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

by Chris Merritt

  Porter pulled a theatrical face of confusion. ‘Who’s this “we”? Are you trying to claim this was someone else’s fault?’

  ‘I mean, me.’

  ‘The watch is irrelevant, anyway. Ms Stott-Peters says she gave it to Mr O’Neill as a gift. So, you haven’t even managed to solve a theft.’

  ‘There was cocaine in his room, too.’ Lockhart knew the argument was weak even as he said the words.

  ‘One gram?’ Porter scoffed. ‘It’s nothing we wouldn’t find in half the bedrooms of London if we searched them. And you know the CPS aren’t going to prosecute anything less than intent to supply. So, forget about the drugs.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And you went to Croydon to get the warrant signed off?’

  There was no point making excuses. Porter knew exactly what he’d done. Lockhart nodded.

  ‘I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Suddenly, Porter slammed his palm on the desk and rose up from behind it. ‘Not. Fucking. Good enough!’ he yelled.

  Lockhart said nothing. He didn’t know what would douse the flames now. He became aware that activity in the open-plan area outside Porter’s office had reduced as the rest of the team listened while pretending to keep working.

  ‘You want to screw up your own career, that’s fine by me,’ he shouted, thrusting a finger at Lockhart. ‘But I am not carrying the can for this bullshit.’

  ‘I made a mistake,’ said Lockhart quietly. Though he didn’t really believe he had.

  ‘Why do you have to make life so difficult for yourself?’ continued Porter, still visibly enraged. ‘All you had to do was follow my instructions, do a half-decent job on this, and you could’ve become acting DCI when I leave.’

  ‘You’re leaving, sir?’

  Porter ignored his question. ‘If we weren’t so thin on the bloody ground, I’d take you off this investigation altogether.’ The DCI sat down and tugged at the sides of his jacket, took a breath.

  Lockhart wondered if he’d weathered the storm.

  ‘I have an official complaint against you by Ms Stott-Peters for causing her emotional distress.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And Mr O’Neill’s lawyer has indicated that a further complaint will be made for the brutality of you and two other members of MIT 8 when you arrested his client yesterday.’

  ‘That’s not—’

  ‘Shut up and listen!’

  Lockhart bit his lip.

  ‘From now on, Dan, you run everything by me on Operation Thorncross, and you do exactly what I say. If you can manage that, then when this is over, I will consider – and I’m only saying consider – not passing those complaints on to the DPS for full inquiry. Understand?’

  The DPS, or Directorate of Professional Standards, were the police who investigated the police. If they upheld a charge of misconduct, you could lose your job. You might even get a criminal record. Possibly go to jail. DPS were three letters no copper ever wanted to hear.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Get out.’

  Lockhart felt the urge to be home before he’d even set foot outside Porter’s office. He’d stocked his fridge with a dozen more cans of Stella. And they were calling to him.

  Fifty-Four

  Lexi swallowed the last of her wine and stood, a little rocky on her feet. The bar they’d chosen on Old Street was so crowded and noisy that she felt momentarily disorientated and needed to steady herself on the stool.

  ‘Who wants a drink?’ she said, looking at the glasses on the table.

  ‘I’m good.’ Sarah tilted her bright red cocktail. Whatever the hell it was, there was plenty of it left.

  Raj and Harvey – the two doctors Sarah had invited out – both raised their half-full pint glasses and shook their heads. ‘Thanks, though,’ said Raj, his gaze lingering on her.

  ‘I’m going to get another,’ Lexi announced, pointing to the bar, then realising the gesture was unnecessary.

  As she turned away and pushed into the crowd of drinkers, she felt a hand grab her arm and steer her away from the table.

  ‘You OK, Lex?’ Sarah hissed.

  ‘Never better.’

  ‘Come on, you’re two drinks ahead of everyone else and you’ve barely said a word. What’s up?’

  For a second, Lexi thought about telling her the whole story. The two cases, her useless theories, the fact she hadn’t done jack shit to help the police catch two serious offenders despite working on profiles for days. Not to mention that she’d done all that for free when she still had bills to pay. Damn. It was the call to Maxine Smith that’d pushed her over the edge. Max was tough, and not a psychology fan, but she’d reached out to Lexi on Braddock only to slap her down when the profile came. Her words still stung: Good job we’re not relying on you to stop anybody else getting raped.

  Sarah squeezed her arm a little harder. ‘Lex, what’s up? Tell me.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘All right, well, just… take it easy, yeah?’ She dropped her voice to a whisper, barely audible over the pumping dance music, and flicked her eyes back towards their table. ‘These two are hot. We’re single.’ She grinned. ‘Do the maths.’

  ‘I’m really not interested,’ Lexi replied loudly.

  ‘Are you mad?’ Sarah’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Can’t you forget about your detective for one night?’

  ‘It’s not about him.’ Maybe it was about him, she thought. Just a little.

  Sarah’s expression relaxed into one of resignation. ‘Whatever. At least don’t screw it up for me, then.’

  ‘Sure.’ Lexi pulled her arm free and went to the bar. There had to be something more she could do to help. She felt the desire to be out there, hunting for the bad guys, like Max and Dan. When it came to Dan, that wasn’t the only desire she felt. Sarah was right. Lexi chastised herself for the thought when Dan was dealing with the whole thing about his wife being declared dead.

  She tried to bring her mind back to the two cases. She was missing something on the profiles, she knew it… but with the people and the chatter and the music and the alcohol, she couldn’t think straight. She ordered more wine, not bothering to look at the menu, and carried it back to the table.

  ‘It’s just biology,’ she heard Harvey saying as she took her stool.

  ‘What is?’ she said, taking a quick gulp of her drink.

  ‘Having babies,’ replied Raj.

  ‘I’m telling you, it’s weird. And scary.’ Sarah held up both palms. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘You guys are built for it,’ said Harvey, looking from Sarah to Lexi and back.

  ‘Trust us.’ Raj grinned. ‘We’re doctors.’

  Sarah shook her head and laughed.

  ‘Look,’ Harvey said, ‘I did a rotation on the maternity ward. You just take all the drugs they offer, pop it out, start breastfeeding. Seriously, it’s not that bad.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Sarah glared at him playfully, her lips twitching into a smile. ‘Have you been pregnant? Given birth?’ She paused. ‘Didn’t think so.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘No, but…’ Sarah shrugged.

  Lexi considered explaining what morning sickness was like. Or simply the knowledge that another life was growing inside you. And how deciding to end that life was the about the single hardest choice anyone could make. One that stayed with you for ever. She drank some more wine, her irritation growing.

  ‘OK, so, as an expert in the human body,’ Harvey continued, ‘especially female anatomy, I can tell you that you’re perfectly designed to do this.’

  ‘Maybe,’ replied Sarah. ‘But that’s easy for—’

  ‘And what the fuck are you designed to do?’ blurted Lexi. ‘Stick your dicks in us for like two minutes, if that, shoot your load and then congratulate yourselves on getting us pregnant? Hey, good job, man,’ she mimicked a male voice. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Whoa, Lexi!’ Sarah put a hand on her shoulder. ‘
Where did that come from?’

  Harvey took a mouthful of beer. ‘Time of the month?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Lexi thought she might smash her wine glass into his stupid, smug face. ‘What the hell did you say?’

  ‘Just kidding,’ he added hastily, looking to Raj for help.

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Raj, shaking his head. ‘He’s not all there. Too many night shifts, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Harvey swiftly finished his pint.

  ‘Anyway…’ Sarah shifted awkwardly in her seat.

  ‘There’s always surrogacy,’ Raj offered.

  Something clicked in Lexi’s brain.

  ‘We were chatting about that the other night,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Harvey raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I mean, it’s not like I’m thinking about babies right now.’ Sarah rattled the ice cubes in her glass.

  ‘Not at all.’ Harvey inclined his head.

  ‘It depends what you want,’ Raj went on. ‘We see surrogate pregnancies more and more in the hospital now. Women with careers, usually, who don’t want—’

  ‘Surrogates,’ stated Lexi.

  ‘Yeah, you know, when another woman—’

  ‘I have to go.’ Lexi stood, grabbed her jacket off the bar stool.

  ‘What? Where are you going, Lex?’ Sarah got up too.

  ‘I’ve gotta… I’m sorry.’ She manoeuvred around the table and pushed her way out of the heaving bar.

  Fifty-Five

  I stink. Just took a sniff of my armpit and realised that I hadn’t showered in two days. Can’t risk getting the knife wound wet now that it’s beginning to heal up. Amazing how you can start craving something as basic as hot water and soap when it’s taken away from you. I’ve never been big on appearance. Haven’t ever worn much make-up, unless I’m going out to get laid. I dress however I like. And if people don’t like my muscles, that’s up to them. But I draw the line at being offended by my own smell.

  Still, there are more serious things to think about. I know the police are looking for me – as a victim, for now, at least – and John said they even came around here, asking if he’d seen a woman they believed had been stabbed. I’ve hidden the injury from John, but if he thinks something’s up, he’s clearly too awkward or scared to talk about it straight out. I’ve noticed him paying more attention to me since that visit, though. Asking a few times if I was feeling OK. He needs to be careful.

  My relationship with John is based on three things. One, he idolises me. Two, he’s a pussy who lets me do whatever I want in his home. Three, he never asks any questions. If that’s going to change, our relationship might have to come to an end.

  It wouldn’t take much to make that happen. And it wouldn’t turn out well for him.

  I’d probably drown him in his own bathtub. Then message his current employer from John’s email account to say he’s going to be off sick for a while. And carry on living in his house while I finish what I set out to do. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. It’d be a shame to kill John. He’s a good sound editor, and there aren’t many of them.

  It does remind me though.

  I’ve got some research to do.

  Fifty-Six

  Once outside, Lexi hadn’t even taken three steps in the direction of Old Street tube station before she called Dan.

  ‘Lexi.’ He sounded dejected.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ she yelled, her voice still at bar volume.

  ‘OK, what?’

  ‘Surrogates!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Surrogates,’ she repeated. ‘I think the reason our Thorncross victims are unconnected is because they’re surrogates. They’re not the people who actually did something bad to the killer. They just represent those people.’

  ‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘Are you on a night out?…’

  ‘Never mind that,’ she countered. ‘We need to look someplace else for the whole film injury thing. Maybe even abroad.’

  She heard him sigh, then what sounded like a can opening. ‘I don’t know, Lexi. Doesn’t seem all that likely.’ Even in her state, she could detect the little slur in his words.

  ‘It’s the best explanation that fits the data,’ she said quickly. ‘I knew there was something missing from the profile. This is it!’

  ‘All right,’ he replied calmly. ‘Cheers for calling.’

  ‘Wait!’ she barked. ‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you?’

  ‘I’ll look into it.’ There was a gross slurping noise on the line.

  ‘Jeez, Dan. Fine. Drink your… whatever that is, and ignore me if you like.’

  ‘I’m not ignoring you, it’s just…’ He tailed off.

  ‘Well, I’m going home right now,’ she interjected. ‘And I’m going to find your killer.’

  She ended the call before he could respond.

  Day Thirteen

  Fifty-Seven

  Lexi woke with a start. For a few seconds, reality blurred with a nightmare she’d been having, where she was shut in a room with no door. Her heart was still racing as she recalled the panic of the dream, scrabbling in vain to find a way out. But she quickly realised she was in her bedroom, pale morning light seeping through the blinds. She was safe, although she noticed the door was open, which was a little weird. And she was lying on her bed, fully clothed and on top of the duvet. She felt her laptop resting against one leg and, in a second, she remembered exactly what she’d been doing.

  Then came the dull throb of a headache, somewhere behind her eyes, from all the wine she’d drunk too fast in the bar last night, plus the strong coffee she’d made to help her work through when she got in late. Now, her stomach felt hollow and achy. But Lexi didn’t care. She’d been on to something that was too important to ignore.

  When Raj had mentioned surrogates in the bar, a thought that’d been bubbling away for a week had finally crystallised. She remembered an FBI report she’d read which said that victims of planned violence may not be connected to the attacker. Instead, the perpetrator might target innocent people who symbolise the source of their anger. In other words, surrogates.

  This had led Lexi to spend half the night trawling the internet for the person who fitted her profile. Some kind of film performer, she reasoned, with a grudge against a director, a set designer and a compensation lawyer, possibly related to an event outside the UK. She’d googled film-set injuries and lawsuits and medical cases until her eyes glazed over.

  After three hours, she’d only found one article of interest: a small piece by ‘staff writers’ buried deep in the L.A. Times about an accident last summer on the set of a superhero movie, which had left a stunt performer with serious injuries. The person wasn’t named, and there appeared to be no follow-up articles. Evidently, the film studio had made some kind of injunction, or perhaps reached an out-of-court settlement to avoid the negative press and reputational damage of the incident. But there was one clue to the stunt performer’s identity: it was a woman.

  She recalled Dan’s description of the female DNA under Ernesto Gomez’s fingernails. And she remembered her own, brief thought – when Dan first told her about Charles Stott’s murder – that a woman could’ve carried out the attack herself. That there were some women capable of such violence.

  Lexi had felt the buzz of excitement at her discovery, only to experience the frustration of the lead going nowhere without either the stunt performer or the journalist’s name. So, she’d had to think around the problem. Surfing into the chatrooms of movie fandom, she happened upon a site called NerdCave. Here, movie geeks exchanged all kinds of trivia, from the minutiae of actor biographies to the finest details on film sets, costumes, gaffs and plot holes.

  She’d posted a message, citing the L.A. Times article, asking about the accident and whether anyone knew either the film or the stuntwoman’s name. Then she’d started researching psychological theories of female killers. She figured she must’ve dozed off some time around three or four in the mo
rning.

  Opening her laptop now, she refreshed the browser window. A flurry of comments had been added beneath her post, forming a thread where a handful of self-proclaimed ‘super-nerds’ had given their opinions. The consensus seemed to be that the film in question was Leopardess, a futuristic fantasy movie from a major studio, due for release in the summer. There was some debate about who the stuntwoman was, but in the end, an expert calling himself CaptainCali had weighed in with what he said was the definitive answer. Lexi’s pulse quickened as she read to the bottom.

  The stuntwoman hadn’t worked again in Hollywood, to anyone’s knowledge, since the accident. Because she was a foreign national, the nerds speculated that she’d returned to her home country, perhaps even being deported from the US following the expiry of her work visa.

  She was rumoured to be British.

  And CaptainCali had posted her name.

  Fifty-Eight

  Smith had risen early, given her sleeping fella a peck on the forehead, and taken the bus into Jubilee House. The canteen wasn’t open on Sundays, so she’d treated herself to a ham and cheese croissant and a fancy coffee from one of the posh bakeries in Putney. Comfort food was instant morale for long hours on an investigation. Fuelled up, for a while at least, she set about her work.

  First, she reviewed the footage from their bus stop cameras during the previous night. It took her almost two hours to check all eight feeds, but finally she was satisfied that nothing of interest had occurred. Then, she messaged Stagg, who confirmed that no one had come forward yet as the victim of Thursday night’s stabbing and attempted rape.

  Stagg also told her that he’d be at his desk in Lavender Hill station all day, down the road in Clapham, and invited her to head over at some point if she wanted to chat anything through, check the responses to their public appeal, or just grab a brew. Smith appreciated the offer; weekend working could be pretty isolated.