Never Look Back (2 page)

The Tesco itself was fronted by a wall of glass. The shadowed panes seemed to watch him, distorting his tall frame into a ghastly image. His head looked tiny, his torso stunted and his legs stick-thin and fun-house long. He looked away and veered towards the alley.

Three dead girls.

Phoebe Atherton, twenty, body found on 14 December on the edge of Camberwell New Cemetery. Katy Pearson, twenty-two, body found on 4 January by a group of twelve-year-olds in New Cross. An image of Katy Pearson’s body, discarded like a piece of rubbish on scrubland behind the Hobgoblin pub, flashed into his mind. His team weren’t dealing with the case but he had seen the crime-scene photographs. The poor girl had been no more than twenty feet away from help during the entire attack.

Both of the girls had had their wrists cut, then they were raped and finally their throats were slashed. The wrist wounds hadn’t been the killing stroke, but the more the girls struggled during the sexual assault, the faster their blood would have been pumped out of their bodies. The thought made his palms sweat. He stopped and took a lungful of the January air, grateful now for the bite of cold on the back of his throat.

There was no confirmation of a link between Katy and Phoebe, not officially, but the whispers around the squad were getting louder. This body wasn’t going to do anything to quieten the rumours. All three murder sites were within two miles of each other. If the modus operandi was consistent with the others, he and the murder squad could potentially be dealing with south-east London’s first serial killer. It felt like he had wandered onto a film set instead of an unremarkable suburban street in East Dulwich.

He approached the inner cordon at the mouth of the alleyway and dragged on some shoe covers held out to him by another young officer. It was only then that the smell hit him. The cold would have slowed down the first stages of decomposition but there was no mistaking the sweet, metallic odour of blood.

The scene of the crime officers had laid down numerous three-by-two platforms of toughened plastic to protect the site. He stepped up onto one of them, aware that he was inches away from vital evidence. The platforms criss-crossing the piles of debris made the scene look like some sick collage, the forensics team hovering around the body, obscuring Lockyer’s view. All he could see were two bare feet.

‘Mike, delighted you could make it. I was entering rigor myself waiting for you.’ Dave Simpson stood and walked towards him, removing his gloves.

‘David. What have we got?’ Lockyer asked, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Dave was the senior pathologist for Southwark. His district included the boroughs of Greenwich, Lambeth and Lewisham. It was a massive area to cover and meant a lot of overtime. He dealt with everything: gang-related shootings, a young girl stabbed to death for twenty pounds, a mercy killing in New Cross, a man beaten to death by his neighbour because of a kid’s bike, and that was a quiet week. Every hour the poor sod had worked seemed etched on his face.

‘Female, Deborah Stevens, eighteen years old . . . and we’re looking at the same MO as the others. It’s too early for me to officially confirm but . . . unofficially, you’re looking for the same man. Wrists, rape, throat.’ Dave shrugged.

He stepped over to another platform to get a better look at the shrouded body. ‘How long are these guys gonna be?’ Lockyer motioned towards the SOCOs.

‘They’re almost done. Five minutes. Once they’re done I’ll talk you through what I have so far and we can discuss the . . . differences.’

‘Differences? You just said it was the same MO?’

‘It is, bar a couple of things.’ Dave put his finger to his lips. ‘I’d prefer to talk to you about them when this lot have gone. Lot of ears here.’

‘Can we get this scene cleared, now?’ Lockyer’s tone left no room for interpretation. The group of bent figures finally acknowledged his presence and began shuffling out of the alley, their papery outfits crackling as they went. ‘So? Come on. I don’t want to waste any time if you’ve got something I can move on.’ He took a step towards the body but Dave stopped him. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked, looking at Dave and the firm hand holding his arm.

‘Before we go and look at her, there are two things,’ Dave said.

‘And they are?’

‘Firstly, there are two additions to the MO. It appears that the attacker used a knife to initially subdue the victim and then drugged her. I won’t know for certain until I have her on the table, but she has a puncture wound just below her ribs and an entry site and bruising on her neck.’

‘I’ll need confirmation on that ASAP. If the suspect bought or stole prescription drugs, it could be a great lead.’ Lockyer was already thinking who in the Serious and Organized Crime Division would be the best person to ask about purchasing or stealing prescription medication. ‘And . . . the second thing?’ Dave didn’t answer. Lockyer looked down at the hand still holding his arm. ‘What the hell is up with you?’ he asked, trying again to shake free of his friend’s grip.

‘I just want you to be prepared before you see her. She . . . I mean . . . there’s a resemblance to . . .’ Dave drifted into silence and seemed to be looking everywhere but at Lockyer.

‘Come on, Dave . . . what resemblance?’ He wrenched out of Dave’s grip and stepped towards the body. Her bare feet were smeared with mud and filth from the alleyway. Her scraped knees were splayed outward, her right leg lying at an awkward angle with what looked like badly torn tights stuck to her thigh. Her skin was translucent. A sheet covered her torso but Lockyer could still see the blood. It looked viscous, like oil. It had pooled around her wrists where they had been cut.

As he took another step forward the victim’s face came into view. Her auburn hair was plastered against her right cheek. He squatted next to her and tilted his head to look into her lifeless eyes. ‘Oh my God,’ he whispered.

‘That’s what I was trying to tell you,’ Dave said, pulling him to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, mate. I almost had a heart attack myself, when I arrived. Took me a couple of seconds to realize it wasn’t her.’

Lockyer tried to focus, to move or speak.

‘Mike . . . are you all right?’

The iron clamp crushing his heart suddenly released its grip. He swayed as his senses rushed back to him. ‘. . . I’m fine. It isn’t . . . it isn’t her,’ he said, touching the chain around his neck, rolling the ring back and forth beneath his shirt.

‘No, it isn’t. I’m sorry, I handled that badly. I wasn’t sure what to say,’ Dave said with a shake of his head.

‘It’s fine, just knocked me off for a second, I’m fine . . . what else have you got for me?’

He tried to listen to Dave’s preliminary report but all he could think about was Megan. All he could see was her face.

23 January – Thursday

Sarah crossed the road and walked onto Peckham Rye, Antonia close behind her dragging a less than willing terrier. There were three joggers on the opposite side of the park but other than that they were the only ones braving the cold weather. That was good.

Cars queued at the temporary traffic lights at the bottom of the park, their cold engines sending white clouds into the air. She found the normality of it almost comforting. People still went to work, still effed and blinded when they missed the lights. Everything carried on as before. Only she had changed. ‘So, whose dog is it?’ she asked.

‘Sally’s. Well, her friend’s, actually. She’s dog-sitting. He’s sweet, really, just a little hyper,’ Toni said, tugging on the dog’s lead as it struggled to go back the way they had come. ‘Monty . . . stop it,’ Toni said. Monty sniffed the air, looked up at them both and then resumed his game of tug of war.

‘And why are you walking him?’ Sarah asked, brushing her hair out of her face. It was cold but the sun had pushed through the clouds and she could do with the colour.

‘No reason, really . . . I just thought it would give us a good reason to get out of the house,’ Toni said, with a smile.

Sarah should have known the dog walk was just a ploy to drag her out of her flat. Toni had tried everything in the past week, suggesting cinema trips, shopping, dinner out. Sarah had refused them all with the same excuse. She was tired and just needed some rest. It was true, in a way, but it wasn’t the real reason she didn’t want to go out. ‘You mean, get
me
out of the house,’ she said, returning Toni’s innocent smile.

‘It’s only a walk, Sarah. We can go back if you’d like?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ Sarah said, glancing behind her. ‘I’m out now. The fresh air will do me good.’ She gave Toni a shove on the arm. What were friends for, if not forcing you to do something you didn’t want to do, for your own good?

They walked arm in arm as they entered the manicured section of the park. Winter had removed all the warmth and colour. The lush green hideaway that had been created last spring was now bare wooded arches, dead leaves turning to mulch in the flower beds. She couldn’t wait for the weather to change. The dark nights, the cold. She hated it. It only made things seem more bleak.

‘William Blake saw visions here,’ Toni said, gesticulating around her at the dormant garden.

‘Really?’ Sarah replied, with no interest.

‘Yes, he did, trees filled with angels . . . imagine that? Angels,’ she said, squeezing Sarah’s arm.

She didn’t know how to respond. It didn’t feel like a place filled with anything even close to ethereal, but it was sweet of Toni to try to fill the silence between them.

‘They kept Italian POWs here during the Second World War, too,’ said Toni, raising her eyebrows.

‘Fascinating,’ Sarah teased, relieved to feel a natural smile spreading across her face.

‘Someone has to educate you,
bella
,’ Toni said, giving Sarah a friendly shove. ‘So, how’s work?’ she asked in a singsong voice, pulling the dog back onto the brick path, its paws already caked in mud.

Sarah’s smile vanished as she stopped walking and turned in a circle. ‘Oh, you know, same old, same old. I’ve got a job up in the City on Saturday. It’s an easy job. Head shots for a management team.’

‘That’s good, good that you’re still . . .’ Toni’s words were drowned out as Monty started to bark.

Sarah looked into the crush of pine trees that had been pinned and forced into an archway ahead of them. She heard a rustling and stepped back. The dog yelped as her heel connected with one of its paws. ‘There’s a good reason I don’t have pets,’ she said, hoping she didn’t look as on edge as she felt. She watched as Toni bent down and petted the little terrier, talking to him quietly in Italian. Sarah let the words soothe her but the peace didn’t last. A squirrel darted out of the line of trees, disappearing into the undergrowth. The dog started to bark again, pulling at the lead to escape. ‘Are we done yet?’ she asked, looking back. She could just see the end of her road. She wanted to be home, to close the door and put another day behind her.

‘It’s not good, Sarah. You can’t keep doing this,’ Toni said. ‘Why don’t you come and stay with me, just until this thing blows over?’

She wanted to ask how Toni knew it would blow over. Things were getting worse, not better. And there was no one to help her. ‘I can’t, not right now,’ she said, not trusting herself to look up. ‘I’ve got a couple of possible jobs that I need to confirm. I only heard about them this morning. Besides, I’m fine, there’s no need.’ This time she took a deep breath, tipped her chin up and looked across at Toni who was shaking her head. ‘I’m fine, really.’ She forced a smile but it was obvious Toni didn’t believe her. ‘Thanks for getting me out of the house. It’s helped, honestly,’ she said, reaching down and giving Toni’s hand a squeeze.

They walked back to her flat in silence, the dog’s sniffing the only sound interrupting Sarah’s thoughts. Would he call tonight? She closed her eyes and shook her head. Of course he would.

23 January – Thursday

Lockyer pushed against his eyelids with the tips of his fingers, but the image of the victim’s bare feet and Megan’s face refused to shift.

‘Sir?’

He opened one eye and saw Jane standing in the doorway to his office. ‘Jane. Perfect timing. As always.’ The overhead spotlights were too bright. His head was thumping. He abandoned his attempt to open both eyes and maintained a lopsided view of his DS.

‘I just wanted to report in and check you were . . . all right?’ Her eyebrows disappeared beneath a severe black fringe: a new style that reminded him of a Lego man toy. The comparison suited both her petite frame and her demeanour. He had worked with Jane for years, watched her progress through the ranks, chosen her for his senior DS, and from his experience she was always immaculate, well presented, punctual, efficient; in essence the perfect copper. He was yet to find any faults. That couldn’t be normal, surely? As the thought entered his head he caught sight of his own reflection in his computer screen. His dark hair was unbrushed and his olive skin was hidden beneath a day or two’s stubble. Handsomely dishevelled? Possibly. He looked down. His shirt was buttoned up wrong. No. Just dishevelled.

‘I’m fine, Jane.’ He stood and walked over to his much-prized window, adjusting his shirt. They had moved him into this office when he had taken over as lead DI for Lewisham’s MIT, Murder Investigation Team, part of the HSCC, the Homicide and Serious Crime Command. Neither title was used much, by him or his team. He was running the ‘murder squad’, plain and simple. Other branches in Hendon, Barnes, Belgravia and Barking dealt with north, south and central London, but the east and south-east were his domain. As he pushed back the vertical blinds to look out at the grey morning, his nose was assaulted by the smell of exhaust fumes and fried food drifting through his open window. He took a step back, watching as the human traffic of Lewisham collided, funnelled into a narrow pedestrian walkway. It was the fourth time the council had dug up this particular eight-foot-square section of the High Street. ‘That is to say . . . I’m fine, considering I am dealing with three murdered girls, I’ve been up since four and listening to that jackhammer since eight.’ His voice echoed in his ears, trying to compete with the small boulders that were smashing against each other inside his skull. What he really wanted to do was drive the four miles home, close the shutters on his floor-to-ceiling Georgian windows, stretch out on his new sofa and go to sleep. The sofa had been delivered over a week ago and he still hadn’t managed to sit in it for more than five minutes.