Out of habit, Lockhart had positioned himself facing the door. He saw Green as she passed the window and stood as she entered and walked across to him. She was dressed casually, with jeans, trainers and chunky roll-neck sweater under a slim down jacket, her long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. She seemed to have aged a bit since the last time he’d seen her. Maybe it was the stress of what’d happened with the Throat Ripper. But she looked stronger than before, too, athletic and broad-shouldered. He knew she did CrossFit and wondered whether that’d been helping her overcome the trauma.
‘Hey, Dan,’ she said, not quite smiling but holding his gaze with sharp eyes.
‘All right, Lexi.’ He didn’t know how to greet her. Suddenly, he was aware of the distance that’d grown between them since they last spoke. Awkwardly, he stuck out a hand for her to shake. She looked at it for a moment, then took it. They each made a step towards one another. And, before he knew it, they were in a tight embrace, Lockhart wrapping his arms around her and Green pulling him close, resting her head on his chest. They stayed like that for a moment. He realised it was the first hug he’d given a woman other than his mum since, well… since Jess had disappeared. It felt good. He immediately got a stab of guilt and let go of her.
‘Been a while,’ he said.
‘Jeez, I know.’
There were a few seconds of silence before he spoke. ‘Cheers for coming.’
‘Sure.’
They took their seats at a small wooden table and Lockhart slid a bottle of pale ale towards her. ‘Got you this. Thought it looked hoppy or whatever.’
She smiled. ‘Thanks.’
‘So, how’s it going?’ he asked, his eyes flicking to the roll-neck of her sweater. He knew there’d be a scar underneath.
‘You know, OK, I guess.’
‘Sorry about your flatmate,’ said Lockhart.
Green closed her eyes and swigged the beer deeply. ‘It was my fault,’ she replied, eventually.
‘No, it wasn’t. You couldn’t have known.’
She shook her head as if dismissing his words. ‘Anyway, how are you?’
‘Surviving.’ He knew that wasn’t what she was after. Green cared about him. She would want details: work, his mental health, the search for his wife, all of it. She’d even be interested in his recent flashbacks from Afghanistan. But that stuff could wait. Green wasn’t his therapist anymore and he didn’t like to burden her with his personal problems. She had enough of her own to deal with. ‘Surviving,’ he repeated.
‘Yeah, me too,’ she said quietly, taking another long pull on her beer bottle. Lockhart noticed that she’d drunk almost half of it in two gulps.
‘Sometimes, that’s all we can do.’
‘Right.’ She paused a beat. ‘So, there’s a case?’
Lexi listened carefully while Dan described the murder of Charles Stott and his post-mortem, showing her the photos on his phone. They weren’t easy to look at, but she forced herself to take in the details. She’d seen a piece on the news about the murder today. Lexi recognised the director’s name and thought maybe she’d even watched one of his movies. While Dan finished, she drained the rest of her IPA.
‘So, what do you think?’ he asked.
Lexi held up the bottle. ‘I think I need another one of these.’ She pointed at his pint. ‘You want one?…’
‘I’m all right, thanks.’ He’d barely had a third of his beer. She was drinking faster than him. So what? There was a time when that might’ve bothered her, but not now.
‘I’ll be right back,’ she said.
Returning a couple of minutes later with a fresh IPA, she sat down.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘So, there’s a couple things going on here. One is the ferocity of this attack. It’s a total blitz. Charles Stott was taken by surprise and initially hit with a heavy, blunt object.’
‘Yeah.’
‘But, despite possessing that object, the killer chose not to use it again. Instead, they repeatedly punched, kicked and stamped the victim to death, what, eighty times?’
‘That’s what Volz reckons.’
Lexi knew the pathologist was one of the few people Dan trusted, which meant her judgement was probably on point.
‘There was no let up,’ she continued. ‘They wanted him to suffer, but it’s like they were so into it that they didn’t even know to stop after he’d died. It was driven by hatred.’
Lexi watched as he glazed over a little, like he was someplace else.
‘Dan?’ She moved her head to make eye contact with him. ‘Is everything?—’
‘Yeah.’
She knew him well enough to recognise he was lying. It was like he’d dissociated, just for a second. It could be one of the PTSD symptoms he’d been experiencing last year. A flashback, maybe? But Lexi reminded herself that she’d left work; this wasn’t a therapy session. Whatever it was, if he wanted to talk about it, he’d tell her.
‘So, this kind of blitz attack is usually highly personal. It’s the venting of a whole lot of anger that has built up over time and is finally unleashed.’
‘You reckon the attacker knew Stott personally?’
‘Either that,’ she replied, ‘or he was a stranger who represented someone of deep psychological significance to the murderer.’
‘Don’t tell me that. Our suspect list is long enough as it is.’
‘I’m just saying it’s a possibility.’ Lexi drank some beer. ‘And there’s the dog, too. The victim is out walking it when the assault takes place. The dog is maybe barking or whatever, and the attacker wants it to stop. So, they just kill it. Instrumental violence.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’re probably dealing with a true psychopath. Someone pretty far down the spectrum, I’d say. Like, almost zero empathy. As if it’s just been switched off. Chances are that someone like that has committed a crime before.’
Dan nodded slowly. ‘What about the triangular symbol?’
She turned the bottle in her hands, thinking. ‘We assume it was drawn by the killer, probably after they realised Stott was dead, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Show me again.’
He unlocked his phone once more and handed it to her, the image of Stott’s neck filling the screen. She scrutinised it. The triangle was pointing left, its right-hand edge vertical. The other two lines were about the same length, making it equilateral.
‘I don’t have a damn clue,’ she said.
‘Bollocks,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry, Lexi. It’s not you, it’s just the—’
‘Wait.’ She turned her head so that, from her viewpoint, it was like Stott was standing up. Now, the triangle was pointing downwards, its flat edge horizontal. ‘I mean, it could be nothing…’
‘What?’
‘Well, the triangle is a strong shape, right? Solid base.’
‘If you say so.’
‘But turn it upside-down and it’s completely unstable. It represents change. The Greek letter delta is the symbol for change in math and science. It’s a triangle.’
Dan just looked confused.
‘It also represents one of the elements,’ she went on, getting into her stride. ‘Fire. No, water. That’s like an alchemy thing. It’s common to wicca, too.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘You know, witchcraft.’
‘Witchcraft?’
‘Yeah. I’m not sure if any of that is relevant, it’s just what I remembered.’
‘How do you even know that?’
‘I’ve read some pretty random stuff.’ She was already on her own phone, googling the symbolism of triangles. ‘Yes! I knew there was something else, too.’
His lips were curling into a playful smile. ‘Let me guess, it’s the sign for a magical beast, isn’t it? Dragon? No, unicorn, right?’
‘It’s the symbol of woman.’
Dan didn’t respond.
‘You said the guy had had a number of affairs. It could be about a wo
man.’ She slapped her phone on the table. ‘Maybe it was even a rejected lover who did this.’
He laughed into his pint glass. ‘Come on. The bloke was punched and kicked to death. Eighty times or more. By someone strong enough to break his bones.’
‘What, you’re saying a woman couldn’t do that?’ Lexi could hear herself getting louder.
He shrugged. Then he wagged a finger at her. ‘Actually, you might be on to something. Stott’s widow said that he’d sometimes go out to walk the dog and end up stopping over with one of “his women”, as she put it. Maybe a woman set it up so her fella could ambush him. Like a team. There’s an idea.’ He reached for his beer and took a satisfied gulp.
‘That wasn’t what I was suggesting.’ Lexi could feel her frustration mounting. She took a deep breath, calmed herself.
‘Yeah, I know. I’m not dismissing the idea, I just… I wanted your opinion.’ He laid his non-drinking hand flat on the table, perhaps by way of reassurance. ‘Even if I don’t agree with it.’
‘OK.’ She raised the bottle again, studying his hand. It was square and strong, with veins like tree roots on the back. Looking at it, Lexi got the same feeling she’d had the first day Dan had walked into her therapy room: safety. Even if she hadn’t read Dan’s referral notes, Lexi would’ve known immediately that he’d been in the army. The short, neat haircut, the straight back, the North Face jacket. Like a young version of her dad. She’d believed from the moment she met Dan that he was a guy she could depend on. And that belief had turned out to be right. Without thinking, she reached out and laid her hand on top of his, giving it a squeeze. She could feel the wedding ring he still wore every day, solid and smooth.
‘It’s good to see you, Dan,’ she said.
‘Yeah, you too,’ he replied. But Lexi could tell he wasn’t totally comfortable and released her grip, thinking maybe she’d gone a little too far. She was attracted to Dan – she could admit that much to herself, at least – but she knew it was complicated. He’d told her in their therapy sessions about his wife vanishing from their apartment while he was in Afghanistan. There were several theories about what’d happened, and Lexi knew they were all unbearably painful for Dan. He genuinely believed she was still alive, though Lexi thought that belief could be a defence mechanism, protecting him against her loss. It might even be part of a condition called Prolonged Grief Disorder. Either way, Dan didn’t seem to want to move on, but part of her wished that he would.
Lexi wanted to ask him more about how he was doing. But she didn’t need to rush in. She noticed he was nearing the end of his beer, now.
‘You want another one?’ she asked.
He glanced from her to the glass and back. ‘Go on, then.’
Eight
I was bored for most of the evening, just watching TV at home. Not my home – I don’t have one – but my mate John’s place. I say ‘mate’, but I don’t particularly like John, and he isn’t really a friend. He’s just a guy I used to know from work who’s got a flat with a spare room. John works in film, like I did, and being one of the behind-the-scenes production people, he thought I was pretty cool. So, since I don’t speak to my family anymore, he was an obvious person to call when I came back to London from the States.
John was always one of the nice guys. Too kind to say no when I asked if I could stay for a couple of nights. That was two months ago, and we’ve still not even had a conversation about me paying rent, let alone getting my own apartment. I guess he feels guilty after what happened to me. But he’s weak, too, I can sense it – which means I’ll always get my own way.
Tonight, for example, I didn’t feel like talking to him, so I just said I wanted to watch TV alone. He nodded like that was fine and took his plate of the lasagne he’d cooked for us off to his own room to eat while I inhaled mine on the sofa and finished off the rest for seconds. John’s good like that, he knows his place.
I’ve been following the TV coverage of my murder. It only really started today, which makes me think it took them a while to identify Charles. Since I still have his wallet, there wouldn’t have been any ID on him when they found his body. Then they’d have needed to tell his wife and maybe other people in his family before they put it on the news.
In some ways, I’m a bit disappointed that it hasn’t been a bigger story. But that will make it easier next time. And I reckon I’ll get my fifteen minutes of fame soon enough. Judging by the news, the police have nothing. Just as I intended. They appealed for witnesses, which usually shows they’ve got no idea who they’re looking for. The only interesting thing was the guy who made the appeal.
Detective Inspector Dan Lockhart.
He popped up on screen standing near the woods at Wimbledon Common, where I did it, talking about help from the public to catch the person responsible. I recognised something about the way he spoke. A detachment, as if a part of him was somewhere else. I know what that’s like. And I was intrigued by what could’ve caused that for him. Something screwed up in his past, maybe?
It didn’t take me long to find out. Googling him produced a ton of hits, which seemed to divide into three main groups. The first was murder cases he’d worked in London over the past few years, which included catching a serial killer called the Throat Ripper. Cool name. I went down a rabbit hole with that for a while. The guy was weird as hell, but he was creative, I’ll give him that. The second group of hits on Lockhart was all about his missing wife, the lovely Jess. I found myself playing the world’s smallest violin for them. It was the third group of hits that made me sit up and pay attention.
Before joining the Met, Lockhart had been a sergeant in the Special Reconnaissance Regiment of the British Army, the SRR. They were one of the elite units that operated undercover, doing all kinds of interesting stuff. Surveillance, breaking and entering, tracking targets in war zones. To get in, Lockhart would’ve needed to complete the Survive, Evade, Resist, Extract, or SERE, course, which was pretty hardcore. You got hunted across Cornwall by men and dogs before spending thirty-six hours in detention with isolation and interrogation. Enough to make most people shit their pants or go crazy. It got me thinking that there was probably some overlap in our skill sets.
Then I found out there definitely was. A Daily Telegraph article from 2009 described how Lockhart fought his way into a house in Helmand, Afghanistan, where a Taliban sniper was hiding. The sniper had just shot dead a soldier from his unit. Lockhart was the only one to come out of that building alive. So, he knows exactly how it feels to kill.
Reading about his bravery and medals, I had the thought that it’d be fun to try evading him, since he’s looking for me. Carrying on with my plan while being pursued by Lockhart would be a real test of my abilities. I’m up to it, obviously. The question is: is he?
Then I had another idea, an even better one. What if I set him the challenge of catching me, but with a time limit? He’s got a couple of weeks to find me, during which I’m going to kill some more people who need to be punished. I’ve identified the next one, but I haven’t planned much beyond that yet. All I know is that my fifth victim needs to be somebody in the police. And I reckon I’ve just found the perfect candidate.
So, if he doesn’t catch me, Lockhart’s going to get one hell of a surprise. He’s going to become part of his own serial murder case.
Once I’d come up with that plan, suddenly I didn’t feel so bored anymore.
Day Three
Nine
‘So, how well did you know Charles Stott?’
Smith had to tread carefully. Polly Hayes had been named by Jemima Stott-Peters as one of thirty-two women with whom the director may have been romantically involved in the past decade. Between Smith, Lockhart and a couple of their MIT 8 colleagues, they’d been able to hold voluntary interviews with twelve of them so far. Seven women had spoken about having some level of sexual relationship with Stott during his marriage.
A similar story was emerging, whereby Stott used a combination of charm, pr
omises of career-defining opportunities, alcohol and weekends away to seduce them, before dropping them and moving on. One woman whom Smith interviewed yesterday had, following careful elicitation, stated that after she refused Stott’s advances, he had sexually assaulted her during a casting audition. She added that she hadn’t told anyone that before. Smith reckoned that wasn’t the only incident and it angered her that Stott would never be held accountable for the crime. On the other hand, he’d paid the ultimate price, perhaps because of his actions.
While the revenge motive against Stott was believable, all twelve alibis had checked out, as had those of the partners of the women who were in relationships. There was a possibility that Hayes or her large boyfriend, Jimmy, who was currently lurking in the next room of their flat, was responsible. But it was more likely that she’d simply been another victim of Charles Stott’s manipulation, even coercion.
‘We worked together for three years,’ replied Hayes. ‘I was his assistant. I looked after his diary, his meetings, travel, that sort of thing.’
‘And how would you describe your relationship with Mr Stott?’
Hayes gave an ironic laugh. ‘Up and down.’
Smith waited.
‘He was lovely, don’t get me wrong. The pay was good, I had a decent amount of holiday. Of course, he’d get stressed around big deadlines or when he was shooting, but he was always… fair. And he could be really funny.’
‘OK.’ Smith made a couple of notes, waiting for the ‘but’.
‘It’s just, you know, he was very…’ She wiggled her fingers. ‘Tactile.’
‘Tactile, how, exactly?’
‘He used to touch me, a lot,’ whispered Hayes. ‘I didn’t think that much of it at the time. I was only twenty-three when I started working for him. I supposed it was, kind of, normal.’
‘It’s not normal,’ Smith said, lowering her voice to match the young woman’s. ‘And it’s not OK. Thank you for telling me, Polly. Can I ask, did he make any other sexual advances towards you?’
Who's Next?: A completely gripping and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Lockhart and Green Book 2) Page 4
