She didn’t leave.
‘Is there something else, Jane?’ he asked. Now he was looking at her face, he noticed the little crease between her eyebrows.
‘Yes, are you nearly done? I have a case I think could be of interest. I’d like to talk it through with you?’
‘Give me five minutes, Jane,’ he said, seizing the opportunity to escape with both hands. ‘I’ll meet you in my office.’
As the door closed he turned to Phil. ‘Apologies. Can we wrap this up and I’ll go over your full report and come back to you?’
‘Right, well, if you have to go.’ Phil sounded like a peeved child.
‘Yes, I do. Quick rundown if you can?’
‘Fine. As far as I see it . . .’
‘Main points, Phil. Just the main points.’
‘Yes . . . ’ Phil looked down at his notes; his confidence seemed momentarily absent. ‘Main points. Excellent geographical knowledge. Lives and works locally. Broken home, possible abuse, possible alcoholic parent. Sexual inadequacies. Twenty-five to forty-five. White male, hunting within his own ethnic group. Above-average height. Above-average intelligence. Strong . . .’
Lockyer struggled to concentrate on the rest of Phil’s summary as an image of a possible killer appeared in his mind, followed closely by Debbie Stevens’ body, lying in the alleyway. He could see her face, her mouth. It looked like it was moving, like she was trying to tell him something.
12
24 January – Friday
Sarah was sitting alone at Bennett’s desk, staring at her diary. The cheerful daisy pattern on the cover looked out of place. She pulled it towards her and flicked over the pages, each entry tugging at her nerves as she remembered so many sleepless nights. The impression of her black biro had left deep grooves, making the backs of each page look like Braille.
‘Sarah?’
As she turned she saw Bennett and standing next to her a tall guy wearing a crumpled charcoal suit.
‘Sarah, this is Detective Inspector Mike Lockyer, my boss.’
She shook the proffered hand, his grip suggesting he was more accustomed to shaking hands with men, demonstrating his power with this simple gesture. Despite his rather dishevelled appearance he was an imposing figure, handsome even.
‘Good morning, Miss Grainger,’ he said, smiling. When he released her hand it flopped like a dead fish back onto her lap.
‘Please, call me Sarah,’ she said, trying to ignore the tightening in her throat.
‘Apologies . . . Sarah it is,’ he said, looking from her to Bennett. His expression was hard to read. There was sympathy or pity but it was tinged with something else she couldn’t quite place. Frustration, maybe, at having his time wasted. ‘Yet another pathetic female with an overactive imagination.’ She could almost hear him saying it.
‘Sarah, my colleague DS Bennett will remain your point of contact. However, she has just briefed me on your case, and if you don’t mind, I would like to ask you a few questions?’
She was finding it difficult not to stare. He looked like a Hollywood movie star who had been roughed up for an art-house film role. But more questions? She wasn’t sure she could stand any more, the disbelieving looks. Her exhaustion was suffocating her. ‘Go ahead,’ she said, flinching as he pulled a chair up next to her. He must have noticed her reaction because he pushed his chair back half a foot before sitting down. He was still close but not too close.
His questions made her dizzy. They made no sense. She could hear herself answering but her brain was aching with the weight of each bizarre inquiry.
‘Tell me, did contact increase or decrease at any particular time of the month? Is there a pattern in your diary that is easily identifiable?’
‘What time and where did you receive these calls?’
‘How long have you lived in the area?’
‘Do you work with an agency or privately?’
‘How do your clients get in contact with you?’
‘We will need to keep your mobile phone for a day or two for interrogation.’
‘Have you told anyone else about these incidents?’
‘Where were you on the nights of the 14th of December, 4th of January and 22nd of January?’
‘I will need details of the contact on those days.’
‘I will want to make a copy of your diary.’
She found herself staring into his round brown eyes, unable to look away.
‘Thank you. We will be in touch. You’ve been very helpful,’ he said, shaking her hand, more gently this time.
She didn’t understand. They were meant to be helping her, not the other way around, but before she could say as much, he stood, turned on his heel and walked away. Sergeant Bennett sat down in the seat vacated by her boss. Sarah had almost forgotten Bennett was still there.
‘Thank you, Sarah. I know it’s been a very long day for you. We won’t be too much longer.’
‘What was all that about? It felt like those questions were meant for someone else,’ Sarah said, swallowing hard. Bennett leaned forward, and for just a moment Sarah thought she was going to hug her, but instead she reached over and picked up the diary.
‘We need to get details from your phone of all the calls you’ve received. You’ll be able to collect it tomorrow afternoon.’ Bennett rose from her chair. ‘I’ll make a quick copy of your diary. Just wait here for one more minute.’ Like her boss before her, Bennett was gone in a second, leaving Sarah alone. Alone. That’s what he had done to her. He had made her feel alone, even in an office full of people.
Her mobile buzzed on Bennett’s desk. Was she allowed to answer it? She leaned forward and looked at the screen. It was a London number, a City number. She picked it up and pushed ‘answer’. ‘Sarah Grainger speaking,’ she said. Her voice sounded hollow.
‘Good morning, this is Scott Abrahams, from Stephenson Harwood. I just wanted to confirm times for tomorrow’s appointment?’
A weight dropped into Sarah’s stomach. She had totally forgotten. ‘Err, Scott . . . yes. I . . . what time did we say? Sorry, I don’t have my appointment book with me.’
‘Two p.m. was arranged . . . until five p.m. We have called people in specially, as it’s a Saturday. I assume that is still convenient with you?’ Scott asked, but Sarah could tell from his tone of voice that not only would she get an earful if she even tried to cancel but she would never be working for that firm again.
‘Two, yes . . . absolutely, I’ll be there.’ Sarah tried to put some enthusiasm into her voice, to at least feign an upbeat attitude.
‘Good. Thank you. Come to reception, ask for me and we’ll get you set up. How long will you need?’
‘Twenty minutes, half an hour tops. I’ll get to you for 1.30 to give me enough time, if that’s OK?’
‘Fine. See you tomorrow, Miss Grainger.’ The line went dead.
Sarah put the phone back on the desk. She had never forgotten a meeting. It was because of him. He was infecting every part of her life, dismantling it from the inside out.
13
24 January – Friday
Lockyer looked again at the post-mortem pictures spread out on his desk, the late afternoon sun casting shadows on the girls’ faces. The cuts made on Debbie’s wrists were the same as those on Katy’s and Phoebe’s; similar length and depth. The rape was violent: just like the others. Dave’s report said Debbie’s attack had been more prolonged than the other victims’. The drugs would explain that; but that wasn’t what was bothering him. Something was different. Yes, there were the bite mark and the fingerprint, but that wasn’t it. There was something about the murder scene that was bugging him.
He glanced over at his notepad, lying on the edge of his desk. The letters D&C stood out. Dilation and curettage. Even the words made him wince. He turned and looked out through the blinds, but instead of seeing the winter sunshine he saw Clara, lying on a bed, in a green hospital gown. It had happened after the marriage but before the separation. He had been in the p
rocess of moving his stuff out of the family home when she had walked in the front door and announced that she was pregnant. For a second he had felt happy but then her face had brought him crashing back down to reality. ‘I’m not keeping it, Mike. Not now. Not like this.’ It felt like someone had reached into his chest and ripped out his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. He could barely believe the words coming out of her mouth. But he hadn’t fought her. Instead he had taken her to the hospital, sat quietly and held her hand while the surgeon explained what was about to happen: ‘The procedure will involve the opening or dilation of the cervix before surgically removing the lining of the uterus, or in your case, Mrs Lockyer, the contents of the womb.’
He turned back to his desk. Now was not the time for some sick trip down memory lane; he resisted the urge to reach for his chain and Clara’s ring.
‘So, what did you think?’
He looked up to see Jane standing in the doorway to his office, her eyebrows bunched.
‘Of what?’ Lockyer asked. Although, at this point, he wasn’t sure he cared. He felt exhausted. Rays of sunshine shone through his office blinds like arrows.
‘Grainger – what did you think?’
He turned his chair, stood up and began pacing in the four-foot-square space between his desk and a row of filing cabinets. ‘We need to look into it, yes. Find out if Debbie or either of the first two victims reported being followed or harassed,’ he said, picturing Grainger’s face from their meeting earlier, her skin pale, her eyes dark and sunken. She looked utterly hollowed out by her ordeal. Weirdly, he could relate. ‘A predator hunting on the street adjacent to Debbie’s certainly warrants a closer look.’
‘Do you want me to speak to the surveillance team about Grainger?’ Jane asked, turning to leave.
‘Not yet. I’ll need to speak to Phil again about the geographical profile, see what he thinks.’ A conversation he could do without. ‘We can’t afford to go off half-arsed, Jane, not on a hunch.’ He knew it was a cheap shot. A lame way of sharing his frustrations, trying to make someone, anyone, feel what he felt. Jane blinked but seemed impassive to his tone. She would take whatever crap he dished out, even though sometimes he wished she wouldn’t.
‘Right, I’ll wait for your word, then, sir. Is there anything else, before I head out?’ she asked.
‘Any holes in Walsh’s alibis?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, sir,’ she said, ‘but with a bit of luck I should have confirmation by close of business.’
As Lockyer stared out through the blinds at Lewisham High Street he thought that luck wasn’t a factor in this case, not yet. ‘Right, thanks Jane,’ he said, blocking out the almost constant blare of car horns from the road below.
‘Sir, would you . . . can I get you anything from across the road, a bacon sandwich or something?’
He looked over his shoulder to see yet another concerned expression on Jane’s pinched face. Was his fatigue that obvious? What could she see when she looked at him?
‘No, Jane, but thanks,’ he said, turning his back on her. ‘I’ll see you at the 18.00 briefing.’
He waited for Jane to leave before closing his eyes and picturing the crime scene again. It came as flashing bright images. Debbie’s feet, her bare legs splayed out in an unnatural position. He refocused on the alley itself, blurring her body to just an outline. There was rubbish: cans, bottles and discarded crisp packets mingling with the mud and water from the nearby drain. Her blood pooled as though she was in a depression in the concrete. Drag marks. Yes, there had been drag marks, showing her attacker had begun the assault before deciding to pull Debbie further into the alleyway. But why move her? She was maybe ten or twelve feet from her original position. Perhaps noises from the Tesco car park had intruded, forcing him to retreat further into the darkness. A thought ran along the edge of his consciousness but he couldn’t quite grasp it: a ghost.
Two hours later Lockyer crossed the office to the conference room where Jane and a few members of the team were waiting.
She had set up a whiteboard and scribbled out various timelines. Her laptop was linked to the wall-mounted TV screen so they could see all the evidence in forty-inch splendour. Full-size post-mortem pictures. He walked in and sat down opposite the screen. ‘Right, Jane, take us from the beginning. What do we know?’
Jane cleared her throat. ‘Deborah Stevens, 135 pounds, five foot six, redhead, eighteen years old, advertising assistant, single, lived with her parents in Nunhead. She has one brother, here in London, Petts Wood, with a wife and three kids. Stevens left her office at just gone 18.00 hours. CCTV has her passing St Paul’s, Moorgate and then heading towards the Barbican, but after that we lose her. We pick her up again at 20.05 boarding a train at Blackfriars station, the 20.09. According to her brother she was heading down to Petts Wood for a visit, new baby in the family. For some reason she decided against it. She changed trains at London Bridge and went on to East Dulwich station instead. She telephoned the brother around 20.40 to say . . .’ Jane consulted notes in front of her and on the computer before continuing, ‘to say . . . she wasn’t coming, she would see them the following evening. She mentioned that she’d had a bad day but didn’t elaborate. We’re checking her phone for any other relevant contacts, calls or messages. We have CCTV footage of her outside the Tesco Metro at 20.46 but she doesn’t go into the shop. She walks away, to her left; there the CCTV ends. It covers the doorway and the parking area out front but the camera that covers the left-hand side of the building where the cash machine and side alley are situated was broken. Had been for a week or so. Security guard does a walk around at 04.00 and finds the body behind the building and calls 999.’ Jane took a breath, looking over at him.
‘Right,’ he said, taking charge. ‘Let’s take it up to there and make sure we’ve covered everything. We need to establish where she was for those two hours before boarding the train at Blackfriars. I want a clear picture of her movements from the time she left her office until the final image at the Tesco’s. We’ll need it for the reconstruction.’
‘Penny and Chris are looking at the CCTV. I’ll get an update from them and come back to you.’
‘OK. Next . . .’ He sucked in his cheeks and looked out of the window, letting his eyes drift out of focus and then refocus.
‘We’ve already questioned and accessed information from the Tesco staff, security guard included, but we need to take a closer look at all of the customers and get access to credit-card records.’
‘What did her bank say about recent transactions? Did she withdraw cash from the machine outside the shop?’ he asked.
‘They haven’t come back to us, as yet. If she was approached that close to the shop someone would have seen something, surely?’ Jane said.
‘I agree, it’s unlikely, but remember the puncture wound on her torso and Benzo element. If he was able to subdue her with a knife, it would allow him time to drug her, near or even at the cash point. She would have been semi-conscious to begin with and he could have simply walked her around the corner with little resistance.’ He sat back in the chair, trying to ignore the images of Debbie and a faceless killer.
‘Has Dave come back about the toxicology reports on the others?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Neither Atherton or Pearson was drugged and, so far, there’s nothing linking the three women, other than the MO similarities, obviously,’ Jane said, with a shake of her head.
‘Right. Let’s move on to the scene and the post-mortem and see if there’s anything there. You get the stuff ready. I’ll be back in two.’
Lockyer got up and headed to his office to grab his own copy of the post-mortem. As he pushed open the door the face of Jane’s client, Sarah Grainger, appeared in front of him but was gone again, in an instant. What had Phil said? That the killer would have started off small, ‘jumping out of bushes or following them home, so they knew he was there’.
14
25 January – Saturday
Sarah pushed her front door o
pen with her foot, juggling her camera bag and lighting disc in one hand and her briefcase and umbrella in the other. The rain was turning into sleet, soaking the bottom of her trousers and dripping down the back of her neck as she tried to shake off her umbrella and shut the door. She wanted to get inside. She could hear a car pulling into a space nearby.
She slipped on a pile of letters and flyers that were littering her downstairs hallway but managed to steady herself as she flicked on the light with her elbow. There was a fizzing sound, followed by a loud pop as the bulb blew, returning her and the hall to darkness. ‘Great,’ she said, dumping everything on the floor. She closed the door, turned the deadbolt, put the chain on and double-locked the two new locks Toni had helped her install a couple of weeks ago. She bent down and used both hands to scoop the mail into one pile, and shoved the mess of paper under her arm before picking up her camera and briefcase. The lighting disc could stay down here for now. She struggled up the stairs, her feet thudding against the wooden floorboards.
As she reached for the mail, wedged under her arm, it fell, scattering all over the kitchen floor. She pushed it aside with her foot and headed for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the work surface. She took a glass from the cupboard and poured herself a measure. She wanted to be numb. Sarah took a swig, shuddering as she swallowed, staring beyond her reflection in the kitchen window to her garden below. The trees separating her from the school playground swayed back and forth in the wind. Every crack of a branch tightened her spine.
She kicked off her shoes, padded down the hallway to her lounge and collapsed into her sofa. Her book rested next to her. She stroked the cover. Maybe she could escape into someone else’s world for a couple of hours. She opened it to the marked page and let her eyes drift over the words but she couldn’t concentrate. With a sigh she closed it and tossed it onto the sofa next to her. She rested her head in her hands, closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Her hair was damp from the rain she had failed to avoid and the smell of her coconut shampoo, normally a comfort, irritated her. A loud bang made her jump. She sat forward, ready to run. As she looked around, tears blurring her vision, she saw the book lying askew on the floor. ‘I can’t stand this,’ she whispered. She was exhausted, her emotions raw.
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