Who's Next?: A completely gripping and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Lockhart and Green Book 2)

by Chris Merritt

  He thought about how that applied to himself and his search for Jess. The Whitstable lead had been a breakthrough; had given him hope. Then his brother-in-law, Nick, had turned up on Friday night and made his announcement. Since then, Lockhart hadn’t slept properly, anticipating the communication from a solicitor on behalf of her family to say they wanted her declared legally dead. Wondering whether a judge would rule in their favour. Whether that verdict would mean the Met closing her shelved missing persons investigation. And whether he could lose the home they had bought and made together.

  As the final team members took their chairs, Lockhart tried to focus on what he needed to say. He glanced at his watch: 14:09. They were supposed to start at 14:00 sharp, but Porter still hadn’t arrived.

  ‘All right, let’s get going,’ he announced, clapping his hands. ‘I’m guessing the boss will join us soon as he can, and we’ll bring him up to speed. Luce, do you want to kick us off?’

  ‘Um, OK.’ Berry ran a hand through her bob-cut and held up her notebook, partially covering her instantly flushed cheeks. ‘I couldn’t find any online association between Charles Stott and Martin Johnson,’ she began quietly. ‘And I checked for links to Jemima Stott-Peters, too. There was nothing on open source, no social media. No telephone connections that we’re aware of, either.’ She paused, checked her notes. Lockhart knew that was unnecessary; she could probably recite the information blindfolded.

  ‘And, er, I’ve been through the list of previous cases that Johnson’s law firm finally sent to us,’ she resumed. ‘They didn’t represent Charles Stott or, apparently, any third party related to his films. Johnson specialised in personal injury claims.’

  Lockhart waited to be sure she’d finished. ‘So, we don’t think the reason why Stott and Johnson were targeted has to do with any business or legal issue that connected them.’

  Berry shook her head in confirmation. The rest of MIT 8 sat impassively.

  ‘Just on the subject of Ms Stott-Peters,’ he added. ‘I called her this morning. She gave her permission for us to make an appeal on social media about her husband’s watch. See if anyone’s seen it, maybe tried to buy or sell it. Priya, can I leave that with you?’

  ‘No probs, guv.’

  Lockhart didn’t mention how he’d also asked Stott-Peters what she’d been doing on Friday night when Martin Johnson was murdered. Porter had already warned him off, but Lockhart wasn’t about to let it drop. She and Xander O’Neill were still people of interest as far as he was concerned. Stott-Peters had told him that she and Mr O’Neill were having dinner together on Friday night, at her house. Lockhart didn’t like the fact that there was no checkable detail, like a restaurant booking, or that they were each other’s alibis.

  ‘Anything else, Lucy?’ he asked.

  ‘No, um, that’s it.’

  ‘OK. Max, how did you and Mo get on at the law firm this morning?’

  Smith turned sideways in her chair so she could see Lockhart as well as the others. ‘Apart from getting them to send Lucy that list of cases, we talked to a few people that worked there.’

  Lockhart glanced at Khan, who was sitting with his arms folded and a face like thunder. He looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but in this briefing. Probably still pissed off about the bollocking he’d got yesterday for breaking the picture frame and damaging the artwork inside. It’d turned out to be a Damien Hurst limited edition print worth upwards of ten grand. The property damage forms Lockhart had needed to fill out had been a nightmare; Porter had gone ballistic. But Lockhart didn’t have much sympathy for Khan; he was lucky to still be allowed out after that, and his attitude now wasn’t helping things.

  ‘No one really had much to say about Johnson, to be honest, guv,’ Smith continued. ‘Except for one person. A secretary in the firm called Eva Kowalski, twenty-five years old. She suggested that there’d been a few occasions in the past where younger women working for Johnson had moved on from administrative positions quite quickly. Now, I thought, maybe that’s not unusual. They’re more junior, they might not want to stay long-term. But Eva said that she’d heard it was because of Johnson.’

  ‘Because of him doing what, exactly?’ asked Lockhart, though he already suspected.

  ‘Sexual harassment,’ Smith stated. ‘There were even rumours of assault in one or two cases, according to Eva. Put that together with the document we found in his house and…’ She didn’t bother finishing her sentence.

  A murmur ran through the assembled team and Lockhart caught the words ‘shitbag’ and ‘bastard’. He held his hands up for calm as the volume of conversation increased. ‘OK, OK. I know what some of you will be thinking.’

  ‘That he had it coming to him?’ The voice came clearly over the chatter. It was Andy Parsons. The large DC shifted in his chair, his expression defiant. ‘Someone’s getting revenge on rapists, aren’t they?’

  Lockhart remembered Green’s caution about that conclusion when she’d reviewed the files last night. ‘I acknowledge that is a significant overlap between the two victims. But we have to be careful about jumping to any conclusions.’

  ‘Come on, guv,’ Smith said. ‘I’d say it’s pretty obvious what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s one theory,’ replied Lockhart. He could feel the unease in his team and was aware that he probably sounded like Porter to them right now. Despite what you were told in your detective’s training about neutrality, he knew it was the same for every copper, whether suit or lid. There were some victims you wanted to help more than others, and some you found it very hard to feel sorry for at all. He remembered how fired up their team had been last year, when the victims of a serial murderer had been innocent young women. That seemed a long way from this case.

  ‘Whatever the reason for our perpetrator going after these men,’ he went on, ‘we have to stop him killing again.’

  ‘Can’t we all just take a week off, guv? You know, see what happens.’ Parsons was smirking, while the rumble of laughter in the group showed general approval for his suggestion.

  Lockhart was on a short fuse. He ignored the joke. ‘Our job is to investigate murders, whoever the victims are. We can’t pick and choose. I don’t care if this guy is bumping off serial killers or terrorists or anyone else who we don’t want on the streets. That isn’t how justice works. We’ve all got to be professional about it. Does anybody have a problem with that?’

  For a moment, the group was stunned into silence. He took a deep breath, squeezed his hand, and slowly let go. Someone slurped their tea.

  ‘OK,’ he resumed. ‘Moving on. No DNA off the bodies, yet. Looks like our perpetrator covered up.’ He indicated a pair of close-up photographs on the victim strategy board, showing the triangles drawn on Stott’s and Johnson’s necks. ‘There’s no forensic follow-up from the symbols. Our best guess is that they were done in ink, probably with a felt-tip marker pen. Which doesn’t really tell us anything much.’

  As some whispered discussions broke out, Lockhart saw that Berry had her hand raised, patiently waiting to speak, and gestured for quiet.

  ‘Oi, shh. Go ahead, Luce.’

  ‘Um, I was just thinking, well, do we know what the triangle means?’

  Lockhart pressed his lips together. He couldn’t let on that he’d briefed Green. In any case, her ideas about it were speculative at best.

  ‘No, we haven’t got a clue,’ he replied.

  ‘So, should we, I mean, could we maybe ask Dr Green if she has any, er, ideas? It must mean something.’ Berry shrank into her chair.

  ‘You’re right, Luce, I’m sure it does mean something. But Porter says we don’t need Green on this case, and that we haven’t got the budget anyway.’

  ‘We could ’ave a whip-round for her… a few quid each,’ offered one of the older guys, a lascivious grin on his face. ‘I’d put me hand in me pocket.’

  ‘We don’t want to know where you’d put your hand,’ said Smith. Her line was greeted with raucous laughter.

 
Lockhart was about to tell them to show some respect when the heavy footfall from across the office got his attention. Porter stomped over and stood in front of them, brandishing an iPad. The laughter died immediately. The DCI scanned their faces then held the tablet up so they could see its screen. Lockhart glimpsed a news website.

  ‘“Wimbledon murders”,’ Porter boomed, reading the headline. ‘“Victims linked to sex offences”.’ He prowled in front of the whiteboards, letting the words sink in. ‘Quoting unnamed sources,’ he added, his voice straining with rage. ‘Close to the investigation.’

  No one dared speak. Lockhart had no idea who was responsible for the leak. But he knew it wasn’t going to help them one bit. His next thought was that it wasn’t going to do much for his boss’s promotion chances, either.

  ‘Is somebody going to explain this to me?’ Porter’s eyes were wide and unblinking, his jaw set hard. ‘Or should I just assume that I can’t trust any of you?’

  The only noise in the room was the DCI’s angry breathing. Lockhart looked out across the team. They were all watching Porter. All except Khan. He was staring at the carpet.

  Twenty-Eight

  Smith placed the tray of steaming cardboard cups on the corner table.

  ‘Let me give you a hand.’ DS Eddie Stagg leant forward and reached out but stopped himself mid-air. ‘Sorry, Max. When I said “hand”, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s OK. Honestly.’ She cocked her head. ‘What, you think you’re the first person who’s said that to me, accidentally or otherwise? I’ve had this hand for forty-four years. And I’ve been doing the job for twenty-two. Everyone called me “claw” when I first joined. There’s not much you can say about it that bothers me.’

  ‘Right.’ Stagg nodded and sat back again. ‘For the record, though, it wasn’t deliberate.’

  ‘No harm done.’ Pinning the tray with her ‘different’ hand, Smith extracted a tea for herself, then another for Stagg and slid it towards him. ‘Milk, two sugars, right?’

  ‘Spot on, cheers.’

  She removed the other two drinks – a black coffee and a green tea – and placed them on the opposite side of the small table. ‘Guess whose is whose?’ she said with a smile. Stagg chuckled.

  ‘Speak of the devil.’ Smith raised a hand as Lockhart and Green crossed towards them, though she needn’t have. At six p.m., there was hardly anyone else in Lavender Hill police station cafeteria. A young detective grabbing an armful of sandwiches to go; four uniformed officers eating dinner before a night shift, clearly engrossed in some gossip. Then a load of empty tables, and the four of them. Plotting like Guy Fawkes and his mates.

  ‘All right, Max?’ Lockhart nodded to her. ‘Dan Lockhart,’ he said, shaking Stagg’s hand.

  ‘I know who you are, sir.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the “sir”. Dan’s fine.’ He sat down. ‘Max, you know Lexi.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember you from last year. The Throat Ripper.’ Smith extended her hand and Green shook it. The psychologist looked as if she’d seen a ghost but snapped out of the trance when Stagg introduced himself to her.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ replied Green, taking her seat too. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘Do I detect an accent there?’ Stagg arched an eyebrow. ‘From the other side of the pond, perhaps?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Green flashed a smile.

  ‘You American?’

  ‘Guilty. My mom’s British, though. I was born here, grew up over there, then moved back here when… I moved back a few years ago.’

  ‘I love American stuff, me.’ Stagg nodded enthusiastically. ‘Was over there at the start of the year. Florida. Beautiful, it was. Lovely and warm.’

  ‘Awesome.’

  ‘Dr Green works in the NHS,’ said Lockhart. ‘She’s a clinical psychologist. With forensic experience.’

  ‘Thanks for coming in, doctor.’

  ‘Lexi, please.’

  ‘You got it. I’m Eddie. First names all round, eh?’

  Smith glanced to her left. Stagg was clearly charmed by Green. But – she had to admit – who wouldn’t be? The woman was young, smart, beautiful, and nice. No wonder Lockhart liked hanging out with her. There had to be a catch, though, Smith thought. Nobody’s perfect.

  Stagg turned to Lockhart. ‘Heard about your work on that Throat Ripper case last year. Bloody good job that was.’ He raised his tea in salute.

  ‘Cheers.’ Lockhart acknowledged the compliment with a slight dip of his head. ‘But it was basically Max and Lexi who found him.’

  Smith felt herself reddening at the praise.

  ‘And we’re hoping you can help us find our Operation Braddock man.’ Stagg winked. ‘Both of you.’

  ‘You might be able to help us out, too,’ said Lockhart.

  ‘Great. Sorry we can’t meet in the CID office.’ Stagg glanced around. ‘It’s just, my boss wouldn’t be best pleased if she knew what we were discussing.’

  Lockhart sipped his coffee. ‘Same here. Our gaffer’s paranoid about press leaks, so he wouldn’t want us talking to anyone about our double murder case.’

  Smith unfolded a map of south-west London. ‘That’s why we’re doing this the old-fashioned way.’

  ‘Christ,’ exclaimed Lockhart. ‘A paper map. Haven’t seen one of them for years.’

  She chuckled. ‘So, I’ve marked the two murders on here with red dots, OK? The eight blue dots are Op Braddock incidents, the last four of which have been actual attacks.’

  ‘They’re all in the same area,’ observed Green.

  ‘Not just that.’ Smith tapped a finger on the map. ‘It’s the type of location that overlaps in both cases, too. Remote, isolated spots where the victims are alone. They all have trees nearby which offer the attacker shelter while they wait for the victim, and when they escape afterwards. Virtually no camera coverage. Add in savvy perpetrators who aren’t leaving their DNA behind, and it’s a nightmare to investigate.’

  Stagg placed his hands palms-down on the table. ‘We don’t have a clue who we’re looking for, despite the victims’ description.’

  ‘A shorter than average, larger-built guy, who wears a black ski mask and black jacket, and carries a knife,’ said Green. ‘I saw it on the news.’

  Lockhart wiped a hand over his face. He looked tired. ‘So, we’ve got a serial sex attacker and a serial murderer operating in the same part of London at the same time.’

  ‘And the murderer seems to be targeting middle-aged men who’ve sexually assaulted women,’ added Smith.

  ‘We don’t know that for sure,’ said Green.

  Smith felt a stab of irritation.

  ‘You guys work on sexual assault cases, right?’ Lockhart asked Stagg.

  ‘Yeah, since they closed down Sapphire.’

  Smith knew exactly what he was talking about. The Met had formed the network of specialist sexual assault teams a decade ago but disbanded them in 2018 after repeated instances of incompetence and malpractice. These included detectives encouraging rape victims to withdraw allegations to reduce the number of ‘unsolved’ cases and improve stats. Officers had been sacked and even jailed over it. It was the Met’s borough CID teams who picked up the slack since then.

  ‘Lexi’s trying to profile our killer,’ said Lockhart.

  Smith caught his eye. ‘I thought Porter didn’t want that.’

  ‘You guys aren’t the only ones hiding stuff,’ he grinned. ‘So, a theory is that our murderer is going after guys who’ve been accused of sexual assault but never prosecuted.’

  ‘A vigilante,’ Stagg said. He looked as though he approved.

  ‘How could someone access that information?’ asked Green. ‘I mean, to target sex offenders.’

  Stagg blew out his cheeks. ‘I dunno. Websites? A victim support network, maybe?’

  ‘What about someone who works on rape cases?’ suggested Lockhart. ‘Someone who’s in the system.’ Smith noticed he was watching Stagg closely.

  The big man h
eld Lockhart’s gaze silently. Then he burst out laughing. ‘What, you think it’s one of us? You’ve gotta be joking.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Lockhart spun his coffee cup. ‘Just wondered if you had any ideas. We don’t have much to go on, either. And the fact that both of our victims were accused of sexual assault is one line of inquiry.’

  ‘There’s a lot of people that hear about sexual assault every day. Lawyers, nurses, counsellors, charities.’ Stagg shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know where to begin. Sorry.’

  Green shrugged. ‘It’s only one hypothesis about motive, right now, anyway.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be surprising if it’s correct, though,’ Smith said. ‘Do you know how many rape allegations result in a successful conviction?’

  Lockhart shook his head.

  ‘Not many?’ offered Green.

  ‘Four per cent. Or, put another way, there’s a ninety-six per cent chance that if a woman accuses a man of raping her – and it’s almost always that way round – nothing will come of it. Assuming that the allegations aren’t made up, we’re talking about twenty-four out of every twenty-five rapists in this country getting away with it.’ She slapped the tabletop. ‘Can you believe that?’

  ‘Shit,’ said Lockhart.

  ‘Makes your blood boil, doesn’t it?’ Stagg nodded at him.

  ‘Yeah, it does.’ The reply came from Green.

  ‘So,’ Smith cleared her throat, ‘anything you might be able to tell us about the perpetrator, you know, psychologically speaking, could help.’

  Green looked at her. There was a trace of surprise in her expression, but it disappeared quickly. ‘Sure. You, uh, you want me to come in and look at the files?’

  ‘Be great if you could,’ Stagg said. ‘Whenever’s convenient.’

  ‘OK.’

  The big man shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘And, unfortunately, our budget isn’t very—’

  ‘I’ll do it for nothing.’ Green’s eyes flicked to Lockhart. ‘I’m getting used to that.’