Never Look Back

by Clare Donoghue

  ‘. . . I guess I’m coming up to twenty years . . .’ He was still talking about his job but Sarah found she couldn’t focus. Instead, she was thinking of the other times they had met. Their first meeting had been at Bennett’s desk. He, Mike, had walked over with an expression bordering on angry. He was all eyes and rudeness.

  ‘. . . when I left university I went to the . . .’ he continued.

  Sarah was only half listening. The second time they met, when it was just her and Mike, she had been crying. When he had walked into that interview room, she remembered wanting to scream at him but then he had been so different; kind, softly spoken, sympathetic. She could still see his hand reaching across the table to her.

  ‘. . . and that’s when I was promoted to inspector, and I’ve been running the HSCC, Homicide and Serious Crime Command, quite a mouthful, I know, but no one calls it that.’

  She looked at him and finally focused on what he was saying. ‘Did you say homicide?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. There are offices in Lewisham, Hendon, Barnes, Belgravia . . .’

  He had probably talked for five minutes but the only word she really heard was homicide. ‘Is Sergeant Bennett . . .?’ she asked, feeling the coffee in her stomach begin to churn, threatening to come back up.

  ‘Jane is my lead detective sergeant, has been for the last five years. She’s my right hand.’ He seemed to accentuate the end of his sentence as if Sarah had somehow cast doubt on Bennett’s abilities.

  ‘So . . . why was she assigned to my case?’

  Now it was his turn to pause. She watched as tiny red blotches came out on his temples and around the nape of his neck where he had loosened his collar. ‘Simple,’ he said, his eyes scanning the coffee shop. ‘Sergeant Bennett oversees your borough and the matter was handed to her initially. It is then up to her whether to handle the case herself or delegate to a more junior member under her supervision.’ He finished speaking, raised his cup as if to indicate he needed a refill. ‘Can I get you another? What would you like?’ he asked, pushing his seat back with a screech.

  ‘Americano,’ she said, unable to say anything else.

  Sarah watched as he walked over to the counter, staring at the board as if unsure what to order. She had a sudden desire to leave, to get out of the café before he said anything else, but before she could bolt he was back. There was only one cup. It was obvious. She was staying, he was leaving.

  He seemed to be struggling to find the right words, the right sentiment to leave her with as he escaped. ‘Sergeant Bennett asked me to speak to you,’ he said. Sarah felt her eyebrows bunching together. He had just spent five minutes chatting away like they were old chums but he never mentioned being here to see her. She assumed it was a coincidence. Why wouldn’t she? Why the hell hadn’t he said anything?

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant Bennett asked you to come here and see me?’ she asked, aware that she sounded as incredulous as she felt.

  ‘Yes, she isn’t in the office today, I’m afraid. She was called out on some private business. She called and told me about your meeting this morning and asked if I would come and explain that she was unable to attend and could she possibly reschedule when she’s back in the office, tomorrow, most likely.’

  Sarah was surprised by how young he sounded when he made excuses. ‘But,’ she began, unsure what to say, ‘Bennett told me she would explain what happened next . . . what I do now?’

  He seemed to study his hands for a moment. ‘I can help you with some of that,’ he said, trying to smile in what was obviously meant to be a reassuring way.

  ‘So tell me,’ she said, not letting him look away. She didn’t know where the forceful voice was coming from.

  ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to come into the station? I’m not sure this is the best place to talk, Sarah,’ he said, gesturing to the café around them.

  The place was empty. Even the girl behind the counter had vanished. Sarah felt something inside give way. She couldn’t take any more games. ‘It’s not as if we’ve got half of Lewisham listening, is it?’ She saw the disquiet on his face but she couldn’t stop now. ‘Just tell me. I really don’t think I can take this any more. If I’m in some kind of danger, tell me. If I’ve imagined it, tell me. If he’s watching someone else and I’ve got it wrong, tell me. If he’s an old boyfriend hoping for reconciliation, just tell me. Don’t I deserve that much?’ She said the last sentence barely above a whisper. Her strength had vanished as quickly as it had come.

  He put both hands on the table, flat, fingers spread out. It was becoming a familiar gesture. ‘Sarah. I can understand how difficult this must be for you.’ He seemed to be waiting for her to agree so she forced herself to nod. He was fiddling with whatever he wore around his neck. She remembered him doing the same thing when he had interviewed her last week. She realized she was watching his fingers rather than listening to him. ‘. . . as Sergeant Bennett told you, a suspect was brought into the station for questioning on Sunday evening,’ he said, raising his thumb as if the first point on his agenda had been dealt with.

  ‘Sunday?’ Sarah said. ‘But Bennett only called me yesterday. Have you still got him? Has he been there since Sunday? Who is he?’ She was trying to control the rising panic in her voice.

  ‘The suspect is still in custody. He is being questioned in relation to another matter,’ he said, raising his index finger. Sarah realized she was going to get the information, what little of it there seemed to be, piecemeal.

  ‘Another matter?’ she said.

  ‘Not relevant at this time. It is separate to your case and I am not at liberty to discuss it with you, but I can tell you that the individual was arrested, questioned and Sergeant Bennett is preparing to charge him in relation to your complaint. His identity can’t be released until the charges are formalized, I’m afraid.’ He shifted in his seat as a beeping sound invaded the space between them. It didn’t take a body language expert to see his relief. ‘At this stage it is up to you how you want to proceed. Sergeant Bennett will have to go through the details with you,’ he said, glancing at his phone and then sliding it back into his pocket. ‘As I say, Jane will be able to go through the procedure in detail.’

  ‘Proceed with what?’ she asked.

  ‘A restraining order is possible. The individual has been advised that not only are his attentions unwanted but that he will be committing a serious offence if he continues. I have spoken to the suspect myself and I feel confident that he will take heed and keep his distance.’ He reiterated his statement with a decisive nod.

  ‘Why have you spoken to him?’ She felt like she was either being utterly dense or going over the final edge of crazy. Why was the head of homicide speaking to her stalker?

  He waited a second before replying, his voice calm but authoritative. ‘I am Sergeant Bennett’s superior officer. In the course of her investigation I came into contact with the suspect. As I said, I really think the charge and the warning will be heeded but, of course, when you speak to Jane you can discuss the options available to you to ensure that you feel totally at ease.’

  She slumped forward in her chair, no longer able to hold herself upright.

  ‘Sarah, go home. Get some rest. I will ask Sergeant Bennett to call you as soon as she’s in the office.’ Before she could respond he had risen from his seat. When he held out his hand she took it almost without thinking. They didn’t so much shake hands as hold hands for what felt like several minutes. He looked at her and she looked right back at him. And then he was gone, the jingling bell the only proof that he was ever there.

  32

  4 February – Tuesday

  He slipped on some surgical gloves and stopped outside the house, squatting as if tying a stray shoelace. In fact his eyes were focused on the front window of the Victorian terrace. He could just see a young woman standing in the hallway, a phone pressed to her ear. The front door stood open; peculiar, given the temperature. The snow had gone but the temperature wasn’t much above freezing.
The plants in front of the house looked frozen solid.

  As he looked back the woman was finishing her call. She stepped towards the door and, without looking at him, slammed it shut. How unobservant, he thought. He watched her walk through to the living room, plumping cushions and, from what he could tell, singing to herself as she did so. Her black hair was long but unkempt. She repeatedly tossed her head to keep her tresses out of her pinched features. The dress she was wearing looked as if it was stretched to bursting over her rotund figure. A shiver took hold of his shoulders. As he watched her rearranging ornaments on the mantelpiece he realized she was the antithesis of Hayley. Where this woman was round, Hayley had been slim, her skin supple, white and perfect. This creature’s skin was stretched, puckering at her neck. Her wrists looked swollen.

  When she finally disappeared back into the hall he moved to the left of the house and walked calmly down the alleyway. There was a gate, of course, tall and sturdy. Without so much as a missed step he put one hand on top and used the wall to his left to launch himself up and over. He landed with barely a whisper of noise and not a nick on his gloves.

  The French doors that led into the lounge were unlocked, as he knew they would be. He checked the bottom of his shoes for any traces of dirt. There was a small amount of a red clay-like soil, so he wiped his feet carefully on the mat that said ‘Benvenuto’.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, stepping into the house and listening. The woman’s humming was still audible but other than that the house was quiet. The carpet beneath his feet had once been plush. Thankfully now it was almost threadbare. No impressions of his shoes would be found. He approached the doorway and peered into the hallway. The girl was on the phone again, gesticulating and babbling away, completely unaware of his presence. Her back was turned to him. Without hesitation he made his way up the stairs, slowly, wrinkling up his nose at the flock wallpaper. The chattering woman never turned or noticed the slight creak of a floorboard near the top of the stairs so he continued down the hallway.

  When he found the room he was looking for he opened the door and looked around him, fingering the tiny object in his hand. He looked at the shelves, cupboards and surfaces where he might leave his present. There was an abundance of pottery and canvasses covered in bright slashes of colour. The owner was obviously proud of their handiwork. As he looked back to the precious item in his hand he sighed. He was reluctant to part with it. He turned it over, the metal cool against his skin, resisting the urge to put it in his mouth, to let his tongue search for the taste of blood.

  Footsteps on the landing made him turn and shrink back against a bookshelf. The humming woman walked past the door. He heard a door close and a lock slide into place. Before she could return he placed his prized possession on top of a pile of books He smiled, turned on the bedside lamp with a flick of a switch and looked pleasurably upon the metal catching the light. It couldn’t be missed.

  The sound of rushing water broke his reverie and he left the room and walked down the stairs, in no hurry but with quiet steps. Within seconds he was vaulting the garden gate, walking down the driveway and vanishing into the grey suburban streets.

  33

  5 February – Wednesday

  Lockyer looked at the e-fit in front of him and groaned. The breakthrough of a witness was a coup. The idea that Turner could identify the killer was another. But the e-fit was a joke. The man in front of him could be anyone. Did he recognize the face? Yes. Was it utterly generic? Yes. A physical description was detailed beneath the large black-and-white image. It stated that the individual wanted for questioning was Caucasian, average height, average build, brown or black hair, cut short. The clothing listed was laughable: jeans, blue or black, a jumper black or grey, a coat, black or navy. Shoes, blue or black trainers, or black boots. He turned the paper over so he didn’t have to look at it any more.

  Malvern Turner, once he had stopped crying, had sworn he would be able to identify the man, but Lockyer suspected he would say anything to get out of the station and back to his beloved Sarah. He shifted in his seat and looked up at the ceiling, pushing aside the anger that swelled inside him whenever he thought about Turner watching Sarah.

  The helpline attached to the e-fit had been inundated with calls. More staff had been drafted in to help. There was a little old lady who was positive it was her postman, an electrician who was sure it was his boss and even the headmistress who was almost certain the man in the picture was her year three History teacher. Every lead had to be checked, no matter how unlikely. Everything was taking too much time, time he didn’t have. According to Phil they had less than two weeks to find the girls’ killer before another body would be added to their number. Four girls in less than two months. It was crazy, senseless. The abortion link couldn’t be the only motivation for murder. He needed to get into the guy’s head to catch him. He had the distinct feeling the e-fit was doing nothing but slowing the investigation down, stretching his manpower and budget to the limit.

  He turned to look out of his office window. It was snowing again. People were rushing along the pavements, using their hands, newspapers or briefcases to cover their heads. There was a line of five men standing outside the curry house, their backs flat to the glass window. The overhang of the sign was keeping them out of the snow, just. All five were smoking, their combined smoke adding to the plume of steam coming out of the kitchen vent. The smell of cooking meat, oil and spices made Lockyer’s stomach grumble. As he watched a gang of kids climbing onto the number 176 bus, shouting at each other, practically throwing their money at the driver, he realized he was wasting time. He looked away and forced himself to go back to his desk.

  He needed to forget about the e-fit, forget about dead ends and forget about yesterday, his disastrous meeting with Sarah. ‘What a moron,’ he said to himself, covering his face with the e-fit. The suspect’s face was turned away from him, replacing his own. Anyone walking into his office might wonder if this was how he got into the psyche of a killer. He remembered the pathetic excuses he’d used to justify Jane’s and his involvement in Sarah’s harassment case. He never told civilians about his work and he certainly didn’t make a habit of revealing sensitive information about a case. His intention when he walked into Bella’s was to reassure Sarah. Instead he had essentially told her that her stalker was connected to his murder investigation. What a way to terrify an already vulnerable woman. There was something about her that seemed to unhinge him professionally, incite his sympathy. The phone on his desk started to ring. He glanced at his mobile but there were no missed calls. Hardly anyone used his office line.

  ‘Lockyer,’ he said as he picked up the receiver.

  ‘Dad?’ Megan’s voice was quiet.

  ‘Hi, honey, what’s up?’ he said, pleased to hear actual cheer in his voice, rather than the forced joy he was getting uncomfortably used to. He hadn’t called her since last week when he had kicked her out of his flat. He simply hadn’t had time with Turner’s arrest and the discovery of Hayley’s body.

  ‘I know you’re busy but have you got five minutes?’ she asked, barely above a whisper.

  ‘Megs, I can hardly hear you. Where are you?’ he asked, putting the phone closer to his ear.

  ‘I’m in that café, just down from your office, Bella’s,’ she said. ‘Could you come down and meet me? Just for five minutes?’ Her voice sounded croaky. She sounded like she was or had been crying.

  ‘I’m coming down now. I’ll be with you in two minutes.’ He slammed down the phone, grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair and jogged out of his office, across the open-plan room towards the lift. ‘Penny, back in five,’ he called over his shoulder. He didn’t even know if Penny was at her desk but either way someone would have heard him. As he pushed the lift’s call button, he noticed a few beads of sweat on his forehead reflected in the metal doors. His heart felt like it was leaping about in his chest. ‘Calm down,’ he told himself. This was exactly what he was like as a father. Either
he barely noticed his daughter’s distress or he went completely overboard. A classic case of guilt-fuelled parenting. He crossed the foyer and went out of the automatic doors, a swirl of falling snow now catching him full in the face. He patted his pockets to check he had his wallet.

  The bell jingled as he pushed open the door to the café. Megan was sitting in the same place where Sarah had been the day before. The place was empty but for an old couple at the back of the room in a leather-lined booth. The waitress seemed to recognize him.

  ‘Espresso?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘No, thanks,’ he said, looking over at Megan. ‘Do you want a cuppa, hon?’ he asked, trying not to panic when his daughter looked up at him with puffy eyes and a red face.

  ‘Latte, three sugars,’ Megan said.

  That made him smile. She only took three sugars because he used to. When she was a little girl she had wanted to join him in his ritual of morning coffee from the age of three. He had managed to hold her demands at bay until she was ten but then she had devoured a small morning coffee with three sugars with as much gusto as her father. She obviously still did.

  The girl behind the counter passed him Megan’s drink; he added the sugar and dropped a fiver on the counter. ‘You can put the change in the tin,’ he said, walking over to join his daughter. He took off his jacket, slung it over the back of his chair and sat. Neither of them said anything. Megan wasn’t even looking at him. This was the second day in a row he had sat across from a distraught woman and not known what to say.

  ‘OK, Megs, come on, why the tears?’ he said, reaching across the table and giving her hand a squeeze. Megan shook her head and resumed sipping her coffee. ‘You’re going to have to give me something, Megs? I’m not a mind reader.’

  ‘Would it be OK if I came and stayed at yours for a few days?’ she said, finally looking up.