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

by Chris Merritt

  ‘Eddie,’ she said, clamping the phone between ear and shoulder as she poured the tea.

  ‘All right, Max? What you up to?’

  ‘Surveillance,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Thorncross.’

  ‘Decent lead?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe. Hard to say. We’ll take anything we can get.’

  ‘I know that feeling.’

  Smith gave a small laugh. ‘What’s going on? You working on Braddock?’

  ‘I’m checking all the feeds from last night, but there’s nothing much happening. Looks like our bloke’s taking a bit of a break. And as soon as it calms down, the boss starts piling on other cases.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘But this is exactly when we need to be making progress on it. Proactivity.’ The exasperation in his voice was clear.

  ‘Well, watching the cameras is a start.’

  ‘True. Anyway, I called because I’ve got a fella called Xander O’Neill downstairs. Says he wants his clothes back. Apparently, Lockhart took ’em in a few days ago and they haven’t been returned yet.’

  ‘Oh, right. Hang on.’

  Smith turned to Lockhart and relayed what Stagg had said.

  ‘Make him wait,’ said Lockhart.

  ‘You sure, guv?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The gesture seemed somewhat petty to Smith, but she didn’t care enough about O’Neill to fight his corner. The guy was no serial killer, but he was still a bit of a prick, so if Lockhart didn’t want to give him his stuff back immediately, it was no skin off her nose.

  ‘Tell him I’ll come over and do the paperwork tomorrow,’ said Lockhart. ‘If I’ve got time.’

  Smith informed Stagg, who seemed to find it quite funny. ‘He’s not gunna have time, is he?’

  ‘Doubt it,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll go down and tell Mr O’Neill myself,’ he said with a chuckle, and rang off.

  A few moments passed in silence while Smith drank her tea. She was wondering about putting the radio on low, or maybe even listening to some music through one headphone, when Lockhart sat up straight.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said, reaching for the door handle. ‘Take a look from the back.’

  ‘Isn’t Parsons on the back?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He opened the door. ‘Wait here.’

  ‘Guv?’

  Lockhart didn’t respond. He was already outside and closing the car door softly.

  The annoying thing about using someone else’s bathroom is that you don’t know where all the stuff is. I rifle through the cabinet, looking for something antibacterial. Something to clean up my stab wound, which has started oozing. But it seems as though he hasn’t got anything, the dickhead. And I can’t find a first aid kit anywhere else. Water and soap will have to do.

  I close the cabinet and take a good look at myself in the mirror. To most observers, it’d appear to be a pretty decent body. Fit, strong, muscular, athletic. But it’s a shadow of what it was. A pale, weak apparition. A phantom. I’ve lost size and tone. I’m covered in surgical scars from God knows how many operations; I was still in a coma when they did most of them. And there are the wounds you can’t see, beneath the scarred skin. Torn ligaments and tendons that will never heal properly, meaning I can’t go back to stunt work. The only thing left of the old me is the tattoos.

  I’ve got a ton of them: the angel and devil on opposite shoulders, the rolling dice, the butterfly. Then there’s the Ghost Rider astride a motorbike, skull engulfed in flames – the comic book character Johnny Blaze. In the stories, he was a stuntman who did a deal with a demon to become the spirit of revenge, or something like that. I got it at the same time I took his name, because I thought it was badass. It was nothing to do with vengeance. But I couldn’t have planned that one any better if I’d tried.

  And there’s the pentacle. The five-pointed star in a circle with an elemental symbol at each point: fire, water, earth, air and spirit. Someone in Hollywood who saw it asked me straight up if I was a witch, or a wiccan. Did I do pagan sacrifices and that type of thing? I know a lot of people believe a ton of weird shit in Hollywood. But I told him I didn’t believe in anything except myself. And those elements that make all of us. It seemed appropriate to mark them on the people who took my body and my spirit from me in that accident. One for each of them.

  Looking at the little circle for spirit reminds me of who’s going to get that one.

  Not long now.

  Lockhart turned his Airwave radio to silent as he entered the street that backed on to the property of interest. He could see the unmarked Ford Mondeo with his teammates Andy Parsons, Priya Guptill, and Leo Richards inside. They clocked him and he gave an almost imperceptible nod as he crossed to the small, modern church halfway down the road, marking the point where the Victorian houses ended and a new, low-rise estate began.

  They’d probably be wondering what the hell he was doing. While the occasional ‘walk-past’ was common in surveillance, depending on the target, Lockhart was planning something even more direct. He entered the churchyard and strolled to the back where a short brick wall and wooden fence marked the border with the row of houses they were looking at. Shielded by the church building, he climbed onto the wall to get eyes on the basement flat.

  Peering over the fence into the garden three doors along, Lockhart noticed a light on in Dobbin’s flat. He didn’t need to think about it any further. Pocketing his radio, he was quickly up and over the fence, using a tree to stabilise himself, and dropped into the garden. He crossed two low walls and slowly approached Dobbin’s back door. Listened carefully, but couldn’t hear anything. Tried the door handle.

  It was unlocked.

  He eased it open and stepped carefully inside, keeping his footfall as silent as possible. He was in a living room with a desk and computer against one wall, two sofas on the other side, and a door in the middle. The lights were off here, meaning the one he’d seen was in another room. The vaguest memory of that house in Afghanistan came to him; entering the darkened interior alone… but it stopped short of a full flashback. He swallowed, breathed, kept going.

  Lockhart moved, slow and steady, across the floorboards towards the closed door. There was a half-drunk mug of tea on a table between the sofas. He stooped and touched a knuckle to it: cold. As he took the final step before reaching for the handle, the board under his right foot gave an almighty groan. He froze, cursed himself for not testing it better first. Held his breath, waited.

  Twenty seconds later, Lockhart was satisfied that nothing had responded to the sound. He gently turned the knob and pushed the door in. Advancing into a gloomy hallway, he could make out three doors: two open, one closed. A cursory glance told him the open rooms were a small kitchen and a bedroom at the front of the house. So, the closed door was probably the bathroom, and the source of the light from the back. There was a hum from inside, probably an extractor fan. And the faint smell of something organic, too.

  Lockhart took a breath and grasped the handle. Then in one rapid movement he twisted and threw the door open. Light spilled into the hallway and his arm flew up instinctively to shield his mouth and nose from the stench.

  Lying in the bath, eyes open, was a naked, dead man. His skin was marbled with the early signs of decomposition. He smelled like a butcher’s bin on a hot day. Lockhart could taste bile in the back of his throat as he extracted his radio and turned it up again.

  ‘Get a scene of crime team in here.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘On the hurry-up. Body found. Looks like our man.’

  There was a brief delay before Smith responded. ‘Received.’

  Lockhart shut the bathroom door to preserve the environment. Then, alone in the dim hallway, he sank to his haunches, covered his head with his hands, and cursed himself once more.

  But there was no time for self-pity.

  A clue to Logan’s whereabouts could be somewhere in this flat. If he
could find it – and stay ahead of Porter, too – then he might just have a chance of catching her.

  Seventy-Six

  I finally finish cleaning myself up. It takes ages, because I can’t just have a regular shower or a bath. Not with a massive, weeping gash in my side. Still, given that the cops have managed to track me twice – first to John’s house and then, I guess, from the club to Joseph’s place – things could be a lot worse.

  On the run, the easy option would’ve been to look for a squat. Talk my way in, dish out some booze to keep people happy, then bed down in a dark corner with a cheap sleeping bag I could’ve bought using John’s bank card. Another possibility was to make my way up to St James’s Church in Piccadilly and sleep among the homeless who are allowed in there overnight. Or I could’ve gone properly hardcore, off the grid in a park or underpass.

  But those options have their dangers. The unpredictability of other homeless people on the street, looking for anything they get. Addicts, alkies, and crazies who think they can hear the voice of God. Even in my weakened state, I’m pretty sure I could take them. But I don’t need the stress or the hassle. I need to rest. This place is perfect for that.

  And I’ve got it all to myself.

  I remembered reading in the paper once that the London borough of Kensington and Chelsea has nearly a thousand empty houses – ghost homes, they’re called – bought by millionaires as investments or ways to launder money. They’re known as ‘buy-to-leave’ properties; left empty because their owners live elsewhere, usually in warm, sunny tax havens, and they don’t need anyone in there paying rent. But they often like to keep the place going, ready for them to drop in on a business trip, or for the summer months when their families stay in town.

  It took a while to find one that wasn’t alarmed. But once I’d jimmied a basement-level window and climbed inside, the place was mine. Hot running water, electricity, and a huge, comfy bed. They even have Wi-Fi, with a password kindly written on the back of the router. I’ve still got my PAYG smartphone, which I topped up the other day, so it’s time to get online and do some work.

  The first thing I find on the news websites is that the bitch I tried to kill in Earlsfield isn’t dead. I suspected as much, because the neighbour came out of his house before I was done. I had to make a call, and I decided to run. I’d choose escape over finishing the job every time. Living to fight another day. Protecting myself. That’s the smart thing to do.

  And I’ll always do it.

  I could try to track Liz Jennings down, tiptoe into whichever hospital is treating her, and cover her face with a pillow, like I did to Joseph. Or maybe pull out some of the wires keeping her alive. But I have to imagine Lockhart is anticipating that.

  He’ll have security in place.

  Which means there’s only one thing left to do: go for him.

  Time for some more research.

  Seventy-Seven

  Following the arrival of the SOCO team, Lockhart had donned his paper Tyvek suit, overshoes, mask and nitrile gloves, and was back inside the flat with Smith and four SOCOs. One was dusting surfaces for fingerprints, another was in the kitchen swabbing crockery and cutlery for saliva and bagging samples for touch DNA, while the other two were in the bathroom. With the corpse of Joseph Dobbin.

  Lockhart could still picture the body in the bathtub, could still smell its early decay. Despite that, seeing Joseph hadn’t set off his PTSD. He tried to work out why not, thinking back to his therapy sessions with Green last year. She used to talk about ‘triggers’: sensory stimuli that were similar in some way to the original event. It must be the facial beating, the blood, swelling and bruising of Logan’s victims that was doing it…

  ‘Found anything, guv?’ Smith asked him.

  They were in Joseph’s bedroom. He was going through a chest of drawers while Smith was examining the inside of a large wardrobe.

  ‘Nope. Sod all.’ He shut a drawer and opened the one next to it.

  ‘How do you think he died?’

  Lockhart lifted a stack of T-shirts one by one. There was nothing of interest between or behind them. ‘Dunno. Definitely not her usual MO.’

  ‘Strangulation?’

  ‘Suffocation, most likely.’ He shut the drawer and switched his attention to the bed. ‘Maybe in his sleep. Perhaps even the first night she came back here.’

  ‘So, she might’ve stayed here for two days with a dead body? That’s sick. I’ve heard some stories in my time, but…’

  ‘It’s like Green said. Logan’s a psychopath. That sort of thing wouldn’t bother her. You read about Dennis Nilsen back in the day?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He kept his victims’ corpses under the floorboards. Used to get them out, sit them in chairs and chat to them.’

  Smith made a mock vomiting noise. ‘When you put it like that, she seems almost normal…’

  Lockhart noticed the two bedside tables. One had a well-thumbed paperback, eye mask, radio alarm clock, and small box of earplugs on it. He guessed that was Joseph’s stuff. The other table had nothing on it except a half-drunk glass of water; that was probably Logan’s.

  ‘I reckon I could work a hundred years in a murder team,’ continued Smith, ‘and never get my head around that kind of… I don’t even know what you call it.’

  ‘Ask Green,’ he said, squatting down beside Logan’s side of the bed and inspecting the mess on the floor. There was torn food packaging, a free London newspaper, and the wrapper of a used condom.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ said Smith.

  He prodded around in the detritus. ‘Prefer to trust your copper’s nose, would you?’

  ‘It’s never failed me so far.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Almost never.’

  ‘So, what’s the difference between a copper’s nose and a psychologist’s… mind, then? They both rely on intuition, don’t they? Both backed up by evidence of a few facts and plenty of personal experience.’

  Whatever Smith’s response was, Lockhart didn’t hear it properly. He’d just seen a small piece of paper. Extracting it from the pile of crap that Logan had managed to produce in just two days, he unfolded it. And he knew he’d struck gold.

  ‘Guv? You listening?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

  ‘Sorry, Max.’

  She clearly registered from his tone that the banter was over. ‘What’ve you got?’

  He hesitated. ‘A receipt. Top-up voucher for a pay-as-you-go phone.’

  Smith crossed the bedroom and he held it up.

  ‘We wondered if she was using a phone,’ she said, a smile on her face.

  ‘Until now, though, we had no idea what it was.’

  ‘We still don’t,’ she said, scrutinising the paper. ‘Except that it’s on the O2 network. And she bought it yesterday. With a bank card that I’m guessing is John Foster’s.’

  ‘Right. But if we know which number that top-up credit was applied to, we have a decent chance of finding the phone.’ He looked up at Smith. ‘And Logan.’

  Inside his jacket, his phone vibrated. He unzipped the paper suit enough to take it out. It was DCI Porter. ‘I’d better get this,’ he said. ‘I’ve ignored him twice already. Time I got my bollocking.’

  ‘Bollocking? You found a body, guv.’

  Lockhart cocked his head. ‘Yeah, but I also entered a premises without a warrant.’

  ‘Threat to life?’

  ‘Porter didn’t think so, did he?’

  ‘He wasn’t on the ground.’

  ‘True.’ He handed her the receipt.

  ‘What do you want me to do with this?’ she asked. ‘Get it back to the office so we can draw up a warrant on it for the telcom?’

  Lockhart glanced at the phone screen. Porter wasn’t giving up. ‘That’s what we should do,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘But?…’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he replied. ‘Bag it up.’

  ‘Guv.’

 
‘And don’t log it.’

  Seventy-Eight

  Porter hadn’t been as angry as Lockhart had expected. Maybe it was because Joseph’s body had been found, and even Porter had to admit that wouldn’t have happened for another day or more without Lockhart’s intervention. Perhaps Porter had pulled his punches out of sensitivity for the two most recent victims, one of whom was still in hospital with potentially life-changing injuries. But Lockhart suspected the real reason was that Porter was storing up one almighty smackdown for the end of the case, with every chance that Lockhart’s days in the MIT were numbered. No SIO, not even one as blinkered and stubborn as Porter, would chuck a DI off a live manhunt for a killer. Womanhunt.

  However, Lockhart had already crossed a few lines, and he was about to do it once more. He knew what the official, recommended investigative procedure after finding the receipt should be. Bag, log, then back to Jubilee House to write a warrant compelling the telcom, O2, to tell him what phone number that top-up voucher had been applied to. They could even get other data in case Logan switched handsets or SIMs. Then they would receive frequent updates on Logan’s whereabouts as her phone logged on to different cell towers.

  That was the textbook answer.

  But he’d had enough of Porter screwing up the investigation, of tipping Logan off by sharing every piece of intel they got on her through social media and news websites, in the vain hope that a member of the public would come forward. The boss had disregarded Lockhart’s advice, twice, and they’d lost Logan, twice. Lockhart had reached his tipping point. He didn’t care anymore what happened to him; he was going to do whatever it took to find Logan. Especially if there was a chance that she’d target a cop next.

  Lockhart made his way out of Jubilee House and walked the hundred yards or so to the river. He didn’t want anyone overhearing this call. From the contact list in his phone, he selected ‘Jock’ and tapped the call icon. It was answered after a few rings.