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

by Chris Merritt

‘Maybe, but that’s a little vague. The news article mentions an insurance claim that was independent of the legal settlement. That’s my best guess.’

  ‘A person who works in insurance?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Dan gave a long, slow breath out. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Not quite. One of the movie geeks thinks the conspiracy extends to the LAPD. That the studio paid off a cop to ignore evidence or whatever.’

  ‘Does he have any proof of that?’

  ‘Not that he shared with me, but—’

  ‘Hang on,’ he cut in. ‘You’re telling me this is just what some bloke on a website reckons?’

  ‘There must’ve been a police investigation,’ she countered firmly. ‘It’s possible that she’s blaming a detective for not investigating it properly, at least. Corrupt or legit.’

  There was a silence and Dan appeared lost in thought. Lexi glanced across to the server, who was, understandably, observing their exchange. She made eye contact with him and he looked away quickly, resuming his wipe down of the counter.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked Dan.

  ‘Logan was looking me up on Foster’s laptop,’ he replied. ‘Researching stuff about me. Military stories, Jess.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not the only one who should be careful, then,’ she said.

  He picked up a chip and waved it casually. ‘It’s probably nothing.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ He threw the chip in his mouth.

  Lexi arched her eyebrows. ‘You can look after yourself, right?’

  Dan grunted. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Well, I kinda had the idea she might pick on a reporter, too. You know, because they didn’t give her the coverage she wanted.’

  Dan chewed, swallowed. ‘So, we’re looking for someone who works in insurance, a police officer, or maybe a journalist?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you know how many of those there are in London?’

  ‘Hey, I said it was preliminary.’

  ‘Very preliminary.’

  ‘Jeez, I’m trying to help.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘I know. Sorry. I just wish we had more.’

  ‘We do have a little more.’ She sipped her soda. ‘Firstly, we believe she travels to and from the location of the attacks on foot. Maybe to avoid leaving a transport trace. Maybe because she’s lazy and it’s more convenient, I don’t know. Her victims were all murdered within a twenty-minute walk of John Foster’s flat, where she was staying. My guess is she’s going for someone in that area, or within a similar distance of wherever she’s staying now.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And we think she does her research online, right?’

  ‘Yeah. She used Foster’s laptop to find out about her previous victims.’

  ‘So, we’re looking for people with relatively high profiles, who’ve got stuff on the web about where they work or what they do in their spare time.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘If you filter the jobs of insurer, cop and reporter by geographical area, then check for those with detailed social media, blogs or whatever, the numbers will be a whole lot smaller.’

  Dan was staring at his plate.

  ‘And,’ she added, ‘if we predict that she’s targeting a total of five victims – the five elements in her symbols – then my best guess is she’s only looking at two out of those three professions.’

  He raised his head, pulled a face. ‘We can notify police in the area, sure. But as for the others… it’d do more harm than good to just issue a public warning to anyone local in insurance or news. The press is already going nuts over a female serial killer. Can you imagine what they’d make of it if they thought they were targets, too? Even Porter won’t want to brief that to them.’

  Lexi began to feel pissed off, again. She’d done her best, with minimal data, and Dan didn’t seem grateful at all. ‘Well, you asked for my victim profile, and this is what I’ve got. Sorry it isn’t good enough. But I’m not psychic.’

  ‘Unfortunately. I wish you were.’ He shovelled in the last piece of fish. ‘Actually, no I don’t. You already know more about what’s going on in here than anyone else,’ he added, indicating his forehead with the tip of his knife. ‘You don’t want to know the rest of it.’

  Dan gave her a little smile and, despite everything, Lexi felt herself blush.

  Day Sixteen

  Seventy-Four

  Lockhart had been woken by the call just after 6 a.m., by which time more than ten hours had passed since the incident yesterday evening. Details were still thin, but Lockhart was furious that it’d taken so long for anyone to connect the violent assault on a forty-three-year-old woman named Liz Jennings with Operation Thorncross and Blaze Logan.

  He suspected there were several reasons for the delay. The main one was the fact that, miraculously, Liz was still alive. The out-of-hours Homicide Assessment Team would not, therefore, have been called and the priority would’ve been her immediate medical care. The victim being female, and a vague description of the attacker wouldn’t have helped attending officers make the link to Logan, either. And any overnight investigative work had probably been hampered by the lack of night shift resources in the strapped Merton borough team, who were covering the area where the assault took place.

  Liz had been attacked in a quiet residential road in Earlsfield, south-west London, just one street away from her house. A man had witnessed the incident from his window and called the police before having the courage to run into the road and confront the attacker, who had fled, leaving the man to stay with Liz until the ambulance arrived ten minutes later. The intervention had probably saved her life; if the witness had looked out of his bathroom window any later, it might’ve been too late for Liz.

  But that was where the good news ended.

  Liz had received serious head wounds and had been taken straight to Accident & Emergency at St George’s Hospital in Tooting. Following triage, she’d been moved to the Neuro Intensive Care Unit in the neighbouring Atkinson Morley Wing, where Lockhart was now climbing the stairs to visit her.

  He was sickened to think that he’d been stuffing his face with fish and chips and chatting with Green about who Logan might target while, a few miles south, that person was already in hospital, fighting to stay alive. They hadn’t been fast enough, or good enough, and Liz’s life hung in the balance because of that failure. The guilt gnawed at him with each step he took up towards her.

  Lockhart was buzzed into the NICU. He’d never been on this ward before, but he knew the drill. He took a squirt of alcohol gel from the wall dispenser and rubbed it into his hands, then produced his warrant card and introduced himself to the nurse at the desk before signing in.

  ‘She’s in a medically induced coma for the time being,’ said the nurse, a young black woman with close-cropped hair, whose ID card read: Grace Adebayo.

  ‘Does she have family here?’

  ‘Yes, her father has been with her.’

  ‘Is there a partner?’ asked Lockhart.

  ‘I believe so. But the father said he’s not around at the moment.’

  ‘OK. Does Liz have children?’

  ‘One girl. Her mother is looking after her.’

  Lockhart nodded. ‘Can I see her, please?’

  Nurse Adebayo hesitated. ‘Yes, but she’s not conscious. She can’t talk to you.’

  ‘I know. I just want to… see her.’

  ‘All right. Come with me.’

  Adebayo led him through the ward. There were cubicles to left and right, separated by blue curtains drawn far enough around to offer some privacy and dignity for the patients while still allowing medical observation. Every bay was taken, the occupants lying in beds with rails on the sides. There were several free-standing machines behind each patient’s head. Lockhart saw respirators, intubation, drips and wires. Beyond the equipment, he also saw people whose lives would never be the same again. Near the end of the ward, they came to a stop a
few feet outside one bay.

  ‘This is Liz,’ said the nurse quietly. ‘I can see Arthur has stepped away.’ She indicated an empty chair pulled up close to the bed. ‘He was sitting there all night.’

  Lockhart didn’t reply. His mouth was already dry as he looked through the curtains at the woman who was, in all probability, Blaze Logan’s latest victim. One arm was in a cast from elbow to hand. Her facial features were barely recognisable between the swelling, bruising, and gauze dressings. Lockhart felt the rage towards Logan begin to grow inside him. It was rapidly followed by the image that invaded his mind: the Taliban sniper in that house in Afghanistan. And then Lockhart was right back in that moment.

  On top of the man, batting his hands away and throwing punch after punch. Until the decisive one landed in his face, followed by another, and another. The sniper’s head slapped the floor tile beneath him, just as Lockhart connected again, caving the guy’s cheek in this time, his own knuckles bloodied and raw. As the film played in his mind, Lockhart could see the sniper lying beneath him, completely still. He could feel his weight pressing down on the body. He could even smell the residue from the stun grenade he’d thrown moments earlier.

  Now, his heart was hammering in his chest and he felt sweat prickle his temples and lower back as he struggled to remember what had happened next…

  ‘She has a subdural hematoma,’ said Adebayo, her words pulling him back to the present. ‘Are – are you all right, officer?’

  Lockhart blinked. ‘Fine. Subdural hema—?’

  ‘Hematoma. It’s a bleed on the brain. The consultant is monitoring it and we’re hoping there’s no need to operate, because that carries an additional risk.’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ He felt nauseous, shaky. Angry at Logan. And, because they hadn’t located her, he found himself looking for someone to blame. Him, for not catching Logan earlier. Green, for not being more specific in her profiling. Porter, for going public and perhaps forcing Logan’s hand on this attack. Maybe they all shared a measure of responsibility.

  Lockhart wondered what would happen when he did find Logan. Right now, he felt as though he could kill her himself. He had no doubt she wouldn’t think twice about beating him to death if she got the chance. And if what Smith had told him about the research on Foster’s laptop was more than just idle curiosity…

  He heard footsteps approaching and turned to see a man in his seventies with a full head of grey hair, liver-spotted skin and deep bags under his eyes walking towards them. He wore a cardigan over corduroy trousers and was holding a cardboard drinks cup in one slightly trembling hand. His tired eyes flitted from Lockhart to the nurse before he craned his neck into the bay.

  ‘Has something happened?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no change, Mr Simpson,’ the nurse answered gently. ‘This is Detective Inspector…’

  ‘Dan Lockhart.’ He extended a hand and the older man shook it. ‘Metropolitan Police. I’m investigating the attack on Liz.’

  ‘Arthur Simpson. I’m her father. Lizzy still uses her married name, you see.’

  Lockhart nodded. He didn’t quite know what to say to this man whose daughter was in a coma because of a psychopath his team had not been able to stop. Pleasantries seemed pointless.

  ‘My wife’s been with her daughter all night,’ continued Simpson. ‘We haven’t even told little Freya what’s happened yet. I mean, how do you begin to explain something like…’ He gestured towards his daughter with his free hand before letting it drop to his side where it hung limply.

  ‘I’m so sorry for what you’re going through,’ said Lockhart. ‘And for what happened to Liz.’

  ‘Why would anyone do this to her? My Lizzy wouldn’t hurt a fly. And whoever it was didn’t take anything from her. Apparently, they just kept kicking her before they ran away. That’s what I was told. It’s senseless.’ Simpson’s mouth remained open in obvious disbelief.

  ‘I know.’ Lockhart paused. ‘But I promise you, I will do my best to make sense of it. My whole team will.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Simpson, his eyes moist.

  ‘Can I get anything for you?’ asked Adebayo. Simpson indicated that he was fine. The nurse moved into the bay, checked the machines quickly, then said: ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She walked off back towards the desk. Lockhart made a mental note to speak to her on his way out about security. They’d need an officer here on the ward in case Logan guessed where Liz was and decided to finish what she’d started. Changing Liz’s name on the patient list, too, would offer some extra protection against Logan, as well as reducing attention from the press.

  ‘Mr Simpson, I realise this must be a very difficult time, but do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about your daughter?’ Lockhart planned to send their Family Liaison Officer, PC MacLeod, over to see Simpson later this morning, and to visit his wife and Freya, too. He knew MacLeod would do a great job on the welfare side. But for now, he needed facts.

  ‘Of course,’ said Simpson. ‘What do you want to know?’

  Lockhart thought back to Green’s words last night. Her predicted professions. ‘What did Liz do for a living?’

  Simpson looked slightly taken aback at the question. ‘She was a loss adjustor.’

  ‘Insurance.’

  ‘Yes, well, she worked on behalf of insurers. Why – do you think it was something to do with her work?’

  ‘It could be.’ Lockhart hesitated. ‘We have to keep all our lines of inquiry open at the moment.’ He hated parroting those meaningless Porter-style lines, but he couldn’t disclose their suspect strategy to Simpson. Especially when it wasn’t even official.

  Green had called it correctly. That was four out of a probable five victims. Would Logan make a second attempt on Liz’s life, now? Would she target another person who worked in insurance? Or would she move on to her final victim?

  Following Green’s logic, that would either be a journalist, or…

  Lockhart felt a shiver go through him.

  Twenty minutes later, Lockhart was driving to Jubilee House when his phone went. He answered it on the hands-free in his Defender and Smith’s voice filled the interior.

  ‘Good news and bad news, guv.’

  ‘Gimme the good news, Max. I need some.’

  ‘Right you are. Well, we think we’ve found Logan leaving the club with a man on Sunday night, early hours of Monday.’

  ‘Result. Any idea where they go after that?’

  ‘Looks like they get into a Toyota Prius around half midnight.’

  ‘Uber?’

  ‘Most likely. We got the car reg and traced it to a guy who, according to the PNC, lives in Kingston. We’re heading round there now to find him. Or find out where he is.’

  ‘He’ll have a record of the drop-off address on his app.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Lockhart drummed the steering wheel. ‘Can’t imagine Logan risking a hotel. Do we reckon they went to the guy’s flat?’

  ‘It’s a decent shout.’

  ‘Two-and-a-bit days ago. Whether she’s still there or not is anyone’s guess. It’s gonna depend on how safe she feels.’

  Smith cleared her throat. ‘Er, that might be the bad news, guv.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. Once we had a half-decent image from the club, Porter put it straight out online.’

  ‘What?’ Lockhart couldn’t believe it. It was as if the boss actually wanted Logan to stay ahead of them. Without thinking he made a fist and slammed it sideways into the door beside him. Then he did it again. Swore a few times. ‘Find the cab driver and get that drop-off address ASAP,’ he said.

  ‘On it right now.’

  Lockhart ended the call. Then he bellowed as loud as he could.

  And stepped on the accelerator.

  Seventy-Five

  Smith finished her banana and, for want of anywhere to put the skin, dropped it in the footwell. That was one major downside of surveillance; the longer you sat in a car, the more
skanky it got. And that was multiplied by the number of people. In this case, three: her, Lockhart beside her in the passenger seat, and Khan behind them, tapping away on his phone.

  ‘Stay outside or go in?’ she asked, keeping her eyes on the house. This was where they’d traced the cab drop-off in the early hours of Monday morning: a basement flat in a converted Victorian terraced house in Gipsy Hill, south London. It belonged to a thirty-five-year-old man named Joseph Dobbin, who had taken the taxi here with Blaze Logan.

  ‘If we’d found this place before eight a.m.,’ replied Lockhart, his voice tight with frustration, ‘I would’ve said wait. Get eyes on, stake it out, observe any activity.’

  ‘But now?’

  ‘Now Porter has put the CCTV image from the club online, chances are Logan’s seen it. That raises the threat assessment for Joseph Dobbin. My call would be go in.’

  ‘So… why don’t we?’ Khan’s voice came from the back seat, accompanied by the noise of gum chewing, which got louder as he leant forward.

  ‘Because Porter told us to keep still until the TSG arrives,’ Lockhart said.

  The TSG – or Territorial Support Group – were the Met’s muscle, called in for tasks like crowd control, or arrests of potentially dangerous suspects. Logan certainly qualified, but Smith wondered how the testosterone-pumped men of the TSG were reacting to the order to deploy in numbers for a woman.

  ‘Ah, right.’ Khan sat back again.

  ‘In the absence of any activity, we’ve got no way of knowing if Logan’s still there. Or even if Joseph’s safe.’ Lockhart breathed out heavily through his nostrils.

  Smith glanced at him. ‘How long will TSG be?’

  ‘They couldn’t say. They’re on another job, apparently. For Trident.’

  The Trident units around London dealt with gang crime; frequently their operations involved multiple consecutive arrests and forced entry of premises. That could take hours.

  ‘I won’t hold my breath, then.’ Smith reached for her flask of tea. She hadn’t even unscrewed the top when her phone rang. It was DS Stagg.