‘Sarge! Y’alright, big man?’ The Glaswegian accent was even thicker than Lockhart remembered. Must be the result of Barry Dalgleish, aka Jock, moving back home since leaving the army. Jock had joined the Special Reconnaissance Regiment from the Scots’ Black Watch regiment, who were proudly known as The Jocks because they hailed from north of the border. He was a signaller – a communications and tech expert – and wasn’t just one of the most skilled Lockhart had ever worked with; he was one of the most trustworthy, too. Which was ironic, since he now made a living as a ‘white hat’ hacker, paid by banks and businesses to penetrate their electronic systems and find the holes to plug.
‘Ah, you know,’ replied Lockhart. ‘You?’
‘Cannae complain. What’s up?’
‘I need your help.’ Lockhart glanced around him. No one was even close. ‘Which telcoms’ systems can you access?’
Jock chuckled. ‘Pretty much most a ’em.’
‘O2?’
‘Aye.’
‘OK. I’ve got a top-up voucher for an O2 PAYG phone.’
‘And you wantae know what number it’s been used on?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Handset IMEI, all that, too?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Lockhart. ‘Whatever locates it.’
‘Real time?’
‘Yup.’
Jock hesitated. ‘And do I need tae know why you’re asking me for this?’
‘No.’
‘Lucky I trust ye, eh? All right, you got the voucher number?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Give it me, then.’
Lockhart switched his phone screen to the photo he’d taken of the receipt earlier, and read out the code.
‘Stand by, then, Sarge. Might take a wee while. Depends how wide O2’s left their back door open. And what your target’s doing with his phone.’
‘Her phone.’
‘Oh aye?’ There was a pause, and when Jock spoke again his tone had softened. ‘It’s not…’
‘No,’ said Lockhart. ‘It’s not her.’
‘Right. Gimme a few hours.’
‘Cheers, Jock. I owe you, mate.’
‘Dinnae worry about it. I’ll take it out your bank account.’
‘Don’t joke about that.’
‘I’m not.’
‘There’s no money in there anyway.’
‘Didnae think so.’
Lockhart rang off. There was every chance that Jock would find something, if it was there to be found. But he had to keep going on the regular Thorncross investigation, too. If Green was right, Logan was planning to attack one more surrogate. And Lockhart would be damned if he’d let it be one of his own.
Seventy-Nine
Since learning of the attack last night on Liz Jennings, Lexi had been beating herself up big time. She’d read about it while checking the news online during a break at work. Had sat there blankly staring at the screen, barely able to believe it. Once the initial shock had passed, she’d tried calling Dan a couple times, but he hadn’t picked up. Eventually, the briefest text arrived from him:
Can’t talk now
Whatever. In some ways, Dan didn’t even need to say anything. Lexi knew that she’d failed, again. It was so messed up.
A cursory Google search had revealed via LinkedIn that a woman named Elizabeth Jennings, whose CV put her somewhere in her mid-forties, worked as a loss adjustor in the City. A loss adjustor! Lexi should’ve seen this – it would’ve been the person responsible for assessing Logan’s post-accident injuries, and calibrating the payment, whom she wanted to kill. If only Lexi had been able to work that out, maybe they could’ve given a warning to loss adjustors in London rather than doing nothing because – as Dan had argued – there were simply too many people working in insurance.
She found herself getting mad at Dan for ignoring her… but mostly at herself for not seeing the detail that could’ve made the difference. And she felt the desperate pull of regret, that mixture of not wanting to accept what’s happened, but knowing that it has, and not being able to do jack shit about it. The poor woman was still alive – just – but the news article said that she’d sustained injuries that would probably be life-changing.
Lexi tipped some more gin into her glass and downed it, grimacing at the neat liquor’s harsh taste, as if it were a punishment she deserved for screwing up so badly once more. Sarah was out at a spin class, and Rhys wasn’t home either – she neither knew nor cared where he was – so it was just her, alone, at the kitchen table with a bottle of gin. That was not a good look. To anyone observing, it would’ve been a sad sight, but nowhere near as tragic as the fate of those victims she’d been unable to help – both on Thorncross and Braddock.
‘Goddammit,’ she said aloud. Poured herself another gin and chugged it down.
She needed to do something about all this… There had to be something she could do. And almost anything was better than sitting here on her own, drinking.
There was no way she was going to find Blaze Logan alone… she wouldn’t even know where to start. But as for the bus stop rapist, well, what did he do? He attacked women, at night, at isolated bus stops in south-west London. Lexi checked the time on her phone: 9.40 p.m. Then the idea came to her: she’d go out looking for him.
Yeah. That’s what she’d do.
Lexi reached for her bag and fished around inside. Checked the pepper spray cannister and the little rape alarm were there. Then she grabbed her jacket from the hallway, went back to the kitchen, poured herself one more gin, downed it, and marched out of the front door.
She was going to find this son of a bitch.
Day Seventeen
Eighty
Despite a liberal supply of her twin fuel sources – caffeine and sugar – Smith was struggling this morning. It was the cumulative effect of working more than two weeks straight of long, intense days. Any downtime she’d had before or after shifts, or on the single rest day she’d been rostered during Op Thorncross, had been spent helping Stagg track the serial rapist on Op Braddock. There was no two ways about it, she was knackered.
The effort was taking its toll at home, too. Smith and her fella hadn’t properly spent time together in over a fortnight, and they’d had a completely unnecessary argument last night over stacking the dishwasher. It was a sure sign of stress, of work invading her private life. She knew things couldn’t go on like this.
But she sensed they were close to something on both ops; Blaze Logan couldn’t hide for ever, and nor could that scumbag keep attacking women at bus stops without giving his identity away, somehow. She just had to push on, grind it out. That was the way you got results. Then maybe life would get back to normal for a while.
Whatever normal was.
Smith realised she’d zoned out for a moment and brought her attention back to DCI Porter. He was standing in front of their assembled team – which appeared to have grown even larger today – and summarising the current state of their investigation and search for Logan. Following the discovery of poor Joseph Dobbin’s body yesterday, they’d identified his next of kin, confirmed through fingerprints that Logan had been in his house, and gone door to door in his street canvassing for potential witnesses to her departure. Unsurprisingly, no one had seen anything useful.
Joseph’s post-mortem was scheduled for later this morning. Dr Mary Volz was due to examine his body to establish a cause of death, likely to be suffocation. Smith felt queasy just thinking about what that must’ve been like for the young man, and wondering whether – had she been the one fighting for her life – she’d have been strong enough to resist Logan. In some lucky cases, the post-mortem also sparked new investigative angles through evidence found on – or in – the body. Today, though, they already had a lead; Berry had mentioned it to Smith just before the briefing.
‘With John Foster’s permission, we’ve been monitoring transactions on the bank card Logan stole from him,’ stated Porter. ‘We learned early this morning that the card was u
sed last night in a grocery store near the King’s Road in Chelsea. I need two volunteers to get over there right after this meeting and requisition any CCTV they have which might show us what she’s wearing, whether she’s altered her appearance, where she may have gone afterwards, etcetera. Who’s taking that action?’
Smith raised her hand; it was exactly the kind of concrete, practical task she thrived on. Several others had also indicated their interest, and, looking around the room, she noticed Khan volunteering. Good for him, she thought. Getting stuck in was the best way to break out of his recent slump. Porter scanned the arms, stared at Khan for a moment, then pointed at DC Parsons beside him.
‘Andy, you can go, with…’ he cast around. ‘Max.’
She saw Khan’s head drop and made a mental note to give him a pep talk later. See how he was doing. If she got a minute to ask, that was.
Porter distributed more actions, and as he marked off names against tasks on the large whiteboard, she caught Lockhart’s eye. He was standing to the side of the group, leaning against a pillar, shirt sleeves rolled up and arms folded. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week, which was probably about right. He gave her a tiny nod, which she returned, but she couldn’t read anything more into his expression.
Smith didn’t know what he’d done with the phone top-up voucher and she intended to get an explanation off him later for his decision. She’d gone out on a limb by not logging that piece of evidence from Joseph’s flat. She trusted Lockhart, but there were limits, and her arse was on the line, too, if it came out that she’d been party to whatever parallel investigation he was running. Combined with the bus stop cameras, Smith was racking up enough serious misconduct charges to lose her pension. Christ! What was she doing?
Porter’s voice cut in again.
‘Now, I don’t need to remind you all – but I’m going to do it anyway – about the public attention to this matter. You’ve all seen the news, and you know the media is focused on everything we do. Every development we brief officially is on the web and social media in near-real time, and in the papers within hours. That’s the inevitable consequence of modern, accountable policing, but we need it to work in our favour. If we keep the public – and the media – on our side, sooner or later, they’ll give us the tip that unlocks this case.’
Smith glanced at Lockhart. He was rubbing vigorously at the stubble on his jaw, eyes fixed on the floor.
Porter distributed further actions before asking, ‘Anyone got anything else to add?’
Without unfolding his arms, Lockhart raised a hand.
‘What is it, Dan?’
‘Victim choice, sir. I just wanted to say that I’ve consulted Dr Lexi Green, who some of you will remember from Op Norton last year.’ He paused. ‘The Throat Ripper case.’
There were some murmurs around the group. Unbidden, the image of that suspect falling, screaming, came into Smith’s head and she held her breath as the film of it, pin-sharp and with full audio, played in her mind’s eye.
The noise he made as he hit the ground.
‘We’re all well aware of that,’ replied Porter, his tone severe. ‘And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that any unauthorised contact with anyone outside of this team will be dealt with fully and punished appropriately once this investigation is concluded.’
‘Dr Green only knows what we’ve briefed publicly, sir.’
‘I certainly hope so, given the press leaks we’ve had to manage.’
‘Well, I think it’s worth sharing what she had to say. She believes that Logan is taking revenge for an accident she suffered on a film set, which ruined her career as a stuntwoman. The victims she’s choosing represent those she holds responsible for what happened to her, both in the accident itself and its aftermath.’
‘OK.’ Porter looked deeply sceptical, and Smith had to admit she shared his doubt.
Lockhart went on to explain Green’s surrogacy theory and what each victim represented. How the symbols drawn on their bodies – with the exception of Liz Jennings, where Logan had fled the scene – indicated that there was likely to be one more victim. This sparked a good deal of chatter, but Lockhart raised his voice over it to finish his point.
‘She believes there’s a strong chance that Logan’s final victim will be someone in the police.’
At this, a hush descended over the assembled group. Smith, like most others, found herself staring at the photographs which Porter had printed large-scale and stuck to a whiteboard. Before and after. Each victim, in life, smiling and posing for a portrait. Then, in death or coma, battered, bloodied, unrecognisable. And she knew they were all thinking the same thing: will it be me on that board next? Even Porter had turned to study the images.
Then the boss appeared to regain his focus and cleared his throat.
‘I’m not saying she’s right, Dan. But we should all be that extra bit careful. This is a very dangerous individual we’re dealing with. Priya,’ he added, searching for DC Guptill, ‘can you draft a threat warning for the Intranet? Run it by me first, then clear it with Comms and have them issue an email to all addressees in The Directory.’
‘Sir.’
The Directory was the Met’s internal contact list: all forty-plus thousand staff. Smith was a bit surprised that Porter was taking the psychobabble quite so seriously. But maybe he just wanted to cover his arse in case Green was right.
‘Right, then.’ Porter clapped his hands a few times. ‘Let’s get to it, people. Find Blaze Logan.’
Eighty-One
So far, I’ve relied on surprise. Ambushing unsuspecting victims who are going about their daily business with no idea that they’re being stalked like game. And, apart from the loss adjustor, it’s worked. But Lockhart is way too savvy for that. He’s a detective, and an ex-soldier who worked on reconnaissance and surveillance, covert ops. I’m not going to catch him off-guard outside his flat, in Hammersmith, or his office, in Putney.
I need to find another way to get to him.
Everyone has their weak point, though. Their Achilles Heel, their blind spot. Something that makes them lose their cool, forget their training, act on impulse, and make mistakes. It’s just a question of identifying it, then exploiting it.
For most people, family is the obvious place to start. Of course, Lockhart’s lovely wife, Jess, is no longer around, so it can’t be her. I’ve gone back over the articles I found about Lockhart’s military career and the disappearance of his wife. And there are two people very close to him who feature in coverage of both events. Celebrating the first with him during a medal ceremony, and commiserating with him in the second.
His parents.
According to one article, they’re from Bermondsey. That was a few years ago, though. So, I need to find out if they’re still around and, if they are, where they live now.
I know exactly where to start looking.
Eighty-Two
Lockhart had just got off the phone to Dr Mary Volz, who had given him her initial readout on Joseph Dobbin’s cause of death. As expected, it was suffocation. There was no doubt that Logan had murdered him, but they still needed to evidence that by testing whatever she’d done it with – most likely a pillow – for his saliva and her prints or DNA.
Given the limited forensic evidence at the other crime scenes, such a clear link would have Logan banged to rights when they caught her. Even if they couldn’t prove anything else beyond doubt, one murder conviction would get her life in prison.
Lockhart took a swig of his coffee, which had gone cold long ago, and decided to head to the canteen for a fresh brew. He checked his phone on the way and saw a message from Jock saying he had an update. It’d arrived ten minutes ago, while he was speaking to Volz. He stopped dead in the corridor, jabbing the screen to make the call. There were no greetings.
‘Got a hit, Sarge.’
Jock had already identified the phone number Logan was suspected to be using, as well as the handset and other data, placing the phon
e in the vicinity of John Foster’s flat in Collier’s Wood, Joseph Dobbin’s home in Gipsy Hill, and in Earlsfield when Liz Jennings was attacked. That was great, but what they really needed was its location right now.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Target pinged on a base station in Chelsea,’ Jock said.
‘How recent?’
‘Late this morning. About an hour ago. It’s off now.’
Lockhart clenched his teeth, tried to stay calm. He was pissed off about the delay, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Jock couldn’t check every action on the phone as it happened; sometimes there was even a time lag while the telcom’s systems updated. Then he needed to communicate it to Lockhart, who had to be free when the call came through and not on the phone to a forensic pathologist. It wasn’t Jock’s fault.
‘Text me the co-ords,’ said Lockhart.
‘Nae worries, big man.’
Lockhart rang off and tapped into his Telegram app. The secure messaging service, beloved of criminals and terrorists worldwide, was the best way to exchange the kind of data you didn’t want anyone else to be able to see. Moments later, a set of numbers which Lockhart recognised as GPS co-ordinates – longitude and latitude – popped up on the screen. He copied the numbers and pasted them into Google Maps, then brought up the Street View image of the road.
The spot where Logan’s phone had been logged was an upmarket area of housing around Onslow Gardens, just north of the King’s Road in Chelsea. One of the most exclusive parts of the capital, populated by millionaire baby boomers and wealthy foreigners who bought flats there as an investment, often leaving them empty or allowing a child to live there while he or she studied in London. Logan didn’t fit the demographic at all.
So, what was she doing there?
During his military days in the SRR, Lockhart had learned the old adage: think like your enemy. What was your enemy’s intention? What action would best serve their interests? Being able to interpret signs or predict with any accuracy what an adversary might do could give you a crucial tactical advantage. He supposed that, in a way, it wasn’t too different to what Green did with her profiling. He needed to apply that now, to think like Logan.
Who's Next?: A completely gripping and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Lockhart and Green Book 2) Page 29
