Never Look Back
| Never Look Back |
| DI Mike Lockyer [1] |
| Clare Donoghue |
| UK |
| (2014) |
Three women have been found brutally murdered in south London, the
victims only feet away from help during each sadistic attack. And the
killer is getting braver . . . Sarah Grainger is rapidly becoming too
afraid to leave her house. Once an outgoing photographer, she knows that
someone is watching her. A cryptic note brings everything into
terrifying focus, but it's the chilling phone calls that take the case
to another level. DI Mike Lockyer heads up the regional murder squad.
With three bodies on his watch, and a killer growing in confidence, he
frantically tries to find the link between these seemingly isolated
incidents. What he discovers will not only test him professionally but
will throw his personal life into turmoil too.
To my mum and dad
for always being there
21 January – Tuesday
He licked his thumb and forefinger, closed his right eye and pushed the thread through the eye of the needle. He never used machines. They snagged the material, pulling and ripping at his treasures. If a section was damaged, nothing could be done. He had no access to more and besides, a secondary piece wouldn’t be the same. He looked down at his hands. His knuckles were red and chapped and his fingers were trembling. He needed to rest.
He climbed the stairs, walked into the bathroom, over to the sink, pulled on the shaving light and looked at his reflection. His hair stood up at odd angles. It looked almost sculpted. A chuckle rumbled in his throat but as it rose into his mouth it turned into a cough, hacking, tugging at his lungs. He turned and walked out, dragging his feet, aware of the stench wafting up from his body, his clothes, his hands.
His eyes felt heavy, his joints seeming to solidify as he made unsteady progress towards his bedroom at the back of the house. The rain was loud, the cold it brought seeping through the windows, chilling his bones. He stopped at the door to the spare room, pushed it open with the heel of his hand and looked in. His eyes drifted back and forth over colour, patterns, all different, all alive. It wouldn’t be long before he was ready.
22 January – Wednesday
Debbie stepped off the train at East Dulwich station, misjudged the drop and stumbled onto the platform. Icy breezes found their way beneath her jacket, pinching at her skin. She could feel eyes on her as other commuters watched her unsteady progress towards the exit, her cheeks burning as the January wind snapped at her face. She had considered splashing out on a taxi but it was more hassle than it was worth. None of the black cabs wanted to go south of the river. Whenever she said, ‘Nunhead, please,’ she would invariably get the same response. ‘Just clockin’ off, luv,’ or ‘I’m on my way home, only got time for a local drop-off.’ South-east London was essentially a dead zone. No chance of a return fare. No chance of a taxi.
She reached the steps, the cold concrete penetrating the thin soles of her shoes, her toes tingling. She slipped, dropping her handbag but managing to right herself as she watched it tumble down to the bottom of the steps, its contents spilling out onto the dirty pavement: an empty wallet, an empty jewellery case and two packets of paracetamol. She stood, rearranging her grey pinstripe skirt, her fingers finding the broken zip. He had been rough tonight.
The night air was making her feel light-headed. She pressed the button at the traffic lights and waited, resting her head back on her shoulders, her body swaying. A bus stopped in front of her, its exhaust catching in her throat. She tipped her head forward and looked at her reflection in the shadowed windows. Her hair was a mess, strands hanging around her face, limp and lifeless. Even in this light she could see the smudges of mascara under her eyes. Why would he want her? She pushed the button for the lights again, her hand lingering, eager for the support.
She looked up the road at Lordship Lane. It was the ‘in’ place to be, trendy wine bars and gastropubs lining the streets, charging a fortune for their imported spirits with unpronounceable names. Groups of fashionable twenty-somethings huddled under the heaters outside The Bishop, their faces glowing red as they took drags on their cigarettes. Debbie doubted any of them had ever ventured into Peckham itself, despite it being less than a mile away. She watched as a group of girls waved and called to friends on the other side of the street, their smiles visible, their happiness evident. She would never be like them.
When the lights changed, she limped across the road. Goose Green Park stretched into the darkness on her left. The children’s play area was shadowed and still. She turned away, preferring to focus on the houses and flats on the other side of the road. The lights glowing from numerous windows comforted her. She reached into her handbag, her cold fingers searching until they closed around her phone. She dialled her brother’s number, thankful when it went straight to voicemail. ‘Hey, Tom, it’s me,’ she said, trying to control the slur in her voice. ‘I’m gonna come over tomorrow night with Mum. I’ve had a tough day. Give my love to Jules and kiss baby Jake. Bye.’ She ended the call and dropped her phone back into her bag. It was quarter to nine. The baby would be in bed by now anyway.
As she approached the lights of the Tesco Metro she was looking for a gap in the traffic to cross when something stopped her. A shiver worked its way up from her aching feet to her throbbing head. Now she was away from Lordship Lane, the pavements were almost empty. She stared into the park, at the trees. Was there someone standing there in the darkness? She turned away and ran across the road, the sound of a car horn echoing behind her.
‘Damn it,’ she said, slipping on a patch of ice. She needed cash for tomorrow. Another birthday in the office and another fiver she would never see again. She walked over to the cash machine at the side of the Tesco, struggling with her purse until she finally got her card out. She punched in her PIN and waited. A breeze brushed the hairs on her neck; it felt warm.
‘Don’t turn around . . . please.’ The voice was low; the whisper sent his breath right into her ear.
‘What . . .?’ Her voice sounded hoarse.
‘Good evening, Deborah.’ He stretched out her name, enunciating the syllables as if talking to a child, flattening his body against hers. She felt something sharp digging into her ribs. Her eyes darted to either side but she couldn’t see anyone. She replayed his words in her head. How did he know her name? Her stomach dropped, her mouth suddenly dry. ‘I’d like you to take a few steps into the alley there,’ he said, his voice calm.
She wanted to vomit but she remained motionless, mute, as he whispered like a lover in her ear. ‘Please . . .’she croaked, ‘just take what you want.’ Tears fell onto her cheeks and lips. She knew she should shout, run, anything, but she couldn’t.
‘I can see I am going to have to be more direct.’ His voice dropped to a low rumble.
It was then that she knew who he was. He was the eyes she had felt watching her on the platform, the shiver that ran down her spine when she had crossed the road. As the knife punctured her skin she realized he had been with her for weeks: following her. Her bladder let go. The warm urine soaked into her underwear and tights.
He put his arm around her waist, her feet barely touching the ground as he walked her towards the alleyway at the corner of the building. She had never felt so small in her life. ‘Please . . . please, don’t do this.’ Debbie didn’t recognize her own voice; her words slurred, her breathing laboured. She fought to stay conscious as he lifted her into his arms. The lights of the car park were fading but she could see a figure standing in the darkness. She tried to cry out but could make no sound. All she could hear was his voice, whispering in her ear.
23 January – Thursday
DI Mike Lockyer opened his eyes, unable to ignore the insistent buzzing of his mobile. He picked it up and rolled onto his back. ‘Hello,’ he said, stifling a yawn. There wasn’t a trace of daylight around his curtains so it was early, very early.
‘Morning, sir.’
He sat up and looked over at his alarm clock. A call at 4.10 a.m. from Jane Bennett, his senior detective sergeant on Lewisham’s murder squad, wasn’t good. ‘Morning, Jane. What’s up?’
‘We are, sir,’ she said, no trace of sleep in her voice.
He tried to engage his brain as he grabbed a pair of boxers from a pile of clean washing and dragged on yesterday’s suit trousers, already scanning his bedroom for some deodorant. ‘Go on.’
‘The on-call team are on site. East Dulwich Road, Tesco Metro, SE22 9BD. Female. Eighteen. DOA . . . it looks like there might be a connection to the Atherton and Pearson cases, sir.’ She might not sound tired but he recognized tension when he heard it.
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. Anything else?’ he asked, already walking out of his bedroom, down the hallway, grabbing his jacket and coat as he passed.
‘No. Ballinger is the DI on call, so he’ll fill you in when you arrive. I’ve called the team in. Do you want me with you, or shall I get things prepped here, for when you get into the office?’
‘You stay put. I’ll brief everyone as soon as I arrive.’ He was about to hang up when he heard her clear her throat. ‘Is there something else, Jane?’
There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone. ‘The chief asked me to tell you . . . to mention that he wants the scene processed ASAP. He doesn’t want . . . in his words, “a media circus” invading Peckham again.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ Lockyer said, slamming his front door, a gust of freezing wind hitting him full in the face. ‘I’ll see you in a sec.’
Lockyer zipped up his jacket as he approached the officer in charge of the outer perimeter. He couldn’t help but be slightly amused as she struggled to hold the police tape aloft for him. The scent of her perfume filled his nostrils as he brushed past. It was strong, way too strong for 4.30 in the morning.
‘Thank you, Officer,’ he said, trying not to breathe in any more of the musky odour.
A thin layer of ice crunched beneath his feet as he crossed the road. The temporary traffic lights were on red, the ice reflecting the colour onto his shoes and legs. It looked like he was walking through a pool of blood.
East Dulwich Road was deserted, apart from four police vehicles, the SOCOs’ van and a redundant ambulance. The squad cars’ flashing lights cast an eerie glow over the supermarket car park. A low muttering was coming from the alleyway that ran alongside the Tesco Metro, a squat red-brick building. It had only opened three months ago and already its reputation was tarnished by violent crime. A sixteen-year-old had been stabbed two weeks ago for his mobile phone and last week three young people lost their lives in the car park in a gangland dispute over territory. Nothing stayed unblemished for long; not in his experience, anyway.
