The scene of the crime officers had laid down numerous three-by-two platforms of toughened plastic to protect the site. He stepped up onto one of them, aware that he was inches away from vital evidence. The platforms criss-crossing the piles of debris made the scene look like some sick collage, the forensics team hovering around the body, obscuring Lockyer’s view. All he could see were two bare feet.
‘Mike, delighted you could make it. I was entering rigor myself waiting for you.’ Dave Simpson stood and walked towards him, removing his gloves.
‘David. What have we got?’ Lockyer asked, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Dave was the senior pathologist for Southwark. His district included the boroughs of Greenwich, Lambeth and Lewisham. It was a massive area to cover and meant a lot of overtime. He dealt with everything: gang-related shootings, a young girl stabbed to death for twenty pounds, a mercy killing in New Cross, a man beaten to death by his neighbour because of a kid’s bike, and that was a quiet week. Every hour the poor sod had worked seemed etched on his face.
‘Female, Deborah Stevens, eighteen years old . . . and we’re looking at the same MO as the others. It’s too early for me to officially confirm but . . . unofficially, you’re looking for the same man. Wrists, rape, throat.’ Dave shrugged.
He stepped over to another platform to get a better look at the shrouded body. ‘How long are these guys gonna be?’ Lockyer motioned towards the SOCOs.
‘They’re almost done. Five minutes. Once they’re done I’ll talk you through what I have so far and we can discuss the . . . differences.’
‘Differences? You just said it was the same MO?’
‘It is, bar a couple of things.’ Dave put his finger to his lips. ‘I’d prefer to talk to you about them when this lot have gone. Lot of ears here.’
‘Can we get this scene cleared, now?’ Lockyer’s tone left no room for interpretation. The group of bent figures finally acknowledged his presence and began shuffling out of the alley, their papery outfits crackling as they went. ‘So? Come on. I don’t want to waste any time if you’ve got something I can move on.’ He took a step towards the body but Dave stopped him. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked, looking at Dave and the firm hand holding his arm.
‘Before we go and look at her, there are two things,’ Dave said.
‘And they are?’
‘Firstly, there are two additions to the MO. It appears that the attacker used a knife to initially subdue the victim and then drugged her. I won’t know for certain until I have her on the table, but she has a puncture wound just below her ribs and an entry site and bruising on her neck.’
‘I’ll need confirmation on that ASAP. If the suspect bought or stole prescription drugs, it could be a great lead.’ Lockyer was already thinking who in the Serious and Organized Crime Division would be the best person to ask about purchasing or stealing prescription medication. ‘And . . . the second thing?’ Dave didn’t answer. Lockyer looked down at the hand still holding his arm. ‘What the hell is up with you?’ he asked, trying again to shake free of his friend’s grip.
‘I just want you to be prepared before you see her. She . . . I mean . . . there’s a resemblance to . . .’ Dave drifted into silence and seemed to be looking everywhere but at Lockyer.
‘Come on, Dave . . . what resemblance?’ He wrenched out of Dave’s grip and stepped towards the body. Her bare feet were smeared with mud and filth from the alleyway. Her scraped knees were splayed outward, her right leg lying at an awkward angle with what looked like badly torn tights stuck to her thigh. Her skin was translucent. A sheet covered her torso but Lockyer could still see the blood. It looked viscous, like oil. It had pooled around her wrists where they had been cut.
As he took another step forward the victim’s face came into view. Her auburn hair was plastered against her right cheek. He squatted next to her and tilted his head to look into her lifeless eyes. ‘Oh my God,’ he whispered.
‘That’s what I was trying to tell you,’ Dave said, pulling him to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, mate. I almost had a heart attack myself, when I arrived. Took me a couple of seconds to realize it wasn’t her.’
Lockyer tried to focus, to move or speak.
‘Mike . . . are you all right?’
The iron clamp crushing his heart suddenly released its grip. He swayed as his senses rushed back to him. ‘. . . I’m fine. It isn’t . . . it isn’t her,’ he said, touching the chain around his neck, rolling the ring back and forth beneath his shirt.
‘No, it isn’t. I’m sorry, I handled that badly. I wasn’t sure what to say,’ Dave said with a shake of his head.
‘It’s fine, just knocked me off for a second, I’m fine . . . what else have you got for me?’
He tried to listen to Dave’s preliminary report but all he could think about was Megan. All he could see was her face.
3
23 January – Thursday
Sarah crossed the road and walked onto Peckham Rye, Antonia close behind her dragging a less than willing terrier. There were three joggers on the opposite side of the park but other than that they were the only ones braving the cold weather. That was good.
Cars queued at the temporary traffic lights at the bottom of the park, their cold engines sending white clouds into the air. She found the normality of it almost comforting. People still went to work, still effed and blinded when they missed the lights. Everything carried on as before. Only she had changed. ‘So, whose dog is it?’ she asked.
‘Sally’s. Well, her friend’s, actually. She’s dog-sitting. He’s sweet, really, just a little hyper,’ Toni said, tugging on the dog’s lead as it struggled to go back the way they had come. ‘Monty . . . stop it,’ Toni said. Monty sniffed the air, looked up at them both and then resumed his game of tug of war.
‘And why are you walking him?’ Sarah asked, brushing her hair out of her face. It was cold but the sun had pushed through the clouds and she could do with the colour.
‘No reason, really . . . I just thought it would give us a good reason to get out of the house,’ Toni said, with a smile.
Sarah should have known the dog walk was just a ploy to drag her out of her flat. Toni had tried everything in the past week, suggesting cinema trips, shopping, dinner out. Sarah had refused them all with the same excuse. She was tired and just needed some rest. It was true, in a way, but it wasn’t the real reason she didn’t want to go out. ‘You mean, get me out of the house,’ she said, returning Toni’s innocent smile.
‘It’s only a walk, Sarah. We can go back if you’d like?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Sarah said, glancing behind her. ‘I’m out now. The fresh air will do me good.’ She gave Toni a shove on the arm. What were friends for, if not forcing you to do something you didn’t want to do, for your own good?
They walked arm in arm as they entered the manicured section of the park. Winter had removed all the warmth and colour. The lush green hideaway that had been created last spring was now bare wooded arches, dead leaves turning to mulch in the flower beds. She couldn’t wait for the weather to change. The dark nights, the cold. She hated it. It only made things seem more bleak.
‘William Blake saw visions here,’ Toni said, gesticulating around her at the dormant garden.
‘Really?’ Sarah replied, with no interest.
‘Yes, he did, trees filled with angels . . . imagine that? Angels,’ she said, squeezing Sarah’s arm.
She didn’t know how to respond. It didn’t feel like a place filled with anything even close to ethereal, but it was sweet of Toni to try to fill the silence between them.
‘They kept Italian POWs here during the Second World War, too,’ said Toni, raising her eyebrows.
‘Fascinating,’ Sarah teased, relieved to feel a natural smile spreading across her face.
‘Someone has to educate you, bella,’ Toni said, giving Sarah a friendly shove. ‘So, how’s work?’ she asked in a singsong voice, pulling the dog back onto the brick path, its paws already ca
ked in mud.
Sarah’s smile vanished as she stopped walking and turned in a circle. ‘Oh, you know, same old, same old. I’ve got a job up in the City on Saturday. It’s an easy job. Head shots for a management team.’
‘That’s good, good that you’re still . . .’ Toni’s words were drowned out as Monty started to bark.
Sarah looked into the crush of pine trees that had been pinned and forced into an archway ahead of them. She heard a rustling and stepped back. The dog yelped as her heel connected with one of its paws. ‘There’s a good reason I don’t have pets,’ she said, hoping she didn’t look as on edge as she felt. She watched as Toni bent down and petted the little terrier, talking to him quietly in Italian. Sarah let the words soothe her but the peace didn’t last. A squirrel darted out of the line of trees, disappearing into the undergrowth. The dog started to bark again, pulling at the lead to escape. ‘Are we done yet?’ she asked, looking back. She could just see the end of her road. She wanted to be home, to close the door and put another day behind her.
‘It’s not good, Sarah. You can’t keep doing this,’ Toni said. ‘Why don’t you come and stay with me, just until this thing blows over?’
She wanted to ask how Toni knew it would blow over. Things were getting worse, not better. And there was no one to help her. ‘I can’t, not right now,’ she said, not trusting herself to look up. ‘I’ve got a couple of possible jobs that I need to confirm. I only heard about them this morning. Besides, I’m fine, there’s no need.’ This time she took a deep breath, tipped her chin up and looked across at Toni who was shaking her head. ‘I’m fine, really.’ She forced a smile but it was obvious Toni didn’t believe her. ‘Thanks for getting me out of the house. It’s helped, honestly,’ she said, reaching down and giving Toni’s hand a squeeze.
They walked back to her flat in silence, the dog’s sniffing the only sound interrupting Sarah’s thoughts. Would he call tonight? She closed her eyes and shook her head. Of course he would.
4
23 January – Thursday
Lockyer pushed against his eyelids with the tips of his fingers, but the image of the victim’s bare feet and Megan’s face refused to shift.
‘Sir?’
He opened one eye and saw Jane standing in the doorway to his office. ‘Jane. Perfect timing. As always.’ The overhead spotlights were too bright. His head was thumping. He abandoned his attempt to open both eyes and maintained a lopsided view of his DS.
‘I just wanted to report in and check you were . . . all right?’ Her eyebrows disappeared beneath a severe black fringe: a new style that reminded him of a Lego man toy. The comparison suited both her petite frame and her demeanour. He had worked with Jane for years, watched her progress through the ranks, chosen her for his senior DS, and from his experience she was always immaculate, well presented, punctual, efficient; in essence the perfect copper. He was yet to find any faults. That couldn’t be normal, surely? As the thought entered his head he caught sight of his own reflection in his computer screen. His dark hair was unbrushed and his olive skin was hidden beneath a day or two’s stubble. Handsomely dishevelled? Possibly. He looked down. His shirt was buttoned up wrong. No. Just dishevelled.
‘I’m fine, Jane.’ He stood and walked over to his much-prized window, adjusting his shirt. They had moved him into this office when he had taken over as lead DI for Lewisham’s MIT, Murder Investigation Team, part of the HSCC, the Homicide and Serious Crime Command. Neither title was used much, by him or his team. He was running the ‘murder squad’, plain and simple. Other branches in Hendon, Barnes, Belgravia and Barking dealt with north, south and central London, but the east and south-east were his domain. As he pushed back the vertical blinds to look out at the grey morning, his nose was assaulted by the smell of exhaust fumes and fried food drifting through his open window. He took a step back, watching as the human traffic of Lewisham collided, funnelled into a narrow pedestrian walkway. It was the fourth time the council had dug up this particular eight-foot-square section of the High Street. ‘That is to say . . . I’m fine, considering I am dealing with three murdered girls, I’ve been up since four and listening to that jackhammer since eight.’ His voice echoed in his ears, trying to compete with the small boulders that were smashing against each other inside his skull. What he really wanted to do was drive the four miles home, close the shutters on his floor-to-ceiling Georgian windows, stretch out on his new sofa and go to sleep. The sofa had been delivered over a week ago and he still hadn’t managed to sit in it for more than five minutes.
‘I spoke to Dave. He told me about this morning, sir,’ Jane said, interrupting his thoughts.
He glanced over his shoulder. Her concerned face was beginning to make sense. ‘Dave shouldn’t be telling anyone anything,’ he said.
‘Sorry, sir, Dave just thought . . . he thought someone on the team should know.’
He looked away and studied Jane’s reflection in the glass. She looked up at the ceiling, down at the floor and then at both sides of his office. He hadn’t seen her look this uncomfortable since that May Day bank holiday, four years ago. An ill-advised evening for sure but it had been Jane’s facial expression the next morning, a combination of embarrassment and concern in her eyes, that had made Lockyer run. ‘I don’t want anyone else to hear about this. Is that clear?’
‘Absolutely, sir. Dave’s getting ready for the post. He’ll call when he’s good to go. Should be an hour and—’ The jackhammer resumed and drowned out the rest of Jane’s sentence. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?’
‘Jane. Enough. You sound like Clara, for God’s sake. Close the door on your way out.’ He took a deep breath and turned back to his desk. It still felt odd mentioning Clara.
An hour later, surrounded by white Formica and steel, Lockyer stood in the mortuary suite, looking down at Deborah Stevens’ body. She looked so small, fragile. The skin over her cheeks was taut and colourless. A griping pain rippled across his stomach. He cocked his head to one side and looked into her milky eyes, still open, frozen in terror. There was no sign of the smiling girl from the photograph that was now attached to Debbie’s file, given to him by her family. He leaned closer and whispered her name, ‘Debbie,’ then straightened and backed away from the table as Patrick, Dave’s senior assistant, began laying out all of the instruments needed for the procedure.
‘Did you see the bite mark?’
Lockyer turned to find Dave standing right next to him. ‘What bite mark?’ he asked, looking away, reluctant to look his friend in the eye.
Dave walked around to the other side of the table, pointed to Debbie’s right shoulder and lifted a section of matted hair away from her pale face. ‘Here . . . it’s at the top of the trapezius muscle. I didn’t see it in the prelim exam because it was hidden by the hairline.’ Lockyer took a step forward and looked at the livid, purplish marks scattered over Debbie’s neck. It looked like she had been attacked by a wild dog, not a man. He turned away, the image of the marks already burned into his memory. ‘There isn’t enough of an impression for dental recognition but Patrick has taken some deep tissue swabs and we might have some saliva.’ Lockyer didn’t respond. He couldn’t. All he could see was Debbie’s attacker, crouching over her, sinking his teeth into her like a vampire in the moonlight. ‘OK . . . hard to please this morning, I see,’ Dave said, walking to the end of the mortuary table. ‘Would it make you happier if I said I had a fingerprint?’
He tore his mind away from the images in his head and finally looked at Dave. ‘Fingerprint. How? The body was cleaned, wasn’t it?’ His voice rough, like flint on stone.
‘He did . . . watered-down bleach, like the others. I guess he missed a spot,’ Dave said with a shrug. ‘It’s a partial print, in blood. Right index finger. It’s on the outside of the left thigh.’ Dave held up his right hand to demonstrate the angle against Debbie’s outstretched legs.
‘I need that print,’ Lockyer said.
‘Already done. Patr
ick lifted it just before you came down. Your team are scanning it now,’ Dave said. ‘Who knows, maybe you’ll have a suspect by the time we’re done here.’
He looked down at Debbie, pushed his anger away and said a silent prayer that Dave was right. He resisted an urge to reach out, to touch her cheek, and without warning Megan’s face pushed its way into his thoughts. His hand went automatically to the chain around his neck, the band of gold cool against his chest. He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time. ‘What about the drug?’ he asked.
‘It’ll take a few days to get the toxicology report back but I think he used some kind of mild barbiturate.’ Dave moved forward and gently lifted one of Debbie’s arms. ‘The defensive wounds here. . . and here, indicate she came to at some point but I doubt she was ever fully conscious,’ he said, indicating several deep scratches on her hand and forearm. ‘And he definitely used a knife to further subdue her,’ he said. ‘This is the puncture wound.’
‘Can you check the others for any drug traces?’ Lockyer asked, looking away from the welts on Debbie’s arms and the small hole just beneath her ribs.
‘Of course,’ Dave said. ‘We already have the blood work back on the first two victims but I haven’t had time to look at it, what with this and the gang killing last week. I’ll rush them through and get back to you. Now . . . if that’s all . . . I think we’re ready to begin.’ Dave’s voice had taken on a much softer tone. Respectful. He reached for a scalpel and paused like a conductor before a concert.
Lockyer watched Dave make the Y incision, constantly speaking into a Dictaphone, detailing every move he made, every cut. ‘The outer chest cavity is clear, no evidence of trauma, oedema present but consistent with hypostasis. Patrick, please open the chest cavity.’ Lockyer looked away. He wasn’t squeamish but there were some things he just didn’t need to see, and the removal of the chest plate was one of them.
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