‘Thank you.’ Stagg took a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Green. ‘Email me and we’ll fix a time.’
‘There’s something we’d like your help with too, Dan,’ said Smith. She pointed at the map. ‘See these yellow dots? They’re all bus stops that Eddie reckons are most likely to be the locations of future sexual assaults.’
‘We don’t have enough manpower – sorry, er, peoplepower – to put surveillance on all of them. So, we’re thinking cameras.’ Stagg lowered his voice. ‘Max said you used to do this sort of thing in the army. Surveillance and all that stuff.’
Lockhart didn’t reply.
‘So, you know, we were hoping you might be able to give us some advice,’ Stagg continued. ‘Even set it up, maybe?’
‘I’m guessing you’ve already tried to do this officially?’ said Lockhart.
Stagg hesitated. ‘The thing is—’
‘Brass rejected it,’ Smith stated. ‘Because they’re idiots.’
Lockhart drank some coffee, then said: ‘You realise that if a camera does pick him up, it’ll be inadmissible in court?’
‘We’ll find another way to get him,’ replied Stagg.
There was a moment’s silence as they watched Lockhart study the map. He rubbed his fingertips along the stubble on his jaw.
‘What do you reckon, guv?’ asked Smith hopefully.
‘Well—’
‘Sir!’ The high-pitched sound came from across the canteen. It was DC Roland Wilkins from the CID team. He was clutching some papers and hurrying towards them. ‘There you are, sir.’
Smith snatched the map away and folded it closed as Wilkins approached the table. He was slightly breathless.
‘I was looking everywhere for you,’ said the young DC. Then his gaze alighted on Green and he proceeded to stare at her without speaking.
Green smiled awkwardly back, and Smith noticed her eyes drop briefly to the hole in the end of his nose.
‘We’re just having a meeting here, Roland.’ Stagg sat up straight. ‘Is it something urgent?’
‘Oh, just…’ He held up the papers. ‘There’s an overtime form here, and a leave sign-off sheet. Needs your signature, sir.’
‘Does it have to be done right now?’
‘Well, I’m going home soon, and I wanted to submit it, you know—’
‘OK, fine.’ Stagg held out a meaty paw. Wilkins passed him the papers, and after a cursory examination, he took a biro from his pocket and scrawled something illegible on both documents. ‘There you go. All right, see you tomorrow, then.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Wilkins checked the forms, then cast a final glance at Green, before scuttling back across the cafeteria and out.
‘Sorry about that.’ Stagg drained his tea. ‘So, what do you guys think? Can you help us catch this scumbag?’
‘For sure,’ Green replied instantly. ‘I mean, I’ll do whatever I can.’
Lockhart pressed his lips together for a few seconds. Then he gave a single nod. ‘All right.’
Twenty-Nine
Lexi was deep in the psychology zone. Following the meeting with Dan and his colleagues, she’d taken a bus home to Tooting, headed straight up to her room and gotten to work. She was sitting on her bed, laptop on her legs, with some chilled lo-fi hip hop beats on to help her concentrate and a mug of strong tea to keep her alert. She wasn’t just thinking about Dan’s murder cases, but also the serial sex attacker whom she’d agreed to profile.
She briefly wondered if she’d taken on too much by offering to help with both investigations. Well, it was too late now. And besides, she was engaged in something useful, something that could make a real difference. Lexi felt a sense of motivation that she hadn’t experienced in a long while; a feeling that any amount of drinking couldn’t produce, especially not when you’d sobered up afterwards.
Obviously, she didn’t have details of the Operation Braddock crimes, yet. But that didn’t stop her wondering if there was any more than geography and sexual assault that linked those cases with the murders. She’d already pulled up a research paper that described a theory relevant to both, called the Pathway to Violence. It described the progress from feeling a grievance to planning an attack, researching a target and finally acting. This wasn’t bar brawls, road rage or crimes of passion; it was about the mindset of causing deliberate physical harm to others. The thought made her shiver.
Focusing on the killer, Lexi tried to map the theory to her clinical model of the five Ps. The first P was Predisposing: what made the individual likely to kill? In this case, Lexi was interpreting the sheer brutality of the act as evidence of psychopathy; a total lack of regular human empathy. Psychopaths don’t just start behaving like that one day; they usually show signs of callousness and cruelty for years, even back to childhood. Early exposure to violence was common, as was the desire to dominate and exploit others.
Of course, it was possible that the killer had acted aggressively in the past but avoided detection and punishment. Or perhaps they’d served time but just been released. That could answer the ‘why now?’ question, or Precipitating, as another P in the model was also known. Someone who’d recently come out of prison, with scores to settle… but many such people would be electronically tagged and not easily able to move around, especially at night. And their targets were more likely to be criminal associates. She wasn’t convinced it was an ex-con. Which suggested a psychopath who’d gotten their kicks some other way up till now. A smart one.
Thinking about the Pathway to Violence, Lexi guessed there was a significant recent trigger. A trauma of some kind that’d created a grievance, a hatred projected onto specific individuals or a group. This had – via some degree of planning and decision-making – led the perpetrator to target a film director and a compensation lawyer in the same part of London.
Were the victims’ professions relevant? Or was it simply their demographic: middle-aged men? She couldn’t ignore the sexual assault link, though if these were revenge attacks with that motive, she might’ve expected something more sexually symbolic in the homicide MO or signature. Mutilated genitals or penetration, maybe. Jeez, that was dark. She briefly imagined how many other twenty-nine-year-old women were sitting alone thinking about that right now. Probably not a whole lot.
From what the MIT knew so far, the two victims appeared totally unconnected. That indicated to Lexi that they were probably symbolic rather than directly responsible for the killer’s trauma. According to the psychology research, symbolism was common in premeditated violence. But what did Charles Stott and Martin Johnson symbolise?
Lexi was tapping out some notes on her laptop when there was a knock at her bedroom door. Without waiting for a response, Sarah entered, leaving the door open.
‘Hiya, what’s up?’ she said, beaming her gigantic smile.
‘Hey, Sarah.’
She pointed an accusatory finger at Lexi. ‘You finally getting busy on that dating website?’
‘Hell, no!’
‘You’re not working, are you?’
‘Trying…’
‘Soz.’ Sarah came over and hopped onto the bed. ‘Didn’t mean to distract you. Much.’
‘It’s cool.’ Lexi closed the laptop. ‘I needed a break anyway. There’s only so much violence you can read about in one evening.’
‘Tell me about it. That sounds like my job. Most days, anyway.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Lexi grabbed her mug and took a sip. The tea had gone cold. ‘How’s it going in that team?’
‘Same shit as when you were there.’ She sighed. ‘The number of kids I see who get such a rough deal… If the parents are even around, one or both of them is regularly hitting the kids, or the kids see parents hitting each other. And you know how that usually goes.’
‘Dad hitting mom. Or another man hitting mom.’
Sarah pulled a tress of her long, frizzy hair and wound it around her finger. ‘It’s gotta affect the kid, hasn’t it? I mean, witnessing that all the tim
e.’
‘It does. Permanently, in some cases.’
‘You believe people can change, don’t you, Lex? You’ve got to, otherwise you wouldn’t do what you do.’
Lexi knew that, at some level, Sarah was right. But when you saw evidence to the contrary, it made you question that fundamental view of the world. Whether it was a serial perpetrator of violence whose behaviour stemmed from childhood roots too deep to excavate, or a traumatised individual like Dan struggling to deal with personal loss and grief, people often didn’t seem able to change. Did that apply to her, too? Shep, Liam, the memories of her attack last year, even the sexual assault three years back. How had those experiences altered her?
‘Sure, I do,’ she replied. ‘But the change isn’t always in the right direction.’
‘People surprise you though, don’t they?’ Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘The things they can overcome.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Anyway, talking of change.’ She prodded Lexi’s shoulder. ‘It’s about time we got you out on a date.’
‘I don’t wanna go on a date,’ Lexi countered immediately.
Sarah ignored her. ‘There’s this trainee doctor in our team, Raj. He’s tall, really lovely. Oh, and he’s hot.’
‘Sounds great, but—’
‘And I just happened to find out today that he and his girlfriend split up last month and, apparently, he’s interested in meeting someone.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Come on, Lex. You can’t sit around being single for ever. We’ll just do some drinks or whatever, no pressure. I’ll come too, maybe Raj can bring another guy friend. It’ll be fun.’
‘I’m trying not to drink so much.’
Sarah snorted. ‘Since when? What happened to the gin monster?’
‘She needs to rest her liver. And help the cops.’ Lexi tapped her laptop.
‘Help Dan, you mean?’ Sarah puckered her lips.
‘No! Well, yes, but not because of… never mind.’
‘So what? You’ve got a side gig. Doesn’t mean you can’t still have a good time, does it?’
‘Um…’
Sarah turned that infectious grin on her once more. Lexi was powerless. ‘I’ll find out when Raj and his medic mates are free. Later this week, maybe?’
Lexi was caving.
‘Come on…’ Sarah began prodding her gently in the ribs. It was too much to resist. ‘You. Know. You. Want. To.’
‘Oh, all right, OK,’ she conceded. ‘Sure.’
‘Yay!’
‘Well, if we’re going out,’ said Lexi, opening the laptop, ‘then I’d better get back to this.’
Sarah got up off the bed and moved across to the full-length mirror, throwing a few celebratory dance moves in front of it.
‘By the way,’ added Lexi, ‘watch yourself if you’re taking buses, OK?’
She stopped dancing and spun round. ‘Oh God, you’re talking about that bus stop rapist guy?’
‘You saw the news?’
‘Er, yeah.’ Sarah shook her head briefly. ‘I’m gonna get a personal alarm I reckon.’
‘I was thinking of buying some pepper spray.’
‘Good plan. There’s a lot of weird guys out there.’ Sarah took a step away from the mirror towards the door.
Lexi screamed.
‘Jesus Christ!’
Their housemate was just outside the doorway, suddenly visible in the mirror from Lexi’s position on her bed. Just standing there, staring at her in the reflection.
‘What’re you doing, Rhys?’ asked Sarah.
Before he could answer, Lexi cut in. ‘How long have you been there? Were you listening to our conversation?’
‘N-no,’ he stammered. ‘I wasn’t really listening. Just something about going on a date this week with a doctor. The door was open, it was… Anyway, I found this downstairs.’ He held up a piece of paper. Lexi recognised it right away. A credit card statement.
She sprang off the bed and walked to the doorway. ‘Lemme see that.’ She snatched the document from his hand and scanned it.
‘I only opened it cos I thought it was for me,’ he explained. ‘Sorry.’ He reached inside his dressing gown and scratched his belly.
‘This is mine!’ she yelled at him. ‘What the fuck, Rhys?’
‘Don’t worry. I didn’t really read it, anyway.’
‘You didn’t really read it? So, what, you read like half of it? Jeez, this is not cool. It’s private. Check the goddam envelope properly next time.’
‘It was an accident.’
The bill was over six hundred pounds. Bars, clubs, some new ankle boots she probably didn’t need. Definitely didn’t need. Her spirits suddenly dropped with the reminder of how she had literally no money. She thought of all the work she’d be putting in for the police, for free. But that was worth it. And at least she was seeing her private client tomorrow; that’d bring in an extra hundred pounds, after her costs. The moment of relief that gave her was immediately countered by heart sink at the realisation it meant spending an hour with Oliver Soames venting at her. Reminding Lexi of her aborted pregnancy…
‘And in future,’ she snapped at him, ‘don’t just stand in my doorway, got it?’
Rhys mumbled a reply she didn’t catch as he retreated towards his room. He went inside and shut the door.
‘You don’t have to bite his head off, Lex.’
‘I mean, seriously. He just…’ Lexi felt her body tensing. ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘All right, chill.’ Sarah laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Be in a better mood than this when we go for drinks with Raj and his mates, yeah?’
Lexi didn’t reply. She already regretted having agreed to Sarah’s matchmaking plan.
Thirty
Graveyards are strange places. I’ve always thought that. A bunch of dead people shoved into the ground, with little stones on top of them to let you know who the desiccated pile of bones underneath belonged to. Kidding ourselves that they matter, that we keep some connection to them, that there’s anything left beyond worm food once the lights have gone out.
For each bouquet of flowers laid, I can picture a sentimental loved one pulling the blooms out of a plastic bucket at a petrol station or supermarket and thinking Gladys – or whoever had croaked – would like those. Tearfully wishing that person was still alive as they place the overpriced stems on the stone where, within a day, they’d be dead too. I can’t imagine being that attached to someone.
I felt nothing when a doctor called to say my old man was dying; I didn’t even stop filming to go and visit him in hospital. As for that useless woman who once called herself mum, before deciding she preferred heroin to her family, I don’t know or care if she’s even breathing. The idea of actually crying when you’re told a person has snuffed it is ridiculous. So, maybe it’s just people that are weird, not graveyards.
But they do make good places for murder, especially at night. Quiet, dark, plenty of trees. No cameras spying on you. And no people. Not living ones, anyway. Except the occasional idiot who cuts through to shave two minutes off a journey. So, this is where I’ll do it, tomorrow. My newest victim. Another one who has to pay. I wonder if he’d want to be buried here, given how he always walks home this way from his stupid dance class? I could ask him as I’m kicking the shit out of him. On the other hand, when his relatives see the state of his corpse, they might opt for cremation.
I watched the news earlier. It’s obvious the police don’t get what’s going on, not even Dan Lockhart with all his skills and tricks. And, if he thinks the first two were hard to understand, this next one is going to confuse the hell out of him.
I can’t wait.
Day Eight
Thirty-One
It had been a rough night, though Lockhart had no one to blame but himself. After he’d got home from Lavender Hill station, he’d crammed in a plate of scrambled eggs and baked beans on toast and continued researching how to dispute that a missing person wa
s dead. A missing person. Jess. He could never lose sight of her, no matter what legal proceedings ensued with her family.
But, thinking about it all, he’d just got more and more stressed, until his autopilot had taken him to the fridge, where he found himself reaching for a can of Stella. Just to take the edge off. He hadn’t intended to drink. But one beer had led to another, and a third – he’d counted nine cans on the floor this morning – and things were hazy after that. Next thing he knew, he’d woken up at 5 a.m., his neck aching from the weird position he’d fallen asleep in, fully clothed on the sofa.
Despite that, Lockhart had been up early this morning. He had a little job to do and reckoned he had half an hour before he needed to be at the MIT office in Putney. Porter had called a morning briefing and Lockhart could guess what the priority would be. His boss was still furious after yesterday’s press leak about the murders. The DCI had obviously incurred the wrath of his superior, Detective Superintendent Burrows, who was head of the whole MIT. She didn’t pull her punches. But Lockhart reckoned that Porter was even more concerned than her about the impact of negative publicity, given his upcoming promotion assessment.
Now, Porter was determined to identify the source who had gone to the media and, Lockhart guessed, line them up for the firing squad. He briefly remembered Khan’s body language when the news of the leak had dropped. The young DC had been underperforming lately, but selling his team out to a journalist? That was something else. Betrayal. Would Khan do that?
Lockhart wished he had Green’s psychology brain at times like these. He wondered how she was getting on with her profile, and whether anything she could see in the details might unlock the case for them. He needed to give her a bit more time; not only was she working for free, but she was also helping Smith and Stagg out with their hunt for the serial sex attacker.
Pushing open the door to the small electronics store in Shepherd’s Bush, Lockhart went straight over to the guy behind the counter.
Who's Next?: A completely gripping and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Lockhart and Green Book 2) Page 13
