Never Look Back (18 page)

‘No. Not at all. In fact he called the chief to have me brought in because he knew my team was running the other three cases,’ Lockyer said, raising his eyebrows. ‘I don’t think anyone wants in on this one, Dave. I’m on my own.’ He managed a weak smile as the weight of another victim settled on his shoulders. ‘So tell me, is it our guy?’ he asked, knowing already what the answer would be.

‘Yes . . . puncture wound on her neck, sexual assault, wrists and throat cut,’ Dave said with a grimace.

They were close enough now to smell it: the acrid odour of blood. He stepped onto one of the platforms and turned to help Jane up behind him. Her hand felt cold and small. ‘You should have gloves on,’ he said, squeezing her fingers. She smiled and tucked her hands into her jacket pockets. As she did, several of the suited figures stepped away to reveal the body of Hayley Marie Sawyer lying on a combination of ice, soggy grass, mud and a lot of blood.

Her body was laid out as if crucified, her arms stretched out, her legs neatly placed together. She was naked except, on her feet, she still wore a pair of long boots, woollen socks poking out of the top, and her hair was red: not reddish, red. It could have been the damp or blood making it darker but Lockyer could already see that she must have been a striking girl. Her skin was white, which contrasted with her dark eyebrows and hair. She was tiny, a delicate frame. Her ribs stood out from her chest, covered in bruises, like the keys of a piano. He ran his eyes over the ground surrounding Hayley’s body. An iPod with the headphones still attached lay off to one side. He was sure he could still hear the faint tinny music playing. He was surprised the battery had lasted this long, but that in itself might help with the time of death. A scarf, dark jeans and what looked like a Barbour were in a heap by the girl’s feet. Lockyer pictured a man kneeling over her, removing her clothes before throwing them absently over his shoulder.

‘She didn’t die like that,’ he said.

Dave shook his head. ‘Well spotted. No, she didn’t. The livor mortis suggests she was moved after she died.’

Livor mortis was one of the few parts of forensic medicine that could be wholly relied upon. It never lied and it couldn’t be cheated. When a person dies, their blood immediately begins to sink to the lowest point in the body. Within two to five hours the shift is permanent, leaving a purplish, red staining or lividity on the surface of the skin. If Hayley had died on her back, as she was laid now, the colouring would be on her calves, thighs, buttocks, shoulders and neck. But that wasn’t what Lockyer was looking at. The staining on Hayley’s young skin was concentrated on her left side; her arm was almost entirely purple.

‘So, where do you put the time of death and the body repositioning, Dave?’ Lockyer asked, his own thoughts racing ahead of him.

Dave spread his lips into a thin line and took a deep breath in through his nose. ‘It’s almost impossible to say, I’m afraid. The temperature doesn’t help and there’s been hardly any interference withthe body by localwildlife.’ Dave reached up and ran his hand under his nose several times. ‘I can tell you from the livor mortis that the body was moved, maybe four to six hours after she was killed, but without the TOD it doesn’t help you much, does it?’

‘No, not really,’ Lockyer said, hoping he didn’t look as distracted as he felt. ‘Are you almost ready to move her?’

‘Yes, we’ll just finish up photographing the scene and the body, and then I’ll take her back to the mortuary suite with me.’ The way Dave spoke, it was as if he were taking her home to her parents. The respect and reverence he managed to conjure in a simple sentence never failed to impress Lockyer. As Jane came to stand next to him he remembered her words: ‘What kind of person would watch a murder and not intervene?’ He hoped the man waiting in the interview room in Lewisham would be able to answer that question for him.

‘She looks like she’s about to make a snow angel,’ Jane said.

3 February – Monday

He tried not to smile, aware of the invisible eyes and ears in the room.

The police officer interviewing him looked young enough to have attended poor little Hayley’s university. He could only assume this man-boy in uniform had signed up straight out of school, hoping to work his way up the ranks, which would never happen if the intelligence displayed so far was anything to go by. He could hear her voice mingling with his own thoughts.

Inside he was feeling elated but he masked it with a calm, solemn exterior. One slip and his elation could very quickly turn to despair – it was not likely, but too cavalier an attitude was dangerous. He guessed it would only be another thirty minutes before they let him go. He had almost finished his list of answers to the questions he knew they would ask and been more than helpful, subtly pointing the finger at a number of individuals. It was clear from the boy’s fidgety demeanour and the sweat stains visible beneath his jacket that he would be happy with something, no, anything that he could report back to his superiors.

As he ran his fingers through his newly trimmed hair, he paused and massaged his temples, feigning a headache brought on by the obvious stress of innocence. He was enjoying his role. The plastic chair squealed as he leaned back. It sounded just like Hayley. She hadn’t screamed like the others but squealed, like a piglet being taken from its mother. There was something feral about the noise, nothing resembling a human being in peril. It had been an unexpected pleasure and he would tell his disciples.

The two-way mirror on the wall next to him was covered in smudged fingerprints. He imagined previous occupants with their noses pressed to the glass, trying to see through to the other side like they did in the movies. His reflected image looked pale. Of course, Constable Chris would assume this was from fatigue and anxiety, rather than exhaustion. When it was over he had looked at her, lying on her side in the snow. He had almost felt tempted to lie down next to her so they could rest awhile together.

The door opened, the overpowering smell of musk invading the room before the boy appeared, a friendly smile on his face and two cups of coffee in his hands.

‘Here you go. It’s not as good as Starbucks across the road but it’s got more caffeine than a can of Red Bull.’ The officer took a slurp of his own drink. ‘Just a few more questions and then you can get back to your day.’

‘Thanks. I’m working this afternoon, extra shift, need the money,’ he said, giving the constable his best ‘we’re-all-in-it-together’ look.

‘Don’t we all,’ the boy replied.

As he picked up his coffee he winced as the heat of the bowing plastic burned his fingertips. They looked red, chaffed from the hours spent stitching Hayley s precious addition into place. It looked beautiful, the colour complementing its neighbours. A contented sigh escaped his lips before he could stop himself. He covered his mouth with his hand and coughed.

‘Hot,’ he said still coughing.

The boy nodded, his eyes empty of understanding.

This interview was becoming an inconvenience but he had to be patient. All he need do was tolerate Constable Chris’s questions for a few more minutes. He disguised his growing smile with the moulded rim of the little plastic coffee cup.

3 February – Monday

Sarah lifted herself onto her kitchen counter and stared out at the trees swaying in her back garden. They were smothered in snow, the branches bowing under the weight. It had been almost a week since she had spoken to the Detective Inspector, Lockyer. Bennett had called several times to reassure her that ‘investigations into her case were continuing’. Her head ached. She couldn’t eat and had barely slept. When Toni had left her early this morning Sarah had sat on the bottom stair, hugging her knees for an hour, waiting for the nausea in her stomach to stop.

As she pushed herself off the counter, her bare feet connecting hard with the cold linoleum, she heard a car engine start. She ran through to the lounge and resumed her vigil by the window. A red Peugeot 306 was pulling away. It belonged to No. 11. She was a nurse. Her shift would be starting soon, no doubt. The white panelled van that had been parked down by the shop for days had gone. Sometimes it looked empty but sometimes she was sure there was a man sitting in the driver’s seat. She took her new notepad from the sofa and wrote down the time and the registration. Her eyes drifted up the page to a dozen similar entries.

She knew Surrey Road and its inhabitants better now than she ever had before, in her previous life here. She knew that the bald man from No. 8 drove a red Ford Ka and that he was having an affair with the girl across the street in No. 15. The family living in No. 17 had been visited by the bailiffs. Sarah could have told them they wouldn’t find anything, because the mother’s friend had visited the previous day and loaded up her car, a silver Vauxhall estate, with two flat-screen televisions, an Xbox and a load of other stuff. Sarah had a list of each item. A twisting pain under her ribs was followed by a loud rumble. She should eat but she had nothing in the house and she couldn’t go out. One of the people she was watching was there, watching her right back. One of the people out there was her stalker. And he was angry. The note told her as much. He was angry with her, following her, terrorizing her for reasons she couldn’t understand. If only she knew who he was. Perhaps then she could face him. Walk out onto her street and confront him, ask him what he wanted from her.

A maroon Saab pulled up, reverse parking into a space five houses down from hers, on the other side of the road. She recognized it immediately. Without thinking she jotted down the reg, the make and model, and a description of the two figures sitting inside. They had been here before but they wouldn’t stay for long. The young guy from No. 23 would join them in a moment. But the Saab people didn’t bother her as much as the others. She wasn’t being stalked by two or even three people, that was a ridiculous notion. Mass stalking. As soon as the thought entered her head she made a note to do a Google search. It could be a new trend, a new way of torturing victims. Her mobile started to ring, skittering across the floorboards away from her. She leaned forward and grabbed it. It was Bennett’s mobile number.

‘Hello,’ she said, realizing she was whispering. ‘Hello,’ she said again in a normal voice but crawling out of the lounge so no one from the street could see her.

‘Sarah, it’s DS Bennett . . . how are you?’

She waited until she was safely in the hallway before she answered. ‘I’m fine . . . I’m OK.’ Neither statement was true but what did it matter? Bennett wasn’t really asking after her health. It was just something you said. A British way of starting a conversation.

‘I have some news,’ Bennett said. ‘Good news.’ Sarah couldn’t speak. Her throat had closed, her breath stuck in her lungs, waiting to be released. ‘A suspect has been arrested in relation to your complaint.’

The only emotion she recognized these days was fear, so any other feeling was hard to process, to deal with. ‘What . . . who?’

‘The individual is in custody. I’m afraid I can’t release his identity to you until he is formally charged, but I wanted to let you know as soon as possible so you could . . . I thought you would want to know.’

She couldn’t register what Bennett was saying and her mind was jumbling every word that travelled over the airways between them, but she definitely knew she wanted to know. Her eyes filled with tears. She let them come as she listened to Bennett talk, not really caring what she was saying. It didn’t matter now. ‘It’s over,’ she whispered to herself.

3 February – Monday

‘Just tell me if it’s possible?’ Lockyer asked for what felt like the millionth time. He had been on the phone to Phil for ten minutes and so far had bugger all to show for his efforts.

‘It’s difficult for me to say, Mike. You haven’t given me a lot to work with,’ Phil said in an indulgent tone as if he was speaking to a five-year-old. Lockyer was tempted to march over to Phil’s office and put his foot right up the guy’s arse. ‘Why don’t you try telling me what you’re thinking and then I will tell you, in my professional opinion, if it’s a possibility?’

He forced himself to sit down. Despite his reservations, other than Jane, Phil was probably the best person to talk to regarding his theory, so he may as well get on with it. ‘Fine. We’ve discussed my theory regarding the fingerprint on Debbie Stevens, the third victim?’ he said.

‘Yes . . . that the stray fingerprint is from someone who witnessed the murder and touched the body post-mortem, rather than the killer himself.’

Phil’s ability to talk without compassion or empathy made Lockyer ball his hands into fists. He took a calming breath and decided to push through. ‘Right . . . and you agreed that it was a possibility. I certainly remember you saying the fingerprint could be . . . significant,’ Lockyer said, figuring if he used Phil’s own words he might get a positive response.

‘I certainly agree on the basis that I do not think your boy would have been so careless. He went to the trouble of cleaning his victims. I very much doubt he would have removed his gloves to indulge himself in skin-to-skin contact. That would be too amateurish for a man of his . . . talents,’ Phil said.

The way he said ‘talents’ sent a chill over Lockyer’s shoulders. ‘OK, so we can agree . . . in theory that the fingerprint came from a third party. I want to take it a step further,’ he said, absently rearranging the folders on his desk according to colour. ‘Perhaps the . . . excitement of observing the murder and approaching the body intrigued the “watcher”. Maybe he follows the culprit, begins a ritual of his own, wanting to be there to see what our killer does next.’ He stopped and let his words travel to Phil and settle. ‘So?’ he asked after a few seconds.

‘Mmm,’ Phil said. Lockyer would swear he could hear him tapping his chin, deep in thought. ‘The personality traits necessary to observe a violent assault and not act could mesh with an individual pursuing the perpetrator, with a view to being present for the next . . . instalment, shall we say.’