He didn’t want to see any more. He couldn’t look at her face.
46
13 February – Thursday
Lockyer sat at the head of the large glass table in the briefing room. His team were crammed in, some sitting but most standing. The room felt hot and sweaty. He was barely able to listen as Jane debriefed the team, and he no longer cared about the sideways glances he was getting, the whispering that ceased whenever he entered a room. He didn’t care what they thought. It couldn’t be worse than what he thought of himself.
‘Daniel Armstrong, aka Danny, or Adrian Chambers, was apprehended at the scene. He’s currently over at King’s College Hospital having a leg wound stitched. He should be with us later on this morning. Armstrong’s residence has been secured. A full examination will take place later today, but from their initial search, evidence has been recovered linking Armstrong to all five victims.’
He could see the pictures in his mind. If only he had looked harder, he might have seen the half-developed pictures of Sarah. Maybe then he could have stopped him.
‘As I’m sure you will have heard by now, Armstrong had created a child’s nursery . . . of sorts. A handmade quilt is down with the exhibits team now. Armstrong used the material taken from his victims’ clothing to make it.’ Jane stopped. Silence greeted her last statement. ‘Some items relating to an infant were recovered from the scene: nappies, a baby bottle and clothing. However,’ she said, raising her hand to silence the murmurs spreading around the room, ‘forensics have found no evidence to suggest a child was actually present. We can only make presumptions of Armstrong’s intentions at this point.’ The murmurs started again but this time they seemed filled with relief. But it wouldn’t last. Lockyer watched the faces around the table. They were no doubt thinking the same thing he was. Had Armstrong been planning to take a baby? And what had he intended to do with it?
There were so many cruel images in his mind. He felt suffocated by them. Instead of seeing the briefing room he was choking on a montage of hideous pictures: Sarah’s face, her legs, splayed open, covered in blood. Malvern Turner’s body, three vicious slashes to his throat, his mouth twisted in fear and pain. Megan’s shadowed profile, sitting in the squad car at the scene.
‘Armstrong’s laptop was also removed from the scene. From initial examination it appears he was visiting a number of chat rooms, all password protected. Who he was talking to and the subject matter of those conversations is, as yet, unknown.’
He looked up when Jane paused. Her eyes told him what was coming next. ‘Victim number five, Sarah Grainger, was pronounced dead at the scene. Dr Simpson and his team are preparing for the post-mortem.’
He clenched his fists against the cool glass of the table top and focused on the carpet beneath. He shouldn’t be here. It could prejudice the case. Jane hadn’t even blinked when he’d asked her to do the debrief.
‘Malvern Turner, a suspect in a harassment case and under active warrant, was also found dead at the scene.’ He could hear the guilt in Jane’s voice. It was faint but it was there. She felt culpable for Sarah’s death too. She had arranged the squad car at Sarah’s flat. She had despatched it to follow up on the sighting of Turner’s car in Honor Oak. ‘It appears Turner phoned 999 to report the assault and then attempted to intervene. He wounded Armstrong in the leg but was then stabbed by Armstrong, three times in the throat.’
Lockyer had been trying to protect Sarah from Turner, but instead it was Turner who had been with her in her last moments, trying to save her. The irony cut deeper than Armstrong’s blade ever could.
‘Finally, Manchester MPS is forwarding all their files on the death of Armstrong’s girlfriend, Joanne Taylor, five years ago. The CPS wants verification of the girl’s suicide note. We don’t know as yet whether Taylor’s abortion and suicide were a catalyst or if Armstrong, in fact, killed his girlfriend in an act of revenge for terminating the pregnancy. It may well be that Armstrong is going down for six murders, not five.’
He closed his eyes and blocked out Jane’s voice.
47
14 March – Friday
Lockyer stood back, leaning in the doorway, watching. Megan was perched on the arm of Bobby’s chair, showing him the present she had brought with her. It was a huge coffee-table book on ancient Egypt. From Bobby’s foot-tapping Lockyer could tell that this was an even bigger hit than the boat book.
‘She’s good with him,’ Alice whispered from where she was standing next to him.
He looked at her and smiled. There was some semblance of the old Alice in her eyes, but not enough. It would take more than a few weeks to get over what had happened. He reached down and squeezed her hand. She smiled, turned and walked away down the hallway.
‘Come on, Megs. It’s time we were going and I’m sure Bobby could do with a rest,’ he said, looking at his watch. They had been here for over two hours. Lockyer had never visited for so long. Megan turned down her mouth at the corners, just as she had when she was a little girl.
‘I just want to show Uncle Robert one thing,’ she said, waving Lockyer away.
‘I’m not sure the “Uncle” is appropriate, Megs, we don’t want to confuse him,’ he said. Although from where he was standing he seemed to be the only one who was confused.
‘Confuse him?’ Megan said, raising her eyebrows. ‘He’s your brother and he’s my uncle, why wouldn’t I call him “Uncle”?’ As she looked at him he realized he didn’t have an answer. His eighteen-year-old daughter had managed to change something he had made complicated for five years into something simple in under two hours.
‘Right,’ he said.
Megan smiled. ‘Now, Uncle Robert . . . this is a mummy. When they died the priests wrapped them up in all this material, here,’ she said pointing to a picture on the page. ‘It’s like swaddling . . . but they had to remove their organs first . . . they took the brain out through the nose with this hook,’ she said, turning to another page.
‘Steady on, Megs, you don’t have to be quite so graphic. The pictures show enough, I’m sure,’ he said, smiling.
Bobby appeared to be completely at ease. He had even assigned Megan an indicator. As soon as she had walked into the room and into his brother’s field of vision Bobby had been taken by her hair. With his head cocked on one side he had stared, transfixed. She had such a natural way with him that, even after five years, Lockyer hadn’t perfected. There was no tension or anxiety in either of their faces. As he stood watching he wondered, again, why he had kept them apart for so long. The family he had lost when he and Clara separated, the family he had longed for, it was right here. This was his family now.
‘OK . . . time to go,’ he said again, practically dragging Megan out of the room. She was still talking when he pulled the front door closed. Her excitement was infectious, almost. As they walked down the driveway to his car, he felt the pain creeping into his bones.
‘I wanted to say I was sorry, Dad,’ Megan said.
He turned to look at her. Her eyes were shining with tears.
‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Megs. I’m the one who’s sorry,’ he said, tipping her chin up so she was looking at him.
‘No, I mean I’m sorry about . . . Sarah.’
He stepped away as if the sound of her name was a physical blow. Of course his daughter knew about his personal relationship with Sarah. There had been no avoiding it after what had happened on French Street. Despite Lockyer’s protests, Megan had attended three interviews to establish Sarah’s last movements. Up until now he had avoided talking about Sarah on the premise that it would be too upsetting for Megan. He had been so wrapped up in his own pain that he hadn’t realized that not only was his daughter suffering from her ordeal but she was also hurting for him, for his loss.
Megan was shaking her head when she said, ‘She was . . . lovely. Really lovely. She wanted to surprise you, make you something nice for dinner. She wanted to look after you. I should have called you. If you’d known s
he was there, you might have come home, you might have stopped him,’ Megan said, tears rolling down her pale cheeks.
He stepped forward and put his hands firmly on her shoulders, pushing away the image of Sarah standing in his kitchen, smiling and laughing with his daughter.
‘Megan, you need to listen to me,’ he said. ‘This is not your fault, sweetheart.’ The authority and the calm in his voice surprised him. ‘Do you understand me? This had nothing to do with you.’ If anyone was to blame, it was him.
‘What will you do now?’ she asked, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
‘I will be fine, honey. I don’t want you to worry about anything. Everything will be fine.’ He took her hand in his. It was time to start thinking about Megan, about Bobby. It was time to start putting them first.
Daniel sat on his bunk, his sheets and blanket folded at the end of the bed, resting against the bars. He stared at the blank walls but to him they were filled with colour, with images of his girls: Phoebe, Katy, Debbie, Hayley and finally Sarah. He saw their faces and bodies mingling together as one.
Phoebe had been his first real test, stretching his skills, his patience. He remembered her strength when he took her. With the graves of others surrounding them, she had kicked, screamed and flailed like a stranded fish. But he had taken her resilience and absorbed it, empowering him to do more. Katy, in contrast, had been weak. Too scared to cry out, too obedient to struggle. The remembered disappointment cramped his thoughts but Debbie and Hayley had renewed his faith, confirmed his efforts. It was Sarah who had changed everything.
Her lesson should have been easy; his preparations were faultless. He had known Turner was watching. Of course he had. The man had been following him for several days. Ever since he had let himself be seen outside Sarah’s flat and everything had flowed effortlessly until she had decided to leave her flat. He sat back, the prison walls cold against his back. Instead of the pathetic amoeba Daniel had witnessed, Turner had been an enraged animal. If the kitchen knife hadn’t already been in his leg, Daniel might have laughed at the absurdity of facing someone of his power with such a pathetic tool. But Turner had surprised even him with his gusto, his fight for the woman he loved.
He heard Joanne’s voice, her whispers circling his cell. She had killed their baby, taken from him the one thing he craved. But now he understood. She had set him on the path, prepared him for what was to come, for what he was to become. He smiled. DI Lockyer would have found his room, his sanctuary for the innocent. No doubt he would be racking his brain to discover its purpose.
Daniel closed his eyes and let himself imagine what was to come. There were more houses, more rooms, ready and waiting for their tiny occupants.
COMING SOON
NO PLACE TO DIE
ISBN 978-1-4472-3934-5
An exclusive extract rom Clare Donoghue’s
next novel follows here . . .
PROLOGUE
17 April – Thursday
Maggie tried to run but she couldn’t feel her feet. Her breath felt warm against her cheeks as each step pushed air out of her lungs. She could hear him. He was behind her, the sound of his arms brushing against his sides as he ran, insistent, a buzzing inside her head. She had to move faster but her body wouldn’t respond. She could smell him. It was an earthy, feral scent chasing her through a labyrinth of hedges, trees and bare brick. Her throat closed up, refusing to ingest his stench. She looked up at the sky. It was black, not even a pinprick of light to guide her. The darkness pressed down; a velvet cloak soaked interror. Her fear was collapsing her, suffocating her, trapping her inside. Her lungs burned, her eyes stung. She reached out but touched nothing. The walls retreated from her fingers. There was no way out; no trail of breadcrumbs to follow. A door appeared up ahead, its red paint peeling away from the doorknob as if repulsed. She reached out to open it, his smell crippling her body, the sound of his footsteps throbbing inside her head. The red door shook, and vanished into the blackness. She screamed herself awake until she lay panting on her back, her throat dry. The dream was fading, the door was slipping away. He was slipping away.
She arched her back and let out a low groan, expelling the nightmare. Her muscles seemed reluctant to yield, preferring to return to their constricted state. She blinked. Not even a streetlight penetrated the blackness in her room. The power must be out on the street. She should get up, find out what was going on, but she couldn’t, still paralyzed by her dream. She covered her face with her hands. Her fingers felt damp against her lips, her tongue was swollen and heavy in her mouth. Memories of the previous evening began to flit through her mind like a magic lantern display. Had she had a lot to drink? She didn’t think so. She had been to his house. They had eaten dinner. He had been angry. They had fought. Then nothing: only a void.
Maggie allowed her muscles to retract and draw her body back into a foetal position as she felt around for the duvet. Her hands were heavy, clumsy. Sleep was pulling at her, dragging her back under. She wanted to give in but she was too cold. Yet she was sweating, her skin clammy beneath her cotton pyjamas. As she ran her hands over the freezing bed sheet she became conscious of a familiar odour. It was earthy, the smell of her parents’ front lawn after the rain. Her heart began to beat faster, a pain spreading and gripping her lungs.
This wasn’t her bed.
She sat up, staring into the inky blackness. She felt as though she were falling, her body shaking, shivering. She touched her face. Her skin felt cool, slick, alien.
What?
She turned her head from side to side but there was no light to soften the darkness.
‘I can’t see. Please, someone, help me.’ She stopped, her chest heaving. Her words sounded muted, almost lost by her leaden tongue. She listened.
What’s happening to me?
Maggie tasted bile in her mouth. She tried to swallow but more came as adrenaline flooded her system. She flung out her arms as far as she could in front of her: nothing. To the sides: nothing. She tried to stand up but her head struck something solid above her. Her whole body was shaking, her teeth biting down on her tongue, but there was no pain.
She inched her palms up higher and higher until they rested against a flat, marble-like surface. She pushed against it: no movement. She snatched her hands down and began rocking back and forth.
It’s all right. It’s okay.
She drew her knees up to her chin, put her arms around her shins and held herself. Her head ached as she tried to pull her thoughts into focus. This wasn’t real. She was still dreaming, hallucinating – something. She began to count, slowing her breathing with each number, ignoring the aching in her bones and the slur in her voice.
When her shuddering body had settled enough for her to move again she turned, until she was on her hands and knees in the empty space. God, she hoped it was empty. She let her head hang. It was too heavy for her to hold it up any more. The counting was helping but she needed more, she needed to fill the silence. She began to sing as she crawled, crab-like, to her left.
‘One little elephant came out one day, upon a spider’s web to play,’ her voice trembled. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and forced the words out, ‘he . . . he had such tremendous fun that he called upon another elephant to . . . come.’ Her head hummed, as if a hundred flies were trapped behind her eyeballs. ‘Two . . . two little elephants came out one day, upon a spider’s web to –’ She stopped, her head pulsing in rhythm with her voice as her hip struck a wall. She sat back on her haunches and with her palm flat she ran her fingers as far along in front of her, and then behind her, as she could. She leaned her face closer to the wall until her nose was pressed against the icy surface. She took a deep breath. Soil. Mud. She touched it again. It was earth, compacted earth, smoothed to a slick finish. ‘No, no, no,’ she said, shaking her head, tears rolling off her cheeks. ‘No.’ She closed her eyes but forced them open when she realized sleep was trying to suck her under again. She raised her shaking hands above her head,
humming the nursery rhyme to herself. She couldn’t bear to hear her laboured words, to feel her tongue, bitten and raw in her mouth.
In the same crab-like movement Maggie followed the line of the wall to one corner, then another, and another until finally she reached the fourth: the final wall of earth enclosing her. She could taste blood and soil. Panic needled her spine, her neck, like a shard of glass in her throat, tearing at the delicate tissue. Her breaths were coming in ragged gasps, her head light. An image of a grave flashed into her mind. Her bladder let go, the urine was warm against her thighs. She began to scream, all rational thought lost.
She screamed and screamed until she didn’t know if she was screaming at all.
1
21 April – Monday
‘I know,’ Jane said, waiting for the next line in what was a well-rehearsed piece. ‘Yes, Mother, I’m aware of that.’ She looked at the digital clock on the bottom right-hand side of her computer screen. She should be done soon. ‘I agree. I’ll call as soon as I leave.’ The second sticked by. ‘Yes, clean ones are in Peter’s room.’ She resisted the temptation to drum her fingers on the desk. ‘That’s right, where they’re always kept.’ Jane could sense other people in the office beginning to tune into her conversation. ‘Nothing. There was no tone. Sorry, yes, you’re right. I’ll be home soon.’ Almost there. She hoped. ‘Before eight. Yes. Okay. Yes. Good. Thank you, Mum. Bye.’ Detective Sergeant Jane Bennett put the phone back in its cradle, closed her eyes and let her head drop onto her desk with a thud. The polished melamine felt cool against her skin.
Her mother didn’t object to looking after Peter. Far from it. She was ‘happy to help.’ Jane would have the words engraved on her mother’s tombstone. ‘Celia Bennett, beloved wife, mother and grandmother. “Happy to help”.’ The image relaxed Jane’s shoulders and she smiled. The ten minute ear-bashing she had just endured was routine. Her mother was happy to care for Peter, but in return she was fully entitled to ring Jane up to nag at her whenever she felt like it. Jane didn’t mind. To know Peter was being looked after by someone who loved him meant everything. Her working life didn’t allow for routine, something Peter craved. She simply couldn’t be there all the time. So every pick, veiled dig, subtle criticism or direct assault her mother levelled against her was worth it. Peter might not care who picked him up from school, but to Jane, it mattered. She wanted the best for him. Although, she couldn’t deny that taking her mother’s abuse also helped to alleviate the guilt that shrouded her. She should buy shares in the ‘Bad Mother Award’. She lifted her head off the desk, using her fingertips to pull her fringe back into place. The heat of the day had all but gone. The office had cooled. She turned and pulled her jacket off the back of her chair and slipped it on.
Never Look Back Page 52