‘You and me both,’ he said, leaving the room.
The doorbell chimed. ‘Pizza’s here,’ she called. ‘Can you bring through a couple of plates and grab the kitchen roll. It’s next to the kettle.’
‘Got it.’
Jane picked up her purse and went to the door. She paid the delivery man and carried the large pizza box back into the lounge. The smell made her stomach rumble. Most days she wanted to forget about work, but not tonight. Tonight she needed it.
Jane handed Lockyer another piece of kitchen roll. ‘You missed a bit,’ she said, pointing to his chin. She picked up the pizza box. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘Sounds good,’ he said, wiping his mouth. He looked at his watch. ‘And we need to get on and talk about the case, if you still want to? I need to head off in about an hour.’
‘No problem,’ she said, pulling open the lounge door with her foot. ‘It won’t take long.’ She padded into the kitchen, put the pizza box in with the cardboard recycling and washed her hands. There was so much to tell him that she wasn’t sure where to start. She flicked on the kettle and took two mugs out of the cupboard. As she made their coffees she tried to give some order to her thoughts. She walked back through to the lounge carrying their drinks. She handed Lockyer his, before sitting down herself, cradling the hot mug in two hands.
‘Come on then,’ Lockyer said. ‘Let’s have it.’
She looked up at the ceiling. ‘Bear with me if this is a bit jumbled. I’m knackered.’
‘Who isn’t?’ he asked, taking a sip of his coffee. He rested his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Chris passed on some information about Mark today that isn’t great,’ she said. ‘It looks like he was cold-calling Lebowski.’ Lockyer opened his eyes, tilted his head and looked at her. ‘I know, I know,’ she said, ‘but Chris checked the phone records and there are over two hundred calls to Lebowski.’
Lockyer put his hand over his eyes. ‘You’re right. That’s not great.’
‘There’s also a possibility that he passed on Lebowski’s contact info to someone else,’ she said. ‘Gary Reynolds – Amelia Reynolds’s father. Mark stopped calling Lebowski three years ago, but then Gary Reynolds seems to have taken over in the last two years, most notably in the last twelve months.’
‘What the hell was Mark thinking?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘That’s part of the problem.’
‘To say the least,’ Lockyer replied, opening his eyes long enough to take a drink of his coffee. ‘Lebowski hasn’t said anything about this?’
‘No,’ Jane said. ‘There’s no way he would have brought it up, because it would have meant talking about Amelia.’
‘What have you got on Gary Reynolds?’
‘I did a quick search before I left the office. It looks like he and his wife split up after Amelia was killed. He changed jobs, moved to north London, Islington. I think he might have a drinking problem. He’s been arrested for drunk-and-disorderly twice in the last six months. No charges, though.’
‘Are you going to speak to him?’ Lockyer asked.
‘Well, that’s the thing. Everything I have on Gary Reynolds relates to the death of his daughter and the investigation. Roger said there can’t be any crossover between the Reynolds and Hungerford cases. If Whitaker found out, she could revert to the original complaint about Mark: claim that Lewisham nick has it in for Lebowski.’ She leaned forward and put her mug on the coffee table. She pressed her fingers to her eyelids.
‘He’s right,’ Lockyer said.
‘I know,’ she said, looking at him. ‘The link is weak at the moment, but I’m hoping to change that.’
‘How?’
‘There are a couple of possibilities,’ she said. ‘One of the callers to the incident number, naming Lebowski as Maggie’s boyfriend, gave a bogus name and address. I’ve asked Chris to find out if we can get a trace on the number.’
‘You think it might be Reynolds?’ Lockyer asked, resuming his position with his head resting on the back of the sofa, his eyes closed.
‘If he believes Lebowski was involved in his daughter’s death, but got away with it, then he wouldn’t want that to happen again, would he?’ Jane said. ‘Whatever the reason, if it was Gary, then I have a direct link to the Hungerford case. Roger would have to let me question the guy. It wouldn’t be anything to do with the Amelia Reynolds case, not initially anyway. I would simply be following up on a lead. The fact that the two would inevitably overlap is happenstance.’
Lockyer started laughing. ‘You’ve put some thought into that excuse. Nice.’
‘I’ve not thought about much else,’ she said. Which might explain how she had missed her father having a TIA. ‘But that works, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, kind of. But, Jane,’ he said, covering his eyes with both hands now, ‘if Gary Reynolds has contact info for Lebowski, knows where he works, et cetera, why make phone calls? If I thought the man who murdered my daughter was walking around, breathing free air, I think I’d do more than call him.’
‘I thought the same,’ she said, ‘I can’t explain that.’
‘Mmm, okay,’ Lockyer said. ‘What else?’
‘Mort,’ she said, knowing the reaction she was going to get.
He threw his hands up in the air. ‘Jane, do you not think you’ve got quite enough to be getting on with. What’s the obsession with Mort?’
‘It’s not an obsession,’ she said, unable to hide her irritation. ‘I’m looking at as many angles as I can find. There has to be a way in somewhere. For Lebowski to come away this clean, it’s feasible that he had help.’
‘Are you still on the weird-experiments vein?’
Jane took a deep breath. She hated not having the answers. ‘Yes and no. Do you remember what Mort said when we met him?’
‘I’ve tried to block it out,’ he said. ‘Which part?’
‘Him wanting to talk to us about Maggie’s death . . . that it would help his research,’ she said, trying to gauge his reaction. When he nodded she kept going. ‘I’ve asked Mort to come into the station for a follow-up interview.’
‘Go on,’ Lockyer said, his eyebrows inching higher as she spoke.
‘I never asked him about his thesis. It never occurred to me to ask Lebowski, either.’
‘Right,’ he said.
‘Mort claims not to know Lebowski – no more than in passing. What if that’s not true?’
Lockyer screwed up his face. ‘Hang on, hang on. Are you suggesting this is some kind of master-and-apprentice thing?’
Jane’s shoulders sagged as he spoke. It sounded ludicrous. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Shit, I don’t know.’ Every time she felt she was making some headway, it felt as if reality slapped her back down again. ‘There’s something about Mort. I just want to see if I can rattle him. If there’s nothing, then there’s nothing. I’ll drop it, I swear . . . But I need to speak to him before I can.’
‘Okay,’ Lockyer said, holding his hands up. ‘No harm in trying. I assume you want me there with you?’
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ she said. ‘He’s coming in tomorrow morning.’
‘Saturday?’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘You’re keen.’
‘I offered him an appointment on Monday, but he said he wanted to get it over with,’ she replied. Lockyer nodded, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Do you think I’m nuts?’ she asked.
‘That’s a leading question,’ Lockyer said, laughing. ‘I’m not prepared to answer that at this time. However, I will help you question Mort. I have one request.’
‘What?’ she asked.
‘I want to be there when you tell Roger.’
‘I’m glad this amuses you.’
‘Something has to,’ Lockyer said. ‘Given the amount of shit your case is buried under at the moment, I think hysteria is the only option.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
3rd May – Saturday
; Lockyer could see that Terry Mort, despite his desire to ‘get it over with’, was none too pleased with being called into the police station. At the university he had been confident, arrogant and psychotic. Now, sitting here in the interview room, he looked nervous, younger somehow. ‘DS Bennett will be along in a moment, Terry,’ he said. ‘She was just getting some files together.’
‘I don’t have a lot of time, Detective,’ Mort said, taking a mobile phone out of his trouser pocket. ‘Every day is a work day when you’re attempting my kind of research.’
‘You’ll need to switch that off in here, I’m afraid,’ Lockyer replied, shrugging his shoulders in a ‘not my rules’ kind of way.
‘There’s a common misconception about students at my level. I might have six years to complete my PhD, but I would wager I work more hours in a day than you do, Detective,’ Mort said, as if Lockyer hadn’t spoken.
‘I’ve no doubt.’ Lockyer tried to look impressed. His desire to hurt Mort was still strong, but Jane had asked for his help, which meant that he would try, if it was possible, to ingratiate himself with the wacko. ‘I can’t imagine studying for that long. How do you maintain focus?’
‘It can be difficult for some people. I have a goal – a purpose, Detective. Research takes time and patience. If breakthroughs are going to be made, someone has to have the resolve to stick with it, make sacrifices. I don’t see my work as studying. I see it as discovery. The university is a pre-school: kids wandering around stoned or hungover. I only foster the association because it benefits my research. Besides, I wouldn’t get funding without the board backing me.’
‘So who pays for your PhD then?’ Lockyer asked.
‘I do, in part, but the extent of my work requires further funding. I’m an investment, if you like. To be published – to become a leading voice in a certain field – you have to know the right people. Fortunately for me, Detective, I do.’
There was no doubt the guy was arrogant. He talked as if he was single-handedly curing cancer. ‘My ex-wife had cognitive behavioural therapy once,’ Lockyer said, in order to keep the conversation going.
‘CBT is an interesting field and has its uses. My work is a touch more complex,’ Mort said. ‘Did it work?’
Lockyer could tell Mort wasn’t really interested, but the fact that he had bothered to ask meant they were forming a rapport, of sorts. ‘I think so. She suffered from anxiety attacks when she was driving. A fear of crashing, I assume?’
‘It could be,’ Mort said, stroking his chin as if he was Freud. ‘Some practitioners are better than others. I would have said it went deeper than a simple fear of crashing. We are predisposed to fear injury or death. It is rarely the root of such problems. If I had been treating her, I would have been interested to know if there was a particular trigger.’
‘I don’t know about that, I’m afraid,’ Lockyer said. ‘We were separated when it happened.’
‘Interesting,’ Mort replied, smiling. ‘Separation anxiety is a classic disorder.’
Lockyer laughed. ‘I don’t think I’ll mention that to her,’ he said. ‘Another thing she can blame on me.’
‘Indeed. Relationships can be very trying,’ Mort said, rolling his eyes.
‘Women.’ Lockyer said. ‘More trouble than they’re worth sometimes.’ He was surprised the ‘boys together’ tactic was working so well. It was clear Mort was beginning to relax, get comfortable with his surroundings. In Mort’s mind, Lockyer was on his side, and that is exactly how Lockyer wanted him to feel: safe and secure. There was a knock on the door. ‘That’ll be DS Bennett,’ he said, standing and opening the door for Jane.
‘Sorry I’m late, Terry,’ Jane said, walking in and taking Lockyer’s seat. He looked at Mort and rolled his eyes as he took the chair next to her. Mimicking body-language was the quickest way to put someone at ease and, as with their conversation, it was working. Mort smirked.
‘Not at all, Miss Bennett,’ Mort said, looking at Lockyer rather than Jane.
‘Great. Shall we get started?’ she said.
‘By all means,’ Mort replied, folding his arms. ‘Fire away.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘This might sound a bit odd, but can you tell me the subject of your thesis?’
Mort was looking at Jane. Lockyer was looking at Mort, studying his reactions.
Mort shrugged. ‘The converse relationship between fears and phobias.’
‘Ooo,’ Lockyer said, tapping his head. ‘Sorry to appear dense, but . . . what?’
‘Another common misconception, Detective,’ Mort said, as if he were talking to a child. ‘Most people believe fears and phobias are the same thing when, in fact, they are anything but.’
Lockyer looked at Jane. ‘I don’t know about you, DS Bennett, but I could do with a lesson in layman’s terms, couldn’t you?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, Terry,’ she said, taking out her notepad.
‘I really don’t have time for this,’ Mort said. Lockyer sat back in his chair. Jane did the same. They had run through a mock-interview at her house after their pizza. This was all part of the plan: unsettle and agitate Mort and see what transpired. He looked from one to the other and then at the table. ‘Okay, fine. A fear is based on something rational – an individual might be fearful of flying, spiders or heights. Yes?’ Lockyer nodded. ‘These fears are based on rational deductions. If a plane crashes, there’s a high probability you will die. The bites of some spiders can kill. If you fall from a great height, again you can injure yourself or die.’
‘Right,’ Lockyer said, watching as Jane noted down what Mort was saying.
‘A phobia is by no means rational. It cannot be explained or controlled. People can be phobic of the bows of ships, birds, outdoor spaces or crowds, men, flowers, numbers . . . Need I go on?’
‘Why would someone be frightened of numbers?’ Lockyer asked. He couldn’t deny he was curious. He felt Jane looking at him. This wasn’t part of her plan.
‘Your question, as banal as it sounds, Detective, is the basis of my study. There is no reason . . . I’m sorry, I mean there is no rational reason for an individual to fear numbers. In layman’s terms, as you put it, fear is rational. A phobia isn’t.’
‘How do you study either?’ Jane asked.
‘That, Detective, is part of my study and not something I am prepared to go into detail about . . . with you.’
‘Why is that?’ Lockyer asked.
‘My research and findings have long-term scientific importance in the world of psychology and cognitive therapy, Detective. I am already in talks with several parties about a publishing deal for both my research and the history behind it. Competitors would love to poach my work. I don’t intend to let that happen.’
‘Have you ever heard of taphophobia?’ Jane asked. Mort opened his mouth and shut it several times like a stranded fish. Lockyer had to give her credit. Her hunch about Mort was spot on; he was hiding something. ‘Am I saying that right?’ she asked, looking down at her notepad. ‘It’s the fear of being buried alive, isn’t it?’ Mort’s expression remained static. ‘I only ask because a colleague mentioned the origin of the word to me. It comes from the Greek, taphos. It means tomb.’
‘Terry,’ Lockyer said, sitting forward. ‘You still with us?’
Mort’s eyes seemed to clear. He tipped his chin up and said, ‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’
‘Is it part of your study?’
‘No,’ he said, without hesitation.
‘That’s a shame,’ Jane said, pursing her lips. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help with the inquiry into Maggie’s death. I guess I was hoping,’ she said, sucking air through her teeth, ‘that we might be able to help each other. After all, you are the expert.’
Mort sat back and puffed out his chest. Despite some obvious effort, he was unable to hide his glee. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. Lockyer resisted the urge to shake his head. The guy was a preening idiot. One hint of praise and he was on his back, as it were
. ‘What happened to Maggie was appalling,’ Mort said. ‘However, I won’t deny that the circumstances of her death do interest me and would, given enough information, make a significant addition to my thesis. With that in mind, I would be willing to assist you, where I can.’
‘That would be great,’ Jane said, nodding. ‘Of course, the investigation would have to be concluded before I could talk to you at length. I can speak to the powers that be and see if you would be able to have access to the file, even.’
‘What do you need to know?’ Mort asked. He was fidgeting in his chair with what appeared to be excitement.
‘Well,’ Jane said. ‘Is there anywhere I could find research on the subject, to add to the file? I’ve had a look on the Internet – Wikipedia and such – but there’s not a lot there . . . just basic definitions and that kind of thing.’
Mort crossed his legs and unfolded his arms. He cleared his throat. Lockyer could swear he could hear the cogs in the guy’s brain turning. ‘Well, I think I remember reading a paper on it a few years ago, when I was completing my Masters. I could dig it out for you, I suppose, if you could bear with me?’
‘Not a problem,’ Jane said. ‘In the meantime, what can you tell me about the phobia itself?’
‘Taphophobia dates back to the 1800s. At the time it was not the irrational fear that it is now, as there were numerous cases of accidental live burial. People had coffins fitted out with air-hoses, glass lids or bells attached. The practice led to familiar phrases such as “saved by the bell” and “dead ringer”.’
‘Really?’ Lockyer said. ‘I always thought that bells on coffins was an urban myth.’ For someone who claimed not to be studying the subject, Mort’s recall was impressive.
‘No, Detective. There was a genuine demand for safety coffins among those with the means to pay for them. Anyway, I digress,’ Mort said, as if he was lecturing a room full of students. ‘I’m not surprised you had trouble locating much information. There has been no significant research into the matter.’
‘Other than the piece you read?’ Jane said.
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