Never Look Back

by Clare Donoghue

  Lockyer’s decision not to alert Sarah to the surveillance had weighed heavily, but there was no other way. He hadn’t wanted to risk her inadvertently alerting the stalker to the police presence. She wouldn’t have been able to stop herself looking for Russ and his team. If she spotted them, it followed that her stalker might too. Whether it was the right decision was moot now.

  Questions circled in his head like vultures. Was Sarah’s stalker just another dead end, like Hodgson? He could have wasted precious time and resources for nothing. On the other hand, what if this guy was Debbie and the other girls’ killer? The surveillance team was only authorized to observe Sarah’s home address. Every time she was out on her own she was at risk.

  He smacked his hands together to force blood into his freezing fingers. This wasn’t where he wanted to be right now. He wanted to be where the action was. Instead he was listening to the surveillance team as they fed back information via a piece-of-shit handheld radio. As he looked over at Jane, who had chosen to stay in the car, he saw that she was looking at him with her head cocked on one side. She was probably wondering what would possess anyone to stand in several inches of snow, in the dark, for an hour, when they could be sitting in the warm, with her. But Lockyer couldn’t stay still. Adrenalin had his body humming with energy.

  He looked at the almost frozen fruit and veg on display outside the corner shop before walking in, stamping the snow off his boots and nodding a greeting to the woman behind the till. She smiled but immediately turned away to resume a muttered telephone conversation while staring up at a television set that showed a black-and-white Bollywood-looking film, the volume turned down to nothing. It was clear that the police presence outside the shop for the past hour hadn’t fazed her in the slightest.

  The aisles were so narrow, piled high with toilet rolls, Brillo pads and Kleenex Aloe Vera tissues, that Lockyer decided going any further in would be a mistake. Instead he stared into the refrigerated unit. Behind the thick strips of plastic that kept in the cold, he could see milk, yoghurt, cheese and row upon row of unrecognizable pieces of meat. He tuned out the chattering woman as he picked up an energy drink. He was thinking about the footage he had seen yesterday. One section showed Turner getting out of his Nissan, approaching Sarah’s front door and touching her doorbell, although it looked more like he was caressing it. Even the thought made Lockyer’s skin itch. Some of the surveillance showed Turner talking to himself, covering his mouth with his fingers when he laughed, like a schoolgirl at a dance. He put the drink on the counter. ‘Do you have any energy bars?’ he asked. The woman continued her telephone conversation and pointed to a shelf in front of the till. He picked up one bar after another, reading the labels and ingredients to pass the time. The waiting was killing him.

  The radio at his hip crackled. He waited but it fell silent. Nothing yet. He paid for his drink and two energy bars before walking back into the freezing February evening. As he approached the car he tried to picture Turner as a highly motivated killer. Phil’s psychological profile detailed someone of above-average intelligence, an accomplished problem solver. If Turner had possessed either of those qualities, surely he would have spotted Russ and Amir in the maroon Volvo and the other officer sitting alone in a white van for the past four days? But he hadn’t. It seemed that Malvern Turner was so preoccupied with watching Sarah’s flat that he was oblivious to everything and everyone around him. That wasn’t the behaviour of a calculating killer.

  He pulled back the sleeve on his coat to look at his watch and let out a frustrated breath. An hour and a half he’d been stood here and nothing had happened. ‘Sod this,’ he said, opening the door to the squad car, climbing in and turning up the heater to full blast. It was only when the warm air hit his face that he realized just how cold he was.

  ‘Feel better, sir?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I can’t just sit here all evening waiting. It’s driving me nuts.’ He pulled off his gloves and handed Jane one of the energy bars before cupping his hands over the air vent. His fingers tingled as they came back to life. ‘Do we have any idea when she’s meant to be home?’

  ‘No, sir. All Amir said was that Grainger left the flat with the Italian woman this afternoon.’

  ‘Great . . . do you think Turner has anything to do with these murders, Jane?’ he asked.

  Jane paused but only for a second. ‘Well, he fits some of the profile. He’s a predator in the killing zone.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but what do you think?’ He waited.

  Jane finally turned to face him. ‘I don’t think he’s our killer, sir, no.’ She shrugged. ‘As for him being your “watcher”, I just don’t know.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ he said, turning his face into the heater. What had he expected from Jane – reassurance, or a confirmation she couldn’t possibly give? The radio crackled. Lockyer sat up, his mind suddenly clear, his body ready.

  ‘Target in sight, red Mazda, registration X-ray, one, three, three, mike, bravo, delta,’ Russ said, his voice quiet.

  ‘And the suspect?’ Lockyer asked.

  ‘Yes, suspect in sight, blue Nissan Micra, registration Mike, four, five, four, papa, uniform, delta. He’s parking up . . . five cars up from target . . . engine stopped. Target out of her vehicle with one female, five foot five, long black hair. They’re entering the flat, 10A Surrey Road. Target is carrying a handbag, green. Target and other now inside, door closed.’

  Lockyer’s muscles jumped beneath his skin as he listened. Something inside him was firing up.

  ‘Target closing front blinds. Porch, hall and lounge lights all on. Suspect has a camera, seems to be using the zoom to look at the target. No flash, no pictures taken that I can see. What do you want us to do, sir? How long do we wait?’ Russ asked.

  ‘You and Amir stay put. We’ll be there in three.’ Lockyer pulled his gloves back on and opened the car door. ‘Jane, we’re on.’

  He jogged down the street, favouring the centre of the road where the majority of the snow had melted. He could hear Jane close behind him. As he approached the end of Surrey Road he slowed and stopped. He peered around the corner at the quiet street. He could see the surveillance van parked on the opposite side. He held the radio up to his mouth.

  ‘I’m at the corner, Russ. Am I going to be able to get across to the van without Turner seeing me?’ he asked in a hushed voice.

  ‘Yes, sir. You could dance up and down the street naked and this guy wouldn’t notice.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, pulling up his collar and reaching back to take Jane’s hand.

  As they crossed the street, beginning their charade of a husband and wife out for an evening stroll, he resisted the urge to look down Sarah’s street. He found himself wondering whether Grainger had ever been married, but the thought vanished as they took position behind the white van. ‘Right,’ he said into the radio. ‘I want to take him quietly. Amir will run interference on the passenger side, allowing Russ to approach and make the arrest before the suspect has time to react or run. Jane and I will provide back-up.’ With a bit of luck this would be quick and simple. In and out and back to the station before the first curtain twitched. ‘On my word, move in on the suspect.’ He put his arm around Jane’s shoulder and held her close as they began walking up the street, talking and laughing about what a great night they’d had and how good the food was at The Green now it was under new management. Lockyer kissed her forehead, using the opportunity to take a sly look at the blue Nissan.

  Once they were a good distance past Turner’s car, Lockyer stopped, checked the road behind them and then crossed, both of them immediately crouching behind a long line of cars. ‘We’re in position, Russ,’ he whispered into his radio.

  Russ and Amir climbed out of the Volvo and began walking up the street. Turner was motionless, his face turned up to Sarah’s lounge windows. The guy was totally oblivious. Still, Lockyer held his breath as Amir knocked on the passenger-side window of the Nissan.

  ‘Just need so
me directions, mate,’ Amir said, in a loud voice.

  Turner barely reacted. He just turned to look at Amir, leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. ‘What do you want?’

  Lockyer was struck by how normal he sounded.

  ‘I need to get to Lordship Lane, top end, near the curry house,’ Amir said, leaning into the Nissan.

  Turner nodded his head. He seemed unfazed, unthreatened by the intrusion to his vigil. ‘All you need to do is walk to the end of this street,’ Turner said, pointing to the far end of Surrey Road, ‘make a right and walk all the way down to the end till you come to the traffic lights and the edge of the Rye.’

  ‘Yeah, down ’ere, right, to the end, lights, the Rye, got it,’ Amir said, looking in the direction he would be going.

  ‘That’s right. Then you need to take a left . . .’

  Russ was approaching Turner on the driver’s side but as he reached for the door the radio attached to his belt came to life, crackling and giving off high-pitched feedback. Turner’s head whipped round and everything seemed to happen in slow motion as he kicked open the car door, flooring Russ with the impact. Amir still had his head stuck inside the car, so was helpless when Turner cracked him on the head with what looked like a steering-wheel lock. Lockyer looked on in stunned silence as Amir’s legs crumpled beneath him.

  The slow motion suddenly jumped to real-time as Turner got out of the car and set off running. After a moment’s hesitation Lockyer was chasing after him, shouting, ‘Stop, police!’ as Turner disappeared around the corner of Sarah’s street, sliding in the snow and slush.

  When Lockyer reached the corner he saw Turner take a right past Nunhead Cemetery. He pushed his muscles to go faster. Despite the shock of an impromptu run, he could feel his breath steadying as he got into a rhythm. His radio banged against his right leg, his boots alternately collecting and dumping slushy piles of snow with each step. As he made the right past the cemetery he could see that he was gaining. Turner was no more than a hundred yards ahead now. Lockyer used his arms to give him extra momentum and sprinted down the centre of the street.

  ‘Stop, police!’ he yelled again. As he pounded the wet tarmac he could see curtains twitching. So much for a quiet take-down.

  As Turner reached the end of the road he slipped and fell but was up and running again in seconds, heading straight down the alleyway that led from one side of the cemetery to the other.

  ‘Gotcha,’ Lockyer said on an exhale of breath. The path ran for a good half mile. There was no way off it. A high wall on the left and an even higher fence on the right. He swerved onto the path and raced up the steady incline. Unless Turner was super-fit, sprinting uphill was going to slow him down considerably.

  As Lockyer rounded a corner he saw him, now only fifty yards out in front. Turner stopped and began trying to scrabble up the fence on his right. When that didn’t work he tried the wall to his left.

  ‘It’s over – stop!’ he shouted but his words only seemed to spur Turner on as he managed to get a hold on the wall and heave himself a couple of feet off the path.

  Lockyer jumped, slammed into Turner’s side and both of them came crashing down onto the footpath. There was a loud crack when they landed but that didn’t stop him positioning his knee firmly in Turner’s back, broken arm or not.

  ‘My arm, my arm,’ Turner screamed, struggling beneath Lockyer’s weight.

  ‘The more you move, the more it’ll hurt,’ Lockyer said, turning to look behind him at the sound of footsteps. It was Jane and a limping Russ.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Russ said, holding his stomach, clearly out of breath. ‘Bloody radio tuned into another frequency.’

  Turner’s protests had become dull whines as the shock of the break and the exhaustion of the chase caught up with him.

  ‘Where’s Amir?’ Lockyer asked, easing the pressure on the prostrate man’s right arm. He wasn’t going anywhere, so there was no need to crush him, although the idea appealed.

  ‘Left him in the car, sir. He took a blow to the head,’ Russ said, glaring down at Turner lying on the ground.

  ‘Harassment, resisting arrest and assaulting two police officers. Who knows what else you’ve been up to, Mr Turner?’ Lockyer said, talking quietly into Turner’s ear.

  25

  3 February – Monday

  Lockyer waited behind a line of rush-hour traffic for the temporary lights to change. It was an act of will, resisting the urge to turn on the sirens in order to power through the gridlock.

  He would be interviewing Malvern Turner at 11 a.m., provided he actually managed to make it into the office at all. He cursed as a courier bike hurtled past him, clipping his wing mirror in the process. Pedestrians were slipping around on several inches of snow. King’s College A&E was going to have a busy day tending to broken ankles.

  It had been easy to keep Turner overnight. Lockyer had a veritable smorgasbord of charges to choose from. So many, in fact, that the original reason for Turner’s arrest – the alleged harassment of Sarah Grainger – had barely been discussed when the thirty-seven-year-old was booked in, after his own trip to A&E to set a fractured radius. Lockyer inched the car forward. It was going to take another ten minutes to get to the office at this rate. He leaned on the horn. He could see the station car park ahead of him. His hand hovered over the switch for the siren again.

  When the lights finally changed, Lockyer revved his engine and shot through, swinging his car onto the wrong side of the road and into the station car park. His phone began to ring on the passenger seat. He grabbed it and pushed answer.

  ‘Lockyer,’ he said.

  ‘Morning, sir. Where are you?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I’m pulling in now. I’ll be there in five. I want to run through the questions for the interview with Turner. Bring his arrest sheet, will you?’ There was a long silence and Lockyer held the phone in front of him to see if the signal had dropped out. It hadn’t. ‘Jane, you still there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. You’re going to have to postpone the interview.’

  Lockyer doubted that very much. He had already lost twelve hours because of Turner’s hospital visit and overnight stay at the MPS’s local holding facility. He didn’t want to waste any more time. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘I just got off the phone with DI Baker. His team were called out when a body was found over in Richmond Park earlier this morning . . . from what he’s just told me, it sounds like our guy.’

  Lockyer felt as if his whole body was being squeezed like a wet rag. ‘But it’s only . . . that’s not even two weeks since Debbie,’ he said, ramming his car into reverse.

  ‘I know, sir. Dave’s on his way there, so we can wait for confirmation if you want, but . . .’ Jane stopped short. He could hear the adrenalin in her voice. She was ready to move and he needed to get into the same mindset.

  ‘Right. You come with me and tell the rest of the team to meet us there.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ she said, hanging up before he could say anything else.

  Twelve days, only twelve days. Phil had said that the time gap between murders for cases like this would get shorter, but this felt crazy. He looked up to see Jane running across the car park. Turner would have to wait.

  26

  3 February – Monday

  Lockyer pulled up behind Dave’s battered white BMW and turned off the sirens. It wasn’t even 8.30 a.m. but Roehampton Lane was swarming with squad cars, three SOCO vans and a plethora of other on-site officers’ cars. There were also two press vans.

  No one in the melee in front of him seemed at all bothered by the three inches of snow. Before he had a chance to engage the parking break, Jane was out of the car and talking to three of the on-call team. He followed her, turning up his collar against the chill. The snowhad finally stopped but from the look of the sky, it seemed the break might be short lived. He walked towards the main gates of Richmond Park, stopping at the outer cordon to put on shoe covers. Jane was close behind him, scribbling in he
r notebook. He wanted to hear her initial, un-biased reactions but he was also conscious that she hadn’t been with him when Debbie was found. If today’s victim was in a similar state, it was a lot to take at this time on a Monday morning. He watched her as she grabbed her own pair of plastic shoe covers from the waiting constable. She leaned on Lockyer’s arm to slide them over her sensible shoes. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Jane never wore heels anymore. She looked calm and focused. He didn’t need to babysit her. He never had.

  ‘Jane. I want you to talk me through the scene, start to finish. Anything that comes to mind I want to hear it, OK?’ he said, gesturing for her to go ahead of him.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They both ducked under the perimeter tape, and as they crossed the threshold into Richmond Park Jane said, ‘Wow.’ She was looking up, down and all around her. ‘I feel like I’ve wandered into Lapland. Hardly any of the snow has melted.’

  He looked out at the snow-covered parkland. Dozens of footprints broke the surface of the icy crust where they were standing, exposing brown, sodden grass. It looked like the SOCOs had put down as many walkways as they could, but as he and Jane moved further into the park it was clear that the evidence trail was going to be a nightmare. There were numerous footprints, all going in different directions. No doubt some of the prints belonged to the person who discovered the body, some to the first responders to the scene, and some would be the killer’s, but deciphering which would be impossible now.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, walking towards the cover of trees to the right of the entrance.