Despite her best efforts Peter was adamant that they would be spending the day together, just the two of them. He had their activities planned out hour by hour. Jane had tried to tell him that just because she had time off didn’t mean he got time off from school, but he had refused to listen. She rubbed her face, pushed her fringe out of her eyes and pulled her hair back into a stubby ponytail. It was her unenviable job to eat whatever he had prepared and then shatter his illusions. Neither would be pretty. At least she had Friends. She had discovered the magical properties of the American sitcom last month during her parents’ move.
She pushed herself up off the bed and walked over to the door, opening it just a crack. One false move and she would be in trouble. She held her breath and listened. She had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. He was listening to the Today programme on Radio Four. She closed the door without a sound and started to get dressed, ignoring the rain hammering on the windows. There were days when she wished her son didn’t have autism for both their sakes, but how many mothers could say their eight-year-old loved a topical debate? Yes, being autistic made Peter different, challenging at times; but life was never dull. She pulled on her favourite pair of slouch jeans and then sat on the edge of the bed to put on her socks. They had dinosaurs on them. Another one of Peter’s obsessions. She walked over to her curtains and opened them, using the silk ties her mother had bought her to hold them back. She ran her fingers over the fabric.
When her mother had announced, back in the summer, that she and Jane’s father were leaving London and moving to Clevedon in the South West, she had assumed it was one of Celia Bennett’s bizarre forms of mental torture. How could they move? Her mother worshipped Peter, and what would she do without Jane to berate? And John Bennett was a Londoner through and through. Jane’s father’s knowledge of the Thames and south-east London was encyclopaedic. Before his strokes he had spent every Saturday in central London, discovering new sites or visiting his favourite haunts like the South Bank book fair. He could spend hours sifting through all the second-hand books, or just sitting in a cafe where he liked to ‘absorb the hubbub by osmosis’, as he put it. What was he going to do with himself in a sleepy seaside town?
Their relocation was meant to be all about rest and relaxation for her father, who was still recovering from a series of strokes. If the constant bickering about what ‘downsizing’ really meant and the packing up of the house were anything to go by, her father was a lot stronger than he looked. Jane had bought Peter a label maker to ‘engage him with the process’ – she had read that somewhere. He had approached his task with gusto, although he was somewhat selective. Jane knew, for example, that one box, labelled ‘dishwasher stuff’ had contained two packets of dishwasher tablets, dishwasher salt, rinse aid, the instruction manual for the dishwasher they weren’t taking with them, and six tea towels. That was it. He refused to allow anything else in the box, because nothing else fitted the category description.
Jane had discovered the wonder of Friends when she was sealing up yet another box containing fewer than twenty items. She had turned on the television to distract Peter, and gone to make a calming cuppa for her arguing parents. By the time she returned to the lounge her son had been lying on his stomach in front of the telly, his chin resting in his hands, his feet swinging, his face transfixed. He was watching a Friends marathon. When Jane had asked if he wanted any lunch, he had given her his ‘I’m very busy’ scowl. An hour later he had been in the same position. She had ordered the series box set off Amazon, and since then had doled out the episodes as treats. He was on the second series already.
Mind you, if she was honest, Peter had coped with her parents’ move better than she had. She had been fully prepared for a nightmare transition. After all, her mother was Peter’s primary carer when Jane was at work; and let’s face it, when wasn’t Jane at work? But like the little miracle he was, Peter had adjusted, and they had managed.
Jane turned and looked at the picture on her bedside table of Peter and her folks on Clevedon Pier. They were all smiling, waving at her behind the camera. She puffed out a breath. Even she had to admit there was something about the place, and as much as she hated to admit it, they were happy. She wished she could say the same.
The timing of their move could not have been worse. She had been in the middle of a stressful murder case involving children – not to mention that she was also dealing with Andy, Peter’s father, who had chosen to re-enter his son’s life after eight years. The fact that he had been absent for the previous seven birthdays was just ‘one of those things’, according to Andy.
She leaned her elbows on the windowsill and rested her forehead on the window, the glass cool against her skin. She had spent the past few months trying to extricate herself from the problem, but Andy was persistent. Now lawyers were involved. She closed her eyes.
‘Mum.’
Jane turned to find Peter standing in her bedroom doorway. His walnut-coloured hair was sticking up at odd angles. He was much fairer than her. Her hair was almost black. She smiled. He was puce, holding a spatula that was dripping an unknown substance on the carpet, and he was wearing a pinafore that one of her colleagues from the squad had given her as last year’s Secret Santa. It depicted a woman in bra, knickers, suspenders and fishnet tights.
‘You look like you’ve been having fun,’ she said.
‘Breakfast will be ready in four and a half minutes,’ he said, his expression serious.
‘Four and a half minutes,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Right.’ She gestured to her outfit. ‘Will I do?’
‘I don’t like your jeans,’ he said, leaving the room and pulling the door behind him. As the door clicked into place she heard him say, ‘But I like the socks.’
She had to restrain herself from running out the door, scooping him up and kissing him to bits. He wasn’t averse to physical affection, but it needed to be invited nowadays. She looked down at her jeans. Of course he didn’t like them. They were a slouch fit, a.k.a. messy. He had gone to the effort of making her breakfast – the least she could do was dress the part. She went to her wardrobe and had a look through her clothes. There were at least a dozen ‘work’ outfits. She swiped the hangers to the left so only her casual clothes remained: a denim skirt she never wore, three summer dresses on the same hanger, and three pairs of black trousers that she wore to funerals and job interviews. She slipped on a pair over her dinosaur socks and changed her hoodie for a Christmas jumper with a picture of a reindeer on the front. Her phone beeped. She unplugged it from the charger and unlocked the screen. It was an email. She clicked into it, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, preparing herself for yet another threatening epistle from Andy or one of his shit-bag lawyers. She opened her eyes. It was from Aaron, one of the squad’s PC’s. She had talked to him about his move up to Detective Constable last week and told him to get his paperwork sorted. She opened the email and started reading.
DS Bennett,
I need to take a leave of absence starting immediately. I am unable to come into the office this morning. I have cc’d in HR.
I will phone to explain.
Thank you for your help.
PC Aaron Jones
Jane read through the message again. ‘Thank you for your help.’ She had a pretty good idea what that meant. Lockyer was Aaron’s direct superior, not her. If he should be emailing anyone, it should be him; but then, everyone knew Aaron had spent the past few months avoiding Lockyer, and vice versa. Jane was lucky enough to have been there when Lockyer met the boyfriend of his nineteen-year-old daughter for the first time. Megan Lockyer had decided the perfect occasion for her father to learn about her relationship with Aaron was at the wedding of Lockyer’s ex-wife. As an event, it was right up there with the birth of Jane’s son – long and painful.
Her phone started ringing. She looked at the screen, half expecting it to be Aaron. It wasn’t.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Where are
you?’ Lockyer asked, sounding irritated.
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve got the morning off . . . remember?’
There was a sniff at the other end of the line. ‘Oh yeah, that’s right. You’re interviewing for a nanny,’ he said.
‘A childminder, yes,’ she said. She could tell by his voice that he hadn’t forgotten. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing much,’ he said. She could hear him tapping away at his computer.
‘Peter’s made breakfast.’
‘Of course, you go,’ he said.
‘OK,’ she said, about to hang up, but then she remembered Aaron’s email. ‘Before you go, I just got an email from Aaron.’
‘And?’
‘He’s asked for a leave of absence,’ she said, deciding to help Aaron out by one, telling Lockyer for him and two, withholding the fact that he hadn’t asked at all, he had just taken the leave.
‘Why?’
‘I’m getting further details on that,’ she said.
She could almost hear the cogs of his brains turning. ‘Fine. Let me know when you know.’
‘OK,’ she said, stretching out the vowels. ‘So, I’ll see you at the briefing this afternoon. I could do with going over the Mitchell interview before that, if you’ve got time?’
‘I’ve got a meeting with Roger at midday so it depends how long that takes.’
‘That’s fine,’ she said, making a note in her phone. ‘I’ll be in by one.’
‘Not that I know what the meeting’s about,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked. Lockyer’s relationship with Roger Westwood was weather-dependent these days. Roger’s promotion to superintendent had put more pressure on him, and so in turn, more pressure on Lockyer. Neither seemed happy about the situation.
‘He wouldn’t tell me. He just asked me a load of questions about my caseload, your caseload . . .’
‘He asked about me?’
‘Your name came up, yes,’ Lockyer said.
‘Maybe it’s just a general catch-up,’ she said.
‘I missed my last occupational health . . . appointment,’ he said, his voice flat.
So that was why he had called. In these modern days of policing the Met not only offered counselling, but sometimes insisted on it. The practice was meant to be a good thing, a sign of progress. However, Jane knew Lockyer didn’t see it that way. ‘Why did you miss it?’
‘I was busy,’ he said. ‘It was just a . . . check-up or whatever. I don’t see the problem.’
‘You don’t know there is a problem, Mike,’ she said. He didn’t speak. Of course, that was part of his problem: he didn’t communicate.
She could hear Peter coming up the stairs. Her four and a half minutes must have been up a while ago. ‘Listen, I’ve got to . . .’ The door opened and Peter appeared. His face was still puce but Jane could tell it was from anger, not the exertion of cooking. She covered the phone with her palm. ‘Sorry honey, I’m coming now.’
‘It’s cold,’ he said as if she hadn’t spoken.
‘Oh, I don’t mind. I bet it’s gonna be delicious,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait. I’ll be down in literally two seconds.’
‘That’s stupid. No one can get anywhere in two seconds,’ he said, leaving the room and slamming the door.
She put the phone back to her ear. ‘Look, I’ve got to . . .’
‘IT IS COLD!’ Peter shouted. She heard him stomping down the stairs.
‘Trouble?’ Lockyer asked.
‘I missed breakfast,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Sorry, Mike, I’ve got to . . .’
‘COLD, COLD, COLD!’
‘That doesn’t sound too g . . .’
‘COLD, COLD, COLD!’
‘I’ll see you later,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go and put Friends on.’
‘What—?’
Jane ended the call before he could finish speaking. This was going to be a two-episode tantrum. Maybe even three. She would deal with her son first, her boss second.
CHAPTER FOUR
10th December – Thursday
DI Mike Lockyer folded back the paper, taking care to keep his fingers clear of the ketchup, and took a large bite of the bacon roll. Fat and melted butter ran out the side of his mouth and dripped onto his desk. He opened his mouth for the second bite before he had swallowed the first and sat back, putting his feet up on the edge of his bin. Despite maintenance raising his desk, he still felt too big for his hobbit hole of an office. Traditional desks were not made for long legs. He arched his back, enjoying the stretch as he took another gigantic bite of his lunch, murmuring to himself with delight.
He had discovered the Lewisham delicacy last week when he spotted Franks, one of his DCs, eating one at his desk. Lockyer had never frequented the kebab shop opposite the station on Lewisham High Street, and for good reason. Suspicious smells emanated from the extractor grill, the pungent odours drifting into his office through his open window day and night, no matter the season. The kebab spit looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in years, if ever; the floor, walls and ceiling the same. Even the sad Christmas tree on the counter was covered in a layer of grime, which was disturbing considering it was only a week into December – unless it was still there from last year.
However, once he had sampled one of their bacon butties, he didn’t care. ‘Dirty but delicious,’ he said, just as his phone started to ring.
His pleasure evaporated when he looked at the number on the screen. It was Roger – again. He put down the remains of his lunch and pushed speakerphone with his little finger, the only digit not covered in grease. ‘Sir,’ he said, swallowing a mouthful of food.
‘You ready?’ Roger asked.
Lockyer looked at the digital clock on his computer screen. It was ten to twelve. ‘Can be,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to come to you?’
‘I’m in incident room three,’ Roger said. ‘Give me ten minutes, then come on up.’
‘Fine,’ Lockyer said, hanging up and picking up his bacon roll just as his phone rang again. It was reception. He pushed speakerphone. ‘Yes,’ he said, holding his temper.
‘Sir, I’ve got a DI William Townsend on the phone for you,’ Dixie said.
‘Can you take a number?’ he said, wiping his fingers and mopping up the droplets of fat that were on his desk. He looked at the remains of his lunch. ‘I’m due in a meeting.’
‘Sure thing,’ Dixie said, ending the call.
He reached for the butty just as his phone rang again. ‘Oh, come on.’ It was Roger again. ‘Yes, boss,’ he said.
‘I’m free now,’ Roger said. ‘Incident room three.’
‘Great,’ Lockyer said without enthusiasm.
‘I’ve not got long, so if you could come now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, hanging up, pushing back his chair and throwing the rest of his lunch in the bin. His mobile beeped as he was leaving his office. He walked back in, picked it up off his desk and unlocked the screen. It was a text from Megan. His daughter would soon be twenty and yet he was struggling to let go, which was ironic considering it had taken him most of her nineteen years to let her, or anyone else, in.
Hi Dad, I can’t make it to Uncle Bobby’s later and I won’t be able to stay tonight. Something’s come up. I’ll call you over the weekend. Hugs. M xxx
His finger hovered over the call icon. His office line started ringing again. He leaned over his desk. Roger. ‘Jesus – keep your hair on,’ he said, leaving the phone to ring and pocketing his mobile.
Incident room three was on the next floor up, so he walked across the open-plan office towards the lifts and stairwell. He hadn’t managed a run this morning, so he would take the stairs. One flight couldn’t be considered a workout but it was better than nothing.
He pulled open the heavy fire door and took the stairs three at a time. He was still unsure what he was going to say to his boss. He could lie. He could say he was in a meeting that ran over or was called out at the last minute. He pushed his fingers
through his thatch of tangled curls. He opened the door to the third floor, nodding to a group of officers waiting for the lift. Or he could just tell the truth. He hadn’t gone to the occupational health meeting because he didn’t want to talk about her any more. At the start it had helped, but now all it did was tear open the wound. Sandra, his ‘therapist’, who spoke through her nose and used sentences like ‘you have to forgive yourself’, said that being able to remember was part of the healing process. He disagreed. He wanted to forget her, to forget what could have been, and more than anything, to forget his part in her death.
‘Mike, there you are.’ He turned to see Roger striding towards him.
‘Can we?’ Roger said, gesturing back towards the incident room. Lockyer followed him across the office without speaking. He tried to read Roger’s face as he held open the glass door and ushered him in, tapping the back of a chair. ‘Have a seat, Mike.’
‘Look, if this is about my appointment with occupational health . . .’ Lockyer said before he could stop himself.
Roger looked at him, frowned and took a seat on the other side of the conference table. His stomach pushed against the glass table. ‘Not sure I’m with you,’ he said, ruffling his dark mop of hair (courtesy of Just for Men, no doubt). ‘But listen, I’ve got to make this quick. I’ve got another meeting in a few minutes.’
Lockyer stalled for a moment but then said, ‘Go ahead.’
‘So . . .’ Roger said, ‘I need a favour. A job’s come in I need you to handle.’
Lockyer felt his shoulders relax. As long as he wasn’t about to be sent off to the funny farm, Roger could have anything he wanted. ‘What’s up?’
The Night Stalker (Detective Jane Bennett and Mike Lockyer series Book 4) Page 3