Never Look Back Read online

  ‘Yes . . . do you recognize the name?’ he asked.

  Sarah shook her head. ‘No . . . I don’t . . . who is he? How does he know me?’ The name was bouncing around her brain like a dodgem car.

  ‘According to the suspect, you met last year at an advertising firm in Camden. CBS Outdoor.’

  She stared at her hands, trying to remember. ‘CBS . . . I had a job there in July last year, maybe June.’ Questions flooded her mouth. ‘Does he work there? Did I photograph him? I don’t remember him . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, Sarah,’ he said, pulling the paperwork away from her. ‘He was painting some of the offices . . . he says. There’s no reason you should remember him.’

  She shook her head again. It was impossible to believe that something so insignificant, a job she barely remembered, could have led to all of this. She searched her memories for something, anything, but nothing came to her. All she had was a faceless name to go with her fear. ‘Please carry on,’ she said, hearing the defeated tone in her voice.

  ‘OK,’ he said, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. The pine creaked. His shirt had come untucked on one side. She caught a glimpse of his stomach. ‘Let’s talk through your options,’ he said, resting his arm on the table, covering the papers.

  ‘I know what my options are,’ she said, rubbing her eyes, trying to erase the ache building up behind them. ‘I just need someone I trust to tell me what I should do.’ A flush of embarrassment heated her neck. She was saying she trusted him. And she did. She braved another glance in his direction. He seemed as struck by her words as she felt.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said, nodding.

  When he didn’t elaborate, Sarah stood, pushed her shoulders back, walked over to her desk, picked up a pad and pen and returned to her seat. ‘OK,’ she said, sitting down, ‘I’m ready.’ She wasn’t going to let a name unglue her. Nothing had changed.

  For the next thirty minutes Sarah listened and took notes. No one could accuse Mike of skipping the details. He showed her the forms she needed, where to get others, how to fill them in and when she needed to send them. As he spoke she found herself staring at his mouth. She was nodding, trying to concentrate on his words, but she was immediately drawn back to his lips. When she had first met him she had thought his features almost cartoonish in their extreme. But now, looking at him, she could see that, in fact, his face had perfect symmetry. His eyes were set quite wide apart, his nose refined and centred. His cheek muscles seemed to flex with each syllable when he spoke. It was only when he began talking about court appearances that Sarah really tuned in to what he was saying, rather than how he looked when he was saying it.

  ‘I have to go to court?’ she asked, her voice heavy with the panic that had just struck her, off guard.

  He held out his hands. ‘It’s OK, Sarah. You don’t have to. The judge will examine the petition beforehand. Even if you decided you did want to attend, the defendant would be behind a Perspex screen. You’d be quite safe.’

  She was puzzled by his phrasing: quite safe. Of course, she knew what he meant, but why didn’t he say ‘very safe’ or ‘totally safe’? That would have sounded better, felt more reassuring. She pushed her coffee cup away. ‘I’m going to have a glass of wine. Do you want one?’ she said, already walking away.

  ‘Actually, I could go for a dash of that, if you don’t mind?’ he said, pointing to a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on her kitchen counter. The familiarity of his tone made her smile.

  ‘I’ll join you.’ She took two glasses down from the cupboard and poured them both a small measure. As she handed him his glass their fingers touched for a second. Her eyes drifted to the clock over the cooker. It was half-past seven. They had been talking for over an hour and she was knackered. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you so long.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s no problem. I’m heading straight home after this . . . hence the beverage,’ he said lifting his glass. ‘Going back to the office smelling of whiskey is frowned upon.’ Despite his smile, Sarah could see just how tired he was.

  A thought entered her head; she debated for a second but then asked, ‘Well, if you’re not going back to the office, do you want something to eat? It’s the least I can do.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth she felt her cheeks heating. ‘Don’t worry if you have to go,’ she said, giving him the out so she wouldn’t be further embarrassed when he made an excuse.

  ‘Well, now that you mention it, I am starving, and this . . .’ he said, gesturing to his half-finished drink, ‘goes down better with something to line the stomach.’ His smile was fuller now, more real.

  ‘I guess drunk driving is worse for you guys,’ she said, returning his smile. ‘I was actually thinking you look like you need a drink more than I do.’

  He chinked her glass with his and said, ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ She watched him take an appreciative sip.

  They both fell silent but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact it felt nice; having a detective inspector in her kitchen gave her a sense of safety. She stared out of the window sipping her drink. The snow had eased off but it would still be hellish for driving. The traffic would be a nightmare. He should probably wait an hour for it to stop before he set off home. Her mind strayed to thoughts of him staying much longer than an hour. She turned and began rummaging around in the fridge. What was she thinking? He wasn’t staying. He was going. As she looked at the pathetic snack selection in her hands she realized she never usually ate on dates. But then this wasn’t a date. As if her body was listening, her stomach growled in anticipation.

  ‘Have you eaten at all today?’ he asked.

  She didn’t need to look at him to know he was mocking her. His tone sounded relaxed, intimate. Her stomach rumbled again, increasing her embarrassment. ‘Yes, maybe, no.’ She turned her back and busied herself with the toaster but a smile was playing on her lips.

  The silence between them now was anything but comfortable.

  ‘Hey, it’s OK. I live the life of a bachelor. I never have anything in my fridge either.’

  As she turned she saw his cheeks flush for a fraction of a second. His grey complexion had vanished, he looked revived. She brought over two plates, the pittas, dip and carrot sticks piled on top.

  ‘Dig in,’ she said. And he did, hungrily plunging into the tzatziki.

  A deafening thud made Sarah stand, dropping the food that was midway to her mouth onto the floor.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ he asked, putting down his pitta, brushing off his hands and heading down the hallway.

  Sarah couldn’t follow. She stood rigid, her heart beating so fast it made her dizzy. All she could do was listen and wait. She heard and saw Mike run down the stairs, heard the door open and felt the rush of cold air coming up the stairs. She waited, numb with fear.

  What felt like hours later she heard her name.

  ‘Sarah?’

  She heard his voice but couldn’t move, couldn’t focus.

  He walked back into the kitchen, his expression filled with concern. ‘Sarah, are you all right?’

  She couldn’t speak.

  He seemed to hesitate but then approached her, putting his hands on her upper arms, bending to look into her face. ‘Sarah, it’s OK. Two people had a shunt outside. Everyone’s fine. Everything’s fine. They’re exchanging insurance details now. It was just a bump, no real damage done.’ His hands felt firm on her arms. If he let her go, she thought she would slither to the floor like a discarded rag. She leaned into his body and closed her eyes. He whispered her name as his fingers tangled in her hair. He was telling her that everything was going to be all right. Sarah let his words seep into her bones. ‘You’re all right,’ he said.

  ‘I thought . . .’ She stopped, unable to go on. A tremor seemed to take hold of her spine, her hands shaking.

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I know.’ He pulled her into his arms.

  As he held her, she listened to his voice and let the tears come. She cri
ed from the shock, from the fear, from the exhaustion, from everything. He fell silent but continued to hold her, stroking her back gently. Sarah finally pulled herself away, pushing her hair off her face. She dragged it up into a ponytail, walked unsteadily to the table and sat down. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  He sat and took her hands in his. ‘It’s all right. You’ve had a shock. Given what you’ve been through it’s no wonder. Just take some deep breaths. I’ll get you a drink.’

  Sarah rocked back and forth on the chair and stared down at her hands as she calmed her breathing. When he returned with her drink she sat back, took a large breath in through her nose and blew it out through her lips. She did it again, took the drink and looked up. ‘Thank you,’ she sighed. ‘I’m OK. Sorry, it was just a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘Really, stop apologizing. It’s fine.’

  Sarah looked at his face. He didn’t look fine; he looked uncomfortable, but then what guy wouldn’t be when faced with a crying woman?

  ‘I should go, let you rest,’ he said, standing to leave.

  ‘Please,’ she said, before she could stop herself. ‘Can you just stay for a minute? Just until I get myself sorted?’

  He seemed to think for a second, but then said, ‘Yes, of course. Take your time.’

  Sarah clutched her glass to her chest, taking small sips, her hands still shaking. The whiskey warmed her throat, relaxing her aching muscles. Mike sat quietly in front of her. When she looked up she saw something different in his expression. They stared at each other, neither looking away, neither speaking. She could hear the seconds ticking by on the kitchen clock. In the small gap between them Sarah could almost see a shimmering haze, as if heat was radiating off her body or his or both. His eyes were dark, his pupils large black circles.

  Without speaking, he reached up and touched her face. The warmth of his skin sent an unfamiliar shiver over her whole body. He held her gaze. She leaned towards him. He responded by brushing her lips with his. The kiss was gentle, caressing. He kissed her again, firmer this time. As Sarah closed her eyes she felt the tip of his tongue on her lips, a moan escaping her mouth as he pulled her to him. Without thinking she wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers burrowing into his hair. It felt coarse, his scalp hot to the touch.

  He stood, lifting her easily into his arms, his lips never leaving hers. She pulled him closer. She could hear his breaths coming in quick gasps as he grappled with her shirt. A button broke away from the fabric and skittered across the kitchen floor. He pulled back and looked at her. There was a moment, Sarah could see it. He seemed to be wrestling with his own indecision but it only lasted for a few seconds and then he was back in her arms.

  36

  7 February – Friday

  Lockyer pushed his front door closed and walked down the hallway, turning on lights as he went. It was still early: 7.15 on his kitchen clock. He flicked the switch on the kettle and looked out of the window at his snow-covered garden. An image flashed into his mind of Sarah, lying naked on her bed, reaching out to him. His body reacted to the memory. He pulled out a kitchen chair, sat down and put his head in his hands. ‘What are you playing at? Are you trying to get fired?’

  As the kettle boiled he stood up and made himself a cup of tea and walked through to his bedroom, taking small gulps as he went. If Roger hadn’t called and cancelled their meeting last night, Lockyer would have left Sarah’s house hours earlier. ‘Christ,’ he said, slapping his forehead. Was he really trying to blame his boss? No one had made him do anything. He had chosen to exclude Jane, his team and Roger. The sound of his doorbell saved him from any more mental remonstrations.

  He pushed himself up off the bed and walked out of the room and down the hallway, trying to decipher his visitor by the shadowed form beyond the opaque glass. He couldn’t. He turned the latch and pulled open the door, immediately wishing he had been in the shower, or asleep, or anywhere but right here, standing at his front door facing his SIO. Roger didn’t even bother to greet him. Instead he pushed past and walked down the hallway and into the lounge.

  Lockyer followed and closed the door behind him. He didn’t need any nosy neighbours hearing the dressing-down he was about to get. This wasn’t the first time he had been on the receiving end of Roger’s fury. His SIO could never be described as quiet.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink, boss?’ he asked, deciding it was probably best to keep it formal.

  ‘No, thank you. This won’t take long,’ Roger said, not even bothering to look at him.

  ‘OK,’ he said, debating whether he should sit or remain standing like Roger. He decided at this point it made little difference, so lowered himself into an armchair. Sunshine streamed through his floor-to-ceiling Georgian windows, forcing him to shield his eyes as he mentally braced himself for what was to come.

  ‘I assume we can skip the preamble about why I’m here?’ Roger said.

  ‘Yes, sir. I . . .’ Before he had the chance to finish or even start his apology, Roger was shaking his head and pacing back and forth, periodically blocking the sun’s path into Lockyer’s face.

  ‘Let’s not bullshit each other, Mike, OK? You are no doubt going to tell me that I’ve nothing to be concerned about . . . that you filed all the necessary paperwork and dealt with the evidence in an expedient manner. And of course, that you didn’t tell me because it’s your case and you’re running it, so you decided to take it upon yourself to get the item of jewellery checked out and verified before you bothered someone in my position with it. Am I close?’

  He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. ‘Yes, boss. Sounds about right.’

  ‘Good. So now we’ve skipped the shit, you can tell me what the hell you think you’re playing at?’ Roger’s face was puce, his hands balled so tightly into fists that his knuckles were white.

  Both men faced each other in the silence until Lockyer finally gave in, sat back in his chair and said, ‘You’d better take a seat, Roger.’ His boss obliged by sitting on the very edge of Lockyer’s new sofa, rearranging his suit trousers as he did so. ‘I found the item of jewellery in an assisted living facility, just outside Lewisham. It’s called Cliffview and . . .’ He stopped when Roger held up his hand.

  ‘Spare me. We’re way past you giving me a normal rundown . . . I’ve read your report,’ Roger said, putting both hands flat against his thighs. It looked like he was struggling to hold his temper. ‘What I want to know, Mike . . . what I need to know is why I had to find out about this from some exhibits clerk?’

  Lockyer didn’t know what to say. The excuses he had been flooding his mind with for the past twenty-four hours were pathetic. He shook his head and stared down at his feet.

  ‘Is all of this . . .’ Roger waved a hand in the air, his eyebrows high on his forehead, ‘this nonsense because of your brother?’ he asked, incredulity in his voice.

  ‘I guess so,’ he said, ashamed of the weakness in his voice.

  Roger stood up and started pacing the living room again but before he could speak Lockyer decided to get it over with. ‘Look, Roger, I’ve only known him . . . my brother, for the past five years. My parents sent him to live with an aunt when I was four. I only found out he existed when my father died. Bobby’s autistic. I moved him down here, to Cliffview. It’s a nice place. He gets to live a relatively independent life.’ He paused, unsure how to continue. ‘I guess I panicked,’ he said. ‘I found the earring, realized it had belonged to Debbie . . . one of the victims . . . and I panicked. The last thing I wanted was SOCO swarming all over Cliffview, not to mention my brother being treated as a suspect, which he’d have to be. I just couldn’t handle the idea of that, sir.’ He finished speaking and braved a look in Roger’s direction. His boss’s face was no longer puce so he decided to keep going. ‘The killer planted that earring, boss, for me to find. My face has been all over the papers for weeks and Phil said the suspect would be following the media coverage. This guy has obviously decided to fixate on me. He’s play
ing games with me, trying to implicate my brother. It was him. I know it.’

  Roger took a deep breath, stopped pacing and put both of his hands in the air. ‘You seem to have forgotten, Mike, that I have been on the force for thirty-seven years. I am not braindead and I know a plant when I see one,’he said, closing his eyes, the frustration evident on his face. ‘The point is . . . you should have informed me. Instead, I hear about it from some exhibits clerk. It didn’t take Jane long to find out the rest.’ Roger was clenching his jaw. He looked like he was going to burst. ‘If you’re right, which I don’t doubt . . . and Lewisham’s very first serial killer was in your brother’s room, then wouldn’t it seem important that SOCO dusted the house for prints immediately?’

  He realized shutting the door to the lounge had been a moot effort. There was no way his neighbours or in fact anyone on his street could have failed to hear Roger’s last sentence. ‘Boss, I have never and would never do anything to jeopardize a case.’ An image of Sarah flashed into his mind. ‘I know I screwed up, Roger, and I’m sorry. SOCO are at the house now. I was literally just changing before heading there myself.’ He could see Roger’s colour returning to some semblance of normal but he wasn’t out of the woods yet. ‘I guess what I’m saying is, I needed some time.’

  ‘Not a good enough excuse, Mike,’ Roger said, shaking his head and opening the door to the lounge. ‘Now, I have to go. I have a meeting with the chief in an hour. I have to find a way of spinning this so you don’t end up unemployed and I’m not left high and dry without one of my best detectives.’

  They walked to the front door in silence. Lockyer pulled it open and shook Roger’s hand. ‘Thank you, Roger. And for what it’s worth, I really am sorry.’

  ‘This isn’t the first time I’ve saved your arse, Mike, but do me a personal favour and make it the last, OK?’ Roger said, stepping out into the cold, the snow still covering the pavement. ‘You will have to brief your team. I don’t care how you handle it but I don’t want to hear about this again. And . . .’ He looked at Lockyer. ‘Your brother is going to have to provide fingerprints and a DNA sample.’