3
23 January – Thursday
Sarah crossed the road and walked onto Peckham Rye, Antonia close behind her dragging a less than willing terrier. There were three joggers on the opposite side of the park but other than that they were the only ones braving the cold weather. That was good.
Cars queued at the temporary traffic lights at the bottom of the park, their cold engines sending white clouds into the air. She found the normality of it almost comforting. People still went to work, still effed and blinded when they missed the lights. Everything carried on as before. Only she had changed. ‘So, whose dog is it?’ she asked.
‘Sally’s. Well, her friend’s, actually. She’s dog-sitting. He’s sweet, really, just a little hyper,’ Toni said, tugging on the dog’s lead as it struggled to go back the way they had come. ‘Monty . . . stop it,’ Toni said. Monty sniffed the air, looked up at them both and then resumed his game of tug of war.
‘And why are you walking him?’ Sarah asked, brushing her hair out of her face. It was cold but the sun had pushed through the clouds and she could do with the colour.
‘No reason, really . . . I just thought it would give us a good reason to get out of the house,’ Toni said, with a smile.
Sarah should have known the dog walk was just a ploy to drag her out of her flat. Toni had tried everything in the past week, suggesting cinema trips, shopping, dinner out. Sarah had refused them all with the same excuse. She was tired and just needed some rest. It was true, in a way, but it wasn’t the real reason she didn’t want to go out. ‘You mean, get me out of the house,’ she said, returning Toni’s innocent smile.
‘It’s only a walk, Sarah. We can go back if you’d like?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Sarah said, glancing behind her. ‘I’m out now. The fresh air will do me good.’ She gave Toni a shove on the arm. What were friends for, if not forcing you to do something you didn’t want to do, for your own good?
They walked arm in arm as they entered the manicured section of the park. Winter had removed all the warmth and colour. The lush green hideaway that had been created last spring was now bare wooded arches, dead leaves turning to mulch in the flower beds. She couldn’t wait for the weather to change. The dark nights, the cold. She hated it. It only made things seem more bleak.
‘William Blake saw visions here,’ Toni said, gesticulating around her at the dormant garden.
‘Really?’ Sarah replied, with no interest.
‘Yes, he did, trees filled with angels . . . imagine that? Angels,’ she said, squeezing Sarah’s arm.
She didn’t know how to respond. It didn’t feel like a place filled with anything even close to ethereal, but it was sweet of Toni to try to fill the silence between them.
‘They kept Italian POWs here during the Second World War, too,’ said Toni, raising her eyebrows.
‘Fascinating,’ Sarah teased, relieved to feel a natural smile spreading across her face.
‘Someone has to educate you, bella,’ Toni said, giving Sarah a friendly shove. ‘So, how’s work?’ she asked in a singsong voice, pulling the dog back onto the brick path, its paws already caked in mud.
Sarah’s smile vanished as she stopped walking and turned in a circle. ‘Oh, you know, same old, same old. I’ve got a job up in the City on Saturday. It’s an easy job. Head shots for a management team.’
‘That’s good, good that you’re still . . .’ Toni’s words were drowned out as Monty started to bark.
Sarah looked into the crush of pine trees that had been pinned and forced into an archway ahead of them. She heard a rustling and stepped back. The dog yelped as her heel connected with one of its paws. ‘There’s a good reason I don’t have pets,’ she said, hoping she didn’t look as on edge as she felt. She watched as Toni bent down and petted the little terrier, talking to him quietly in Italian. Sarah let the words soothe her but the peace didn’t last. A squirrel darted out of the line of trees, disappearing into the undergrowth. The dog started to bark again, pulling at the lead to escape. ‘Are we done yet?’ she asked, looking back. She could just see the end of her road. She wanted to be home, to close the door and put another day behind her.
‘It’s not good, Sarah. You can’t keep doing this,’ Toni said. ‘Why don’t you come and stay with me, just until this thing blows over?’
She wanted to ask how Toni knew it would blow over. Things were getting worse, not better. And there was no one to help her. ‘I can’t, not right now,’ she said, not trusting herself to look up. ‘I’ve got a couple of possible jobs that I need to confirm. I only heard about them this morning. Besides, I’m fine, there’s no need.’ This time she took a deep breath, tipped her chin up and looked across at Toni who was shaking her head. ‘I’m fine, really.’ She forced a smile but it was obvious Toni didn’t believe her. ‘Thanks for getting me out of the house. It’s helped, honestly,’ she said, reaching down and giving Toni’s hand a squeeze.
They walked back to her flat in silence, the dog’s sniffing the only sound interrupting Sarah’s thoughts. Would he call tonight? She closed her eyes and shook her head. Of course he would.
4
23 January – Thursday
Lockyer pushed against his eyelids with the tips of his fingers, but the image of the victim’s bare feet and Megan’s face refused to shift.
‘Sir?’
He opened one eye and saw Jane standing in the doorway to his office. ‘Jane. Perfect timing. As always.’ The overhead spotlights were too bright. His head was thumping. He abandoned his attempt to open both eyes and maintained a lopsided view of his DS.
‘I just wanted to report in and check you were . . . all right?’ Her eyebrows disappeared beneath a severe black fringe: a new style that reminded him of a Lego man toy. The comparison suited both her petite frame and her demeanour. He had worked with Jane for years, watched her progress through the ranks, chosen her for his senior DS, and from his experience she was always immaculate, well presented, punctual, efficient; in essence the perfect copper. He was yet to find any faults. That couldn’t be normal, surely? As the thought entered his head he caught sight of his own reflection in his computer screen. His dark hair was unbrushed and his olive skin was hidden beneath a day or two’s stubble. Handsomely dishevelled? Possibly. He looked down. His shirt was buttoned up wrong. No. Just dishevelled.
‘I’m fine, Jane.’ He stood and walked over to his much-prized window, adjusting his shirt. They had moved him into this office when he had taken over as lead DI for Lewisham’s MIT, Murder Investigation Team, part of the HSCC, the Homicide and Serious Crime Command. Neither title was used much, by him or his team. He was running the ‘murder squad’, plain and simple. Other branches in Hendon, Barnes, Belgravia and Barking dealt with north, south and central London, but the east and south-east were his domain. As he pushed back the vertical blinds to look out at the grey morning, his nose was assaulted by the smell of exhaust fumes and fried food drifting through his open window. He took a step back, watching as the human traffic of Lewisham collided, funnelled into a narrow pedestrian walkway. It was the fourth time the council had dug up this particular eight-foot-square section of the High Street. ‘That is to say . . . I’m fine, considering I am dealing with three murdered girls, I’ve been up since four and listening to that jackhammer since eight.’ His voice echoed in his ears, trying to compete with the small boulders that were smashing against each other inside his skull. What he really wanted to do was drive the four miles home, close the shutters on his floor-to-ceiling Georgian windows, stretch out on his new sofa and go to sleep. The sofa had been delivered over a week ago and he still hadn’t managed to sit in it for more than five minutes.
‘I spoke to Dave. He told me about this morning, sir,’ Jane said, interrupting his thoughts.
He glanced over his shoulder. Her concerned face was beginning to make sense. ‘Dave shouldn’t be telling anyone anything,’ he said.
‘Sorry, sir, Dave just thought . . . he thought som
eone on the team should know.’
He looked away and studied Jane’s reflection in the glass. She looked up at the ceiling, down at the floor and then at both sides of his office. He hadn’t seen her look this uncomfortable since that May Day bank holiday, four years ago. An ill-advised evening for sure but it had been Jane’s facial expression the next morning, a combination of embarrassment and concern in her eyes, that had made Lockyer run. ‘I don’t want anyone else to hear about this. Is that clear?’
‘Absolutely, sir. Dave’s getting ready for the post. He’ll call when he’s good to go. Should be an hour and—’ The jackhammer resumed and drowned out the rest of Jane’s sentence. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?’
‘Jane. Enough. You sound like Clara, for God’s sake. Close the door on your way out.’ He took a deep breath and turned back to his desk. It still felt odd mentioning Clara.
An hour later, surrounded by white Formica and steel, Lockyer stood in the mortuary suite, looking down at Deborah Stevens’ body. She looked so small, fragile. The skin over her cheeks was taut and colourless. A griping pain rippled across his stomach. He cocked his head to one side and looked into her milky eyes, still open, frozen in terror. There was no sign of the smiling girl from the photograph that was now attached to Debbie’s file, given to him by her family. He leaned closer and whispered her name, ‘Debbie,’ then straightened and backed away from the table as Patrick, Dave’s senior assistant, began laying out all of the instruments needed for the procedure.
‘Did you see the bite mark?’
Lockyer turned to find Dave standing right next to him. ‘What bite mark?’ he asked, looking away, reluctant to look his friend in the eye.
Dave walked around to the other side of the table, pointed to Debbie’s right shoulder and lifted a section of matted hair away from her pale face. ‘Here . . . it’s at the top of the trapezius muscle. I didn’t see it in the prelim exam because it was hidden by the hairline.’ Lockyer took a step forward and looked at the livid, purplish marks scattered over Debbie’s neck. It looked like she had been attacked by a wild dog, not a man. He turned away, the image of the marks already burned into his memory. ‘There isn’t enough of an impression for dental recognition but Patrick has taken some deep tissue swabs and we might have some saliva.’ Lockyer didn’t respond. He couldn’t. All he could see was Debbie’s attacker, crouching over her, sinking his teeth into her like a vampire in the moonlight. ‘OK . . . hard to please this morning, I see,’ Dave said, walking to the end of the mortuary table. ‘Would it make you happier if I said I had a fingerprint?’
He tore his mind away from the images in his head and finally looked at Dave. ‘Fingerprint. How? The body was cleaned, wasn’t it?’ His voice rough, like flint on stone.
‘He did . . . watered-down bleach, like the others. I guess he missed a spot,’ Dave said with a shrug. ‘It’s a partial print, in blood. Right index finger. It’s on the outside of the left thigh.’ Dave held up his right hand to demonstrate the angle against Debbie’s outstretched legs.
‘I need that print,’ Lockyer said.
‘Already done. Patrick lifted it just before you came down. Your team are scanning it now,’ Dave said. ‘Who knows, maybe you’ll have a suspect by the time we’re done here.’
He looked down at Debbie, pushed his anger away and said a silent prayer that Dave was right. He resisted an urge to reach out, to touch her cheek, and without warning Megan’s face pushed its way into his thoughts. His hand went automatically to the chain around his neck, the band of gold cool against his chest. He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time. ‘What about the drug?’ he asked.
‘It’ll take a few days to get the toxicology report back but I think he used some kind of mild barbiturate.’ Dave moved forward and gently lifted one of Debbie’s arms. ‘The defensive wounds here. . . and here, indicate she came to at some point but I doubt she was ever fully conscious,’ he said, indicating several deep scratches on her hand and forearm. ‘And he definitely used a knife to further subdue her,’ he said. ‘This is the puncture wound.’
‘Can you check the others for any drug traces?’ Lockyer asked, looking away from the welts on Debbie’s arms and the small hole just beneath her ribs.
‘Of course,’ Dave said. ‘We already have the blood work back on the first two victims but I haven’t had time to look at it, what with this and the gang killing last week. I’ll rush them through and get back to you. Now . . . if that’s all . . . I think we’re ready to begin.’ Dave’s voice had taken on a much softer tone. Respectful. He reached for a scalpel and paused like a conductor before a concert.
Lockyer watched Dave make the Y incision, constantly speaking into a Dictaphone, detailing every move he made, every cut. ‘The outer chest cavity is clear, no evidence of trauma, oedema present but consistent with hypostasis. Patrick, please open the chest cavity.’ Lockyer looked away. He wasn’t squeamish but there were some things he just didn’t need to see, and the removal of the chest plate was one of them.
‘I am making my incision and opening the pericardial sac . . . heart clean, very little plaque build-up, consistent with the victim’s age.’ Dave’s scalpel moved in a blur. ‘I am taking blood from the inferior vena cava . . . Patrick.’ Patrick stepped forward, placing a syringe into Dave’s gloved hand. As Dave dissected the lungs he muttered, ‘Smoker, not heavy.’
Bile rushed into Lockyer’s mouth. Megan smoked. He could still hear Dave’s voice but it was as if he was talking under water, his words muted. ‘. . . kidneys, clean . . . liver, clean . . . pancreas . . . stomach, very little to see here. She hadn’t eaten in six hours, at least . . .’ He swallowed and forced himself to focus. ‘. . .we’ll move on to the reproductive system now,’ Dave said, his blurred shape taking a step back, sidestepping before approaching the table again. A freezing hand snaked its way up Lockyer’s body, touching his thighs, his stomach and the base of his spine. He hung his head and let out a long breath.
‘Mike?’ He could hear Dave’s voice but it sounded far away. ‘Lockyer!’ Dave’s harsh shout brought him back. He stood straight, blinking rapidly. Dave and his team were all staring at him. ‘Are you all right?’
He cleared his throat. ‘. . . I’m fine,’ he said, covering his face with his hands as he coughed. ‘I’m sorry about that . . .’ He fumbled for something to say, anything to explain his bizarre behaviour. ‘I’m fine. Must be something I ate.’ He waited for what felt like hours as David and Patrick continued to stare at him.
‘Right,’ Dave said, breaking the silence. ‘Let’s continue, shall we?’
He tried to ignore the look of concern on his friend’s face, dropping his eyes to the floor as Dave made the incision to open up Debbie’s reproductive cavity. He felt furious with himself. When he told Jane earlier that he was fine, that he didn’t need to talk about this morning, about Megan, he had meant it. So why was his body going into some kind of meltdown?
‘We’ve got something here,’ Dave said, the grey bags under his eyes illuminated by the mortuary light as he looked up. ‘She’s had a D&C . . . very recently . . . last few days, I’d say, either the result of an incomplete miscarriage or a first trimester abortion.’ Dave’s shrug told Lockyer which his friend thought more likely.
‘Jesus,’ Lockyer said, shaking his head. ‘Are we done?’ he asked, watching as Patrick began positioning Debbie’s head for the brain exam. He could do without seeing them remove a section of her head. He wanted out of this room.
‘You are,’ Dave said. ‘We’ll finish up here and I’ll get my full report to you as soon as I can.’
‘Right. Thanks,’ he said, already turning to leave.
‘Hey, buddy, you might want to get something for that stomach of yours,’ Dave said. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Thank you, David,’ he replied, without bothering to turn around.
Lockyer sat down at his desk as the office door clicked shut. He had been making lists in his head on th
e way back from the mortuary suite. Things he had to do, things he wanted Jane and his DSs to get started on and things for the DCs to be getting on with, but all he kept seeing was Megan’s face. He needed to make the call. He pressed speed-dial three on his mobile, inhaled, held the breath and waited. It was on the fifth ring that she answered.
‘Hello, Megan speaking.’
‘Hello, Megan speaking. This is your father speaking.’
5
23 January – Thursday
Sarah turned out the main light and closed her bedroom door, her right eye twitching as the click of the latch echoed around the room. Her body, this flat, her life: nothing felt solid. Everything had been replaced with shadows, paper-thin imitations that threatened to blow apart at any moment, disintegrating into a million pieces. The floorboards creaked as she padded over to the window. Her blind was already down ,so, careful not to touch it, she peered around the edge and looked out at her little strip of garden: roaming weeds, strangled flowers and light clumps of dead grass where her lawn had failed to grow.
She stepped back. He couldn’t see her. She knew that. Her flat was on the first floor and the only thing that overlooked the back of the house was the Bredinghurst School playground. The fence separating her from the school was twenty feet high, covered in ivy. She sighed and sat down on the edge of her bed, her legs suddenly too weak to hold her. How many hours had she wasted trying to convince herself that he wasn’t outside, that he couldn’t see her, that he didn’t exist? She pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt. A low thud made her freeze. She held her breath and waited, straining her ears to identify the origin of the sound. Her heart hammered in her chest. As her body began to shake she heard three more thuds and the sound of rushing water. It was her central heating, just water and pipes. She rocked back and forth, dizzy as the adrenalin that had surged through her body just seconds ago abandoned her.
Never Look Back Page 2