Lost Souls Page 6

People always gave her sympathy like this, but she didn’t need it. She was old enough to look after herself.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said.

  ‘So, where did you go?’

  ‘Went to a friend’s for a bit. But then her parents said I couldn’t stay there for ever. I’m at The Beacon, now.’

  ‘The Beacon?’

  ‘It’s this new home for teenagers. It’s cool, it’s not as strict as a lot of places. And the people who run it don’t mind if I want to like, sleep at friends’ houses and stuff.’ That wasn’t completely true, but it sounded good.

  ‘Wow. So, it’s all right there?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Even though it was a decent place to live – better than most homes she’d been in since leaving Mum’s – what Charley really craved was her own place. Independence, freedom. She could host parties, meet boys…

  ‘Sweet. So, you buying some clothes then?’

  ‘Er, no. Just looking.’ She took a half-step away from the rack. ‘Haven’t got any money.’

  ‘Hm.’ He pressed his lips together, then glanced from her to the trousers and back. ‘How much are they?’

  ‘Twenty-five quid.’

  He reached into his back pocket and produced a wallet. Took out some notes. ‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘My treat.’

  Charley hesitated. She’d learned early on in life that nothing came for free. But she also knew that you had to take chances when they were given to you. And she really wanted these trousers.

  ‘Oh, um, OK,’ she said, reaching out and taking the notes. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘No probs.’ He smiled at her again. A big, friendly grin. He was cool.

  Fifteen

  Lockhart found the man he was looking for in the main hall of Latchmere Leisure Centre. Ben Morris was one of the coaches who ran the after-school sports club on behalf of Wandsworth Council. When the MIT had called to follow up on Donovan’s ID card, the manager told them that Morris was the best person to speak to, since he led the regular football sessions that Donovan attended.

  Lockhart watched from the sidelines as a dozen boys and girls – half in red bibs, half in green – charged after a ball, all calling out at once. Here! Pass! He smiled to himself, briefly reminded of his own youth and the school playground. He’d always preferred climbing on stuff to football, never had much natural skill for the game. But he was still an asset to any team, because he just kept going. Chased and chased until either the game ended, or he dropped. Twenty-five years later, nothing about that had really changed. His thoughts had just wandered to Jess when a whistle blew, and he looked up. Morris was walking towards him.

  ‘You must be the detective,’ he said, his expression serious. ‘Manager said you wanted to speak to me. About Donovan.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Lockhart showed his warrant card, introduced himself. ‘Have you got a minute now?’

  ‘Sure.’ Morris turned and called some instructions to the other coaches. ‘Come on, let’s get you squared away with a brew.’

  Lockhart recognised the phrase immediately. ‘Forces?’ he asked.

  The younger man nodded. ‘Three Para. You?’

  ‘Two rifles. Then SF.’

  ‘Hereford or Poole?’

  ‘SRR.’

  Morris looked impressed at the mention of Lockhart’s old unit, the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. He wondered why Morris had left the army; he looked fit and strong, didn’t appear to be injured, and wasn’t old enough to have reached twenty-two years’ service. He guessed the most likely explanation was mental health; since Lockhart had been through those challenges himself, he decided to leave the question unasked. Morris would mention it if he wanted to.

  Once they had cups of tea and were seated in a quiet corner of the café area, Lockhart asked what Morris could tell him about Donovan.

  ‘He was a good lad. Bit shy, but he had some fight in him. You know when you can tell that a kid’s got character?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Decent footballer, too. I wanted him to do some trials for local youth teams, see where he could get in. Have some proper training and that.’

  Lockhart sipped his tea. ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘He wasn’t always here. From one week to the next, you were never sure if he’d turn up or not. I told him if he wanted to move on a level, play for a team, then he needed to be there every session. No excuses.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He wanted to try, but I don’t think his foster parents were best pleased at the idea.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘They didn’t particularly like bringing him here,’ Donovan said. ‘The dad wasn’t the same as the other parents, who just drop the kids with us and then go back home or come in here for a brew. He’d just stand there, watching the whole time, like he was suspicious of what we were doing or something. He was a bit weird, to be honest.’

  Lockhart had caught up with Smith earlier after the visit by her and Khan to the Hughes’ home. He knew what they’d thought of the couple, but he wanted to hear Morris’s view.

  ‘How so?’

  Morris spun his cardboard cup on the tabletop. ‘He just… I dunno, stared a lot. Didn’t say much. Almost nothing, in fact. Never even smiled, neither. Once, I found him talking to another one of the kids, alone, in the changing rooms. There was nothing mega dodgy about it; I mean, some parents know their kids’ mates and that. Not him, though. I never reported it, but it was kind of…’

  ‘Odd.’

  ‘Spot on.’

  Lockhart made a mental note to double-check Roger Hughes’s alibi for Donovan’s estimated time of death. And to follow up on Donovan’s birth parents, too. They hadn’t been able to trace them yet.

  ‘As I say, Donovan wasn’t as regular here as some kids. So, when he stopped coming, I didn’t even know he’d gone missing. I just thought the parents had been, like, that’s enough.’ Morris made a chopping motion with his hand. ‘Poor little fella.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt him?’

  The coach drank some tea. ‘Nope. Can’t think of no one.’

  Lockhart linked his fingers together and rested his hands on the table. ‘Seems like you had a bit of a relationship with him.’

  ‘Yeah, we got on. I saw him once or twice at his school, too, when I was in on supply teaching PE. Nice kid.’

  ‘Did he ever mention anyone to you that he wasn’t comfortable with, a new person, someone he’d met, perhaps? Anything at all out of the ordinary?’

  Morris considered this for a moment, then shook his head slowly. ‘Not that I know of. The only other people I knew he had contact with was that charity. They were the ones who told him about this place, I think. Maybe even paid for his first few sessions.’

  ‘What charity?’ This was the first Lockhart had heard of another organisation connected to Donovan.

  ‘Hang on…’ Morris pinched his brow. ‘Oh, yeah. Youth Rise Up. That’s the one.’

  Lockhart didn’t know it, but that wasn’t surprising. There were a ton of charities operating in London, especially with children and young people. He took down the name; someone from the MIT could make a visit to their office tomorrow.

  He thanked Morris for his time. ‘Stay well, yeah?’ he added, hoping the subtext would be clear to a fellow ex-soldier.

  The younger man studied him for a second, then nodded. ‘Cheers. Yeah, you too.’

  Lockhart wondered if his mental health guess was right, and whether Morris’s parting words meant he’d seen the same in him. Despite Green’s help, Lockhart still did his best to hide his emotions most of the time. But maybe people who’d been through similar stuff could spot that in each other, however deep they buried it.

  Sixteen

  ‘It just really sucks. And it scares the hell out of me.’ Lexi lifted the seared eggplant slices out of the pan and placed them on a plate beside the cooker.

  ‘Oh my god, Lex, I can imagine.’ Sarah’s eyes were wide with concern. ‘H
ow’s he doing?’

  After the false alarm of Tim’s text earlier, Lexi had eventually received a message from her mom to say that her dad had a confirmed diagnosis of Covid-19.

  ‘Uh, he’s OK right now. I spoke to him earlier. He says his symptoms are really mild. And it wasn’t just him playing it down. Mom told me that’s what the doctors had said.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Sarah blinked. Then she turned to the eggplant, arranging the slices in the heavy baking dish between them on the kitchen counter. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Sixty-one. Not super-high risk.’ Lexi poured some more oil in the pan and let it heat. ‘It’s just that, with his bronchitis in the past, he’s a little more vulnerable.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Sarah sighed. ‘Hope he gets over it soon, then.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Lexi knew she could tell Sarah anything. For some reason, though, she didn’t want to give in to the tears that she could feel prickling her eyes as the tightness in her throat grew. But there was no fooling Sarah.

  ‘Hey, come here,’ she said, first laying a hand on Lexi’s arm, then pulling her into a hug. Lexi held tight to her. After a few moments, Sarah rubbed her back, then squeezed her shoulders, and gave her a little space again. ‘You thinking of going over there?’

  Lexi remembered the last time she’d flown to the States to see her family. Almost a year ago, before the pandemic. It’d been too long, even without her dad getting sick. She didn’t visit as often as she knew she should; there were too many reminders of the things that had pushed her to come here, to London. Mostly of her brother, Shep… and his drug overdose that she hadn’t been there to prevent. Lexi threw a few more eggplant slices into the pan. They sizzled loudly and aggressively in the hot oil.

  ‘I want to,’ she replied. ‘But I’d have to stay away from them. My mom is isolating with him. She thinks she’s already had it, so she’s not all that worried about herself.’

  ‘That’s great that he’s got your mum there.’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, I could go stay in a hotel, help them with groceries and stuff, hang out in their back yard…’ Lexi knew that in January on the northeast coast, that was likely to mean freezing her butt off. But she didn’t care.

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Maybe they’d appreciate that.’

  ‘I offered, but they told me I was better off here, helping people at work. They know all about the Covid-19 PTSD cases I’ve been treating, on top of all the regular clients.’ Most of those patients were either NHS staff or members of the public who’d been on the acute wards at the peak of the virus last year, when hundreds were dying every day nationwide.

  ‘So, you’re just going to have Zoom calls or whatever?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Lexi. ‘It’s frustrating. Like, I wanna do more.’

  ‘I get that. Being there for him on the calls is good though.’

  ‘Sure.’ Lexi flipped the eggplant slices, producing a new burst of steam and hissing. ‘Means I can keep an eye on him, at least.’ She threw a glance at Sarah, arched her eyebrows. ‘He’s kinda stoical about it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t want you to make a fuss, right? My mum’s the same. All her family in Jamaica are like that.’

  ‘Right. I guess for him it’s a military thing. Tough it out, or whatever.’ Lexi found herself thinking of Dan, imagining that he’d be the same.

  ‘Well, tell him I send him a big hug.’

  ‘I will.’ Lexi pressed her lips together briefly. ‘He’d like that.’

  For a minute or two, the only sound was Dua Lipa belting out a disco track on Spotify as they continued making the eggplant parmigiana together. Lexi was all about winter comfort food, and this was one of her favourites. Thick tomato sauce, bubbling cheese… Mo would surely demolish a plateful when he got in from work.

  ‘So… have you spoken to Tim?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Lexi had to admit that she hadn’t thought about him all that much since hearing the news about her dad’s health. ‘I tried calling him during my lunch break, but he didn’t pick up. Guess he’s still mad at me for cancelling our date.’

  Sarah gave a little snort. ‘I’m sorry, but he’s got to get over that. You had work to do. Like, serious, proper stuff.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe he doesn’t see it that way.’

  ‘Screw him then!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘He should get it, he’s a teacher.’

  ‘He might’ve had something special planned. Or maybe he was just stressed about going back to school after the break.’

  Sarah folded her arms, pointed a finger at her. ‘Don’t make excuses for him.’

  ‘I’m not, I just…’ Lexi wasn’t quite sure how to explain it, because she didn’t understand it herself, yet. ‘I know he’s got some stuff of his own going on.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘I dunno, he… like, he doesn’t talk about his family, at all. I think he’s a little sensitive about relationships.’

  Sarah cocked her head. ‘You mean he’s got attachment issues?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘Hm. Anyway, we’ll figure it out.’ Lexi jabbed the slice at the pan. The mention of attachment between parents and children was making her think of the case, and Donovan Blair. ‘Hey, you work with children,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. And look, I don’t throw my toys out of the pram when you have to work late helping the police.’

  ‘Leave Tim alone.’ Lexi managed a half-smile. ‘He’s a good guy.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Who do you think poses the greatest danger to a child?’ asked Lexi. ‘Especially one in care.’

  Sarah’s brow furrowed. ‘Well, you know for ages we had this whole “stranger danger” thing in the UK.’ She made quote marks in the air with her fingers.

  ‘Same in the US. Don’t talk to strangers, right?’

  ‘Yeah. But the fact is, it’s almost always the people closest to kids who are most likely to harm them. In my experience, when it’s parents, the signs are obvious. They’re usually in the same house and, it’s like, you know what’s going on. The abusers no one sees coming are one step removed. The uncle, the family friend, the person who runs activities for them or whatever.’

  Lexi recalled what Dan had told her about the ligature marks on Donovan’s neck. Attacked from behind. ‘People they trust,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, exactly.’

  She wondered who it was that had gained the trust of a twelve-year-old child. And why that person had done what they did to Donovan. All the religious stuff, forgiveness, redemption… Lexi had a strong hunch that the answer lay in the killer’s past. She just hoped she could help Dan unlock it soon, before child became children.

  Seventeen

  He’d dreamed about what life would be like on the streets. Freedom, independence, no grown-ups telling him what to do. And no bigger boys taking his food. But the reality had turned out to be very different. No one had told him how hard it would be, every single day, just trying to get by.

  If he thought he had problems getting food in the children’s home, it was even worse on the street. But he got resourceful. Foraging in bins, begging a bit, asking in restaurants and cafés. He learned to shoplift, tucking items into his jacket or swiping stuff from displays outside shops. If he was lucky, he’d get dinner from one of the mobile vans or soup kitchens.

  Then there was sleeping. That was a challenge, too. After spending the first few nights in a park, he’d found a place in a hostel – with a hot meal included – but within a week, he’d got into a fight with a teenager. The older boy had told him in no uncertain terms that if he came back there, he’d be ‘cut’. He didn’t like the thought of that, so he’d had to find a plan B.

  Kipping during the day was always easier because there were fewer dangers. There was no softer target than a sleeping kid huddled up in a doorway, so he kept on the move after dark, walking around or riding night buses. If he’d scraped together enough cash for a drink or some chips,
he’d head to a 24-hour McDonald’s and hang out there for a while.

  One night, he got talking to another homeless kid, Jack, who told him that railway stations were some of the best spots. You could meet people, get stuff, maybe even go places if you were able to sneak onto a train. Or, you could just watch, waiting for the unsuspecting, bleary-eyed tourist who’d just arrived off a coach or airport shuttle, and pickpocket them.

  He and Jack got on OK, so they started working together. One would distract or divert while the other stole. They’d nick anything that looked valuable or useful, split it fifty-fifty. They learned to trade items, even sell some of the bigger and more expensive stuff like coats, handbags, mobile phones. People often didn’t pay attention to a kid. Well, that was their mistake.

  This worked pretty well for a few months, but as winter began to close in, he and Jack thought about looking for some kind of shelter at nights. Anything would do, so long as it kept the rain and the cold out. Jack heard about a squat house that a few people were living in nearby, in Vauxhall. He remembered his excitement when they first turned up there.

  People were sitting around fire baskets with burning logs, keeping warm. They had blankets to spare, thanks to a delivery from some charity. There were adults, teenagers, and a few people like him and Jack who hadn’t even turned thirteen yet. Booze, cigarettes, weed. And music.

  He could recall sitting by the fire, sharing a can of beer with Jack while a stereo blasted out Green Day, The Killers, Linkin Park. Thrashing guitars, heavy drums, vocals full of anger and pain. He’d closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. He hadn’t recalled feeling so happy or safe in years. After the freezing railway arches and underpasses, this place was like a luxury hotel – not that he’d ever stayed in one.

  But even as he listened to Billie Joe Armstrong sing about walking alone down the ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’, he should’ve known it was too good to be true. The first hit that the man had given him was free. That ought to have rung an alarm bell, but he was too caught up in the moment. He thought those people were his friends. He’d forgotten that nothing came without a price on the streets. You had to pay what you owed, one way or another.