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

by Chris Merritt

‘That’s useful. Any idea what it means?’

  She drew in a long breath. ‘It’s possible that the symbols have some idiosyncratic meaning…’

  ‘Idio-what?’

  ‘Idiosyncratic. Like, personal.’

  ‘Right.’ Dan looked a little embarrassed. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘But we may never know what that is unless we find the killer and they tell us, or they’ve documented it somewhere.’

  Dan nodded slowly. She could see his frustration.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘there’s an update from my side.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We found skin cells under Ernesto Gomez’s fingernails. Probably from trying to defend himself, though we can’t be certain. Result came back earlier. They were from a woman.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘Yup.’

  She sat back in her chair.

  ‘And there was another development today, too. You remember Xander O’Neill?’

  ‘The actor you don’t like, who may or may not have been having an affair with Jemima Stott-Peters?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember him.’

  ‘We have a witness who says he tried to sell Charles Stott’s watch in a second-hand jewellery shop.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Lexi considered this. ‘Doesn’t mean he killed Stott, though, does it? I mean, if he was seeing Jemima, he might’ve had access to the watch at their house. Maybe he stole it before Stott was murdered.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he conceded. ‘Or perhaps she and O’Neill were in on it together.’

  ‘You think the female DNA on Ernesto Gomez’s body was hers?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Do the two of them have any connection to the other two victims?’

  ‘No.’ He drew the word out into two syllables. ‘Not that we know of. Yet.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘I’m telling you, Lexi, I don’t like him.’

  She snorted. ‘Is that evidence?’

  ‘Remind me again: how many murder investigations have you run?’

  Lexi bristled. ‘I don’t need to be a cop to see that, for some reason, you think this O’Neill guy is a killer, and you’re fitting the data into that conclusion. Not drawing your conclusions from data.’

  Dan jabbed his finger on the tabletop. ‘At the very least, he’s got to explain why he was trying to sell the watch of a murdered man, and how it came into his possession. I’m heading round to his place later for a chat. We’ll see what he says then.’

  ‘You’re not gonna arrest him and do it under caution?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, that had occurred to me.’

  ‘OK, because—’

  ‘Porter won’t have it. He’s already told me twice to stay away from Stott-Peters and O’Neill. I need to find another way. He trips himself up, he’s still got the watch, whatever.’

  Lexi ate some avocado toast while she thought. ‘So, say you do that. O’Neill comes up with a credible reason why he had the watch, and there’s no other evidence against him. What then?’

  ‘Well,’ Dan blew out his cheeks briefly, ‘in that case, we’d most likely have to move on.’

  ‘And find another suspect.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘One with a link to all three victims,’ she added.

  ‘Ideally.’

  ‘Except, you probably need to do that within, like, two days, because based on this killer’s pattern of behaviour, that’s when we can expect their next attack.’ Lexi folded her arms and a few seconds’ silence hung between them.

  ‘Have you got a drink?’ he asked, eventually.

  ‘Tea? It’s a little late for coffee, but—’

  ‘I was thinking of something alcoholic, actually.’

  She hesitated. It would be easy to open a bottle of wine. Even easier to do it with Dan, in her house, and nobody else here. Potentially a dangerous combination. ‘Uh, I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Tea’s good. Thanks.’

  Lexi got up and went across to the counter. She filled the kettle and flicked it on.

  ‘Let’s assume you’re correct and it’s not him and Stott-Peters behind this,’ Dan said. ‘How else could we profile the killer?’

  ‘OK.’ She reached for a couple of mugs. ‘Well, you have three unconnected victims, right?’

  ‘Far as we know.’

  ‘But two of them worked in film. And the third was a compensation lawyer. So, how about this: someone who worked in film, with one hell of a grudge against some people in the industry.’ Lexi threw a tea bag in each mug. ‘Maybe they want compensation for something that happened to them, but haven’t gotten it, and this is their revenge. And they have some kind of spiritual belief that makes them draw the symbols.’

  ‘Could still be Xander O’Neill…’

  ‘Enough with that theory, Dan!’

  When he was her patient in the clinic, she’d never have expressed this kind of irritation with him. But things were different, now.

  ‘What do we know about the attacks?’ she asked, exasperated. ‘They were brutal, savage. We also think they were premeditated due to their isolated locations and timings. It’s got psychopath written all over it in great big letters.’

  ‘Thanks for pointing that out,’ he said drily.

  ‘The important thing is that this kind of behaviour is a psychopath’s default state. Something was keeping a lid on it until this, this film incident, or whatever, and now it’s been activated. The question is, what was this person doing before that stopped them killing? That’ll be the most useful piece of a profile. I think they had a job that was satisfying those urges for violence.’

  Dan didn’t reply. The kettle clicked off and she poured the boiling water.

  ‘OK, put it another way,’ she continued, getting some milk from the fridge. ‘In what professions would psychopathic characteristics be helpful? Lack of fear, no empathy. We can narrow it down with a connection to film, assuming that’s no coincidence. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘Some kind of fighting, martial arts thing.’

  ‘Now you’re catching on.’ She flashed him a grin as she poured the milk. ‘Security, bodyguard, stunt person, military advisor…’

  ‘Military?’

  ‘Sure. The so-called warrior gene.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a thing in human biology about predisposition to violence, which can be triggered off by stuff like abuse or hardship in life. And it links to a theory from anthropology about why violent and antisocial people evolved. You need someone to defend your group from threats, right? A person with a low threshold for violence can do that way more easily, especially when they feel they’ve been wronged and want revenge. They could kill someone and not even blink.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. And, so long as you reward that person, keep them happy, and their identity aligns with yours, you’re safe. It’s when they turn that violence against their own people, or start using it alone, for themselves, that you’re in trouble.’

  She put the tea down in front of him.

  Dan stood. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he announced.

  ‘You OK?’

  He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and marched out.

  ‘Dan?’ she called after him.

  She heard the door slam and his footsteps fading.

  Forty-Five

  Lockhart had needed to get out. It was the talk of warrior genes and killing without blinking that’d done it. He was picturing the recent victims and then, suddenly, he’d been right back in that house in Afghanistan. His heart was pounding, his palms sweaty, mouth dry, and all he knew was that he couldn’t be there, in Green’s kitchen, talking about murder. Now he’d put some distance between himself and her house, and his panic had subsided, he could think a bit more clearly.

  Green’s theories had given him a lo
t to mull over. Her ideas made sense, and her arguments were persuasive. But there still wasn’t much hard evidence behind them. She’d linked the pieces of the puzzle with some fancy words that he didn’t completely understand, like anthropology and idiosyn-something or other. Remembering what she’d said, he briefly wondered whether defending others was programmed into his DNA. Did he have this ‘warrior gene’ or whatever it was? It would certainly explain some things.

  There hadn’t been much time, however, to contemplate that further before he’d arrived at Xander O’Neill’s house. The two-storey building was a squashed mid-terrace on one of the streets that ran off Balham High Road, about a mile north of Green’s home. Scanning the exterior, Lockhart could see it was clearly in need of maintenance. It barely looked big enough to fit the five people O’Neill had told him lived here. A small roof window suggested that there’d been a loft conversion, which was about the only way Lockhart could imagine them all squeezing in. He guessed it was a rent-saving set-up; O’Neill had said he was struggling to find work.

  Lockhart could hear voices inside as he pressed the buzzer; then laughing, the baseline of some music. Nothing happened. He pushed it again and, eventually, the door was opened by a fit-looking young woman with large, inquisitive eyes and masses of dark curly hair. A huge glass of red wine dwarfed one of her hands. The other rested on the lintel, forming a barrier across the threshold.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he said pleasantly, holding up his warrant card. ‘I’m with the Met. Is Xander O’Neill in?’

  ‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed, her face lighting up with intrigue. ‘What’s he done? Naughty boy!’

  ‘Is he at home, please, Ms?…’

  ‘Rosamund.’ She cast a glance over her shoulder down the hallway to where a dinner party was obviously gathering pace. Or maybe this was just a normal Thursday night at Xander O’Neill’s home.

  ‘No, he’s out. I think. Xandy!’ she yelled up the stairs.

  Lockhart peered past her. He was tempted to see if he could talk his way in, perhaps even check out O’Neill’s room for the stolen watch or anything else he might be hiding, but he had no authority for that. He’d need to wait. Better to keep his powder dry, for now.

  ‘Yeah, sorry, he’s not here,’ she said, shrugging and eyeing Lockhart.

  ‘OK, thanks anyway. I’ll call back another time. It was just a few follow-up questions from a chat we had last week. Nothing urgent,’ he added.

  As Rosamund closed the door, he could’ve sworn her expression was one of relief. She hadn’t even asked his name.

  By the time Lockhart had driven back to Hammersmith and climbed the stairs to his flat, he was exhausted. It’d been a long, stressful day, although he felt as though he had little to show for his efforts. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep and, despite being knackered, there was no reason for him to think that would change tonight.

  Green would probably have had some advice to help him relax, but he didn’t want to burden her with all his shit. He’d told her about Jess earlier, but the conversation had ended there. And he hadn’t even mentioned the flashbacks to Afghanistan, the image that tormented him of that Taliban sniper. How similar the guy’s corpse had looked to the Thorncross killer’s victims. The logical conclusion that, in some ways, he probably understood the murderer they were trying to catch better than anyone. And, yet, he felt as though he knew almost nothing about them.

  Without quite knowing how he’d got there, Lockhart found himself in front of his fridge, reaching for a cold can of Stella. He cracked it open and swallowed a mouthful. Immediately, something in him eased, just a bit. He took another swig, exhaling with satisfaction. It’d help him sleep, he told himself.

  Pulling out his phone, he tapped into the camera app and began checking the footage from the Op Braddock bus stops. He didn’t find anything of interest. Before he knew it, he’d finished the can. Automatically, as if guided by some alien force, he extracted another beer from the fridge and wandered into the living room.

  Then he saw the crumpled paper on the table. Two halves of the letter he’d torn and screwed up because it claimed Jess was dead. Lockhart drank some more, a deep draught. He chucked his phone on the table and, after smoothing out the letter again, he carried it over to Jess’s wall.

  He pinned the two pieces side by side and stood back, gulping down Stella, his gaze shifting between map, documents, notes and photographs.

  She wasn’t dead.

  He knew that.

  Now he just needed to prove it.

  He crushed the empty can in his hand and went back to the kitchen to get another.

  Forty-Six

  I was bored, again, so I’d decided to go out. Since I was heading to a club, I showered and dressed up. You need to look good if you want to get laid, right? But, again, I found myself waiting. This time, my impatience was directed at a bus I wanted to hurry up and come. I was being lazy, I knew that. But it was just a bit too far to walk to the nearest tube station from John’s place. The new shoes I’d bought with the two hundred pounds he ‘lent’ me were still that bit too stiff. And my body was still aching that bit too much. Another couple of days and I’ll be back to normal. Ready for some more action. In the meantime, something to take away the pain would be nice. Ketamine, maybe? Should be easy enough to get hold of some in the club.

  John has also kindly supplied me with a top-up for my pay-as-you-go phone, courtesy of his borrowed bank card. I’ll drop the card back into his wallet tomorrow morning, before he even realises it’s gone. When he gets the statement, he’ll either be too timid to ask, or it’ll be too late for him to get the money back, anyway. Thanks to the top-up, I was passing the time by streaming a YouTube video of the Ultimate Fighting Championship’s ‘most brutal’ knockouts. That was when I heard the voice.

  ‘Make a sound and you’re dead.’

  I looked up. A short, chunky man was standing beside me, his face covered in a black ski mask that left only his eyes visible. The bottom half of the mask shifted with the movement of his jaws as he chewed. Funny what details you notice. So, this was the guy, the bus stop rapist. I glanced back at my phone. Heavyweight MMA fighter Alistair Overeem was pounding the head of an opponent he’d taken to the ground. The crowd went crazy and the referee stepped in, signalling the end of the fight.

  ‘I’m serious,’ said the guy. ‘You scream or even think about calling 999 and I’ll hurt you.’

  I put the phone away, wishing I had my mallet. I’d just have to get by without it. There was no question of this little prick raping me, but I had to do something. I really couldn’t be bothered, though. I knew it’d hurt and probably mess up my clothes. But there was no sign of the bus, so he wasn’t going anywhere. And, in these shoes, I couldn’t run.

  ‘Get up and walk behind the bus stop,’ he commanded. ‘Do it now.’

  I felt like laughing. Then I went for him.

  In one movement I stood and threw a haymaker with my right hand. It connected with the side of his head, but not cleanly, and he stumbled, trying to reach for something. I aimed a kick at his chest and sent him flailing backwards into the road. He hit the tarmac with a dull sound. I grabbed his feet and dragged him up onto the pavement. I didn’t give a fuck, now, that this was in full view of anyone who cared to drive past. He was going to die.

  I kicked and stamped on him a few times with my heels, then got on top of him, pinning him to the ground between my legs. I began striking down at his head, then decided I wanted to see the face of the man whose life I was about to end. I grabbed the mask and he tried to hold my wrists to keep it on. He was stronger than he looked. For some reason, he took his hands away and I ripped off the mask. Our eyes met for a second.

  Then it was as if someone had set fire to my ribs.

  I gasped, fell sideways off him. He got to his feet. In his hand was a hunting knife, the tip of its blade dark red under the dim streetlight. I rolled away, clutching at my wound with
one hand. It stung like a bastard. I looked up at him. He was shaking, terrified. I pushed myself up on one hand, tried to get to my feet. He threw the knife away and ran. I managed a few steps before I fell, again. The pain was too much, and I roared as he ran into the park behind the bus stop, disappearing into the darkness.

  Day Eleven

  Forty-Seven

  It was Stagg who had been the first to see the camera footage from the bus stop in Colliers Wood, just south of Wimbledon. He’d sounded as though he was choking on his breakfast during the call he’d immediately made to Smith. Coat and car keys in hand before Stagg had finished speaking, she was already on her way when she’d rung Lockhart who, fortunately, had excused her from working on Op Thorncross this morning to follow-up. After a hasty drive south west, she’d arrived at the scene of the stabbing and attempted rape. Stagg, who lived closer, was already there. The place was eerily quiet.

  Smith felt sick to her stomach. It was the same uncomfortable feeling she’d had more often than she cared to remember in recent months, any time she thought of that suspect falling from the balcony. The sounds of his scream and contact with the ground three storeys below. The gnawing, niggling sense of something you could’ve done differently, and the knowledge that it was too late, now.

  ‘We should’ve seen it,’ she said.

  ‘I’m as angry as you are, Max.’ Stagg thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘But the fact is, it’s happened. And there’s nothing we can do to change that.’

  She shook her head. ‘I should’ve been keeping an eye on it.’

  ‘At eleven thirty at night?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Smith knew exactly what she was doing last night at the moment that bastard rapist accosted a woman at this bus stop. She’d been in bed with her fella, having a great time, her phone still in her bag in the hallway. The guilt was eating her up, the regret intolerable. ‘We could’ve got straight out after him.’

  ‘Come on. You’ve seen the clip. The whole thing was over in, what, less than a minute. By the time you’d have started your car engine or called a patrol unit, they’d both have long gone. Even if you were monitoring the app, you’d have needed to be looking at the right feed to see it happening. That’s a one-in-eight chance.’