‘Sounds great,’ Jane said, following Sue through to the kitchen. The children’s drawings and attempts at pottery still adorned almost every surface and the rustic walls gave the room a warm glow, but the door to the utility room was closed, two pieces of red tape criss-crossing the entrance. Jane was pleased to see that whoever had sealed the room had used plain tape, rather than the bright-yellow crime-scene stuff. Neither Sue nor the boys needed to see that every day.
Sue put a jug of lemonade, two glasses and a packet of biscuits on a tray. ‘I’ve got a table set up in the back garden,’ she said, picking up the tray and nodding for Jane to follow her. Sue walked back into the hallway, passed the front door and went into the lounge. It was an open-plan lounge and dining room, the table set up at the far end next to French doors that led into the garden. ‘Have to go the long way round, I’m afraid.’
‘Okay.’ Jane felt as if her inter-personal skills had abandoned her. She was so desperate to get the ‘work stuff’ done that she was finding small talk impossible.
‘So, where are we?’ Sue asked, walking out into the garden and sitting down at a small mosaic-topped table. She balanced the tray in the centre.
Jane walked over and sat down opposite her, taking her notepad out of her handbag. There was no easy way to say it. ‘The blood results are back. It’s Mark’s.’
‘I guessed as much,’ Sue said, leaning forward and stirring the lemonade with a long-handled wooden spoon.
‘As you know, there were extensive blood-spatters in the utility room, which had been wiped down.’ An image of the utility room bathed in the harsh spotlights settled in her mind. ‘The cleaning fluids used match the products that SOCO found in the utility room, in the cupboard under the sink,’ she said, turning the page on her notepad, keeping her eyes on the paper in front of her. ‘No other fingerprints were found. However, SOCO did find a small amount of white residue on the trim of the back door. I’ve just had confirmation that the substance is consistent with the powder used in surgical gloves.’
‘Are you saying someone came into my home . . . someone attacked my husband?’ Sue’s voice stuttered to a stop.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Jane said, reaching over and taking her hand. ‘That’s the premise we’re working on.’
‘But why? Who would do this?’ Sue said, shaking her head, her hands gripping the edge of the table. ‘Who would—?’ She stopped. ‘I . . . ’
‘What is it, Sue?’ Jane asked, trying to catch her eye. ‘Sue?’
Sue shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I just can’t believe this is happening.’
‘Sue, I need your help.’
Sue looked over her shoulder and up at the window of the bedroom where her sons were playing computer games. When she turned back, Jane could see that her face had paled. Without looking Jane in the eye, she said, ‘Ask me anything.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
27th April – Sunday
Lockyer dropped onto the sofa and turned on the television. Both sash windows were wide open, but there was no breeze to shift the heat in his lounge. The back of his shirt was soaked in sweat from his journey home in the car. He and Bobby had sat in the back garden at Cliffview and played ‘Happy Families’. He had spent most of the game trying to engineer the deal so that Bobby would get his favourites, Mr Pots the painter and Mr Pint the Milkman, together with their respective families.
He rested his head back and looked up at the ceiling. Cobwebs clung to the cornices. He made a mental note, not for the first time, to get a duster that extended. He closed his eyes. Bobby would be forty-six this year. Time was meant to heal, but Lockyer felt just as angry today as he had five years ago when he drove to Manchester to meet his brother for the first time. The hardest part was having no one to blame. His parents were dead and so was Aunt Nancy, Bobby’s guardian. Lockyer would never understand how they could separate two brothers. How could they lie to them both? But then that was part of it. No one had needed to lie to Bobby. His autism shut him off from the world to a certain extent. He remembered faces, footfalls, smells; he didn’t remember hurt or rejection. Lockyer tipped his head forward and looked at his watch. Was it too early to have a beer?
He stood up and walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. The blast of cold air as he opened the fridge felt good. He debated between a French stubby beer and a larger bottle of Corona. Bigger was better. He took out the bottle, the glass cold against his palm, and reached into the kitchen drawer for the opener, flicking the lid onto the counter. He took a long swig and let out a satisfied groan. Just what he needed to smooth out the edges. He slopped back into the lounge, his flip-flops smacking his heels with each step. He could hear raised voices. A young couple were having a row on the pavement outside. He wandered over to the windows, sipping his beer as he listened to snatches of dialogue. He turned away, pained by another wound in his life that wouldn’t heal.
It should be them on the street arguing, bickering like couples do once the honeymoon period is over. They never had the chance to get that far. Sometimes he could still feel her. Late at night, when he couldn’t sleep, he would come into the kitchen and stand at the sink staring out at his tiny concrete garden. He would hear her approach, her feet soft on the tiled floor. She would put her arms around his waist and rest her cheek against his back. He shook his head and downed the rest of his beer. He didn’t want to think about her, but she was always there, a shadow in his peripheral vision that disappeared if he tried to look at her. He reached for the remote and turned off the television. He was going to have to go for a run, try and sweat out this funk.
He had been home all weekend. It felt wrong, but Roger had made it clear that Lockyer only had three options: in his office going over cold-cases, in therapy or at home. Jane’s little chat with their SIO hadn’t helped, either. Lockyer needed the Hungerford case. He needed the focus, but Jane had seen to it that he was shut out. What he couldn’t figure out was why. Roger had told him he wasn’t authorized to be ‘on-scene’ until he was satisfied that Lockyer could be trusted. The more he thought about it, the more angry Lockyer felt. Without the job he was blind, bumbling about, trying to function like normal people. His years with the Met had worked the ‘normal’ right out of him. His non-work friends thought his job began and ended with a body, fascinated by the gory details, but there was so much more to it than that. Every death was like a pebble dropped into a lake with no shoreline. The ripples kept going.
His phone was ringing in the kitchen. He walked through, picked it up and glanced at the screen. It was Megan.
‘Hi, honey,’ he said, turning and leaning his back against the kitchen counter. He ran his free hand through his hair. It was more out of control than usual, standing up at odd angles. If he didn’t get it cut soon, either the fashion police would arrest him or Animal Control would mistake him for a Yeti and he’d end up in a science lab being prodded by people in white coats. The thought of white coats made him smile. How apt, given his current situation.
‘Hey, Dad. How’s it going?’ Her voice had a sing-song quality that always reminded him of when she was younger. He was still trying to get to grips with recognizing her as an adult. Her nineteenth birthday had been at the beginning of the month. ‘You’re at home this weekend, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I’m home.’ His daughter knew that he was being reintroduced to his caseload gradually, but he had told her that it was his choice. She didn’t need to know everything. She would just worry and would be over here every five minutes to check he was all right.
‘Your garden could do with some TLC,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you go down to B&Q and get some pots, or whatever, cheer the place up?’ The thought of going to a garden centre filled him with more dread than a hundred cold-cases. ‘I could come over and give you a hand, if you like? I don’t have much planned this afternoon. Was just gonna sit in the garden and soak up some rays.’
‘Thanks, Megs, but I’ll be fine. I’m just heading out for a ru
n, and then I’ve got some work to do.’
‘Okay. Are you around tomorrow at all?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got a study week, so I thought I’d go and see Uncle Bobby. We could go together. If you fancy it?’
Under normal circumstances Monday mornings were hectic. But all Lockyer had to look forward to was more cold-cases and a counselling session in the afternoon. No contest. ‘That sounds great,’ he said and meant it. After the Stevens case he had promised himself that Bobby and Megan would be a priority in his life. He had seen Bobby every other day, if not every day, and Megan had stayed over on a number of occasions now. He had even shifted his home office around and had bought a single bed off eBay. ‘Why don’t you come over tonight, if you’re free? We can watch a movie – you can stay over.’ He waited for her to reply, hoping for a yes.
‘Okay, yeah. That sounds nice,’ she said.
‘Great. We can have a takeaway tonight, and I’ll cook us up something special for brekkie before we head over to Bobby’s in the morning?’ He turned and opened the cupboards above the counter. ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve got Hollandaise in here somewhere.’ His eye settled on the posh-looking jar. A leftover from the Christmas hamper that Roger and his wife had given him. ‘Yep. Got it. I’ll get some muffins on my run, and I’ll do us eggs Benedict. How does that sound?’
‘Sounds good to me. My favourite,’ she said, making a smacking sound with her lips. ‘I’ve got some bits and bobs to finish off at home tonight, so is about eight okay?’
‘Absolutely. See you later on, hon.’ He hung up the phone after they had said their goodbyes. He had something to look forward to. He walked through to his bedroom and over to the chest of drawers. He took out some shorts and a T-shirt and changed. Within five minutes he was pulling on his trainers at the front door. A run would help. He needed to clear his head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
28th April – Monday
Jane stood at the water cooler and filled a small plastic cup, its ridged edges slippery beneath her fingers. She drank it in one, refilled it and walked back across the office to her desk, passing Franks and Whitemore. She nodded to Whitemore. He returned the gesture before refocusing on his computer screen. He was new to the team. New to Jane. He had transferred from the flying squad, a division of Serious and Organized Crime. She didn’t know much about him or his background, but so far she was impressed. He was thorough and enthusiastic.
She turned and looked over her shoulder as Franks’s throaty laugh echoed around the office. He was talking on the phone, his eyes shining with tears. If there was humour to be found – however bleak the situation – Franks found it. Lockyer had tried and failed to rein him in, and for that Jane was grateful. Office banter made a difficult day bearable. Like Whitemore, Franks had moved over to the murder squad from S&OC – Drugs division. It was a well-respected unit, despite the fact that they were fighting a losing battle with south-east London’s drug problem. As soon as one faction was shut down, another four popped up to replace it. Franks turned and saw Jane looking at him. He made a funny face and winked at her. She returned his goofy grin before sitting down, the partition around her desk cutting her off from the rest of the office.
She was knackered, after spending most of the previous night going over her conversation with Sue. They had talked for two hours straight. To anyone else, Sue would have appeared to have been candid about her marriage to Mark, but Jane had known the couple for a long time and a doubt was nagging at her, blurring her focus. It was like a whisper lost at the end of every sentence, a truth not quite told. It didn’t make any sense. Sue was an ex-copper. What was she holding back? Jane sighed and looked down at her scribbled notes. She picked up one of the pages of A4 and started reading. Sue and Mark had been to see a counsellor in the first year after his retirement. They had been told to work on their communication, as a couple and as a family, and Mark had been advised to get a hobby. It sounded laughable to Jane: quit the force, start knitting and all your worries would be over. She knew it was never that simple for anyone, especially someone in Mark’s position. A bit of woodwork or gardening wasn’t going to fill his days in the same way the job had done. Jane dreaded the day she retired. She had no idea how she would function without the routine. She pushed her fringe off her forehead.
From what Sue had said, it sounded to Jane as if Mark had suffered a nervous breakdown: days in bed, not eating, his moods swinging between sullen and aggressive. Sue believed the counselling had helped, but Jane wondered if Mark felt the same. She picked up her pen and circled the paragraph and wrote ‘f/u’ in the margin next to it – ‘follow up’. It would be difficult. The counsellor wouldn’t hand over their notes, or discuss Mark and Sue’s sessions, without a subpoena. Jane doubted, given what she had so far, that she would get one.
She logged into her computer and checked through her emails. Her eyes kept drifting down to the papers spread out on her desk; a name that Sue had mentioned kept catching her eye.
Amelia Reynolds.
It was one of the cases Jane had highlighted last week: a possible stress trigger for her all-but-abandoned suicide theory. She tapped her pen on her teeth and looked up at the ceiling tiles. Amelia was the daughter of a friend of Mark and Sue’s. In fact, now that she thought about it, Mark must have fought pretty hard to get the case, given his personal involvement. The case had never been solved, and Mark, according to Sue, had never forgiven himself. Sue said he had nightmares about it at the time.
It wasn’t unusual for a case to impact on the subconscious. She had had her own share of sleepless nights about the Stevens case. She still did. The dream was the same every time. She would wake up in bed, frightened. She would try to turn on her beside light, but it wouldn’t come on. She would stumble around the house, trying every light switch, without success. She would get to the kitchen and open the fridge. The internal light would come on and she would feel a wave of relief until she realized what she was looking at. Every shelf was empty, but in the door, standing alone, was a baby’s bottle filled to the brim with blood. She shuddered. Even thinking about it now made her mouth go dry. She forced herself to keep reading. She picked up a red pen and circled the paragraph about the Reynolds case and put ‘CH’ in the margin. She wanted to review the full case history.
She spent the next hour going through her scribbled notes, circling each detail and giving it a letter or shorthand note. Either Chris or Aaron could type them up and add the follow-ups to the Action list. Both were due in at five. By the time she finished it was already three o’clock. Whitemore had gone and Franks looked as if he was getting ready to do the same. She craned her neck to look over at the briefing room. DI Ayres’s team had been called in an hour ago to deal with a suspicious death near Brockwell Park. Their voices were muffled by the wall of glass separating them from the rest of the open-plan office. They would be here for the rest of the day. So would she, at this rate. She had been due a day off. No such luck.
Penny had dropped off a list of Maggie’s tutors and classmates, each with a brief biography. Jane took the folder out of her in-tray and scanned through the names, flicking through to Lebowski. The information on him was a bit more extensive, at Jane’s request. She was loath to trust the call-in’s suggestion that he and Maggie were having a relationship but, with the post-mortem evidence, it was her best lead. The first caller hadn’t given a name. The second, an Oliver Hanson, had given a partial address, but had then been cut off. He was due to call back. She clicked into her computer and added Hanson’s name to the Action list. He would need to be contacted and his information verified.
She read through the basics. Victor Lebowski was thirty-nine years old, Caucasian, five foot eleven. Divorced, living alone in a flat in Greenwich – a flat he owned. His ex-wife, Emily Loxton, lived in Dulwich Village with their two children, Poppy and Petra, seven and ten years old respectively. He had been a tutor at Greenwich University for nine years. He taught psychology to undergraduates, but also cognitive and
applied psychology to the MA and PhD students. There were no records of any complaints about him by either students or other tutors. Jane was interviewing the head of psychology in the morning. It would be interesting to see how Lebowski was viewed by the teaching staff. From his employment records, he appeared to be a model teacher. The achievement statistics relating to his classes were above average. He was in charge of three PhD students, and currently had ten on the Masters course. He didn’t have a criminal record. He had never been cautioned. As far as Jane could tell, he hadn’t so much as got a speeding ticket. A model citizen. No one was that good, were they? She was a detective sergeant, but she still had three points on her licence for speeding.
The ticking of the clock in the middle of the office seemed to increase in volume with each hour that passed. She pored over the details of students and teachers alike. There were no red flags. On paper they all looked the same. Normal, law-abiding individuals. No one who fitted the profile of Maggie’s killer. Phil had stressed that the suspect was motivated and organized. There was a suggestion that this was an ongoing pattern of behaviour. Not necessarily that other girls had been murdered, but that the suspect – whoever he was – would have a pattern of obsessive behaviour in their past. But none of the names on Jane’s list stood out. The phone on her desk started to ring. She picked up the handset. ‘Detective Bennett,’ she said, looking over at the clock. It was six-thirty. She had forgotten to call home.
‘Good afternoon, Detective. I’m sorry to trouble you. I had intended to leave a message, but the switchboard operator said you were in the office, so I asked to be put through. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’ His voice was soft. There was a crackle at the end of his sentences, like waves kicking up pebbles on a beach. It was soothing.
No Place to Die Page 10