Never Look Back (27 page)

‘Now, my man,’ Alice said, bending down next to Bobby’s chair and taking his hand. ‘First things first. You put your thumb here,’ she said, placing his thumb on the ink pad, rolling it back and forth. ‘Good, now we put it here.’ She lifted Bobby’s hand but let him hold its weight, hovering over the paper. ‘Now, we put our thumb here,’ she said, putting her hand over his. She rolled his thumb again, leaving the ridges and swirls of his brother’s thumb on the page. ‘Good . . . now take a card.’ Bobby seemed to pause but then he reached forward and picked up several cards at once, turning them to show Lockyer.

‘Oh, that’s good,’ he said, nodding his head, trying to catch Bobby’s eye. ‘Really good. A two, a four and a nine. That’s a good score.’ He watched as his brother sat back in his chair and held out his hand to Alice. It looked almost like Bobby understood, as if the game was for their benefit more than his.

Alice took Bobby’s hand and started the process again, repeating it with each finger before starting on the other hand. He watched, overwhelmed by her patience, the gentle tone of her voice. His part was simple. All he really did was hand out the cards, add up Bobby’s scores. He felt like a cheerleader, standing on the sidelines. Even when Alice began to wipe away the ink Bobby didn’t flinch. She had to rub hard to get the stain off but his brother just sat in his chair and let her. Lockyer realized there was more than simple cheeriness to Alice. She really cared for the people who lived here.

‘Now for the interesting bit,’ she said, pulling Lockyer from his thoughts. ‘I’m going to need you over here for this.’ She pointed to the back of Bobby’s chair. He pushed himself out of his seat and walked around so he was standing behind his brother. He could feel his heart starting to beat harder in his chest. He tried to take deep breaths. Bobby needed him to be calm. ‘OK, Bobster . . . we’re going to try a new game,’ Alice said, reaching for the swab kit.

‘Cards,’ Bobby said, reaching for the cards still on the table. Alice beat him to it and pushed them just out of his reach.

‘We’ll play cards again in a minute but I want to see if you can help me with something first,’ she said, touching Bobby’s arm. ‘Michael, can you get us a book, please?’ Lockyer felt lost. He didn’t want to do this. The fingerprints had been OK because of Alice. This wasn’t going to be the same. He didn’t want to be a part of it. ‘Mike, how about that one there? It’s a new book on boats. Bobby got it in Greenwich, didn’t you?’

‘Boats,’ Bobby said, tapping his feet. Lockyer knew what that meant. It meant he was excited. He thought something good was about to happen.

Lockyer looked on the shelf next to him until he spotted a book on the
Cutty Sark
. He pulled it out, leaned forward and opened it on Bobby’s lap. His brother’s foot-tapping increased as he looked down at the pictures, his fingers tracing the masts, the sails.

‘What we’re going to do, Bobby,’ Alice said, taking out the first swab, ‘is you are going to turn the pages until you find your favourite picture and then you can show me and Mike and then . . .’ Her sentence was cut short when Bobby started to flick the pages. He rushed to the end of the book and then back to the beginning. Alice gave Lockyer a nod and then leaned towards Bobby. ‘Now you show us your favourite and while you do, I’m just going to put this little brush in your mouth . . . it’s just like brushing our teeth,’ she said, the swab only an inch from Bobby’s lips. ‘That’s good, we love boats, don’t we, Mike?’ She looked up at him and whispered. ‘Talk, keep talking.’

Her words seemed to drift over Bobby’s head in slow motion. He couldn’t make himself speak. He cleared his throat and reached across so he could help turn the pages. ‘What about this one?’ he said, pointing to a picture that showed the inside of the
Cutty Sark
. As Alice pushed the swab into Bobby’s mouth, Lockyer realized he was holding his breath. And then it happened. His brother’s head snapped backwards, until it was pressed into the chair. He was looking up at Lockyer but his eyes had rolled back in his head.

‘OK, Bobby, OK,’ Alice said, putting both her hands on Bobby’s arms. ‘Calm down . . . come on, it’s all right, nothing to be frightened of . . .’

And then there was the noise. The grinding, keening sound coming from his brother’s lips. Lockyer wanted to close his eyes, put his fingers in his ears. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He watched and listened, impotent as Alice tried to calm Bobby down. Her words were constant. She pushed Lockyer over to the window. ‘Just stand over here for a second,’ she said, her voice hushed but urgent. ‘He just needs a bit of space . . . he’ll be fine in a minute, he’ll be fine.’ She left him there and went back to Bobby. Lockyer couldn’t bear to look. His brother was thrashing about in his favourite chair like a stranded fish. The grinding noise was unbearable. He couldn’t stand it. Without knowing he was going to do it, he bolted for the door and didn’t stop until he was downstairs and out in the back garden. But he could still hear Bobby’s cries.

Lockyer was still standing in the back garden when Alice found him.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked, resting her hand on his arm.

‘I’m fine. Sorry . . . I had to leave . . . I couldn’t.’ He felt like he was in shock.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, patting his arm. ‘Trust me; it’s always harder on the relatives than them. Bobby’s fine, we got it done in the end. He’s back at his window.’ She pointed behind them. He turned and followed her finger. She was right. Bobby was standing by his window, where he always stood, looking out. None of the past hour’s trauma was evident on his face. He looked the same way he always did. How could something so terrible be erased from his mind so quickly? ‘I know,’ Alice said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘His power of recovery is astonishing.’ She handed him the fingerprint and swab kit. ‘There you are.’

‘I can’t believe he’s the same guy,’ he said, still staring up at his brother’s window.

‘That’s just the way things go sometimes. It could have been anything or nothing . . . something spooks him and he can’t handle it. He won’t remember this, I swear . . . I mean, I won’t be trying to clean his ears with cotton buds for a while,’ she said, laughing, ‘but honestly, he’s absolutely fine and dandy. You can go up and see him if you like?’

‘No, no I won’t. I’ll let him rest, get his breath back,’ he said, feeling like a coward.

‘OK, no worries. I’ll keep an eye on him today and you can call later, maybe, to check in?’

‘I will,’ he said, tearing his eyes away from the window.

As Alice turned to leave he remembered himself. ‘Sorry, Alice, have you got time to talk for a minute? I need to ask you some questions relating to the break-in.’

‘Sure thing,’ she said, her face untroubled.

Was he the only one hanging on by an emotional thread? ‘Let’s talk in the lounge,’ he said.

7 February – Friday

He arched his back, stretching out his spine. He had been watching her in the window for the past hour, an idea forming. If he closed his eyes he could see her laid out, as if crucified, like Hayley. Perhaps it had been the grandeur of the park or the untouched beauty of the snow but something had made him go back. When he had found Hayley again, lying naked and alone, it hadn’t felt right. But when she was properly laid out, everything seemed to slot into place.

Despite his excitement the distraction of the past few days kept invading his thoughts. The detective had found the earring. Forensic teams had been all over the brother’s house, collecting evidence. His initial intention had been to have a little fun with DI Lockyer, but then the fat woman had walked the tall detective around to the side of the house and pointed up to the bushes growing there. He knew the brother’s house had security cameras. Of course he did, but he hadn’t known about the one hidden above the side gate. He slammed his fist down hard on the dashboard. The lens was almost covered by an ever-expanding rhododendron. Surely it wouldn’t have caught anything. He tore his eyes away from the face in the window and tried to think back to that day, walking it through in his head, to see if he could recall looking up, exposing his face. His path down the alley had been swift: ten, fifteen seconds at the most. The camera may have caught a glimpse of him as he vaulted the back fence but again it was unlikely. The lens seemed tipped in the wrong direction. He never made mistakes.

As he started the engine and pulled away he averted his gaze at the last second. It wouldn’t do to unnerve her, not just yet.

When he arrived in the car park twenty minutes later he spotted two of his colleagues, hiding behind the bins, having a fag. The rules and regulations stated that employees had to leave the premises to smoke. They weren’t allowed in the car park or any part of the grounds. Why was it people desired to break even the simplest of rules?

‘I caught you,’ he said.

Both women jumped but then tittered like five-year-olds.

‘You bugger,’ Evelyn chirruped. ‘We thought you were the cops,’ she said with a conspiratorial tone.

‘Nothing to fear,’ he said, his muscles aching as he dragged his facial features into some semblance of a smile. ‘Mind you, it’s sort of . . . exciting, isn’t it?’ he said, his eyes darting back and forth.

After a moment of hesitation both women laughed and began pawing him with their fag-smelling fingers, grateful to him for alleviating their fears with humour.

‘Oh, you’re so bad, you are,’ Evelyn said, giving him a wink.

‘And you love it,’ he said, digging her in the ribs with his finger, repulsed by the layer of fat that engulfed his flesh.

He followed them into the clinic; both still laughing and throwing coy glances over their shoulders at him. Not long now, he thought. His next game would be much more fun. DI Lockyer would love it.

10 February – Monday

Lockyer’s team was assembling, chairs were moved, laptops plugged in. It was a hive of activity but he felt like he was standing still. He shuffled his notes and looked over at Jane. She nodded as if to confirm her support. For the first time in his career he felt uncertain. Not necessarily about the case, although it did feel like he was travelling in ever-decreasing circles. It was more his attitude, his confidence. He hadn’t been the same guy since he had seen Megan’s face in that alleyway almost a month ago.

The snow had eased but the sky outside the briefing room’s floor-to-ceiling windows was white, the streets unusually empty. The door opened and Phil walked in, a blue plastic folder slung under his arm. ‘Morning, all,’ he said, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table. There were murmurs of greetings. Lockyer stayed silent. He wasn’t thinking about the case. He was thinking about the weekend. He had worked, yes. He had seen Megan for coffee on Saturday morning, yes. But that wasn’t all. The majority of his waking and sleeping hours had been spent in Nunhead, in Sarah Grainger’s bed. Things had gone from bad to worse. After one night with her he had been shaken, obsessing over every little thing she said like a teenager. Now, he was four nights in and couldn’t see a way out.

The sound of someone clearing their throat dragged his thoughts away from Sarah. He shook his head and walked over to the whiteboard that now resembled a collage of immense proportions. Green lines connected areas on the map. Photographs of the crime scenes and the victims were all linked with red sticky tape.

‘Let’s get started,’ he said, nodding to Jane who was taking notes for this session. He took a deep breath as he put his hands in his pockets. ‘As you are all aware the death of Hayley Sawyer puts us at four victims to date. Phil has revised his profile to account for these . . .’

Before he could finish speaking Phil was on his feet, striding up to the head of the table to join him. ‘Thank you, Mike. I have indeed refined my earlier model and will be more than happy to convey that to you all now,’ he said, taking the folder from under his arm and opening it with a flourish.

Lockyer coughed and held up one finger, ‘Phil, can I have a minute?’ he said, turning his back to the group. He waited for the team’s conversations to reach a volume that would drown out his words. ‘Phil,’ he whispered. ‘We don’t have time for the revised profile now, I’m afraid. I need to brief the team on two important matters. You and I can and will discuss it later.’

Phil responded by turning back to face the room and saying in a stage-whisper, ‘Well, you will have to hope that I am free.’ He then walked back to his seat, put his folder on the table and crossed his arms.

‘OK, everyone, quiet down. We’ve got a lot to get through,’ he said, approaching the table again. ‘As I was just saying to Phil, his revised psych profile is now available on the bulletin board. We are all . . . grateful to him for taking the time to amend the profile on such short notice.’ Heads nodded around the table and a silence fell over the briefing room. ‘The first point on today’s agenda concerns the exhibits team. Chris, can you update everyone, please?’ he said, taking his seat next to Jane, thankful when all eyes turned away from him. He felt like his thoughts of Sarah were tattooed on his forehead.

Chris stood, walked to the head of the table and pulled down the projector screen where an image of the earring appeared, blown up to the size of a tractor tyre. ‘The item you see here is the earring found at the scene of Deborah Stevens’ murder. It was removed or fell from the victim’s ear; however, when the team searched the area, no other earring was found.’ He nodded to the officer who had handed out the exhibits bundle and the image on the screen was replaced by an almost identical picture. ‘This item was photographed last week,’ Chris said. ‘DI Lockyer recovered it from an assisted living facility, outside Lewisham . . .’ he paused, consulting his notes; the young officer looked nervous. ‘Cliffview, page four of your notes.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘Skin cells were found in the butterfly section of the earring, here. DNA testing has confirmed that the item had been worn by Deborah Stevens.’