Authors: Clare Donoghue
The lift shuddered into motion and climbed to the next floor. He didn’t wait for the doors to open fully. He walked out, head down, towards a part of the building he had never visited before. This was his first scheduled appointment. It would be a weekly event, until such time as Roger was satisfied that Lockyer was ‘back on form’, as he put it.
The sign on the door in front of him made his head ache. The black stencilling on the door read:
Occupational Health – Counselling Service.
He didn’t want to be here.
26th April
–
Saturday
Jane’s mobile started to ring. She was pacing back and forth in front of Boots on the high street. She couldn’t stay in the office. Not after Lockyer’s rant. She looked at the screen. ‘Sue, hi,’ she said, holding the phone to her ear and walking away from a group of teenagers. ‘I was just going to call you.’ It felt like a lie. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m all right. I’m okay,’ Sue said, her voice not matching the sentiment. ‘Any news?’
Jane felt as if she had two unexploded grenades, one in each hand, both missing a pin, both seconds away from blowing up in her face. One was Sue. The other was her boss. ‘I was just speaking to Lockyer – Mike, I mean,’ she said, correcting herself. ‘If it’s okay with you, he’s going to come out and see you this afternoon, to update you on where we are.’ She perched on the edge of a bench, trying to avoid an array of bird-shit and chewing gum. ‘Will that work with the boys? Are they home?’
‘Er, yes, that’s fine,’ Sue said. ‘I’m home all day. The boys are with friends for the night,’ she continued. ‘I’m grateful Mike can see me . . . at the weekend, I mean. I was hoping to speak to him. Not that I don’t trust that you’re doing everything you can, Jane, but I just hoped, you know, given his relationship with Mark, that he’d be more . . . involved.’
‘Of course, I understand,’ she said, feeling helpless as she listened to Sue crying at the other end of the line. She watched a mother pushing a pram; two girls smoking, laughing. Their days were normal. Their lives were moving forward. Sue’s wasn’t.
‘It’s been four days. Four days,’ Sue said, sniffing. ‘I understand how busy Mike must be, but he’s Mark’s friend. I thought he would at least have phoned to say . . . to say . . . ’ Her words disappeared into a sob.
‘I’m sorry, Sue,’ Jane said, feeling her face heat up with anger. Lockyer had lied to her. Again. He hadn’t spoken to Sue at all. ‘Listen. Let me get Mike to call you. You can sort out a time with him, and I’ll give you a call later on today to see how you’re doing. How does that sound?’
Sue sniffed. ‘Thank you, Jane. I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me . . . and Mark. The kids are a mess. I’m a mess.’
‘I know, I know. I’m here, Sue. We will find Mark, I promise you.’ It was the first time in her career that she had ever made a promise to a relative. It was a reckless thing to do, because how could she possibly stand by her word? She stood up and started pacing again. ‘I’ll call you later. Okay?’
‘Thank you, Jane. Thank you.’
She hung up the phone and logged into her emails. She opened a new message and addressed it to Lockyer: ‘Call from Sue Leech, 10.13. Requested update on case. Advised you would call ASAP and confirm meeting at Leech residence this afternoon to update. Did not mention blood-work results.’ She pressed ‘Send’ and started to walk back towards the office. She couldn’t believe what she was about to do, but what other choice did she have? There was no way she could allow Lockyer’s behaviour to continue unchecked. Even her loyalty had limits.
26th April
–
Saturday
‘Sir,’ Jane said.
Roger Westwood, SIO for three of the murder-squad teams, looked up from his desk. He was on the phone, but seemed to be coming to the end of his call. He waved Jane into his office and gestured for her to sit down. The feeling of betrayal weighed her down, her guilt compounding with each step into the room. She sat with a bump and looked over Roger’s head. It sounded as if he was talking to his daughter. His tone was indulgent and firm, a combination reserved for children who were trying to get their own way. From the side of the conversation that Jane could hear, he was putting on a good show of resistance.
She crossed her legs, straightened her skirt and looked out of the window at St Stephen’s church and the huge elm tree that shaded it. The sun bounced off the leaves as they swayed in a light breeze. From Roger’s office she would never have guessed she was in Lewisham – or in London even. It struck her as funny how a different office, location or view could change someone’s perspective, even their reality. It made her think of Maggie, of Elmstead, and what it meant to her killer. She heard a change in Roger’s voice as his conversation came to an end. There was one word his daughter was waiting to hear and she suspected her SIO was seconds away from saying it.
‘All right, yes. Okay,’ he said, shaking his head. He looked over at Jane and shrugged his shoulders, defeated. ‘Yes, yes. I’ll speak to your mother,’ he paused. ‘You too,’ he said, hanging up the phone. ‘I’m sorry about that, Jane. My daughter,’ he went on, gesturing at the phone. ‘She wants to borrow my car to move into her new flat. Apparently her car is too small and unsafe with a heavy load.’ He shook his head again. ‘God, I’m a soft touch.’
‘All parents are,’ she said.
‘There should be a course, some study group – a “how to” on parenting. How to spot emotional manipulation and avoid it.’ He laughed.
‘I’m pretty sure you’d still give in, sir.’
‘You’re probably right.’ He stood up, arched his back and looked out of his window at the view Jane had just been admiring. She wondered how he saw it, and what it meant to him. ‘So, what can I do for you, DS Bennett? You don’t want to borrow my car, do you?’ he asked, looking over his shoulder at her, smiling.
Words failed her. Roger was in a good mood, jovial even, especially for a Saturday morning. What she had to say was serious. Too serious. He didn’t need to know. It could wait until Monday, until after the morning briefing. She was overreacting anyway. She started to stand, opening her mouth to apologize.
‘Right, I see,’ he said. ‘It’s like that, is it?’ He walked around his desk, put his hand on her shoulder as he passed and closed the door to his office. Once he was back in his chair he shuffled forward and looked at her. ‘Let me guess . . . Lockyer?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, staring down at her hands.
‘Let’s hear it then. What’s he been up to now?’
She felt like a snitch, a child telling on a friend. This was wrong, but it was too late. Roger was looking at her, his eyebrows raised. He was waiting for her to speak. She had no choice.
Jane stood in the lift, massaging her temples, her eyes closed. Christina O’Reilly was waiting for her down in the interview suite. Her appointment wasn’t scheduled until Monday morning, but according to the desk sergeant, Maggie’s best friend couldn’t wait and had come into the station on the off-chance that, first, Jane would be in the office and, second, would have time to see her. She should be thinking about why Christina O’Reilly was so desperate to talk to her, but all Jane could think about was her conversation with Roger. Her SIO had been understanding, patient, considered – all the things you would expect someone in senior management to be – but she had sensed his concern. That wasn’t good. She would have preferred Roger to have dragged Lockyer into his office and given him a bollocking. End of discussion. But Roger wasn’t angry. He was worried. That meant her fears for Lockyer and his mental state weren’t unfounded. ‘Leave it with me’ was all he said.
As she stepped out of the lift her phone buzzed in her pocket. She walked over to the desk sergeant on duty as she took it out. ‘Christina O’Reilly,’ she said, looking down at her phone. She had a new email.
‘I put her in room three,’ he replied, gesturing towards the signing-in register lying open on the counter.
‘Great, thanks.’ She signed in, turned and stopped outside the door to the interview room as she opened the email on her phone. It was from Lockyer. She held her breath as she read: ‘I want to see you in my office ASAP.’
The madness is back, eating away at my mind. It feels different. Not what I expected.
I can’t sleep, no matter how hard I try. I rock back and forth, humming to myself, but as my eyes begin to close I am jolted awake. My stomach flips, my breath catches in my throat, a cold sweat covers my skin. It takes a second, a minute or an hour to remember my predicament. I am nowhere. I am no one. I am not missed. I am not a picture on a carton of milk. I am not missing. I have already gone, passed over into the nothingness. All that awaits me is death. There is some comfort in that thought, but if I cannot sleep, how will I slip away? Will there be pain? I cry, but my face remains dry. There are no tears.
I lie back and blink my eyes, my pupils straining to focus on the blackness. When someone is deprived of one sense, their other senses are meant to develop to compensate. It is true. More than I ever thought possible. I cannot see, but I can hear everything: my breathing, creatures burrowing in the earth, footsteps, my heartbeat, water dripping through rocks, my teeth chattering. Each sound overlaps the other, creating an almost deafening roar. I can smell the earth, the stale air, the cold on my skin. Every breath filling my head, until I think it will burst open. My fingers are constantly moving, caressing my numb skin and the glass-like walls that surround me. I taste the soil, the air and my body as it disintegrates from the inside out, but nothing can hold my attention, nothing can give my mind or body what it craves. The thing I wish for – even more than death – is daylight. Even a brief glimpse would nourish me, more than a thousand hamburgers or an entire lake of cool water. To be able to see for even a second would be enough. Then I can let go. Then I can die in peace.
I wrap my arms around my body. There is no comfort. My body is numb.
26th April
–
Saturday
Jane chanced a look in Lockyer’s direction. He was sitting in his office, his back to her. His blinds were closed. He was waiting for her. She ducked back behind the partition on her desk and continued with her interview report.
Christina O’Reilly had tried her best to be helpful, but Jane had learned very little. She had half-hoped that the premature visit might have meant more. But no. Jane had seen grief manifest itself in a thousand different ways, and Chrissie’s behaviour wasn’t really that unusual. She had just been desperate to talk about Maggie, as if it would somehow bring her friend back. However, there was one piece of information that had got Jane’s attention. According to Chrissie, Maggie had dated a PhD student, Terry Mort, the previous year, but the relationship had only lasted for a few months.
Jane had just hung up the phone after speaking to the head of psychology at the university, Professor Cresswell. He was due to come in for an interview first thing on Tuesday, but had been happy to email over details of Maggie’s tutors, modules, coursework and results to date. It seemed Jane wasn’t the only one who worked weekends. From a brief look, the drop-off in Maggie’s work was evident and was more serious than either her parents or Chrissie knew. Maggie had missed a number of classes and had been late with three separate coursework proposals. The downward trend appeared to start around the time of the break-up with Mort, the PhD student. Was that a coincidence?
Jane clicked into the ‘Action’ list on her computer. The head of administration was organizing class lists for Maggie’s modules and a full student list, separated into degree, Masters and doctoral level, together with a map of the university detailing communal areas and where each subject was taught. Penny was making sure that got followed up, and was collating information from the interviews already carried out. William Hungerford had dropped off Maggie’s laptop, mobile phone and Kindle this morning. Jane had asked the Computer Forensics team to check Maggie’s email accounts, social media activity, online dating and any photographs of men taken in the last twelve months. Chris would oversee this and report back. Franks and Sasha were finalizing the door-to-door enquiries at Maggie’s home address and in Elmstead, and maintaining security around the tomb. And Whitemore was liaising with the Exhibits team. Jane was going to need more help, especially after last night’s press conference naming Maggie and asking the public for help. Roger had agreed to sign off on a provisional eight to twelve officers, based on her estimates, but even that might not be enough.
She put her head in her hands. There was so much to do, and she hadn’t even begun to allocate duties relating to Mark’s disappearance. Mind you, there was at least a ray of hope on that score. Sue had confirmed that she and the children never went away without Mark, certainly not since his retirement – something Jane had thought odd. What were the chances that his attacker just happened to choose a day when Mark was home alone? That suggested that the attack was premeditated, and that the attacker must have had access to, or at least knowledge of, Mark and Sue’s schedule. Did that mean the attacker had access to their emails or telephone, or was he or she using the local resident grapevine to get information? Jane didn’t know the answer to that question, but she knew where to start. Mark was bound to have made more than a few enemies during his career in the murder squad. She would need to go over his old cases, checking convictions, jail terms and cross-referencing current residence status. But that would have to wait. She pushed herself away from her desk. It was now or never.
Guilt slowed her steps as she walked towards Lockyer’s office. She had almost managed to convince herself that she had no choice; that his erratic behaviour had to be reported. But it wasn’t that simple. She was worried about him, but she couldn’t deny she was also pissed off with him, for acting like a nut-job on the Stevens case and for lying to her about his brother. She was also running two major investigations, and the truth was that she was floundering. She needed Lockyer’s help and he hadn’t been there for her, so she had gone running to Roger, like a coward. She knocked her knuckles on the glass door a few times and waited. Lockyer turned and motioned for her to come in.