‘What did you talk about?’
‘About us – the relationship. She was feeling a bit trapped, I guess. I was ready for more. She wasn’t.’
‘Go on,’ Jane said.
‘She said we’d “see how things go”, and we kissed and made up,’ Victor said, his tone angry, bitter.
‘What happened then?’ she asked, knowing before he opened his mouth what he was going to say.
‘God,’ he said, rubbing his hand over his head. ‘We had sex. We had dinner. We had an argument. We had sex on the table, if you must know. We broke it, as a matter of fact.’ He looked angry. He held the fury in his eyes, like a wasp trapped behind glass.
‘Would you like to take a break?’ she asked, stunned by the words even as they came out of her mouth. What was she doing? He was rattled. If he was holding anything back, now was the time to push for the truth, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
‘No,’ he said, waving away her question. ‘I need to tell you about Terry. I don’t care what you think of me, what you do to me. But if anyone was capable of killing her, it was Terry.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
29th April – Tuesday
‘You can still talk to me, Jane,’ Lockyer said as he handed over her drink. She looked nervous.
‘Sorry, sir. It’s just been one of those days.’ She turned her glass of wine around in her hands, the condensation running down the stem.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s try something a bit different.’ She looked up from her drink. If he was going to say what he wanted to say, then he would have to find a way of making her ease up, if only for an hour or so. ‘No more “sir”. It’s just “Mike”, for tonight. And you’re “Jane”. We’re colleagues and,’ he paused, not knowing if he should continue, ‘friends?’ It was more of a statement than a question. He hated to admit it, but without Jane by his side he felt almost lost. He knew he relied on her. He just hadn’t realized, until now, how much. He sat down and took a swig of his pint.
‘I can’t stay long,’ she said, taking a sip of her drink. ‘My mother has Peter at her house. He’s got school in the morning. I don’t want to be late picking him up.’
She wasn’t going to make this easy for him. He looked around the pub at the other couples sitting at mahogany tables, chatting, talking about their days. Some would be work-friends, some would be friend-friends. Which was Jane, and was this ‘chat’ even a good idea? Someone behind the bar turned up the volume of the music and the lights dimmed to indicate the change from daytime drinking to evening. Lockyer was happy with that. He could do without a spotlight on him for the apology speech. He took a deep breath. ‘I want to apologize again for my outburst this morning,’ he said, feeling like a politician preparing to sidestep the blame. ‘It was unnecessary, unprofessional and, above all, unfair on you.’ He watched as Jane opened and closed her mouth. He wasn’t known for his apologies. ‘We need to clear the air. The Stevens case was difficult for everyone.’
She shook her head. ‘Every case is difficult in its own way,’ she said. ‘The Stevens case was no different.’
‘That’s not true, Jane, and you know it.’ His tone was more forceful than he intended and he noticed her sit back in her chair. This wasn’t going well. She wasn’t even looking at him.
‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked. She seemed to hesitate, as if she had more to say. He guessed she was going to add ‘sir’ or ‘Mike’, but had resisted both. How was he supposed to talk to her, if she couldn’t even say his name? He knew there was some damage to repair, but he had not realized things had drifted this far – that it was this bad.
‘I want you to talk to me, Jane. I want you to say what’s on your mind. You’ve never had trouble doing that in the past. Sure, you tend to tell me what I want to hear, before you tell me what you really think. But you’ve never held back, as far as I’m aware. Am I wrong?’
‘No, you’re not wrong.’ She hesitated again. ‘It always takes the team a few weeks to settle, to move on from a traumatic case.’
‘Yes, Jane,’ he said, draining half of his pint, ‘I know that and you know that, but we’re not talking about the team. The team will be fine as long as I’m fine, and I’ll be fine as long as you’re fine.’ He wanted to clap his hands over his mouth. That was not what he had planned to say. His speech, which he had worked on in his mind, was all generalizations about ‘working together’, ‘moving on’, ‘putting it behind us’ and other pointless euphemisms.
‘You’re worried about me?’ Her voice went up, her surprise evident.
‘I guess,’ he said, mining his brain for the right words. ‘I’m worried about you, but I’m more worried about us.’ He felt his cheeks heating. This was a nightmare. This wasn’t even why he had asked her for a drink. He just wanted to get back to work and have Jane in her usual position, at his side, her support unfailing. This was all emotional mumbo-jumbo. She looked as incredulous as he felt. ‘I don’t mean us as in “us”,’ he said, rushing to justify himself. ‘I mean the team. The unit. Strong leadership is all about teamwork and building working partnerships that . . . ’ He ran out of words. He didn’t know where he was going with that sentence. ‘I lied. I misled you and I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.’ He drained the rest of his pint. ‘Another?’ He was up and out of his chair before she could reply. He had to resist the urge to run screaming to the bar.
He joined the back of a group crowded around the bar. They didn’t appear to be waiting for drinks, but it would give him some time to get himself together. He glanced over his shoulder. Jane was staring at him, her empty wine glass still in her hand. He cringed as he did a ridiculous mime of getting her a fresh glass. To say he was out of his comfort zone was an understatement. Whatever this zone was, he never wanted to be in it again, ever. A girl in front of him turned and looked at him.
‘We’re not waiting,’ she said. Her eyes travelled up and down his body until they rested on his hair. ‘Go ahead.’
He mumbled his thanks and moved around the group, trying to flatten the piece of hair that was obviously sticking up. Without thinking, he rested his elbows on the long metallic bar. He could smell the alcohol as a long puddle of beer soaked into his shirt. ‘Great,’ he said, lifting his arms as he examined the large, dark patches inching up his sleeves.
‘What can I get you?’ the barman asked, using a ratty-looking cloth to wipe the bar as he spoke.
‘Bit late for that,’ Lockyer said, displaying his damp elbows.
‘Yeah, mate. We’re short-staffed tonight. Only me on,’ he said, without a hint of apology. ‘What can I get you?’
Lockyer could feel the anger rising up his throat. He opened his mouth, but closed it again. He shook his head. Starting a fight with a complete stranger wasn’t going to help. It might make him feel better for a second or two, but then he would be back where he started. ‘Glass of Sauvignon blanc and a pint of Thatchers,’ he said.
‘Small or large?’
‘Small,’ he said, with as much venom as he could muster.
As the barman poured the drinks, Lockyer glanced back at Jane. She was texting, running her free hand through her fringe. She looked tired. He was so preoccupied with getting things sorted that he hadn’t even noticed how strung-out she was. He remembered his thoughts over the weekend. She had brought this on herself – that’s what he had been telling himself, and telling her. He was pushing all the blame onto her. ‘Very gallant,’ he said.
‘Say what, mate?’ the barman said, his eyebrows bunched together.
‘Nothing,’ Lockyer replied, shaking his head.
‘That’ll be nine-forty.’
He took a tenner from his wallet and handed it over. ‘Keep the change. I’m sure you’ve got a tips jar for the excellent service.’ His sarcasm missed the mark. The barman had already wandered off. Lockyer was invisible to him now. ‘Thanks,’ he went on, turning and walking back over to the table.
‘Thanks,’ Jane said, as he
handed her the wine.
‘No worries,’ he replied, chinking his pint with her glass. ‘So,’ he said, taking a hurried sip, ‘where were we?’
‘You were worried about me,’ she said, a sudden smile appearing on her face.
In that one gesture he felt all the tension leave his shoulders. She was taking the piss out of him. He could have kissed her. It was familiar – this was the kind of talking he could handle. ‘Yes,’ he said, in a mock-serious tone. ‘Very. You look, if you don’t mind me saying, like shit.’
Jane laughed. She threw her head back and really laughed. Lockyer joined her, relieved to feel normal again, to be rid of whatever phantom had taken over his brain for the last half-hour. ‘So, what’s up?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ she said, with a sigh, ‘I’ve had a pretty crappy day. My boss called me in this morning and tore several strips off me. I’ve got nowhere with a case involving a friend, and I’m going round in circles with a case involving a stranger.’
‘So, all in all, not good,’ he said, picking up his beer mat and peeling back the edges.
‘That’s about right,’ Jane said, taking a large gulp of wine. ‘If in doubt, drink,’ she said, taking another swig.
‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you drink like a bloke?’
She smiled. ‘Not today.’
They fell into a comfortable silence. Well, he was comfortable and Jane looked better, more relaxed. The atmosphere had changed. It was as if his trip to the bar had actually been a wormhole and he had travelled back to the time before the Stevens girl was even found. He was the boss and Jane was his dedicated and enthusiastic DS, who laughed at his jokes, took the mick out of him and essentially made the everyday feel better.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about your brother?’ she asked.
Lockyer coughed, choking on his cider. ‘What?’ he asked, his voice croaking.
‘Your brother. Why didn’t you tell me about him, Mike?’ To hear her using his first name made him feel like a small boy. ‘Well,’ she said, lifting one shoulder, ‘you wanted to clear the air. Put the Stevens case behind us. Your brother is a part of that.’ Lockyer was stunned into silence. His brain dried up. Jane seemed to read his thoughts. ‘What I’m trying to say is . . . I talk to you about Peter. Not a lot, I grant you, but about how hard it can be sometimes, with his autism: the problems at school; my mother – I talk to you about all of that. I talk to you because I trust you. Bobby . . . it is Bobby, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said, staring into his pint.
‘Your father dies. You discover you’ve got a brother. You move him to Lewisham. You try and build a relationship with someone who is, in essence, closed off from you. And you never say a word – not a word. After your father died you carried on, business as usual. The team talked about it at the time. Figured you weren’t close, or whatever.’
‘My father was—’ he began.
‘No, no,’ she said, holding up her hand. ‘I don’t expect you to share your personal life with me. Your family, your life – that’s your business. I only mean that we could have helped each other. You know? I have no one who really understands what it’s like with Peter. I mean, I’ve got my folks and friends, but it’s not the same. I have work to deal with, and I have home.’ She shook her head and pushed her drink away from her. ‘It would have been nice if you had talked to me about it. I could have helped you, and in turn that might have helped me. I feel so isolated sometimes; and there you are going through almost exactly the same thing and we’re not talking. You’re not talking. What’s the point of being colleagues – of being friends – if you can’t share something like that?’ Lockyer opened his mouth, ready to defend himself. ‘Look, I’m not trying to have a go at you. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. It’s just that, with this whole Stevens case and everything that happened, it feels like the trust I thought we had is worth nothing. I trust you, but it feels like you don’t trust me.’ She stopped, her eyes blinking. She looked as if she might cry.
‘I . . . ’ he began, again feeling like a small boy standing in front of his mother when he had done something bad. ‘I had no idea. I didn’t think, Jane.’ He searched his mind for how he really felt, what he really wanted to say. Now wasn’t the time to fall back on even more euphemisms. ‘I do trust you.’
‘Do you, Mike?’ she asked. Again, hearing his first name unsettled him. It held an intimacy that he wasn’t comfortable with, not in this situation anyway.
‘Of course. I chose you for my team. I chose you as lead DS. If I’m honest, I probably trust you more than I trust Roger, or even Dave.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really,’ he said. He felt angry. How did she not know all of this? He had assumed it was his actions on the Stevens case that had caused the problem between them. Bobby . . . trust – it had never even crossed his mind.
‘You thought this was about her, didn’t you?’ Jane said, looking over her shoulder, as if checking that no one was listening to their conversation.
‘You said something about trust – about lying – a while back,’ he replied, trying to recall the conversation: a few garbled exchanges that hadn’t amounted to anything. ‘I figured you were pissed off that I had gone behind your back, that I might have jeopardized the case.’
‘He killed five women, Mike,’ Jane said, her voice loud. She looked around her again. ‘He would have killed five more if we hadn’t stopped him, and you think I was worried about the case?’ She stopped. ‘I was worried about you.’ Again she stopped, before looking up and holding his eye. ‘Look, I’m not going to say you were right. You weren’t. It was stupid, reckless and against every rule in the book. You know that. I know that. Everyone in the bloody office knows that. But that doesn’t change anything. Those women are still dead. She died because of me, because of you.’
She might as well have smashed her glass and ground the broken shards into his face. He felt sick. ‘Jane,’ he said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before opening them again. ‘He made those choices, not you. He killed those women, not you. I fucked up, and people got hurt. I have to live with that.’ Jane was shaking her head. ‘No, Jane, you need to listen to me now.’ He waited until he had her attention. ‘It wasn’t your fault, any more than all the other murders we deal with. It happened – there’s nothing you or I can do about it. It’s not your responsibility. I am not your responsibility. Do you understand me?’ She nodded. He could see her eyes were wet with tears. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t know how. ‘I didn’t tell you about my brother, because I’m an idiot. I was ashamed of . . . ’ he paused, ‘of nothing. I don’t know why, but I blamed myself for my parents sending Bobby away. As for the Stevens case, I can’t defend my actions, any more than I can explain them. But we’re past that now. What you need to know is that I trust you. I value you. I don’t want you to doubt that again.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jane said in a voice so quiet that it was almost drowned out by the music that surrounded them.
‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘Jane.’ She raised her head. ‘Are we clear?’ He sighed, pushing away the negative feeling. He needed to let it go, for both their sakes. ‘Tell me we’re clear, otherwise I’m going to have to kill you and hide the body. You know I can do it.’ He smiled, willing her to let go too.
She did. She smiled, pushed her hands through her hair and shook her shoulders, as if sloughing off their entire conversation. ‘Yes, sir. We’re clear.’
Relief crashed over him like a wave, washing him clean. ‘Now,’ he said, finishing his pint, ‘we can get back to work. Another?’ he said, pointing to her empty glass.
‘You don’t have to ask me twice, but you’d better make it a spritzer,’ she said.
‘Spritzers are for City women – and you, Jane, are not one of those. You’ll have another glass of wine, and I’ll arrange for Chris to take you home, via your mother’s. Cool?’
‘Cool, sir,’ Jane said, shrugging o
ut of her jacket.
‘And when I get back, you can tell me all about the Hungerford case. I can tell by your notebook that your interview was – shall we say – long?’ She frowned. ‘It’s been on the table for the past hour, Jane,’ he said, pointing to the book lying between their empty glasses. ‘I happen to know that you number all of your notebooks, and that you start a new one for a case that you’re running personally. The Hungerford case has only been yours for a week and that book’s almost half-full.’ He tapped the side of his head with his finger. ‘Not as stupid as I look, eh? I’m not a detective inspector for nothing, you know.’
‘Never doubted you for a second, sir,’ she said.
‘I should think not,’ he said, walking away. He was smiling – really smiling – for the first time in weeks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
30th April – Wednesday
Jane stood listening as Professor Cresswell talked. He was in full ‘selling’ mode. Why? She had no idea. Two coppers from Lewisham were hardly ideal candidates for Greenwich University. There was no denying the university’s academic record, and the fees were very competitive, if the professor was to be believed. She was tempted to ask if there were facilities for adults with autism. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again. It was a bit premature to be planning Peter’s further education. As if she could afford the fees anyway, competitive or not. She covered her smile with the back of her hand. She could just imagine what Peter would be like in his interview. ‘So, Peter, what made you choose Greenwich University for your degree?’ He would frown, as if the answer was obvious. ‘My mum’s a detective. A girl was murdered here. My mum visited the campus to find out who killed her. She thought it looked nice.’ Factual. To the point. That was Peter, especially when he wanted something. She could hear his voice now. ‘I’m hot, Mummy. Ice-cream is cold, Mummy. I want one.’ You couldn’t argue with that kind of logic.
No Place to Die Page 43