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

by Chris Merritt

By this point, though, others from MIT 8 were starting to come in, following leads on the Thorncross murders. Lockhart had arrived, looking terrible. He gave her a nod as he sat down a few desks away, coffee in hand. She wondered what he’d got up to last night. She texted Stagg back to tell him she might come over later, but that chances were she’d be given some work on their serial murder case. That was fine by her; since meeting Ernesto Gomez’s boyfriend, Paul Newton, she was fired up for a result on Thorncross, too.

  Smith then set about checking out the ‘John’ she’d met yesterday. A search for his address against the electoral roll revealed one sole occupant of the property: Jonathan Foster. He was about the right age to be the guy she’d spoken to. She looked up his name and address on the Police National Computer, finding nothing more than a small car of which Foster was the registered owner. He had no criminal record, not even an unpaid parking ticket. A model citizen. So why had he been so evasive when she’d visited?

  There were all sorts of reasons people might behave that way. Usually, in her experience, it was a personal cannabis stash or some illegal TV box they didn’t want discovered. Maybe she was being paranoid. The hairband on John’s carpet could’ve belonged to a girlfriend or female friend or relative. Or a bloke with a man-bun, for all she knew.

  Nevertheless, Smith trusted her instincts, so she tried to search online to see what John did for a living or if there was anything else that she could find about him. But his name was too common, and she quickly drew a blank. She fired off an email to Lucy Berry, on the off-chance the analyst could put in a few hours at home, asking her to trace him in more detail. If anyone could drill down into this Jonathan Foster’s life, it was Berry.

  Smith was considering how early she could reasonably get her lunch, and whether she should see if Lockhart wanted to head out, too, when her mobile rang. It was Stagg.

  ‘Max. The lab’s come through.’

  She couldn’t immediately place which request he was talking about. ‘Yup.’

  ‘There’s a match.’

  ‘OK, great. Of what, exactly?’

  ‘The knife.’

  She gave a rapid intake of breath. ‘It’s a registered offender? Have we got a name for the rapist?’ This was a serious breakthrough in tracking the scumbag down. It was what they’d been hoping for.

  ‘No. Not the offender. The victim.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. The blood on the knife that stabbed the woman we can’t find. Her DNA was in the system.’

  ‘Seriously? She’s been attacked before?’

  ‘You tell me. It’s your operation.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Thorncross.’

  Fifty-Nine

  Lockhart felt like shit. It wasn’t just the physical punishment from having drunk another skinful of Stella last night. It was the mixture of fury and disgust at himself for letting his discipline drop so low. OK, so he’d screwed things up with the Xander O’Neill arrest, and now Porter was gunning for him even more than usual, dangling a DPS case over his head that could spell the end of his career in the Met. Most people would crack open a beer or two to ease the stress of that. But he hadn’t stopped at a couple. And it was the second night in a row. There had been others in the week. It was unacceptable.

  People were depending on him. Potential victims of a serial murderer on whom they had bugger all in terms of decent leads. Women who wanted to travel by bus at night without fear of being raped. A team of detectives, uniforms and civilian staff who were looking to him for leadership, while Porter was busy schmoozing in his press conferences and senior briefings. And, most importantly of all – as far as Lockhart was concerned – Jess. Not only was she out there, somewhere, but now her family wanted her declared dead. It was up to him to keep her alive by challenging that in court. Her own relatives had abandoned hope. He was all she had. He couldn’t let her down.

  And what was his response? Make a plan, face up to it all and get stuff done? No. It was to drink can after can of Stella until he passed out on his sofa and woke up at 5 a.m., with a mouth like sandpaper, still wearing his jacket and shoes, desperate for a piss.

  Brilliant job, mate. Well done.

  He reflected that, perhaps, things had been better when he’d been having his therapy sessions with Green. Her support had kept him going through tough times, given him some tools for managing his stress and not letting his emotions get the better of him. He missed having someone to talk to about how he was feeling. He looked around the MIT room. No way was he telling this lot about all the shit going on in his life; apart from the issue of trusting them, it’d undermine his leadership. Then the thought occurred to him that he didn’t just miss the sessions. He missed Green.

  He immediately felt another surge of guilt to add to his self-loathing and tried not to think about her. But, as Green had told him, trying not to think about something usually meant you just thought about it more. And now he was recalling their conversation from late last night – both of them drunk – where she’d told him something about surrogates and finding the killer. What had he said in response? He couldn’t remember, exactly, but he didn’t think it was positive.

  Lockhart rubbed his hands over his face and whispered to himself that he needed to step up his game. This wasn’t good enough. Then another voice cut into his self-criticism.

  ‘Guv.’

  He looked up to see Smith standing by his desk.

  ‘I’ve just got off the phone to Stagg,’ she said. ‘The blood from the knife we found at the bus stop was a match to the skin sample taken from under Ernesto Gomez’s fingernails.’

  Lockhart wished he wasn’t hungover. He tried to process it through the fog in his brain.

  ‘It wasn’t the attacker who was stabbed at the bus stop,’ he stated. ‘Which means the Braddock victim who fought back against the rapist is…’ He frowned. ‘Our Thorncross killer?’

  ‘Looks that way,’ replied Smith. ‘Especially given how tough we know she is. You saw her defending herself in the video. I reckon she could beat someone to death.’

  He considered this a moment. ‘Green was right.’

  ‘What about?’

  Lockhart picked up his phone. ‘She told me right at the start of this, just after Charles Stott’s murder, that the killer could be a woman. Based on the occult symbol being female or something. I didn’t give her theory enough credit.’

  ‘Come on, Dan. She was crystal ball gazing. We had no evidence back then. We weren’t going to discount half of the population from our suspect pool based on her opinion about a triangle.’

  ‘We did discount half the population, though. The wrong half.’

  Smith shrugged. ‘You can’t worry about that,’ she said firmly. ‘It was anyone’s guess at that point. Can’t argue with the DNA, now, though.’

  ‘Right.’ Unlocking his phone, he saw a missed call from Green and a text to call her back. He held the screen up to Smith and tapped to ring Green. ‘OK, then. Let’s see what she has to say.’

  Sixty

  Lexi reached to her armband and selected the song ‘Reapers’ by Muse from her cellphone. Then she cranked up the volume and began her sprint home. The heavy guitars and angry lyrics seemed to capture her mood right now. Irritated, pissed, mad. Her legs pumped hard as her feet pounded the sidewalk, her teeth gritted against the fatigue that was now setting in. Running on a hangover was always tough, but she had to do something physical or she was going to go crazy.

  She could recall word for word Max Smith’s response yesterday to what the detective had described as Lexi’s ‘psychobabble’, and the confusion on Eddie Stagg’s face as she tried to explain the mixed profile of their rape suspect to him. Then, several large glasses of wine and a few gins later, there was the conversation with Dan about the serial murders. His vague, non-committal response to her idea of surrogate victims. And the fact he hadn’t even picked up when she’d called him mid-morning today.

  Lexi wanted so badly to help w
ith both of those cases, and it frustrated the hell out of her that she couldn’t do something more. That she couldn’t apply her theories in any kind of useful way. And that the cops weren’t listening to her, or that she couldn’t make them listen. Her sprint built up pace to the point where she was almost losing control of her body. She let out an anguished cry just as the song cut out and was replaced with the tone of an incoming call.

  ‘Dammit!’ she yelled, before slowing and glancing at the screen, strapped to her arm. Dan. She dropped her jog to a walk, took a couple breaths, and answered.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Lexi, you all right?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m—’ she gasped, spat, ‘I’ve been running.’

  ‘Good effort. Listen, I’ve got Max here with me. You’re on speakerphone in the office.’

  ‘OK,’ she said warily. Lexi never felt as sure of herself with Max there, her scepticism at Lexi’s work almost palpable. ‘I tried to call earlier. I think I know who your murder suspect is.’

  ‘So do we,’ he replied. ‘Kind of.’

  ‘What? How?’

  He explained the DNA match from the murder scene to the attempted rape.

  ‘Holy shit,’ was all she could say when he’d finished. As she turned into her road, there was a brief silence on the line and Lexi wondered if they were expecting her to offer some instant interpretation.

  ‘We’re following a lead on her location,’ said Max.

  ‘We wanted to know if you had anything else for us,’ added Dan. He cleared his throat. ‘I know you tried to tell me something yesterday, but—’

  ‘You weren’t listening.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Dan sounded as though he meant it.

  Lexi felt her rage subside a little. ‘Just give me a second,’ she said, walking up to her front door. ‘Better I talk someplace more private. Hang on.’

  She let herself in. The house was silent. ‘Rhys? Sarah?’ she yelled, but there was no answer. She went through into the kitchen and sat at the dining table.

  Dan’s voice came through her headphones. ‘Lexi?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m here. OK, so, the most important thing is that I think your killer’s name is Blaze Logan. She’s a British stuntwoman who was injured on a film set in the States. After the accident, there was some kind of—’

  ‘Whoa, whoa,’ Dan interjected. ‘Blaze Logan?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How did you get her name?’

  She told him about her online trawl, the L.A. Times article, and the NerdCave chat thread.

  ‘How can you be certain it’s her?’ Max made no effort to hide her doubt.

  ‘It makes total sense,’ Lexi replied. ‘First of all, we have to ask why the murder victims aren’t connected.’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘It’s not as if the killer is targeting a particular location, or even one particular type of victim, right?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Dan cautiously.

  ‘Something links the three victims. It has to, because the attacks aren’t random. They’re planned. The killer knows the target’s pattern of life. She knows where to find them alone, at night, in a spot with no cameras or witnesses.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And I don’t buy the idea that Charles Stott’s and Ernesto Gomez’s jobs aren’t significant. A film director and a set designer? It has to be connected.’

  Silence.

  ‘So,’ Lexi continued, ‘it’s probably something about film. But where does Martin Johnson, the compensation lawyer, fit into it? Gotta be a lawsuit relating to something in film, right? Some event that left the victim – our killer, or maybe someone real close to them – with a grudge that’d make them kill.’

  ‘That could be one explanation,’ replied Dan.

  ‘That’s not all. The attacks are blitzes, right? We know the victims were punched, kicked and stamped to death. And in at least one case, the assault continued long past the point of death.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So, we’re almost certainly talking about a psychopath. I don’t mean just your average investment banker. I mean stone cold psychopath. No feelings, no empathy, no remorse. It fits with the Explosive Avenger type of female killer.’

  There was a laugh on the line. ‘The what?’

  ‘Explosive Avenger. I looked it up. Female killers are rare, and usually fall into one of two stereotypes. There’s the Black Widow, poisoning a husband or rich relative for financial gain, and the Angel of Death, murdering weaker individuals in her care, on a kind of delusional power trip. But there’s a third documented category too. Explosive Avenger.’

  ‘Sounds like a piss-take of a superhero.’

  ‘Well, it’s for real. Extreme violence as retribution for some past wrong, like abuse. You heard of Aileen Wuornos?’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Dan. ‘The sex worker in Florida who murdered her clients.’

  ‘There you go. One example. We don’t credit women with the capacity for violence, right? We think it’s something that men do. Like it’s in their DNA.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It’s true. If a woman kills,’ she continued, ‘our interpretation is totally different. A female killer is either labelled hysterical and insane, or just selfishly scheming after men’s wealth. A violent murder by a woman isn’t considered to have been her choice. It was an accident, self-defence against a guy’s aggression. Or a man coerced her into it. It’s because we’re taught to see men as warriors, women as nurturers.’

  ‘Fair enough, but—’

  ‘What I’m saying is that there’s a very small number of females who, under certain circumstances, could beat someone to death. Psychopaths.’

  ‘How does that support your theory about this Logan woman?’ asked Smith.

  ‘OK. Think about being a stunt performer. What psychological qualities do you need? You’ve gotta be able to manage your own fear. Psychopaths don’t feel fear. Perfect.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘They crave excitement, too. They get bored easily. What better way to get your kicks than doing one of the coolest jobs going? You move from gig to gig, you don’t need to commit to anything for more than a month or two. There’s no regularity or routine. Just a shit ton of excitement and action. And status. It’s the ideal job for someone with a psychopathic personality.’

  ‘So, you’re saying this stunt person had an accident?’

  ‘Right, that’s my theory. Now she can’t work because of the injuries, or she was blacklisted, or the studio sponsoring her visa kicked her out of the US. It’s the end of her life, basically. She’s smart enough to know that if she goes back to the States and attacks the actual people she holds responsible for what happened to her, the cops will be all over it. She doesn’t want to be caught. So, she’s selecting unconnected victims who are surrogates for the real targets of her hatred.’

  There was a pause. Lexi heard a noise and turned to see Rhys shuffling into the kitchen. He seemed to be limping slightly, and there were a pair of dark circles around his eyes, like he’d walked into a door. She caught his eye and glared at him, pointing to her phone. He nodded, dropped some trash into the recycling bin, then left quickly.

  ‘Er, you lost me a bit at the end there,’ said Dan. ‘Surrogates?’

  Lexi sighed. ‘Yeah. It’s a theory. René Girard.’

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ Smith’s tone was openly hostile now.

  ‘He was a philosopher who wrote about mythology. Basically, he said that humans need to make sense of chaos in our lives. We try to blame bad stuff on specific people – even when they’re not involved – so we can vent our rage. It’s happened throughout human history, worldwide. It’s in a bunch of religions, across cultures. Scapegoating. When we’ve made someone else responsible for our actions, they can take the blame, even for our violence towards them.’

  ‘All right, I get the idea, I think. It’s a bit academic, but…’

  ‘Dammit, Dan! Forget about the academic part. This isn’t a college
lecture. Scapegoating and surrogacy are just things humans do. And serial killers have done it before. You know I’m right.’

  ‘You sure about that, Lexi?’ His voice was irritatingly measured.

  ‘Yeah. I mean, it’s all there. Blaze Logan is the woman you’re looking for. She’s your killer. And you know what? I’m willing to bet she’ll kill again if you don’t get your shit together and find her.’

  Dan gave a long outbreath. ‘We’ll look her up.’

  Lexi couldn’t believe this was all the thanks she was getting. ‘Do you want me to come in?’ she asked, exasperated. ‘I can help. Write all this down, explain it to the team. Try to work out who she might target next.’

  She could hear Max and Dan whispering but couldn’t make out the words.

  ‘Cheers, Lexi,’ he replied, eventually. ‘We’ll manage OK without you.’

  Sixty-One

  ‘Yes! Go on, Freya!’

  Liz Jennings watched her daughter kick the football vaguely in the direction of the opposition’s goal, then chase after it along with a bunch of other ten-year-old girls. Despite the coaches’ best efforts, the under-elevens matches were mayhem. Screaming, shouting, running, and laughing, too. Liz smiled and wrapped her arms around herself on the touchline. These moments were precious, she knew, and all the more so since Peter had left last year. Peter was her husband – soon to be ex-husband – and Freya’s dad.

  He’d just announced one day that he’d had enough, and that he was relocating to the Channel Islands where he’d got a new job managing offshore accounts for high net worth individuals. Liz hadn’t even known he was applying for anything. That turned out to be just one of several secrets he’d been keeping from her, which included a girlfriend he’d been seeing on the side of their marriage for the past eight months. Or was it more accurate to describe her as the one who’d been on the side in Peter’s life? Either way, he’d made it clear that he didn’t expect Liz, or indeed Freya, to follow him to Jersey. It’ll be best if she stays in her school. She’ll need you here. And other excuses.