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

by Chris Merritt

  Had Logan somehow talked or threatened her way into one of these homes? Were there other members of the public in danger, as Joseph Dobbin had been? For one terrible moment, he pictured the young man’s lifeless body in the bathtub, the coloured patches on his pale skin… and wondered if Logan had perhaps already killed someone else simply to give herself a place to sleep. Or was it possible that she had an ally, a confederate who lived there? If so, why had she not gone there earlier?

  Think like your enemy.

  Given that Logan had left Gipsy Hill the previous morning at the latest, she’d have needed somewhere to sleep last night. It fitted with the use of the bank card nearby, around the same time. The area of phone activity was residential, so chances were she was staying there, rather than reccying a target in the area – though he couldn’t rule that out. If Lockhart was on the run, what would he look for? A flat, preferably empty so you didn’t need to worry about the occupants… As cold-blooded as Logan was, all predators knew there was a potential cost to attacking every prey.

  So, an unoccupied residence in that area, perhaps. That was the best he could come up with for now. The next question was: what to do with this new intelligence? He could make an excuse to the others, drive out there himself, alone, and try to find her… although the chance of actually seeing her on the street was low, particularly with the phone currently off. He needed the team’s involvement. But none of them knew about the phone, yet, except Smith, and he hadn’t even told her much about it.

  Then an idea came to him. What had Porter been preaching for the past two weeks?

  Community policing. Tip-offs from the public.

  Lockhart switched windows on his phone, selected the number, and dialled.

  ‘Daniel! What a lovely surprise.’ The enthusiasm of her greeting made him smile. ‘You working?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum. Actually, I need your help.’ He checked around him. No one was in earshot.

  ‘What is it, love?’

  ‘Can you make a call for me?’

  Eighty-Three

  I was grateful for that fact that no one seems to use libraries anymore. John Harvard Library on Borough High Street is a massive, ugly building that few people would even notice, much less want to visit. The interior is a bit better; they’ve made an effort with tables, chairs, even a little café. It’s got a ton of books, obviously, banks of computers, and every kind of reference material you could want. There just aren’t many customers, or whatever you call them, inside. Which suits me fine.

  At first, I wondered whether the fact that staff outnumbered visitors meant someone was going to be eyeing me suspiciously the whole time, with the chance that they’d recognise me off the news. I took precautions, obviously. Borrowed a nice headscarf, large sunglasses, and a big jacket from my new home. But no one seemed to pay attention.

  I gave them a story about tracing estranged relatives and, without requiring any further explanation, I was shown the full electoral register. It’s a weird thing, a big old-school printed document which is basically a massive list of addresses and everyone living in the area who’s registered to vote. Any person has the legal right to look at it, under supervision and usually not for more than ten or twenty minutes. Long enough to check something. There are rules about not photographing or copying it, but that doesn’t matter when there’s only one thing you’re after. One piece of information you need to remember.

  It’s a hassle finding what I want, because the register is organised by address rather than name, and because it’s printed, you can’t just type in a search. But the librarian is extremely helpful, and thankfully Lockhart isn’t that common a name. It doesn’t take us that long to find her.

  Iris Margaret Lockhart.

  Living alone, in flat eighty-two of a ‘square’ – which sounds like a block in an estate – on Clements Road in Bermondsey. I guess the husband’s croaked, and the old dear lives alone now. Even better.

  Now I know exactly how to get to Lockhart.

  And I’ve got nothing else on tonight.

  Eighty-Four

  ‘I mean, it’s lovely and everything. But I’m not sure I’d like to live round here,’ observed Smith.

  She and Lockhart were walking down Old Brompton Road in Kensington, close to Onslow Gardens where the eyewitness ‘tip-off’ had put Logan earlier today. Checking each shop, café and pub they passed. They had an A4-size print of Logan’s passport photo, and were asking in anywhere local she might’ve visited.

  ‘Got something against West London?’ asked Lockhart.

  ‘Course not, guv.’ She flashed him a grin. ‘Just doesn’t feel like there’s much of a community.’

  ‘That your only objection?’

  ‘That, and the house prices.’

  ‘I knew it. You’d secretly love to have a place here, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I could never move north of the river.’

  ‘Course you could.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. Feels a bit weird just visiting.’

  Lockhart shook his head, managed a laugh. The banter was flowing easily enough – the only alternative being working in silence, which no sane copper wanted on a job like this – but she knew they were both on edge. Turning over stones, waiting for the trigger that could lead them to Logan. Imagining what they’d do if she strolled around the next street corner.

  Picturing those bloodied, battered bodies.

  They’d just drawn another blank in a burger restaurant. The clothing boutique beyond it was shut, so the pizzeria two doors down was their next port of call. CCTV had indicated that Logan went north after her last card transaction, yesterday, which would place her somewhere around here. It was needle-in-haystack stuff, but this was the kind of tried-and-tested, hard-graft detective work that Smith loved. Once the bit was between her teeth, she didn’t give up. And she knew Lockhart was the same.

  Stubborn idiots, the pair of them.

  Smith was grateful for the guvnor arranging the anonymous tip-off about Logan being seen here. However he’d done it, Porter was now fired up, believing his strategy of regular media appeals and public intelligence sharing was working as planned, just in time for his Super’s promotion assessment. And she was relieved that it just about put her in the clear over the receipt they’d found in Joseph Dobbin’s apartment.

  One less dodgy thing she’d done to worry about.

  Porter was taking the tip seriously, partly because it tallied with the use of the bank card nearby, and partly because they had little else to go on. He’d deployed about half of the core team on surveillance around Chelsea, going door to door with the image of Logan or clapping eyes on transport hubs. Berry and another analyst were putting in an overtime shift in the MIT office with a facial recognition software package. And there was the possibility that Lockhart might get another ‘anonymous tip’ of his own any moment, wherever they were coming from. Smith knew better than to ask.

  She pushed open the door of the pizzeria and the smell of the wood-fired oven, of dough and cooked tomatoes and melting cheese, hit her square in the nostrils. She began to salivate and wondered if they could get a cheeky takeaway… but quickly told herself there’d be time for that later, when they weren’t searching for a serial killer.

  Smith took out the photo and moved towards the manager, whose beaming welcome rapidly became a frown when he saw the warrant card she was holding up in her other hand. As a detective, you got used to having that effect on people.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Lockhart was standing by the entrance, phone in hand.

  He was texting.

  Eighty-Five

  Lexi told herself she was doing the right thing. What she’d done last night was pretty dumb – wandering around a half-dozen dead little bus stops alone, drunk – and she’d been lucky to get away with nothing more than a sore head this morning. Needless to say, she hadn’t found the man she’d been looking for. Or, rather, he hadn’t found her. But it wasn’t the act itself of searching for this se
rial rapist that was stupid; it was the way she’d gone about it.

  Tonight, she’d do it better. Prepared. Sober.

  It was a little after 8.30 p.m. The sun – such as it was today – had retreated and darkness had closed in, not that it ever truly won that battle with the city that never slept. London had its own version of night, a yellowy-orange glow to the sky from a million lights that made clouds look like cotton candy and rendered all but the brightest stars invisible. And yet, in pockets of the city where trees and greenery won out over concrete, it was still possible to find yourself alone in the dark.

  Lexi was surprised by how scary that was.

  She thought of Logan’s victims, who had all been out, on their own, at night. She imagined the poor women waiting at bus stops, with nothing more on their minds than going out or getting home. The moment each of them realised that someone meant to harm them. And that there was no one to help them.

  These thoughts brought her quickly back to the time she had been assaulted. The powerlessness and terror she’d felt. Now, she was doing something about it. Something to stop it happening to another woman. She’d rather her efforts had been part of the police’s operation, but if Max Smith and even Dan didn’t want her help, then she had to do what she could alone.

  You’re doing the right thing, for sure. Aren’t you?

  Lexi briefly wondered if this search could be less about other women, and more about her… About finding her own surrogate for the man who’d attacked her in that alleyway and gotten away with it. Was this just a selfish way of dealing with her own trauma? And did that mean she had more in common with Logan than she cared to admit?

  She came to her next bus stop. A quiet road, a few closed stores behind, a bunch of trees opposite that led onto a small park with a children’s play area.

  She sat down, scanning her surroundings and staying alert, but trying to look as if she was just chilling, waiting for a bus.

  Lexi was ready for this dude. If there were assholes who carried around a rape kit, then she had an anti-rape kit in her bag. Pepper spray, personal alarm, mobile phone charged and ready to call the cops or take photos, whatever was needed.

  Her heart was beating a little faster.

  Bring it on, she thought.

  Eighty-Six

  This is the boring part, before the fun starts. After I’d found the address for Lockhart’s mum at the library, I realised there was no point travelling all the way back to Chelsea only to have to return to the same part of town after dark. That would’ve been pointless. So, much as I hate doing it, I’ve been waiting.

  Thanks to Lockhart and his team, though, I had to keep my head down. Not spend too much time in any one place. Keep my sunglasses and headscarf on. It’s such as pain in the arse. It briefly made me think about what life will be like after I’ve killed him. Once it’s done, and the slate is wiped clean, but my name and face are still out there. I’ll need to move away somewhere else – overseas, probably – and start again.

  Take a new name.

  That’s pretty inconvenient, but it’s not like there’s much keeping me here, anyway. It might even be exciting, depending on where I go. And, I remind myself, it’s what I wanted. I set Lockhart the challenge of catching me, and he’s got close. I’ll give him credit for that. But, ultimately, he’s been too slow. And I’m a step ahead of him, again, tonight.

  From the bench where I’m sitting, I stare out across the river. I stuff in the last of a roast beef sandwich I bought for dinner. Time to pay dear old Iris Lockhart a visit.

  I take out my phone. Even though I was bored, I’ve kept it off the past few hours to save the battery. I switch it on. Type the address into Google Maps and press ‘Directions’.

  It’s a fifteen-minute walk.

  Off I go.

  Lockhart was pissed off. There’d been no sign of Logan in the area where her mobile had pinged earlier today. And the last time he’d checked in with Jock, an hour ago, the phone had still been switched off. Jock was doing his best, but it was at times like this that Lockhart missed the resources of his old unit.

  If he was still in Special Forces, or if he was working for MI5, for instance, and Logan was a wanted terrorist planning a mass-casualty attack, they’d have every piece of tech available at their disposal. Phone-finding kit you could use on the ground that was so powerful it’d put you right next to the bloody thing.

  But, in the cash-strapped Met, with only a common-or-garden serial murderer as their target, he’d be lucky if someone lent him so much as a compass. There’d been such a dearth of unmarked pool cars free for their surveillance this evening, Lockhart was having to use his own vehicle. This was the level of resourcing he was operating with. He’d had no choice but to ask for Jock’s help. That’s what he told himself. It was justified. It was about finding Logan.

  He’d already suggested that Smith – who had worked thirteen hours straight today – should go home and get some kip. Recharge her batteries, ready to go again tomorrow. Being the sort of copper she was, she’d refused. Instead, she’d gone to get them both a cup of coffee while Lockhart kept watch in his Defender. A couple of the others had already gone: Khan, Guptill. He’d send the rest home soon, too.

  He opened up the Telegram app on his phone. No update from Jock. He refreshed the app, just to be sure. Nothing.

  Normally, he didn’t mind waiting. He could spend hours on surveillance, sitting patiently in the same position, staying alert. Tonight, though, whenever things were too quiet, his thoughts returned to Jess. To the prospect of appearing in court and trying to convince a judge she was still alive, based on little more than some vague, old intel, and a gut feeling that told him she was out there. That she had to be.

  Lockhart shut Telegram and put the phone back in its holder on the dashboard. Checked the time: 10.23 p.m. He planned to give it until midnight, then call it a night and send everyone home. Maybe he’d stay longer. One, perhaps 2 a.m… It wasn’t as if he was going to get much sleep at home, anyway.

  He tried to maintain his focus on the street, checking each face that passed, screening and dismissing them one by one. But his eyes kept flicking to the phone screen.

  Waiting for the call from Jock.

  Lexi was waiting. This was the fifth bus stop she’d visited tonight, building on the half-dozen she hit last night. She’d chosen them based on Stagg’s map of the attacker’s likely hunting ground, to maximise her chance of finding the guy.

  She had been sitting in the shelter at this stop for a half hour and her butt had quickly gone dead on the hard plastic. After ten minutes, a bus had come and gone, the driver perplexed as to why she didn’t want to climb aboard. He’d held the doors open for a few seconds longer before shrugging and closing them. Then he and his handful of passengers were on their way and Lexi was alone again with nothing more than the distant sounds of city life for company. The occasional rise and fall of a car engine in nearby streets, aircraft passing overhead, the rumble of a train she couldn’t see. Then the screech of a fox, a shrill noise that seemed full of pain. Lexi had seen a nature documentary once that said it was a mating call. Or was it a danger signal?—

  ‘Don’t fucking move.’

  Lexi froze. She could hear chewing.

  ‘Not a sound, yeah?’ said the man.

  The vague sense that she recognised his voice came to her… but was rapidly overtaken by another, more urgent thought: her survival instinct telling her simply to do whatever he told her.

  Then her rational brain kicked in, and she reminded herself why she was there. What the whole point of putting herself in this situation was. This was what she’d come looking for. The chance to do something about this son of a bitch.

  She tried to breathe, keep as calm as she could, although her whole body was tingling, the fight-or-flight response kicking in.

  ‘OK, sure,’ she replied, looking up at him. ‘You’re the boss.’

  He stood a few feet away in a black jacket and ski mask.
A shorter, stockier man who looked as though he was carrying some weight. She could see a few inches of knife blade glinting in his hand.

  Lexi noticed that he’d stopped chewing, and it now appeared as though he was the one who had frozen, staring at her. She briefly wondered what was happening. But she wasn’t going to ask any more questions.

  She took her chance.

  Eighty-Seven

  I’m only two minutes away. I can see the building where Iris Lockhart lives. An eight-storey monolith of flats, built in a giant U-shape around three sides of a square that’s completed by a separate, lower block of four-storeys. There are stairwells and walkways attached at the ends for getting up and down. It looks like the kind of place you’d shoot an urban action movie, where someone like me would run and jump and climb between the structures like David Belle in District 13, doubling for heroine or villainess. Leaping gaps in a harness and wires, a crash pad of cardboard boxes below, not that I’d need them.

  That gives me an idea of what to do next. How to make sure I draw Lockhart out. And how to get away afterwards.

  Now I just need to find flat eighty-two. I hope Iris is in; I don’t want to be wasting my time here. Having to come back again tomorrow. Then I think about the chances of her being at home and smile to myself.

  It’s ten thirty at night. She’s a seventy-year-old widow.

  Where else is she going to be?