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

by Chris Merritt

  She clenched her jaw, staring at the bus stop. He was right.

  ‘I feel shit about it, too,’ Stagg went on. ‘My phone battery died while I was watching telly, and I didn’t even realise till gone midnight. Dan didn’t see it, either. We all failed. But what we need to ask is: what can we do about it now?’

  Smith was grateful for his pragmatism.

  ‘OK,’ she replied at length. ‘Anyone reported the assault?’

  ‘Nope.’ Stagg pushed out his lower lip. ‘I don’t get it. I mean, it looked like a stab wound, right? But no one in the local hospitals matches the injury description and timing, and no one’s called us or contacted The Havens about it yet, either. They’re all primed to bell me, though, if anybody even vaguely resembling the victim shows up. Shame we didn’t get a clear image of her face.’

  ‘Whoever it was that fought him off, she’s hard. That little pervert picked on the wrong woman this time,’ Smith said, with a mixture of anger and admiration. She couldn’t believe what she’d seen in the footage: a rape victim who’d actually beaten up her attacker, punching him in the face until he pulled out a knife and stuck it in her side. ‘I just hope to God she’s all right, if she’s not had any medical treatment.’

  ‘Why do you think she didn’t call an ambulance?’ he asked.

  ‘Dunno.’ Smith thought about it briefly. She recalled a case years back of a stabbing victim who hadn’t sought medical treatment because he was an illegal migrant and was scared of being deported. ‘Could be lots of reasons. Immigration status. Wound wasn’t as bad as we think. Or she’s a criminal who doesn’t want the police getting involved,’ she added with a snort.

  ‘Well, when we find her, we can get her into A & E, make sure she gets whatever she needs.’

  ‘If we find her.’

  ‘We will,’ Stagg said. ‘We have to. And, I hate to say this, but it’s not just about checking on her health. She saw his face.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She could give us a photofit. We put that out in the press, online, etcetera, and guaranteed someone’ll know who he is. This isn’t like a gang incident with a code of silence, it’s a sex offender. The public are gonna be desperate to help.’

  Smith concurred. It was a cast-iron lead, if they could find the woman. ‘Can you look at CCTV from the area, see if we can spot her walking away? She must’ve gone somewhere. And we’ve got a clear timeframe.’

  ‘I’ll try. Maybe I could tell Wilkins to get off his arse and requisition local footage.’ Stagg smirked. ‘Give him something useful to do.’

  ‘Good plan.’ She hesitated. ‘Only problem is explaining to the brass how we got here. No crime’s been reported.’

  A sly grin spread across Stagg’s face. ‘Leave that to me. Quick phone call to our tip line from an eyewitness too scared to come forward, and that’s all the justification we need to be here.’

  Smith knew the technique was dodgy, but sometimes that was necessary. If you were at A and you knew B was your destination, you just had to find a way to get there. There was a bag of tricks coppers used to achieve that. Smith drew the line at manufacturing or tampering with evidence, but for something like a fake tip-off, she was happy that the ends justified the means. She’d made Op Braddock a personal crusade against this vile sex offender, and she wondered how far she’d go to catch him. The way things stood, pretty damn far.

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a look around.’

  They began a detailed search of the area around the bus stop. The ground in the park behind it was dry and compacted after a couple of days with no rain, and the chance of finding footprints was minimal. Ten yards away, she could see Stagg combing a patch of long grass. She scanned the park, wondering which direction the rapist had fled and whether that might offer a clue as to where he lived. She remembered the Wimbledon Prowler, a serial burglar who broke into large, empty homes in the affluent suburb. He’d travelled to London from Manchester for the crimes. Was she barking up the wrong tree believing this was a local man? She made a mental note to call Green later. Perhaps the psychologist’s profile would give them—

  ‘Max!’

  She whipped round to see Stagg gesturing to the ground. ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Come see.’

  Smith half-jogged over to where he stood and looked down. At his feet was a hunting knife, its distinctive six-inch steel blade bloodied at the curved tip. She took in the serrated spine and winced inwardly at the thought of it penetrating her own skin, imagining the pain and hoping once more that the victim was all right. The weapon was grim proof of the attack they’d witnessed on camera. But it was exactly what they’d hoped to find.

  Forty-Eight

  As he drove to Croydon Magistrate’s Court, Lockhart was pretty sure that his pounding headache and sloth-like reactions indicated he was still over the limit. When he’d woken up and wandered bleary-eyed into the kitchen, he’d found a dozen cans of Stella in the sink. He cursed himself once more for being such a bell-end. Again.

  Not only had his drinking binge made everything slow and painful this morning, but it hadn’t even succeeded in giving him a decent sleep. To make matters worse, he’d been lying on his sofa, wasted, when the bus stop attack had occurred last night. Smith’s call was the first he’d known about it. And, as if that wasn’t enough, he knew that the real punishment was still to come, when DCI Porter discovered what he was up to now.

  Lockhart reached for the cardboard cup in the holder by the gearstick and swallowed down a mouthful of the black coffee he’d bought in the office half an hour ago. It was stone cold. He fought back the nausea of it hitting his empty stomach, accepting the small act of penance. There would be more of that before the end of the day.

  Croydon, in central-south London, was not the closest court to Putney, but Lockhart hoped that by going further away from home turf, he’d buy himself some extra time before Porter could find out what was happening. He knew his boss had friends at their local magistrate’s court in Clapham’s Lavender Hill and reasoned that, if he’d gone there, his plan could be kyboshed before it’d had a chance to work.

  He’d arrived early at Jubilee House, before most of the MIT was in, and typed up an arrest warrant for Xander O’Neill. Lockhart’s intention was to bring the young actor in on suspicion of theft and handling stolen goods, the rationale for the arrest being that they needed to execute a search of his home to find the watch in question, without giving him time to dispose of it.

  If they were lucky, the search might turn up something else connecting O’Neill to the murders, like the size eight Nike Flex shoes or other clothing. Then the MIT could lean on him to name the woman involved, if there was one. If they didn’t find anything else, then they could use the lesser charge of theft to get O’Neill’s DNA and fingerprints for comparison. And, if that failed to pin anything more serious on him, then at least they could get the cocky little shit for theft, and he’d be on the national DNA database for the future.

  Yet, as Lockhart parked and entered the court building, he recalled Green’s words last night: you think this O’Neill guy is a killer, and you’re fitting the data into that conclusion. Was she right? Was he simply clutching at straws in the absence of a better lead on the killer? His brain was too tired to consider the arguments for and against. Right now, he just needed to apply the military tactic of sticking with the decision he’d made and seeing it through. Even if there was a possibility that he was wrong.

  Lockhart paced up and down the public waiting area, clutching the warrant and checking his watch more often than was necessary to know that all the judges were still busy. A constant stream of witnesses, defendants and lawyers – sometimes distinguished only by their briefcases – milled around him, whispering urgent conversations and being ushered in and out of the courtrooms. He was considering asking the clerk for another update when his phone rang. It was Smith.

  ‘Max.’

  ‘All right, g
uv.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I’m back at Jubilee House.’

  ‘OK. How’d it go at the scene?’

  She described Stagg’s discovery of the hunting knife. ‘Eddie’s getting it sent to the lab on the hurry-up. We’re expecting the blood on it to be our victim’s. That means when we catch the bastard, we could get him on attempted murder as well as attempted rape. Even if it’s downgraded to GBH, it’ll add years to his sentence.’ She sounded aggressively zealous.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And, if we get a break, they’ll find the guy’s DNA on the weapon, too. Gives us a point of reference for anything else connected with Braddock. Eddie’s trying to run down purchases of that specific type of knife, too.’

  ‘Now we just need to find the victim to give us his face and tie it all together.’

  ‘Exactly. Eddie told me he’s going to set DC Wilkins to work on it today, getting hold of any local CCTV.’ She paused. ‘Normally they’d have someone a bit more experienced, but they’re strapped.’

  ‘Guess beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Lockhart. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Only that Eddie’s done a little media appeal for the victim to come forward. He reckons she’s an illegal migrant who’s worried about her status.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘So,’ she went on, ‘he’s given an assurance of help with anything like that and tried appealing to her sense of protecting other women who could be attacked.’

  Lockhart heard his name being called from across the hallway. ‘Gotta go, Max. See you back in the office.’

  He rang off and crossed towards the clerk, a small, stern-looking man with a clipboard whose gaze roamed around the waiting area. ‘Detective Inspector Daniel Lockhart?’

  ‘That’s me,’ he said, producing his warrant card.

  ‘Judge Gibson-Parry will see you in her chambers now. Follow me.’

  Lockhart tried not to show his relief. Elizabeth Gibson-Parry was known to be one of the judges who leant in favour of investigators. Last year, she had granted him a search warrant based on limited intelligence, but it’d proven accurate and led to the discovery of a murder weapon. Lockhart just hoped she was in a good mood this morning. Or a better mood than him, at least.

  It was late afternoon by the time that Lockhart, DC Andy Parsons and PC Leo Richards arrived at Xander O’Neill’s house in Balham. Lockhart knew he couldn’t execute the arrest warrant and conduct a search alone, and reasoned that he could trust those two not to blab to anyone about the plan for a couple of hours, at least. Parsons and Richards had made a ‘routine’ call on Jemima Stott-Peters, under the guise of a welfare check, which had established that O’Neill wasn’t at her place. A visit to the climbing wall confirmed he wasn’t there, either. So, unless he was out auditioning, he was likely to be at home. The ideal time to hit a residence for an arrest was early – what the military called ‘stupid o’clock’ – but if they waited till tomorrow morning, Porter would probably find out and put a stop to it.

  Lockhart pressed the buzzer and waited. Pressed again, then once more. The sound of footsteps running on stairs grew louder and the door was opened by the man they were seeking. Xander O’Neill wore a tight vest and jogging pants, the muscles of his upper body bulging. His face was red, and Lockhart noticed a graze on one cheek. He was slightly short of breath and looked as though he’d been working out. The actor’s eyes flicked from Lockhart to the others and back.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

  ‘Alexander O’Neill,’ Lockhart stated, ‘we have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of theft and retention of stolen goods. The warrant also allows us to search the property for said stolen goods.’

  ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘No, Mr O’Neill. It’s not.’

  The young man nodded slowly a few times. Then he turned and bolted up the stairs. Lockhart was after him instantly, lunging forward and grabbing his ankle. O’Neill kicked back but Lockhart held firm and, in seconds, Richards and Parsons were up the stairs and pinning O’Neill down. Richards cuffed him and began reciting the police caution. Lockhart waited for him to finish before he spoke.

  ‘Something to hide?’ he asked.

  An hour later, they were booking O’Neill in at Lavender Hill police station. As Lockhart informed the custody sergeant of the charges, Parsons brought the brown paper evidence bags through to be logged.

  At the back of O’Neill’s sock drawer, they’d found a silver Breitling watch, inscribed with the words: “To our Charlie, happy fortieth”. There was also a quantity of what appeared to be cocaine in his bedside cabinet, though it wasn’t enough to charge him on possession with intent to supply. A personal stash wouldn’t get him much more than a rap on the knuckles, but it was extra ammunition. The real test would be the clothing they’d bagged up. There were no Nike Flex trainers, but they’d found a hoody and some other tracksuit bottoms with what appeared to be mud on them. Lockhart was satisfied they had enough to make O’Neill lose his swagger over the next twenty-four hours. His arrogance had already shifted into a look of murderous rage every time he met Lockhart’s eyes.

  After confirming his personal details, the custody sergeant behind the desk asked O’Neill if there was anyone he wished to be informed of his detention.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, turning to Lockhart, ‘there is.’

  Forty-Nine

  I could kill someone right now. Anyone will do. It doesn’t even need to be that little fucker who stuck his knife in me last night, although he’d be top of my list today. John’s lucky he’s out at work, to be honest. I’ve put the bloodied bedsheets in his washing machine, but if he asks, I’ll just tell him it was my time of the month.

  I don’t want to explain to him or anyone else what happened. It’s not that I’m embarrassed about the guy getting the better of me in a fight. He had a concealed knife. I should’ve anticipated that and taken it off him. Then buried it deep in his gut and let him bleed to death. I don’t want to tell anyone because I know the police are looking for me. And knife wounds in hospitals attract a lot of attention. Especially when they’ve put out an appeal for me to come forward and help identify my attacker. I’ve no idea how they know about it. I didn’t think there were any witnesses, but I might’ve been wrong. To be fair, I had other things on my mind at the time.

  I could play the victim for the cops, of course. Describe the face of the man who attacked me. But they’d want my details, they’d ask after my background. Probably take my DNA to help build their case against the guy, too. And I don’t want to have to deal with the consequences of that. It’d be the end of everything. So, I’ve decided to keep my head down. Which means sorting out the wound myself.

  How did it come to this? I was one film away from the big time. Now I’m sitting naked in John’s bathtub, trying to clean the bleeding two-inch wound I’ve just opened again by removing the tape I’d closed it with last night. I’ve bought a needle and some fishing line to pull my skin back together. I’ve taken John’s vodka to sterilise my little home-made surgery kit. And to drink.

  I thought I was good at dealing with pain, but now I’m thinking twice about piercing my own skin. I’m not scared, just preparing myself. I need to man up and do it. The sooner I stitch myself up, the sooner I can get back to my real objective. The arsehole from the bus stop can wait; he’ll get what he deserves. I’m talking about the other two who need to pay for my accident. There’s one more professional, who shouldn’t be too hard to find. And then there’s Dan Lockhart. The thought almost cheers me.

  Time to get to work.

  I take a big slug of vodka and pick up the needle.

  Deep breath.

  Day Twelve

  Fifty

  It wasn’t yet midday, but Smith had already been pounding the streets for several hours. This wasn’t necessarily how she would’ve wanted to spend her Saturday morning, but her fella understood that her work didn’t n
eatly fit into sociable hours. He’d gone off to the football with his mates while Smith set out to locate their victim from the latest bus stop attack. In a perfect world, DC Wilkins would’ve already obtained any useful CCTV footage yesterday and all she’d need to do was follow it up. But Wilkins hadn’t even come in to work yesterday – calling in sick, according to Stagg – which meant Smith had to do almost everything herself. She didn’t mind, though.

  This was Smith’s style of investigating; old-fashioned graft, legwork. Like detectives did back in the day, before everything became about sitting in front of a screen, trawling mobile phone records and running computer searches. There was something satisfying about getting out there, knocking on doors, talking to real people. It didn’t even bother her that she’d drawn a blank so far. She was systematically working through each street that led away from the area of the bus stop and knew that, sooner or later, she’d find what she was looking for. If there was one thing she’d learned in life, particularly living with a disability, it was that determination paid off. If you had the grit to keep going, you’d succeed where others gave up.

  Despite going ‘old school’, however, there was one piece of new technology that Smith intended to exploit. There had been a recent trend for doorbell cameras, which people could operate through their smartphones, much like the devices they’d placed on the bus stops. Because they were generally activated by movement, Smith hoped that someone nearby would’ve captured the victim’s journey away from the crime scene. If she was very lucky, it’d lead all the way to the woman’s front door. But Smith would settle for narrowing it down to just one street.