There was plenty to follow up today with the volunteers and vans of the Salvation Army. And he wanted to give Green an update, too, with the news from last night. Then another idea came to him: tracing vehicles registered to the organisations of people they’d spoken to. So far, they’d only checked the personal vehicles of those who knew the kid.
Even though Lockhart would put his money on Donovan’s killer being someone who met him on the street, it didn’t hurt to turn over every stone with the dark van, in case Green was right. Her idea about the perpetrator being someone who knew Donovan wasn’t incompatible with his own theory, if that person had got to know Donovan since he ran away from his foster home. And she’d been correct twice before. Lockhart knew he should listen to her this time round.
For now, though, what he needed to do was make it upriver to Barnes Bridge and then back to his car, before he got hypothermia.
He picked up his pace and pushed on.
Twenty-Nine
‘Oh my god, that is so good!’
Lexi felt the slow-cooked beef and its fluffy bao wrapping melt in her mouth before a kick of wasabi mayo hit her taste buds. She closed her eyes a moment, savouring it all.
‘Wanna try some?’ she asked Tim.
‘Go on then.’ He grinned at her and she held out the bun for him. He angled his head, took a bite and caught the dribble of sauce on his chin with a finger. Licked it off and made a small appreciative noise. ‘Yup, you’re right, that’s incredible.’
‘Told ya.’ Lexi nodded at him as she chewed and swallowed. Her eyes slid to his hand. ‘So, uh, can I?…’
‘Oh, yeah. Course. Where are my manners?’ Tim raised his own bao for her. ‘Pork belly.’
She held his hand steady, stretched her lips wide and bit off a big chunk.
‘Mm! Jeez. OK, I think I like yours best.’ She reached for his food and he spun away, shielding it from her.
‘Get off!’ he cried, chuckling.
‘Gimme that!’
Coming to Tooting Market for lunch had been an awesome idea. They’d walked and talked, eaten a ton of delicious food, drunk coffee and browsed around a few little shops in the quirky covered space. Like there hadn’t been anything between them this week. It was great.
Tim was being funny and charming, and he looked really cute, all wrapped up in a scarf and long woollen coat with the collar up, kind of like Benedict Cumberbatch in Sherlock. Lexi was already anticipating their evening together, maybe going back to Tim’s apartment later on, after drinks… But her thoughts were also regularly wandering to her dad, and to the Donovan Blair case, too. She wondered how Dad was doing today, and what progress Dan had made on the investigation since they’d last spoken on Thursday night.
They finished their baos and ambled over to a record shop that had crates of vinyl stacked outside.
‘By the way,’ said Tim, ‘sorry if I was being weird earlier in the week, um—’
‘Oh, hey, don’t worry about it.’ Lexi wiped her hands on a napkin. ‘I’m sorry I had to cancel our date. I felt really bad about it.’
‘It’s fine. I just overreacted.’
‘No…’
‘Think I was a bit stressed, maybe.’
They reached the shop front and Lexi started flicking through some of the LPs in a box marked ‘Soul/R&B’. It was all vintage stuff. She recognised Sam & Dave, and it reminded her of her dad. He loved their stuff, always used to play ‘Dock of the Bay’ in their family station wagon when he was driving her and Shep around as kids…
‘What with work and everything,’ Tim added, snapping her out of the memory.
‘At least you got a chance to chill last night,’ she said. Tim had wanted to have a quiet evening at home, he’d said, after a super busy week. Get to bed early, recharge. Lexi had been cool with that; she and Sarah had done their own night in, joined eventually by Mo when he’d got back around eleven p.m.
‘Yeah,’ he replied.
Lexi checked there weren’t too many people around them and then lowered her voice. ‘So, uh, is everything OK?’
‘Mm, fine.’
‘You know, you can tell me if it isn’t. I mean, maybe not here, but—’
‘Look at this,’ he said, holding up a record. ‘Rubber Soul, Beatles. Original 1965 edition. Crikey, this must be…’ he turned it over, ‘yup, a hundred quid. Shit. Brilliant album, though.’
Nice change of subject, she thought. But she didn’t want to push it too much. Tim was here, he seemed happy, they were having fun. She should just leave it, enjoy herself. Don’t think too much about the difficult stuff all the time.
Her phone rang.
Tim glared at her.
‘Um, I’ve just gotta see,’ she said, reaching into her bag, ‘it might be my dad. It’s morning over there and, uh…’
She glanced at the screen. It was Dan. She hesitated.
‘I’m really sorry, Tim, I’ll only be a second.’
‘Lexi…’
She answered while walking a few paces away. ‘Hey, Dan.’
‘Lexi, hi. Is it— where are you?’
‘Tooting Market. It’s a little noisy.’
‘Can you talk now?’
‘Uh…’ She glanced back at Tim, caught his eye. He looked away, and went back to sifting through the records. ‘Sure.’
Dan briefly took her through the updates on their murder investigation. He said the lab had found traces of ketamine in Donovan’s hair, which appeared to back up the story of a woman who said he’d tried to buy it at the Salvation Army. That place had a bunch of vans that might link to the sighting outside the church. Dan said they were tracking down volunteers who could be the young man seen talking to Donovan, and had spoken to a couple already. It was promising.
‘What do you reckon?’ he asked her.
She looked over at Tim. He was absorbed in reading the back cover of an album.
‘Well, it’s progress, for sure. But I’m not sure it changes my thinking all that much.’
‘You said the killer was someone who knew him,’ he countered. ‘This makes it more likely that he was attacked by someone he met after he’d run away. A stranger.’
‘That’s not exactly what I said.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No.’ She moved away a little further, to a quieter spot, dropped her voice. ‘What I said was, I think the killer is someone who understands what he’s been through. Obviously, they have to know something about Donovan, what his life was like. They probably knew he was a runaway, for example. They didn’t necessarily have to know him all that well, though.’
‘Ah. Right.’
‘I think the more important thing is that the empathy in the murder, which sounds weird as hell, I know, suggests to me that the killer had perhaps lived that life, too. Almost as though they saw a younger version of themselves in Donovan.’
‘So, we’re looking for a guy who used to be on the streets?’
‘Maybe. Someone with a troubled childhood, I guess. Orphaned or abandoned, raised in care, history of running away, possibly early drug use, extreme religious beliefs. And probably exposure to violence, to enable them to do what they did. Killing someone up close like that isn’t a normal thing to do.’
She stopped herself, remembering that Dan had killed people when he was a soldier. Like, a half-dozen people. She didn’t want to trigger his PTSD. But he seemed not to have noticed the link.
‘This is useful stuff, Lexi. Cheers.’
‘No problem.’
‘Bet you didn’t think you’d be profiling in Tooting Market,’ Dan said.
She gave a brief laugh. ‘It wasn’t exactly what I had planned for my trip here, no.’
‘I’ll let you get back to it,’ he said. ‘You out with your, er…’
‘Boyfriend, yeah. Tim.’ She looked back over at him. He was still engrossed in the records.
‘OK. Well, have fun. And let me know if anything else comes to mind. Based on what we’ve got so far.’
/>
‘Will do.’
Lexi rang off and went back over to Tim. He didn’t turn around as she got closer.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.
‘Who was it?’ he asked, extracting an LP, turning it over, then putting it back.
‘Uh, Detective Inspector Lockhart.’
‘Dan, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did he want?’
‘It was about a case I’m helping him with. But… I can’t really talk about it.’
‘No? You were at breakfast the other day.’
‘Mo was talking about it at breakfast. They hadn’t even called me at that point.’
Tim opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything. Just shook his head.
‘Listen, I’m really sorry, Tim, but sometimes I just need to take calls when we’re together. Whether it’s the cops or my dad or—’
‘I just quite often feel like…’ He rubbed his eyes. Was he crying? ‘Like I’m not important to you.’
‘You are,’ she insisted. ‘I wouldn’t interrupt our time together if it wasn’t an emergency.’
He didn’t respond. She could see his jaw was tight, one fist balled on top of the record crate. She laid a hand on his arm.
‘Hey, just cos I take a call, it doesn’t mean I’m somehow less interested in you.’
His lip was quivering slightly.
‘I don’t know what’s happened in the past,’ she added, ‘but whatever it was, I’m not doing it. I’m not rejecting you.’
‘What would you know about rejection?’ he snapped, shrugging her off.
She blinked. ‘That isn’t fair.’
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
‘You know, you never talk about your family,’ she said. ‘Maybe there’s something—’
‘Fuck my family!’ he blurted. ‘I don’t have one, OK? That’s why I don’t talk about them. That’s why I haven’t suggested you meet them. There isn’t anyone to meet.’
Lexi softened her voice. ‘God, Tim, I’m sorry, I only meant—’
She reached for his hand, but he drew it away.
‘Happy now?’ He stared at her a second, then brushed past her and walked off towards the exit.
Sunday
10th January
Thirty
The loud bang from downstairs made Lucy Berry jump. She held her breath, waiting for the inevitable. Sure enough, a few seconds later, came the wail of her daughter, Kate. Every instinct in her wanted to get up, to rush down there, envelop her in a hug, stroke her hair, shush and comfort her. But then came the deep, soothing tones of her husband Mark’s voice, and she relaxed slightly.
As much as the mother in her wanted to react, Lucy knew the kids were safe with Mark. Besides, what was the point of her agreeing time to work quietly in their spare bedroom if she kept going downstairs every five minutes to make sure they were all OK? Normally, working at the weekend was a rarity for Lucy. She liked to keep her job within strict hours, Monday to Friday. But something different was going on now.
The combination of Donovan Blair’s death, and Marshall Hanlon’s report on the three hundred-plus ‘anomalous’ missing children in south-west London had affected her, personally. She couldn’t shake the thought that those children had no one trying to find out what had happened to them. And, occasionally, the worst possibility of all popped into her head: what if it was one of her children?
It was that forceful desire to do something about both Donovan and the missing children that had led Lucy to be hunched over her computer on a Sunday morning. She’d agreed with Mark that she’d do two hours up here on her own, then come down and take over, give him a break. He was understanding, but she didn’t like to push it. Lucy had seen too many police officers’ home lives fall apart because of their work, and she wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to her.
Now, she had already done an hour’s worth of searching, beginning to compile a database of the missing children identified by Marshall in his report. What they knew about those kids, and what they didn’t know. She’d anticipated spending the whole time on that research, but Dan had called her late yesterday with an idea. He’d been full of apologies for interrupting her Saturday evening, but the truth was, she didn’t mind. She and Mark had already put Pip and Kate to bed, and were just having a glass of wine with Netflix. It was nothing that couldn’t wait, compared with the murder investigation of a child.
Dan had told her about the Salvation Army having a small fleet of dark blue vans, and asked her to check whether any of the other organisations they’d come across in connection with Donovan might own something similar. Lucy agreed it was worth a look, and was a bit annoyed with herself for not having thought of that before.
She’d logged into the Police National Computer via the portal on her work laptop, and started at the beginning. The church of St Mary the Virgin, where Donovan’s body had been discovered. Tapped away, hit search. Scrolled through to find the right one among all the St Marys. It wasn’t listed, meaning they weren’t the registered keepers of any vehicles. She crossed it off her list, moved on. She was about to check the Latchmere Leisure Centre, where Donovan played football, when she remembered something.
Eric Cooper, the verger who’d found Donovan, was also a Scout leader. She googled the local Troop, confirmed from their website that it was the one where Cooper helped out, and ran the Mortlake Scout Group through her database. There were two results: a minibus, its colour listed as white. And a van, dark grey.
Lucy sat back. Was it significant? She already knew from an initial search that there were over two hundred thousand light goods vehicles registered in London. How many of them would be dark? A quarter? Half, perhaps? Even so, it was worth telling Dan. She made a note, moved on to the sports centre in Wandsworth. Nothing.
Twenty minutes later, though, she knew she had something worth sharing with the team. It seemed as though Dan’s instincts had been right. Donovan’s school – Richmond Park Academy – had a dark green van, but it was only one of fifteen vehicles registered there. Perhaps more significantly, though, the charity Youth Rise Up was listed as the keeper of just a single van.
And it was black.
Thirty-One
‘Here you go, Mum.’
Lockhart put the glass of Babycham down in front of her.
‘My favourite!’ she exclaimed. ‘Ta very much, love.’
‘Tammy said they got it in specially cos they knew we were coming.’ He pointed to the glass of fizzing perry. ‘It’s retro now, apparently.’
‘This is the only thing I’ll drink in a pub.’
He placed his own pint of Stella on the table.
‘Same as me with this stuff,’ he said.
‘And just like your father was with Courage Best.’ They both looked to the dimpled mug of amber-coloured ale which Lockhart had just placed beside them at the table. Then at the empty seat behind the drink.
‘Yeah, he knew what he liked.’ Lockhart raised his pint. ‘To Dad.’
‘Happy birthday, Tommy, my sweetheart.’
He and his mum clinked their glasses together, then once more each with the pint they’d bought for Tom Lockhart, absent on the occasion of his seventieth birthday.
‘I’ve ordered the food, too.’
‘Lovely. What did you go for?’ she asked.
‘Lamb.’
‘Ooh, sounds nice. I always have the beef here. Can’t go wrong with that, I say. Yorkshire pud, plenty of gravy.’ She grinned, reached for her drink with both hands, lifted it carefully and took a sip.
Lockhart knew her arthritis was getting worse, but he’d only offer to help her if she really couldn’t manage something. Otherwise, she preferred to struggle through. A bit like him, if he was honest. And his old man. They were a stubborn bunch, the lot of them.
‘Yeah, this lot do a decent Sunday roast,’ he noted. ‘Dad was on to something.’
The Stanley Arms in Bermondsey was just around the corner f
rom their flat on the estate where Lockhart had grown up, where his dad had died, and where his mum still lived. It was an old-school, no-frills pub, with patterned carpets and none of that trendy craft beer crap. There was something solid about it, and Lockhart imagined it would still be going strong long after he’d croaked. The boozer held a lot of special memories for him. It was the first place he’d ever been served, even though the landlord knew he was only fifteen back then. And he’d been here hundreds of times since, including one occasion that he’d never forget.
The day he and Jess got married in Southwark Registry Office, they’d hired the pub for their reception and filled it with relatives and mates. He remembered everyone drinking and laughing, and winced at the thought of himself, awkwardly trying to dance in front of them all – Jess was much better than him when it came to that. The landlord had done them a special rate and made it a lock-in. He suspected that, even if they’d been able to hire a fancy hotel hall or blag a military mess, Jess would’ve still wanted to be here, in their local, surrounded by all the people she knew best and loved most, with no pomp or pretence. That was Jess – family and friends were always the most important things in her life. Looking around the room, Lockhart thought it was strange how one ordinary place could have so much significance.
‘Everyone knew your dad here,’ said his mum, pulling him back to the present. ‘They loved him. Whenever we’d come in together, someone would always ask him to play his harmonica.’ She chuckled. ‘I’d know what sort of mood he was in depending on whether he’d brought it out with him or not.’
‘Self-taught, wasn’t he?’
‘Yeah. But I’ll tell you what, love. He only had to hear a tune once, and he could play it perfect. Everyone would sing along here.’ She waved a hand around the room, her eyes lighting up at the memory.
He smiled. ‘We should’ve recorded him.’
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