The Night Stalker (26 page)

S
imone had
lain low since fleeing the scene of Stephen Linley’s murder. Where the ashtray had struck her, she’d been left with a huge swollen lip and a nasty bruise on the side of her head. She’d also lost a tooth: her left incisor was broken off, close to the gum. She didn’t know if she had swallowed it, or if it had skittered off into a dark corner of Stephen Linley’s flat. The exposed nerves had left her in terrible pain, but she was too scared to go to see her dentist. He might X-ray her teeth and then her dental records would be on file.

She’d tried to remember if she’d had her teeth X-rayed in the past. She had a vague memory of being left alone in a large room with insulated walls, of being told to lie very still whilst her mother waited outside. Had that been an X-ray? She didn’t know. She knew she had never been fingerprinted, nor had her DNA been taken.

At first, she had been convinced that it was all over. She’d screwed up; it hadn’t gone to plan. She had cancelled going into work at the hospital, telling them she was sick. As the days and nights had passed, sleep had evaded her completely. No amount of medication helped.

On the third sleepless night, she was lying in bed just after midnight when she heard a soft
pat, pat, pat
sound coming from outside her bedroom door. Like water running onto the carpet. It was coupled with the sound of laboured breathing, as if through a blocked nose.

Simone jumped up off the bed and wedged the chair from her dressing table under the door. The noise had continued:
pat, pat, pat, pat, pat… Inhale, exhale.

She put her hands to her aching, throbbing temples.
It wasn’t real
. But still, the noise continued.

Pat, pat. Inhale, exhale. A loose, phlegmy cough.

‘You’re not real!’ she called out. ‘Stan, leave this place!’

Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat… Inhale, exhale.

She lifted the chair away and turned the door handle, opening the door. Her throat constricted when she saw it wasn’t Stan standing there, dripping with water. It was Stephen Linley.

He was dressed in trainers, blue jeans, a white T-shirt and a thin black jacket. The plastic bag was tied tight around his neck and half-filled with gunk and blood, which was dripping from under the cord around his neck, down his clothes and onto the pale carpet.

Pat, pat, pat…

His forehead was caved in, where Simone had hit him with the ashtray, and his face was almost unrecognisable. Inside, against the plastic, the mouth was moving. The ruined face was trying to breathe.

‘NO!’ screamed Simone. ‘YOU. ARE. DEAD!’ With each word, she advanced on the gruesome corpse, prodding it. It took faltering steps backwards, towards the top of the stairs, arms flailing.

‘YOU DESERVED TO DIE!’ she cried. They reached the top of the stairs. Simone gave the body a shove and it fell backwards, rolling down the stairs with bumps and crashes, landing in a limp heap at the bottom.

She closed her eyes and counted to ten and then opened them. It was gone. Everything was back to normal. She was alone. Shakily, she went down the stairs and checked the living room and kitchen. There was nothing. She went to her computer and switched it on. When it had booted up, she started to type.

For a while, nothing happened. She was about to go and make herself a drink when Duke came online.

Simone giggled and touched her hands to her face. It still felt tender. She’d missed talking to Duke. There was a beep and she saw text moving across the screen.

Simone stared at the screen for a long time. In all the years they had talked, Duke had told her many things – his deepest, darkest secrets – and she had reciprocated. But this was the first time he’d said he loved her. It made her feel powerful.

She logged off the chat room and went up to bed. She felt much better. She’d go back to work. Then she’d start to make preparations for number four. The fourth, and final.

‘
A
ll right
, boss, so where are we going, exactly?’ asked Peterson when he climbed into the passenger seat. He was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, and carrying a small backpack. It was almost 9 a.m. and Erika had picked him up outside his flat, a smart, squat building on a quiet leafy street in Beckenham. A sign on the neat lawn out front announced that the building was called Tavistock House.

‘Worthing,’ said Erika, handing him a folded-up map. A curtain twitched in the front ground-floor window and a slight, pretty, blonde girl peered round, showing just her face and a bare shoulder. She waved at Peterson whilst giving Erika the once-over. He gave her a small wave in return and pulled a sunglasses case from his backpack.

‘Is that your girlfriend?’ asked Erika, as Peterson polished a pair of Ray Bans with a small grey square of cloth and slipped them on. The girl was still watching.

He shrugged. ‘Go on, boss. Let’s go,’ he said, looking uncomfortable. They pulled away, driving in silence for a minute, the reflection from the canopy of leaves above playing across the windscreen.

‘We need the M23, then the A23,’ said Erika, realising that Peterson didn’t want to elaborate on his house guest.

‘Why did you ask me today?’ he said, unfolding the map and peering at her over the top of his shades.

‘Moss has been reassigned, and when I called you, you said you were free… Why did you say yes?’

‘You’ve intrigued me,’ he grinned.

She grinned back.

‘I’ve been reassigned, too,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘Operation Hemslow.’

Erika turned to face him and the car swerved towards the right lane. Peterson leaned over and straightened the wheel.

‘Don’t get excited. I’ve just been working in Control. It’s pretty dull stuff, mostly watching Penny Munro and Peter.’

‘And?’

‘They’re safe… The kid goes to school, comes home, goes swimming once a week, likes to feed the ducks…’ Peterson blew his cheeks out. ‘They’re very close to nailing Gary Wilmslow. The focus is now on a lock-up in Crystal Palace. They just need to get Wilmslow inside the lock-up. Simple as that, but very complicated. He’s managing to place at least three people between him and the production of the videos, the procuring of kids… It’s a case of how long we can wait it out before we move in and shut it down.’

‘You
have
to get Wilmslow,’ said Erika.

‘No one wants to see him brought down more than me… You know I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, boss.’

‘I know. Thanks.’

‘Did you know Sparks is close to charging Isaac with the deaths of Gregory Munro and Jack Hart, in addition to Stephen Linley?’

‘Shit.’

‘Why haven’t you told them about this? What we’re doing today?’ asked Peterson.

‘Because I just need to look into this. They’ve made their minds up, obviously. It’s easier to charge Isaac… Ends it all neatly, case solved.’

‘You don’t think he did it?’

Erika looked at Peterson. ‘No, I don’t. I just need to check this out myself. It’s a long shot, but if I phone it in, it’ll get shoved to the bottom of the pile and it might be too late before anyone gets to it. You okay with this?’

He shrugged and grinned. ‘As you said on the phone, boss. It’s just a day out by the sea.’

‘Thanks.’

Erika thought how things had changed. She was now on the outside. She started to fill Peterson in on what she had discovered and how she’d like to proceed.

Ninety minutes later they came off the dual carriageway and approached Worthing via a complex and unattractive one-way system. When they arrived in the town, though, it looked picturesque. It was an old seaside town, which in the height of the summer looked more sumptuous than crumbling. Erika followed the road along the promenade. The beach was crowded with people sunbathing and sitting on old-style deckchairs. It was lined with terraced houses, flats and an eclectic selection of shops. She parked on the seafront and they stepped out onto the busy promenade, where people sauntered along, eating ice creams and enjoying the sun.

‘How should we play this?’ asked Peterson, joining her at the parking meter by the kerb.

‘We have no authority to be here, but he doesn’t know that,’ said Erika, feeding coins into the machine. ‘I’m hoping the element of surprise will work in our favour.’

She took the ticket from the machine and they locked up the car. The address they were looking for was further down the seafront, where the souvenir shops and tearooms thinned out. The terraced houses here were much more run-down and had been turned into flats and bedsits.

‘Here, this is it,’ said Erika, as they came to a large five-storey house with a small concreted-over front garden which contained five black wheelie bins with flat numbers painted in white on the lids. The windows were all open and music blared out from the top floor.

‘I can smell weed,’ said Peterson, stopping to sniff the air.

‘We’re not here about weed,’ said Erika. ‘Just remember that.’

They went up the steps and Erika rang the bell for the ground-floor flat. They waited as the music ceased for a second, then Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’
began to play.

The lights were all blazing in the downstairs window, which looked out over the bins and was half-obscured by hanging clothes. Erika rang the bell again and through the frosted glass in the door she saw a large, dark bulk move from the shadows. The door opened an inch, then stopped. Moments later there was a whirring noise and the door was slowly pulled open.

The dark bulk she had seen was an enormous motorised wheelchair, which had heavy-duty wheels and oxygen tanks strapped to the back. A concertina mechanism whirred and elevated the seat, in which a tiny man sat. He had small, plump features, thick glasses and wisps of mousy hair clinging to his bald head. He wore an oxygen tube under his nose. His body was compact – they could see he suffered from dwarfism – and his even tinier pair of emaciated legs, which just reached the edge of the seat, contrasted his small body. One of his arms was tucked into the side of the seat and the other was holding the piece of string he had used to open the front door. He let the string go, grabbed the remote control beside his chair and moved forward, blocking the threshold.

‘Are you Keith Hardy?’ asked Erika.

‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes darting between them. He spoke with a higher-pitched voice.

Erika and Peterson held out their IDs.

‘I’m DCI Erika Foster and this is my colleague, DI Peterson. Could we have a word?’

‘About what?’

Erika looked at Peterson. ‘We’d prefer to discuss this inside.’

‘Well, you’re not coming in.’

‘We won’t take up much of your time, Mr Hardy,’ said Erika.

‘You won’t take up any.’

‘Mr Hardy…’ started Peterson.

‘You got a warrant?’

‘No.’

‘Then go away and get one,’ the man said. He reached out and grabbed for the string attached to the inside lock. Erika leaned over and plucked it from his grasp.

‘Mr Hardy, we’re investigating a triple murder. The killer used suicide bags… We’ve accessed your bank accounts and we see you’ve bought five of these, and yet you’re still alive. It’s just a case of clearing up any misunderstanding.’

Keith wrinkled his nose and pushed his glasses up, then backed up the wheelchair and let them in.