‘Do the other two sides.’ Porter’s tone left no room for argument.
Khan raised his hand briefly. ‘Actually, sir, I think we’ve got a possible suspect on CCTV from inside a bus walking north away from the Common at ten twenty-one p.m.’ The young detective was chewing hard, his arms now folded defiantly. ‘Fits with time of death,’ he added confidently, gesturing to another board where a grainy, distorted wide-angle image had been printed. Lockhart knew it was next to useless.
‘And what happens to this so-called suspect after that?’
There was a moment’s silence before Khan answered. ‘We lose him, sir. But—’
‘Well I suggest you find him again, then!’ Porter had raised his voice. ‘Christ. This is not good enough.’
Khan didn’t reply. He just stared at the carpet, his jaw working furiously at the gum. He looked pissed off, for at least the second time since this case started.
Porter scanned the room. ‘What about the appeal for witnesses?’
‘Sod all, sir,’ said Smith. ‘There was one highlight worth sharing, though. A voice message from a woman saying she was happy someone had manned up and done it.’
‘Any details on the caller, Max?’ asked Lockhart. ‘Could it be significant? One of our thirty-two, maybe? Or a victim of Stott’s we don’t know about yet.’
‘No idea, guv. She didn’t give a name or any other information. Withheld number, too.’
As Berry ran through the victim strategy – which also amounted to very little actionable detail from Stott’s telephone or social media – Lockhart realised that they had almost nothing concrete. He sensed morale was low and some of the team were ambivalent about catching Stott’s killer, given the accusations of sexual assault made against the victim. But whatever crimes Stott had committed, he didn’t deserve to die for them.
Lockhart wasn’t a believer in eye-for-an-eye justice. He subscribed to the rule of law, and the judicial process – flawed as it was. If the revenge theory for Stott’s death was right, then someone had taken justice into their own hands. And right now, they had no idea who that person might be. Worst-case scenario, it was a stranger. The lack of result was demoralising, Lockhart thought. But it could be worse.
At least they weren’t dealing with a serial murderer.
Eleven
‘I mean, I like the idea of kids.’ Lexi’s flatmate Sarah stirred the wok. ‘It’s just the whole pregnancy, throwing up every morning, nearly dying while you give birth and then breastfeeding for six months or whatever that I’m not sure about. You know?’ She kept a straight face for a few seconds before breaking into a massive grin.
‘Sure.’ Lexi lifted the chopping board and used the knife to guide the carrots she’d diced into the wok. ‘Apart from all that stuff, it’s easy, right?’
Sarah cackled; a loud, infectious laugh. ‘Exactly. No biggie. Just a tiny lickle person growing inside you.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Nothing weird about that.’
Lexi knew she could always rely on Sarah to lift her mood when she was a little low or stressed. The two had met a few years back when Lexi was working in a Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services team, during her clinical psychology training. Sarah was the team’s dedicated social worker. Despite dealing with heart-breaking situations every day, she somehow managed to stay cheerful. Having met Sarah’s reserved, white, English father, Lexi knew she’d inherited this sunny disposition from her Jamaican mom, as well as her love of music. If a song Sarah liked came on, she’d be dancing. And, if Lexi was there, Sarah would always rope her into it. Resistance was useless. When it turned out they were both looking for somewhere to live, moving in together was a no-brainer. They’d become even better friends since sharing a house. Sarah knew about Lexi’s brother Shep dying from a drug overdose. But, for some reason, Lexi hadn’t told her about the abortion. Maybe even our closest friendships have their boundaries.
Lexi picked up her wine glass and took a gulp. ‘I have a client right now whose partner terminated her pregnancy without telling him. He says they should’ve gotten a surrogate mom.’
Sarah turned to her. ‘What did the partner say about that?’
‘I don’t think they even talked about it.’
‘Huh.’ Sarah paused. ‘One of my uni mates works for a big tech company, right, and there’s a bit in her contract where they’ll give her twenty grand towards expenses for a surrogate mum.’
‘So that she won’t have to miss work, right?’
‘Exactly. Twenty grand! That works out at pretty much the same wages as I get in the NHS. I told her to come to me first…’ Sarah laughed and threw some more spice into the wok.
‘Would you do it, though?’ asked Lexi.
‘What, be a surrogate mum, or have one for my baby?’
‘Have one, I guess.’
‘Need a man first, don’t I?’ Sarah winked at her.
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Talking of which, how’s the dating going?’ Sarah pointed an accusing finger at her. ‘You signed up to that website, didn’t you? Like we decided you would.’
Lexi didn’t really want to discuss her romantic life, or lack of it, even with Sarah. ‘Yeah, a little while back,’ she mumbled, trying to recall the last time she’d even logged in.
‘Come on, then. Any new guys on the scene? Wait.’ She held up both hands. ‘What about that detective you worked with? You asked him out yet?’
‘Oh, you mean Dan?’ Lexi knew exactly who she meant.
‘Er, yeah.’ Sarah pulled a face of mock confusion. ‘Unless there are any other ones you wanna tell me about?’
‘No. Um, it’s complicated. He was my patient, and he’s, uh…’
Lexi was spared having to elaborate by the arrival of their new flatmate, Rhys Barker. He shuffled into the kitchen wearing a dressing gown and slippers. Lexi glanced at the clock. It was quarter after seven in the evening. Rhys didn’t seem to have much of a life; he came in from his work as some kind of IT manager at the hospital, got out of his office clothes and into his nightwear, then hung out in his room till bedtime. She wasn’t going to lie: Rhys was not a natural fit for their house. But after their original flatmate, Liam, had been killed, the brutal fact was that she and Sarah couldn’t afford the rent between just the two of them.
They needed someone to take Liam’s room, otherwise they’d lose the house. Of course, they’d talked about moving out, bad memories and so on, but they loved the place and the area of Tooting. So, they’d decided to stay. Rhys wasn’t their first-choice flatmate, but when the easy-going junior doctor they’d wanted had taken the offer of another apartment elsewhere, Rhys had been ready with his deposit and first month’s rent. They couldn’t say no.
‘Hey, Rhys,’ said Lexi.
‘All right,’ he grunted, taking a plate from the cupboard.
‘What you up to?’ asked Sarah, her tone light and friendly.
‘Nothing much.’ That probably meant gaming.
‘Cool.’ Sarah flicked her eyes to Lexi as she returned to the wok.
Rhys went to the fridge and extracted a grease-spotted pizza box. He slid the cold, hard slices from it onto his plate and leant the empty box against the wall.
‘Oh, hey,’ said Lexi. ‘That can go in here.’ She opened the cupboard door where they kept the recycling.
‘Can you recycle that?’ asked Rhys, nodding at the box.
‘Sure.’
He offered her the box. Lexi felt a little stab of rage – she’d gotten a lot of those, recently – and forced herself to be nice. It wasn’t her job to deal with his trash. ‘That’s OK. You can just put it in there yourself.’
Rhys seemed to live on pizza. Lexi and Sarah had invited him to join them for dinner enough times, but he clearly preferred his own company.
Lexi knew from adding him to their lease that he was thirty-one, a couple years older than her, but the poor guy looked forty. He was overweight and had deep purple bags under his dark eyes, as if he didn’t
sleep. His receding hairline appeared to have retreated further just in the time he’d lived with them, exposing a blotchy purple birthmark high on his domed forehead. She guessed it would’ve been covered when he had all his hair. It was hard not to stare at it while talking to him.
The only times Lexi had ever seen Rhys get excited were when he was gaming, or when he talked about buses. He seemed to know every route in London and where they all connected, almost like a map in his head. Lexi thought maybe he was a little farther right on the autism spectrum than most people.
He picked up the plate of cold pizza and left without another word. They listened to him trudging up the stairs, and when they heard his door shut Lexi and Sarah looked at one another. Sarah was biting her lower lip.
‘Bless him,’ she said.
‘I’d feel a little more sympathetic if he knew how to recycle his shit.’ Lexi took a slug of wine.
‘He’s probably lovely when you get to know him.’
‘And how long is that gonna take? He’s been here two months already.’
‘OK…’ Sarah held up her hands. ‘I admit, it’s a slow-burn thing. You should tell him about the dating website, Lex. Get him on there…’
‘Piss off.’ That was one of her go-to British expressions. ‘Must be hard dating if you’re short.’
Sarah squeezed a lime into the wok. ‘I’m five-foot-one and it’s never caused me any problems.’
‘Yeah, but, you’re hot. Anyway, I mean for a guy. Rhys is what, five-seven, five-eight?’
‘If that.’
‘Hm.’ Lexi found herself thinking about Dan. She guessed he was about six-two. Without further consideration, she took out her phone and tapped him a text:
How’s it going with the case?
Twelve
It’s incredible how alone it’s possible to feel in London. I’m not talking about myself, obviously. I don’t give a shit if I’m on my own. I actually prefer it. Having other human beings around is just something which serves a purpose. Whether it’s their money, their food, their bodies or whatever else they can offer, people are either useful to me, or they’re not. That’s the way I’ve lived my entire life.
What I mean by alone is how, in a densely packed city of nearly nine million inhabitants, you can find yourself completely unprotected. It could be because the richer someone gets in London, the more secluded they become. They buy a larger, detached place to live in, that they don’t have to share with neighbours. They pay for the privilege of space, greenery and exclusivity. And that isolation makes them vulnerable.
Like the man I’m looking at right now, for example. He has no idea he’s going to die tomorrow. I don’t think anyone will miss him. Sitting on his own in a massive house full of rooms he doesn’t need. He made his money through law. Compensation claims, specifically. That’s important to me. It means he can take some of the blame for what happened. He’s brought that on himself with his choice of specialism. It’s one reason I’ve chosen him.
The other is that I can get to him. He plays a solo round of golf every Friday evening, booking the last available tee time at Wimbledon Park course when it’s nice and quiet. No one will be playing behind him. There’s a spot by the fifteenth hole where I can wait, hidden in the trees. He’ll come past, alone, around 7 p.m., just as the light is fading. No one will see or hear a thing.
The thought of attacking him gives me a flutter of anticipation at the pleasure I’ll get from doing it. But, once it’s over, I don’t expect to feel much else. I certainly won’t lose any sleep over it.
They should connect it to the last murder pretty quickly. Then Dan Lockhart will investigate. He’ll understand that he’s dealing with somebody serious.
But he won’t know that he’s also a step closer to his own death.
Day Four
Thirteen
No one could predict where the three murders that London averaged per week would take place. Though MITs under the Met’s Homicide and Major Crime Command were based in specific geographical areas, in practice they took cases from all over the city, as and when they were available. That could mean travelling for an hour or two by car just to visit a scene or speak to a person of interest. It was rare that Lockhart got the chance to interview someone within walking distance, so he was trying to appreciate it this morning. Notice the sunshine. Be in the moment, as Green had told him.
As he crossed the Thames at Putney Bridge, heading towards Parsons Green, he thought of her, recalling their text exchange from the previous night. She’d asked how the investigation was going, and whether he’d given any more thought to the meaning of the triangle. He still didn’t have a clue. But it had made him think about the relationship between Stott’s widow, Jemima, and her young friend, Xander O’Neill.
Lockhart remembered a famous murder case in London from the 1920s. A woman had taken a younger man as her lover and, together, they had concocted a plot to kill her husband and start a new life together. The deed was done by the lover, who stabbed the husband to death while the wife watched. Both were found guilty of murder after the discovery of letters they’d exchanged. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that a similar thing had happened here.
Green had suggested they meet again to talk over the case. Lockhart was visiting his mum later this evening, but they agreed to grab a coffee straight after work. Spending time with Green like this gave him a small, nagging sense of unease, but he reminded himself it was business, nothing more.
The Climbing Hangar was tucked away among a narrow strip of industrial units that housed furniture workshops, stone masons and, incongruously, a bridge club. Inside the gym, a few people were on the walls, bouldering to some funk beats that Lockhart had to admit he quite liked. He made a mental note to come here for a climb in the future.
He flashed his warrant card to the guy behind the desk and gestured towards the man he guessed was Xander O’Neill. The actor was mid-climb, grunting his way through a long, punchy overhang route that Lockhart guessed was about a V6 in difficulty: harder than anything he could do. Approaching the wall, he watched as O’Neill progressed higher, his muscles flexing and limbs contorting. Finally, he slapped the top hold with two chalky hands and unleashed a triumphant cry, before dropping to the crash mat, grinning.
Lockhart waited for O’Neill to register his presence before introducing himself and showing his ID. ‘Do you mind if we have a quick chat?’
‘What about?’
‘Charles Stott.’
The young man’s smile evaporated. ‘I’m on my break.’
‘It won’t take long,’ Lockhart said pleasantly. He needed to keep O’Neill on side, at least for now. ‘Just some extra background to help us out.’
A moment later, they were seated opposite each other at one of the small tables next to the reception desk. There was nobody else around them. O’Neill had taken off his climbing shoes and was leaning back in the chair, relaxed.
‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked, the corner of his mouth twisted in mild amusement.
‘I called Jemima Stott-Peters first thing this morning. She said you usually work here on Fridays.’
‘Yeah. I do a few shifts in the week. The guys are pretty flexible about me dashing out for auditions. I always keep half a wardrobe in my locker here, so I can do smart, casual, whatever the casting director needs. Hop on the bike and I’m in Soho in twenty minutes.’
‘Very handy.’
The actor nodded. ‘All right, then. What do you need to know?’
‘What was your relationship with Charles Stott like?’
‘Well…’ O’Neill shrugged. ‘To be honest, I didn’t really like him all that much.’
‘Why was that?’
‘As I told your colleague, Charles didn’t treat Mimi well. Cheated on her all the bloody time. She was too good for him, and too nice as well. He abused that.’
‘How long have you known Mimi?’
‘Oh, about… three years. We did a sta
ge show together.’
‘Right.’
‘We became close friends,’ O’Neill said. ‘She’s wonderful. I care a lot about her.’
Enough to kill for her? Lockhart wondered. ‘Did you ever work with Charles?’
‘No, but I—’ O’Neill cut himself off.
‘But what?’
‘I… well, this is going to sound strange, but I think he was jealous of me. I probably had a better relationship with Mimi than he did. I mean, she and I actually talked about things, you know? Charles didn’t like it. Despite sleeping around, he still wanted to possess her exclusively.’
‘So, are you saying that he wouldn’t have wanted to work with you, because of those personal feelings?’
‘Yeah. But I think it went beyond that.’ O’Neill flexed his hands. Lockhart could see through the climbing chalk that they were grazed, the knuckles red. ‘He never admitted it, but he didn’t have to. I reckon it’s his fault I haven’t been getting work. People in film and theatre talk. And they’d listen to him.’
The motive rating had just gone up a notch. ‘And what was your relationship with Mimi like?’
The actor met Lockhart’s gaze, his expression defiant. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Were the two of you romantically involved?’
‘No!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Look, what is this?’ O’Neill glanced around before returning his stare to Lockhart. ‘Am I a suspect or something? Because if I am, I want a bloody lawyer.’
‘No, Mr O’Neill, you’re not a suspect.’ Lockhart wasn’t about to explain to him how reduced custody facilities and higher arrest thresholds meant suspects often had to be interviewed voluntarily now. ‘That said, it would be useful if you could tell us where you were on the night that Charles died, just for our records.’
Who's Next?: A completely gripping and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Lockhart and Green Book 2) Page 6
