Never Look Back (8 page)

‘Of course . . . he may not have killed like this before but he will have practised. I would imagine that he started small, scaring young women, that kind of thing. Nothing major, jumping out of bushes or following them home, so they knew he was there,’ Phil said.

‘How long would you say he’s been building up to this?’ Lockyer asked.

‘Years – five, maybe more. As I say, he would have started small.’

Lockyer thought of all the unreported assaults or unsolved sexual attacks he had seen in his years of service. Any one of them could have been a starting point, a building block. ‘What are we talking about here, Phil, sociopath . . . psychopath, what?’

‘Certainly not a sociopath. The suspect will be above-average intelligence, organized, ritualistic and functioning on all cylinders. Top of his game, you might say?’ Phil smiled, exposing two rows of straight, bleached teeth.

‘Jesus, Phil. Try and rein in your weird-shit phrases, will you?’ Lockyer said, shaking his head. ‘Top of his game . . . unbelievable.’ Phil nodded, but said nothing. That was the trouble. The guy was so good at his job it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. At least the creep didn’t know about Debbie’s resemblance to Megan. If he did there would be questions, endless questions. ‘What did you feel when you saw what you thought was your daughter’s face?’ ‘Of course, you would have begun to grieve on a subconscious level. Are you aware that your ability to perform your duties may be impaired?’

‘What I want to emphasize here, Lockyer, is the suspect’s desire for power. The attacks, the locations, even the murders themselves . . . they’re all secondary.’

‘Secondary?’ he asked, again stunned by Phil’s glib attitude.

‘Yes. The locations, though significant, are hardly discreet. The Stevens girl was even moved, mid-attack, no doubt because of the alley’s proximity to the general public. That’s what I mean by power, Lockyer. Rape, though violent, is rarely about sex. Carrying out these attacks in built-up areas is the suspect’s way of demonstrating his superiority and dominance over not only his victims, but everyone else. You included.’

He felt the muscles in the back of his neck tighten. ‘Just what I needed to hear . . . so what about the wrist wounds? What’s that about?’

‘I couldn’t say, although I would suggest that they are inextricably linked with his “performance” during the rape. In my opinion, he is able to perform sexually but only in a perfunctory way. Meaning, the excitement of the blood and rape would be enough to maintain his erection but he will be unable to climax. This could explain the throat wound. He would go as far as he could and then the frustration of not being able to ejaculate would be so intense that he would have to do something to bring the attack to an end. He certainly wouldn’t want the victim to witness his shortcomings, shall we say?’

‘And the bite on the victim’s neck?’ he asked, aware that the image of Debbie’s killer struggling to climax on top of her was going to stay with him for some time.

Phil looked down at the pages on the table. ‘Yes, no such marks were found on either of the first two victims. I think it is safe to assume that it represents a further stimulant for him and a further assault on the victim’s body. However, it does worry me. There is something very basic about biting. To be honest, I’m surprised he indulged himself . . . potentially leaving dental impressions, DNA . . . It doesn’t seem to be this killer’s style,’ Phil said with a careless shrug of his shoulders, as though disappointed that Debbie’s murderer had so little self-control.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was coming next but Lockyer knew he had to ask. ‘There will be others?’

‘Yes, without doubt. Altering his technique, as he has done with the Stevens girl, demonstrates that, and . . .’ Before Phil could continue, Jane knocked on the glass door.

Lockyer waved her in, relieved to have the distraction.

‘Phil . . . sir,’ she said.

‘Yes, Jane?’ he said.

‘I’ve had the report back on Walsh . . . he’s got two priors,’ she said, glancing down at a piece of paper she was holding. ‘One for drunk and disorderly. He was eighteen at the time.’

‘And the other?’ Lockyer asked, struggling with the thought of Walsh at eighteen, let alone drunk.

‘ABH, sir,’ Jane said, one eyebrow disappearing beneath her fringe. ‘He was charged but the CPS didn’t pursue it. Seems he had a “disagreement” with a colleague some time ago,’ she continued, looking again at the paper in front of her. ‘He would have been thirty-five. I’m pulling the file for more details.’

‘Interesting,’ he said, remembering the sheer panic on Walsh’s face at the mention of fingerprints being taken. No wonder, if he had priors. It also explained why Sheila and Armstrong were so nervous around him. A guy charged with ABH must have a pretty impressive temper. ‘Double check his alibis for the murders and come back to me,’ Lockyer said, aware that Phil was starting to huff and puff on the other side of the table. ‘Anything about the other girls from the clinic’s records?’

‘No, sir. Nothing. Neither Atherton or Pearson are listed as patients and none of the employees recognize them from the photographs I took down there,’ she said, looking despondent.

He knew how she felt. Katy, Phoebe and now Debbie. They didn’t work near each other or socialize in the same places. Other than living in roughly the same postcode, there was nothing to link any one of them. Nothing to show Lockyer how or why they were being targeted by a killer. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘I’ve arranged second interviews with Stacey Clemments, the best friend, and William Hodgson, the boss. They’re both coming back in Sunday at 09.00.’

‘Good.’

‘Who do you want to run the interviews, sir?’ she asked.

He sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. The transcript of the interview Penny had done with Debbie’s boss had bothered him most. ‘Tell you what. You do the best friend and I’ll do Hodgson myself.’

‘No problem, sir.’

She didn’t leave.

‘Is there something else, Jane?’ he asked. Now he was looking at her face, he noticed the little crease between her eyebrows.

‘Yes, are you nearly done? I have a case I think could be of interest. I’d like to talk it through with you?’

‘Give me five minutes, Jane,’ he said, seizing the opportunity to escape with both hands. ‘I’ll meet you in my office.’

As the door closed he turned to Phil. ‘Apologies. Can we wrap this up and I’ll go over your full report and come back to you?’

‘Right, well, if you have to go.’ Phil sounded like a peeved child.

‘Yes, I do. Quick rundown if you can?’

‘Fine. As far as I see it . . .’

‘Main points, Phil. Just the main points.’

‘Yes . . . ’ Phil looked down at his notes; his confidence seemed momentarily absent. ‘Main points. Excellent geographical knowledge. Lives and works locally. Broken home, possible abuse, possible alcoholic parent. Sexual inadequacies. Twenty-five to forty-five. White male, hunting within his own ethnic group. Above-average height. Above-average intelligence. Strong . . .’

Lockyer struggled to concentrate on the rest of Phil’s summary as an image of a possible killer appeared in his mind, followed closely by Debbie Stevens’ body, lying in the alleyway. He could see her face, her mouth. It looked like it was moving, like she was trying to tell him something.

24 January – Friday

Sarah was sitting alone at Bennett’s desk, staring at her diary. The cheerful daisy pattern on the cover looked out of place. She pulled it towards her and flicked over the pages, each entry tugging at her nerves as she remembered so many sleepless nights. The impression of her black biro had left deep grooves, making the backs of each page look like Braille.

‘Sarah?’

As she turned she saw Bennett and standing next to her a tall guy wearing a crumpled charcoal suit.

‘Sarah, this is Detective Inspector Mike Lockyer, my boss.’

She shook the proffered hand, his grip suggesting he was more accustomed to shaking hands with men, demonstrating his power with this simple gesture. Despite his rather dishevelled appearance he was an imposing figure, handsome even.

‘Good morning, Miss Grainger,’ he said, smiling. When he released her hand it flopped like a dead fish back onto her lap.

‘Please, call me Sarah,’ she said, trying to ignore the tightening in her throat.

‘Apologies . . . Sarah it is,’ he said, looking from her to Bennett. His expression was hard to read. There was sympathy or pity but it was tinged with something else she couldn’t quite place. Frustration, maybe, at having his time wasted. ‘Yet another pathetic female with an overactive imagination.’ She could almost hear him saying it.

‘Sarah, my colleague DS Bennett will remain your point of contact. However, she has just briefed me on your case, and if you don’t mind, I would like to ask you a few questions?’

She was finding it difficult not to stare. He looked like a Hollywood movie star who had been roughed up for an art-house film role. But more questions? She wasn’t sure she could stand any more, the disbelieving looks. Her exhaustion was suffocating her. ‘Go ahead,’ she said, flinching as he pulled a chair up next to her. He must have noticed her reaction because he pushed his chair back half a foot before sitting down. He was still close but not too close.

His questions made her dizzy. They made no sense. She could hear herself answering but her brain was aching with the weight of each bizarre inquiry.

‘Tell me, did contact increase or decrease at any particular time of the month? Is there a pattern in your diary that is easily identifiable?’

‘What time and where did you receive these calls?’

‘How long have you lived in the area?’

‘Do you work with an agency or privately?’

‘How do your clients get in contact with you?’

‘We will need to keep your mobile phone for a day or two for interrogation.’

‘Have you told anyone else about these incidents?’

‘Where were you on the nights of the 14th of December, 4th of January and 22nd of January?’

‘I will need details of the contact on those days.’

‘I will want to make a copy of your diary.’

She found herself staring into his round brown eyes, unable to look away.

‘Thank you. We will be in touch. You’ve been very helpful,’ he said, shaking her hand, more gently this time.

She didn’t understand. They were meant to be helping her, not the other way around, but before she could say as much, he stood, turned on his heel and walked away. Sergeant Bennett sat down in the seat vacated by her boss. Sarah had almost forgotten Bennett was still there.

‘Thank you, Sarah. I know it’s been a very long day for you. We won’t be too much longer.’

‘What was all that about? It felt like those questions were meant for someone else,’ Sarah said, swallowing hard. Bennett leaned forward, and for just a moment Sarah thought she was going to hug her, but instead she reached over and picked up the diary.

‘We need to get details from your phone of all the calls you’ve received. You’ll be able to collect it tomorrow afternoon.’ Bennett rose from her chair. ‘I’ll make a quick copy of your diary. Just wait here for one more minute.’ Like her boss before her, Bennett was gone in a second, leaving Sarah alone. Alone. That’s what he had done to her. He had made her feel alone, even in an office full of people.

Her mobile buzzed on Bennett’s desk. Was she allowed to answer it? She leaned forward and looked at the screen. It was a London number, a City number. She picked it up and pushed ‘answer’. ‘Sarah Grainger speaking,’ she said. Her voice sounded hollow.

‘Good morning, this is Scott Abrahams, from Stephenson Harwood. I just wanted to confirm times for tomorrow’s appointment?’

A weight dropped into Sarah’s stomach. She had totally forgotten. ‘Err, Scott . . . yes. I . . . what time did we say? Sorry, I don’t have my appointment book with me.’

‘Two p.m. was arranged . . . until five p.m. We have called people in specially, as it’s a Saturday. I assume that is still convenient with you?’ Scott asked, but Sarah could tell from his tone of voice that not only would she get an earful if she even tried to cancel but she would never be working for that firm again.

‘Two, yes . . . absolutely, I’ll be there.’ Sarah tried to put some enthusiasm into her voice, to at least feign an upbeat attitude.

‘Good. Thank you. Come to reception, ask for me and we’ll get you set up. How long will you need?’

‘Twenty minutes, half an hour tops. I’ll get to you for 1.30 to give me enough time, if that’s OK?’

‘Fine. See you tomorrow, Miss Grainger.’ The line went dead.

Sarah put the phone back on the desk. She had never forgotten a meeting. It was because of him. He was infecting every part of her life, dismantling it from the inside out.

24 January – Friday

Lockyer looked again at the post-mortem pictures spread out on his desk, the late afternoon sun casting shadows on the girls’ faces. The cuts made on Debbie’s wrists were the same as those on Katy’s and Phoebe’s; similar length and depth. The rape was violent: just like the others. Dave’s report said Debbie’s attack had been more prolonged than the other victims’. The drugs would explain that; but that wasn’t what was bothering him. Something was different. Yes, there were the bite mark and the fingerprint, but that wasn’t it. There was something about the murder scene that was bugging him.

He glanced over at his notepad, lying on the edge of his desk. The letters D&C stood out. Dilation and curettage. Even the words made him wince. He turned and looked out through the blinds, but instead of seeing the winter sunshine he saw Clara, lying on a bed, in a green hospital gown. It had happened after the marriage but before the separation. He had been in the process of moving his stuff out of the family home when she had walked in the front door and announced that she was pregnant. For a second he had felt happy but then her face had brought him crashing back down to reality. ‘I’m not keeping it, Mike. Not now. Not like this.’ It felt like someone had reached into his chest and ripped out his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. He could barely believe the words coming out of her mouth. But he hadn’t fought her. Instead he had taken her to the hospital, sat quietly and held her hand while the surgeon explained what was about to happen: ‘The procedure will involve the opening or dilation of the cervix before surgically removing the lining of the uterus, or in your case, Mrs Lockyer, the contents of the womb.’