Never Look Back (19 page)

‘Good. So, today’s victim, Hayley Marie Sawyer . . .’

‘I haven’t had the notes on this scene, as yet, Mike,’ Phil said, as if excusing himself from any further involvement or responsibility.

‘Yes, I know, but just listen. Dave confirmed that someone returned to the body several hours after the attack and repositioned her.’

‘What kind of position?’ Phil asked. The pitch of his voice rose half an octave, his interest obviously piqued.

‘Well, she was naked, apart from a pair of boots, and she was laid out as though crucified.’ It sounded absolutely insane even to say it out loud. ‘So, either the killer came back to check on his handiwork and moved the victim into the pose for his own reasons, or . . . the observer from Debbie Stevens’ attack had, given his interest, followed our guy to Richmond, witnessed the murder and, just like before, approached the body, but this time he repositioned her.’ He pushed his thumbs into his eye sockets with more force than he had intended. As white stars danced in front of his eyes he had a hideous vision of sitting in the pub and the entire team including Jane laughing their arses off as Phil regaled them with this conversation and Lockyer’s complete removal from reality.

‘Right,’ Phil said. ‘From a psychological standpoint it has possibilities but . . . am I to understand from your reticence that you haven’t told anyone else about this, as yet?’

‘Not in detail, no,’ he said, relieved his office door was closed.

‘Would I also be right in thinking that at the beginning of our conversation, your numerous questions about stalkers and harassment mentalities were inextricably linked to this new theory of yours?’

‘In a word, yes.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I arrested a thirty-seven-year-old man, Malvern Turner, last night on suspicion of harassment. I’m interviewing him first thing in the morning. I think there’s a chance he watched Debbie Stevens’ murder
and
was present at Hayley Sawyer’s. I guess what I need from you, Phil, is a yes or no before I go out on a limb here. Is it possible?’ He was disturbed by the pleading tone in his voice.

‘It’s possible but I wouldn’t like to say more at this stage,’ Phil said.‘Presumably Turner was fingerprinted when he was arrested?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Well, then . . . as soon as they check Turner’s print to the partial found on the Stevens girl, you will know, without doubt, if he was present at her murder,’ Phil said. ‘Perhaps then we can talk more about the most recent victim and this theory of yours.’

‘Right,’ Lockyer said, letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. ‘Thanks, Phil. I’ll talk to you later.’

He hung up and tossed his phone onto the table. It bounced, knocking over his coffee cup, the contents soaking his colour-coordinated files. He dabbed at the spillage, throwing the soggy paper towels into his bin. They made a sucking sound as they hit the metal. He could feel sweat collecting on the back of his neck and in his armpits. His stomach was alternating between cramping and relaxing as the apprehension and excitement of the next few hours took its toll. He wondered how Sarah Grainger was doing now Turner was behind bars. He could call her. Later, maybe.

Lockyer strode out of his office, took the lift down to the lobby and went out into the freezing car park. He hadn’t put Dave’s new number in his phone yet. It was on a piece of paper in the glove box of his car. He clicked the keys and the indicator lights flashed as he opened the door. As he bent into the passenger side a gust of cold air found its way inside his jacket.

He punched in the number off the torn piece of paper and waited for Dave to answer.

‘You missing me or something?’ Dave asked.

‘Just a quick call. I know you have far more interesting things to be getting on with,’ he said, leaning on the hood of his car and immediately regretting it. The layer of frost on the metal stuck to his wrist. ‘Are you back in the suite with the body yet?’

‘Yes, just arrived. Patrick’s preparing now,’ Dave said.

‘Can you ask Patrick to check for trace evidence, fingerprints in particular, first? I’ll need them processed ASAP.’

‘Sure. It’s pretty high on the order sheet anyway so he won’t mind doing it first. What’s up?’ Dave asked.

‘Nothing much,’ he smiled to himself. ‘But if there are any, I think I might know who they belong to.’

‘I’ll speak to Patrick now,’ Dave said, not waiting for Lockyer to respond. The line went dead.

‘Hey, boss.’

Lockyer turned to see Chris, one of his DCs, walking towards him. He pushed his door closed, alarmed the car and started over to meet him.

‘How are the interviews going?’ he asked. More than half the team had been in back-to-back meetings all day with anyone and everyone remotely related to local doctors’ surgeries, hospitals, well-woman clinics, you name it, his team had questioned them on location or back at the station.

‘Pretty good, sir. Me and Penny have been through twenty-five apiece today,’ Chris said, tilting up his chin.

‘That’s great. Anything I need to know?’

‘No, sir. Not from my end, anyway. You’d have to check with Penny – she’s upstairs.’

‘So where are you off to now?’ he asked, noting Chris’s coat and gloves slung over one arm. It was a bit early to be clocking off for the day.

‘Just got to head over to Nunhead for Sergeant Bennett.’

‘Oh yes, why’s that?’ Lockyer asked. He had a sneaking suspicion that Jane was keeping Grainger more informed than they had agreed.

Chris seemed to sense his mistake, blithely walking Jane straight into trouble. ‘I just . . . she asked if I could update one of her . . . there’s a case she hasn’t had a chance to follow up on, what with this morning’s victim. She asked me to pop through on my way home.’ Before Chris had even finished his sentence his ears had betrayed him by turning bright red.

‘Right, I see. Wouldn’t be Sarah Grainger, would it?’ It was cruel to ask. It wasn’t that he was pissed off with Jane. He knew when he told her not to tell Sarah about the surveillance that Jane had an issue with it and would most likely use her discretion by speaking to her once the operation had finished. He could hear Jane now. ‘You said not to inform her about the surveillance. You never said anything about not informing her once the surveillance had terminated.’ Chris shifted from one foot to another, his face almost puce.

‘On you go,’ Lockyer said, finally releasing Chris from his crippling dilemma of dobbing in a colleague or disobeying the boss.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Chris said, scurrying away like a small boy after a telling-off.

Lockyer walked across the car park, up the slope and into the foyer. He wasn’t really cross with Jane for keeping Sarah in the loop. He had wanted to tell Grainger himself. But then that’s why Jane was his right hand. She made sure the stuff he wanted to do but couldn’t because of ‘procedure’ was sorted without him having to do a thing. In fact he would thank her when she was back. She was out of the office now. Some problem at her son’s school and an ill grandmother meant Peter was left with no one to take care of him. Jane thought it would only be a day, two at the most, but judging by her face, when she’d told him, she wasn’t sure. He really couldn’t spare her right now but what could he say? Her son came first. He realized that if he was half the parent to Megan that Jane was to Peter, his relationship with his daughter might be significantly better. Megan’s face when he’d practically kicked her out of his f lat made his head hurt. He would call her later, or tomorrow, straighten things out. But for now he needed to concentrate on his interview with Turner tomorrow morning and maybe, just maybe Dave would call with some good news in the meantime.

4 February – Tuesday

Malvern sat in the interview room surrounded by bodies. DC Groves, from the previous interviews, was sitting on the other side of the desk and Mrs Brunswick, the appropriate adult, was sitting next to him on his right. She was so close he could smell her perfume, a lemony scent that was so strong it tickled the back of his throat. She was wearing a long flowery dress and a thick navy-blue cardigan. The dress looked like a tent, covering her chubby body, her round face poking out of the top. Her legs didn’t even fit on the chair. They bulged over the edges like a muffin rising out of its paper casing and dripping down the sides. She had explained that she was ‘on his team’. He didn’t feel like anyone was on his team. He also didn’t see why he needed her here in the first place. He wasn’t a child.

The room felt cold and unfriendly. His wrist still hurt. As he tried to wiggle his fingers at the end of the cast the door opened and the tall detective walked in. There was no mistaking this man’s face. He had eyes like an owl’s.

‘Good morning, Mr Turner,’ the detective said, sitting down on the other side of the table. ‘Remember me?’ he asked.

Malvern tried to still the tremor that had taken hold in his left leg. He rested his hand against his thigh, keeping the vibrating limb in place. His cast was heavy and it itched. ‘Yes, sir,’ he answered.

Officer Groves leaned forward and pressed a button on the recording box screwed to the wall.

‘For the record, I am Detective Inspector Mike Lockyer,’ he said. ‘This is interview three with Mr Malvern Turner. Also present are Detective Constable Groves and Mrs Pamela Brunswick, the AA assigned to Mr Turner by the custody officer.’

Malvern couldn’t bring himself to look up so he just stared at the table top. It had been a mistake to run.

‘I have some questions for you,’ the detective said, leaning over the table, invading Malvern’s space.

‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he said, trying to put some confidence and authority into his voice. He felt Mrs Brunswick shuffle her chair closer to him.

‘It’s all right, Mr Turner,’ she said.

But it wasn’t. He had been sitting in this room for hours, days. They knew all there was to know about him; everything except Sarah, of course.

‘I am duty bound to stress, again, that you are entitled to have legal representation. Are you certain you wish to refuse this right, Mr Turner?’

Malvern was already shaking his head. They had asked him this so many times. ‘I told you. I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he said, sitting up straighter in his chair.

‘Right,’ the detective said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘As before, this interview will be recorded. Are you happy to continue, Mr Turner?’

‘Yes,’ he said, leaning back as far as he could. He wanted to move away. Everything and everyone felt too close; the table, the digital recorder, its red flashing light pulsing, and the detective, in his space, breathing on him.

‘Then let’s begin, shall we?’ the detective said, crossing his legs so his ankle rested on his knee. ‘You confirmed earlier that you were born and raised in London. The Wandsworth area, is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Malvern said, nodding for emphasis.

‘Do you have family here in London?’ the detective asked.

It took Malvern a moment to find an answer. ‘My father died a long time ago. My mother’s in a home now. She’s not well.’

‘I see. That must be hard. Are you able to visit her often?’

‘Not that much. She doesn’t like to . . . see people.’ He had tried to see her lots of times but the people at the nursing home said his mother didn’t want visitors right now.

‘I see. Any other family, friends?’

‘No.’ He wasn’t going to tell these strangers about Sarah. Their relationship was delicate, private, his. The detective was nodding, as if he understood.

‘Do you drive, Mr Turner?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said. Malvern felt tired already. These questions were all the same.

‘How often would you say you use the vehicle?’ the detective asked, leaning his elbows on the desk. He was too close again.

‘I suppose . . . I . . .’ His face felt hot. He wanted to ask Mrs Brunswick what he should do, what the detective wanted him to say, but she was just sitting staring straight ahead, looking bored.

‘Let me rephrase that for you,’ the detective said with a little smile. ‘Do you drive it every day, once a week, less than that?’

‘Every day,’ he said.

‘Mr Turner, can you tell me your whereabouts on the night of the 22nd of January of this year?’

He tried to think, confused by the question. What date was it now?

As if the detective could read his mind he said, ‘Let me help you. It is Tuesday the 4th of February today. The 22nd of January was a Wednesday. So that would be . . .’ he seemed to think for a second, looking up at the ceiling as if there were a calendar pinned to it. ‘Yes, that would be two weeks ago, tomorrow. Where were you between the hours of 21.00 and midnight?’

Malvern looked up at the ceiling to see if it would help him, as it had obviously helped the detective. Two weeks ago, a Wednesday night. He tried to picture what Sarah had done that day. It was always easier to plot his movements if he thought of what Sarah had been doing. Her life was more ordered than his. If it had been a Wednesday she would have been working in the day. She never wasted a weekday. Well, she never used to. The detective cleared his throat. Malvern dragged his eyes away from the ceiling and the image of Sarah he had conjured there. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t remember,’ he said.

‘Right. Let me ask you . . .’ The detective pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket. He seemed to study it for a long time before he placed it open, face down on the table, and looked back at Malvern. ‘Do you know a . . . Sarah Grainger?’

His breath seemed to rush out of his body. How did the detective know about Sarah? What did this tall, all-eyes idiot want with his Sarah? Anger bubbled up in his throat. To hear her name on another man’s lips made his blood hum with fury. Even the way he said it, as though caressing each syllable on his f ilthy tongue.

Mrs Brunswick leaned towards him. ‘Do you understand the question, Mr Turner?’ she said, her voice gentle. He pushed his hand harder into his thigh, absorbing the pain that shot through his shoulder from his injured wrist.

‘Yes, I understand the question,’ he said, his jaw clenched as he spat out the words.