In any case, she was going out later with Sarah and guessed they’d end up partying pretty hard. They’d always done that; it was just the number of nights out that Lexi had noticed rising in recent months, while her bank balance dropped accordingly. And the amount she was drinking… Before she was forced to interrogate that in more detail, Dan walked in.
She watched him checking the interior – the mental ‘threat assessment’ she knew he always did in a new place – before he spotted her. He pointed to the counter then to her, and she raised her own cup with the other hand over it to say I’m good. Dan got a coffee and brought it up to the mini-balcony where she was sitting, out of earshot from the handful of other customers. There was no hug this time. He took the stool next to her, repositioning it slightly so that he could observe the door.
‘Thanks for coming up, Lexi. I know it’s a bit out of your way, but this is perfect for me. I can walk to Bermondsey from here.’
Dan had told her he was going to see his mom at her apartment after this. It was cute that he called in on her so much; he obviously cared about her a lot. That old dating advice – choose a man who’s kind to his mother – popped into her head from nowhere. Come on, Lexi.
‘No problem,’ she replied quickly. ‘It’s, like, a few tube stops up from work. And I’m meeting Sarah in Soho later on, so…’ She didn’t need to tell him her evening plans, but for some reason Lexi wanted him to know she wasn’t spending Friday night alone. She realised that they could’ve had this conversation by phone, but neither of them had suggested that.
‘You all right?’ He took a sip of his coffee and made an appreciative noise.
‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘You know, tired. Long week.’
‘Same here.’
‘Hey, you ever think about jacking it in, just going and living by the beach or something? I sure as hell do.’
‘Definitely.’ He paused, lips twisted in amusement. ‘But I don’t think either of us is the sort of person to actually do that.’
‘No?’
‘We care too much.’
She considered this. ‘You’re probably right. Nice idea, though, huh?’
‘The beach can always wait till we retire in, what, thirty years?’
‘More like forty for me.’ Lexi grinned. She was eight years younger than Dan and had occasionally enjoyed reminding him of that.
‘Shit. Anyway, you said you had some ideas?’
‘Uh-huh.’ She shuffled on her stool. ‘So, after we talked about the case a couple days ago, it got me thinking. About killers who leave symbols.’
‘Right,’ said Dan slowly. He already sounded a little sceptical.
‘Yeah,’ she continued. ‘A bunch of psychologists have written about that. I just thought it might be relevant here, what with the triangle and all.’
‘OK.’
‘The main point they make is that a symbol – whether it’s on the body, elsewhere at the crime scene, or in written communication from the killer – is not necessary for the act of violence.’
‘Why do it, then?’
‘It’s about the perpetrator’s fantasy. It has personal significance to them. So, if you can interpret the symbol, you can understand something about their state of mind, maybe even their motive.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. Look at the Night Stalker, for example. Richard Ramirez. He drew pentagrams at the scenes of his murders, because he believed he was acting on behalf of the Devil.’
Dan drank some coffee. ‘I mean, it’s interesting… but how is that going to help us catch Charles Stott’s killer?’
Lexi had struggled to answer that herself. ‘I don’t know. If the triangle’s a witchcraft thing, could you look at anyone with a record who’s expressed both violent fantasies and an interest in the occult? Or anything in the victim’s personal life that might link to that? Like, was he a member of any groups?…’
He exhaled slowly, shook his head. ‘We don’t even know it is about witchcraft. It’s a bloody triangle. You said yourself, it could mean a whole load of different things.’
‘Right, but it’s sure as hell not random.’ There was a trace of hostility in her voice. ‘Trust me.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’ She could feel her irritation rising. ‘Come on, Dan. At least a half-dozen sexually motivated serial killers have left symbols on or around their victims’ bodies, or signed messages with them. BTK, Zodiac, the Happy Face killer.’
‘Happy face?’ He snorted a laugh. ‘That’s not a real person.’
‘Yes, it is,’ she snapped. ‘Keith Hunter Jesperson. Google him.’
He held up his palms. ‘OK, I believe you.’
Lexi spent a few minutes explaining how the murderers she’d mentioned had used their symbols. When she’d finished, she sat back.
‘Fine.’ Dan spread his hands on the table. ‘But even if that’s accurate about symbols, we’re not dealing with a sexually motivated killer, are we?’
‘Not directly, perhaps—’
‘And it’s not a serial crime, either.’
‘But the use of a symbol suggests it could be. Maybe this was just the first one.’
Dan took his time over a few sips of coffee. She waited, letting her point sink in, her anger simmering just below the surface.
‘Look, I appreciate this, Lexi,’ he said eventually. ‘But the fact is, we’ve got to focus our efforts on the most likely suspect. Our victim had a wife who knew he’d cheated on her a lot. If he dies, she gets his multi-million-pound estate. And she’s alleged to be having an affair with a young man who has no decent alibi for the time of death. This guy’s strong, has a record of violent behaviour, hated Stott, and has the same shoe size as the footprints found near the body.’
‘So why haven’t you arrested him?’
He sighed heavily. ‘DCI Porter doesn’t buy it. He won’t listen to me.’
‘Frustrating, isn’t it?’
If Dan had noticed her barb, he ignored it. ‘Because they were a celebrity couple, Porter’s mega-sensitive about the blowback of any decisions like that. Mainly on his chances of promotion.’ He shook his head. ‘We need better evidence. And, as of this moment, we haven’t got it.’
‘Well, maybe you’re looking in the wrong place.’
Dan checked his watch. ‘I need to go.’
‘Sure. Let me leave you with one more fun fact.’
He stood. ‘OK. Let’s hear your fact, doctor.’
‘If a white, heterosexual, middle-aged, middle-class man is murdered, his killer is most likely a woman whom he knows intimately. How ’bout that?’
He cocked his head. ‘It’s not incompatible with my theory. She just had a guy do it for her.’
‘Whatever.’
Dan drained his coffee and jerked a thumb towards the street. ‘You walking?’
‘Yeah.’
As they went their separate ways at Borough High Street, Lexi wondered why the encounter had made her so mad. She felt there was something more to Charles Stott’s murder, but she couldn’t convince Dan, because she had nothing solid. Kind of like the case last fall…
Thinking back to it reminded Lexi of her old housemate Liam. Normally, he would’ve been with Lexi and Sarah on a night out, like tonight. Now, he wasn’t around anymore. She felt tears prickle at her eyes and decided that she’d drink a little extra this evening to make up for him not being there. And to help her forget.
Eighteen
It’s nearly time for action. Almost, but not yet. My problem is that I’m no good at waiting, never have been. Whatever I’ve wanted, I always needed it right there and then. Some people would call that impulsive. I just call it getting my way. Patience, they’d always tell me at school. Good things come to those who wait. Or, to those who take what they want.
There’s a freedom to letting yourself go, not giving a damn about anyone or anything else and giving in to your desires. How many people can say they live life like that? Almost nobo
dy. Most people don’t have the balls to do it. A lot of the ones who try just end up in prison; the dumb ones, anyway. That’s where following your desires without thinking gets you. But, trust me, those desires are there in all of us.
Scratch the surface of a human being and we’re all just chimpanzees with a bit less hair standing on two legs. There’s a reason why getting violent is called going ape shit. Deep down, we’re programmed to fight and fuck and eat and sleep. I mean, that sounds like a great existence to me. Waiting, on the other hand, is no fun. Ever seen a chimp waiting? Of course not.
But, in order to get what I want tonight, I need to wait. Until the lawyer comes through with his little trolley of clubs and his stupid plaid trousers. I’ve passed some of the time next door at the athletics track, where I can train and stretch and watch the golf course through the trees for his arrival. Working out on the track this evening reminded me how much pain there still is in my body after the accident. I have a high tolerance for it, but I still feel it, everywhere, every day. Worse when I do something physical. It’s the kind of pain that a compensation lawyer should be able to turn into money. Unless they’re corrupt, that is, or shit scared of the powerful people. That’s why this guy has to pay. Because the job wasn’t done.
I’m ready for it. I’ve got that low-level simmering excitement, like the anticipation I used to get before filming. But no nerves; I don’t really get them. If you asked me to describe what nervous feels like, I couldn’t really tell you. It’s probably one of the main things that allowed me to be so good at my job. Before it all went sideways permanently. Thinking about that just makes the anger rise up, closer to the surface. It barely even needs a scratch to uncover the raging chimp beneath.
There’s a mallet in my coat pocket, ready to get things started. And, when it’s done, I’ll be sure to leave my mark on this piece of shit. Just to keep them guessing. And to make sure that Dan Lockhart knows about it.
Nineteen
As Lockhart marched south-east down Jamaica Road and the swish new-build flats gave way to old housing blocks, he replayed his conversation with Green from the café. He’d asked for her help on Stott’s murder because of the weird symbol drawn on his neck. But, when she’d given him her theory, he’d pretty much tossed it out.
And, yet, what had happened last time he’d asked Green to profile a killer? He’d dismissed her opinion then, too, and it’d turned out she was right. But this was different, he reassured himself. Then, there’d been evidence that he’d ignored. This time, there was nothing concrete beyond Green’s dubious reading of three lines drawn on skin. He wasn’t changing his entire suspect strategy because of that. His instincts told him he needed to look more closely at Xander O’Neill. Something wasn’t quite right about the cocky young actor.
Turning into the street where his mum, Iris, lived, Lockhart’s attention was immediately drawn by raised voices. Two men were shouting at each other on a balcony three floors up, the one outside an open door arrowing his fingers and demanding to know why the man inside hadn’t been answering his calls. Lockhart paused, briefly wondering if it was going to escalate and whether he’d need to intervene. But the man inside simply returned a barrage of expletives and slammed the door, leaving his visitor kicking it impotently a few times before giving up and walking off.
As Lockhart started up the stairs towards his mum’s flat – he didn’t even bother checking if the lift had been fixed – the man passed him, glaring with the wild-eyed look of an addict. He shouldered his way through, muttering to himself. Lockhart had no beef with him, but the whole business was symptomatic of how volatile the estate where his mum lived had become. When Lockhart was growing up here, there were rivalries and fights, but people knew one another and, basically, it was safe. The most dangerous thing you’d encounter was some rowdy lads who’d drunk too much.
These days, there were drugs on the estate, and that changed everything. There were the dealers he’d spot and tip off his Operation Trident colleagues about. Kids cycling around on BMX bikes with little bags across their shoulders when they should be in school. The occasional flat with covered windows whose tell-tale extractor fans couldn’t eliminate the thick odour of cannabis plants growing inside. Late-night flying visits from blacked-out 4 x 4 cars that cost more than Lockhart earned in a year, pick-ups and drop-offs. And with drugs came violence. Guns, knives and acid.
Before Jess had gone missing, she and Lockhart had talked about starting a family. They’d even considered moving out of London. He wouldn’t have wanted to bring up kids in the mansion block by a flyover across town where he and Jess lived, let alone here. But that was academic now. Still, he’d suggested enough times to his mum that she might like to move somewhere a bit safer. A quieter neighbourhood. But she wouldn’t hear of it. I’m not scared, love, she’d say. They can’t get rid of me that easy. And people said he was stubborn.
When he reached his mum’s flat, Lockhart was pleased to see she’d shut the front door. He’d often reminded her about that, too, and had half-expected to find it ajar again this evening. He knocked and heard footsteps approaching from the hallway. They sounded unusually heavy. The door opened and Lockhart froze. It wasn’t his mum standing there.
It was Jess’s brother. Lockhart was struck anew by how much he looked like her and, for a moment, the unexpected memory of his wife rendered him speechless.
‘All right, Dan?’
Lockhart stared briefly at the hand that’d been extended towards him and left it hanging. Then he raised his eyes to take in the man he hadn’t seen for three or four years. Nick Taylor looked much as he had the last time they’d met. His blond hair, cropped close to his scalp, was a bit greyer than before. But his eyes were the same bright blue as Jess’s, the dimples at the corner of his mouth identical to hers. He was clean-shaven and wore a parka jacket and dark jeans over work boots.
‘What’re you doing here?’ said Lockhart.
The history between the two of them went back twenty years, to the early days when Lockhart and Jess were teenagers dating. Her brother, Nick, never approved of Lockhart and said he didn’t think the lad from the estate had many prospects. As Jess and Lockhart had continued going out, the tension between him and Nick rose to the point where, one night in a local pub, words had been exchanged and the confrontation escalated. But Lockhart had only just turned eighteen; Nick was twenty-two, not to mention a lot stronger. The older man had kicked his arse outside the pub in front of a crowd of onlookers and Lockhart had never forgotten the humiliation. Neither one had apologised to the other and the grudge had stood ever since.
In some ways, though, that was just the beginning. The real animosity had started when, following Jess’s disappearance, Nick had blamed Lockhart for it. Off playing soldiers when you should’ve been there for her. Since then, Lockhart had frequently felt the desire to start a second fight with him. Now, there would only be one outcome of that.
‘Nice to see you too, mate.’ Nick smiled.
‘I’m gonna ask you again, what you doing in my mum’s house?’
‘Daniel!’ Lockhart heard his mum’s voice from down the hallway. ‘Just come in, love, and let’s talk about it.’
‘About what?’ said Lockhart, pushing past Nick and into the flat. ‘Are you OK, Mum?’
She was in the kitchen, stirring a steaming pot of tea. Lockhart kissed her cheek and wrapped her in a big hug, careful not to squeeze too hard. She wasn’t very strong these days, although her mind was as sharp as ever.
‘I’m fine. My arthritis is playing up a bit more than usual, but I’ll live.’ She waved away his obvious concern. ‘Your brother-in-law called and said he had something to tell us but hadn’t been able to get hold of you.’
‘That’s cos he hasn’t got my number,’ Lockhart said.
Nick sauntered into the kitchen and took a chair at the small side table.
‘Would you like some tea, love?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, please, Iris,’ said
Nick. ‘Ta very much.’
Lockhart’s mum tried to grip the teapot by its handle but could barely lift it off the surface, her hand trembling as she grimaced with the effort.
‘Let me, Mum.’
‘Thanks, love.’
He poured three mugs of tea and dumped in some milk and sugar. He handed one to his mum before smacking another down on the table in front of Nick and taking a seat opposite him with his own brew.
‘Go on, then.’
Nick exhaled a long breath through his nose. ‘Iris told me all about Whitstable,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering.’
Lockhart shot a glance at his mum but didn’t reply.
‘I just don’t want you wasting your time. We’re, um…’ Nick drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Mum, Dad and I are seeing a solicitor to get her declared legally… dead.’
‘What?’ Lockhart immediately felt the rage bubbling inside him. He knew Jess’s family had long held that belief. But making it formal was something else. A betrayal.
‘Dan. Look, mate—’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘OK, whatever. She’s been gone eleven years now. We have to face the facts. And we’ve got to move on with our lives.’
‘You did that a long time ago,’ said Lockhart. He jerked a thumb towards the front door. ‘She’s still out there, somewhere. I know she is. And I’ll find her.’ He held Nick’s gaze, and it was his brother-in-law who looked away first.
Who's Next?: A completely gripping and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Lockhart and Green Book 2) Page 8
