She got that criminals made decisions about their acts; that was half of the basis of our legal system for prosecuting them. But she had no time for delving into childhood experiences, for fancy phrases like raptophilia and endless speculation about how someone might’ve been feeling when they attacked another person with a mallet. She dealt in facts, hard evidence. That was what secured convictions, not Dr Green’s Mystic Meg-style lottery predictions. Smith had given that a go on Op Braddock, largely out of desperation, but it’d got them nowhere, proving her right.
Porter had started speaking and Smith was nibbling on a Jaffa Cake, admiring his stage presence, when there was a whisper behind her. An educated, female voice.
‘DS Smith?’
She turned. ‘Ah, DS… Jones, isn’t it?’ Smith obviously knew the smart young woman’s name. She just didn’t want her getting ideas above her station. Especially not in her team.
‘Can I have a word, please?’ She was holding a laptop.
‘Er…’ Smith glanced back to the screen. ‘Can it wait?’
‘Not really.’
Smith sighed gently and finished her Jaffa Cake, taking another one for the road. ‘Come on, then.’
In a quieter section of the office, Jones displayed the laptop screen to her. There was a spreadsheet of neatly arranged columns and rows, each containing tiny text.
‘We’ve been cataloguing the technical exploit from Jonathan Foster’s laptop,’ said Jones. ‘Which he told us Logan was using while she stayed at his house.’
‘OK.’ Smith planted her hands on her hips. The thought occurred to her that this woman was just a kid, twenties at most, but had already achieved the same rank as her. Smith had probably been in the Met almost as long as Jones had been alive. Something about that annoyed her.
‘There’s a clear pattern of research into the three victims so far,’ continued Jones confidently. ‘Charles Stott, Martin Johnson, Ernesto Gomez.’
‘I know who the victims are.’
‘Of course. Well, it’s just that, between victims one and two, Logan appears to have spent a lot of time reading about DI Lockhart.’
Smith pushed her lips out. She was tempted to make a joke about how many members of the MIT had probably done the same, out of curiosity at the guvnor’s mysterious military past, or his missing wife.
‘If you look at this list of searches and links followed,’ added Jones, tapping her fingernail on the screen, ‘you can see she was trying to go quite deep into his past.’
‘Hm.’
‘Including archived news articles about his wife.’
‘I see.’
Jones waited. She was clearly expecting more of a response.
‘And what’s your concern about this?’ asked Smith.
‘Only that, well, could there be a risk to DI Lockhart?’
Smith exhaled slowly. ‘Look, it’s not uncommon in major investigations for perpetrators to try and find out about the coppers involved,’ she explained. ‘Sometimes they’re thinking about coercion, pressure on family members. Other times, it’s just plain curiosity. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I think the guvnor can look after himself.’
The young woman clearly wasn’t satisfied by this. ‘Well, I’ll log it in my write-up. Just thought I’d mention it to you, since, you know, you’re in his team.’
‘Thanks. He’ll appreciate that.’
‘Right, then.’ Jones closed the laptop. But she didn’t move away from the desk.
‘Anything else?’ asked Smith.
‘Um, yes, there is one thing, actually.’ Jones leant in, lowered her voice. ‘I just thought I’d let you know about the guy who’s joined us from Wandsworth CID.’
‘DS Stagg?’
‘No, DC Wilkins.’
‘Oh, I see. What about him?’
‘Well, it’s probably nothing, but he and I used to be in the same team. Cyber Crime.’
Typical, thought Smith. Stick the graduate on the computers while the real coppers were out on the streets.
‘It’s just that, in the Cyber team, he was a bit, well… creepy.’
‘Creepy?’
Jones nodded. ‘Watching, staring. Then the occasional bump into you, a brush against you, that kind of thing. All deniable, of course. But I still felt pretty uncomfortable with it, to be honest.’
Smith wondered if this was naivety on Jones’s part. She was a pretty young woman and, wherever she went, men of all ages were going to check her out. Especially in a job where eighty per cent of her colleagues were male. As far as Smith was concerned, that was her cross to bear; the beauty ‘tax’. Smith was no oil painting, but even she got the odd lewd comment. It wasn’t right, but it happened. You dealt with it, told the guy to piss off, and usually it was fine. End of.
‘I’m just letting you know, as a woman,’ Jones added, with a kind of awkward, flat smile.
‘Appreciate it.’ Smith nodded towards the TV. ‘Shall we get back and see what the boss is saying?’
‘Sure.’
As they crossed back towards the main group, Khan approached and intercepted her. Could she not just watch her colleagues on the news for quarter of an hour in peace?
‘Max,’ he said urgently, ‘we’ve got something.’
‘What is it, Mo?’ She had one eye on the screen. Porter was speaking while Lockhart sipped water, his head bowed. Behind them, a giant photograph of Logan filled the screen.
‘It’s Foster’s bank card,’ said Khan.
The words got her attention. ‘It’s been used?’
‘Yup. In a club in Clapham. Two nights ago. The payment’s only just come through.’
Smith accepted that listening to the press conference was a lost cause. She finished her coffee. ‘All right. Let’s get over there, then.’
Seventy-Two
When I dreamt of seeing my face on the big screen, I didn’t imagine it’d be a wanted poster.
Stunt performers are usually in the background. We get smashed into walls and thrown off buildings, we’re blown up and set on fire. And we don’t really get much acknowledgment for any of it. Our names appear three-quarters of the way down the end credits of any movie or TV programme, long after everyone’s left the cinema or switched off Netflix. Which is fine by me.
I never wanted to be an actor. They have to emote, and I don’t really do emotions. Except perhaps blind rage. I do that pretty well. But actors have to cry on demand, and I don’t… I mean, I can’t remember ever doing that.
Stunt work, on the other hand, was made for me. I loved it. I’d found my thing in life. And it was enough, among those who knew, to be considered good. That gets you more work, which means more money, so you can buy the stuff you want. Stuff you never had growing up. And there’s plenty of free time to do whatever the hell you like.
I nearly got there. Leopardess was supposed to be my break. But the only thing that ended up broken was my body, when I slammed into a concrete wall that shouldn’t have been there. The director had insisted I do the stunt without a co-ordinator on set, because everything else was ready to go. Before the take, the designer moved the wall, and the wire I was on pulled me into it at full speed. Then everything went black.
When I came to in hospital, much later, and discovered they’d blamed it all on me, that was the moment I switched. The moment I decided to give in to the fantasy I’d held since I first stamped on all those insects under the log. To make them pay.
Speaking of which, I’m across the road from Earlsfield train station, hat and scarf on, waiting impatiently for her to appear. The mummy-blogging loss adjustor. I’ll follow her home, and work out where I’m going to strike. That point where she’s alone, with no witnesses, no cameras, no help. Not that it matters too much, now that they know who I am.
Maybe Lockhart and his mates thought that by putting my face all over TV and social media – even the free London newspapers, I’ve just discovered – they’d scare me off attempting the next murder. But they’re wron
g about that. Their publicity hasn’t put me off. It’s just given me even more reason to get on with it quickly.
And, right on cue, here she is.
Liz Jennings emerged from the station amid the usual throng of people. Jostling and shoving, desperate to get through the ticket barriers and make their way home. This evening hadn’t been too bad, although she’d needed to stand up for the entire journey, because it was so crowded. But on the days when it was cold and wet, leaving home in pre-dawn darkness, returning after dusk, and commuting in and out of the centre of town on delayed trains like so many sardines rammed into a can, she did wonder. Was there another life, with more sunlight and fresh air, more movement and happiness? Perhaps there was. There had to be.
But Liz couldn’t just think about herself. Her priority now was Freya, and whatever she needed to do to keep life going. That was all that mattered. And if long, miserable commuting days were what was required, she’d do it for a hundred years if it meant she and Freya could have a few hours of happiness together in their home.
Once she was free of the melee at the station entrance, Liz pulled out her phone and texted her daughter.
Walking back now. Hope you’ve been good for Grandpa! What story would you like sweetie? xx
Spurred on by the thought of seeing Freya in just a few minutes, Liz dropped the phone into her bag and picked up her pace.
I follow her away from the station, around corners and along streets. Keeping my distance, on the other side of the road, shielded by parked cars on both sides. She’s got her head down, not even slowing as she plucks a phone from her handbag and taps out some kind of message before shoving it back in there.
Gradually, the other commuters drop away, turning off onto side streets and into their homes, until it’s just me and her. I’m trying to find the best place to strike. There are no parks, unfortunately, nowhere that’s easy to slip into and out of, unnoticed. It’s residential housing, terraces as far as you can see in every direction. It’ll have to be here.
When I left Joseph’s house earlier, I didn’t think I’d do it tonight. This was just going to be another recce, building on last night’s research. There’s no particular rush, I told myself. The cops might know who I am, but they don’t know where I am. Lockhart and his gang have finally stepped up their game and risen to my challenge. But they’re still some way off. It’s just a recce…
On the other hand, she and I seem to be alone. Sooner rather than later gives the police even less chance to stop me. And, once I’ve taken her out, I can move onto my grand finale: Lockhart. I feel a surge of excitement at that prospect.
So, fuck it. Why not do it now? Nothing’s stopping me.
The more I’m looking at her, the more I’m thinking about the loss adjustor who did me over. The bitch who screwed me out of the compensation I was due after the accident. Who almost certainly took some kind of bung from the studio to find in their favour. Loss adjustors are supposed to be independent, impartial. In my case, it was bullshit.
And the more I dwell on that, the more this woman striding ahead of me becomes her, the one responsible. The more that anger grows inside me, rippling through my body and taking it over. I see her, the one who did it to me. She needs to take the blame. I’m going to make her pay.
I cross the street towards her.
Liz wasn’t far away now. A couple of minutes at most. She knew every corner and how far it was in minutes between there and home. She was longing to see Freya, to wrap her in a big warm hug and hear all about her day at school, before perching on the side of her bed and reading the story. If it was a cold night, or if Freya wanted to, they’d even snuggle together under the covers.
When they’d finished the book, Liz would put her light out and head downstairs. Have a bit of dinner and a chat with her dad, who had been looking after Freya this evening. Then Dad would head home and Liz could slip into the bath for half an hour, once she knew Freya was asleep. Sometimes, she thought those simple things alone were enough for her to be content.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. She removed it and glanced at the screen, though she already knew what it would say. She smiled as her prediction was confirmed. Freya had written:
Tiger who came to tea please x
Liz didn’t need to text back, now that she was so close. She locked the phone screen and slung it back in her handbag.
Then she heard a noise behind her.
Seventy-Three
Lexi pushed open the door of Fishers, the restaurant in Fulham where Dan had told her he was eating. The smell of frying chips hit her immediately, and she could almost taste the tang of salt, lemon and vinegar on the air. It made her realise that she’d barely eaten since leaving the clinic. It was nearly 10 p.m., now, and she’d been working solidly at home, preparing something to share with Dan after his request earlier.
At this time, the place was almost empty, and she quickly spotted him in the corner, a solitary figure hunched over the huge plate of fish and chips he was devouring. He’d already seen her and waved. She pointed to the counter and he gave her a thumbs-up. Lexi ordered sweet potato fries and a soda and went over to join him.
‘Sorry to drag you all the way up here,’ he said, through a mouthful of food.
‘It’s cool,’ she replied. ‘It’s not that far. And I guess you’re a little busier than me.’
Dan smiled, but just for a second. He looked exhausted, she thought.
‘I’ve been coming to this place for years,’ he said, glancing around the small, simple interior. ‘Jess and I used to get takeaway here and walk along the river. If it was pissing with rain or freezing cold, we’d sit in the window, just over there…’ His eyes lost focus.
Lexi turned to look at the window table. She knew he’d be picturing the last time he and his wife had been here together. Was it a little weird that she was here with him, now? Or was it a good sign that Dan felt able to invite her here, somewhere he used to share with Jess? She didn’t know.
‘It’s nice,’ she commented, turning back to him. ‘Cosy.’
He seemed to snap out of the memory. ‘And there’s no chance of Porter seeing us here. He’d never cross the river to get his dinner.’
She chuckled. ‘That’s a bonus.’
‘You get the bus up?’ he asked.
‘Uh-huh.’
Dan frowned and pointed his fork at her. ‘Be careful at those bus stops, yeah?’
‘I can look after myself.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out the pepper spray and personal alarm she’d bought online. ‘See?’
He nodded approval. ‘OK. Just… until we catch this guy, taking the bus at night probably isn’t the safest option.’
‘How else am I supposed to get around?’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t afford to take cabs everywhere.’
‘Fair enough.’ Dan speared a few chips and put them in his mouth. ‘Maybe try not to travel alone, then.’
Lexi raised her chin defiantly. ‘I’m not scared of that guy, you know.’
She didn’t add that she’d been thinking about the bus stop rapist pretty much non-stop since they’d asked her to help on Op Braddock. That making some contribution to catching him would be a way for her to banish the ghost of the assault she’d experienced. To make sure at least one man who thought he could get away with rape would be punished. She’d find him herself, if she had to.
Dan looked as though he was about to reply with some more man-advice, but they were interrupted by the server bringing Lexi’s fries and soda to the table.
‘Thank you.’ She waited for the guy to leave before speaking again. ‘What’s the latest on Logan?’
He lowered his voice. ‘We’ve traced her to a club via a bank card she stole and used there. A couple of the team are on night shift, going through the CCTV footage. They were still working on it when I left half an hour ago. We think we’ve got her inside the club, talking to a guy. Next step is to try and ping her leaving, see where she went. If we’re lucky, we’ll ha
ve somewhere to visit first thing tomorrow.’
‘That’s positive.’ She grabbed a handful of fries, dipped them in some ketchup and stuffed them in her mouth. They were crispy and salty and delicious. She thought for a second. ‘You think she was trying to pick up a guy? You know, to have somewhere to stay.’
‘Could be.’ Dan stopped chewing. ‘Do you reckon she’d attack him? Or even kill him?’
Lexi cocked her head. ‘Hard to say. I mean, her victim choice seems to be relatively defined. At least, if my theory’s right. She stayed with John Foster for, like, two months and didn’t hurt him. If someone’s useful to her, she won’t attack.’
‘Reassuring.’ He resumed eating.
‘That said,’ she continued, ‘the second anyone becomes a threat to her, they’re at risk. Don’t forget, we’re talking about a psychopath here. A person who uses violence as a tool to get what they want, and has no conscience about doing so. If she went home from that club with a man, he’s in danger.’
Dan nodded and sawed off a piece of battered fish. She could tell he didn’t want to hear that, even if it was true. It was one more thing to worry about.
‘So,’ he said, ‘who’s she going for next?’
Lexi cracked open her soda and took a sip. ‘OK, so this is, like, very preliminary.’
‘Hit me.’
‘I believe she’s targeted individuals who symbolise the people who screwed her over after her accident on the movie set.’
‘Surrogates, like you said.’
‘Right. Director, set designer, compensation lawyer. The question is, who else was involved in it? There’s a kind of conspiracy theory on the movie website about the studio paying people off to sweep the incident under the carpet.’
‘Someone in… what? The finance department of a film company?’
Who's Next?: A completely gripping and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Lockhart and Green Book 2) Page 26