Never Look Back (7 page)

‘What did you talk about?’ Jane asked.

Walsh seemed put off his stride when his question was ignored. His eyebrows were knitted together in an anxious bundle. ‘Well,’ he said, all but wringing his hands. ‘She was saying that she didn’t like the rain. It meant she had to take the bus and she wasn’t keen on being around too many people . . . I certainly remember that because I thought at the time it was such an odd thing for a girl of her age to say. She seemed shy but not so much with me, I guess.’ Walsh tipped his head to one side. ‘I don’t know why.’ Lockyer didn’t either.

‘What else, Mr Walsh? It would really help if you could tell us as much as you can recall.’ Jane sat forward in her chair, trying to get Walsh to look at her.

Lockyer looked around at the consulting room, intrigued by how un-medical it appeared. There were the obligatory boxes of surgical gloves and a yellow bin marked with a hazard sticker but that was about it. Both he and Jane were sitting on a grey couch, while Walsh sat on a comfy-looking armchair. The bulk of the furniture would have been better suited to someone’s lounge or some fancy hotel lobby.

‘. . . I offered her a lift but she said her mother didn’t like her to take favours from people . . . you never know what they’ll want in return,’ Walsh said. ‘Another funny thing to say, I thought, but I guess young girls have to be careful.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh, how dreadful.’

Lockyer looked out of the window as Walsh wiped away a tear. The emotion appeared genuine, but then Sheila and Armstrong’s reactions had looked genuine too. It seemed Walsh had two personas. But which was the real one?

‘Mr Walsh, we will need full access to your database and records for our investigation,’ Lockyer said, holding up his hand before Walsh could protest. ‘I am aware of the confidentiality issue, but it is necessary, I’m afraid. You will be provided with the relevant legal paperwork so there’s no breach on your part.’

‘Of course. I understand, Detective. I will assist wherever I can,’ Walsh said.

‘I will need a comprehensive list of all your employees for interviewing purposes,’ he said.

Walsh nodded at him enthusiastically. ‘Of course, of course.’

‘Would you be happy to provide a fingerprint sample and some DNA?’ Lockyer asked, picking up his jacket, getting ready to leave. The yes, yes, response he had expected wasn’t forthcoming. He looked over at Walsh. The guy was motionless.

‘Me . . .’ Walsh stuttered. ‘Why would you . . .?’

Jane leaned forward; she was so good at this. Cop bedside-manner wasn’t his strong suit. ‘It’s merely procedure, Mr Walsh. It’s important to eliminate those connected with the victim as early as possible.’

Walsh looked as if he was going to be sick. ‘Well . . .’ he said, his eyes resuming their crazed journey around the consulting room. ‘I will need to speak to my lawyer . . . first.’

‘If you feel that is necessary, Mr Walsh, feel free to do so.’ He sat back on the couch, his jacket draped over his knees, listening to Jane as she finished off the details. He was looking at Walsh. Was the guy really as distraught as he looked?

24 January – Friday

Sarah sat on the long wall that ran from the pavement up to the doors of Lewisham Police Station. She had talked to herself in the car on the drive over, practising what she would say, but now, sitting here, she was frightened. She lifted her head, her hair hiding most of her face, and watched people walking in and out of the station as the damp from the freezing concrete seeped into her bones. She studied their faces through a veil of hair.

She stood up, wrapped her arms around herself and walked up to the double doors. She could see an officer behind the reception desk, his eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of him. Should she tell them about her conversations with Officer Rayner at Peckham Police Station? She didn’t want to. The main reason she had come to Lewisham was so she wouldn’t have to deal with Rayner ever again. If they thought he was her point of contact would they send her away, refuse to help? She shook her head. ‘Just walk in, all you have to do is walk in,’ she said under her breath, each step sending icy air through her jeans. She wanted to go home but when the doors hissed apart she felt compelled to keep moving.

The foyer was vast but still held the smell of industrial cleaner and something else: vomit. She imagined the kind of people who staggered or were dragged in here. Everything was blue glass and chrome. She approached the desk, her throat drying and her mind emptying with each step forward. The officer looked up and smiled at her.

‘Good morning. How can I help you?’ His voice was soft.

‘Yes, I need to speak to someone, I’ve spoken to an officer before but he was . . . he said to . . . I mean, it’s probably nothing but I wanted to come and talk to someone else.’ She stared at her hands. She wanted to disappear.

‘I will just need some details from you, madam.’

She stuttered and stumbled over her words, holding up her diary as some kind of talisman: proof that she wasn’t crazy. The officer nodded after each faltering sentence and tapped away on his computer. God knows what he had put: ‘Female, 35, deranged.’ That would be about right. He gave her a clipboard and a form to fill in and ushered her away.

A blue plastic bench ran the length of the foyer opposite the reception desk. She sat down and filled in her name and address. Her handwriting looked childlike. Other people were scattered along the bench with their own clipboards. All of them were either staring at the floor or into the middle distance. At least she didn’t seem to be the only one struggling. She couldn’t get past her own name. Her pen hovered over the box marked ‘Detail of Complaint’. She was afraid that if she started writing, nothing would be there. The more she wrote, the emptier the page would become.

‘Miss Grainger?’ Sarah looked up as a short female officer with a badly cut, Dawn-French-style fringe walked towards her.

‘Yes,’ she said, unsure whether she should stand or stay where she was.

‘My name is Jane Bennett, Detective Sergeant.’ She shook the officer’s hand, surprised by how tiny and fragile the woman’s fingers felt. ‘If you would like to come with me, we can talk about what’s been happening with you?’

What an odd thing to say. Happening with you. Not happening to you, but with you.

Sarah pulled the zipper on her jacket up and then pushed it back down again. The repetitive action was soothing. The buzz of the zip created a kind of white noise. Sergeant Bennett had excused herself to go and speak to her boss, ten minutes ago. She had taken Sarah’s phone with her after they had listened to the voicemail he had left. The message had been whispered, only a few words audible above a hiss of static. ‘Sarah . . . I . . . wanted to tell you . . . I helped . . . was cold . . . I did it . . . I did it.’ It didn’t make any sense but at least it meant she had something.

She was sitting at the edge of a large open-plan office. Partitions separated desks into groups of two or four. She guessed Bennett was a senior officer because she had a desk to herself, against a window. The sergeant had been polite, knowledgeable, sincere and conscientious. What had Rayner been? None of those things, and he certainly hadn’t been a detective. Who knew, maybe he wasn’t a policeman at all. Bennett had made notes. Not into a computer but actual handwritten notes. The old-fashioned familiarity of it had made Sarah smile for the first time in days. Computer records could be lost but paper felt more permanent. She swivelled the office chair to the right and then back to the left, syncing the action with her zipper routine. She stared at her hands and was relieved to see that they had stopped shaking, for now.

24 January – Friday

His feet were turning into blocks of ice waiting for her. He wiggled his toes to encourage at least a little life back into them, closing his mind to the people who jostled him as they rushed by.

Everyone around him was oblivious to what he saw, what he knew. She was so close he could almost smell her and yet no one else seemed to feel her presence. He smiled and looked again at the double doors, willing her to appear. Saliva wet his tongue as anticipation hummed through his body.

There she was, walking carefully to avoid patches of ice. He tipped his head to one side and watched, transfixed by her face, her shape, even the way she moved. Her skin was pale, her hair dragged back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. He couldn’t wait to touch her there, a place so soft, so delicate. He stamped his feet, rolled his head around his aching shoulders and followed her as she walked towards her car. As he passed, only inches behind her, her scent filling his senses he reached out, his fingers touching her hair or one exquisite second. She didn’t see him. It wasn’t their time.

24 January – Friday

Lockyer was sitting alone in the briefing room, staring at the floor-to-ceiling glass that separated him from the main office. The bottom third was frosted so all he could see was the shadowed bodies of his team wandering back and forth, only their heads in focus. No one looked in at him but he still felt observed. Everyone was waiting for his lead.

He had been ignoring a strong impulse to call Clara, though what he hoped Megan’s mother would say eluded him. Without thinking he started turning the ring that hung around his neck. It had become a kind of talisman or touchstone since their separation, over five years ago. It maintained a connection. She didn’t know he had it and would no doubt be livid if she did. The memories conjured when he touched the small circle of gold were happy. He knew Clara didn’t feel the same way and that was the reality he had to live with. ‘Work and women. That’s all you care about, Mike.’ The memory of her words still stung. It took almost nothing to stir his guilt. He let out a frustrated breath, feeling his anger build but knowing it had nowhere to go but inward. He took his hand away and started to shuffle the papers in front of him, refocusing his mind.

The notes Jane had given him from their interview with Walsh were extensive, but there was no information or clue as to the identity of the father of Debbie’s baby. From the notes Walsh had shown them, Debbie hadn’t said much, other than she needed a termination because having the baby ‘wasn’t an option’. There was still something about Walsh that didn’t seem quite right, though. He had been too emotional, almost over the top. Jane was running a full background check now. She agreed that Walsh seemed to have a strong influence over his staff that wasn’t quite ‘normal’.

‘You ready for me?’

He looked up to see Phil Bathgate, their consultant forensic psychologist, leaning against the glass door. For someone whose job entailed putting himself into the mind of some seriously disturbed individuals, he had an oddly relaxed demeanour.

‘Sure. Take a seat . . . and shut the door,’ he said.

Phil sat down and began adjusting his seat; higher, lower, tipped back. ‘Thirty million and they can’t afford decent chairs,’ he said, all but fighting with the chair.

As Lockyer watched the performance he thought it was pretty obvious why the vast majority of the office thought Phil was a grade-A arse-wipe. ‘So, what do you have for me, Phil?’ he asked.

With an exaggerated sigh and a roll of his eyes Phil gave up on the chair and took a blue ring binder out of his briefcase. He pulled out several sheets of paper and without speaking slid them across the table. ‘Well . . . the psychological and geographical profiles are really coming together. The third body has given me an excellent sense of the suspect’s motivations.’

‘I assume, when you say the “third body”, you’re referring to Deborah Stevens,’ he said, biting his tongue, already wishing this particular meeting was over. The sheer delight evident on Phil’s face wasn’t right. ‘Can you just run me through what you’ve got, Phil?’

‘Absolutely, that’s what I’m here for . . . no problemo.’ Phil smiled, oblivious to Lockyer’s mood. ‘I’ve approached the profile with four aspects in mind. Firstly, the antecedent, meaning the fantasy or plan the suspect had before the act, and what triggered his activities on those days and not others. Secondly, the method and manner of the murder. I think that’s self-explanatory. Thirdly, body disposal. Obviously, we know he didn’t transport his victims after their deaths but that in itself is interesting. And finally, post-offence behaviour. Is he following you? I mean to say, following the case, enjoying being part of such an exciting investigation.’ Phil took a deep breath and sat back. He looked delighted by his own brilliance.

‘This isn’t my first profile briefing,’ Lockyer said, rubbing his right eyebrow where a twitch was taking hold.

‘Naturally . . . I’ll talk you through the crime scenes and highlight where your man is speaking to you.’

Lockyer decided to ignore the emphasis Phil placed on ‘your man’ and ‘speaking to you’. Instead he looked down at the first sheet of paper and scanned the details printed in tight black ink. Phoebe Atherton, the first victim, had been reduced to ten bullet points.

Phil began reading them out. ‘The first victim was found at 14.00 hours at the edge of Camberwell New Cemetery; very significant.’

‘What? The time or the location?’ Lockyer asked.

‘Both. Dr Simpson put the time of death in the early hours of the morning. So, it’s fair to say he likes to work at night . . . the killer, that is . . . not Dave,’ Phil said, chuckling at his own poor attempt at humour. ‘The cemetery itself may represent the suspect’s mindset at the time of the attack. If this was his first victim . . . doubtful . . . but if it was, the cemetery would be a logical choice.’

Lockyer turned his chair so he could stare at the whiteboard at the end of the room. Pictures and documents had been attached to it and interlinking arrows drawn on with a green marker pen. Somehow, the chaos of the board helped him concentrate and absorb Phil’s assertions without having to absorb Phil’s manner as well. ‘Go on,’ he said.