He closed his eyes and pictured the crime scene, images forming behind his eyelids. East Dulwich Road deserted but for some temporary traffic lights, the red light reflected by the patches of ice on the road, the pool of blood, the abandoned Rye, the grass standing to attention in the frost. The alley, narrow and dark, littered with bottles, fag butts and syringes. Her blood, black against the cement. Debbie, lying among the debris.
‘I need a break,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. The artificial lights were a killer. Lewisham’s new Metropolitan station, home to the area murder squad and numerous other departments, was ultra-modern, lots of blue-tinted glass, red brick, aluminium and no atmosphere whatsoever. He stood up, pushed his hair off his forehead and walked out of the room. ‘Penny, I’m heading out for five minutes. When Jane arrives tell her I want her in the briefing room at eleven to run through today’s action list on the Stevens case. I want the Atherton and Pearson files too, and I want Chris in there, with the interview transcripts prepped.’
He was desperate for some air; even the smoggy air of Lewisham High Street would do. Five minutes, some breathing space and a coffee from Bella’s. He was halfway across the car park when he saw Jane walking towards him.
‘We might have something, sir,’ she said, her breath clouding in front of her face as it mingled with the freezing January air.
‘Tell me?’
‘The hospital and GP notes didn’t give us much, but I just got off the phone with records and they’ve confirmed that she wasn’t referred for the procedure by her GP. She went through a private clinic.’
‘What kind of clinic?’ he asked, turning away from the gates and heading towards his car.
‘They provide pregnancy and STD testing, treatment and counselling for young and underage women,’ Jane said, keeping pace beside him. ‘I’ve spoken to the manager, he’s expecting us.’
‘Good,’ he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. ‘We’ll take your car; my keys are upstairs.’ He changed direction and headed towards Jane’s Volvo.
As soon as they were out of the station car park, weaving in and out of the Friday mid-morning traffic, Lockyer noticed the silence. He turned and looked at Jane’s profile as she honked the horn and swerved to avoid two buses whose drivers had decided to stop for a chat. Was she paler than normal? As if he would know. God, he hoped she wasn’t about to go off sick.
‘You OK?’ he asked. She didn’t reply; her eyes were still focused on the road ahead, but he could have sworn he saw her flinch when he spoke. ‘Jane, did you hear me?’ he said, hoping his impatience wasn’t too obvious.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, without turning to look at him. Her voice was hard but her cheeks were now flushed with colour. ‘It’s nothing, just the case and . . . home, you know.’
‘Peter?’ he said, his irritation vanishing.
‘Yes, sir. I’m fine, really,’ she said, turning to face him, displaying her most reassuring smile before returning her focus to the traffic surrounding them.
He should have known it was Peter. Jane’s son was the only part of her personal life that ever encroached on her work, and even then the instances were few and far between. She rarely talked about her home life. Lockyer had been to her little flat in Blackheath once, maybe twice, but that was it. As far as he knew, Jane’s mother took care of Peter when Jane was at work. He went to school during the day but had extra help because of his autism, although Lockyer didn’t know what the ‘extra help’ really entailed. He had never asked. Few people in the office knew what Jane’s life was really like when she clocked off. What Lockyer did know about her past, he had gleaned from snippets of conversation over the years: her one-time boyfriend had buggered off when she was eight months pregnant. Jane had once told him that she felt like a stranger in her son’s life because of his condition. Of course, that would have been the perfect opportunity for Lockyer to empathize, to let her talk about Peter, to tell her about Bobby, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t seem to find the words then, or now.
‘We’re almost there,’ Jane said, swinging the car into a narrow lane running between two terraces.
‘It’s down here?’ he asked, looking around at the high walls enclosing the back gardens of the houses.
At the end of the lane there was a newly tarmacked car park with a dozen spaces marked out by fresh white paint. The clinic sat at the back, a single-storey red-brick building with a gabled roof. Four gold letters hung over the door: LYWC. Underneath them was a smaller sign that read, ‘Lewisham Young Women’s Centre’.
‘This is the place,’ she said, pulling into one of the spaces.
‘Not too busy for a Friday morning, is it?’ he said, looking around him at the empty car park. He opened his door, got out and straightened his jacket.
‘Maybe they’re not open on Fridays,’ Jane said, clicking the central locking on the squad car. ‘It took me a couple of goes to get an answer when I called.’
He opened one of the double doors and gestured for Jane to go ahead of him. Lockyer realized he felt a lot better. Somehow the drive, the air and the change of scenery had lifted the emotional fug that had been suffocating him all morning. As he followed Jane over to the reception desk he could almost feel his head clearing. The desk was a traditional shiny pine, five feet high, and hiding behind it was a fifty-something receptionist who looked to be leafing through a women’s gossip magazine. All Lockyer could see were bright colours and orange-looking girls staring up at him.
‘Good morning,’ Jane said, already holding out her warrant card. The receptionist jumped a clear foot in the air with an accompanying screech. He didn’t know who was more surprised, her or him. He took a step back.
‘Oh, my,’ she said, her south-east London accent strong, her voice croaky. If there weren’t twenty Benson & Hedges in this woman’s purse he would hand in his badge right now. ‘You frightened me to death, creeping up like that. The bell under the doormat’s stopped working again. I’ve told them it needs fixing . . . I’ve asked a dozen times, at least . . .’
He looked over at Jane and saw that she was just as stunned by the woman’s reaction as he was. He cleared his throat and gave her elbow a shove when he saw the corner of her mouth lift with amusement. The receptionist was still talking, not to either of them in particular, just chattering into the ether, her eyes alternating between looking up at the ceiling and then down at her feet.
‘Mr Walsh said you’d be stopping by and to help you with what ever you needed . . . he’s had to pop out, you see. Friday mornings is usually our quiet time, normally when we do the notes, that kinda thing, so, how can I help you? Mr Walsh didn’t say, he just said something about notes . . . not that I can show you notes but I suppose I can look at them, and then . . . I don’t know, I suppose it depends.’ The woman finally stopped talking and looked from Jane to him and back again.
‘And you are?’ Jane asked, hiding her smile as she reached into her jacket for a notepad.
‘Sheila Collins. I’m in charge when Mr Walsh isn’t here . . . well, I answer the phones and look after reception if no one else is in,’ the woman said, looking around her, blushing at her failed boast.
He turned away as Jane began to speak, tuning out her voice as she went through the basics with the verbose Ms Collins. The waiting room was bland. Despite the obvious newness of the building the interior looked tired. The white walls were faded to a dull cream and the brown carpet tiles were awash with shiny tracks from numerous pushchairs, no doubt. There were two dozen green plastic chairs and a pine table displaying a sad array of out-of-date women’s magazines. For some reason he had been expecting something more swanky, all stainless steel and posh art.
An idea ran along the edge of his thoughts; his pulse quickened, but then it was gone. He shook his head and turned back to Jane. From her facial expression he could tell she’d had enough of talking to Ms Collins. He was about to save her when the door to the office opened.
‘Can I help?’
Loc
kyer stepped sideways to see a guy standing in the doorway. He was wearing a shirt and tie and a black pair of ill-fitting skinny jeans. The receptionist’s shoulders dropped as she let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘No, Danny, I’m fine,’ she said, turning and giving him a wide grin, revealing a large amount of lipstick on her two front teeth. ‘Mr Walsh said the police would be coming by, to ask some questions . . . I’m dealing with it.’
‘And you are?’ Lockyer asked, aware of Ms Collins’ dismay at being ignored.
The man stepped forward, holding out his hand. ‘Danny. Danny Armstrong. I work with Sheila on Fridays – just wanted to see if I could help.’
‘I can handle this,’ Sheila said, her voice hardening. ‘Mr Walsh said I was to deal with the police.’ She puffed out her chest and folded her arms securely over her generous bust, her nose turned up to the ceiling. ‘I am quite capable.’
‘Ms Collins,’ Lockyer said, ‘if you can answer my colleague’s questions . . . that would be most helpful, as you’re the most senior member of staff here.’ Sheila looked about ready to explode with pride.
‘Oh, yes, yes, of course,’ she said.
‘I’ll just ask Mr Armstrong a couple of questions while you two finish up,’ Lockyer said, turning away, nodding to the guy to follow, gesturing for him to take a seat as far away from the reception desk as possible. ‘So, Mr Armstrong . . .’
‘Call me Danny,’ he said, smiling.
‘OK. How long have you worked here, Danny?’ Lockyer asked, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want Sheila eavesdropping or chipping in to the conversation.
‘Six, seven months, something like that . . . Walsh hired me over the summer.’
‘And before?’
‘Nothing special, general admin-type jobs. I used to get work through an agency but Mr Walsh offered me a permanent position. It was good money and the hours were good, you know, so I took it,’ he said with a shrug.
‘I see,’ Lockyer said. ‘And do you have much contact with the patients?’
Danny shook his head. ‘No, not really. I’m mainly in the back office. As Sheila said, she deals with the front desk.’
‘I can see that,’ Lockyer said, glancing over his shoulder. Ms Collins was in full flow. Jane was now leaning on the desk. He would have to buy her a bacon sandwich on the way back to say thank you. ‘Did you ever see or speak to a Deborah Stevens? She was a patient here.’
‘No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. I usually remember patients’ names, even if I never see their faces. I enter all their information onto the computer but her name isn’t familiar. One of the others must have in put her record.’ Danny sniffed, sat back and adjusted his jeans.
‘Right, thank you, Danny,’ Lockyer said, deciding how long he and Jane should wait around for Walsh. ‘Do you know when Mr Walsh will be back?’
‘Not a clue. He had a couple of appointments this morning, I think,’ Danny said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Sorry,’ he said, pointing at his head. ‘I had a heavy night last night, not feeling my best.’
‘How long has Mr Walsh been here?’ Lockyer asked.
‘Since the place opened . . .’ Danny seemed to be about to say something else but stopped, covering his mouth with his hand.
‘And does he have much interaction with the patients, in his capacity as manager?’ he asked, reaching for the notepad in his jacket pocket.
‘Some . . . it depends. If he’s here, he sometimes talks to them in the waiting room,’ Danny said, shifting in his seat. His relaxed demeanour seemed to be changing as he looked increasingly uncomfortable.
‘Is that unusual?’ Lockyer asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Danny said, staring out of the window.
‘Is Mr Walsh a good employer?’ That question seemed to hit a nerve. Armstrong crossed his legs and started jiggling his foot.
‘Yes,’ Danny said, not looking at him. Instead he looked over at Sheila and then at the double doors before his eyes finally settled back on Lockyer. ‘Look, I like working here.’ He laughed and covered his mouth but there was no humour in the sound. Lockyer recognized the gesture and wondered whether Armstrong had had braces as a child but still hadn’t grown out of the habit of trying to hide them. ‘I guess he can be difficult, sometimes.’
‘Difficult?’ Lockyer asked, aware of Jane’s voice in the background.
‘He’s . . . he’s not that nice to Sheila or the other women . . . I know Sheila’s a bit much, but Walsh can be . . . cruel. He . . .’
‘Officers . . . I’m so sorry I’m late,’ a voice boomed from behind them. Lockyer turned to see a man, mid-forties maybe, wearing round black-framed glasses and a blue-and-white wide-pinstripe suit that looked expensive. ‘I had some business to attend to in town that couldn’t wait . . . please,’ Walsh said, gesturing to a door at the end of the reception desk. Lockyer thanked Armstrong and stood, waiting for Jane to join him. Sheila wasn’t verbose any more. She stood behind the desk, mute, her eyes wide. ‘I do hope Sheila and Danny have been helpful,’ Walsh said. ‘Please, do come through to my office and we’ll see what we can do about helping you, shall we?’ Walsh opened the door to a long hallway and waved Lockyer and Jane inside. ‘Sheila . . . fag butts . . . now,’ he hissed as the door closed behind them.
Lockyer covered his mouth to disguise a yawn as Walsh continued to regale them. He was on to the highlights of his career at the moment. He caught Jane’s eye and nodded for her to take control, otherwise they were liable to be here all day. This guy was half smarm, half comedy vicar. Thirty minutes had gone by and they already had the majority of his life story. Walsh had given them alibis not only for Debbie and the other girls’ murders but also, it seemed, all unexplained deaths dating back to Roman times. Despite the barrage of irrelevant information Lockyer had noticed one thing. When Jane said they would have to verify Walsh’s alibi with his wife, the guy had been reluctant, to say the least.
‘Mr Walsh,’ Jane said, holding up her notepad to halt the diatribe. It worked. Walsh sat back and folded his hands in his lap. ‘What can you tell us about Deborah Stevens?’
Walsh now clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘How awful for something like this to happen? It’s so . . . senseless isn’t it?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know how helpful I can be, I’m afraid. Of course I looked over her medical notes before you arrived but there wasn’t much of interest, I don’t think. You know she had an abortion, I assume?’ Walsh said in a stage whisper.
‘Yes, a D&C. Did you arrange that?’ Jane asked.
‘Not personally. One of my doctors, Dr Bird, referred her . . . once she was definite about her decision. I have asked him to make himself available to you, as I assumed you would want to talk to him.’ Walsh cleared his throat. ‘There’s nothing in her notes in relation to the father of the baby, or anything really, only that she was dead set on having a termination.’
‘How many weeks was she?’ Jane asked.
‘She was at the end of her first trimester . . . twelve weeks, according to her notes. A D&C isn’t the simplest or nicest of procedures, I’m afraid.’ Walsh stretched out his mouth, the corners turning down like a toad. He seemed an odd fit for this kind of job. He clearly found the whole thing upsetting and a bit distasteful. Lockyer couldn’t decide what to make of him; Walsh seemed genuinely distressed to be talking about abortion, let alone murder. There was a tremor at the corner of his mouth but perhaps it was just his nervous disposition. Lockyer felt on edge just sitting across from the guy. ‘I only saw her, Deborah, a handful of times, sitting out in the waiting room mainly. I did speak to her once, only for a moment. She and I were sheltering under the porch during a downpour and we got to talking.’ Lockyer watched as Jane scribbled notes in her pad, nodding for Walsh to continue. ‘Well, she was ever so young – not our youngest, naturally, but she seemed young for her age, if you know what I mean?’
‘What did you talk about?’ Jane asked.
Walsh seemed put off his stride when his quest
ion was ignored. His eyebrows were knitted together in an anxious bundle. ‘Well,’ he said, all but wringing his hands. ‘She was saying that she didn’t like the rain. It meant she had to take the bus and she wasn’t keen on being around too many people . . . I certainly remember that because I thought at the time it was such an odd thing for a girl of her age to say. She seemed shy but not so much with me, I guess.’ Walsh tipped his head to one side. ‘I don’t know why.’ Lockyer didn’t either.
‘What else, Mr Walsh? It would really help if you could tell us as much as you can recall.’ Jane sat forward in her chair, trying to get Walsh to look at her.
Lockyer looked around at the consulting room, intrigued by how un-medical it appeared. There were the obligatory boxes of surgical gloves and a yellow bin marked with a hazard sticker but that was about it. Both he and Jane were sitting on a grey couch, while Walsh sat on a comfy-looking armchair. The bulk of the furniture would have been better suited to someone’s lounge or some fancy hotel lobby.
‘. . . I offered her a lift but she said her mother didn’t like her to take favours from people . . . you never know what they’ll want in return,’ Walsh said. ‘Another funny thing to say, I thought, but I guess young girls have to be careful.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh, how dreadful.’
Lockyer looked out of the window as Walsh wiped away a tear. The emotion appeared genuine, but then Sheila and Armstrong’s reactions had looked genuine too. It seemed Walsh had two personas. But which was the real one?
‘Mr Walsh, we will need full access to your database and records for our investigation,’ Lockyer said, holding up his hand before Walsh could protest. ‘I am aware of the confidentiality issue, but it is necessary, I’m afraid. You will be provided with the relevant legal paperwork so there’s no breach on your part.’
‘Of course. I understand, Detective. I will assist wherever I can,’ Walsh said.
‘I will need a comprehensive list of all your employees for interviewing purposes,’ he said.
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