‘I will,’ he said, tearing his eyes away from the window.
As Alice turned to leave he remembered himself. ‘Sorry, Alice, have you got time to talk for a minute? I need to ask you some questions relating to the break-in.’
‘Sure thing,’ she said, her face untroubled.
Was he the only one hanging on by an emotional thread? ‘Let’s talk in the lounge,’ he said.
37
7 February – Friday
He arched his back, stretching out his spine. He had been watching her in the window for the past hour, an idea forming. If he closed his eyes he could see her laid out, as if crucified, like Hayley. Perhaps it had been the grandeur of the park or the untouched beauty of the snow but something had made him go back. When he had found Hayley again, lying naked and alone, it hadn’t felt right. But when she was properly laid out, everything seemed to slot into place.
Despite his excitement the distraction of the past few days kept invading his thoughts. The detective had found the earring. Forensic teams had been all over the brother’s house, collecting evidence. His initial intention had been to have a little fun with DI Lockyer, but then the fat woman had walked the tall detective around to the side of the house and pointed up to the bushes growing there. He knew the brother’s house had security cameras. Of course he did, but he hadn’t known about the one hidden above the side gate. He slammed his fist down hard on the dashboard. The lens was almost covered by an ever-expanding rhododendron. Surely it wouldn’t have caught anything. He tore his eyes away from the face in the window and tried to think back to that day, walking it through in his head, to see if he could recall looking up, exposing his face. His path down the alley had been swift: ten, fifteen seconds at the most. The camera may have caught a glimpse of him as he vaulted the back fence but again it was unlikely. The lens seemed tipped in the wrong direction. He never made mistakes.
As he started the engine and pulled away he averted his gaze at the last second. It wouldn’t do to unnerve her, not just yet.
When he arrived in the car park twenty minutes later he spotted two of his colleagues, hiding behind the bins, having a fag. The rules and regulations stated that employees had to leave the premises to smoke. They weren’t allowed in the car park or any part of the grounds. Why was it people desired to break even the simplest of rules?
‘I caught you,’ he said.
Both women jumped but then tittered like five-year-olds.
‘You bugger,’ Evelyn chirruped. ‘We thought you were the cops,’ she said with a conspiratorial tone.
‘Nothing to fear,’ he said, his muscles aching as he dragged his facial features into some semblance of a smile. ‘Mind you, it’s sort of . . . exciting, isn’t it?’ he said, his eyes darting back and forth.
After a moment of hesitation both women laughed and began pawing him with their fag-smelling fingers, grateful to him for alleviating their fears with humour.
‘Oh, you’re so bad, you are,’ Evelyn said, giving him a wink.
‘And you love it,’ he said, digging her in the ribs with his finger, repulsed by the layer of fat that engulfed his flesh.
He followed them into the clinic; both still laughing and throwing coy glances over their shoulders at him. Not long now, he thought. His next game would be much more fun. DI Lockyer would love it.
38
10 February – Monday
Lockyer’s team was assembling, chairs were moved, laptops plugged in. It was a hive of activity but he felt like he was standing still. He shuffled his notes and looked over at Jane. She nodded as if to confirm her support. For the first time in his career he felt uncertain. Not necessarily about the case, although it did feel like he was travelling in ever-decreasing circles. It was more his attitude, his confidence. He hadn’t been the same guy since he had seen Megan’s face in that alleyway almost a month ago.
The snow had eased but the sky outside the briefing room’s floor-to-ceiling windows was white, the streets unusually empty. The door opened and Phil walked in, a blue plastic folder slung under his arm. ‘Morning, all,’ he said, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table. There were murmurs of greetings. Lockyer stayed silent. He wasn’t thinking about the case. He was thinking about the weekend. He had worked, yes. He had seen Megan for coffee on Saturday morning, yes. But that wasn’t all. The majority of his waking and sleeping hours had been spent in Nunhead, in Sarah Grainger’s bed. Things had gone from bad to worse. After one night with her he had been shaken, obsessing over every little thing she said like a teenager. Now, he was four nights in and couldn’t see a way out.
The sound of someone clearing their throat dragged his thoughts away from Sarah. He shook his head and walked over to the whiteboard that now resembled a collage of immense proportions. Green lines connected areas on the map. Photographs of the crime scenes and the victims were all linked with red sticky tape.
‘Let’s get started,’ he said, nodding to Jane who was taking notes for this session. He took a deep breath as he put his hands in his pockets. ‘As you are all aware the death of Hayley Sawyer puts us at four victims to date. Phil has revised his profile to account for these . . .’
Before he could finish speaking Phil was on his feet, striding up to the head of the table to join him. ‘Thank you, Mike. I have indeed refined my earlier model and will be more than happy to convey that to you all now,’ he said, taking the folder from under his arm and opening it with a flourish.
Lockyer coughed and held up one finger, ‘Phil, can I have a minute?’ he said, turning his back to the group. He waited for the team’s conversations to reach a volume that would drown out his words. ‘Phil,’ he whispered. ‘We don’t have time for the revised profile now, I’m afraid. I need to brief the team on two important matters. You and I can and will discuss it later.’
Phil responded by turning back to face the room and saying in a stage-whisper, ‘Well, you will have to hope that I am free.’ He then walked back to his seat, put his folder on the table and crossed his arms.
‘OK, everyone, quiet down. We’ve got a lot to get through,’ he said, approaching the table again. ‘As I was just saying to Phil, his revised psych profile is now available on the bulletin board. We are all . . . grateful to him for taking the time to amend the profile on such short notice.’ Heads nodded around the table and a silence fell over the briefing room. ‘The first point on today’s agenda concerns the exhibits team. Chris, can you update everyone, please?’ he said, taking his seat next to Jane, thankful when all eyes turned away from him. He felt like his thoughts of Sarah were tattooed on his forehead.
Chris stood, walked to the head of the table and pulled down the projector screen where an image of the earring appeared, blown up to the size of a tractor tyre. ‘The item you see here is the earring found at the scene of Deborah Stevens’ murder. It was removed or fell from the victim’s ear; however, when the team searched the area, no other earring was found.’ He nodded to the officer who had handed out the exhibits bundle and the image on the screen was replaced by an almost identical picture. ‘This item was photographed last week,’ Chris said. ‘DI Lockyer recovered it from an assisted living facility, outside Lewisham . . .’ he paused, consulting his notes; the young officer looked nervous. ‘Cliffview, page four of your notes.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘Skin cells were found in the butterfly section of the earring, here. DNA testing has confirmed that the item had been worn by Deborah Stevens.’
He tried to ignore the stares as several members of his team looked in his direction. He indicated for Chris to continue. He wanted to get this over with, as quickly as humanly possible.
Chris seemed unsure how to continue as he said, ‘Cliffview is a private facility. It houses people with varying conditions, such as dementia and autism.’ He looked at Lockyer, seemingly out of words.
Lockyer took a deep breath. ‘Right, let’s get this over with, shall we,’ he said, standing, placing both his hands flat on the table, the heat from his skin leaving
traces where his fingers rested against the glass. All eyes were on him. ‘I found the earring in the bedroom of one of the residents. It was lying on a pile of books, in plain view. The resident is my brother, Robert Lockyer.’ Muttered conversation spread throughout the room. Their words, their doubts seemed to bounce off the glass, attacking his composure. ‘Of course, you already know all of this. Nothing works faster than the bloody jungle drums in this place.’ Several heads dropped so he knew who had been talking, but he could hardly blame them. He cleared his throat to make sure he had the team’s full attention. ‘The resident has been fingerprinted and DNA has been taken. An alibi has been given, checked and verified. Neither the DNA or the fingerprints are a match for the trace evidence found at the murder scene of Deborah Stevens.’ He waited and watched this new information drip-feed around the room. ‘There is no reason to believe that the resident in question has anything whatsoever to do with this murder or any of the others. Do I make myself clear?’ he asked, looking from one officer to the next. A few of the on-loan officers didn’t meet his eyes but the majority of the team looked back at him, their faces open, their feelings clear. At least some people still trusted him.
Trust. As soon as the word entered his mind an image of Sarah crammed in beside it. She trusted him. She had said as much. Bobby was no one’s business but delaying the investigation was. What he was doing with Sarah was their business too. It was Jane’s business. Conflict of interest didn’t even come close to what he was doing.
‘So, what we need to find out is . . .’ he said, feeling his composure return, ‘the identity of the man who put the earring in the resident’s room. When and why?’ There were more nods of agreement from his team. Jane in particular was nodding enthusiastically, already on board, back at his side. ‘We’re assuming the “when” was last week, Tuesday. The residents were out on a day trip so the facility would have been empty. The “why” isn’t our main concern at this stage. As we know, it isn’t uncommon for suspects in this kind of investigation to take an interest in police, media, anyone closely connected to the case. I have spoken to Phil on this . . .’ He gestured to Phil and was relieved to see he wasn’t going to fight him or attempt to heckle his way into the briefing. ‘It is possible that the suspect sees me as some kind of opponent and therefore wishes to engage me on a more personal level.’ Officers turned and looked at each other, concern being the dominant expression. ‘I would ask you all to take suitable precautions. The case is not to be discussed outside of this office, even with other departments, without direct sign-off by me or Sergeant Bennett.’ He didn’t know what they looked so worried about. Lewisham’s first serial killer hadn’t taken a personal interest in them. Hands started to go up around the room; concern had clearly been replaced by mild panic.
‘OK, OK, I can see that you all have questions. I would ask you to direct them to Sergeant Bennett . . . after the briefing, please,’ he said as the entire room prepared to bombard Jane. He clapped his hands together once, twice, three times until he finally had their attention. ‘We’ve got CCTV footage to go through . . . nothing has been found, as yet. Jane and I have already talked to the staff at the facility. As I said, we’re assuming the earring was planted on Tuesday between the hours of 10.00 and 17.00. We already have a list of individuals who knew the house would be empty.’ He thought back to his conversation with Alice. Her new boyfriend had known about the trip. She had even invited him to come along, but he had declined and she hadn’t heard from him since. Lockyer had run a check on the mobile phone number Alice had for the guy but it was disconnected, a pay-as-you-go, no way to trace the owner. Another dead end or maybe just a false start?
‘Are there any questions?’ he asked. Chairs moved and papers were shuffled but nobody spoke. ‘Good. Then let’s move on. The second item on today’s schedule involves the entire team. We’re still waiting on Sawyer’s medical records, to confirm if she had a termination, so we will have to hang fire on that for now. The hospitals where Phoebe, Katy and Debbie had their procedures have confirmed that records are confidential and aren’t on a centralized database. Given this new information, it’s unlikely that the suspect selected his victims by way of their medical records.’ As soon as he said ‘selected’ he felt a twinge in his stomach. According to Phil’s profile they had four days, max, before this guy struck again, before another girl was wrenched from her family. Why did everything take so bloody long? Debbie’s killer was taking risks, branching out not only geographically, with Hayley, but going out of his remit completely, with the earring and Bobby. How was he able to stay hidden?
‘Sorry,’ he said, realizing he was staring out of the window, worry and frustration creasing his brow. ‘If he isn’t finding them through records, then we have to assume he’s seen these girls face to face. The hospital administrator advised that women often attend their local surgery or clinic beforehand for initial testing, follow-up appointments and counselling before and after the procedure. We know Debbie attended the Lewisham Young Women’s Centre but they have no record of any of the other victims. Penny and Chris have been over there to show the staff pictures of Katy and Phoebe . . . no joy, as yet. We haven’t had the go ahead to release Hayley’s name to the press, so we will have to wait on that. In the meantime we need to spread our net.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The anonymity offered by these types of clinics doesn’t help us, I’m afraid. We’re left with no option but . . . door to door.’ He heard rumbles of discontent. It was going to be a laborious couple of days and the team knew it. Wait until they saw the size of the list. ‘We have a list here,’ he said, holding up a folder-sized bundle of A4 paper, ‘of all the local clinics, surgeries and support groups operating in south-east London and south-west London.’ There were more murmurs and groans of protest from the room. ‘We will be visiting every single facility on this list with details and photographs of each victim, excluding Hayley.’ A hand shot up at the back of the room. It was Chris.
‘Yes, Chris,’ he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound too indulgent.
‘Sorry, sir. If we’re thinking the suspect had face-to-face contact with the victims then we’re assuming he, what . . . works at one of these places?’
‘Yes, Chris, that’s exactly what we’re hoping, but bear in mind a lot of people go through these places . . . doctors, nurses, office staff, cleaning staff, delivery men . . . the list goes on. There are a lot of options but if we turn up a hit we’ll be narrowing the field considerably.’ Until then they were still looking for a gnat in a swimming pool. We just need one break, he thought. Chris still had his hand in the air. ‘Yes, Chris.’
‘But . . . the third victim, Deborah Stevens, we know what clinic she went to,’ Chris said, looking acutely uncomfortable to have the floor.
‘As I’ve said, we’ve checked the LYWC already. What we’re hoping is that Debbie visited more than one clinic. It would make sense, given that Lewisham isn’t her closest facility by a long way, so there may be a reason she changed and went further afield. We’ll focus on the clinics in SW15 and SW18 first, as all the girls were resident in or close to these boroughs.’ Lockyer took a deep breath. He hoped this wasn’t a colossal waste of time but what other choice did he have? The only link between the girls was their abortions. The only way their killer would know all four of them had abortions was their records, and if not records, then it had to be face to face. It just had to be. ‘Right, is everyone with me?’ he said, relieved to see a room of nodding heads. ‘Good. That’s all for this morning’s briefing. Thank you and good luck,’ he said, giving the list to Jane. ‘Jane will have details of your locations in ten minutes. Be ready to leave in twenty.’
The room emptied quickly as his team shuffled out and over to their desks or make-shift spaces to grab their phones, their coats and their car keys. Today was going to be a long day for everyone but, Lockyer hoped, by the end of it he would be one step closer to finding a killer.
Lockyer looked down at the mobile on his desk. He
had three missed calls. They were all from Sarah.
He walked out of his office and over to the lift, his head down as if studying a message he had received. Jane looked up as he passed but he didn’t meet her eyes. He couldn’t. The guilt was hideous. Jane was Sarah’s official case handler but she hadn’t been there. There had been no one else. He had spoken to her, explained her options. What he did after that was nobody else’s concern.
‘Yeah, right,’ he muttered.
The doors opened and he walked in, keeping his eyes lowered. It was almost eleven so half the station would be heading over the road for a bacon sandwich, cup of tea and a fix of Sky Sports. He listened to their banter until the lift finally reached the ground floor. He was so relieved to get out that he practically jogged across the foyer and into the car park. He clicked the remote central locking on his key, the Audi’s indicator lights flashing twice as he climbed in and turned on the engine. All the windows were fogged. He sat back and rested his head, closing his eyes and savouring the moment of peace.
As he dialled Sarah’s number he cranked the heaters up but kept the blowers on his legs so he could enjoy the privacy of his fogged windows for a moment longer.
‘Hello,’ she said, her voice quiet, tentative.
‘Hi, it’s Mike,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said. He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘How are you?’ she asked, her tone more serious.
He tried to think of a clever or witty answer so he could make light of the situation, but his mind was empty. Humour was a tool in the office but now, when he really needed it, it had abandoned him. ‘I’m fine. Sorry I missed your calls. I’ve only just come out of the morning briefing.’ It felt strange to hear himself saying a sentence he had said thousands of times to Clara over the years. He reached for the ring at his neck. It wasn’t there. He hadn’t been wearing it for days.
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