Never Look Back (31 page)

‘Sir,’ Jane said from the doorway of his office. She was clutching her laptop to her chest, her face flushed.

‘What have you got?’ he asked, adrenalin rushing into his bloodstream, making his whole body hum.

‘Two things,’ she said, walking in and sitting down. He could see that she was just as jacked up as he was.

‘Go on,’ he said, using all his restraint not to scream the words at her.

‘I sent two squad cars to the clinic and four to his home address. No sign of Walsh,’ she said.

‘He’s got to have a car. Find it, get an all-points out and get traffic to assist. The ASU can scramble one of their helicopters to chase him down, but only once we know where he bloody is,’ he said, pushing back his chair and pacing back and forth in front of his window.

‘Done, sir. Two vehicles are registered in his name. I’ve already contacted traffic. They’ll call as soon as they have something,’ she said.

‘Is there anything else in the info you’ve pulled that could lead us to him? Family, friends, anything?’ he said, letting out a frustrated breath when Jane shook her head. He was about to protest when she held up her hand.

‘Second. The team reviewing cold cases, cross-referencing murder, abortion and mutilation or blood-letting, have found something. A case in Manchester came up.’

‘Yes,’ he said, with a warning tone in his voice. He wasn’t interested in cold cases right now. They knew it was Walsh. They just needed to find him.

‘I’ve just got off the phone with Manchester MPS. I spoke to a DS Saunders. He was part of the original investigation. It happened five years ago,’ she said, flipping open her laptop. ‘A woman called Joanne Taylor, twenty-five, was found with her wrists slashed. She’d had an abortion a week earlier.’

‘Four years ago. Is there a link to Walsh?’ he asked, mentally preparing himself for more bodies, more grieving families.

‘Not yet. The death was listed as a suicide, sir.’

‘OK,’ he said, taking a deep breath to calm his jumping muscles. ‘What else? Because so far we don’t have enough for a warrant on Walsh’s home address. Without the actual papers the cleaner’s statement is just circumstantial . . . hearsay.’

Jane looked down at her laptop again and said, ‘Taylor had a boyfriend, Adrian Chambers. He found the body and suicide note. In his statement he said Joanne was depressed. She’d had the abortion in secret. When she told him, he was gutted. They were meant to be trying for a baby and he couldn’t understand why she’d get rid of it.’

‘Go on,’ he said. He wanted to move.

‘Well,’ Jane said. ‘After the inquest ruled suicide, Chambers vanished. From what Saunders could tell me, he worked at the local hospital as a receptionist and admin assistant. After the girlfriend’s death he became depressed, aggressive and was eventually fired because of it.’

‘Working in a hospital . . . that’s good, that helps us . . . was Chambers ever under suspicion? Was the suicide note verified as the girl’s handwriting?’ he asked.

‘Saunders wasn’t sure, but because the death was never deemed suspicious the verification could have been missed,’ Jane said.

‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘If he was never under suspicion and the death was ruled a suicide, why’s the case on the system at all?’ He could feel doubt creeping over him, settling on his skin like snow outside his window.

‘That’s where it gets interesting,’ Jane said, giving him a small smile when he raised his eyebrows. ‘Totally separate incident, sir. The hospital where Chambers worked called the police. Chambers kicked off when they fired him for his aggression. He punched the senior administrator; Chambers was arrested and printed but never charged. The hospital knew how much the suicide had screwed the guy up so didn’t want to press charges.’

‘Walsh had a prior for ABH, didn’t he?’ Lockyer asked, his pulse pounding in his head.

‘That’s right. And after Chambers left Manchester, there’s nothing. He literally vanished, a regular Houdini,’ Jane said, smiling again.

He managed a forced chuckle. It broke the spell of the tension that was threatening to cripple his brain. ‘Do we have a description?’ he asked.

‘Better than that, sir. Saunders is going to send over Chambers’ hospital records, photo ID, the lot.’

Lockyer ran his fingers through his hair, deciding how best to move forward. ‘OK, get the warrant ready. If we get a match I want sign-off and access to Walsh’s property ASAP,’ he said, remembering Walsh’s face in the interview, crumpled with distress that one of his patients had been murdered. And he had bought it, hook, line and sinker, Lockyer thought, slamming his fist on the desk.

12 February – Wednesday

He paced back and forth, the excitement building to a level he could barely control. He watched her through the window, her face flushed behind the glass. This would be the last time she would breathe without fear. As if on cue, he watched her putting on her coat.

His mouth was full, saliva wetting his tongue as the anticipation grew. He swallowed as the front door opened, closed and then there she was, alone at last. The ‘protection’ the detective had put on was a joke. A squad car rolling past on the hour, every hour. He had fifty minutes before the next drive-by. Enough time for his purposes.

She walked down the street towards him, flinching when he stepped out of the shadows. But instead of the fear he had hoped for, she simply sidestepped him and walked on. ‘Excuse me,’ she said as she passed. He stood fixed to the spot. He didn’t feel angry as much as deflated. With a deep breath he unclenched his fists and forced himself to follow. She was some distance away already, so he broke into asemi-jog until he was alongside her.

‘Sorry,’ he said, falling in step beside her. ‘This might sound odd but I noticed you walking alone and wondered if you would mind if I walked with you?’ She looked at him, seemingly trying to judge if he was a Lewisham nutter or not. Before she could make up her mind he said, ‘I don’t like to see a young woman walking alone in the dark.’ He plastered on a winning smile. The urge to drop the facade and do it right here almost overwhelmed him.

‘Thanks, but I’m fine,’ she said, already stretching out her strides. Traces of the fear he was waiting for were beginning to show. Her cheek was twitching and he was sure, even in the darkness, that her face had paled.

‘I don’t mind walking behind or on the other side of the street, even,’ he said with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘but my mother would never forgive me if I left you to walk alone.’ This line had worked before and he could see from the softening of her features that it was working its magic again. He could see a hint of unease in her eyes, a minuscule taste of her doubt, but not enough.

‘I know a mother a bit like that, but don’t walk behind me. That definitely would freak me out,’ she said, managing a strained smile. Her veneer of calm was cracking. Once realization dawned it would be too late. She would panic, realizing that he wasn’t killing her, her own carelessness was. He couldn’t help taking small sideways glances at her. ‘So,’ he said, ‘have you lived around here long?’

‘I don’t live around here,’ she said, her pace increasing. He hoped her mind was beginning to conjure the horror stories of women at night, alone, being taken, being killed.

‘You?’ she asked, but she wasn’t looking at him and her pace was definitely speeding up. They would be jogging soon.

‘Oh, yes, I’m local. I know the area very well,’ he said, removing all the warmth from his voice. Her shoulders rose as her muscles tensed in her back. He knew the signs of fear. She knew.

He looked ahead at the alleyway between the terraced flats, leading to the garages and bins beyond. It was only twenty feet away. A few more seconds. He carefully reached into his coat pocket and uncapped the needle.

12 February – Wednesday

At 10.15 Lockyer was still pacing around the briefing room. He had been trying to call Megan to say he wouldn’t be home until later, if at all, but she wasn’t answering. As he picked up his mobile to call Russ, Jane walked into his office.

‘We’re still waiting on the photo ID, I’ve chased my guy in Manchester but . . .’ she said, shaking her head.

He could see that she was feeling the strain. Adrenalin only kept the body going for so long. Lockyer knew how she felt. He was exhausted, as if the past hour’s intense activity had drained his energy tanks and his reserves were at critical. He thought again about Megan. He would get Russ to do another drive-by, check everything was OK. Her not answering her mobile was bothering him. Teenagers had their phones physically attached to them, his daughter included.

‘Anything on Turner?’ he asked, knowing he shouldn’t be thinking about Sarah, knowing his mind should be solely on Walsh and finding the bastard before he hurt anyone else.

‘Yes, sir,’ Jane said, a quizzical look on her face. She was obviously surprised he was asking about Turner too. ‘His car was spotted over in Honor Oak. I’ve sent the squad car over to check it out.’ She seemed about to say more but stopped, shaking her head. ‘Have we got sign-off on the warrant for Walsh’s home address, yet?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said, hearing his own frustration. ‘The judge said we don’t have enough evidence.’ He threw his hands up in the air and raised his eyebrows. The gesture reminded him of Megan.

‘Christ,’ Jane said, pushing one of the briefing room chairs across the room. ‘What do they want?’ He had never seen Jane this antsy. It was unsettling.

‘A smoking gun,’ he said, hoping humour would diffuse some of the tension. He could see that it hadn’t worked. Jane wasn’t even looking at him. She was staring at her laptop like it contained the riddle of the Sphinx.

‘I’ll see how the others are doing,’ she said, standing to leave, picking up her laptop. But then she stopped. ‘Sir.’ She turned the screen to face him. ‘Chambers’ records are through.’ Disappointment marked her face. ‘This is Adrian Chambers.’

It wasn’t Walsh’s face staring back at him. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said.

Jane shook her head. ‘It doesn’t mean Walsh isn’t our guy.’ He could hear the desperation in her voice. ‘The records at his house . . . everything points to Walsh.’

‘The records were a plant, Jane, just like the earring, to throw us off. It isn’t Walsh,’ he said, looking at the face on his screen and then back at the headshot on Jane’s laptop. ‘But I know who it is. I’ve met him and so have you.’

Thirty minutes later Lockyer was standing in a home-made darkroom. The stench of sweat mixed with blood was overwhelming. He couldn’t believe it. The bastard had actually given his home address when he was interviewed. That’s how confident he was. That’s how sure he was that he would never be suspected, never be caught.

Lockyer looked at the hundreds of photographs surrounding him, each hanging from a small peg, attached to a piece of string that encircled the entire room. There seemed to be no discernible order to them. The faces of Katy, Phoebe, Debbie and Hayley stared back at him. It felt weird to see them alive; at the supermarket, in the pub with friends, jogging around the park, driving.

He turned away and walked up the stairs into the kitchen. In the centre of a pine table a sewing basket seemed to take pride of place. Spools of thread were lined up carefully, a needle in front of each one. Lockyer closed his eyes. Such a mundane object and yet here, in this room, it was sinister. The sink was filled with soapy water. He dipped his finger into the bowl. It was warm. He walked over to the fridge and pulled it open. There were three shelves. Each held the same items. A head of lettuce, a packet of bacon, a take away sachet of tomato ketchup and four slices of brown bread. Three meals perfectly laid out, ready and waiting. In the door there were three individual pints of milk and next to them was something that stopped him in his tracks.

‘Sir.’

He heard the shout from above him. He ran into the hallway and took the stairs two at a time. Chris and Penny were standing outside what appeared to be the bathroom. He crossed the landing to them, trying to prepare himself for what he might be about to see.

‘No, in here, sir,’ Chris said, his skin the colour of newspaper.

Lockyer turned and pushed open the door to a bedroom. It was small but it wasn’t the room’s size choking his words. The wallpaper was a dusky pink, covered in small white flowers, similar to the paper he had chosen for Megan’s room. He shook the thought away. The carpet was pink too, thick and deep. A mobile hung from the ceiling, little pink rabbits dancing in a never-ending circle. He looked over at Chris who was standing next to the only piece of furniture in the room. A large pine cot. He held his breath as he approached, almost too scared to look. There were soft toys surrounding the crib, a white teddy, a pink bunny with ‘I love you’ stitched onto its stomach. Lockyer felt bile leaking into his mouth but managed to swallow.

‘There’s this, sir,’ Chris said, pointing to the quilt lying in the centre.

Lockyer noticed the stains before he realized what he was looking at. There was blood and mud mixing with the white of the sheet, streaks where the blanket had been moved, repositioned, many, many times. Each square of the quilt sent a shot of pain into his skull. They were the missing pieces of material from the crime scenes. Phil had said that killers took trophies from their victims, to remind them of the act itself, but Lockyer had never imagined this. The sick bastard had made a baby blanket from the bloodied remains of his victim’s clothing. He closed his eyes and saw the bottle in the door of the fridge.

‘Where’s the baby?’ he said, surprised by how hollow his voice sounded.

‘We don’t know, sir,’ Chris said, visibly swaying on his feet.

Lockyer walked out onto the landing, leaning on the banister for support. He tried to focus to pull his mind away from the horror it had just witnessed. What did that room mean? Had he taken a baby or was he just preparing to? The bottle in the fridge was made up, ready to use. Lockyer thought about the girls in the photographs downstairs. There were faces he didn’t recognize and more film to develop. How many more bodies were there? And the baby. He couldn’t stop thinking about the baby.