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

by Chris Merritt

  A scrap with the Thames had done the trick and, by the time Lockhart had got back to Hammersmith, he would almost have said he was feeling good. Invigorated, at least. He dropped the Defender around the corner from his block and walked to his front door with three tasks in mind: grab a quick, hot shower, get some porridge down him, then head to work. Just ahead, the postwoman was wheeling her red delivery trolley away from the building, and the sight of her prompted Lockhart to add a fourth item to his list. Check the mail inside their communal entrance.

  Among the usual takeaway menus and estate agents’ circulars was a white envelope, his name and address typed behind its small clear window. It’d been posted yesterday, first class. Instinctively, he knew what it was. His heart was already sinking as he took the stairs two at a time to get back to his flat. He needed the privacy and safety of his home to confront this. Dropping his swimming kit inside the front door, he tore the envelope open. The heading stood out in bold type:

  Claim for Declaration of Presumed Death

  Lockhart had understood that this would be coming. Even so, something about seeing those words in print, black on white, made his gut lurch and his throat constrict. He wanted to tear the letter up immediately, throw it away, set fire to it. Pretend it didn’t exist. But he had to face this. He forced himself to keep reading.

  We are writing in regard to your wife, Mrs Jessica Lockhart (née Taylor), who was officially registered as missing…

  He was no stranger to legalese from the hundred court cases he’d seen during a decade in the Met. When the subject of this measured, neutral and technical language was his wife, though, it jarred, and he began to feel anger stirring in his belly. Still, he read on:

  …and, given that the time elapsed since her disappearance has substantially exceeded seven years, our clients, the Taylor family, are seeking an official declaration of presumed death, which…

  Did Jess’s parents no longer care about their own daughter? Did that wanker Nick not believe, deep down, that his sister was alive? The rage grew for Lockhart, snaking through his limbs and making his fingers and toes tingle. He could feel his face flushed with blood as his eyes ran over the next paragraph. And he could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

  …whilst we must also recognise that an adult has the legal right to disappear, should he or she not wish to be found…

  Impossible. No way had Jess left him of her own free will. She couldn’t have. He wouldn’t believe it. That was the final straw. The fury had taken over, now, and he was dimly aware of the edges of his vision clouding. Without thinking, he ripped the letter in two and reached out, grabbing the first thing his hands found. He hurled the object against the nearest wall, bellowing as he released it. The smash and tinkle of glass made his vision clear instantly, as if he’d broken the surface of water he hadn’t known he’d been under. He was suddenly conscious of the near silence in his flat, his heavy breathing the only noise.

  Then he realised what he’d done.

  Lying on the ground, its large frame cracked and glass shattered, was the photograph of him and Jess on their wedding day. Holding one another and grinning as if they had the rest of their lives together. It was more than Lockhart could take.

  With shaky legs, he stumbled backward, made contact with the wall. Then he slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. He reached out for the two halves of the letter, taking one in each hand, and screwed them up as his head sank to his chest.

  Then he began to cry.

  Forty-Two

  ‘You OK, Dan?’ Lucy Berry stopped typing and swivelled her chair to face him.

  Lockhart guessed she could see the dark bags under his red-rimmed eyes. Even if Berry hadn’t been one of the more skilled analysts in the Met, she could’ve worked out that something was amiss.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, I’m all right. Just didn’t sleep well, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ve got two little ones,’ she replied with a wry smile. ‘Welcome to my world.’

  Lockhart forced himself to acknowledge the joke with a chuckle. He tried to push the letter and its implications out of his mind and focus on work.

  ‘Thorncross,’ he said. ‘Any word from the lab on DNA?’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ she replied. ‘I’ll chase them up in a bit.’

  ‘We need a break on this.’

  ‘With DNA, you never know.’

  A sample of skin cells harvested from beneath the fingernails of Ernesto Gomez had been sent to the specialist DNA unit at King’s College London for expedited analysis. Its profile could be automatically compared to the six million records in the national database. Lockhart had known cases where that process had given investigators a suspect name, almost always from someone who’d previously offended. Occasionally, the hit was from someone who was in the system for professional reasons: emergency services workers, detectives, crime scene staff. Usually, those latter cases were accidental, the result of transfer from contact with a victim. Sometimes, labs mixed things up and contaminated samples. And, very rarely, the presence of a professional’s DNA was there for another reason. One Lockhart didn’t like to think about.

  ‘We have got a potential lead on Charles Stott’s watch, though,’ Berry added. She pulled up an electronic note on her screen. ‘From the social media appeal.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He leant in to read it.

  ‘Yup.’ She pointed to the key details. ‘Second-hand jewellery shop owner called Wayne McGarrahan emailed to say someone had tried to sell him a Breitling watch with the inscription we knew was on the back: “To our Charlie, happy fortieth”. Says he refused to buy it because they didn’t offer ID.’

  ‘Did he describe the seller?’

  ‘Just says a “young” guy.’

  Lockhart was already thinking. ‘Cheers for letting me know about this, Luce. Where’s the shop?’

  ‘Bethnal Green.’

  He groaned inwardly at the thought of the journey. The East London district was ten miles away, right on the other side of the city. But if his hunch was right, he needed to go there in person. ‘OK. Leave that one with me, I’ll follow it up. Can you mark it as actioned?’

  ‘Will do. Sure you don’t want to send Mo or another one of the DCs?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ He lowered his voice. ‘By the way, do you think Mo’s been a bit… off, lately?’

  Berry considered this, then shrugged. ‘I guess he’s had a couple of unlucky things happen on this case. Maybe he’s taken that personally.’

  ‘Or maybe it’s a personal thing that’s affecting his work.’

  ‘Don’t know. He’s not mentioned anything to me.’

  ‘Thanks, Luce.’

  Lockhart glanced around the MIT office. There was no sign of Porter.

  ‘Do you know where the boss is?’ he asked.

  ‘Haven’t seen him yet today,’ replied Berry.

  ‘Probably talking to a lawyer about how he can hack our emails and phones to work out who tipped off the press.’

  Berry laughed. ‘Yeah, he seemed pretty worked up about that. Who do you reckon it was?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ answered Lockhart, though he had his suspicions.

  ‘I mean, could it maybe have been the killer?’

  Lockhart considered this. ‘It’s possible. But the article talked about the sexual assaults, and if we don’t think that’s the reason why these victims are being chosen, then it’s a bit of a coincidence if the killer also knew those allegations against Stott and Johnson.’

  ‘And you don’t like coincidences.’

  ‘Right. So, more likely the leak came from an investigator.’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘All right, I’m heading out. I’ll catch up with Porter later on.’

  The DCI’s absence was a good thing, Lockhart reflected. Because there was no way Porter would agree to what he was about to do.

  Forty-Three

  ‘I don’t want nothing to do with that sort of activity.’ Wayn
e McGarrahan crossed his thick arms and shook his head theatrically. ‘This is a reputable establishment.’

  The sign that read Cash for Gold immediately above his head didn’t exactly reinforce the assertion, but Lockhart wasn’t here to debate that with him. He’d come across enough wheeler-dealers like McGarrahan in London to know that the ethics of buying and selling second-hand goods of uncertain origin were flexible, dictated more by the likelihood of being caught than by some absolute moral standard. And a personal inscription raised the chance of an item being traced a hundredfold.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ replied Lockhart, his eyes running over rows of watches, rings and necklaces in glass cabinets behind the proprietor.

  ‘I mean, I took one look at that Breitling and I knew it was vintage, fifteen years at least. If it was legit, I could sell it for five grand, minimum. Six, maybe. Would’ve given him two or three for it.’ His eyes widened. He was clearly enjoying telling the story. ‘But I says to meself, hang on, Wayne. That’s gotta have a history, a piece like that. But could the lad tell me what it was?’ McGarrahan raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  Lockhart waited.

  ‘Course he couldn’t. See, I’ve got a nose for these things. Comes with the job.’ He gestured expansively to the collection of valuable items around him. Lockhart spotted another sign offering a pawn service with what appeared to be exorbitant fees.

  ‘What did he tell you, sir?’

  ‘Some rubbish about a relative giving it to him, but I could tell it was a load of bollocks. So, I says to him, sorry mate, no can do without ID. He claimed he didn’t have none. And off he toddled.’ McGarrahan jerked a thumb towards the shop door.

  ‘Can you describe this man?’

  The pawnbroker narrowed his eyes. ‘Sort of posh. Shorter than me. Well-built though, like a rugby player.’

  ‘Did he give you his name?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Lockhart produced the six-pack of mugshots he’d put together earlier. He’d copied the photos from the internet, because using actual police mugshots would’ve made the one image he really wanted to test stand out.

  ‘Take your time,’ said Lockhart, spreading them out on the counter.

  McGarrahan glanced at the portraits and snorted a laugh. ‘Him,’ he said, instantly jabbing his finger on the face of Xander O’Neill.

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘No doubt. The two moles on his cheek, there. And I’ve got a good memory for faces, me. Part of the job, cos I’ve gotta be careful about—’

  ‘We might need you to come in to make a statement to confirm that.’ Lockhart handed over one of his cards.

  A broad smile grew on McGarrahan’s face, revealing a set of crooked teeth. ‘Course, Inspector. Anything to help.’

  Lockhart imagined that McGarrahan was calculating what help he’d be due in return. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he had to work out how to make the arrest of a man his boss had categorically ordered him to leave alone.

  He was almost at Bethnal Green tube station and about to head underground again when his phone rang. It was Berry.

  ‘Luce, what’s up?’

  ‘The DNA results are back,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘No trace.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘But there is one thing,’ she added. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The sample had XX chromosomes.’

  ‘You’re saying?…’

  ‘Yup. It belongs to a woman.’

  Forty-Four

  Lexi sprinkled some chilli flakes over her avocado toast. It was a quick dinner, designed to give her more time to work tonight, but it didn’t hurt to make an effort. That was a part of her new plan: less booze, better food, greater purpose. She’d wondered if she should cook something a little more advanced, since Dan was coming over, but in the end, she hadn’t had time to go to the grocery store after finishing up late at the clinic. So, she’d just doubled up the avocado toast, reminding herself that dinner wasn’t the reason for his visit; it was work. Lexi wasn’t sure exactly what work, since he’d been a little cagey on the phone and wouldn’t say what he wanted to discuss.

  She was filling a glass of water from the tap when she heard footsteps behind her and turned. Rhys was in the doorway, wearing an anorak and baseball cap, a rucksack slung over his shoulder. He didn’t acknowledge her, instead dropping the pizza box he was clutching on the floor next to the fridge.

  ‘Uh, hey, Rhys,’ she said, already aware of her harsh tone.

  ‘What?’

  She pointed at the box. ‘That goes in the recycling. Remember our conversation last week?’

  ‘Oh… yeah. Where is it again?’

  ‘Jeez,’ she muttered, crossing the room and opening a cupboard. ‘In here.’

  ‘OK.’ He picked up the box, lumbered over and tossed it inside.

  ‘Goddam it!’ she barked, rearranging the box. ‘Can’t you just put it in there properly? Do I have to tidy up all your shit?’

  Rhys cowered slightly. Lexi didn’t know where her outburst had come from; she guessed the anger was still there, right below the surface.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  He stood silently in front of her, still looking terrified. Then the doorbell went.

  ‘I’ll, um…’ He waved a thumb towards the front door and sloped out.

  Lexi wiped a hand over her face. She knew she needed to be way more zen about this, but the fact was that Rhys just wound her up. Every time she saw him, she thought of the man he’d replaced in their home: Liam. And that made her feel sick to her stomach, guilty and heartbroken all at once.

  The door slammed and, next she knew, Dan was in the kitchen right where Rhys had been standing a few seconds earlier.

  ‘Friendly chap,’ he said, jerking his head towards the front door.

  ‘He’s a douchebag.’

  Dan frowned slightly. ‘You all right, Lexi?’

  ‘Uh, yeah, I’m good.’ She nodded, trying to get her shit back together. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Cheers for making time for me.’

  ‘No problem.’ She paused a beat. ‘Oh, you want some food? I literally just made this…’

  ‘Great.’ His eyes widened. ‘I mean, if you’ve got enough.’

  ‘Sure. I made extra. Just in case. Grab a seat.’

  She brought the plates over to the kitchen table. Dan took his jacket off, hung it on the back of his chair and sat down opposite her. Only then did she notice that his eyes were raw, the whites bloodshot, deep purplish bags underneath. Immediately, she found herself forgetting her own stuff and going into empathic mode. That was easy with Dan; he brought that response out of her. She knew he’d almost never opened up about his mental health, and she wanted to respect that trust he’d placed in her to talk about his deepest fears. To show her his vulnerabilities.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Yeah.’ He sighed and looked up from the food. ‘Actually, no. Not really.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  Dan was gripping his knife and fork so tightly that his knuckles were white. ‘Jess’s family want to have her declared officially dead. Like, legally.’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, instinctively reaching out a hand and laying it on his forearm. She wouldn’t have done that in a therapy session, but he wasn’t her patient anymore. He didn’t flinch, but she withdrew her hand anyway after a moment. ‘You wanna talk about it?’

  He looked as if he was about to say yes, but then it was like he caught himself and something closed up again. ‘Not now.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Cheers, though. I’d prefer to talk about the case. Thorncross, I mean.’ He sawed off a large piece of the avocado toast and somehow fitted it in his mouth. He murmured with satisfaction and, despite everything they were discussing, Lexi felt pleased. Then she
felt ridiculous for feeling that. Jeez, a psychologist’s awareness was a pain in the ass, sometimes.

  ‘Sure,’ she replied.

  ‘I didn’t want to go into detail over the phone,’ he said through a mouthful of food. ‘Porter’s paranoid about us all leaking to the press, so I wouldn’t put it past him to tap our calls.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Probably not, but you never know. I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.’

  ‘Appreciate it.’

  Dan swallowed. ‘This is good, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks. Not exactly Michelin-star, but hey.’

  ‘I’m not complaining. We OK speaking here?’ He waved his fork around the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah, Sarah’s out at a spin class. And Rhys, well. I didn’t even know he went out, but apparently, he does. And I confirm we are not being bugged.’

  Dan smiled briefly, but she could see the effort behind it.

  ‘OK, so, I’ve been thinking,’ she went on, ‘about those symbols that the killer’s been leaving on the body. The third one proves they’re occult. Or, more accurately, pagan. Basically, you can think of them as like pre-Christian religious signs. They represent the elements, and so far, we’ve had water, fire, and air.’

  ‘There are four elements, right?’ He shovelled in some more toast. ‘Those three, plus earth.’

  ‘Uh, actually there’s five.’

  Dan stopped chewing. ‘Five?’

  ‘Yeah. The fifth is spirit. They’re represented on a pentagram.’ She reached for her laptop, opened it and clicked a few times to bring up a file. ‘Look.’

  He stared at it for a few seconds before turning to her. ‘So, we can expect two more murder attempts?’

  ‘I guess so.’