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.
‘All right,’ he said, trying to remember the last time his daughter had stayed at his place, let alone asked to stay. ‘What’s happened, Megan?’ He watched her take a deep breath, pulling her hair over one shoulder, playing with the ends with her thumb. She was so like Clara it was scary.
‘Nothing. Well, nothing major. Mum and I had a row, that’s all. Things got a bit heated. I thought it would be a good idea if I made myself scarce until things calm down.’
As she was speaking, he was racking his brains trying to figure out what they could possibly have argued about that would have this much impact. She’d failed her driving test, or an exam. Did she have some coming up? He was ashamed to admit he didn’t have a clue. Had she been caught with marijuana or some other illegal substance? ‘What did you row about?’ he asked, not sure he had the mental capacity to deal with anything too big. Of course he might already know if he had actually taken the time to listen to her last week instead of making it all about him, his case, his work. Why did he always do that? He wanted to be there for her but somehow he always fell short.
Megan wiped her nose with a napkin, took a deep breath. ‘It was stupid, she has . . . I’d rather not talk about it, Dad, if you don’t mind?’
He reached across and tilted up her chin so she was actually looking at him. ‘Come on, Megan. You and your mother hardly ever argue these days. What’s this all about?’ He could see how upset she was but he could also see how hard she was trying to suppress her emotions.
She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. ‘It’s so stupid . . . childish, really.’ She shook her head. ‘Mum’s got a new partner . . . well, not new, it’s been going on for a while,’ she said, looking into her coffee cup. ‘She told me last night that he’s moving in with us.’
He didn’t know what to say. He knew Clara dated but there had never been anyone significant. She hadn’t had a serious relationship since their separation and they had never even discussed divorce. His hand went automatically to the ring around his neck. It was his constant reminder of what he had lost. This was his fault. If he had been a better husband none of this would be happening.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, reaching across the table and resting her hand on his.
He could almost hear the tug of loyalties in her voice. ‘Megs, it’s fine. Your mum and I have been separated for what, five, six years.’
Megan nodded her head. ‘It was just a shock, that’s all, and we both said some pretty shitty things. It got out of hand.’ The regret in her voice reminded him again just how much she had changed, how much he had missed. She wasn’t his little girl any more. ‘Would it be OK if I stayed . . . just while Brian moves in and they get themselves sorted?’
‘Yes,’ he said, not trusting himself to say anything else. Just hearing the guy’s name was making his palms sweat. He needed to get out of here and get back to work. He wanted to push all thoughts of Clara and Brian to the back of his mind. Turner’s disastrous e-fit would be a welcome distraction at this point.
Megan pushed her empty coffee cup away from her and stood up. ‘Thanks, Dad, and I’m sorry for dragging you
down here. I know how busy you are.’ She bent down and kissed his cheek. ‘I’m going to get the bus back and try to patch things up with Mum. Any chance you could pick me up Tuesday night? I’m going to Rachel’s this weekend and Brian isn’t moving in till Wednesday.’
‘Of course, hon . . . absolutely,’ he said, still feeling numb, ‘. . . and give my regards to your mother.’
‘Regards?’ she laughed. ‘OK, Dad.’ She bent down and kissed his cheek again, and then was gone. So that’s what a hit and run feels like, he thought, listening as the bell over the door jingled, marking his daughter’s departure.
34
5 February – Wednesday
Lockyer repositioned the petrol nozzle and squeezed the trigger but again the flow clicked off, stopping as if the tank was already full. The garage was packed, cars lining up, two or three deep behind each pump. The snow had caused problems with fuel deliveries so half of Lewisham seemed to be panic buying. He tried to ignore the numerous car horns and revving engines.
‘Come on,’ he said through clenched teeth, as he shoved the metal nozzle in as far as it would go with barely restrained violence. ‘All I need is some bloody fuel. Do you think you can manage that?’ He snatched at the trigger, his tension easing when the pump finally kicked in and the litres ticked away.
‘Do you wanna get a move on, mate?’
He turned to see a huge guy leaning against the petrol pump, arms covered in tattoos, a beanie hat rammed low on his head. Rather than say what he was sorely tempted to say he nodded, removed the petrol nozzle, locked the fuel cap and walked towards the shop, searching for his wallet in his jacket pocket. Beanie man continued to voice his disapproval, muttering obscenities as he climbed back into his van. Lockyer decided challenging him was not worth the effort. He pushed open the glass door to the shop and joined the back of the queue.
‘Number four,’ he said when he finally got to the till, cash ready in his hand.
‘Anything else?’ the girl behind the counter said in a sing-song voice, pronouncing her ‘th’s as ‘f’s. She didn’t seem bothered by the onslaught of impatient petrol-buyers.
‘No, thank you.’
Beanie-guy had arrived and was now standing perilously close behind him. Lockyer took his change, nodded his thanks to the cashier, turned, looked the guy right in the eyes and then walked out of the shop. He climbed back into his car, slamming the door hard, dissipating some of his frustration.
The traffic crawled through Lewisham, not unusual for this time of day. Anything from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m. could be considered rush hour in south-east London. The snow was turning to slush as countless wheels pushed it out of the road and piled it up against the kerbs like a grey sludge. He had to be back at the station for a briefing at 19.30 so he was going to be cutting it fine. If he got half an hour with Bobby he would be lucky. There was a press conference at 18.30 releasing a reconstruction of Debbie’s last movements, not to mention the interview with Hayley’s parents who had arrived in London from Devon the day before. ‘That’s all I need,’ he said to his reflection in the rear-view mirror as he changed up into fourth gear, zipping through the lights at Sainsbury’s.
As he drove into the suburbs he passed hedges covered in blankets of snow. It made him think of Richmond Park, of Hayley’s body lying on the ground, white all around her, as if she was sleeping under a freshly washed sheet. He indicated and turned onto Bobby’s street, pulling in behind Alice’s car. Her back window was littered with stickers ranging from ‘Nurses do it stat!’ and ‘If you can read this, you’re literate!’ He managed to smile, cheered by the yellow smiley faces looking back at him.
He took the keys out of the ignition, climbed out of the car, alarmed it and walked carefully up the driveway, avoiding the ice patches he knew would be lurking beneath the snow. He searched his coat pocket for his phone before scrolling to the notes page where he kept the combination number for Bobby’s front door. ‘Five, four, seven, eight,’ he said, punching the buttons with his already freezing fingertips. As he pushed open the door he called out to announce his presence. ‘Hellooo,’ he said, walking across the hallway into the communal lounge. All the lights were on, including some Christmas lights that had lasted long past advent. ‘Hello,’ he said again, walking to the end of the room and poking his head through the doorway that led back into the hallway.
‘One second, one second.’
Just hearing Alice’s voice lifted Lockyer’s mood. ‘It’s Mike, Alice,’ he called.
‘Michael, I’m a-comin’,’ she said.
He looked up to see her walking down the stairs, her thin blonde hair flying around her face, her eyes and smile wide to greet him.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked. ‘And how’s the new man?’
‘Pretty good,’ Alice said, stopping on the bottom step. ‘It’s going well, so far.’ Her smile said it was going better than that. ‘So, if you are here to see me, I’m afraid you’ve missed the boat, my friend.’ She gave him a wink.
‘I hope he’s good enough for you,’ he said, happy to settle into the familiarity of their banter.
‘Not too good, I hope,’ she said, giving him another playful nudge.
‘How is he?’ he asked, gesturing up to the landing.
Alice collapsed into laughter as he realized his gaff. ‘None of your business,’ she said as she disappeared into the lounge, still chuckling to herself. ‘Of course, if you meant your brother . . .’ she shouted, poking her head back through the doorway, ‘sandboys would be jealous.’
‘How did he enjoy the trip to Greenwich?’ he called after her.
Alice reappeared. ‘Everyone had a great time. Bobby absolutely loved the Cutty Sark. With his birthday coming up I’d say a book on sailing would make his day.’ She put her hands on her hips and said, ‘You know, you should come with us one day. Invite’s always there for friends and family.’
Lockyer opened his mouth to deliver an excuse so familiar he should have it tattooed on his forehead. ‘I will. I’m just really busy at the moment.’
Alice smiled. ‘OK. Say bye before you go.’
‘Will do,’ he said, leaning on the banister to drag himself up the stairs. He suddenly felt exhausted. For those brief seconds, chatting to Alice, he had been able to forget about Clara and the case. But the respite didn’t last long enough.
As he walked along the landing he ran his hand over the old-fashioned wallpaper that always reminded him of the house he grew up in. He knocked on his brother’s door and waited for a few seconds. There was a muted shuffling sound and the creak of a chair. Lockyer took this as his signal to enter. ‘Hey there, buddy. How are you doing today?’ he said as he pushed the door closed behind him.
Bobby was already in his seat, a pack of blue patterned playing cards in his hand. ‘Cards,’ he said, holding the pack of cards in the air but keeping his head down.
‘Not today, I’m afraid. I can’t stay long.’ He wasn’t surprised when Bobby didn’t react. A familiar crushing sensation enveloped his chest. ‘Let’s look at one of your books instead, shall we?’ He walked over to a tall pine bookcase and waited. Bobby slowly stood, shuffled to the side of the chair and stepped back two paces to join him. ‘So, what do you fancy?’ There wasn’t one book on the shelf that Lockyer didn’t recognize. ‘I know. We haven’t looked at your Book of British Birds for ages. Why don’t we look for birds you see in the garden? Although I guess there aren’t so many, now it’s winter.’
‘Lots,’ Bobby said.
Lockyer loved seeing the excitement on his brother’s face. ‘Nah, I don’t believe you,’ he said, gently nudging Bobby’s arm.
‘Twenty,’ Bobby said.
‘You’re havin’ me on, twenty birds in this tiny garden? The next thing you’re gonna tell me is that they’re all blue.’
For what felt like the hundredth time Lockyer saw a smile and a flicker of understanding on Bobby’s face. He knew the autism restricted his brother’s brain function to a certain exte
nt but Lockyer was convinced Bobby could comprehend more than the doctors gave him credit for. Bobby seemed to snap out of a trance. He reached forward, picked up the book, shuffled over to his bed and sat down, already flicking through the pages, his eyes darting back and forth. Lockyer walked over and sat in the chair Bobby had vacated and watched his brother scanning the bird book.
‘Here,’ Bobby said, standing up and holding the book out, his head turned away to the door.
Lockyer took the book and rested it on his lap, looking down at the open pages. ‘Nice. A brown-and-red bird. I’ve even seen them in my poor excuse for a garden,’ he said, putting his finger to his lip in mock concentration. ‘Now what are they called? They’re on Christmas cards . . . there’s a song about them . . .’ He knew the hook would work. Bobby was tapping his slippered feet. ‘Why don’t you come over here and help me? I bet you know what this one’s called,’ he said, gently patting the chair opposite the card table.
Bobby stood up, took three sidesteps to the right and one step forward so he was next to the chair. He ran his hand over the top, back and then the arm of the chair. Lockyer realized he was sitting in Bobby’s chair. Should he move? He wasn’t sure. Alice said getting Bobby to try new things was an important part of his care. Lockyer could see the hesitation on his brother’s face, as if he was wrestling with an invisible demon, blocking his way. God, it was painful to watch. It took every bit of his restraint not to move but Bobby finally lowered himself into the ‘alien’ chair with slow, minute movements. He was constantly touching the fabric, as if to reassure himself that the object was real, that he wouldn’t fall to the floor when he trusted the chair with his full weight.
As soon as Bobby was sitting, Lockyer handed over the book, placing it on his brother’s lap and turning it the right way up so Bobby could look at the picture of the robin standing on a branch, a red berry in its beak.
Never Look Back Page 44