Lost Souls

by Chris Merritt

  Lexi chastised herself right away for being selfish. Three children had been murdered by someone who would almost certainly kill again if not stopped. Lives were at risk, and she was anxious about the relationships with two men in her life? Jeez, get a hold of yourself, Lexi. What she needed to think about was how she could help Dan and his team.

  She felt as though she’d hit a wall with the offender profile. Nothing that Dan had told her about the murder of Jordan Hennessey had substantially altered her assessment of the killer’s personality or mindset. She knew that the MIT was looking into Tim’s school, and at Social Services, too. There wasn’t much more she could add to those inquiries.

  Perhaps there was something she’d missed with the victims, though. She quickly ran through what she knew about them. Aged between eleven and fourteen, two boys and one girl, all in the care system or had contact with services, all lived in south-west London and had attended Richmond Park Academy at some point.

  But there were differences, too. Donovan had been the only one using street drugs, Charley had been shoplifting and binge drinking, and had underage sex, while there was no evidence of that with the other two, and Jordan alone had a record for violence. Lexi wondered if their experiences all somehow linked together into a bigger picture, like pieces of a jigsaw that represented the killer’s life.

  Lexi wondered if, building on that, it’d be possible to predict who the killer would target next. Missing persons records would be a good place to start. She knew that information was recorded in different places, so it might be difficult to pull together. But it wouldn’t hurt to check reports for children who matched the victim profile and had recently been reported missing.

  She jotted a note to call Dan about that later. For now, though, she tuned in to Gabriel again. If nothing else, she reminded herself, here was one person she could help right now.

  Seventy-Two

  After the Salvation Army had come up for the second time in Op Paxford, Lockhart decided it was worth a visit himself to check the place out. Lucy Berry had passed on the information from the PhD student she’d been working with, Marshall Hanlon, that Jordan Hennessey had visited the church-charity a few times in past months. Lockhart didn’t like the coincidence that Donovan Blair had also been here in recent weeks. And, after admitting he’d spoken to both victims, Hanlon was now on Lockhart’s radar, too.

  He was met inside the church by a Welsh woman who introduced herself as Major Jenkins. She had a smart uniform, but didn’t look as though she’d done a day’s service in her life. Lockhart knew the ‘army’ part of this organisation’s name was figurative, though. He explained why he was there and showed Jenkins the photograph they had of Jordan; one given to them by his friend Malachi, rather than the leaked crime scene picture. Work was still underway to find out who’d sent the prayer-pose images to the press.

  ‘Oh, goodness.’ Jenkins put a hand to her mouth. ‘I remember him very well. He came to visit us quite a few times. Even slept here some nights. We gave him food, of course, and he would’ve been offered other support besides.’

  ‘What other support?’

  ‘I’m talking about spiritual nourishment, Inspector. Prayer and guidance.’ Jenkins shook her head sadly. ‘I could see he was full of anger. He’d lost his way in life.’

  ‘Sounds as though you had a lot of contact with him.’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘So, had it occurred to you to report that to us before?’

  Jenkins looked confused. ‘Before he died?’

  ‘No, after his body was found. His name became public two days ago.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ The major adjusted her bowler hat. ‘Well, I don’t really read the news, so I didn’t even know the little lamb was dead until Marshall told me. Luckily, he contacted you. He’s one of our best volunteers.’

  Lockhart nodded. ‘How long has he been with you? Marshall.’

  ‘Oh, about two years, I think. Very reliable young man, extremely conscientious in his work. We’ve never had any trouble with him.’

  Lockhart made a mental note to task Lucy Berry to fill in some background on the student. He’d known cases where suspects had started out as seemingly helpful witnesses.

  ‘What else do you recall about Jordan’s visits here?’ he asked. ‘You said he had a lot of anger in him.’

  ‘Yes, he did. I think anyone could have seen that.’

  ‘What form did this… anger take?’

  ‘Well, he got into altercations with some of the other visitors. Older men, usually. On one occasion, he had to be physically separated from another of our regulars, who accused Jordan of stealing his wallet. It all got very unpleasant.’

  ‘They fought?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they would’ve done if it hadn’t been for one of our volunteers keeping them apart. It’s coming back to me now. That was the last time we saw the young man.’

  ‘Jordan?’

  ‘Yes. He’s here, now, in fact. The volunteer, I mean. He might be able to tell you more. Come with me.’

  Lockhart followed Major Jenkins through the church, past a storeroom full of tinned food and blankets, and out into a car park at the back. There, just as Smith had described, was a set of dark blue vans. One had its back doors open. Lockhart could hear grunting from inside as they approached. He saw the back of a man stacking cardboard boxes with considerable effort. It struck him how large the space in the rear of the van was. But that thought evaporated when the guy turned around.

  ‘Inspector, I’d like you to meet another of our volunteers,’ said Jenkins.

  But her introduction was unnecessary because Lockhart already knew him.

  This time last week, he’d been their prime suspect.

  ‘Hello again, Eric,’ he said.

  Seventy-Three

  For a while after he struck out alone, things had gone pretty well. He’d used the money he’d taken from the man wisely. Moved away, found a part-time job, rented a cheap room and lived on simple food. Most importantly, he’d stayed off the heroin. But there was still the odd occasion when the past came back to him – triggered by a link to some memory or other – and the rawness of its emotion would overwhelm him.

  It might be a situation, a particular turn of phrase, or sometimes even just a funny look from someone he didn’t like that would set it off. It frightened him how easily he could lose control, switch on the violence. His threat warning system was hypersensitive, and now his body had caught up with his mental will to defend himself, he fought back against anyone who even remotely reminded him of an abuser. Of any adult that had let him down.

  Inevitably, several black eyes, broken glasses and stitches later, this ended in his arrest. It was a wake-up call that life couldn’t go on like this. So, he’d decided to change. Renewed his faith. Accepted the conviction, done his time, taken and passed education courses, and started over when he got out.

  There were still memories he imagined he’d never shift. But, with time, he learned to live with them. He spent some time overseas, got his head straight. Found his way. And he came back from those experiences abroad a new man, with a new-found appreciation for life. A determination to make the most out of what he had. To leave that dark past behind.

  It was work that had, for a time, promised everything he’d ever wanted. His new job gave him the chance to help young people – many of whom had been dealt a bad hand in life, just as he had been – and watch them learn, develop and grow. It was magical, and for several years, anything seemed possible. The redemption he’d believed in for so long felt within reach.

  Through work, he ended up mentoring a young lad, Jim, who reminded him so much of himself it was uncanny. He’d even go as far as to say they became friends, to the extent that was possible in the unequal relationship of child and adult. He really thought he could make a difference with Jim.

  How wrong he turned out to be. He should’ve known life would always find a way to fuck things up for you and the people you ca
red about.

  He should’ve saved Jim while he had the chance.

  He wouldn’t make another mistake like that.

  Instead, he’d make another angel.

  It was time to meet her again.

  Seventy-Four

  As soon as Paige Bradley finished school for the day, she set off on her own and walked quickly to the Pizza Express in East Sheen, where the kind man from the fish and chip shop had said she should meet him. She didn’t want to be late because he’d promised to buy her dinner here. Paige loved Pizza Express because it was a proper restaurant, and it smelled really nice inside, although she hardly ever got to come here. That was because it was more expensive than a lot of the other places where Mummy would normally send her to get food.

  The man had said that if he wasn’t there when she arrived, then she should get a table for two, order whatever drink she liked, and he’d be there soon. He might have some things to finish up, he’d told her, but he wouldn’t be long. She asked for a Coke, which came in a tall glass with ice and lemon, and a straw. Not a can, like in the chip shop. She drank it really fast and had just managed to stop hiccupping when he walked in. It took her a moment to recognise him because he was wearing a flat cap and a big jacket.

  He waved at her and came over to the table.

  ‘Hi, Paige.’ He gave her a big smile. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’

  ‘I got a drink, like you said.’ She held up the empty glass and the ice cubes in it slid around and clinked together.

  ‘Great!’ He lowered his voice. ‘If anyone asks us, let’s pretend I’m your dad, OK?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because then people won’t disturb us while we’re planning our surprise.’ He winked.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Would you like to have a pizza, then? It’s my treat.’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Her broad grin turned into a frown. ‘Only, I don’t know which one because they don’t have menus. The waiter said you have to use a Q… Q-something.’

  ‘QR code?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. On your phone.’ She shrugged. ‘And I haven’t got a phone.’

  He patted his pockets and pulled a face. ‘Oh dear. I must’ve forgotten mine.’

  ‘Will they still let us order?’

  ‘Course they will.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Because I know the names of all the pizzas.’

  ‘All of them?’

  He nodded. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘What do you want on yours?’ he asked. ‘You can have whatever you like.’

  This was amazing. ‘I’d like pepperoni, please. And ham as well.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘OK, sure.’

  The man called the waiter over and ordered their pizzas. When he asked for her one, he said ‘my daughter will have an American with extra ham’. She looked at him as he was telling the waiter what drinks they wanted, too, and imagined that he actually was her daddy. She’d never met her real daddy. There were no pictures of him at home, and Mummy only ever called him ‘that bastard’.

  When the waiter had gone off to the kitchen, the man leant towards her.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘you didn’t tell your mum we were meeting, did you?’

  ‘No,’ she replied immediately. ‘You said not to. She thinks I’m at a friend’s house for tea.’

  He seemed pleased. ‘Can you remember why we have to do that?’

  ‘Because then it’ll be a surprise for her.’

  ‘Exactly. Can you imagine her face when you show her a picture of you on a horse? She’s going to be amazed!’

  Paige laughed. That was true.

  ‘So,’ he continued, ‘let’s talk about those riding lessons. How would you like to have one later this week?’

  Seventy-Five

  It was almost midnight by the time Lockhart got home. It had been another long, frustrating day working on the Op Paxford murders, and he felt deflated by their lack of progress. Entering his tiny flat, he found himself automatically heading for the kitchen, opening the fridge, and reaching for a cold can of Stella. Just one, he thought.

  Just to take the edge off.

  They had three murdered children, the press hounding them for incompetence, top brass breathing down their necks, and a bunch of leads, none of which was definitive. Lockhart felt as though there was something they weren’t seeing among it all. He just didn’t know what the hell it was. He cracked the can open, dropped onto the sofa and took a couple of big mouthfuls of lager.

  Eric Cooper’s link to Jordan Hennessey was interesting, no question. The verger, scoutmaster and – as he’d discovered today – Salvation Army volunteer was probably their main person of interest once more. However, Cooper claimed he was working at the Salvation Army the night that Jordan was murdered. Given their limited record keeping, the alibi wasn’t rock-solid, but Lockhart knew he’d need something more to justify arresting Cooper a second time.

  He’d suggested surveillance on Cooper, but Burrows was concerned about the cost, in the absence of better evidence. Lockhart half-wondered about doing it himself, but he knew that authorisation was essential to making an evidential case from anything he gathered.

  Then there was the school. The visit yesterday by Guptill and Parsons had discovered only one staff member who’d taught Donovan, Charley and Jordan. Common sense alone told him that the diminutive, forty-something science teacher, Katie Watkins, wasn’t their killer. And her family confirmed she was at home with them on every night in question.

  Of course, there was an outside chance that someone at the school had accessed student records and identified the victims that way. The possibility meant that Green’s boyfriend, Tim McKay, remained of interest to them, albeit marginally. Enough though, unfortunately, to warrant keeping her away from their office until he was completely cleared. Ironically, it had been Green’s idea of the killer using a database to target his victims that had kept her partner in the picture.

  But Richmond Park Academy’s files weren’t the only system in which all victims’ details were stored. They would all feature at some level in Social Services’ records, too. Lockhart wanted to explore this further, given the lead that Smith and Khan had turned up in Twickenham today. Unlike Donovan and Charley, Jordan had no known contact with Kieran Meade. But if Meade had worked at Richmond Social Services, could he have found out about Jordan there? Had he been planning this for a year?

  Following up on that would be tricky. According to Smith, trying to get information out of the massive machine of Social Services was a nightmare, especially anything that involved dealing with a senior social worker there named Alison Griffin. Lucy Berry had hit a brick wall in her missing children project with Griffin, and Burrows was adamant that they operate to the letter of the law when it came to accessing sensitive personal data.

  Lockhart took another draught of lager and gave a long breath out through his nostrils. One avenue they could investigate, though, was Green’s suggestion of missing persons reports. Filtering them according to her profile and making inquiries. Seeing if any were linked to their three victims. It was a good idea, and Lockhart planned to give the action to Berry first thing tomorrow. She had experience with that data from her side project.

  The thought of missing persons made him stand and cross the living room to his wall of material on Jess. He glanced at the new stuff that was up there on his brother-in-law, the warehouse, the MDMA, fisherman Jonah Tharpe and his sons, and their boat in Whitstable.

  ‘I’m going to find out what’s going on with all this, love,’ he told her photo. Her bright blue eyes shone out from the picture. ‘I promise.’

  He leant in, kissed her face.

  ‘And I’m going to find you.’

  In the silence that followed, Lockhart heard the rain drumming at the window, and the image came to him of the two of them, caught in a shower while out hiking. It’d been his bright idea to follow the Green Chain Wal
k, a route that connected south London’s parks; he’d dreamed about it for months in the baking sun and sand of Iraq, during one of his tours there. The only thing he hadn’t factored in was the British weather. As the skies opened, they’d run for the nearest shelter, and found that the little park building they’d entered contained a café. With wet hair plastered to her head and a big grin, Jess had immediately ordered a massive ice cream, which they’d shared as wind and rain lashed the glass doors beside them.

  His wife had her fair share of storms in life, like the days when her mood would drop and she wouldn’t feel like doing anything at all, but she always knew how to turn things around. The memory of that day in the storm brought a brief smile to his face, but it was soon followed by the more familiar feeling he got when he thought of Jess. The one where you know something’s missing, that someone you love isn’t there anymore. As the feeling grew, his throat began to constrict and his eyes prickled.

  Lockhart quickly finished his can of Stella. Then he crushed it in his hand, and went back to the kitchen to get another.

  Wednesday

  20th January

  Seventy-Six

  Lucy Berry knew that, in a serial murder investigation, there were always going to be dead ends. Stones you turned over that had nothing underneath them. But you still had to look because it could be the one extra check you did which found the pattern – or the outlier that deviated from it – that led you right to a killer’s door. And she’d worked on enough cases to understand that crunching the numbers and trawling the databases were every bit as vital as crime scene examination or interviewing people.