‘We could hit it first thing in the morning,’ suggested Khan. ‘Get Leo, Andy and Priya down there with us.’
‘I can help too,’ said Berry. She turned away from her screen, nudged her glasses up the bridge of her nose. ‘I mean, if you need another pair of hands.’
‘Cheers, Luce.’ Smith smiled. ‘But I think we’re best off keeping your brain on that data. Anything so far?’
Berry shook her head.
‘No hits on PNC or Crimint Plus for any of the numbers that Charley called or texted in the past month,’ she stated. ‘We don’t have the content of the messages, of course, but the frequency of contact with a handful of other mobiles makes me think she’s texting her friends.’
‘If she was picked up by the killer on Friday night, they must’ve arranged it somehow.’ Smith was thinking out loud.
‘I’m flagging any numbers with unusual comms patterns,’ said Berry. ‘If anything sticks out, we can request subscriber details.’
‘Good. Let’s narrow it down to Thursday and Friday, then. Luce, I want to know who she called or texted, and Mo, I want to know exactly where she went.’
‘Cool,’ replied Khan.
Berry was already typing and clicking.
Smith had the feeling they were on to something. They had the technical kit to exploit a phone, and if they could just make some of this data match up with stuff in the real world, like camera footage, then there was a chance that—
‘Max!’ Parsons pushed back his chair and stood. ‘Got a hit.’
She almost broke into a run getting across to his desk.
‘Go on.’
‘ANPR, Upper Richmond Road, Sunday night, 11.31 p.m.’ The big DC jabbed the air with his index finger at each piece of information. ‘Dark grey VW Transporter. Registered keeper: Mortlake Scout Group.’
Smith didn’t need reminding who had access to that vehicle. The man who’d found Donovan’s body in the church.
‘Eric Cooper,’ she said.
Forty
He was into a rhythm now, a flow. He knew which kids he was going to save; he’d compiled a list of them which he kept in his private location. The place where he took them, where it all happened. And Jordan was number three on his list.
It’d been simple enough to find the lad. He knew Jordan loved boxing, and there weren’t that many clubs in London. All he had to do was check them one by one. And they’d made it easy for him, sticking a photo of Jordan up on their website.
The boy’s life was ruined already. No proper home, no school, and spending half of his time smashing things up or setting fire to them. Jordan was tougher than Donovan or Charley. He was unlikely to end up being sexually exploited. But he was vulnerable in other ways. His temper and lack of control meant he was always just one step away from a Young Offender Institution. And it would only get worse from there.
He should know.
He was fifteen when he got caught stealing phones. Ended up being given a six-month sentence for it, served in a YOI. It was harder to get hold of heroin inside and, though he didn’t want to, he ended up getting off the gear. Once his body was free of it, though, the rage came back. He realised that drugs had been the only thing keeping it at bay.
When his sentence ended, he was put in contact with a social worker. Some woman who didn’t really give a shit, never looked him in the eye. She promised to sort something out for him, though. A foster placement, or a home. He wasn’t really interested, but it was winter then, and he didn’t fancy months sleeping in freezing squats or, worse, on the street.
Not long after that, he was given a placement. A man who lived alone. Went to church a lot, even read the Bible at home. The man encouraged him to do the same. He wasn’t up for any of it, until the man gave him a special treat. Heroin.
Looking back on that, he should’ve known something weird was going on from the start. He never signed anything, never saw any paperwork. But, before long, he didn’t care anymore. So long as the older guy gave him a hit every so often, he had a roof over his head and food in his belly. And the other stuff… well, that was the price he paid.
But the anger was always there, lurking in the background. Rising up between each hit, threatening to break loose from its chains. That was why Jordan reminded him so much of himself at the same age.
And that was why he needed to save him.
Forty-One
Lexi watched from the comfy leather banquette she’d taken on one side of the room as Dan ordered their drinks at the bar. She’d offered to come into Jubilee House, but Dan had suggested the pub instead. Get away from his desk and give them some thinking space, he’d said. She’d agreed, although something had seemed a little weird about it.
During their last case, Dan’s old boss had expressly forbidden him from briefing her on any details that weren’t in the press. Lexi hadn’t completely understood why; she suspected it came down to male egos and authority. But Dan had done it anyway, in places like this, even in his apartment once. Now that she was officially consulting to them as a chartered clinical psychologist, though, with the approval of DSI Paula Burrows, Lexi didn’t get why she couldn’t go into their office.
She was OK with being in the pub. Sure, she was maybe a little more aware of the risks of being in tight indoor spaces since her dad had got Covid-19. But on a Tuesday night, the place was virtually empty, and she guessed a lot of people were still wary of socialising indoors. That wasn’t the thing that was bothering her. It was the small sense of guilt about having a drink alone with Dan, one-to-one.
She and Tim didn’t have plans tonight, so she hadn’t had to cancel on him again. But what if he happened to walk in and saw the two of them together? Lexi reassured herself it was work; a professional engagement, nothing more. She knew Tim wouldn’t view it that way, though. If he freaked out because she took a phone call from Dan, then seeing her in the pub with him would… well, it’d probably be the end of their relationship. She was saved from thinking about that further by Dan bringing the drinks over.
‘Here you go.’ He placed the glass mug of steaming, golden-coloured liquid in front of her. ‘Hot toddy.’
‘Awesome, thank you.’ Lexi leant in, took a lungful of the aroma. Whisky, honey, lemon, cinnamon: the perfect winter warmer.
Dan took a gulp from his pint glass before he sat down. She wondered how he was doing with his drinking; she’d been trying to help him cut down while he was in therapy with her, although last year she was the one who’d needed that help. But she was better, now, and determined not to let herself get like that again. Even if it was a case she’d worked on with Dan that’d pushed her into that state.
‘You OK with being in the pub?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’ She shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘It’s just… you know.’ He glanced around the interior. ‘Not what it used to be, is it?’
‘My bank balance is grateful for that.’
He gave a small laugh, drank some more. ‘So, how’s your dad doing?’
Lexi cupped the hot toddy in both hands. ‘He’s good, I guess. I mean, he says he’s, like, fine. But I’m gonna give him another call when I get back tonight, to make sure.’
‘He’ll appreciate that.’
She grimaced. ‘Actually, I kinda get the impression he doesn’t want me fussing over him.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Must be a military thing, huh?’
Dan gave her a lopsided grin. Then it faded, and his gaze dropped. He fiddled with his wedding band, twisting it one way and the other. After a few seconds, he looked up.
‘I met your boyfriend today,’ he said.
‘What?’ Lexi felt her adrenalin spike. Tim hadn’t mentioned this. ‘How come?’
Dan sipped his drink and studied her.
‘How much have you told him about this case?’ he asked.
‘Huh? Nothing at all. Why?…’
‘Do you know where he teaches?’
‘Sure. Richmond Park Aca
demy.’
‘Which is where Donovan Blair went to school.’
‘Is it?’ She blinked. ‘I didn’t—’
‘And where Charley Mullins used to go,’ he added.
‘You’re kidding.’ Lexi sat back in her chair. ‘OK, so what’s the problem?’
Dan didn’t answer immediately.
‘Oh my god! Is he a person of interest?’
‘No, no.’ Dan extended a flat hand across the table. ‘But… he did interact with both victims at some point in the past year.’
‘Holy crap.’ She stared at him a second. ‘Is that why we’re in the pub and not in your office?’
‘No.’
‘You’re keeping me away from the investigation? Are you serious?’
‘Lexi, it’s not about keeping—’
‘Jeez, I’m trying to help you, Dan!’
The barman stopped drying glasses and looked over. She realised that she’d raised her voice loud enough to be heard over the music.
‘I know you are.’ Dan sighed. ‘It’s just, with an investigation like this, you’ve got to be aware of these kinds of connections. How they might be… misinterpreted.’
‘How was I meant to know Donovan Blair went to Tim’s school?’
‘It was in the file.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ she countered. ‘I’d have remembered.’ Lexi was certain she hadn’t seen it. Well, ninety-five per cent, at least…
Dan drank some beer.
‘And anyway,’ she continued, ‘I haven’t told Tim anything about the case.’
‘No?’
‘No!’
‘Well, he suggested you might’ve done.’
‘Why would I do that?’
There was another brief, awkward silence. Lexi drank some of her hot toddy, scalded her mouth.
‘Goddammit!’ She took a breath, gathered her thoughts. ‘Look, he knows I’m working on it. He knows you are, too, from those press conferences you’ve done with Marcus Porter. And you can’t miss the coverage of it.’
The stories were everywhere now, impossible to ignore. And she’d bet that Dan and the MIT were feeling the heat from growing public attention to the so-called ‘Church Kid Killer’, or ‘CKK’ for short. Lexi hated it when the media nicknamed a murderer. It glamorised their horrible acts and elevated their status to that of a mythical monster. One of the tabloids had first used the CKK nickname when the story of Charley’s murder broke yesterday, and it quickly started trending online. She’d already seen reference to it on a more reputable news site today. Before long, it would’ve taken on a life of its own. Like the Throat Ripper case a little over a year ago.
‘And don’t forget that I live with one of your team,’ she added. ‘So, when Tim’s over at our place, he might catch a word or two about it. Not that I’m saying anything around him.’
‘I hope not. Can you see how it might look bad for us, though, if that came out?’
‘Uh, yeah, if Tim was a suspect, which you just said he’s not.’
‘He isn’t. But if we’re speaking to him as a… for background, then there might be a bit of a conflict of interest, you know?’
Lexi didn’t respond. She blew on her drink and sipped it carefully, wondering about her initial profile of the killer. Someone who knew what Donovan had been through. Tim had just revealed to her that he’d grown up in care. She rejected the thought immediately. It was crazy.
‘Have you told your boss about this?’ Lexi asked eventually.
Dan took a deep draught of his pint. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t want her to stop you working on this.’
Their eyes met, and Lexi felt a little glow of pride that Dan had risked getting in trouble to protect her involvement.
‘I’ll deal with the flak from Burrows and the brass on that,’ he added, ‘if and when it comes out. But there might be some stuff I can’t share with you.’
‘How am I supposed to help if you can’t tell me everything? It could be some tiny detail that makes all the difference in trying to understand what the hell’s going on.’ Lexi realised that statement could equally have applied to their therapy sessions together.
‘Don’t worry.’ Dan smiled, and extracted a notebook from inside his jacket. ‘There’s a lot that I can tell you.’
Forty-Two
Even though it might be storing up trouble down the line with DSI Burrows, Lockhart was glad that he’d briefed Green on the details around Charley’s murder. There was no one in his team who could get into the mind of a perpetrator, and understand what made them tick, as well as she could. She’d already made the difference on two serial murder cases for his MIT and he wasn’t about to shut her out of this one, whatever his reservations about Tim McKay.
As Lockhart made his way back into Jubilee House, he found himself questioning his view of the teacher. Was he a suspect? No. A person of interest? Barely. Lockhart had to concede that he’d just disliked McKay the moment he’d set eyes on the guy. And their interview hadn’t done anything to change that judgement. But when Lockhart had discovered that this was Green’s boyfriend, well… then he’d really taken against him.
What did Green see in him, he wondered? OK, he wasn’t bad looking, from a bloke’s point of view. And he had a way about him that got attention; Lockhart imagined he could probably be funny or entertaining if he wanted. But there was something fragile there, too, and Lockhart hoped he wouldn’t end up hurting Green. She deserved a solid guy who really cared about her, who’d put her first. Lockhart wasn’t sure McKay was that man. But he had to acknowledge that it wasn’t really any of his business who Green dated.
So why was he so bothered by it?
Lockhart pushed open the door to the MIT office and checked his watch: 8.27 p.m. Most of his team were still hard at it, and he resolved to send them home for some rest at half nine, once he’d made sure there was nothing more they could reasonably action tonight. He was just considering whether to offer everyone a brew to keep them going when Smith clocked him.
‘Guv!’ She beckoned him over. ‘Got a couple of developments.’
‘All right.’ He approached her desk. ‘I’m all ears.’
She filled him in on Parsons finding the Sunday night ANPR hit for the Scout van, and their failed attempts to locate Eric Cooper at his flat or reach him on his phone.
‘Vicar at St Mary’s in Mortlake says he’s due in for work at nine tomorrow morning, though,’ said Smith.
Lockhart nodded. ‘You and Mo can get down there and grab a voluntary interview with him first thing, then. Check it was him in the vehicle and find out why he was driving it at dark o’clock that night.’
‘What if he doesn’t want to talk?’
‘Then nick him, and we’ll worry about the rest afterwards.’
‘Got it.’
Lockhart knew they were under pressure to make an arrest on Operation Paxford, but bringing Cooper in just to tick a box wasn’t his style. The verger would need to account for his whereabouts on the nights in question at the very least, though. And if booking him was the only way to get that answer, so be it. There’d be a media shitstorm, no doubt, but the thought of leaving Porter to deal with that almost brought a smile to Lockhart’s face.
‘OK, happy with that,’ he said. ‘What else is going on?’
Smith offered him a Jaffa Cake, which he gratefully accepted, and took one for herself before passing the bag around.
‘Before Luce went home, she spotted a new number in the call records for Charley’s phone that turns up for the first time two days before she went missing.’
‘Interesting,’ said Lockhart.
‘It gets better.’ Smith gestured to Khan’s screen and the young DC clicked to bring up a map. ‘Charley calls this number at 7.36 p.m. on Thursday evening. The call disconnects after four seconds.’
‘Voicemail?’
‘That’s what we reckon,’ said Khan, spinning in his seat to face Lockhart.<
br />
‘We were thinking,’ added Smith, ‘what if that was the number for this mystery man she’d met recently, and she called him because they were getting together? Maybe she was late or something.’
‘Good idea.’ Lockhart stepped around to Khan’s desk and peered at the monitor. ‘Where’s her phone located at the time of the call?’
‘Here.’ Khan zoomed in on the map. Lockhart recognised the section of Upper Richmond Road east of Putney train station. ‘Then it stays there for another ninety minutes.’
‘How big’s the cell site?’ he asked.
‘About thirty, forty metres,’ replied Khan.
‘Can we narrow it down?’
‘That’s what we were just doing, guv,’ Smith said. ‘We’ve counted out the shops which are closed, and since she was there in the evening, it’s more likely to be a restaurant. Or possibly an upstairs flat.’
‘Agreed. How many places are we talking?’
‘Six restaurants, two pubs, a gym and a supermarket,’ said Khan. ‘Not sure how many flats yet.’
‘OK. Let’s get down there now, hit each commercial place before it shuts for the night. Show them Charley’s photo, find out who was working last Thursday evening. And look at their CCTV if there’s any chance she was there.’
He didn’t need to ask them twice. Smith, Khan, Parsons, Guptill and Richards were already up and shrugging on coats, locking their workstations, grabbing car keys. The brews could wait.
‘We want Charley on camera,’ Lockhart stated. ‘And, if we’re lucky, we might get our killer, too.’
Forty-Three
Jordan threw one last flurry of punches at the heavy bag and then stepped away, sweating and gasping for breath. The boxing gym was stone cold on a January night, and his breath clouded in the air, but he needed to push through the pain. He had work to do.
Finally, he was going to get his chance to prove to everyone that he was a real fighter. To get the respect he deserved from his coach, from Ryan and all those other wankers who thought he was too young, too inexperienced or whatever to get in the ring. And he had the man he’d met yesterday to thank for that.
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