Never Look Back (12 page)

‘Sir.’

He looked up to see Jane leaning into his office.

‘Yes, Jane.’

‘I meant to say, I checked with Hodgson’s colleague regarding the two hours Hodgson and Stevens allegedly spent in the apartment over near Moorgate,’ she said. ‘The colleague confirmed Hodgson borrowed the keys to the flat late afternoon on the day of the murder and returned them at the MPS dinner function that evening, about nine-ish.’

‘Right,’ he said, waiting for Jane to leave.

As the door clicked shut he looked down at the piles of paper covering his desk. He picked up Phoebe’s file and scanned the contents page. There were three sections devoted to the crime scene, the post-mortem and all the physical evidence collected, but he had already read the summaries, so he doubted he would find any new information there. There was only one exhibits section so he flicked to the relevant pages and began to read. Phoebe’s clothes were listed, their condition photographed. A sentence, highlighted in yellow, caught his attention. A section of lining material, four-inch square in diameter, was missing from the trousers she was wearing. Not ripped out but carefully cut and removed. He opened Katy’s file, turning to the exhibits notes. He put his finger on the page over another highlighted note. A piece of Katy’s coat was missing too but it hadn’t been cut out like Phoebe’s. An entire section had been ripped away and taken.

He tipped his head back, his neck cracking. He didn’t need to look at Debbie’s file. He knew it by heart. Her clothing was listed and described: jacket, removed prior to attack, intact. Jumper, on victim, intact. Skirt and tights torn. He ran his fingers through his hair. Her skirt and tights were so badly damaged it was almost impossible to decipher what the original garment had looked like. There was no way of knowing if her killer had taken something from her too. And even if there was, what did it mean? He remembered the bite mark on Debbie’s shoulder, as if she had been attacked by a wild dog, not a man. He let out a frustrated breath and flicked to the contents page of Phoebe’s file. The interviews with her family and friends were as good a place to start as any. He opened his laptop and logged in to the audio files section. There were fourteen statements. It was going to be a long day.

An hour had passed and he was only on the third interview. The temperature in the room had dropped enough for him to put on his jacket. He looked out at the practically empty office and drained his fifth cup of coffee. The last two had been decaf but his heart still felt like it was hammering in his chest. With a shake of his head he went back to the audio transcript of the interview with Stefan Riste, Phoebe’s partner. Riste had already been cleared of any involvement as he had been visiting friends in Manchester at the time of his girlfriend’s murder. A Post-it note attached to the bottom of the page also confirmed he had alibis for the dates of Katy’s and Debbie’s murders too. As Lockyer listened, he was struck by the pain. Every answer seemed to tap into a new part of the poor man’s grief. He sat back, the January sun casting intermittent shadows around his office. His breath fogged up his screen as he let out a weary sigh. As he pressed play again he decided to finish Riste’s statement and then take a break. He would head to Bella’s cafe across the road and get some lunch, or anything to stop the endless cups of coffee tearing a hole in his stomach lining.

He closed his eyes and listened to Riste talk. The guy was beyond distraught, his words laced with misery. And then Lockyer heard something. He clicked back ten seconds and listened again. Then again. Another officer had come into the interview room. Lockyer could hear the two officers talking. But underneath their voices he heard Riste’s voice, barely audible. It was a few whispered words among thousands but it could mean everything. Riste’s voice echoed in his mind. ‘. . . We hoped to try again.’

He dialled Jane’s extension and waited. She answered on the second ring.

‘Sir,’ she said.

‘I’ve got news,’ he said, unable to stop a smile spreading across his face. He didn’t feel sick. He didn’t feel angry. His emotions had quietened. Finally, he felt focused.

‘I’m on my way. I have news for you, too, on the Grainger case,’ she said.

‘Good. We have work to do.’

Lockyer had spent the past hour on the phone, speaking to Phil, Dave, the SIO and Stefan Riste. Jane was sitting opposite him on her mobile talking to Katy Pearson’s husband.

‘Thank you, Mr Pearson . . . yes, we will keep you informed . . . of course . . . thank you again.’ Jane ended the call and slumped back in her chair. ‘Pearson sounds terrible,’ she said, her face pale.

‘What did he say?’ he asked.

Jane sat forward and took a deep breath. He knew she was trying to shake off the trauma of the conversation she’d just had. ‘Katy Pearson had a termination in October of last year . . . two months before she was killed.’

‘But it’s not on her medical records,’ he said, slapping his hand down on the files on the desk.

‘It is, sir. I double checked with her GP,’ Jane said. ‘Pearson’s medical file was a mess. She was diagnosed with breast cancer in November, so the documentation relating to that was extensive. The termination paperwork wasn’t attached when they sent over her file,’ she said, her shoulders dropping.

He rubbed his temple, trying to push away the thought that they had lost valuable time. He couldn’t stop thinking about his conversation with Riste. They had spoken for over half an hour, the poor guy sobbing throughout. An amniocentesis test had shown chromosome abnormalities in the foetus: Down’s syndrome. They had made the decision to abort the pregnancy but, according to Riste, Phoebe refused to go through their GP, who was not only their family doctor but a friend as well. She had used a private clinic that provided total anonymity. The hospital that carried out the procedure would have her details but wouldn’t have been allowed to forward any information to her GP, as per Phoebe’s instructions. Lockyer kept hearing Riste’s words over and over in his mind. ‘. . . We hoped to try again.’ But now they never could.

‘He must be using their hospital records,’ Jane said, dragging him out of his stupor. ‘It’s the only way he could know that all three victims underwent abortions, and have access to their real names and addresses.’

Lockyer blinked several times and took a deep breath in through his nose, blowing it out again, hoping Riste’s words would go with it. He wasn’t thinking about Debbie, Katy or Phoebe. He was thinking about Clara and the decision she’d made all those years ago.

‘Sir, the hospital records?’ Jane said, tapping her fingers on the table.

As he lifted his head to look at her everything seemed to rush back into focus. He saw Debbie’s face. ‘Right,’ he said, clapping his hands together. ‘We need to find out which hospitals looked after Phoebe and Katy, whether each hospital feeds their data into a centralized database, and if so, who would have access to that information . . .’ Jane was out of her chair and out of his office before he had finished speaking.

He leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped at the base of his neck. All three victims had abortions within two months of their deaths. There was no way that was a coincidence. It was the link. There was no doubt in his mind. His only frustration was that it had taken him this long to unearth it. He stood up and walked over to his window, pulling back his blinds to watch the people of Lewisham rushing back and forth, trying to escape the cold. The ice had melted and the snow was holding off, for now. He was thinking about Hodgson and the advertising work he did for the Met. It was feasible he worked with the NHS too. Could his high-powered connections have given him access to the girls’ hospital records? Lockyer thought they just might.

28 January – Tuesday

Sarah sat alone in the interview room, her diary and the note on the table in front of her. She found herself moving them closer together, then further apart, straightening them against the edge of the table top.

She hadn’t been home since Saturday. She couldn’t face being alone. Of course, Toni had been great, fussing around her, making her soup, endless cups of tea and running interference with her phone. Sarah didn’t know how many times he had called because Toni wouldn’t let her look. Was he calling to get her answer, the answer to his note, a note she didn’t understand? She pushed the piece of paper away and fixed her eyes on the door of the interview room. How long was she going to be here?

Bennett had called last night to ask her to come in, to bring the note, so they could ‘talk things through’. But now that she was here all she wanted to do was go home, shut her front door and forget the whole thing. She had barely slept, disturbed by every noise, the unfamiliar creaks and bangs of a strange place. It shouldn’t feel strange, she knew that. Toni’s home usually felt warm and comforting but now, nothing and nowhere did. In the early hours of the morning she had stood in the kitchen, sipping tea, watching as night gave way to the grey of dawn, aware of the ache in her bones from a fatigue that threatened to consume her. Toni’s house was at the top of a steep hill with an enviable view of London: Canary Wharf, the Shard, St Paul’s Cathedral, the London Eye. But Sarah had turned away. It only served to remind her of a life she no longer had. Out there, beyond her world, millions of people would be waking up, taking a shower, eating toast while watching breakfast television and dressing for the day ahead. They were free.

As she sat back the knotted muscles at the base of her neck throbbed. She couldn’t avoid looking sideways at herself in the large mirror on the opposite wall. Her hair looked awful; split ends stood straight up from her head as if she had been electrocuted. She touched her cheek. It was hot but her reflection showed no warmth, no life at all. The black jacket she had chosen hung off her bones. She knew she had lost weight but until now she hadn’t realized quite how much. Her skinny jeans were baggy, excess material folding around her thighs.

She turned away, rested her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands, tunnelling her vision. All she could see was the edge of the note and her diary. She began comparing her handwriting to his. Their W was the same, with a slight curve on the final upward stroke of the letter. The depression left by his pen and hers matched. Both were deep, cutting scratches on the page.

‘Miss Grainger . . . apologies . . . Sarah.’

She looked up and saw Bennett’s boss, the tall detective inspector.

‘My name is Detective Inspector Mike Lockyer. We met last week.’ He walked into the room, closed the door and took a chair opposite her. The sound of the metal chair legs scraping on the tiled floor sent a shiver right through her. She sat back and looked at him and then at the door. Where was Bennett? She reached out her hand as if in slow motion, and he took it, applying only the slightest pressure. It looked as if he was wearing the same charcoal suit she had seen him in last week. She could see that his shirt hadn’t been ironed, the creases not quite hidden beneath his jacket. He looked tired.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Sergeant Bennett will be along shortly,’ he said.

‘OK.’ She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘I would like to ask you a few more questions,’ he said, taking a notepad and an expensive-looking pen from his jacket pocket. It was the kind of gift you received from a not-so-close friend on a significant birthday. His fortieth maybe.

‘Sarah?’

She realized she was just staring at his pen, not speaking. ‘Yes. That’s fine.’

‘How you are feeling?’

She looked at his face, his eyes, his mouth. There was no hint of a smile, or humour. He was really asking her how she was. Other than Toni, she couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked her that. ‘I’m . . .’ She wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘I’m OK . . . I’m tired. I’m scared.’

‘I understand. It must be very difficult for you. I want you to take your time. If you need a break, please do ask. We’ll do this as quickly as we can. I appreciate how distressing it must be to talk about what is happening.’ He nodded his head and rested one hand on the desk, palm down, fingers splayed, as if reaching out to her. His voice was soft, his words gentle. Despite herself she felt the tears coming. She swallowed them back and looked up into his face.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

She watched as he reached into his jacket again and pulled out a handkerchief. He passed it to her and smiled. Such a simple gesture; but at that moment it felt like the first time in her life someone had shown her any kindness. The Grainger family were tough. You didn’t cry, you didn’t shout. Nothing warranted a scene, an unnecessary show of emotion. ‘Buck up,’ her father would say, ‘worse things happen at sea.’ He had been repeating the same phrase since her childhood. It had never made sense when she was a little girl, running to her father when she had fallen and scraped her knee, and it didn’t make sense to her now. She took the handkerchief and held it under her eyes. It smelled of washing powder. She hadn’t seen anyone use an old-fashioned-style handkerchief in years. Her grandfather used to have one. With a loud snort he would pretend to blow his nose, the crisp white material flapping around his face. It used to be their in-joke.

‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water . . . tea?’ he asked.

Sarah composed herself. ‘No, I’m fine. Thank you.’ She pushed her shoulders back and placed her hands in her lap, pulling the handkerchief between her fingers. It felt soft.

‘I’ve read Sergeant Bennett’s report from your meeting last week. Is this the note you received?’ he asked, pointing at the piece of paper on the table.

‘Yes.’

He turned it around to face him, barely touching the edges. He studied it and made some notes before pushing it away with the end of his pen. ‘When did you receive it?’ he asked.

‘Saturday evening, the day after I saw Sergeant Bennett and talked to you,’ she said.

‘At what time, approximately?’

‘About six o’clock. I called Sergeant Bennett. She phoned me back yesterday to say she wanted to see me this morning.’