Never Look Back (9 page)

He turned back to his desk. Now was not the time for some sick trip down memory lane; he resisted the urge to reach for his chain and Clara’s ring.

‘So, what did you think?’

He looked up to see Jane standing in the doorway to his office, her eyebrows bunched.

‘Of what?’ Lockyer asked. Although, at this point, he wasn’t sure he cared. He felt exhausted. Rays of sunshine shone through his office blinds like arrows.

‘Grainger – what did you think?’

He turned his chair, stood up and began pacing in the four-foot-square space between his desk and a row of filing cabinets. ‘We need to look into it, yes. Find out if Debbie or either of the first two victims reported being followed or harassed,’ he said, picturing Grainger’s face from their meeting earlier, her skin pale, her eyes dark and sunken. She looked utterly hollowed out by her ordeal. Weirdly, he could relate. ‘A predator hunting on the street adjacent to Debbie’s certainly warrants a closer look.’

‘Do you want me to speak to the surveillance team about Grainger?’ Jane asked, turning to leave.

‘Not yet. I’ll need to speak to Phil again about the geographical profile, see what he thinks.’ A conversation he could do without. ‘We can’t afford to go off half-arsed, Jane, not on a hunch.’ He knew it was a cheap shot. A lame way of sharing his frustrations, trying to make someone, anyone, feel what he felt. Jane blinked but seemed impassive to his tone. She would take whatever crap he dished out, even though sometimes he wished she wouldn’t.

‘Right, I’ll wait for your word, then, sir. Is there anything else, before I head out?’ she asked.

‘Any holes in Walsh’s alibis?’ he asked.

‘Not yet, sir,’ she said, ‘but with a bit of luck I should have confirmation by close of business.’

As Lockyer stared out through the blinds at Lewisham High Street he thought that luck wasn’t a factor in this case, not yet. ‘Right, thanks Jane,’ he said, blocking out the almost constant blare of car horns from the road below.

‘Sir, would you . . . can I get you anything from across the road, a bacon sandwich or something?’

He looked over his shoulder to see yet another concerned expression on Jane’s pinched face. Was his fatigue that obvious? What could she see when she looked at him?

‘No, Jane, but thanks,’ he said, turning his back on her. ‘I’ll see you at the 18.00 briefing.’

He waited for Jane to leave before closing his eyes and picturing the crime scene again. It came as flashing bright images. Debbie’s feet, her bare legs splayed out in an unnatural position. He refocused on the alley itself, blurring her body to just an outline. There was rubbish: cans, bottles and discarded crisp packets mingling with the mud and water from the nearby drain. Her blood pooled as though she was in a depression in the concrete. Drag marks. Yes, there had been drag marks, showing her attacker had begun the assault before deciding to pull Debbie further into the alleyway. But why move her? She was maybe ten or twelve feet from her original position. Perhaps noises from the Tesco car park had intruded, forcing him to retreat further into the darkness. A thought ran along the edge of his consciousness but he couldn’t quite grasp it: a ghost.

Two hours later Lockyer crossed the office to the conference room where Jane and a few members of the team were waiting.

She had set up a whiteboard and scribbled out various timelines. Her laptop was linked to the wall-mounted TV screen so they could see all the evidence in forty-inch splendour. Full-size post-mortem pictures. He walked in and sat down opposite the screen. ‘Right, Jane, take us from the beginning. What do we know?’

Jane cleared her throat. ‘Deborah Stevens, 135 pounds, five foot six, redhead, eighteen years old, advertising assistant, single, lived with her parents in Nunhead. She has one brother, here in London, Petts Wood, with a wife and three kids. Stevens left her office at just gone 18.00 hours. CCTV has her passing St Paul’s, Moorgate and then heading towards the Barbican, but after that we lose her. We pick her up again at 20.05 boarding a train at Blackfriars station, the 20.09. According to her brother she was heading down to Petts Wood for a visit, new baby in the family. For some reason she decided against it. She changed trains at London Bridge and went on to East Dulwich station instead. She telephoned the brother around 20.40 to say . . .’ Jane consulted notes in front of her and on the computer before continuing, ‘to say . . . she wasn’t coming, she would see them the following evening. She mentioned that she’d had a bad day but didn’t elaborate. We’re checking her phone for any other relevant contacts, calls or messages. We have CCTV footage of her outside the Tesco Metro at 20.46 but she doesn’t go into the shop. She walks away, to her left; there the CCTV ends. It covers the doorway and the parking area out front but the camera that covers the left-hand side of the building where the cash machine and side alley are situated was broken. Had been for a week or so. Security guard does a walk around at 04.00 and finds the body behind the building and calls 999.’ Jane took a breath, looking over at him.

‘Right,’ he said, taking charge. ‘Let’s take it up to there and make sure we’ve covered everything. We need to establish where she was for those two hours before boarding the train at Blackfriars. I want a clear picture of her movements from the time she left her office until the final image at the Tesco’s. We’ll need it for the reconstruction.’

‘Penny and Chris are looking at the CCTV. I’ll get an update from them and come back to you.’

‘OK. Next . . .’ He sucked in his cheeks and looked out of the window, letting his eyes drift out of focus and then refocus.

‘We’ve already questioned and accessed information from the Tesco staff, security guard included, but we need to take a closer look at all of the customers and get access to credit-card records.’

‘What did her bank say about recent transactions? Did she withdraw cash from the machine outside the shop?’ he asked.

‘They haven’t come back to us, as yet. If she was approached that close to the shop someone would have seen something, surely?’ Jane said.

‘I agree, it’s unlikely, but remember the puncture wound on her torso and Benzo element. If he was able to subdue her with a knife, it would allow him time to drug her, near or even at the cash point. She would have been semi-conscious to begin with and he could have simply walked her around the corner with little resistance.’ He sat back in the chair, trying to ignore the images of Debbie and a faceless killer.

‘Has Dave come back about the toxicology reports on the others?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Neither Atherton or Pearson was drugged and, so far, there’s nothing linking the three women, other than the MO similarities, obviously,’ Jane said, with a shake of her head.

‘Right. Let’s move on to the scene and the post-mortem and see if there’s anything there. You get the stuff ready. I’ll be back in two.’

Lockyer got up and headed to his office to grab his own copy of the post-mortem. As he pushed open the door the face of Jane’s client, Sarah Grainger, appeared in front of him but was gone again, in an instant. What had Phil said? That the killer would have started off small, ‘jumping out of bushes or following them home, so they knew he was there’.

25 January – Saturday

Sarah pushed her front door open with her foot, juggling her camera bag and lighting disc in one hand and her briefcase and umbrella in the other. The rain was turning into sleet, soaking the bottom of her trousers and dripping down the back of her neck as she tried to shake off her umbrella and shut the door. She wanted to get inside. She could hear a car pulling into a space nearby.

She slipped on a pile of letters and flyers that were littering her downstairs hallway but managed to steady herself as she flicked on the light with her elbow. There was a fizzing sound, followed by a loud pop as the bulb blew, returning her and the hall to darkness. ‘Great,’ she said, dumping everything on the floor. She closed the door, turned the deadbolt, put the chain on and double-locked the two new locks Toni had helped her install a couple of weeks ago. She bent down and used both hands to scoop the mail into one pile, and shoved the mess of paper under her arm before picking up her camera and briefcase. The lighting disc could stay down here for now. She struggled up the stairs, her feet thudding against the wooden floorboards.

As she reached for the mail, wedged under her arm, it fell, scattering all over the kitchen floor. She pushed it aside with her foot and headed for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the work surface. She took a glass from the cupboard and poured herself a measure. She wanted to be numb. Sarah took a swig, shuddering as she swallowed, staring beyond her reflection in the kitchen window to her garden below. The trees separating her from the school playground swayed back and forth in the wind. Every crack of a branch tightened her spine.

She kicked off her shoes, padded down the hallway to her lounge and collapsed into her sofa. Her book rested next to her. She stroked the cover. Maybe she could escape into someone else’s world for a couple of hours. She opened it to the marked page and let her eyes drift over the words but she couldn’t concentrate. With a sigh she closed it and tossed it onto the sofa next to her. She rested her head in her hands, closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Her hair was damp from the rain she had failed to avoid and the smell of her coconut shampoo, normally a comfort, irritated her. A loud bang made her jump. She sat forward, ready to run. As she looked around, tears blurring her vision, she saw the book lying askew on the floor. ‘I can’t stand this,’ she whispered. She was exhausted, her emotions raw.

Today had been her first proper photo shoot in weeks. The boardroom where she had set up for simple corporate headshots felt too small, with no escape. Every time a male solicitor walked through the door, disgruntled that they had been called in on a Saturday, her heart had pounded in her chest as the question whirled in her mind like a maelstrom. Are you him? She pushed herself up from the sofa, swaying on her feet. She hadn’t eaten all day, but it wasn’t food she wanted.

Sarah walked through to the kitchen and poured herself another generous measure of Jack Daniel’s. She took a swig. She was determined to sleep tonight. The sound of the doorbell made her choke. She put the glass on the worktop and walked to the top of the stairs. She crouched down but couldn’t see anyone through the obscured glass of her front door. She crept down the stairs, carefully avoiding the floorboards that creaked, relieved now that the bulb had blown, for the darkness that covered her. She approached the door, her rushing blood deafening in her ears. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, her voice trembling. She stood and waited but no one answered.

As she turned, something on the floor caught on her tights. It looked like a business card but bigger. It was about four inches square and blank. She bent down, picked it up and turned it over in her hand. The note fluttered to the floor as she staggered backwards, tripping on the bottom step, landing hard on her back. She pushed herself into a sitting position and stared at the piece of paper. It had landed face up, a scrawl of words, written in black ink, underlined four times.

She turned and scrambled up the stairs to the kitchen, snatching the phone from the hallway as she passed, and punched in Toni’s number. As she waited for her to answer she slid down until she was sitting on the floor, huddled against her Ikea cabinets, the yellow plastic cold and hard against her back.

‘Bennett will call me back,’ she said, slumping down into Toni’s sofa, reaching for her wine glass and waving it in Toni’s general direction.

‘But surely they must do more? What did she say about the note?’ Toni asked, filling Sarah’s glass and settling herself on a large blue armchair.

Sarah crossed her legs and rested back on the sofa. It was almost as old and knackered as hers, the springs creaking every time she moved. ‘Bennett said I shouldn’t worry, that “contact in cases like these sometimes spikes after a report”. She said she would call me later and I can go into the station next week . . . if I want to.’

‘If you want to?’ Toni threw up her hands, spilling droplets of white wine on herself and the mauve carpet. ‘It is ridiculous, outrageous. They should be helping you. They should be stopping this man. It’s not right.’ Toni pushed her mass of black hair off her face with what must have been a wine-soaked hand.

Sarah managed a half-hearted smile. To see Toni beside herself with rage on her behalf was comforting. It proved that someone cared. She had made the mistake of phoning her mother for support, perhaps even an invitation to come and stay. However, instead of understanding or sympathy she had received a tirade of doubt and disdain. ‘Don’t be so hysterical, Sarah. It’s probably just a note from a neighbour or a passing tradesman, a window cleaner drumming up business. Your father and I are inundated with cards and flyers from competing firms. It’s disgraceful, aggressive marketing. It shouldn’t be allowed. I don’t have the time to sort through mountains of junk mail . . .’ Sarah had tuned out the rest of her mother’s complaints.