‘DI Lockyer,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’ll be right there.’ The detective was on his feet and pushing in his chair before the phone was even back in his pocket. He leaned over Officer Groves, his finger hovering over the button on the digital recorder. ‘Interview suspended at . . .’ He looked up at a clock on the wall high above them. ‘09.15. Mr Turner, I will be back in a moment,’ he said, stopping the tape and disappearing out of the door before Malvern even had a chance to reply.
Lockyer jogged past the reception desk, jabbed the ‘down’ button on the lift and paced back and forth waiting for the doors to open. He looked at his watch. He was meant to be seeing Bobby today. There was fat chance of that happening. He pressed ‘lower ground’, aware of his heart beating hard in his chest.
As the lift shuddered into movement he let the various charges scroll back and forth in his mind. He needed to talk to the custody officer again. The CPS would make him drop the resisting arrest charge but they would probably agree to a twelve-month suspended sentence and a fine, say two hundred and fifty quid for the ABH assault charges. A judge would hear those charges and the harassment plea when Turner was released. It was obvious the guy wasn’t going to plead guilty to the harassment charge so that hearing would be set for a later date. Turner would no doubt get another suspended term and then whatever kind of restraining order Grainger wanted. The doors opened and Lockyer walked down the hallway, rubbing his hands together, shaking his head. None of the charges kept Turner in custody.
He dodged down another hallway. It was like a rabbit warren down here. All he could hope was that Dave had good news. If he didn’t, Turner was liable to be back on the streets first thing in the morning and Lockyer would be right back where he started. Dave was sitting at his desk tapping away at his keyboard.
‘Dave, tell me you’ve got something for me,’ he said, closing the door behind him.
‘Take a seat and I’ll tell you,’ Dave said, indicating the moth-eaten chair. ‘Patrick has done the initial sweep for fingerprints on Hayley Sawyer and there aren’t any.’
Lockyer looked at Dave. ‘Nothing?’ he asked.
‘No, not even a smudge. The suspect was wearing gloves and, as with the other victims, he cleaned the body post-mortem.’
‘Was the body cleaned before or after the repositioning?’ he asked, knowing the answer already.
‘After,’ Dave said. ‘I’m guessing this isn’t the news you were expecting?’
‘Not exactly, no,’ he said, shaking his head. His theory about the ‘watcher’ being present at Hayley’s murder had been a distraction. He realized he had been using the idea to avoid the reality now staring him in the face. The killer’s confidence was growing. There was no other way to explain it. To return to the scene of the crime some four or six hours later, to reposition the body in broad daylight. Those weren’t the actions of a killer who felt threatened. Those were the actions of a man who was just getting started.
‘It’s not all bad news,’ Dave said, smiling, accentuating the myriad lines around his eyes and mouth. ‘The partial fingerprint on the Stevens girl. You have a match. It’s Turner.’
Lockyer banged his fist on the desk as relief flooded through him. ‘I knew it.’ He let the revelation settle in his mind. Turner might not have been present at Hayley’s murder but that didn’t matter now. Lockyer had a witness.
Dave leaned back in his chair. ‘Are you sure Turner isn’t the killer? This fingerprint puts him at the scene.’
‘Sure? No, I’m not one hundred per cent sure, but . . . look, Turner doesn’t fit the profile and from what Phil’s told me there’s no way Debbie’s killer would have removed his gloves. He’s too careful for that.’ He could feel Dave’s doubt, could see it in his eyes, but Lockyer knew his ‘watcher’ theory was right. For him, Turner’s fingerprint was all the confirmation he needed.
Dave shrugged his shoulders. ‘OK. So do you think Turner is going to be able to identify the killer?’
‘That, Dave, is what I’m about to find out.’
The detective had been gone for ages. No one had told him anything. No wonder Sarah had looked so upset when she had been to the police station. She had probably been subjected to the same appalling treatment.
Officer Groves had left the room not long after the detective but she was back now, staring straight ahead, not speaking. Nobody was speaking. Mrs Brunswick had said some soothing, annoying words when the detective first left the room but now she was trying to file a raggedy nail without anyone noticing. Malvern’s ear twitched with each stroke of her file. If he was forced to stay here much longer he was going to bang on the door and demand to be set free. All the time he was here, Sarah was out there, alone. Someone was following her, upsetting her. He should be with her, protecting her. The door opened, jarring his thoughts.
‘Sorry about that, Mr Turner,’ the detective said, pushing the door closed and sliding into his chair. He nodded to officer Groves, who pushed the button on the digital recorder.
‘Interview resumed at 10.03 a.m.,’ she said before reeling off everyone’s names, again.
The detective looked almost happy as he said, ‘Mr Turner, are you OK to continue?’
‘Yes,’ Malvern said, leaning back in his chair, trying to copy the detective’s body language, but the detective suddenly shot forward in his seat and put both of his very large hands on the desk with a thump.
‘Have you ever seen a dead body, Mr Turner?’
‘Detective?’ Mrs Brunswick said, holding up a chubby finger.
Malvern had no idea what to do or what to think.
‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ he said, disappointed to hear a waver in his own voice.
‘Detective, is this really necessary?’ Mrs Brunswick said but now the detective held up one finger to her, as if it was some secret code that only they were in on.
‘I will repeat the question. Mr Turner. Have you, in the course of your life, ever seen a dead body?’ The detective sat back, his eyes boring into Malvern like little lasers.
‘In my life . . . I . . .’ His mind emptied of everything.
‘Surely, Mr Turner, on television, in films?’
‘Oh yes. I have. Films, television, yes, I have, then,’ he said, relieved.
‘Good. So, you have seen a dead body at the cinema, DVDs at home, that kind of thing?’ the detective asked, pulling a pen from his jacket and turning over his notepad that was still face down on the table.
‘Yes,’ Malvern said.
‘Have you ever seen a dead body that wasn’t on the television, or in a film?’
Malvern felt exhausted and confused. He longed to see Sarah, to calm his nerves and restore his peace.
‘Mr Turner, please answer the question.’ The detective’s words were hard.
As Mrs Brunswick was about interrupt again an image flashed into Malvern’s mind. A girl, lying naked, surrounded by mud and rubbish. Her face had been beautiful; her mouth open as if she would speak. He had reached out to her, touched her skin but it had been cold. She hadn’t been as lovely as Sarah but there had been something about her that had made Malvern’s heart ache. Her blood had felt sticky on his fingers. Everything had been so quiet.
‘Mr Turner,’ the detective said.
‘Mr Turner?’ Mrs Brunswick said. ‘Are you all right?’
Malvern could hear voices and he could see the detective’s mouth moving but he felt as if he was floating above himself, watching. ‘I . . . I don’t know, I can’t remember,’ he said.
‘You can’t remember if you have ever seen a dead body, Mr Turner. Is that what you are saying?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, watching as his arms seemed to lift from his lap and float like seaweed on the ocean current.
‘Turner,’ the detective shouted, banging the desk with his hand.
Malvern fell back into himself and looked up, startled. ‘Yes,’ he managed to say.
The detective rubbed his forehead with his large hand and stared
at the notepad on the desk. ‘Let’s see if we can make this a little easier for you, Mr Turner,’ he said, smiling at him and then at Mrs Brunswick. Her hand was on Malvern’s arm again. He wanted to ask her to move it but he was too busy staring at the detective’s smile. It stretched across his face as if it pained him.
‘How often would you say you used your mobile phone, Mr Turner?’ The detective rolled his hands over as he said, ‘Every day, several times a week, never.’
‘Sometimes every day, sometimes not,’ he said, trying to remember where his phone was. Oh yes, they had it. They had taken it from him on Sunday night.
‘Do you have Miss Grainger’s phone number, Mr Turner?’
‘Yes . . . I do,’ he said.
‘How often do you call Miss Grainger?’ the detective asked, tapping the table top.
Malvern looked at Officer Groves; she was smiling too. ‘Not today,’ he said.
‘You haven’t called Miss Grainger today, no. Do you call her most days, Mr Turner?’ the detective asked.
‘I try,’ he said. His voice sounded like it was in his head or he was talking under water. He felt strange, detached. It was nice.
‘Do you recall making a lot of phone calls to Miss Grainger on Thursday the 23rd of January?’
Malvern thought for a moment, he made a thinking sound, ‘mmm’, and put his finger to his lips. ‘Yes, sir. I did. That’s right. I did.’ He felt eager to speak, now that he knew the answers. ‘I was calling Sarah, Miss Grainger, that night. She didn’t answer. I think she was sleeping.’ He felt warm and comforted to think of Sarah in her bed.
‘Right, so you were calling Sarah that night. Can you remember why? Can you remember why you wanted to talk to her?’ the detective asked, leaning forward again.
‘I . . . she . . .’ He pushed his mind back to that night. It had been cold, freezing in his mother’s Nissan. His breath on the windows. He had called Sarah over and over, all night long, but she never answered. ‘I needed to tell her,’ he said, looking into the detective’s owl-like eyes.
‘Needed to tell her what, Mr Turner?’
‘I needed to tell her about the girl . . . the girl in the alleyway.’ He remembered her red hair, the bits of dirt and muck stuck in it. Her face, her eyelids blue from the cold. He tried not to think about the gaping hole at her throat.
‘Mr Turner. Malvern. On the night of Wednesday the 22nd of January a girl was attacked and killed in the alleyway next to the Tesco Metro on East Dulwich Road. Do you know the place I mean?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Malvern said, wiping away a tear with the sleeve of his jumper. Sarah must be desperate without him. If she was here she would hold his hand. She would help him. He didn’t like to think of the girl in the alleyway, to remember how cold she was.
‘Were you in the vicinity of the Tesco Metro on Wednesday the 22nd?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why?’ the detective asked.
‘I was on my way . . . somewhere,’ he said.
‘On your way where, Mr Turner?’
‘To her house . . . to Sarah’s house,’ he said, comforted by the feel of her name on his tongue.
‘Right. And what did you see when you passed the Tesco’s, Mr Turner?’ The detective’s voice was quiet now. He looked angry.
Malvern didn’t want to remember but maybe if he answered the questions they would let him go. Let him go home to Sarah. He closed his eyes. He could see the man; he could see the girl beneath him. ‘I saw a girl.’
‘What was she doing, Mr Turner?’
‘She was, she was hurt. The man was hurting her,’ Malvern said. He knew the man had hurt her, not because she screamed; she didn’t. Not because of the blood; there was lots of blood. It was her face, her mouth open, in a silent scream.
‘Was the girl still alive when you saw her, Mr Turner?’
‘No, I don’t know. She was cold. I helped. I covered her up. I helped,’ he said, realizing he was whining like a child.
‘Mr Turner. Who else did you see in the alleyway?’ the detective asked, his hands hovering over the table.
‘A man, I saw the man.’
‘Did you walk closer to the alley, Mr Turner?’
‘Yes, sir, I did.’
‘That’s good. You’re doing very well. Can you tell me what happened then?’
Malvern could feel a buzz around him, it felt like it was coming from the detective. ‘I don’t know. It was dark and he . . . moved away . . . I covered her up. I helped the girl. I helped, didn’t I?’ he said, reaching out and trying to touch the detective’s hand.
‘Did you see the man leave the alleyway?’ the detective snapped, snatching his hand away.
‘Yes, sir,’ Malvern said.
‘Now . . . this is very important, Mr Turner. Can you remember what the man looked like? Could you describe him?’
Malvern’s head was pulsing, lights dancing in front of his eyes. ‘I don’t know . . . he was tall, like you. He was white.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘I . . . I don’t remember. Trousers. A top, a jacket or a jumper. I don’t know, it was dark. Can I go now?’ he asked. He was so tired.
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Turner, but we will take a break. I am going to send in one of my colleagues. You can tell him what you saw, what this man looked like, and he will draw a picture. You tell him when the picture is right. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir, I do,’ Malvern said, looking up at the detective who had stood up. ‘Can I call Sarah, to let her know I’m OK?’ he said.
The detective didn’t answer him. He just stopped the tape recorder, said a few words to the officer Groves, thanked Mrs Brunswick and walked out of the room. Mrs Brunswick didn’t have her hand on Malvern’s arm any more.
31
4 February – Tuesday
Sarah folded up her newspaper. She had hoped for a distraction but the headlines were dominated by the discovery of the body of a young girl in Richmond. Some poor man, walking his dog, had found her just inside the park. She shivered as she looked out at Lewisham High Street, still peppered with snow. She should consider herself lucky but she didn’t. It was 10.30 and she had already spent half an hour in Bella’s Coffee House, waiting for Bennett. They had agreed to meet here, rather than the station. Sarah couldn’t bear the idea of being in the same building as him, even if he was behind bars.
The impact of Bennett’s call yesterday had been short lived. Once the shock had worn off and the relief hadn’t fully come, she had been left with questions, dozens of questions. What happened now? What happened to him? There was so much doubt circling in her mind it was making her dizzy. She sipped her coffee, glad for the extra shot of espresso after yet another sleepless night.
Outside the café the temporary traffic lights changed to green, cars edged forward, horns blaring. She leaned forward and looked up the street at Lewisham Police Station as her eyes filled with tears. She dropped her hands on the table with a thump, sending her teaspoon spinning to the floor. As she bent to pick it up, sniffing, she heard the café’s door open, the bell jingling a friendly welcome.
‘Sarah?’
She looked up to see Bennett’s boss. His name vanished from her lips as soon as she opened her mouth. It was Mike something. ‘Good morning . . . Detective,’ she said before dropping her eyes back to her coffee cup.
As if by magic a young girl appeared behind the counter and cleared her throat. ‘What can I get you?’ she called out. When Sarah looked over she could see that the girl was blushing. She hadn’t got table service.
‘Espresso, please, double shot,’ he said, not really looking at the girl and clearly clueless to her crestfallen expression as she skulked off to get his coffee. ‘May I join you?’ he said, indicating the seat opposite Sarah.
She heard herself say, ‘Please, go ahead.’
He shrugged out of his jacket, slung it over the back of one of the chairs and slid into his seat. ‘These chairs remind me of the dinner hall
at school, but if I remember rightly, ours were nailed to the floor.’ He spoke in a laughing whisper, leaning towards her as if they were old friends sharing a joke.
‘We didn’t have chairs. We had benches,’ she said, feeling a blush flare at the base of her neck. What the hell was she talking about? Before she could say anything else banal the young girl walked over, plonked the espresso on the table and walked away again.
‘I think the service is better in Starbucks,’ he said, again in a stage whisper, ‘but I just can’t stomach their coffee.’ He took an appreciative sip and smiled. Sarah wasn’t sure if the smile was for her or the coffee.
‘I expect you’ve been busy?’ she asked, immediately wondering where that had come from. He wasn’t going to want to talk about his job, not to her. And she didn’t want to hear about it anyway. Not after what she’d just read.
He seemed to think for a minute, his lips hidden behind his cup. She thought for a second that he wasn’t going to answer at all, but then he said, ‘It’s been a tough couple of weeks but we’re getting there.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘How long have you been a detective . . . Detective?’ she asked, unable to think of another topic of conversation but unable to stay silent either. Despite feeling uncomfortable talking to the detective, it was a significant improvement on crying into her coffee. She needed a distraction.
‘Call me Mike.’ He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. The tiredness she had seen last week was still there. In fact now that she looked at him she could see the grey bags shadowing his deep-set eyes.
‘Of course,’ she said, taking a sip of her coffee. It was already starting to cool beyond the point of enjoyment but she didn’t care. She was surprised by how relaxed he seemed, his arm resting casually on the back of the chair next to him. She could smell lavender and something else. Every time he moved another waft of the scent drifted under her nose. She breathed it in, pushed her shoulders down and tried to relax, if only by an inch.
Never Look Back Page 16