She was sitting at the edge of a large open-plan office. Partitions separated desks into groups of two or four. She guessed Bennett was a senior officer because she had a desk to herself, against a window. The sergeant had been polite, knowledgeable, sincere and conscientious. What had Rayner been? None of those things, and he certainly hadn’t been a detective. Who knew, maybe he wasn’t a policeman at all. Bennett had made notes. Not into a computer but actual handwritten notes. The old-fashioned familiarity of it had made Sarah smile for the first time in days. Computer records could be lost but paper felt more permanent. She swivelled the office chair to the right and then back to the left, syncing the action with her zipper routine. She stared at her hands and was relieved to see that they had stopped shaking, for now.
10
24 January – Friday
His feet were turning into blocks of ice waiting for her. He wiggled his toes to encourage at least a little life back into them, closing his mind to the people who jostled him as they rushed by.
Everyone around him was oblivious to what he saw, what he knew. She was so close he could almost smell her and yet no one else seemed to feel her presence. He smiled and looked again at the double doors, willing her to appear. Saliva wet his tongue as anticipation hummed through his body.
There she was, walking carefully to avoid patches of ice. He tipped his head to one side and watched, transfixed by her face, her shape, even the way she moved. Her skin was pale, her hair dragged back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. He couldn’t wait to touch her there, a place so soft, so delicate. He stamped his feet, rolled his head around his aching shoulders and followed her as she walked towards her car. As he passed, only inches behind her, her scent filling his senses he reached out, his fingers touching her hair or one exquisite second. She didn’t see him. It wasn’t their time.
11
24 January – Friday
Lockyer was sitting alone in the briefing room, staring at the floor-to-ceiling glass that separated him from the main office. The bottom third was frosted so all he could see was the shadowed bodies of his team wandering back and forth, only their heads in focus. No one looked in at him but he still felt observed. Everyone was waiting for his lead.
He had been ignoring a strong impulse to call Clara, though what he hoped Megan’s mother would say eluded him. Without thinking he started turning the ring that hung around his neck. It had become a kind of talisman or touchstone since their separation, over five years ago. It maintained a connection. She didn’t know he had it and would no doubt be livid if she did. The memories conjured when he touched the small circle of gold were happy. He knew Clara didn’t feel the same way and that was the reality he had to live with. ‘Work and women. That’s all you care about, Mike.’ The memory of her words still stung. It took almost nothing to stir his guilt. He let out a frustrated breath, feeling his anger build but knowing it had nowhere to go but inward. He took his hand away and started to shuffle the papers in front of him, refocusing his mind.
The notes Jane had given him from their interview with Walsh were extensive, but there was no information or clue as to the identity of the father of Debbie’s baby. From the notes Walsh had shown them, Debbie hadn’t said much, other than she needed a termination because having the baby ‘wasn’t an option’. There was still something about Walsh that didn’t seem quite right, though. He had been too emotional, almost over the top. Jane was running a full background check now. She agreed that Walsh seemed to have a strong influence over his staff that wasn’t quite ‘normal’.
‘You ready for me?’
He looked up to see Phil Bathgate, their consultant forensic psychologist, leaning against the glass door. For someone whose job entailed putting himself into the mind of some seriously disturbed individuals, he had an oddly relaxed demeanour.
‘Sure. Take a seat . . . and shut the door,’ he said.
Phil sat down and began adjusting his seat; higher, lower, tipped back. ‘Thirty million and they can’t afford decent chairs,’ he said, all but fighting with the chair.
As Lockyer watched the performance he thought it was pretty obvious why the vast majority of the office thought Phil was a grade-A arse-wipe. ‘So, what do you have for me, Phil?’ he asked.
With an exaggerated sigh and a roll of his eyes Phil gave up on the chair and took a blue ring binder out of his briefcase. He pulled out several sheets of paper and without speaking slid them across the table. ‘Well . . . the psychological and geographical profiles are really coming together. The third body has given me an excellent sense of the suspect’s motivations.’
‘I assume, when you say the “third body”, you’re referring to Deborah Stevens,’ he said, biting his tongue, already wishing this particular meeting was over. The sheer delight evident on Phil’s face wasn’t right. ‘Can you just run me through what you’ve got, Phil?’
‘Absolutely, that’s what I’m here for . . . no problemo.’ Phil smiled, oblivious to Lockyer’s mood. ‘I’ve approached the profile with four aspects in mind. Firstly, the antecedent, meaning the fantasy or plan the suspect had before the act, and what triggered his activities on those days and not others. Secondly, the method and manner of the murder. I think that’s self-explanatory. Thirdly, body disposal. Obviously, we know he didn’t transport his victims after their deaths but that in itself is interesting. And finally, post-offence behaviour. Is he following you? I mean to say, following the case, enjoying being part of such an exciting investigation.’ Phil took a deep breath and sat back. He looked delighted by his own brilliance.
‘This isn’t my first profile briefing,’ Lockyer said, rubbing his right eyebrow where a twitch was taking hold.
‘Naturally . . . I’ll talk you through the crime scenes and highlight where your man is speaking to you.’
Lockyer decided to ignore the emphasis Phil placed on ‘your man’ and ‘speaking to you’. Instead he looked down at the first sheet of paper and scanned the details printed in tight black ink. Phoebe Atherton, the first victim, had been reduced to ten bullet points.
Phil began reading them out. ‘The first victim was found at 14.00 hours at the edge of Camberwell New Cemetery; very significant.’
‘What? The time or the location?’ Lockyer asked.
‘Both. Dr Simpson put the time of death in the early hours of the morning. So, it’s fair to say he likes to work at night . . . the killer, that is . . . not Dave,’ Phil said, chuckling at his own poor attempt at humour. ‘The cemetery itself may represent the suspect’s mindset at the time of the attack. If this was his first victim . . . doubtful . . . but if it was, the cemetery would be a logical choice.’
Lockyer turned his chair so he could stare at the whiteboard at the end of the room. Pictures and documents had been attached to it and interlinking arrows drawn on with a green marker pen. Somehow, the chaos of the board helped him concentrate and absorb Phil’s assertions without having to absorb Phil’s manner as well. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Of course . . . he may not have killed like this before but he will have practised. I would imagine that he started small, scaring young women, that kind of thing. Nothing major, jumping out of bushes or following them home, so they knew he was there,’ Phil said.
‘How long would you say he’s been building up to this?’ Lockyer asked.
‘Years – five, maybe more. As I say, he would have started small.’
Lockyer thought of all the unreported assaults or unsolved sexual attacks he had seen in his years of service. Any one of them could have been a starting point, a building block. ‘What are we talking about here, Phil, sociopath . . . psychopath, what?’
‘Certainly not a sociopath. The suspect will be above-average intelligence, organized, ritualistic and functioning on all cylinders. Top of his game, you might say?’ Phil smiled, exposing two rows of straight, bleached teeth.
‘Jesus, Phil. Try and rein in your weird-shit phrases, will you?’ Lockyer said, shaking his head. ‘T
op of his game . . . unbelievable.’ Phil nodded, but said nothing. That was the trouble. The guy was so good at his job it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. At least the creep didn’t know about Debbie’s resemblance to Megan. If he did there would be questions, endless questions. ‘What did you feel when you saw what you thought was your daughter’s face?’ ‘Of course, you would have begun to grieve on a subconscious level. Are you aware that your ability to perform your duties may be impaired?’
‘What I want to emphasize here, Lockyer, is the suspect’s desire for power. The attacks, the locations, even the murders themselves . . . they’re all secondary.’
‘Secondary?’ he asked, again stunned by Phil’s glib attitude.
‘Yes. The locations, though significant, are hardly discreet. The Stevens girl was even moved, mid-attack, no doubt because of the alley’s proximity to the general public. That’s what I mean by power, Lockyer. Rape, though violent, is rarely about sex. Carrying out these attacks in built-up areas is the suspect’s way of demonstrating his superiority and dominance over not only his victims, but everyone else. You included.’
He felt the muscles in the back of his neck tighten. ‘Just what I needed to hear . . . so what about the wrist wounds? What’s that about?’
‘I couldn’t say, although I would suggest that they are inextricably linked with his “performance” during the rape. In my opinion, he is able to perform sexually but only in a perfunctory way. Meaning, the excitement of the blood and rape would be enough to maintain his erection but he will be unable to climax. This could explain the throat wound. He would go as far as he could and then the frustration of not being able to ejaculate would be so intense that he would have to do something to bring the attack to an end. He certainly wouldn’t want the victim to witness his shortcomings, shall we say?’
‘And the bite on the victim’s neck?’ he asked, aware that the image of Debbie’s killer struggling to climax on top of her was going to stay with him for some time.
Phil looked down at the pages on the table. ‘Yes, no such marks were found on either of the first two victims. I think it is safe to assume that it represents a further stimulant for him and a further assault on the victim’s body. However, it does worry me. There is something very basic about biting. To be honest, I’m surprised he indulged himself . . . potentially leaving dental impressions, DNA . . . It doesn’t seem to be this killer’s style,’ Phil said with a careless shrug of his shoulders, as though disappointed that Debbie’s murderer had so little self-control.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was coming next but Lockyer knew he had to ask. ‘There will be others?’
‘Yes, without doubt. Altering his technique, as he has done with the Stevens girl, demonstrates that, and . . .’ Before Phil could continue, Jane knocked on the glass door.
Lockyer waved her in, relieved to have the distraction.
‘Phil . . . sir,’ she said.
‘Yes, Jane?’ he said.
‘I’ve had the report back on Walsh . . . he’s got two priors,’ she said, glancing down at a piece of paper she was holding. ‘One for drunk and disorderly. He was eighteen at the time.’
‘And the other?’ Lockyer asked, struggling with the thought of Walsh at eighteen, let alone drunk.
‘ABH, sir,’ Jane said, one eyebrow disappearing beneath her fringe. ‘He was charged but the CPS didn’t pursue it. Seems he had a “disagreement” with a colleague some time ago,’ she continued, looking again at the paper in front of her. ‘He would have been thirty-five. I’m pulling the file for more details.’
‘Interesting,’ he said, remembering the sheer panic on Walsh’s face at the mention of fingerprints being taken. No wonder, if he had priors. It also explained why Sheila and Armstrong were so nervous around him. A guy charged with ABH must have a pretty impressive temper. ‘Double check his alibis for the murders and come back to me,’ Lockyer said, aware that Phil was starting to huff and puff on the other side of the table. ‘Anything about the other girls from the clinic’s records?’
‘No, sir. Nothing. Neither Atherton or Pearson are listed as patients and none of the employees recognize them from the photographs I took down there,’ she said, looking despondent.
He knew how she felt. Katy, Phoebe and now Debbie. They didn’t work near each other or socialize in the same places. Other than living in roughly the same postcode, there was nothing to link any one of them. Nothing to show Lockyer how or why they were being targeted by a killer. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I’ve arranged second interviews with Stacey Clemments, the best friend, and William Hodgson, the boss. They’re both coming back in Sunday at 09.00.’
‘Good.’
‘Who do you want to run the interviews, sir?’ she asked.
He sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. The transcript of the interview Penny had done with Debbie’s boss had bothered him most. ‘Tell you what. You do the best friend and I’ll do Hodgson myself.’
‘No problem, sir.’
She didn’t leave.
‘Is there something else, Jane?’ he asked. Now he was looking at her face, he noticed the little crease between her eyebrows.
‘Yes, are you nearly done? I have a case I think could be of interest. I’d like to talk it through with you?’
‘Give me five minutes, Jane,’ he said, seizing the opportunity to escape with both hands. ‘I’ll meet you in my office.’
As the door closed he turned to Phil. ‘Apologies. Can we wrap this up and I’ll go over your full report and come back to you?’
‘Right, well, if you have to go.’ Phil sounded like a peeved child.
‘Yes, I do. Quick rundown if you can?’
‘Fine. As far as I see it . . .’
‘Main points, Phil. Just the main points.’
‘Yes . . . ’ Phil looked down at his notes; his confidence seemed momentarily absent. ‘Main points. Excellent geographical knowledge. Lives and works locally. Broken home, possible abuse, possible alcoholic parent. Sexual inadequacies. Twenty-five to forty-five. White male, hunting within his own ethnic group. Above-average height. Above-average intelligence. Strong . . .’
Lockyer struggled to concentrate on the rest of Phil’s summary as an image of a possible killer appeared in his mind, followed closely by Debbie Stevens’ body, lying in the alleyway. He could see her face, her mouth. It looked like it was moving, like she was trying to tell him something.
12
24 January – Friday
Sarah was sitting alone at Bennett’s desk, staring at her diary. The cheerful daisy pattern on the cover looked out of place. She pulled it towards her and flicked over the pages, each entry tugging at her nerves as she remembered so many sleepless nights. The impression of her black biro had left deep grooves, making the backs of each page look like Braille.
‘Sarah?’
As she turned she saw Bennett and standing next to her a tall guy wearing a crumpled charcoal suit.
‘Sarah, this is Detective Inspector Mike Lockyer, my boss.’
She shook the proffered hand, his grip suggesting he was more accustomed to shaking hands with men, demonstrating his power with this simple gesture. Despite his rather dishevelled appearance he was an imposing figure, handsome even.
‘Good morning, Miss Grainger,’ he said, smiling. When he released her hand it flopped like a dead fish back onto her lap.
‘Please, call me Sarah,’ she said, trying to ignore the tightening in her throat.
‘Apologies . . . Sarah it is,’ he said, looking from her to Bennett. His expression was hard to read. There was sympathy or pity but it was tinged with something else she couldn’t quite place. Frustration, maybe, at having his time wasted. ‘Yet another pathetic female with an overactive imagination.’ She could almost hear him saying it.
‘Sarah, my colleague DS Bennett will remain your point of contact. However, she has just briefed me on your case, and if you don’t mind, I would l
ike to ask you a few questions?’
She was finding it difficult not to stare. He looked like a Hollywood movie star who had been roughed up for an art-house film role. But more questions? She wasn’t sure she could stand any more, the disbelieving looks. Her exhaustion was suffocating her. ‘Go ahead,’ she said, flinching as he pulled a chair up next to her. He must have noticed her reaction because he pushed his chair back half a foot before sitting down. He was still close but not too close.
His questions made her dizzy. They made no sense. She could hear herself answering but her brain was aching with the weight of each bizarre inquiry.
‘Tell me, did contact increase or decrease at any particular time of the month? Is there a pattern in your diary that is easily identifiable?’
‘What time and where did you receive these calls?’
‘How long have you lived in the area?’
‘Do you work with an agency or privately?’
‘How do your clients get in contact with you?’
‘We will need to keep your mobile phone for a day or two for interrogation.’
‘Have you told anyone else about these incidents?’
‘Where were you on the nights of the 14th of December, 4th of January and 22nd of January?’
‘I will need details of the contact on those days.’
‘I will want to make a copy of your diary.’
She found herself staring into his round brown eyes, unable to look away.
‘Thank you. We will be in touch. You’ve been very helpful,’ he said, shaking her hand, more gently this time.
She didn’t understand. They were meant to be helping her, not the other way around, but before she could say as much, he stood, turned on his heel and walked away. Sergeant Bennett sat down in the seat vacated by her boss. Sarah had almost forgotten Bennett was still there.
‘Thank you, Sarah. I know it’s been a very long day for you. We won’t be too much longer.’
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