Never Look Back by Clare Donoghue Read Free Book Online Page A

killer, the police, anyone she could blame for the death of her daughter. He shook his head and pushed himself away from his desk. He knew there would be no respite for the family. Debbie hadn’t died of natural causes or been killed in some tragic accident. She had been viciously taken from the world. It wasn’t something her family would get over.
    He dropped the interviews back onto the file and pushed it to the edge of his desk, shifting in his chair. His arse was asleep. This office wasn’t designed for him. He was six foot three and could barely get his legs under the curved plywood desk.
    He closed his eyes and pictured the crime scene, images forming behind his eyelids. East Dulwich Road deserted but for some temporary traffic lights, the red light reflected by the patches of ice on the road, the pool of blood, the abandoned Rye, the grass standing to attention in the frost. The alley, narrow and dark, littered with bottles, fag butts and syringes. Her blood, black against the cement. Debbie, lying among the debris.
    ‘I need a break,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. The artificial lights were a killer. Lewisham’s new Metropolitan station, home to the area murder squad and numerous other departments, was ultra-modern, lots of blue-tinted glass, red brick, aluminium and no atmosphere whatsoever. He stood up, pushed his hair off his forehead and walked out of the room. ‘Penny, I’m heading out for five minutes. When Jane arrives tell her I want her in the briefing room at eleven to run through today’s action list on the Stevens case. I want the Atherton and Pearson files too, and I want Chris in there, with the interview transcripts prepped.’
    He was desperate for some air; even the smoggy air of Lewisham High Street would do. Five minutes, some breathing space and a coffee from Bella’s. He was halfway across the car park when he saw Jane walking towards him.
    ‘We might have something, sir,’ she said, her breath clouding in front of her face as it mingled with the freezing January air.
    ‘Tell me?’
    ‘The hospital and GP notes didn’t give us much, but I just got off the phone with records and they’ve confirmed that she wasn’t referred for the procedure by her GP. She went through a private clinic.’
    ‘What kind of clinic?’ he asked, turning away from the gates and heading towards his car.
    ‘They provide pregnancy and STD testing, treatment and counselling for young and underage women,’ Jane said, keeping pace beside him. ‘I’ve spoken to the manager, he’s expecting us.’
    ‘Good,’ he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. ‘We’ll take your car; my keys are upstairs.’ He changed direction and headed towards Jane’s Volvo.
    As soon as they were out of the station car park, weaving in and out of the Friday mid-morning traffic, Lockyer noticed the silence. He turned and looked at Jane’s profile as she honked the horn and swerved to avoid two buses whose drivers had decided to stop for a chat. Was she paler than normal? As if he would know. God, he hoped she wasn’t about to go off sick.
    ‘You OK?’ he asked. She didn’t reply; her eyes were still focused on the road ahead, but he could have sworn he saw her flinch when he spoke. ‘Jane, did you hear me?’ he said, hoping his impatience wasn’t too obvious.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, without turning to look at him. Her voice was hard but her cheeks were now flushed with colour. ‘It’s nothing, just the case and . . . home, you know.’
    ‘Peter?’ he said, his irritation vanishing.
    ‘Yes, sir. I’m fine, really,’ she said, turning to face him, displaying her most reassuring smile before returning her focus to the traffic surrounding them.
    He should have known it was Peter. Jane’s son was the only part of her personal life that ever encroached on her work, and even then the instances were few and far between. She rarely talked about her home life. Lockyer had been to her little flat in Blackheath once,