‘Oh, right.’ That made more sense. No guy in his twenties would want to drive something so big and dark and clumsy and… funny smelling.
‘It’s best if we go there in this,’ he added, ‘because it’s a work building. And since we’re not really supposed to be there, it’s kind of a disguise.’ He flashed a smile.
‘Where are we going, then?’
‘It’s a surprise,’ he replied. ‘But trust me, you’ll love it. It’ll be perfect for you.’
He went quiet again, and Charley thought about taking out her phone, but she’d read somewhere that it was rude to do that when you were one-to-one with another person. Phubbing, it was called. So, she left it in her bag and looked out of the window instead. Started imagining the party, how she’d do the decorations, what music they’d play. She’d have to check the place out, of course, but if there was a separate room for chilling, that’d be perfect.
Being the one who hosted the party was the ultimate kudos. The other girls at The Beacon couldn’t do that. They didn’t know people like she did, who could make it happen. Most of the girls at school didn’t either, except the ones with rich parents who could rent places out. Even then, those places would be too mainstream to be fun. Too many rules. This would be fire. The other girls would be jealous, and they’d respect her. She wondered whether to tell her friends when she got back later. He’d said she should keep it a secret, and she had – until now, at least – but she really wanted to start telling people, building up the buzz around it. Then the thought occurred to her: they’d need alcohol. Lots of it.
‘Can you get all the booze for us?’ she asked him.
He appeared to snap out of some trance. ‘What?’
‘Booze, for the party. Can you get it for us? I mean, we’ll have to find the money for it, obviously, but maybe you can—’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘What isn’t?’ She frowned.
‘Drinking.’
Charley laughed. ‘Are you joking?’
‘No.’
She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘How are we supposed to have a party without alcohol?’ Charley folded her arms and stared through the window. Sighed again. A good sulk usually did the trick for most adults. Sure enough, it worked on him, too.
‘Yeah, course,’ he said. ‘Sorry, you’re right. Don’t worry, I’ll sort the booze, all that stuff.’
‘Cool.’ She stopped sulking instantly. ‘Um, are you OK?’
‘Fine. Just… you know, stressed out at work.’
‘Right.’ Charley imagined having a job, especially one with lots of different things you had to do, like his, would be tough. He must be really busy. And he’d already said that he wasn’t really supposed to be showing her this building. His work didn’t know he had the keys to it, or something like that. He was probably a bit nervous. Maybe he’d lose his job if they were caught.
When he didn’t say any more, she went back to gazing out of the window. The scenery was changing now. There were more trees, fewer houses, less light. It looked almost like they were in the woods, although she knew they hadn’t gone far enough to be outside of London. At least he’d put his window up now and it wasn’t so chilly inside.
‘Where are we?’ she asked.
‘Don’t worry. We’re nearly there.’
Charley decided to check her phone, see where they were. She reached for her bag and he turned to her. Their eyes met for a moment before his focus went back to the road. She rummaged inside but couldn’t find it. Searched again. It wasn’t in there.
‘Um, have you seen my phone?’
‘In your bag, isn’t it?’ he replied.
‘No.’
He glanced around, shrugged. ‘Er, maybe it fell down between the seats.’
She leant over, shoved her fingers between the cushions, but he held up a hand to her.
‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Best not do that while I’m driving. We’ll check when we arrive. I can call it, see if it rings.’
‘Oh, yeah. Cool.’
A moment later he slowed and took a turning.
‘This is the place,’ he said.
It didn’t look like there was anything here.
Twenty-Seven
The first thing Smith noticed as she and Khan pulled up outside the Salvation Army in Wandsworth was the cross. It was at least four metres high, she reckoned, and appeared to be made out of repurposed iron girders. The giant symbol dominated the street side of a building that looked more like a miniature fortress than a church and charity rolled into one.
‘They’ve got stuff on their website about saving people and that,’ remarked Khan, as they got out and walked towards the front door. Like the other openings in the plain brickwork, it was covered in mirrored glass. ‘I googled it on the way over.’
‘It’s like A.A.,’ she said. ‘Lots of help if you’ve got problems, but everything comes wrapped in religion. Some people are up for that. Others will just smile and nod in return for a bed and a sandwich.’
‘I get that.’ Khan snorted. ‘Not my thing, though.’
Smith knew that faith had been one of the reasons Khan had moved out of his conservative parents’ home last year. That, and the marriage they were trying to arrange for him with a young woman in Pakistan.
‘Me neither,’ she said.
The Salvation Army was their latest port of call in a search across south London’s centres of homelessness and associated services for anyone who might’ve seen Donovan. It was the direct result of the guvnor’s strategy to look for the boy’s killer among those whose paths he might’ve crossed while on the streets after running away from his foster home.
Entering the building to find herself immediately confronted with a stack of Bibles on a table, posters about faith and more crosses, Smith was reminded of the location and pose in which Donovan’s body had been found. She wondered if they should’ve come here earlier. They needed a break after their only other decent lead – the dark van – hadn’t matched the vehicles owned by anyone they’d spoken to so far.
‘Welcome to our Friday night mission.’ The short, rotund woman standing behind the table spoke in a friendly Welsh accent. She wore a navy-blue jacket with epaulettes over a white collared shirt. ‘I’m Major Jenkins.’
Smith and Khan did their usual introductions before showing her the photograph of Donovan which Trish and Roger Hughes had given them. Major Jenkins looked incredibly concerned when Smith explained who he was, her mouth hanging slightly open as she peered at the image.
‘Oh, the poor lamb they found in the church,’ Jenkins said. ‘I heard about it on the news. Awful, absolutely terrible that was. To think someone would kill a child. Then desecrate a church by leaving him there.’
‘Do you happen to know if he came here, perhaps any time in the past month?’
‘I don’t remember seeing him,’ she replied, shaking her head slowly. ‘But, ah, we have a lot of visitors. And I’m not here every day, so…’
‘May we speak to some of your… visitors?’
Jenkins compressed her lips, glanced through into the church hall where Smith could see a number of people milling about. Some were sitting and eating, others pouring tea from a big metal urn. Red camp beds were arranged down one side of the hall.
‘I don’t know if it would be appropriate.’ Her eyes flicked from Smith to Khan and back.
Smith gave her a smile and tried for charming. ‘We won’t be a moment, Major.’
‘Well…’
‘And it’d help a lot with our investigation. I’m sure you’d want that.’
‘Yes… Yes, I suppose so. But please be as quick as you can. We have several regular visitors who’ve had some very difficult experiences with the police, and most would prefer to enjoy their evening in quiet contemplation.’
‘Of course.’
‘We’re meeting their spiritual needs, here, you see, as well as their physical ones.’
‘Right.’
&
nbsp; Inside the hall, Smith and Khan split up and moved around, each showing Donovan’s photograph and asking if anyone had seen him. It struck her how different the homeless people here looked: some were ragged and unwashed, others surprisingly well dressed. If she’d passed the kempt ones on the street, Smith would never have guessed that they had nowhere to live. But that was homelessness, she reflected. It could happen to many of us, for all sorts of reasons, and perhaps more easily than we’d like to think.
After drawing a blank a dozen times, Smith approached a woman who was sitting alone, nursing a polystyrene cup of tea. Her gaunt face was peppered with scabs and sores, and a tracksuit hung loosely about her skinny frame.
‘Sorry to trouble you, madam,’ said Smith, ‘but I’d just like to ask if you’ve seen this boy.’
The woman gazed at Donovan’s photo, before her eyes dropped to Smith’s cleft hand.
‘What ’appened to your fingers?’ she asked.
Smith had been asked the question a thousand times, though not always as bluntly.
‘I was born like this,’ she replied pleasantly. ‘I call it my “different” hand. So, do you recognise him?’
The woman mumbled something to herself and looked away. Sipped her tea noisily.
‘He was murdered nearly a week ago,’ Smith continued. ‘And we think he may’ve been—’
‘It’s the one what was in the church, isn’t it?’ she rasped.
‘Yes.’ Smith was a bit surprised by her sudden lucidity. ‘Yes, it is. Did you see him?’
The woman gave a throaty cough and Smith recoiled slightly. ‘Saw him here, once.’
‘When?’ Smith’s heart was already beating a bit faster.
‘Dunno, maybe two weeks ago.’
‘But you remember him?’
‘Yeah. He asked me where he could get some kit kat.’
‘Kit kat?’
‘K.’
The penny dropped. Smith recalled the injection wounds found on Donovan’s arm at the post-mortem.
‘Ketamine?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I told him to stay off the gear.’ The woman laughed, but it quickly turned into a hacking, phlegmy cough that sent her wiry body into a spasm.
‘He say anything more?’
‘Nope. That was it, I think…’
‘Did he speak to anyone else here?’
The woman scratched her face, her eyes searching around for something. Then she jabbed a forefinger towards the trestle tables at the end of the hall.
‘One a them volunteers. They was chatting.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘Nah.’
‘Young, old? Male, female?’
‘Bloke, youngish.’
The lack of detail was frustrating, but was the best Smith could do for now. She reckoned the woman was an addict, her memory vague. But the mention of drugs fitted with what they knew Donovan was doing in the period between his disappearance and his death. They had to identify this volunteer; he would’ve spoken to Donovan more recently than anyone they’d met so far.
Back in the entrance, Smith and Khan took Jenkins to one side.
‘Major, one of your visitors told us she thinks our victim was here, around two weeks ago, and talked to a volunteer. A young man. Do you know who that would be?’
Jenkins blinked.
‘We have a number of young men who volunteer with us,’ she said.
‘It’s very important that we speak to him.’
The Major drew a long breath in. ‘Well, I’m not sure if—’
‘Do you have a roster of who was here over that period?’ Smith didn’t want to leave anything to chance. ‘Or just a list of all the volunteers matching that description who’ve done a shift here in the past month? Any men between, say, twenty and forty?’
Jenkins put her hands on her hips.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to give out that information. Data protection laws.’
‘This could help us catch Donovan’s killer, Major.’
‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll take your details, and pass them on to our volunteers. That way they can get in contact with you.’
Smith didn’t like the suggestion; it left too much to chance and goodwill. Particularly if the volunteer in question had something to hide. She knew they could get a warrant for the data, but there was no way that was getting signed off before Monday now. This was a start, at least. They’d have to hope the person came forward.
As Khan took care of the practicalities, Smith went outside again to call Lockhart. He’d be pleased to hear they finally had a hit, albeit one of limited use for the time being. A small group had gathered outside the door, smoking, so Smith walked around the back to be out of earshot from them and dialled the guvnor’s number. He picked up quickly.
‘How’s it going?’ he said.
‘Good, actually, guv.’ She rounded the building. Stopped when she saw them.
‘Max?’
‘I think we might have something. Two things, maybe.’
She was staring at a row of three identical, dark blue vans.
Saturday
9th January
Twenty-Eight
Lockhart always found dealing with the initial shock the toughest part. If you could control your reaction, then you gradually got used to the pain, and it was OK. Right now, though, he was still adjusting.
Despite wearing a thick wetsuit and warming up before getting into the water, the risk of cold-water shock was serious at this time of year in the Thames. Its temperature was somewhere between ten and fifteen degrees, but even at the top end of that range, it felt like getting into a fridge. Your body couldn’t heat itself properly, and the blood ran to your organs, leaving your limbs numb, your hands and feet frozen. The only way to deal with it was to stay calm and keep moving. Steady breaths, ploughing on as if your life depended on it, which it might.
A lot like his search for Jess.
His wife used to tell him he was crazy for swimming in the Thames, especially in winter. Wouldn’t stick my toe in it even if I knew how to swim, she’d say. Lockhart had offered to teach her enough times, but Jess had always found an excuse to avoid the river. For him, fighting upstream against its cold, dark, dirty water was about more than just exercise or clearing his head before work. It symbolised how he saw his place in London: submerged in the poisoned water that was the city’s lifeblood, but going against it. Sink or swim.
The memory of Jess made Lockhart think of his new lead, and how he needed to investigate the fishermen who’d visited Nick’s warehouse yesterday morning. When he got the chance, he’d head to Whitstable and follow up. Check out their premises, see who worked for them, and find out whether J. Tharpe or his sons had been up to anything dodgy in the past. But it’d have to wait a few days, at least. There was no time for that this weekend.
Lockhart was heading into work after his swim. It wasn’t just about getting on top of his paperwork as SIO, but also trying to make some progress on the lead that Smith and Khan had discovered at the Salvation Army last night. And he needed to put the hours in today before taking the half-day that he’d rostered for himself as rest tomorrow. Ordinarily, he’d have pushed ahead with the Donovan Blair investigation all weekend, not stopping, much like swimming in the Thames. But tomorrow was a special day.
If his dad, Tom, had still been alive, it would’ve been his old man’s seventieth birthday. It was six years since he’d dropped dead of a heart attack. Lockhart and his mum always got together to have a drink on his birthday, to talk about him and all his funny habits. Tomorrow, he was taking Mum out for lunch. Nothing fancy – that wasn’t her style – just a decent Sunday roast in her local pub. It was marking the occasion that was the important thing. He wanted to do it, no matter how busy he was, and there was no way he was letting her spend such a big day on her own.
Arms scything through the water, legs kicking hard, he could see his dest
ination of Barnes Bridge in the distance. The cold water was biting his fingers and toes, but he embraced the pain for a moment, as if it was a reminder of his unfinished business. Jess. Nick. And Donovan Blair. Body on autopilot, he tried to focus his mind on the murder case.
He’d taken a risk by putting his resources into the theory that Donovan had met his killer on the streets, rather than in his life before he ran away. But that gamble might pay off, if the sighting of Donovan at the Salvation Army came to anything. Lockhart wondered if the boy’s murderer was perhaps another homeless person; a drifter, someone off the grid. But perhaps that was just prejudice getting the better of him.
Yes, homeless people were statistically more likely to commit crime than those in housing. But those crimes were usually petty, and often designed to provoke arrest to secure a bed and breakfast in a police cell. In fact, homeless people were much more likely to be victims of crime, especially violence, because of their exposure and lack of protection.
The other possibility was someone who worked at the Salvation Army. They seemed to have a ton of volunteers who, according to Smith, weren’t supervised all that closely. There was the religious symbolism in the case that connected to their faith, however skewed the killer’s interpretation of it might be. And, crucially, there was the dark van. Or, to be more precise, the four of them that the Salvation Army owned and used to transport food, clothing and equipment around town. Though they appeared to be less than scrupulous about recording who had used which vehicle and when.
Lockhart knew that as soon as DSI Porter found out about that development, he’d want to go full throttle with it on all media channels. Lockhart’s preference was to keep it low-key and investigate first, rather than tip the killer to their interest, potentially allowing him to remove evidence. But he’d have to justify that call with Burrows, who was already watching him like a hawk, her confidence in him as SIO hinging on his performance in this case. The boss was aware of lines he’d crossed in previous major cases since joining her team, and made no secret of her disapproval. If he failed this time, Lockhart had no doubt she’d find a way to get rid of him. He was determined not to give her an excuse.
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