Never Look Back

by Clare Donoghue

  ‘Michael, good to hear from you. You coming over later?’ she asked, her voice bright.

  As always, he felt a pang of jealousy that his voice had never and probably would never sound like that. ‘I can’t today, I’m afraid,’ he said, taking a sip of his coffee. ‘I just wanted to see how things were your end.’

  ‘Things are good. I’m knee-deep organizing the Greenwich trip for next week. I’ve been showing Bobby pictures of the Cutty Sark. To say he is excited would be an understatement,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘I can imagine,’ he said, walking through to his office, carrying his coffee in the palm of his hand. ‘Will you tell him I’ll be in tomorrow or over the weekend?’

  ‘Of course, he’ll be thrilled,’ she said.

  Bobby wouldn’t be anything like thrilled. Today, two days from now, he wouldn’t really know the difference, but Lockyer was grateful to Alice for maintaining at least the charade of normality, for his sake, no doubt. ‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’

  ‘Cool. I’m out tomorrow, though . . . my new man is taking me away for the day, so if you come then you’ll have to face Amber.’ She cackled.

  ‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ he said, turning on his computer. ‘I’ll certainly bear that in mind. Speak to you later.’

  As he hung up he thought about Bobby’s life before Alice, before Cliffview. A familiar combination of guilt and anger settled on his shoulders. Had Bobby’s childhood been happy? Lockyer didn’t really know and there was no one to ask. Their parents were dead and gone, Aunt Nancy was in a home losing her mind to dementia and Bobby, the one person who should be able to tell him, was locked away, shut off in his own world. All Lockyer had were a few letters and pictures. Nothing, really. It was as if Bobby’s life had been airbrushed so only the present existed, all the lines of his past erased. He stared at his mug and forced the thoughts away. He needed to believe that Bobby had been happy with their parents, and that his life had been full at Aunt Nancy’s. It was the only reality he could handle right now.

  Throughout his run, as he passed row upon row of Victorian terraces peppered with snow, he had been turning the case over in his mind, thinking about Debbie, about Hodgson. But as one avenue of enquiry opened, another closed behind him, trapping him inside. The more he tried to make Hodgson fit the profile, the less the guy did. According to Phil, the abortions might mean the girls’ killer was fuelled by revenge, a life for a life, but even Phil had admitted he was reaching. This wasn’t some anti-abortion campaigner on the rampage. Hodgson wasn’t against abortion. He had wanted Debbie to have an abortion, even paid for it.

  The surveillance team he’d put on Grainger were monitoring a potential suspect for her stalker, but the description didn’t fit Hodgson. The more Lockyer looked at it, the more holes he saw. Grainger had said she did work for corporate companies in the City, advertising agencies included. Hodgson could easily have employed her services and decided she was worth closer attention. Lockyer could link Hodgson to Debbie, definitely, to Grainger, potentially, but Phoebe and Katy were still a no go.

  He stared at the peeling wallpaper. This had been Megan’s bedroom when he and Clara had first separated. He’d spent hours choosing just the right pattern, so it was girly but not wall-to-wall pink and princesses. For the first couple of years he had Megan to stay every other weekend. Of course, it hadn’t worked out quite like it should have done. He leaned forward and pushed out a bubble that formed and re-formed where two sheets of the badly hung wallpaper met. He needed to redecorate. He couldn’t remember the last time his daughter had stayed over.

  He looked at the files on his desk. Jane had organized them, as she always did. Red for the post-mortem, green for the crime-scene documents, blue for the interviews and yellow for the profile. He opened the green folder and scanned the exhibits form. Debbie had been wearing a sterling-silver snake bracelet. Lockyer couldn’t picture it so he flicked to the back of the report to the photographs of each item listed on the form. It was a tightly woven rope of silver with a hook clasp. It didn’t look cheap either, not something Debbie would buy for herself, but exactly the kind of present Hodgson would buy. Lockyer remembered the empty jewellery case found in Debbie’s handbag. The bracelet was probably a softener before the sex and before Hodgson unceremoniously dumped her. He shook his head.

  He looked back at the file. A single silver stud earring with a turquoise stone was found next to Debbie’s body. It hadn’t been ripped out of her ear, so it had either fallen out in the struggle or the attacker had removed it. He turned to the back of the folder again and looked at the on-scene photo. The butterfly back rested right next to the earring. This looked more like the type of jewellery Debbie would own. The exhibits sheet showed only one earring had been recovered, so either the killer had removed one from the scene as a souvenir or, more likely, it was still caught up in the array of debris recovered from the scene. The forensic team would be sifting through everything for days to come. He had asked Phil what the removal of the earring or earrings might mean, considering the piece of material cut out of Phoebe Atherton’s trousers and the torn section of Katy Pearson’s coat. Phil had been his usual cryptic self. ‘It could be significant . . . but I wouldn’t want to speculate at this stage.’ Significant. That appeared to be Phil’s word of the month. Every question he asked Phil, the answer began with ‘It could be significant . . .’

  Outside the window, rain was coming down in torrents, hitting the overflowing gutter with a repetitive thudding sound. He had timed his run just right. As he took a sip of his now cold coffee, he realized the smell he was trying to ignore was his own body, as his sweat dried into his running clothes. He stood up and arched his back. He would just work for another hour and then he could shower. He picked up the folder and shuffled out handfuls of crime-scene pictures and threw them onto the mahogany coffee table behind him.

  He knelt on the pale pink carpet and began sorting through the images. Each had a sticker on the top left-hand corner. In black ink an exhibits clerk had written a number and a letter. These represented the sequence in which the pictures were taken and the proximity to the body; A being the closest, J being the furthest away from the final resting place of the victim. He arranged the As on the table in order. Even with the flash, the images were still dark. All he could really see was mud, chewing gum, the black of Debbie’s blood and an assortment of bottles, cans and cigarette butts. He swept the pictures off the table onto the carpet and picked up the pile of B photographs. As before, he laid them out in order and studied them for any anomalies. Anything that he might have missed.

  His doorbell rang just as he was arranging the F pictures on the table. He stood up, his knees popping as he hobbled down the hallway. He looked into the lounge, at his new sofa that he still hadn’t managed to spend any quality time on. Maybe at the weekend he would get a spare couple of hours. He could chuck on a bit of Santana or the Eagles, lie back, close his eyes and relax. The idea was painful in its unlikelihood. He pulled open the front door as he pushed aside a pile of junk mail.

  ‘Hey, I was in the area . . .’ Megan stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek and bounced straight past him and down the hallway, leaving a trail of water as she went. She was talking all the while. ‘Have you spoken to Mum? Have you had lunch?’ The red in Megan’s hair shone as she passed underneath the hall light, shaking off the rain. He was almost overwhelmed by an urge to hold her.

  She was already filling the kettle when he walked into the kitchen. He watched, smiling. She was so like her mother, who could also talk for England and rarely noticed if he was listening. Megan would be nineteen in April but watching her fuss with mugs, tea bags and milk, he saw a little girl trying to make breakfast in bed for her parents, struggling up the stairs with a heavy tray, uncooked eggs and cremated toast.

  ‘How are you, Megs?’ he said, sitting down at the kitchen table. He might be the boss at work but when it came to his daughter he was merely a prop. He had perfected silent acquiescence.r />
  ‘Good, good . . . fine. Tea?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘My marketing and ethics modules are interesting but accounting is beyond me. I’d drop it but it’s too late in the semester to start a new module. It’ll be fine. I just need to get my head down,’ she said, passing him a mug of tea despite his refusal.

  He had little or no influence when it came to his daughter’s education. A degree in Business Studies would give her a chance to study a broad spectrum of subjects, she said. He would have been happier if she had chosen a more focused path, one that actually led to a career. However, he had apparently given up the right to have his say when he had cheated on her mother, or so she had told him on more than one occasion during her early adolescence. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it under control,’ he said.

  She sat down opposite him and started taking slurps of tea. ‘You look tired, Dad. You need to take better care of yourself.’

  ‘I’m fine, Megs, just busy.’

  ‘You’re always busy.’ She put down her mug and rested her elbows on the table. ‘I read about the murders of those girls in the paper,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know how you do it, dealing with that every day. I get upset just reading about it.’

  ‘My team deal with murders every day,’ he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

  She seemed to sense his reluctance because she just nodded, took a sip of her tea and then said, ‘So . . . do you have time for some lunch?’

  He could tell by her facial expression that she was preparing for him to say no. ‘Sure, I’ll cook us something. I’ve got plenty here.’ A slight exaggeration as he hadn’t been to the shops for a week. He certainly didn’t have time to drive into Lewisham, find somewhere they both wanted to eat, wait to be served and all the while be thinking about the murders.

  ‘I’ll help,’ she said, her face lifting.

  ‘No, no. I can manage. Why don’t you go and watch some TV and I’ll shout you when it’s ready?’

  ‘OK, if you’re sure?’ She got up, planted another kiss on his forehead and walked out of the room. When she had taken on the role of concerned parent he wasn’t sure, but it made him uncomfortable. She seemed to have grown up overnight, her teenage temper tantrums replaced with a self-awareness and compassion that felt too advanced for her years. He couldn’t help thinking that his job and performance as a father had facilitated her rapid ascent into adulthood.

  After a search he managed to find pasta, a decent pesto sauce and some bacon. It was curling at the edges but it smelled OK. Once he had the water boiling he dumped in a couple of handfuls of penne. If he made extra that would do for dinner or lunch tomorrow. The smell of the frying bacon reminded his stomach that he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days. He burnt his finger and his tongue as he tried to scoop up a piece of the crisping bacon. As he sucked the end of his finger he looked out at his back garden. The decking he had laid last summer would be slick with all this rain. It wasn’t quite the haven of outside space he had envisioned.

  It was already midday by his oven clock. He must have been looking at the crime-scene photos for a couple of hours, at least. He took two bowls from the cupboard and set two places at the table. The pasta would be done in a couple of minutes. It was hardly a feast but he was quite impressed that he had managed to produce anything.

  ‘Five minutes, Megs,’ he shouted through to the lounge. She didn’t respond.

  He still hadn’t bought a drainer, so he used the pan lid to drain off the boiling water. He spooned in the pesto and tipped in the bacon, stirring it with a teaspoon. It looked pretty good. ‘Right, Megs. Grub’s up.’ He filled both bowls to the brim and waited. ‘Megs . . . did you hear me?’ He threw the tea towel over his shoulder and set the bowls on the table before walking through to the lounge. The television was on but Megan wasn’t there.

  ‘Megan?’ he called, walking out into the hallway. The door to the bathroom was open. He glanced in but she wasn’t there. With that, he knew where she was. He pushed open the door to his office. She was on her knees, her hands hovering over the crime-scene photos. She didn’t look upset, just puzzled.

  ‘Megan, you know how I feel about you coming in here. This is not for you to see.’ As he approached he saw what she was looking at. It was a close-up of Deborah Stevens’ face.

  ‘Dad?’ she said, looking up at him.

  ‘You shouldn’t be in here, Megan.’ She didn’t move.

  ‘Is this why?’ she asked, pointing at the face in the picture.

  ‘Why what? Come on . . . out of here, now.’ He was getting angry. It was bad enough that his life was suffocated by images of pain but for his daughter to witness the harsh reality of his job was too much. ‘Megan, I mean it. Out. Now.’

  She pushed herself up on the table and stood, facing him, challenging him. ‘Is this why you called me?’

  He took her arm and pulled her out of the room, shutting the door behind him. She walked into the kitchen and sat down but she didn’t even look at the bowl in front of her. Her eyes were on him. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Now, can we have some lunch?’ He sat down opposite her.

  ‘Why didn’t you just say? I thought you sounded upset on the phone last week.’

  He looked up and saw pity and sympathy in his daughter’s eyes. ‘Megan. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve told you more than once that you’re not allowed in my office. Those pictures are from a crime scene, they’re not for entertainment.’ He shovelled a forkful of the pasta into his mouth. The bacon tasted sour.

  ‘Dad, she looked just like me. You must have noticed. You did notice . . . are you OK?’

  ‘The bacon is off.’ He slammed down his fork and stood up. He snatched his bowl and Megan’s and threw them both into the sink. There was a loud crack as one of the bowls broke, a jagged line running right down the centre.

  ‘Hey, hey . . . it doesn’t matter. Let’s go out. I’ll buy you lunch? I wanted to talk to you about . . . something,’ she said.

  He couldn’t look at her. He took a deep breath and put both his hands on the edge of the sink. ‘I can’t. I have to go into the office.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. He heard the scrape of her chair as she stood to leave.

  They walked to the door without speaking. She turned on the doorstep, went up on her toes and kissed his cheek, but she didn’t look at him.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, knowing he wouldn’t. She just nodded and walked away.

  He pushed away from the door and went back down the hallway and into his office. He stared at the peeling pink-and-white wallpaper, and then looked down at the photo of Debbie’s face. He thought about her parents. They had lost their daughter. They would never again sit down for a meal, or feel her warmth when they hugged her. They had lost all that and he still struggled even to come close to having a meaningful conversation with his daughter who was alive and well. Why did he find it so hard to talk? At work, when he was on a case his voice was constant, his thoughts and ideas flowing freely, but here, in his personal domain, he was inhibited, dismissive; angry, even.

  He knelt down and looked at the photos spread out on the table. Megan had pulled one of the pictures forward. It showed the drag marks down the alleyway. Like father, like daughter. The thought that had been swimming around in his head, out of reach, rushed into focus. He stood up, grabbed his phone off the desk and dialled Jane’s number.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Jane, it’s me. I want to run something by you.’

  ‘OK. I’m heading into the office in an hour. Do you want to do it then?’

  ‘Fine, we can go over it then, but let me ask you something . . . the fingerprint on the victim’s thigh.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jane said.

  ‘Why would the killer go to the trouble of wearing gloves, a condom, cleaning his victims after the attack and then leave one single fingerprint?’

  ‘Nothing has come back on the database. Maybe he ju
st wanted to touch her, skin to skin,’ Jane said.

  ‘That’s what I thought too, but Phil said that behaviour doesn’t fit the profile.’

  ‘So, what do you think now, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘We know she was moved mid-attack, but why?’ He couldn’t get the words out fast enough. ‘I think someone else was there. I think our guy got spooked and moved Debbie further into the alley but didn’t know he was still being watched.’ He pictured the new scenario in his mind. ‘I think someone watched the attack and only approached the body once the killer had left the scene.’ Every nerve ending in his body told him he was right.

  ‘But, sir, if someone was there why wouldn’t they call the police? If they found the body after she was killed, why wouldn’t they report it? Anonymously, if necessary?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. We’ve got to look at the CCTV again. If someone else was there, Jane, then they saw Hodgson. They can identify him.’ He let the words hang in the air.

  ‘Sir . . . Hodgson’s in the clear,’ Jane said.

  All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. ‘Say that again.’

  ‘Hodgson provided DNA yesterday, through his solicitor . . . he’s clear, sir.’

  Lockyer couldn’t take Jane’s words in. ‘That can’t be right. Grainger’s stalker, the profile, his involvement with Debbie, it all fits.’ Even as the words came out of his mouth the holes in his Hodgson theory, the holes he’d been trying to ignore for days, crowded in on him. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he heard himself say, his voice portraying a confidence he didn’t feel. ‘Hodgson was a long shot.’ He hadn’t thought that for a minute. Hodgson was his prime suspect. He looked at the pictures scattered all around his office as he felt another door slamming shut in his face. ‘We’ve still got Grainger’s stalker. Surveillance are in place. We’re making progress on the terminations link and we have a potential witness, with whoever left the partial fingerprint. It might not be Hodgson but we’re getting close, Jane. I can feel it.’ He finished his rush of words, almost hollowed out by his own hypocrisy. He had been hell bent on it being Hodgson. The entire indoor team had been searching for a link for the past three days. Wasted time.