‘No. It’s a zombie knife.’
‘What the actual fuck?’
‘I swear.’ He shrugged. ‘You collect them. You know, it’s like, from films and video games and stuff.’
‘Is it real?’
‘Well, er, it’s made out of metal, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t think it’s sharp—’
‘I’m calling the cops.’ She took out her cellphone.
‘Hang on.’ Rhys held up both hands. ‘Sorry. I’ll get rid of it.’
Lexi snorted a breath through her nostrils, her lips pressed tight together.
‘Today,’ Rhys added. ‘I promise.’
Lexi jabbed a finger at the drawer. ‘Go put it in a knife amnesty bin right now.’
‘Yes,’ he said meekly. ‘Where is it, again?’
‘Jeez.’ She sighed. ‘There’s one in Brixton. Just Google it or whatever.’
Her phone vibrated in her hand. The screen flashed up to show it was a text from Dan. When she looked back up, Rhys was squinting at the screen.
‘I mean it.’ She held up the palm of her free hand. ‘Get that thing out of this house, like, immediately. And if you don’t, or if I see anything else like that here ever again, you’ll be finding a new place to live. Got it?’
Rhys mumbled another apology.
Lexi grabbed her tea, its presence on the desk a reminder that she shouldn’t have been in here at all, and walked out. It was only when she got inside her own room and shut the door that she realised she was shaking.
She took a sip of tea and opened the text from Dan.
It read:
Sorry. You were right again. Need your help. Please call.
Sixty-Eight
I’ve found her. It took all day, but she’s in my sights, now. There are plenty of loss adjustors in London, all greedily trying to get their little commissions by screwing over insurance claimants. But I wanted one who lived within walking distance of my new home in Clapham. The home that belonged to Joseph (not Gareth, his driving licence confirmed it) until this morning. Technically, it’s still his. He just doesn’t need it anymore.
It wasn’t enough, however, simply to find a loss adjustor who lived in south-west London. He or she had to have a predictable life, so I could locate them easily. Most people who work in insurance have a routine existence. That goes hand in hand with their choice of profession. It doesn’t necessarily mean you can find out where they live. Thank God for mummy blogging is all I can say.
Liz Jennings. She’s posted all about juggling work and motherhood. About her beautiful little daughter, Freya, who loves to play football. And about her journey to and from work. Why do people feel the need to overshare like that? Would they just tell strangers this stuff in the street or on a train? Probably not. But, somehow, if it’s online, that’s OK. Here’s my entire life… If they knew how much it made them a target, though, they’d think twice.
I’ve borrowed a jacket and baseball cap from Joseph.
It’s gone 7 p.m., and Liz will be leaving work soon.
Time to go and take a look at her.
Day Fifteen
Sixty-Nine
‘Millicent Dimmock.’ Lockhart studied the enlarged passport photograph on one of Lucy Berry’s monitors. It was hard to reconcile the friendly sounding name with the actions of the woman who had been calling herself Blaze Logan for the past five years.
‘Millicent Susanne Dimmock, born July twenty-first, nineteen eighty-nine,’ stated Berry.
Smith leant in. ‘No wonder she used a stage name. Doesn’t sound like a stunt performer.’
‘Or a serial killer,’ added Khan. He was standing slightly behind them.
Lockhart suspected that few – if any – serial killers sounded like serial killers just from the names they’d been given at birth. He imagined Green would have some clever theory to explain how we associated the names of the most infamous ones with murder, even though there was nothing special about their names. Probably because killers weren’t as different to the rest of us as we’d like to think. Even if some were psychopaths – as Green had explained again to him last night on the phone – they were still members of our society, and at least a part of their actions was explained by the way society had treated them. If anyone understood how fine the line was between a killer and everyone else, it was Lockhart.
Khan cleared his throat. ‘Is it wrong to say she’s pretty hot?’
‘Yes, Mo, it is.’ Smith turned to him; her expression severe. ‘It’s not relevant. If our suspect was a bloke, you wouldn’t be saying that at all.’
‘Would you, though?’
‘No.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘It could be relevant,’ said Lockhart. ‘If she uses her looks to charm people, to help her get what she wants. People always talk about how Ted Bundy did that. It’s a psychopathic characteristic, superficial charm.’
‘Maybe,’ conceded Smith.
‘It is,’ Lockhart said. ‘Dr Green told me.’
‘Hm.’
‘Doesn’t look like her name change was official,’ said Berry, clicking into another window on her second screen. ‘Then again, it is legal to just start using a different name.’
Lockhart briefly wondered whether his wife, Jess, had changed her name after she disappeared. Whether she was living somewhere under a completely different identity. He forced his focus back to the screen.
‘I guess it suited her to have at least two identities,’ he observed. ‘Have we run down everything we can get on Millicent Dimmock?’
Lockhart wasn’t fully up to speed on yesterday’s progress; after calling Green, he’d spent a large part of the evening meeting Ernesto Gomez’s parents, who’d flown in from Colombia that morning. He and Porter had explained what they knew and what they were doing to catch their son’s killer, all through a Spanish interpreter. Smith had texted him the key updates around 10 p.m., but this was the first chance he’d had to see the results for himself.
‘Not yet, Dan.’ Berry gestured to the screen. ‘Info only came through from the US embassy late yesterday afternoon. We’re expecting confirmation of her biodata from the British Stunt Register this morning, which might give us more to work with. It’s a start.’
‘As I mentioned last night, guv,’ said Smith, ‘we shared the photo with Foster. He says it’s Logan. Told us her hair’s a bit shorter now, but otherwise she’s recognisable from that image.’
‘Good.’ Lockhart rubbed his chin. ‘And the image has gone out to UK Borders and all police forces nationally? As well as every London borough team?’
‘Yes,’ replied Berry. ‘DI Boateng was in charge of that. He stayed late with his Lewisham people to get it done.’
Lockhart nodded. He made a mental note to thank Boateng for his work. ‘Has it been circulated more widely?’
‘Not yet, guv,’ said Smith. ‘We haven’t gone full press and public.’
‘Press?’ came a deep voice behind them. It was Porter.
They each greeted him with a sir, except Berry, who called him Marcus. Civilian staff mostly avoided ranks and titles.
‘I think we should call a press conference for eleven a.m. today,’ Porter said, as he walked over to their group. ‘We bring the media up to speed on the new Thorncross developments and get the image out there in every newspaper and on the web. Flood social media. See what comes back.’
Lockhart wasn’t sure that was the best tactic. ‘With respect, sir—’
‘We control the narrative,’ Porter held up a hand. ‘That way, we get our story in ahead of potential leaks.’ He paused, scanning their faces. ‘Not that I’m anticipating any more, obviously.’
‘On the other hand,’ Lockhart countered, ‘if we keep the search low profile, we avoid spooking Logan. Then there’s more chance of her making a mistake, and of us catching her. We’d have the advantage.’
That was how they operated in Lockhart’s old military unit, and they usually found the people
they were looking for.
Porter shook his head, as if Lockhart’s suggestion was hopelessly naive. ‘Our best advantage,’ said the DCI, ‘is to use the public. Get them on our side. Community policing.’
‘It may not help, sir,’ protested Lockhart. ‘Logan is someone who’s used to changing her appearance. She’s done it professionally for years in her stunt work. She may already look different to how Foster described her.’
‘But someone must’ve seen her since she left his house.’ The DCI folded his arms. ‘She might be physically capable, but she’s not invisible.’
Lockhart was aware that the atmosphere had become strained, and others nearby were listening to the disagreement now. He tried to keep his tone level. ‘We could generate leads on her whereabouts by other means.’
Porter arched his eyebrows. ‘Such as?’
‘Foster’s bank card, for one.’
‘And have we had any hits on that?’
Lockhart didn’t know. He looked to his team.
‘Nothing so far,’ Berry said.
‘We can check again this morning,’ added Khan.
‘I hear what you’re saying, Dan,’ Porter nodded thoughtfully. ‘But the fact is that going public is also a deterrent to Logan attempting any further murders. Which is what we believe she was planning, right?’
‘Yes, sir. Two more.’
‘Two?’ Porter folded his arms. ‘How do you know that?’
Lockhart cursed himself for saying too much. He had to explain, now. ‘It’s the symbols we think she’s drawn on the victims. There are five elements in ancient alchemy or wicca, whatever. She’s drawn one on each of the three bodies so far.’
‘Since when did you become an expert in reading occult symbols?’ Porter looked incredulous.
‘I’m not.’ Lockhart decided it best not to elaborate. But there was one more thing Green had told him last night, which he wanted to share. ‘I’m not sure going public will be a deterrent, sir. From the violence she’s carried out already, we believe Logan’s a psychopath. That means she’s likely to be a thrill-seeker, a risk taker. A media circus could give her even more reason to attack. She’ll take it as a challenge. A chance for publicity, even.’
Porter emitted a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh. ‘Where are you getting this stuff from, Dan? It sounds like you’ve been speaking to that psychologist. Which, obviously, would be against my direct instructions to keep the details of this case strictly within the investigative team.’
‘I understand that, sir.’ He paused. ‘I might’ve mentioned a few aspects of the case to her, informally, as part of a general discussion. But no more than what has appeared in the papers.’
Porter stared at Lockhart for a few seconds, his mouth slightly open. ‘I hope not, for both of your sakes. We can prosecute civilians for disclosing details of police operations, too.’
No one spoke.
‘Right,’ said Porter, ‘that’s decided, then. We’re going public.’
‘Sir—’
‘Get back to your actions. I’ll expect another update at four p.m. And I want a predictive analysis of who our suspect is likely to target next. That can go in the media briefing. Enhanced public safety.’
Lockhart swore under his breath as Porter marched away towards his office. No one spoke until he’d gone inside and closed the door.
‘Predictive analysis?’ Smith sounded baffled.
‘I think that’s what you call crystal ball gazing, Max.’
‘Do we have any idea who she’s going after next?’ asked Berry.
‘We don’t,’ replied Lockhart. ‘But I know someone who might.’
Seventy
Lexi jotted the word NerdCave on her notepad. She needed to go back to the movie forum and ask CaptainCali for any more details he had on the accident that injured Blaze Logan. She also planned to re-read the L.A. Times piece. Right after this session with her private patient, Oliver Soames. She forced herself to tune in to him.
‘…she was the first woman I’d really loved, you see. Or felt anything for at all, in fact. I mean, apart from my mother, of course.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘I think that was partly why it hurt so much. Why it made me so upset, so… so angry.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Lexi nodded slowly, aware she’d missed the beginning of what he’d said. ‘Can you tell me a little more about that please, Olly?’
‘More?’ His face creased in confusion, and then he winced, and his hand went to a large Band-Aid on his cheek.
‘You OK?’ she asked.
‘Bloody well cut myself shaving this morning. Like an idiot.’
‘Right.’ She wondered whether to gently challenge his self-criticism. But she decided to leave it, for now. ‘So, yeah, uh, can you say some more on that?’
‘Which bit?’ he asked.
Lexi was momentarily wrong-footed. She’d been a terrible therapist today, barely listening to Olly’s usual ranting about his ex-partner and the abortion. She knew she should be more sympathetic, particularly considering she’d been through the same thing with her ex. But Olly wasn’t using the sessions how she’d intended, and every attempt she made to bring them back on track met with resistance from him.
Private patients were sometimes like this; they thought their money bought them the right to dictate the agenda, the course of treatment, even. A good therapy session should be collaborative. But she hadn’t felt a sense of co-operation once with him, despite trying hard. Besides, since Dan’s call earlier to ask for her help in profiling Logan’s potential victims, she’d thought of little else. Now, she had a chance to make a difference on something that really mattered.
‘The part about, uh, loving her,’ suggested Lexi, latching on to a word she did remember him saying. ‘Feeling something for her.’
Olly crossed one leg over the other. ‘Well, I hadn’t had much luck with women before I met her. Not even really luck. Just… experience. Inevitable consequence of an education in boys-only schools, I suppose. None of us had any clue how to talk to them. You. Women, I mean.’ He shrugged and gave a brief, self-deprecating smile.
Just for a second, Lexi caught a glimpse of what Olly might’ve been like before the abortion. Charming, in a kind of awkward, British way. Hugh Grant in Notting Hill. Only less hot. Like, a lot less hot. Lexi felt her mouth making an involuntary smile and covered it with her hand. Jeez, she was being so unprofessional. Olly might be an entitled douchebag who oozed male privilege, but he deserved better than the service she was providing right now. Get your shit together, Lexi.
‘But it sounds as though that changed when you met her,’ she commented.
He closed his eyes briefly, nodded. ‘It did. I remember our first date.’
‘Why don’t you tell me about it? What you guys did, what attracted you to her.’
‘Really?’ Olly fished in his pocket, produced a piece of gum, and popped it in his mouth.
‘Sure.’ Lexi quickly rationalised the request by telling herself this was a good way to help Olly access a positive memory. To bring him out of his irritable low mood for a while. To model a different connection between thoughts and emotions.
But the reality was that him talking for another five minutes would give her more time to think about Blaze Logan’s potential victims, and take them up to the end of the session, when she could get back online. Lexi hoped she’d find something useful to tell Dan. She needed the good deed to balance out how she was treating Olly. Otherwise, she was definitely going to hell. Or wherever it was that bad therapists were sent.
Seventy-One
Smith had timed it to perfection. She’d brewed her final coffee of the day and positioned herself beside the ‘snack table’; that spot in any office where biscuits, cakes, chocolate and general leftover food were all placed for the locusts to graze. Importantly, her advantageous eating position hadn’t compromised her view of the big-screen TV.
Most of the team had paused their work and had gathered round to watch. A
ndy Parsons nudged the volume higher as a BBC London News anchor threw to the room at New Scotland Yard where Porter and Lockhart were taking their places behind a desk equipped with microphones. Behind them, a large screen displayed tiled Met Police logos interspersed with the strapline: Working together for a safer London.
The next shot from the back of the room showed the assembled media: journalists crowded in, photographers and cameramen standing around the hacks. The occasional flash popped off, casting a ghostly glow over the boss and the guvnor for a split second each time. Porter was decked out in his full dress uniform, hat under his arm, evidently comfortable in the limelight. He looked every inch the Detective Superintendent-in-waiting.
By contrast, Lockhart looked as though he didn’t want to be there at all. Despite the smartness of his suit and tie, he clearly hadn’t shaved, and his face and eyes bore the stress of two weeks in which Smith knew he hadn’t slept much. His body language was unusually sluggish as he walked in and took his seat, and it seemed as though he’d rather be anywhere but in that room. Smith had a pretty good idea why.
Lockhart had made no secret of his opposition to Porter’s idea to go public on the identity of Blaze Logan, aka Millicent Susanne Dimmock. She knew that the DCI was a political, media-savvy, career-minded operator. Lockhart didn’t give a shit about any of that. He just wanted to catch killers using whatever techniques were best to get the job done. If Smith had to choose between the two approaches, she’d take Lockhart’s one every time.
But the guvnor wasn’t without his faults; most notably his insistence on bringing Dr Lexi Green and her psychobabble into the tent. Smith still wasn’t sure what was going on between them. She knew Lockhart was a married man – albeit that his wife was missing, as she’d discovered through a Google search one evening a few months back – but was he interested in Green? That was the most likely explanation, but Smith understood their relationship about as well as she understood the mind-reading stuff.
Who's Next?: A completely gripping and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Lockhart and Green Book 2) Page 25
