lockhart. ‘Apparent ambush MO, isolated location. Symbol’s a bit different, though.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘And so’s the victim. For a start, he’s much younger than Stott and Johnson.’

  Porter was about to reply when the tent flap opened and one of the SOCOs came in holding a brown paper evidence bag. ‘iPhone,’ she announced. ‘We found it in the long grass just behind the tent. Could be the victim’s.’

  ‘Good.’ Porter jerked his head towards the body. ‘I assume he’s not been rolled yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right, let’s do it and see what’s in that rucksack.’

  Two minutes later, they had removed the backpack, confirmed no obvious external wounds lay underneath it, and carefully returned the body to its original position. The SOCO placed the bag down and gently unzipped it, probing inside.

  ‘Damp clothing,’ she said. ‘Smells sweaty. Gym kit, most likely.’

  ‘Let’s find out where he was training,’ Porter commented.

  ‘Hang on.’ The SOCO paused, then extracted a small, dark object. A wallet. She opened it and pulled out a driving licence, scanning the front before offering it to Porter.

  ‘Ernesto Gomez.’ The DCI scrutinised the photo and handed the card to Lockhart. ‘Born 1985. Address in Streatham. I’d say it’s him.’

  Lockhart agreed. ‘Is there money in the wallet?’

  The SOCO flipped the divider and tugged out the corners of some notes. ‘Forty quid.’

  ‘I don’t think this was a random robbery,’ offered Lockhart. ‘I reckon Mr Gomez was targeted. Like Johnson and Stott. Someone knew he was coming through this cemetery.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘Killer could’ve followed him in here, taken the opportunity of darkness and tree cover to attack. Maybe he just didn’t find the wallet. He panicked and fled without taking anything.’

  ‘Can I see that phone?’ Lockhart asked the SOCO. She passed him the evidence bag. He took the mobile out, taking care to hold it by the edges, and moved it towards the victim’s hands. This had worked for him once before, last year. He lifted Gomez’s fingers, noticing that the nails were long and darkened with dirt.

  ‘Dan, what are you doing?’ asked Porter.

  ‘Make sure we get samples from under these nails,’ he told the SOCO. ‘OK?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll get a swab kit.’ The SOCO stood. ‘By the way, if you’re thinking of trying to open that phone, it won’t work. iPhone X doesn’t have fingerprint ID.’

  ‘Right.’ Lockhart glanced up to her and back to the phone.

  ‘Try his face instead. His eyes are open.’

  Lockhart held the phone over the victim’s face, tilting it, but nothing happened.

  ‘Let me have a go.’ The SOCO crouched next to him. He gave her the phone. ‘It works on infra-red sensors,’ she explained, angling Gomez’s head to the other side. ‘It checks for a match on shape, so the contusions and swelling on his left side might confuse it.’

  She swept the phone over the right-hand side where Gomez’s eye was open, staring ahead, unblinking. Nothing happened. The SOCO repeated the motion, but the device stayed locked. She tried again, and suddenly the screen came to life.

  ‘There you go,’ she said. ‘I’ll get that swab kit, now.’

  ‘Genius.’ Lockhart stood and, together with Porter, examined the home screen. There was a notification on the call log. Lockhart tapped into it.

  ‘Five missed calls from someone called Paul,’ he said.

  ‘Check the texts,’ suggested Porter.

  Lockhart tapped into them and found the thread he was looking for at the top. Paul had sent Gomez several messages between 11 p.m. and midnight, asking if he was home, then if he was OK. A further three texts today expressed Paul’s hope that Gomez was all right, ending with a request to call him. Scrolling up, Lockhart read the texts from earlier that day. They were affectionate and flirtatious, signed off with kisses, and culminated in a plan to meet up last night.

  ‘We need to speak to this guy,’ said Porter.

  Paul wasn’t the only person they needed to speak to. Green had warned Lockhart about jumping to conclusions, and it seemed as though she’d been right. He was already dismissing the theory that their killer was a vigilante attacking middle-aged straight white men accused of sexually assaulting younger female colleagues. Apart from being male, Ernesto Gomez didn’t appear to fit a single part of that profile.

  Lockhart needed to find out more about Gomez and give Green the new information. Just as soon as he could get some distance from Porter.

  Thirty-Eight

  Smith emerged from Brixton tube station into a wall of sensory overload. Above heavy traffic, she could hear shouted conversations, fire-and-brimstone preaching, pleas for spare change, and drumming. The meaty aromas of street food grills mingled with exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke. And there were people, everywhere. Bustling, shoving, loitering; a great mass of humanity collected at one huge crossroads.

  Faced with all that, she wouldn’t blame an unsuspecting visitor for heading straight back underground. But this was London, and Smith loved it. She never wanted to lose touch with the streets of her home. That said, she might’ve preferred to drive to Paul Newton’s residence, but the simple fact was that no cars were available. It was either a sign of how many extra staff had been loaned to MIT 8 today, or of how strapped their resources were. Most
likely a combination of both.

  After the body of Ernesto Gomez had been discovered early this morning, and initial examination had suggested he was their killer’s third victim, things had stepped up a gear. Make that two gears; three if you were talking about Porter’s stress levels. DSI Burrows had even visited their office, which happened about as often as a solar eclipse, mainly to announce that the series of three linked killings had been given the name Thorncross.

  Met ops often took their titles from English villages and, in this case, a quick Google search showed that Thorncross was just a stone’s throw from the beautiful Isle of Wight coastline. Smith briefly imagined the sandy beach, the waves, a walk with her fella and no violent crime to deal with. She could just about remember what that was called: a holiday. Maybe she’d get one when Thorncross and Braddock had been cleared up. But no way would she even consider leaving London until then.

  Reinforcements from MIT 11 in Lewisham had been bussed like tourists into Jubilee House this afternoon. They were already hot desking, though Smith’s aggressively labelled personal biscuit collection and photographs of her loved ones made it clear that her desk was not available. Smith had been one of those temporary transfers herself a few times, so she appreciated how important it was to be welcoming. Which, of course, she would be. Just as long as no one sat in her chair or pilfered her snacks.

  It wasn’t just the activity levels that were changing. Smith had been forced to confront her earlier certainty that these serial murders were about revenge for unpunished sexual assaults on younger women by older men. Gomez was thirty-five, Latin American, and gay. In terms of motive, it felt as though they were back to square one. But she reminded herself that she still knew very little about Gomez, and that the allegations against both Stott and Johnson hadn’t emerged until the MIT had spoken to their colleagues. That aspect of their victim strategy wouldn’t be so easy for Gomez, because he was a self-employed freelance designer. Still, the Lewisham lot were making themselves useful by tracking down his professional contacts, as well as liaising with the Colombian embassy in Knightsbridge to locate his family in Medellín.