‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Yeah.’ He extracted a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to the sales assistant. ‘I need eight of these.’
The man read the note. ‘Eight?’
‘Yup.’
‘I’ll see what we’ve got.’ He rummaged behind the counter, opening and closing cupboard doors but evidently failing to locate the product. ‘Just give me a moment, please.’ He walked towards what Lockhart guessed was the storeroom and keyed in a code to open it.
Lockhart willed them to have the stuff. There was always a trade-off with things like this; the big shops were better stocked, but sometimes asked more questions, and kept more careful records of purchases. And he needed this to be deniable, or as close to that as possible. The less he had to explain, the better. He didn’t want this coming back to bite him.
The guy seemed to be gone for ages, and Lockhart was aware of a camera in the corner, watching him. That was why he’d worn the baseball cap. Finally, the storeroom door flew open and the guy emerged with an armful of small cardboard boxes.
‘You’re in luck,’ he said.
‘Nice one. You take cash?’ Lockhart felt in his other pocket for the thick bundle of notes Eddie Stagg had given him.
‘Certainly, sir.’ The guy cracked a wide smile. ‘With pleasure.’
Thirty-Two
Lexi had stayed up late working on her profile. She’d read about instrumental violence and other psychopathic behaviours until she could barely keep her eyes open. By the time she’d finally shut down the laptop, it’d felt like progress. But she was paying for it now with her inability to concentrate today in the clinic. Or maybe it was just her client, Oliver Soames. Lexi forced herself to tune into his monologue again.
‘…and so it’s like, I can’t stop picturing all the things that my son and I – because I know it would’ve been a he – could have done together.’
‘Mm-hm.’ Lexi made an affirmative noise. ‘Tell me more about that,’ she said. The classic question if you happened to have stopped listening.
‘Well, what else do I say?’ He stared at her aggressively, and she briefly worried he was going to call her out on not paying attention. But then he sat back in the low armchair and his eyes darted around the room.
‘Trips to the park to kick a football around,’ he went on. ‘I mean, I don’t play, but I know we would have. And he would’ve been great at it. We could’ve gone to matches.’
She nodded, jotting another note on her pad about something which had just occurred to her that might be relevant to Dan’s murder cases.
Re: target prep, check reports of low-level stalking in area – escalation?
‘We would’ve built stuff together, in a shed. Or the garage. Woodworking.’ He flapped a hand. ‘It’s all on YouTube, these days.’
‘Uh-huh.’ She continued to write.
More background on triangle symbolism
‘And hikes. We would’ve done long, tough hikes up mountains. A father-and-son team.’
Lexi glanced up from her notes to see Olly shaking his head ruefully. He was short, pale, and kind of overweight. She figured he didn’t spend too much time outdoors, let alone hiking. He had once told her he’d taken up running, but she wasn’t sure if that was as much fantasy as the stuff he was talking about right now.
The whole piece sounded to her like make-believe. He’d imagined an idyllic future with his unborn child, sharing what he believed were masculine activities, with no recognition that they weren’t things he ever did, or even confirmation that his child was male. Parents living out their own personal fantasies through their children was definitely a thing, but projecting all that onto a foetus was a new one for her. She had to say something; letting him ruminate about this for an hour was unprofessional.
‘It sounds like you’d really thought a lot about your future together, Olly. But I’m just wondering how much of that planning you did after you found out about the abortion?’
‘What are you trying to say?’ he retorted.
‘Only that sometimes we can let ourselves get stuck on what might’ve been. Rather than focusing on the present. And the future we’re thinking about is like this perfect world where—’
‘Are you telling me I’m making all this up?’ he cut in.
‘No, that’s not what I meant. Sorry.’ She paused a beat. ‘How does it make you feel when you imagine that future?’
He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and gave a quick, hard breath out. ‘Depressed. No, worse than depressed, whatever that is. Hopeless. And angry. So bloody angry. Like I’ve been robbed.’
‘OK, I hear that. So, I guess what I want to ask is: how helpful do you think it is, right now, for you to be going over all this stuff every day? These what-ifs?’
He wagged a finger at her. ‘I see what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get me to tell myself I’m wrong. But I know how I feel.’ He jabbed the finger into his own chest.
‘Of course, you do, Olly. You’re the expert in you.’ That was a cliché, but it never hurt to mention it now and again. ‘I guess I’m just wondering—’
‘Anyway, what would you know about it?’ His voice oozed bitterness.
Now wasn’t the time to tell him that, in fact, she knew a whole lot about it. That she’d been in the exact same position as his partner. That she’d made the same choice. That her boyfriend at the time, back at college in the States, had been as selfish about it as Olly was being now. And that, through all of it, she hadn’t told her parents anything. She’d figured that they were still grieving after Shep’s death, and they didn’t need a load more stress. At the time, it’d seemed like the best call but, looking back, it’d left her almost completely isolated.
‘We’re not here to talk about me,’ she replied gently. ‘These sessions are a space for you.’
He nodded firmly, as if her answer proved him right. ‘I suppose I should tell you that we’ve separated, as well.’ He gestured to her pad. ‘You can note that down.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Olly. Is it something you want to talk about today, or should we devote time to it next week?’ She discreetly checked the clock: ten minutes left.
‘It happened a few weeks ago,’ he continued, not exactly answering her question. ‘Became official this weekend, though. We are no longer a couple.’ Olly met her gaze and Lexi immediately felt a little uncomfortable. She looked down at her paper.
‘And how are you doing?’ she asked.
‘How do you think I’m doing?’
Jeez, this was exhausting. Not to mention infuriating. She kept the pleasant veneer but inside she was losing any shred of sympathy she had left for him. This douchebag was everything Lexi hated about male privilege; the entitled sense of owning a woman’s body just because he’d put his dick inside her and gotten lucky with one of his sperm. Exactly like her old boyfriend. She wanted to reach out and slap him. The fantasy of her doing so was broken a moment later when she realised that he was speaking again.
‘…I didn’t deserve to be treated that way. It was fifty-fifty, I mean, if anything sixty-forty in my favour because I earn more…’
The subject of body autonomy made her think of Operation Braddock. She had Eddie Stagg’s business card in her bag. Once Olly had left, she’d email him and fix a time to read the case material. Maybe she could even head to the police station this evening after work? She’d planned a run in the park tonight as part of her new regime, but this was way more important.
‘…the idea that she can just do whatever she wants, it makes me so angry. Like… like I want to break something, to let it out somehow, make someone pay…’
Lexi badly wanted to help with the serial rape case. She was so enraged by the idea of this man assaulting lone, vulnerable women in her city that a part of her even wanted to go looking for him herself. Was helping from her armchair enough? Max, Eddie and the others were out there on the streets, interviewing victims, checking the crime
scenes. She hoped her profiling would do some good. It had to. Then she realised Olly had stopped talking. They sat in silence for a few seconds. She pretended to make a couple more notes, flicked back through her pages, then looked up.
‘Thank you for being so open with me, Olly. That takes real courage.’ She smiled, picturing the money hitting her bank account. ‘So, same time next week?’
Thirty-Three
According to scientific research, Tuesday was supposed to be the worst day of the week. But Ernesto Gomez didn’t believe that. The study he’d read about said that most people rated Tuesday as their lowest point in the week. It was distant enough from Sunday for the weekend’s feel-good factor to have worn off, but it still seemed a hell of a long way until Saturday. Ernesto supposed that Tuesday could be a bad day, if you hated your job and didn’t have much outside of it to look forward to. That didn’t apply to him, though.
Ernesto loved his work as a set designer. He’d started out as an interior designer, drawn to the combination of artistic expression and practicality. Creating spaces for people to work, play, and live in together. It was a beautiful thing. But, one day about six years ago, a friend had asked for his help building a film set. Ernesto jumped at the chance – he was a huge movie fan and the opportunity sounded like too much fun to miss out on. He’d expected it to be a one-off project. As soon as he’d got on set, however, it was as if something lit up inside him.
He’d never gone back to his old work after that, although someone in the business had once described set design as being like interior design, only on speed. That summed it up perfectly: all the sensory aspects and creativity of interiors, but with action, deadlines and adrenalin. There was nothing more satisfying than seeing an actor step into your set, into the world you’d created, and watching it shape their performance. Or attending a premiere and, while the stars were the ones who got papped on the red carpet, you could sit back quietly in your seat and think: I made that set.
But it wasn’t only his love of set design that was making Ernesto happy on this particular Tuesday. Far from it! Tuesday was also one of the best days in his week because it was Zumba night. After a long day of technical drawing, sourcing props or making 3D models, there was nothing Ernesto loved to do more than jump into the dance studio and get sweaty. The drums, the energy, the movement. Reggaeton style was his favourite.
And then there was Paul. Kind, lovely, gorgeous Paul. They’d met online two months ago, and from that first coffee there’d been a connection. Ernesto felt it somewhere in his soul. Things had been going great so far and, he hoped, there was a serious possibility that he and Paul could be together long-term. If he was allowed one complaint, though, it was that Paul didn’t want to come to Zumba. Ernesto had told him that you didn’t need to be a great dancer, that it was more about music and fitness, but Paul was still a little shy. Maybe he’d try it another night. There was plenty of time for that in the future Ernesto was imagining for them.
He took out his phone and texted Paul:
Thinking of you x
Not Love you. Not quite yet. But almost. Ernesto smiled to himself and went back to his work. It wasn’t long before the reply pinged on the table next to him. He couldn’t resist taking a peek.
Same here x
He felt as though his heart might burst with happiness.
Thirty-Four
From the passenger seat of Stagg’s car, Smith watched the bus stop across the road. An older man in a flat cap with a walking stick was perched on the bench, while a younger woman leant against the shelter, scrolling on her phone without so much as a glance up. Did the woman realise how vulnerable she was? Had she even seen the news about the ‘bus stop rapist’, as the tabloid press was calling him? Was the mere presence of a man – albeit an elderly and clearly infirm one – enough to dissuade the attacker, should he be lurking nearby?
Beside her, Stagg was doing a crossword, rustling the folded newspaper and scribbling occasionally with his biro. It was gone ten p.m. and they’d been waiting like this for almost half an hour. She glanced behind her. In the back seat, Lockhart had his eyes closed. Smith remembered him telling her that the ability to sleep anywhere, at any time, was one of the most prized skills in the military. She couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not, but she hoped – despite the illegal act they were about to commit – that he was relaxing a bit, at least.
The guvnor definitely hadn’t been himself the past few days. Smith didn’t know what was up; Lockhart kept himself to himself as much now as he had seven months ago when he’d joined their MIT. Ultimately, she didn’t mind that. Everyone had their right to privacy. And experience taught her that a colleague who was a closed book but a good operator was much better than the reverse.
A long single-decker bus chugged into view, pulled up with a hiss of brakes and the man and woman waiting got on board. Once the few passengers who’d disembarked had walked far enough away, Lockhart spoke.
‘Let’s go.’
They strolled across to the shelter and Lockhart extracted a small toolkit and two boxes. Smith and Stagg observed as he drilled a hole in the corner of the shelter’s metal frame, plugged it with a screw, then carefully mounted the little camera he’d purchased that morning. As he covered it with a discreet, dark grey box in which he’d cut a tiny aperture, Smith surveyed the immediate area. There were dark trees behind them, no one around, and the nearest houses were set far back with their blinds or curtains shut. She couldn’t see a single camera, apart from the one they’d just installed, obviously. It was the exact type of location their attacker would target. He was a guy who understood the local geography, who knew the buses and discreet routes on foot, to and from the stops. Well, she thought, hopefully his disgusting campaign of terror ended here.
Lockhart pocketed the multi-tool he’d been using as a screwdriver. ‘It works on a motion sensor,’ he said, taking out his phone. ‘We sync it to the app on this. I’ll set it up for you guys, too.’
‘High-tech,’ observed Stagg.
‘Pretty standard, actually. Come on.’ Lockhart gestured for them to move aside with him, a few yards away. ‘Go on, Eddie. Walk over to the stop.’
Smith watched as Lockhart’s phone screen came to life with footage of Stagg ambling past the shelter. It was pretty clear, a decent quality feed despite the limited street lighting.
‘Cool,’ she said.
‘It’s a good bit of kit,’ remarked Lockhart. ‘Camera works well in low light. We used to use the old version of these in… never mind. Cheers, Eddie.’
‘You wouldn’t even know it was there,’ said Stagg as he returned to them. ‘Does it work, then?’
Lockhart showed him the footage and explained how to call it up. ‘OK. Basically, we’re going to capture every person who walks past this bus stop and trips the motion sensor. Multiply that by eight once we’ve installed every camera, and that means a ton of false positives.’
‘I don’t care if there’s nine hundred and ninety-nine ordinary people on here,’ replied Stagg. ‘If the thousandth is our bloke and the footage gives us any chance of identifying him, that’s a result in my book.’
Smith nodded. ‘I’ll second that.’
‘To be honest, though,’ added Lockhart, ‘there’s not a lot of chance of catching him in the act. Unless you monitor all eight feeds simultaneously from dusk till dawn.’
‘We’ll check it as often as we can,’ said Smith. ‘We might get lucky.’
‘All right, then.’ Lockhart pocketed his phone and picked up his mini toolbox. ‘We’d better move on. There’s seven more of these to do.’
Smith knew it was going to be a long shift. But she’d go without sleep or food all night if it meant one less woman was sexually assaulted in her city. Something about meeting the victims of this bastard had ignited a fire in her that was burning fiercely. She just hoped she wouldn’t lose her job because of it.
Thirty-Five
I hate waiting. Patience isn’t one of
my strengths. I despise the whole idea of delayed gratification. Shrinks always talk about that being a predictor of kids’ success in later life. As a child, can you stop yourself eating a marshmallow for ten minutes if you know you’ll get two at the end of that time? Me, I couldn’t. I’d eat the marshmallow immediately, then find the person with the bag and bite, scratch or kick them until they gave me the rest. That’s how life works, survival of the fittest. If that was one thing Mum’s and Dad’s failures taught me, it was never to let anyone or anything be stronger than you.
I imagine that Dad had been strong, once. But his life collapsed after he came back from the Gulf War in ’91. I was a baby, but from what he told me years later, he couldn’t deal with returning home. First, he started drinking every day. Then, he began punching Mum, which made her go back to sticking needles in her arm, like she used to do before they met. He hit me, too, but never enough that people asked serious questions.
Eventually, Mum left, and it was just me and him, but when he was chucked out of the army, the pub became his new full-time job. Sometimes he’d take me along and sit me down in a corner with a colouring-in book while he sank pint after pint. But, most of the time, he’d just leave me in our shitty little flat, where I watched whatever movies I wanted and fantasised about being the one doing the violence.
When I was twelve, I came home from school one day to find him preparing a noose to hang himself. He didn’t go through with it, but from that moment I knew that the only person I could rely on was myself.
It was war that changed Dad. Dan Lockhart would get that, same as he understands what it’s like to kill someone with your bare hands, for which I respect him. Not many people have the balls to do that. But, after tonight, he’s only got a few more days to find me before I come for him. His skills had better be up to scratch. Better than Dad’s, at least.
Who's Next?: A completely gripping and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Lockhart and Green Book 2) Page 14
