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

by Chris Merritt

  On her fourth residential road, she clocked something even better on one of the houses: a home CCTV system. Its front camera pointed out towards the pavement. Anticipation stirring, she walked up the path and pressed the buzzer.

  Lockhart stopped pacing the waiting area of Lavender Hill police station long enough to check his watch. Less than sixty seconds had elapsed since he last looked at it, but he knew that every minute counted. Time was running out before they’d either need to charge or release Xander O’Neill. The actor’s lawyer – who seemed too well-presented for O’Neill to afford on his own – had stretched out every conceivable meal break, rest, consultation and medical check-up, squeezing the period available for interview to the bare minimum. They hadn’t even had time to take his DNA yet.

  Lockhart needed to go in and get to work, but he’d asked Green to be there too. Smith was about the only other person he’d trust to join him, but she was out trying to find the Braddock victim. He was hoping that, with Green observing the interview on a video feed, she might pick up on things he’d miss and get a sense of O’Neill’s pressure points. Two pairs of eyes were better than one, he reckoned. Especially when the second pair belonged to Green. She’d agreed to help, and he’d dashed off the paperwork for her to attend.

  The only problem was that she wasn’t here yet. Another five minutes, he told himself, then he’d have to make a start without her. He’d just resumed his pacing when the automatic doors whirred open and Green shot in, breathless.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, her cheeks flushed. ‘There were, like, no trains. Saturday closures, I guess. So, I had to take the bus, and then the road was shut off for repairs, so I walked—’

  ‘Never mind,’ he interrupted. ‘You’re here now. But we don’t have long.’

  ‘OK.’ She wiped her brow on the sleeve of her jumper.

  Lockhart lowered his voice. ‘We can probably manage two interviews before I’ll need to call the CPS for authorisation to charge, depending on what O’Neill says, obviously. Happy with that?’

  ‘Uh, sure. So, I just watch and listen, and we talk between the two interviews?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  His attention was drawn by some movement behind him and he turned to see one of the uniforms from the custody suite opening the door behind the reception. Then, unbelievably, O’Neill stepped through, wearing his own clothes.

  ‘Have a pleasant day, sir,’ the officer told O’Neill.

  Lockhart stepped forward. ‘What’s going on?’

  O’Neill froze for a second as he registered Lockhart’s presence, then his face lit up. ‘Inspector! Didn’t they tell you? I’ve been released.’

  ‘What?’

  The actor shrugged. ‘No charges to answer to.’

  ‘But…’ Lockhart blocked O’Neill’s exit and raised his voice to the uniform. ‘You’re letting him go?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Lockhart watched as O’Neill’s gaze shifted from challenging him to obvious interest in Green. The younger man’s eyes dipped and rose again, widening in appreciation. Lockhart felt a protective impulse accompanied by a powerful urge to punch O’Neill in the face. He could aim right for those moles on his cheek. But, beyond a few moments of satisfaction, that wouldn’t achieve anything.

  ‘Are all of your team this good-looking?’ he asked Lockhart, gesturing to Green.

  Lockhart ignored the question. ‘The stolen watch,’ he stated.

  ‘Oh, that. Given to me by my dear friend Mimi,’ replied O’Neill breezily. ‘Not stolen at all. Must’ve been a misunderstanding.’

  Lockhart felt his limbs tensing.

  ‘What’s your name?’ O’Neill asked Green.

  ‘None of your damn business,’ she replied.

  The actor made a small dismissive noise and moved towards the main doors.

  Stepping sideways, Lockhart blocked his path.

  ‘What are you going to do, Inspector?’ O’Neill looked up at him defiantly, puffing out his chest. ‘Assault me again? I can add that to the complaint which my lawyer’s already preparing. Excessive force used by you and your officers at my home, yesterday.’

  ‘You little prick,’ blurted Lockhart.

  ‘Dan.’ Green’s tone was cautionary.

  Lockhart could feel the rage swelling like a tide within him. His hands were tingling and his fists were already balled. He was one more smug comment away from violence. Then his phone rang.

  ‘Better get that,’ said O’Neill, nodding to Lockhart’s jacket.

  Lockhart stood still, breathing heavily through his nostrils, then broke eye contact and reached into his pocket. He looked at the screen. It said DCI Porter.

  ‘Good luck.’ O’Neill grinned and walked past Lockhart towards the street. The automatic doors buzzed open to let him out as Lockhart answered.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Whatever the fuck you think you’re doing,’ said Porter, his voice cold and precise, ‘I want you back at Jubilee House and in my office, immediately. That’s an order.’

  Fifty-One

  It was slow, but Smith was making progress. The house with the home CCTV system had captured a figure moving past at 11.47 p.m. on the night of the attack. With the distance and wide-angle lens, the detail wasn’t great, but it was good enough for Smith to identify the woman who was attacked at the bus stop some ten minutes earlier. The key was her walk.

  She moved with difficulty, favouring her right leg while clutching one hand to her left side, just above the hip. The obvious effort made Smith think again of the pain this poor woman must have endured, hauling herself home with a stab wound on top of the trauma of an attempted rape. Whoever she was, she was mentally and physically as tough a person as Smith had encountered in twenty-two years of policework. She found her respect for this victim renewed, her motivation to track her down redoubled.

  But even the boost of seeing the woman on film couldn’t temper Smith’s frustration. After finding the footage, she’d since knocked on two dozen doors with no result. She was starving, having already scoffed her supply of bananas and Jaffa Cakes, and desperately in need of caffeine. Shut up and keep going, she told herself. That’s what the heroic woman had done two nights ago. Smith owed her that much.

  Reaching the next house on the street, she rang the bell for the lower of two properties in the maisonette. Moments later, the door was opened by a small man with short, thick curly hair. His compact features, at once inquisitive and timid looking, reminded Smith of a rodent. She held out her warrant card for him and introduced herself.

  ‘Oh, how can I help, officer?’ he replied. His fingers knotted together.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, sir. Is this your home?’

  ‘Mm, yes.’ He glanced over his shoulder, inside. Smith could hear the crowd noise and commentary of a football match coming from another room. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘And is it just yourself in the property, then? Or does anyone else live here?’

  His hesitation was barely a second, but Smith caught it. ‘Just me.’

  Smith gave him a moment to change his mind, but he didn’t say anything else.

  ‘You may have seen on the news that we’re looking for a woman who we believe walked down this street late on Thursday night. She may have been seriously injured in an assault and we’d like to find her, to make sure she’s OK.’

  ‘Right.’ He nodded quickly.

  ‘Did you see or hear anything late on Thursday night? It would’ve been around 11.45 p.m.’

  ‘No, nothing.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m a very deep sleeper.’

  Smith doubted that. ‘All right. Well, thanks anyway. Let me give you my number, in case you think of anything else from late Thursday night or early Friday morning.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She patted her pockets. ‘Sorry, I don’t have a pen. Would you mind?—’

  ‘Sure.’ He turned around, searching for something to write with. Smith took the opportunity to look pas
t him, her eyes sweeping the interior. Unremarkable. Then she spotted it. At the bottom of the stairs, so small she could easily have missed it. A hairband. Like the kind in almost every woman’s pocket or handbag. And this guy’s hair wasn’t long enough to need tying back.

  ‘Actually, you could just put it in your phone,’ she said.

  He laughed awkwardly and pulled a device from his pocket. Smith gave him the number for her work mobile.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, mister…’ She let the words hang.

  ‘John.’

  ‘Thanks for your time, John.’ She gestured towards the television noise. ‘Who’s playing?’

  ‘Oh, er, Chelsea.’ He didn’t sound certain.

  She grinned. ‘That’s my team. Big cup game today, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Massive.’

  ‘Well, I’ll let you get back to it.’ She gave a mini-fist pump. ‘Come on the Blues.’

  The smile he gave her as he shut the door looked almost painful. John hadn’t wanted to talk about football. And there was no cup game today. Someone else had been watching the match in his home.

  Smith stepped back and searched the windows, but they were shuttered. It might be nothing. But her copper’s nose was usually on the money, and it told her something about John wasn’t quite right. She jotted his house number down and made a note to check him out when she got back. Which, judging by the length of the road, wouldn’t be for a while. That was OK. She’d long since cancelled any plans she had for her Saturday night.

  Fifty-Two

  ‘It’s been a pain in the arse, to be honest.’ Eddie Stagg gave a backward glance as he led Lexi across the CID room. ‘Just crap, mostly. No, in fact, all crap.’

  ‘No leads on the latest victim, then?’ she asked, as they reached his desk.

  ‘Not from here,’ he replied, flapping a hand at his computer, which was surrounded by crisp packets, chocolate bar wrappers and mugs. ‘Max has been on the streets all day, though, trying to work out where the woman went after she was attacked. I get to deal with the time wasters. But you never know, we’ve had good intel off of social media appeals before, so…’ He shrugged and dropped heavily into his chair. It creaked under the weight of his large frame. ‘Grab a seat.’

  Lexi pulled one up and sat. ‘Hey, you might catch a break.’

  Eddie cast another forlorn look at his monitor. Lexi saw that he had the Wandsworth Police Facebook page and Twitter feed open side by side.

  ‘Wilkins should be doing this kind of work.’ He jabbed a finger towards the screen. ‘Apparently, he’s laid up at home. Fell down the bloody stairs. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Jeez, I hope he’s OK.’

  ‘Well, he’s not in hospital, so it can’t be that bad.’ Eddie shrugged. ‘Anyway, cheers for dropping by. You’ve not got anything better to do with your Saturday afternoon, then?’

  ‘Actually, I was already meeting Dan here. He wanted me to observe an interview with a suspect. Related to a murder case.’

  ‘Is that allowed?’ Eddie frowned. ‘I mean, you being there.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Lexi shrugged. ‘It was just watching the video feed. Dan said he’d done the paperwork.’ She hoped none of this would come back and bite her in the ass.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They let the guy go before he could be interviewed.’

  ‘Shit. Bad luck.’

  ‘Yeah, Dan was really pissed about it. He had to head back over to Putney to go see his boss.’

  ‘Who I expect isn’t best pleased about that outcome.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Lexi took a notebook from her handbag. ‘So, I wanted to give you a little update on my profile for Op Braddock.’

  Eddie’s face lit up and he rubbed his hands together. ‘Cracking. Do you want a cuppa tea?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m good.’ She paused. ‘And, uh, don’t get too excited. There are no firm conclusions.’

  ‘Until we find our victim, wobbly conclusions are better than nothing.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘All right, then,’ he said, ‘let’s hear it.’

  Lexi took him through her work so far. Mapping the initial six incidents to the ‘Peeping Tom’ type, graduating from stalking to assault, with a sexual motive. A shy, younger man, awkward around women. Low self-esteem, repeatedly rejected, but desperate for sexual contact.

  ‘OK.’ Eddie steepled his fingers over his belly, his brow furrowed in concentration.

  ‘He doesn’t want to hurt his victims,’ Lexi continued. ‘In many cases, he actually believes he has a connection to them. Almost like he’s looking after them, in a weird way.’

  ‘Serious? How do you even begin to understand these psychos?’

  Lexi stopped herself challenging his incorrect use of the term psycho. ‘I mean, that’s one theory, but it’s well-evidenced by interviews of these guys after they’ve been caught. Sometimes, it’s fantasy for them. Other times, they’ve totally misread a woman’s verbal or non-verbal cues as meaning she’s interested in them.’

  ‘Christ. OK, that’s helpful.’ Eddie nodded, pressing his lips together. ‘But, er… what about the knife?’

  ‘That’s where it gets complicated. The last three attacks have involved violence or threats. Serious threats. With a little sadism, even, the way the witnesses described it. That’s a different profile: aggressive. We’re usually talking about bigger, stronger, so-called Alpha-type guys here. The sort of man who likes to believe he can just take what he wants. And who likes hurting women. For some guys, their sexual arousal is triggered by the woman not consenting, even actively resisting.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh. It’s even got a name: raptophilia.’

  ‘Rapto…?’

  ‘Philia.’

  ‘I see.’ Eddie nodded a few times, then frowned. ‘So, what, he’s two different blokes?’

  ‘Right. That’s what I don’t get, either. Is he a quiet guy with a hidden streak of violence that’s starting to emerge, or a confident guy who didn’t need to use violence before?’

  ‘Didn’t need to use it?’

  ‘Yeah, so, if he was, like, successful or whatever. Then something changed.’

  ‘Hm.’

  Lexi could tell Eddie was confused. ‘Oh, and, uh, he’s probably white, because most of the women he’s attacked have been white, and rapists generally target their own ethnic groups. And most likely he lives in the area, given his knowledge of the locations.’

  ‘We thought as much.’

  ‘Right.’ A wave of disappointment crested in her. She wasn’t helping at all.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nope.’ She scanned her notes. ‘That’s about it. I mean, it’s just one psychological interpretation of the perpetrator’s behaviour. Sorry,’ she added.

  Eddie cleared his throat. ‘Well, look, thanks, Lexi. I really appreciate the work you’ve put into this. And when we catch this bastard, we’ll see which of your two types he is.’

  She put the notebook back in her bag, suddenly wanting to leave. To take her useless theories home and let the real investigators do their work.

  ‘Would you mind giving Max a call and telling her what you told me?’ asked Eddie. ‘I think, you know, you’ll explain it better than me.’ He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘What with all the long words and stuff.’

  ‘Sure. I’ve got her number.’ Lexi guessed Max wouldn’t be as sympathetic to her profiling efforts as Eddie. Her stomach was already tightening at the prospect of that conversation.

  Fifty-Three

  Lockhart hadn’t always had a problem following orders. In his early army days, he’d just done what he was told. As a teenage private, he hadn’t really known any different. Once he’d got a bit older and joined the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, though, he’d had to learn to think for himself. The officers could set out whatever plan they liked from the comfort of their headquarters. But when he was out, alone, undercover in Belfast or Baghda
d, he was the one making the decisions.

  The ability to operate independently had served Lockhart well in the SRR. His problem was going back to taking orders once he’d joined the Met. Particularly when he didn’t agree with those orders; doubly so when he thought they were designed to serve the career interests of an ambitious senior officer.

  ‘What did I tell you a week ago? And don’t bullshit me by pretending you can’t remember.’

  That was Porter’s opening line as Lockhart entered the DCI’s office. He’d known this was coming since he’d decided to continue investigating Xander O’Neill. Now, he had to take his punishment. Before he could reply, Porter spoke again.

  ‘I told you specifically to leave Mr O’Neill, and Ms Stott-Peters, alone.’

  ‘I know, sir, but—’

  Porter raised a hand to silence him. ‘I’m sitting here, SIO on the Thorncross murders, thinking I know what’s going on and what my team’s up to. Next thing, I’m being called by the grieving widow of a deceased man whose killer we’re trying to find, asking me why her friend, who was supposed to be helping arrange her dead husband’s personal effects, has been arrested.’ His boss spoke calmly and carefully, an undertone of menace in his deep voice.

  ‘Now, I know you’re not stupid, Dan,’ Porter went on. ‘So, I’m going to give you a chance to explain to me why you disobeyed a direct instruction from your DCI.’

  Lockhart linked his hands behind his back and stood up straight. ‘We obtained information from a member of the public that the watch belonging to Charles Stott had been brought to a second-hand jewellery store, by a man who matched the description of Mr O’Neill. The shop owner, who provided the intelligence, identified Mr O’Neill from a six-pack of photographs, so we effected an arrest before he had time to dispose of the stolen item. We found the watch in his house.’

  ‘Using a warrant I knew nothing about.’ Porter’s volume was rising.

  ‘We needed to act quickly, sir.’