‘Maybe they’re not open on Fridays,’ Jane said, clicking the central locking on the squad car. ‘It took me a couple of goes to get an answer when I called.’
He opened one of the double doors and gestured for Jane to go ahead of him. Lockyer realized he felt a lot better. Somehow the drive, the air and the change of scenery had lifted the emotional fug that had been suffocating him all morning. As he followed Jane over to the reception desk he could almost feel his head clearing. The desk was a traditional shiny pine, five feet high, and hiding behind it was a fifty-something receptionist who looked to be leafing through a women’s gossip magazine. All Lockyer could see were bright colours and orange-looking girls staring up at him.
‘Good morning,’ Jane said, already holding out her warrant card. The receptionist jumped a clear foot in the air with an accompanying screech. He didn’t know who was more surprised, her or him. He took a step back.
‘Oh, my,’ she said, her south-east London accent strong, her voice croaky. If there weren’t twenty Benson & Hedges in this woman’s purse he would hand in his badge right now. ‘You frightened me to death, creeping up like that. The bell under the doormat’s stopped working again. I’ve told them it needs fixing . . . I’ve asked a dozen times, at least . . .’
He looked over at Jane and saw that she was just as stunned by the woman’s reaction as he was. He cleared his throat and gave her elbow a shove when he saw the corner of her mouth lift with amusement. The receptionist was still talking, not to either of them in particular, just chattering into the ether, her eyes alternating between looking up at the ceiling and then down at her feet.
‘Mr Walsh said you’d be stopping by and to help you with what ever you needed . . . he’s had to pop out, you see. Friday mornings is usually our quiet time, normally when we do the notes, that kinda thing, so, how can I help you? Mr Walsh didn’t say, he just said something about notes . . . not that I can show you notes but I suppose I can look at them, and then . . . I don’t know, I suppose it depends.’ The woman finally stopped talking and looked from Jane to him and back again.
‘And you are?’ Jane asked, hiding her smile as she reached into her jacket for a notepad.
‘Sheila Collins. I’m in charge when Mr Walsh isn’t here . . . well, I answer the phones and look after reception if no one else is in,’ the woman said, looking around her, blushing at her failed boast.
He turned away as Jane began to speak, tuning out her voice as she went through the basics with the verbose Ms Collins. The waiting room was bland. Despite the obvious newness of the building the interior looked tired. The white walls were faded to a dull cream and the brown carpet tiles were awash with shiny tracks from numerous pushchairs, no doubt. There were two dozen green plastic chairs and a pine table displaying a sad array of out-of-date women’s magazines. For some reason he had been expecting something more swanky, all stainless steel and posh art.
An idea ran along the edge of his thoughts; his pulse quickened, but then it was gone. He shook his head and turned back to Jane. From her facial expression he could tell she’d had enough of talking to Ms Collins. He was about to save her when the door to the office opened.
‘Can I help?’
Lockyer stepped sideways to see a guy standing in the doorway. He was wearing a shirt and tie and a black pair of ill-fitting skinny jeans. The receptionist’s shoulders dropped as she let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘No, Danny, I’m fine,’ she said, turning and giving him a wide grin, revealing a large amount of lipstick on her two front teeth. ‘Mr Walsh said the police would be coming by, to ask some questions . . . I’m dealing with it.’
‘And you are?’ Lockyer asked, aware of Ms Collins’ dismay at being ignored.
The man stepped forward, holding out his hand. ‘Danny. Danny Armstrong. I work with Sheila on Fridays – just wanted to see if I could help.’
‘I can handle this,’ Sheila said, her voice hardening. ‘Mr Walsh said I was to deal with the police.’ She puffed out her chest and folded her arms securely over her generous bust, her nose turned up to the ceiling. ‘I am quite capable.’
‘Ms Collins,’ Lockyer said, ‘if you can answer my colleague’s questions . . . that would be most helpful, as you’re the most senior member of staff here.’ Sheila looked about ready to explode with pride.
‘Oh, yes, yes, of course,’ she said.
‘I’ll just ask Mr Armstrong a couple of questions while you two finish up,’ Lockyer said, turning away, nodding to the guy to follow, gesturing for him to take a seat as far away from the reception desk as possible. ‘So, Mr Armstrong . . .’
‘Call me Danny,’ he said, smiling.
‘OK. How long have you worked here, Danny?’ Lockyer asked, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want Sheila eavesdropping or chipping in to the conversation.
‘Six, seven months, something like that . . . Walsh hired me over the summer.’
‘And before?’
‘Nothing special, general admin-type jobs. I used to get work through an agency but Mr Walsh offered me a permanent position. It was good money and the hours were good, you know, so I took it,’ he said with a shrug.
‘I see,’ Lockyer said. ‘And do you have much contact with the patients?’
Danny shook his head. ‘No, not really. I’m mainly in the back office. As Sheila said, she deals with the front desk.’
‘I can see that,’ Lockyer said, glancing over his shoulder. Ms Collins was in full flow. Jane was now leaning on the desk. He would have to buy her a bacon sandwich on the way back to say thank you. ‘Did you ever see or speak to a Deborah Stevens? She was a patient here.’
‘No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. I usually remember patients’ names, even if I never see their faces. I enter all their information onto the computer but her name isn’t familiar. One of the others must have in put her record.’ Danny sniffed, sat back and adjusted his jeans.
‘Right, thank you, Danny,’ Lockyer said, deciding how long he and Jane should wait around for Walsh. ‘Do you know when Mr Walsh will be back?’
‘Not a clue. He had a couple of appointments this morning, I think,’ Danny said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Sorry,’ he said, pointing at his head. ‘I had a heavy night last night, not feeling my best.’
‘How long has Mr Walsh been here?’ Lockyer asked.
‘Since the place opened . . .’ Danny seemed to be about to say something else but stopped, covering his mouth with his hand.
‘And does he have much interaction with the patients, in his capacity as manager?’ he asked, reaching for the notepad in his jacket pocket.
‘Some . . . it depends. If he’s here, he sometimes talks to them in the waiting room,’ Danny said, shifting in his seat. His relaxed demeanour seemed to be changing as he looked increasingly uncomfortable.
‘Is that unusual?’ Lockyer asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Danny said, staring out of the window.
‘Is Mr Walsh a good employer?’ That question seemed to hit a nerve. Armstrong crossed his legs and started jiggling his foot.
‘Yes,’ Danny said, not looking at him. Instead he looked over at Sheila and then at the double doors before his eyes finally settled back on Lockyer. ‘Look, I like working here.’ He laughed and covered his mouth but there was no humour in the sound. Lockyer recognized the gesture and wondered whether Armstrong had had braces as a child but still hadn’t grown out of the habit of trying to hide them. ‘I guess he can be difficult, sometimes.’
‘Difficult?’ Lockyer asked, aware of Jane’s voice in the background.
‘He’s . . . he’s not that nice to Sheila or the other women . . . I know Sheila’s a bit much, but Walsh can be . . . cruel. He . . .’
‘Officers . . . I’m so sorry I’m late,’ a voice boomed from behind them. Lockyer turned to see a man, mid-forties maybe, wearing round black-framed glasses and a blue-and-white wide-pinstripe suit that looked expensive. ‘I had some business to attend to in town that couldn’t wait . . . please,’ Walsh s
aid, gesturing to a door at the end of the reception desk. Lockyer thanked Armstrong and stood, waiting for Jane to join him. Sheila wasn’t verbose any more. She stood behind the desk, mute, her eyes wide. ‘I do hope Sheila and Danny have been helpful,’ Walsh said. ‘Please, do come through to my office and we’ll see what we can do about helping you, shall we?’ Walsh opened the door to a long hallway and waved Lockyer and Jane inside. ‘Sheila . . . fag butts . . . now,’ he hissed as the door closed behind them.
Lockyer covered his mouth to disguise a yawn as Walsh continued to regale them. He was on to the highlights of his career at the moment. He caught Jane’s eye and nodded for her to take control, otherwise they were liable to be here all day. This guy was half smarm, half comedy vicar. Thirty minutes had gone by and they already had the majority of his life story. Walsh had given them alibis not only for Debbie and the other girls’ murders but also, it seemed, all unexplained deaths dating back to Roman times. Despite the barrage of irrelevant information Lockyer had noticed one thing. When Jane said they would have to verify Walsh’s alibi with his wife, the guy had been reluctant, to say the least.
‘Mr Walsh,’ Jane said, holding up her notepad to halt the diatribe. It worked. Walsh sat back and folded his hands in his lap. ‘What can you tell us about Deborah Stevens?’
Walsh now clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘How awful for something like this to happen? It’s so . . . senseless isn’t it?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know how helpful I can be, I’m afraid. Of course I looked over her medical notes before you arrived but there wasn’t much of interest, I don’t think. You know she had an abortion, I assume?’ Walsh said in a stage whisper.
‘Yes, a D&C. Did you arrange that?’ Jane asked.
‘Not personally. One of my doctors, Dr Bird, referred her . . . once she was definite about her decision. I have asked him to make himself available to you, as I assumed you would want to talk to him.’ Walsh cleared his throat. ‘There’s nothing in her notes in relation to the father of the baby, or anything really, only that she was dead set on having a termination.’
‘How many weeks was she?’ Jane asked.
‘She was at the end of her first trimester . . . twelve weeks, according to her notes. A D&C isn’t the simplest or nicest of procedures, I’m afraid.’ Walsh stretched out his mouth, the corners turning down like a toad. He seemed an odd fit for this kind of job. He clearly found the whole thing upsetting and a bit distasteful. Lockyer couldn’t decide what to make of him; Walsh seemed genuinely distressed to be talking about abortion, let alone murder. There was a tremor at the corner of his mouth but perhaps it was just his nervous disposition. Lockyer felt on edge just sitting across from the guy. ‘I only saw her, Deborah, a handful of times, sitting out in the waiting room mainly. I did speak to her once, only for a moment. She and I were sheltering under the porch during a downpour and we got to talking.’ Lockyer watched as Jane scribbled notes in her pad, nodding for Walsh to continue. ‘Well, she was ever so young – not our youngest, naturally, but she seemed young for her age, if you know what I mean?’
‘What did you talk about?’ Jane asked.
Walsh seemed put off his stride when his question was ignored. His eyebrows were knitted together in an anxious bundle. ‘Well,’ he said, all but wringing his hands. ‘She was saying that she didn’t like the rain. It meant she had to take the bus and she wasn’t keen on being around too many people . . . I certainly remember that because I thought at the time it was such an odd thing for a girl of her age to say. She seemed shy but not so much with me, I guess.’ Walsh tipped his head to one side. ‘I don’t know why.’ Lockyer didn’t either.
‘What else, Mr Walsh? It would really help if you could tell us as much as you can recall.’ Jane sat forward in her chair, trying to get Walsh to look at her.
Lockyer looked around at the consulting room, intrigued by how un-medical it appeared. There were the obligatory boxes of surgical gloves and a yellow bin marked with a hazard sticker but that was about it. Both he and Jane were sitting on a grey couch, while Walsh sat on a comfy-looking armchair. The bulk of the furniture would have been better suited to someone’s lounge or some fancy hotel lobby.
‘. . . I offered her a lift but she said her mother didn’t like her to take favours from people . . . you never know what they’ll want in return,’ Walsh said. ‘Another funny thing to say, I thought, but I guess young girls have to be careful.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh, how dreadful.’
Lockyer looked out of the window as Walsh wiped away a tear. The emotion appeared genuine, but then Sheila and Armstrong’s reactions had looked genuine too. It seemed Walsh had two personas. But which was the real one?
‘Mr Walsh, we will need full access to your database and records for our investigation,’ Lockyer said, holding up his hand before Walsh could protest. ‘I am aware of the confidentiality issue, but it is necessary, I’m afraid. You will be provided with the relevant legal paperwork so there’s no breach on your part.’
‘Of course. I understand, Detective. I will assist wherever I can,’ Walsh said.
‘I will need a comprehensive list of all your employees for interviewing purposes,’ he said.
Walsh nodded at him enthusiastically. ‘Of course, of course.’
‘Would you be happy to provide a fingerprint sample and some DNA?’ Lockyer asked, picking up his jacket, getting ready to leave. The yes, yes, response he had expected wasn’t forthcoming. He looked over at Walsh. The guy was motionless.
‘Me . . .’ Walsh stuttered. ‘Why would you . . .?’
Jane leaned forward; she was so good at this. Cop bedside-manner wasn’t his strong suit. ‘It’s merely procedure, Mr Walsh. It’s important to eliminate those connected with the victim as early as possible.’
Walsh looked as if he was going to be sick. ‘Well . . .’ he said, his eyes resuming their crazed journey around the consulting room. ‘I will need to speak to my lawyer . . . first.’
‘If you feel that is necessary, Mr Walsh, feel free to do so.’ He sat back on the couch, his jacket draped over his knees, listening to Jane as she finished off the details. He was looking at Walsh. Was the guy really as distraught as he looked?
9
24 January – Friday
Sarah sat on the long wall that ran from the pavement up to the doors of Lewisham Police Station. She had talked to herself in the car on the drive over, practising what she would say, but now, sitting here, she was frightened. She lifted her head, her hair hiding most of her face, and watched people walking in and out of the station as the damp from the freezing concrete seeped into her bones. She studied their faces through a veil of hair.
She stood up, wrapped her arms around herself and walked up to the double doors. She could see an officer behind the reception desk, his eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of him. Should she tell them about her conversations with Officer Rayner at Peckham Police Station? She didn’t want to. The main reason she had come to Lewisham was so she wouldn’t have to deal with Rayner ever again. If they thought he was her point of contact would they send her away, refuse to help? She shook her head. ‘Just walk in, all you have to do is walk in,’ she said under her breath, each step sending icy air through her jeans. She wanted to go home but when the doors hissed apart she felt compelled to keep moving.
The foyer was vast but still held the smell of industrial cleaner and something else: vomit. She imagined the kind of people who staggered or were dragged in here. Everything was blue glass and chrome. She approached the desk, her throat drying and her mind emptying with each step forward. The officer looked up and smiled at her.
‘Good morning. How can I help you?’ His voice was soft.
‘Yes, I need to speak to someone, I’ve spoken to an officer before but he was . . . he said to . . . I mean, it’s probably nothing but I wanted to come and talk to someone else.’ She stared at her hands. She wanted to disappear.
‘I will ju
st need some details from you, madam.’
She stuttered and stumbled over her words, holding up her diary as some kind of talisman: proof that she wasn’t crazy. The officer nodded after each faltering sentence and tapped away on his computer. God knows what he had put: ‘Female, 35, deranged.’ That would be about right. He gave her a clipboard and a form to fill in and ushered her away.
A blue plastic bench ran the length of the foyer opposite the reception desk. She sat down and filled in her name and address. Her handwriting looked childlike. Other people were scattered along the bench with their own clipboards. All of them were either staring at the floor or into the middle distance. At least she didn’t seem to be the only one struggling. She couldn’t get past her own name. Her pen hovered over the box marked ‘Detail of Complaint’. She was afraid that if she started writing, nothing would be there. The more she wrote, the emptier the page would become.
‘Miss Grainger?’ Sarah looked up as a short female officer with a badly cut, Dawn-French-style fringe walked towards her.
‘Yes,’ she said, unsure whether she should stand or stay where she was.
‘My name is Jane Bennett, Detective Sergeant.’ She shook the officer’s hand, surprised by how tiny and fragile the woman’s fingers felt. ‘If you would like to come with me, we can talk about what’s been happening with you?’
What an odd thing to say. Happening with you. Not happening to you, but with you.
Sarah pulled the zipper on her jacket up and then pushed it back down again. The repetitive action was soothing. The buzz of the zip created a kind of white noise. Sergeant Bennett had excused herself to go and speak to her boss, ten minutes ago. She had taken Sarah’s phone with her after they had listened to the voicemail he had left. The message had been whispered, only a few words audible above a hiss of static. ‘Sarah . . . I . . . wanted to tell you . . . I helped . . . was cold . . . I did it . . . I did it.’ It didn’t make any sense but at least it meant she had something.
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