Authors: Clare Donoghue
‘Yes,’ he said, staring into his pint.
‘Your father dies. You discover you’ve got a brother. You move him to Lewisham. You try and build a relationship with someone who is, in essence, closed off from you. And you never say a word – not a word. After your father died you carried on, business as usual. The team talked about it at the time. Figured you weren’t close, or whatever.’
‘My father was—’ he began.
‘No, no,’ she said, holding up her hand. ‘I don’t expect you to share your personal life with me. Your family, your life – that’s your business. I only mean that we could have helped each other. You know? I have no one who really understands what it’s like with Peter. I mean, I’ve got my folks and friends, but it’s not the same. I have work to deal with, and I have home.’ She shook her head and pushed her drink away from her. ‘It would have been nice if you had talked to me about it. I could have helped you, and in turn that might have helped me. I feel so isolated sometimes; and there you are going through almost exactly the same thing and we’re not talking. You’re not talking. What’s the point of being colleagues – of being friends – if you can’t share something like that?’ Lockyer opened his mouth, ready to defend himself. ‘Look, I’m not trying to have a go at you. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. It’s just that, with this whole Stevens case and everything that happened, it feels like the trust I thought we had is worth nothing. I trust you, but it feels like you don’t trust me.’ She stopped, her eyes blinking. She looked as if she might cry.
‘I . . . ’ he began, again feeling like a small boy standing in front of his mother when he had done something bad. ‘I had no idea. I didn’t think, Jane.’ He searched his mind for how he really felt, what he really wanted to say. Now wasn’t the time to fall back on even more euphemisms. ‘I do trust you.’
‘Do you, Mike?’ she asked. Again, hearing his first name unsettled him. It held an intimacy that he wasn’t comfortable with, not in this situation anyway.
‘Of course. I chose you for my team. I chose you as lead DS. If I’m honest, I probably trust you more than I trust Roger, or even Dave.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really,’ he said. He felt angry. How did she not know all of this? He had assumed it was his actions on the Stevens case that had caused the problem between them.
Bobby . . . trust
– it had never even crossed his mind.
‘You thought this was about
her
, didn’t you?’ Jane said, looking over her shoulder, as if checking that no one was listening to their conversation.
‘You said something about trust – about lying – a while back,’ he replied, trying to recall the conversation: a few garbled exchanges that hadn’t amounted to anything. ‘I figured you were pissed off that I had gone behind your back, that I might have jeopardized the case.’
‘He killed five women, Mike,’ Jane said, her voice loud. She looked around her again. ‘He would have killed five more if we hadn’t stopped him, and you think I was worried about the case?’ She stopped. ‘I was worried about
you
.’ Again she stopped, before looking up and holding his eye. ‘Look, I’m not going to say you were right. You weren’t. It was stupid, reckless and against every rule in the book. You know that. I know that. Everyone in the bloody office knows that. But that doesn’t change anything. Those women are still dead. She died because of me, because of you.’
She might as well have smashed her glass and ground the broken shards into his face. He felt sick. ‘Jane,’ he said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before opening them again. ‘He made those choices, not you. He killed those women, not you. I fucked up, and people got hurt. I have to live with that.’ Jane was shaking her head. ‘No, Jane, you need to listen to me now.’ He waited until he had her attention. ‘It wasn’t your fault, any more than all the other murders we deal with. It happened – there’s nothing you or I can do about it. It’s not your responsibility. I am not your responsibility. Do you understand me?’ She nodded. He could see her eyes were wet with tears. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t know how. ‘I didn’t tell you about my brother, because I’m an idiot. I was ashamed of . . . ’ he paused, ‘of nothing. I don’t know why, but I blamed myself for my parents sending Bobby away. As for the Stevens case, I can’t defend my actions, any more than I can explain them. But we’re past that now. What you need to know is that I trust you. I value you. I don’t want you to doubt that again.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jane said in a voice so quiet that it was almost drowned out by the music that surrounded them.
‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘Jane.’ She raised her head. ‘Are we clear?’ He sighed, pushing away the negative feeling. He needed to let it go, for both their sakes. ‘Tell me we’re clear, otherwise I’m going to have to kill you and hide the body. You know I can do it.’ He smiled, willing her to let go too.
She did. She smiled, pushed her hands through her hair and shook her shoulders, as if sloughing off their entire conversation. ‘Yes, sir. We’re clear.’
Relief crashed over him like a wave, washing him clean. ‘Now,’ he said, finishing his pint, ‘we can get back to work. Another?’ he said, pointing to her empty glass.
‘You don’t have to ask me twice, but you’d better make it a spritzer,’ she said.
‘Spritzers are for City women – and you, Jane, are not one of those. You’ll have another glass of wine, and I’ll arrange for Chris to take you home, via your mother’s. Cool?’
‘Cool, sir,’ Jane said, shrugging out of her jacket.
‘And when I get back, you can tell me all about the Hungerford case. I can tell by your notebook that your interview was – shall we say – long?’ She frowned. ‘It’s been on the table for the past hour, Jane,’ he said, pointing to the book lying between their empty glasses. ‘I happen to know that you number all of your notebooks, and that you start a new one for a case that you’re running personally. The Hungerford case has only been yours for a week and that book’s almost half-full.’ He tapped the side of his head with his finger. ‘Not as stupid as I look, eh? I’m not a detective inspector for nothing, you know.’
‘Never doubted you for a second, sir,’ she said.
‘I should think not,’ he said, walking away. He was smiling – really smiling – for the first time in weeks.
30th April
–
Wednesday
Jane stood listening as Professor Cresswell talked. He was in full ‘selling’ mode. Why? She had no idea. Two coppers from Lewisham were hardly ideal candidates for Greenwich University. There was no denying the university’s academic record, and the fees were very competitive, if the professor was to be believed. She was tempted to ask if there were facilities for adults with autism. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again. It was a bit premature to be planning Peter’s further education. As if she could afford the fees anyway, competitive or not. She covered her smile with the back of her hand. She could just imagine what Peter would be like in his interview.
‘So, Peter, what made you choose Greenwich University for your degree?’ He would frown, as if the answer was obvious. ‘My mum’s a detective. A girl was murdered here. My mum visited the campus to find out who killed her. She thought it looked nice.’
Factual. To the point. That was Peter, especially when he wanted something. She could hear his voice now. ‘I’m hot, Mummy. Ice-cream is cold, Mummy. I want one.’ You couldn’t argue with that kind of logic.
She looked at the professor, still in full flow, and realized she hadn’t been listening. She glanced at Lockyer and let her shoulders relax. His eyes were focused. He was paying attention, even if she wasn’t. That had to be a first.
She looked around her at the manicured lawns. This area would be called the ‘quad’ or something similar. She would bet that most universities in London would be all but deserted during examination week. But not here. Dozens of students were sitting on the grass around her, chatting, listening to music or tapping away on their tablets. It had an Oxford or Cambridge air about it, or even Hogwarts. Beautiful stone buildings and archways leading to different parts of the university. It had taken her and Lockyer twenty minutes to find their way in. There were at least four different campuses, specializing in different disciplines. She guessed that once you were signed up, it would all become simple. She imagined it was like Vegas. To the uninitiated, it could be impossible to leave. Lockyer was asking questions about the psychology department now. She took out her notebook to jot down any new names that came up. She still couldn’t believe Lockyer was here with her. After their drink in the pub, things had changed. Not quite back to normal; in fact, nothing like normal. She was going against procedure, and against Roger’s specific instructions, by having her boss with her. She never broke the rules – not if she could help it. In her experience, you couldn’t go far wrong if you followed the rules. But today she wasn’t doing so.
After they had finished sorting out their ‘issues’ in the pub, Lockyer had asked for a rundown on the Leech and Hungerford cases. It was such a familiar question that she had reeled off the information without thinking. It was only when she was halfway through talking about Victor’s interview that she realized something was amiss. She wondered at the time, and now, if Lockyer knew and had pushed her for the details on purpose, keen to step back into the fray. Whatever his motives, she had to admit she was glad he was here. The Hungerford case was building momentum. Her interview with Victor had ended up taking three hours. What he had to say about Terry Mort wasn’t favourable, but was it true? Victor had been Maggie’s boyfriend; Mort was the ex-boyfriend and, according to Victor, deranged. Given his involvement, Victor was not a strong witness, no matter how credible she thought he was.
‘If it’s okay with you,’ Lockyer said to the professor, ‘we’ll just have a wander, and chat to a few of the students, while we’re waiting for Maggie’s MA group to get out of their exam.’ The professor muttered his disapproval. ‘Don’t worry,’ Lockyer continued, taking the guy’s hand to signify that the meeting was at an end. ‘We won’t disturb anyone or delay them unnecessarily. If I could have the list you were just showing us, with the timetables and registered students, that would be a big help. At least that way we can mark off who we manage to speak today, before calling anyone into the station.’ It was obvious the professor wanted to protest, but Lockyer held onto the hand he was shaking and took the pages of A4 with the other.
‘I’ll be in my office, and in and around campus, all day today,’ Cresswell said. It sounded more like a threat than a statement. ‘If I can be of further assistance please don’t hesitate to come and find me. I’ll no doubt see you. Also, if you can go through to the office, they will provide you with ID for the day. We are vigilant when it comes to strangers wandering around on campus.’
‘Very wise,’ Lockyer said, nodding his head. ‘If only all teaching institutions were as well organized as yours.’
If the professor noticed Lockyer’s sarcasm he didn’t show it. He nodded to Jane, but didn’t bother to shake her hand, despite the fact that she was holding it out to him. He must have assumed Lockyer was in charge, but who could blame him? She had stood by, mute, and let him take the lead on her case. But why? This was her investigation. Lockyer said he was only here to observe and support her, but she had fallen back on old habits and stood quietly beside him while he ran the show. She had to snap out of this stupor. The last thing she needed was a disciplinary from Roger for bringing Lockyer along, and then the added insult of not having all the correct information, because she had let her boss ask all the questions. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as the professor walked away. ‘And thank you, sir, for stepping in there. I zoned out for a second. It won’t happen again.’ She could feel her cheeks heating up.
Lockyer turned and stared at her. He nodded and gestured for her to enter the building first. ‘After you,’ he said. ‘It’s your show.’
Two hours and two dozen conversations later Jane felt exhausted. Students were tiring. They were so young and enthusiastic. She couldn’t keep up. The majority of the people they had spoken to were only ten years younger than her, but she felt like an old woman by comparison. As she listened to endless stories about nights out in Greenwich, clubbing up in town and all-night parties she could almost feel her wrinkles getting deeper.
‘Mort’s name came up a lot,’ Lockyer said, pulling on his earlobe.
Jane slid her sunglasses into her handbag and pursed her lips. ‘He’s not popular, that’s for sure.’ She looked up and down the hallways. ‘What I find a bit odd is that so many of the MA students seem to know him. I mean the PhD doesn’t run alongside the Masters. They have some linked events, but not many, and yet eight of the people we talked to mentioned him, without prompting. What does that tell you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Lockyer said, wandering up to a noticeboard and repinning a couple of A4 pages that had come loose. ‘But we know where he is now, so let’s go and find out.’
She nodded and they walked in silence towards the library. Terry Mort had just had a meeting with a tutor and was now, according to several of the students, in the library taking out more research material for his thesis. As they passed the lecture halls and smaller study rooms she thought over what Victor had told her about Mort, comparing it to what his fellow students had to say about the guy. It was true Mort was not popular, but none of the people she and Lockyer had talked to were quite as adamant, or as vocal, as Victor. Had his relationship with Maggie clouded his judgement, or did Victor just know Mort better?
From the university file, Jane knew that Mort was thirty-two, lived alone in Greenwich and was in his second year of his PhD. According to the curriculum, which she’d checked, a full-time PhD would take three years. But Mort had chosen to study part-time, adding a further three years. She couldn’t imagine studying for that length of time. The bulk of the PhD seemed to be research-based, testing theories, finding new treatments or applications utilizing psychological theory – or so the handbook said. It all sounded like psychobabble to her. She kept thinking about a scene in the film
Ghostbusters
, where Bill Murray tests two students with Zener cards, measuring whether stimulus affects ESP. If they fail to guess the picture on the card, they receive a small electric shock. The attractive blonde gets all the questions wrong, but Murray – in his bid to woo her – pretends she’s some kind of telepathic marvel. Her dorky counterpart, however, is shocked mercilessly. Jane had always found the scene funny, but as she walked towards the library she found herself wondering if Mort’s experiments were similarly cruel. Victor had told her that Mort had formed an off-campus clique, and that the group was carrying out unauthorized experiments. When she had asked him to elaborate on what kinds of experiments, Victor had faltered and become vague. She slowed her pace now, allowing Lockyer to go ahead of her.