The Night Stalker (11 page)

‘
Y
ou need
to control your bloody officers, Erika. What made you leave them at the scene?’ demanded Marsh, pacing up and down his office. She remained standing.

‘There wasn’t a scene when I left, sir. Peterson and Moss were waiting with Estelle Munro for a fingerprint technician… Wilmslow barged into the house afterwards.’

‘Well, I’ve just had a bollocking from Oakley at SC&O.’

‘Specialist Crime and Operations know they have a potential conflict with our case.’

‘Yes, and thanks to DI Peterson the two have now clashed.’

‘Sir, nothing was mentioned to Wilmslow or his brief about Operation Hemslow. None of my officers know about it. So Peterson was…’

‘Bloody stupid. That’s what he was.’

‘I sent Wilmslow off packing with a caution,’ said Erika.

‘And you don’t think he’ll find that suspicious? We’ve been cracking down hard on black-market cigarettes and evading customs. We busted him with twenty thousand fags, and he nutted a bloody police officer. Isn’t he going to be suspicious we sent him on his way with a slap on the wrist?’

‘I can’t tell you what he’s thinking, but he’s a career criminal. They spend their whole lives lurching between paranoia and elation.’

‘Erika, Wilmslow is the only member of the child-abuse network that we’ve managed to get close to. Millions have been spent on Operation Hemslow, and if they lose him…’

‘They won’t lose him, sir.’

‘You’re heading Operation Hemslow now, are you, Erika?’

‘No, sir. Still waiting to hear about the promotion…’

Marsh paced up and down. Erika bit her lip.
Why can’t I just shut up sometimes?
she thought.

‘What’s your progress with the Gregory Munro murder?’ Marsh asked, finally.

‘I’m waiting to see if we have any prints from a picture frame in the Munro house. It seems his GMC certificate went missing during the break-in. It was only reported when we turned the house back over to Estelle Munro after forensics was done. Also, the neighbours opposite are back from holiday. In the two weeks leading up to the murder, they witnessed a few young guys going into the Munro house. Rent boy types. I should have e-fits tomorrow.’

Marsh paused and looked at her. ‘I want you to get this case ready to hand over to one of the Murder Investigation Teams who specialise in sexually motivated murders.’

‘What?’

‘We’ve got gay porn at the murder scene, a gay dating app on the victim’s phone, now we have neighbours who’ve seen rent boys going in and out…’

‘The identities of the young men aren’t confirmed yet,’ said Erika, wishing she hadn’t said they looked like rent boys. ‘If we hand this over, it will get lost amongst a sea of cases. I’m so close…’

‘So close to blowing a multimillion-pound covert surveillance?’

‘Sir, that’s not fair.’

Marsh stopped pacing and sat down at his desk.

‘Look, Erika. I’m strongly advising you to let go of this case and hand it over. I will make sure this isn’t seen as a failure on your part.’

‘Please, sir, just—’

‘I’m not debating it any more. Have everything you’ve got on the Gregory Munro case ready to hand over by tomorrow lunchtime.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Erika went to say more, but thought the better of it. She hitched her bag over her shoulder and left the office, forcing herself not to slam the door.

W
hen Erika pulled
into the car park by her flat, she killed the engine. The thought of going inside made her even more depressed. She wound down the window and lit a cigarette, smoking as she listened to the sound of traffic from the London Road and the hum of crickets in the surrounding bushes.

There was something about this case that was eluding her. Was it Gary Wilmslow? Was it one of the rent boys who’d paid Gregory Munro a visit? Did Gregory have something on Gary, and so he was disposed of? It felt like the answer was just within her grasp. It was something simple, she knew it. It was always a small clue, like a dropped stitch in a blanket. All she needed was to find that clue, grab it, and the whole thing would unravel.

She hated that she was no longer going to be the one to find Gregory Munro’s killer. She now had to come back into work tomorrow and tell her team the case was being handed over, just as things were getting interesting.

T
here was a pause
. The text hung on the screen for a moment.

T
he streets were deserted
as Night Owl rode along Lordship Lane, an affluent area of South London. A row of independent shops slid past, bathed in darkness. All was quiet, save for the ticking of the mountain bike wheels and the distant hum of the city.

It was approaching midnight, but the heat still beat up from the tarmac and Night Owl was sweating under the black running suit. A car would have been quicker, but there were CCTV cameras on every corner, photographing people and number plates. It was just too risky.

The man’s address had been easy to find: a search on the Internet. He was well-known and liked to shout about his life on social media. Night Owl grinned with a row of small crooked teeth.

He’s overshared one too many times.

With the next victim being a public – and often controversial – figure, Night Owl had been concerned that the house would be heavily alarmed, but a simple visit on a bright hot day the previous week had been enough – a fake cold call with a mocked-up leaflet for ‘BELL SAFE SECURITY’. It had been a shock, seeing his face up close. It had been difficult to mask the hatred and remain relaxed and informal.

Night Owl turned off Lordship Lane and came to a halt beside a high wall. The brakes on the mountain bike gave a small squeal, which seemed loud in the quiet street.

The high wall marked the side of a long row of back gardens. The houses stretching away were smart and elegant. Night Owl tucked the mountain bike behind a postbox, which was positioned close to the wall, then used it to scale the wall. Four of the houses in the row had security alarms. A high back wall ran the length of all six gardens, backing onto a bus depot.

The first garden was easy. An old lady lived in the large house and the garden was overgrown; the house windows were dark. Night Owl crossed with a whispering rustle and climbed the low fence into the second garden.

Again, no lights activated, but the owner of this house had built a large extension, jutting out and reducing the garden to a thin strip of grass by the high back wall. The first ground-floor window was dark, but the second was open a few inches and emitted a soft multicoloured glow. It was a large nursery, almost completely bare inside save for a large wooden crib close to the window.

A small toddler with large eyes and a messy fuzz of black hair stood in the crib, its chubby hands gripping the side of the rail. The baby could see into the garden in the soft light emitting from the slowly turning night-light. Night Owl moved to the open window, whispering, ‘Hello.’

The toddler shifted a little, grasping the edge of the crib. It was a little girl. She wore a pink all-in-one with a pink knitted matinee jacket. The air was close and heat resonated from the brickwork.

‘Are you all hot and bothered?’ whispered Night Owl, smiling. The little girl smiled and jiggled on the spot. She pulled at the matinee jacket and gave a little soft wail.

There were still three more gardens to cross, but Night Owl felt for this little innocent girl, slowly grilling in the hot room. The window pulled open easily, and Night Owl hitched a leg up and inside. The little girl looked up with big round eyes, unsure of the person who had climbed into her room.

‘It’s okay… It’s all right,’ whispered Night Owl. ‘You are innocent. You have yet the chance to wreak havoc on the world.’ Moving swiftly, Night Owl lifted the little girl and held her up at arm’s length. She giggled. Placing her back down again, Night Owl worked quickly on the tiny buttons on the front of the matinee jacket, grasping it so the little girl wouldn’t lose balance, then unhooking each arm until the jacket was off.

‘There, is that better?’ cooed Night Owl. The little girl allowed herself to be lifted and laid down on the small mattress. The material was white with a pattern of small grey elephants. She reached up with her arms as Night Owl slowly wound the mobile hanging above the crib.

As the soft melody of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ began to play, Night Owl retreated from the little girl’s view.

T
he third garden
had a security light mounted on the back wall, so it was a tense job to cross it, far enough away to keep out of its beam.

The fourth garden was running a little wild, with tall grass and overflowing flowerbeds. Night Owl moved past a plastic swing set and an overgrown sandpit and crouched down by the utility room door.

Night Owl pulled the hood up so that only a pair of eyes glowed through, listened at the door, then slowly pulled out a long, thin piece of wire and inserted it into the lock.

W
hen TV presenter
Jack Hart emerged from the members-only bar in Charlotte Street, Central London, he paused to enjoy the warm summer night. Despite the late hour, a large group of photographers were waiting on the pavement and their camera flashes burst in a flurry as Jack came towards them down a short flight of stairs.

Jack was lean and handsome, with ice-white blond hair shaved fashionably high with a short back and sides, and styled on top with a smooth quiff. His teeth were as white as his hair, and his sharp suit was tailor-made for his tall frame. He was pleased to see journalists from the BBC, ITV and Sky News waiting for him, along with the usual tabloid crowd – some of whom were ex-colleagues. He didn’t show this pleasure on his handsome face, though, instead attempting serious contemplation.

‘Do you take responsibility for the death of Megan Fairchild?’ shouted a reporter from one of the broadsheets.

‘Do you think they’ll take your show off the air?’ yelled another.

‘Come on, Jack. You killed her, didn’t you?’ purred one of the paparazzi, coming up close, his camera firing off a bright flash.

Jack ignored the questions and pushed through them, climbing into a black cab waiting at the kerb. He slammed the door and it drove off slowly, the cameras keeping pace, lenses bumping against the window and filling the interior of the cab with a strobe of flashes. Once they had rounded the corner of Charlotte Street, the driver was able to speed away.

‘The wife loves your show, mate,’ said the driver, eyeing him through his rear-view mirror. ‘S’all made up, though, innit?’

‘It’s live, and anything can happen,’ said Jack, repeating the catchphrase he used at the start of every show.

‘I heard the girl who was on your show, that Megan who killed herself, had loads of mental problems. Bet she’d have done it anyway, mate,’ said the driver, again catching his eye in the rear-view mirror.

‘It’s all right. I was going to give you a good tip anyway,’ said Jack. He sat back and closed his eyes, the gentle rocking motion soothing him as the cab trundled through Central London.

‘Suit yourself, mate,’ muttered the driver.

The Jack Hart Show
was broadcast live five mornings a week and had risen in the ratings over the past year – but it still had a way to go to beat its rival,
The Jeremy Kyle Show
.

Jack Hart prided himself that the show was broadcast live. It gave them an edge, and kept them in the press. Five days a week his guests, in the grand tradition of
The Jerry Springer Show
, sought out and fought out their fifteen minutes of fame by airing their dirty laundry on camera, and people loved it.

Jack had started out as a journalist in Fleet Street, and learned his murky trade as an investigative journalist exposing torrid celebrity affairs, dodgy politicians and ‘human interest’ stories. He often described
The Jack Hart Show
as a tabloid newspaper smeared across the camera lens.

Megan Fairchild had been a case in point. Her baby daddy had been sleeping with her own father, but the researchers on the show had failed to dig up that Megan’s father had also sexually abused her throughout her childhood. The day after the controversial show was broadcast, Megan had taken her own life and that of her unborn child by drinking a litre of weedkiller.

Publicly, Jack had been repentant, and he wasn’t stone-hearted enough not to be saddened by the deaths. But privately Jack and his producers had courted the press exposure, hoping that the media storm would send their ratings through the roof.

He opened his eyes and pulled out his phone, logging on to check his Twitter feed. He was reassured to see that people were still talking about Megan’s death, and there were some more great RIP tweets from D-list celebs. He retweeted them and then logged onto the
Go Fund Me
page that had been set up to raise money in Megan’s honour. It had just reached £100,000 in donations. He retweeted this with a message of thanks, and then settled back, humming ‘And the Money Kept Rolling In’ from his favourite musical,
Evita
.

F
orty-five minutes later
, the taxi pulled up at Jack’s large, handsome house in Dulwich. He thanked the driver, feeling part-relieved, part-disappointed that there weren’t more photographers waiting for him outside. He could only count five.
They must have got what they wanted outside the bar, without having to schlep across the river
, he thought. He got out and paid the driver through the passenger window. The photographers started clicking away, their bright flashes bouncing off the black taxi and surrounding houses.

He pushed his way through the small group and opened the gate leading up to his front door, thinking that this bizarre scene in a quiet corner of Dulwich in South London could soon be plastered all over the media across the country.

‘Do you have a message for Megan Fairchild’s mother?’ asked one of the photographers.

Jack stopped at his front door and turned, saying, ‘Why didn’t you take care of your daughter?’ He paused and stared broodingly into the cameras as they flashed away. Then he turned on his heel, unlocked the front door and came inside, closing it on the strobe of flashes.

The security alarm began its warning tone and he punched in the four-digit code. The screen lit up green and the alarm fell silent. Jack took off his thin jacket, took out his wallet and keys and put them on the hall table. He came through to the open-plan living area, which looked out over the dark garden. When he flicked on the lights, the vast empty space stared back at him. He went to the fridge and stopped for a moment to stare at the pictures stuck to the door, which had been painted by his small son and daughter. He opened the door and pulled out a bottle of Bud. It didn’t make a fizzing sound; the lid popped off soundlessly, clinking as it skittered across the counter.

He took a sip. It was cold, but a little flat. He went back to the fridge and saw it was the last bottle. He was sure there had been three left… He pondered this for a moment, flicked off the lights and made his way upstairs.

The living area was still for a moment. There were some bumps and bangs from the bathroom above, and then the shower began. Slowly, a small, compact figure in black slid through the utility room door, bathed in shadows. Moving swiftly, it crossed the kitchen and climbed the stairs, feet placed wide on each step to avoid creaking.

The landing was in darkness, and a shaft of light from the bathroom fell across the carpet. Night Owl moved close to the door, just a pair of eyes gleaming through the slit in the hood.

Jack was well-built with a strong, lithe body. Night Owl watched him in the shower as he lathered up, the shampoo foaming white against his wet hair. A stream of soapy water coursed down his muscular back and between his buttocks. As he showered, Jack began to hum lightly, tunelessly.

‘You disgust me,’ whispered Night Owl. The singing stopped as Jack ducked his head under the water, his wet hair now sleek as a seal.

It was intoxicating to stand and watch, undetected. To think that everyone in the country was talking about this man… this arrogant, selfish, bastard. The water was extinguished with a metallic squeak, and Night Owl ducked swiftly back into the shadows.

J
ack came
out of the shower, passing his son and daughter’s bedrooms. He kept the doors closed on their empty rooms. With the doors closed, he could pass them each night without feeling a twang of regret and longing. He padded through to the elegant master bedroom, his bottle of Bud in one hand, towel in the other, drying his hair. He sat naked on the edge of the bed, dropping the towel on the carpet. The Bud was quickly getting warm and flat, so he chugged back the last of it and placed the empty on the spare bedside table, on the unoccupied side.

He thought of his wife’s warm, comfortable body. How she’d often be sitting up, pretending to be reading a book when he came home late. The book was always a prop, an excuse for her to be awake so that she could play out her disappointment.

He went to get up and go downstairs for another drink, but his head was suddenly heavy. So were his limbs, and he felt exhausted. He eased himself into a lying position, shuffling round so his head was on the pillow. He reached for the remote control on the side table and flicked on the TV. Footage of him leaving the club on Charlotte Street an hour earlier was running on Sky with a red ‘
BREAKING NEWS’
banner across the bottom of the screen: ‘OFCOM TO INVESTIGATE JACK HART CONTROVERSY’.

As he looked around the room, the colour seemed to bloom out of the television news in streaks. Jack lifted his head and the room spun violently. He flopped back on the pillow. He was shivering too, despite the heat. He managed to pull the duvet cover out from underneath him and burrowed under, relishing the warmth.

‘Hang on, hang on,’ he murmured, vaguely aware of the words moving across the screen. The sound from the television rolled over him; the room spun. He jerked his head, as a smear of black seemed to move beside the bed. A flash by the door and it was gone. From somewhere deep in his mind, Jack realised that something wasn’t right. Maybe he had some kind of twenty-four-hour flu thing.
Hang on, I should call someone, if I’m being investigated by OFCOM
, he thought.

N
ight Owl worked quickly
, moving downstairs and dead-bolting the front door, and then taking a small, neat pair of secateurs and clipping the Internet modem and phone cable next to the landline. The lights on the modem blinked off. Night Owl moved to the thin jacket that Jack had hung up in the hall, pulled out a Blackberry phone from the pocket, swiftly removed the SIM card and dropped the phone on the floor, pressing a heel against it as the screen buckled and cracked.

The final task was flicking off the mains electricity. The security panel beeped, and Night Owl keyed in the PIN, then absorbed the silence. The faint sound of a groan floated down from above. Night Owl placed a hand on the bannister and slowly began to climb back up the stairs.

T
he room
now spun violently for Jack, as he lay in bed. It took him a few moments to realise that the television was now dark and silent, and so was his bedroom. Panic seemed to be just beyond his reach, a fuzzy, far-off emotion. His mind went back to his wife, Marie. He reached out to touch her side of the bed in the darkness and was confused. Where was she?

He felt the mattress move and flatten beside him; someone had climbed into bed. He reached his arm out and felt a warm body.

‘Marie?’ he croaked into the silence. He groped around and felt flesh under thin clothing. ‘Marie? When did you come home?’ Despite the drugs in his blood, he remembered she was gone. She’d left him. Moved out with the kids. He stiffened and tried to pull away.

‘Shhhhhh… Just relax,’ said a voice. It wasn’t Marie’s voice. It was sharp and had a strange high tone to it.

Jack tried to get away, the bed tipping and lurching underneath him. His limbs had no strength or coordination. He grabbed at the landline on his bedside table, knocking it to the floor. He then felt the person climb onto his back, and he was turned over onto his front. His limbs flopped helplessly as he tried to fight, but swift, strong hands fastened his wrists together and then flipped him back over.

Jack tried to shout, but his mouth was slack; his voice came out slurred and weak: ‘Whouw harrr ou?’

‘Just someone who wants fifteen minutes of fame,’ laughed the voice. Jack heard the sound of a zipper and a crackle, and then a plastic bag slowly slid over his head. The hands moved fast, pulling at what felt like a drawstring, and Jack felt it gather and tighten around his neck. He started to breathe faster, and the plastic crackled and closed in around his head, growing tighter against his skin. One eye was clamped shut, but the other was trapped open by the plastic. And then there was no more air to breathe.

Night Owl held on fast to the plastic bag, enjoying the sounds: the rattling gasps and retching. Jack carried on thrashing, his strength increasing with his will to live. Night Owl felt an explosion of pain as Jack’s head jerked up and made contact with Night Owl’s face. Night Owl increased the pressure, pulling the cord around Jack’s neck tighter, and bringing a fist up and slamming it down on the squashed, contorted face underneath.

One of Jack’s last thoughts were that the photographers might still be outside, and what a great story this was going to be.

Finally, with a shudder and a weak whimper, Jack was still. Night Owl lay with Jack’s body for several minutes, watching, breathing through the euphoria, shaking with excitement.

Then Night Owl rose silently and slipped out of the house like a shadow.