by BIBA PEARCE
THE
THAMES
PATH
KILLER
An absolutely gripping mystery and suspense thriller
BIBA PEARCE
Detective Rob Miller Mysteries Book 1
Originally published as
The Surrey Stalker
Revised edition 2021
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 2019
as The Surrey Stalker
© Biba Pearce
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Biba Pearce to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Cover art by Nebojša Zorić
ISBN: 978-1-78931-796-1
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgements
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Chapter 1
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The stalker watched as the object of his attention exited the National Archives building in Kew, West London, a little after six o’clock in the evening, her handbag slung casually over her shoulder.
Right on schedule.
She glanced up at the April sky and frowned at the ominous clouds that threatened to erupt at any given moment. It was still light, but only just. The sun had already set and what little light was left was hastily following its descent into darkness.
She hesitated. The stalker knew what she was thinking.
Should I take the river path to the right, which is quicker but more isolated, or should I stick to the main roads, which are safer but will add fifteen minutes to my walk home?
She turned right, opting for speed over security.
The stalker smiled to himself.
Perfect.
He followed her around the brutalist building with its gun-metal grey chunks of concrete and complex spaces casting long, chaotic shadows across the surrounding lawns. She walked fast, her jacket pulled tight around her slender frame. He could hear her heels crunching on the gravel path as she made her way towards the river.
He knew her route by heart. She’d follow the towpath along the Thames for just under a mile, after which she’d climb the steps to Kew Bridge, cross it and turn left into Brentford. Her apartment was off Brentford High Street, a new tower block with a cold, characterless exterior and shaded windows. It had probably been advertised as having a river view, but her apartment didn’t. It faced the wrong way.
As she turned onto the river path, the heavens opened and the rain began bucketing down. The stalker hung back as she fiddled in her handbag for an umbrella.
“Come on . . .” he muttered, watching her launch it against the deluge.
Then she was off again.
The towpath was secluded along this stretch, which was why he’d chosen it. On the right-hand side was the river, swollen and about to burst its banks, while on the left, an impenetrable tangle of trees and foliage backed on to allotments. There was nobody around thanks to the weather and the high tide. Except her, of course.
The stalker narrowed the distance between them, careful to keep to the left, where the trees overhung the path. The leaves were only beginning to grow back after a long, frosty winter and the gnarled branches cast twisted patterns onto the gravel. Here, in the shadow of the foliage, she wouldn’t see him approaching. He wore soft-soled trainers to mask his footsteps, and where he could, trod on tufts of grass and fallen leaves.
The moment of truth was approaching. She was almost there, at the point where the allotments ended and the field began, where the trees were thicker and the undergrowth deeper. The point of no return, he called it. The point where he had to act or the opportunity would be lost.
Sure, there would always be another night, but tonight it was as if the universe was working with him. The weather, the timing and her decision to take the river path had all colluded to create the perfect opportunity. He wasn’t going to waste it.
His heart rate quickened along with his pace. Keeping his back to the undergrowth, he almost ran the last few metres but forced himself to keep steady in case she heard him. He needn’t have bothered. She was oblivious to any sound other than her high-heeled boots on the gravel and the rain pummelling down on her umbrella.
This was it, the moment he had been waiting for. The moment where he would make her pay. The stalker took one last look around him, checking the path was deserted.
It was. Time to strike.
He lunged at his target, putting one hand over her mouth and the other around her neck. He felt hot breath against his palm as she tried to scream. She dropped her umbrella and struggled against him, but he was so much stronger than her, it hardly seemed a fair fight. Within seconds, he’d pulled her into the undergrowth. It was wild and bushy and swallowed them up almost immediately.
A runner jogged by, taking the stalker by surprise. He fell to his knees, taking the buckling woman with him. A wet branch smacked them in the face before they landed on the sodden ground. She tried to shout out, but he clamped down harder over her mouth and the jogger didn’t hear her muffled moan. He ran past with only a cursory glance at the abandoned umbrella, oblivious to the woman being attacked only yards away.
That was close.
She wouldn’t stop wriggling, so he tightened his hold around her neck until he felt her strength ebb away. A few more seconds and she would be unconscious.
There.
He laid her gently on the mulch-covered ground and studied her face, breathing hard. Her eyes were shut, and her chest rose and fell in an even rhythm like she was asleep. She looked so tranquil with her wet hair spread out against the dark leaves and her pale skin dripping with rain. She would look that way again once he was done with her.
But first, he would make her pay.
* * *
Julie woke with a gasp as cold air filled her lungs. She looked wildly arou
nd her, the memory of the attack flooding back. Where was she? All she could see was wet foliage.
“Welcome back,” said a voice that seemed to hover somewhere above her.
She blinked against the rain. It was dark, and she couldn’t see a face, just two eyes staring down at her. For a moment, she thought she’d been abducted by some supernatural being, then she realised her assailant was wearing a balaclava. Terror rose up and threatened to choke her. She opened her mouth to scream, but he had anticipated it and slapped tape over her lips. Julie tried to move but her hands were tied together above her head. They wouldn’t budge. He must have secured her to a branch or a tree stump or something. She lashed out with her legs, noticing with alarm that he’d removed her boots. Her legs kicked air. He laughed and sat down on top of her. “There’s no escape, you may as well relax and enjoy it.”
He began to undo his jeans.
Oh, God. He’s going to rape me.
Nausea rose into her throat and she began heaving against the gag. She lifted her head to stem the rising tide.
“Settle down.” He forced her head back down against the ground. Then, he pushed her dress up and ripped off her underwear. The rain felt wet and cold on her bare legs.
Please, she wanted to beg. Please, don’t do this. But she couldn’t speak.
She heard the sound of a wrapper and knew he was putting on a condom. His hands slid between her thighs and pushed them apart. She tried to resist, but he was too strong. He kneed her in the groin and she winced at the pain. She fought savagely against his weight, pinning her down. She could hear him panting above her, his acrid breath on her face.
“Keep still,” he growled, “or I’ll hurt you even more.”
She ignored him and bucked like a bronco, until one of her legs got free and connected with bare flesh.
“Shit. You bitch!” A hard fist smacked into her face. Blood spurted from her nose. Her vision clouded, and it was only the cold rain that kept her from blacking out.
In a haze, she watched him pull down his jeans, put on the condom and straddle her. She writhed uselessly as he entered her, desperately trying to shout out against the gag.
It hurt.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out. With her blood-filled nose and the gag over her mouth, it was hard to breathe. She began to panic, thinking she might suffocate.
She thought of Justin. Darling Justin, waiting for her to come home. He said he’d have supper ready, a bottle of champagne and their own private celebration. Now it would never happen. She’d never know what it was like being Justin’s wife. The mother of his children.
Tears ran down her face.
Dinner would go cold. Justin would wonder where she was. Then worry would set in. He’d call her mobile, then her work.
She left hours ago, Ziv the doorman would tell him.
The police would be called.
Her attacker’s motions grew more and more frantic and she knew he was nearing the end. He made a low, rasping sound, and then his hands closed around her neck. He needn’t have bothered — she was suffocating anyway, the lack of oxygen making her dizzy. But he clamped down until she couldn’t breathe at all anymore.
“Bridget,” she heard him gasp as he squeezed the last dregs of life out of her, and she succumbed to the darkness.
Chapter 2
Rob Miller rolled off Yvette, a smile on his face. “You’re amazing.” He bent his head to kiss her full on the lips.
She smiled a slow, satisfied smile and kissed him back. “You aren’t so bad yourself.”
He stroked her breast, his hand moving over the blood-red lace bra that she’d left on during their lovemaking. “And I definitely appreciate the perks of your job.”
The matching panties were discarded somewhere at the foot of the bed.
Yvette purred like a cat and pushed herself up onto the pillows. “You should see what I’ve got hidden away for the wedding night.” Her French accent made it sound sexier.
Rob groaned. “You’re torturing me, you know that?”
There was a packet of cigarettes lying on the bedside table and Yvette leaned over, took one out with her long, elegant fingers and lit it. “That’s the idea.”
She exhaled, letting a slow spiral of smoke escape from her mouth. Rob watched it drift up to the ceiling, wishing he could have a drag. He’d given up four months ago as a New Year’s resolution, just to prove to himself that he could, and he was determined not to give in so soon. He had a bet going with Luke, a DS at the station, to see who could last the longest. So far neither of them had wavered. Any motivation was good motivation in his book.
Yvette didn’t see the point in quitting. “Do you want me to get fat and ugly?” she’d asked when he’d suggested they give up together. “Because that’s what will happen if I stop.”
Yvette fat and ugly? That would be the day. She was far too weight-conscious to allow that to happen, but he hadn’t pushed her on it.
A former lingerie model, she now worked at Harrods as a sales assistant, but she still took excellent care of her body. He often came home to find her doing yoga on the lounge floor, twisting herself into a position a contortionist would be proud of. To be honest, he couldn’t believe his luck. Yvette was the kind of woman men salivated over in glossy magazines. What she saw in him, he had no idea. All he knew was, he didn’t want it to stop.
“Why don’t we go to that little French bistro in Richmond tonight?” She admired the engagement ring on her finger. “We can celebrate, just the two of us.” Her nails were long and the colour of Cabernet Sauvignon. The cigarette burned down between them. She took another drag.
“Sounds good,” said Rob, just as his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and held up a finger. “Hold that thought.”
Yvette’s smile disappeared, and she gazed out of the window. It was dark outside, the sun having set hours ago, yet the curtains were still open. They hadn’t got around to closing them before lust had overwhelmed them.
“DI Rob Miller,” he said.
It was his boss, DCI Sam Lawrence, head of the South West London Major Investigation Team. “Rob, a body’s been found on the towpath in Kew. A female. Looks like she’s been strangled and possibly sexually assaulted. It’s yours if you want it.”
“Really?” Rob couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. He’d been working for the team for two years now, but never as the senior investigating officer.
“Yeah, my other four detectives are tied up with a trial and Collins is on a course. The assessment team is there and have cordoned off the scene. They’re waiting for you. We’re short-staffed, Rob. This is your lucky break. You want it or not?”
“Yes. Thank you, sir.”
Lawrence grunted his approval. “Mallory is already there. He’ll be your second on this.”
“I’m on my way.” He was grinning as he hung up, then clocked Yvette’s sulky expression. She didn’t take kindly to him leaving at all hours of the day and night to go to a crime scene. “I’m sorry.” He reached over to squeeze her thigh. “This is a big one. I’ve been put in charge of the investigation.”
“No, you’re not.” She stood up, taking most of the sheet with her. “I know you, Robert. You enjoy this sort of thing.” She only called him Robert when she was upset with him.
He didn’t deny it. “It’s my job, Yvette. You know that. It’s what I do.”
Her lips formed a perfect pout. “But you worked all day. It’s seven thirty. Can’t someone else do it? Don’t you people work in shifts?”
He kept his voice steady. “I’m on call. My boss is giving me a chance to prove myself, he’s making me senior investigator on this one. If I want that promotion, I have to go.” Why was that so hard to understand?
His job was one of the few things they argued about, if you could call it arguing. Yvette pouted and complained. He apologised, and she ignored him. So, he went out to work anyway, and when he got back, they fell into bed and made up. Thank
fully, she never stayed angry for very long.
She shrugged. “I still don’t see why one of the other detectives can’t go. You’re always the first person he phones. It’s like you can’t wait to get out of here.”
It wasn’t quite like that, but he didn’t have time to explain the workings of the Metropolitan Police’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command. He stood up and walked around the bed. “You know that’s not true.”
He reached for her, but she turned away. “I’m going to take a shower.” He sighed and let her go.
His phone rang again. It had begun.
* * *
“At least it’s stopped raining,” Rob said to DS Mallory as they marched along the Thames towpath towards the crime scene. They both angled their torches on the gravel path ahead, filled with shadows and pockmarks, careful not to trip over any twigs or branches that had fallen during the rainstorm. Mallory was a detective sergeant in his early twenties with prematurely balding hair and a keen, inquisitive face. He’d transferred from Wandsworth CID last year, but Rob had worked with him before. He was thorough, followed up on things and even showed a bit of initiative when it was called for. Rob liked that about him.
“It’s down here,” puffed Mallory, who’d made the trip several times this evening already. “Watch your step, it’s muddy. What she was doing walking alone along this stretch after dark is beyond me.”
Rob shone his beam to the right, where the river was half a metre from the towpath and flowing rapidly downstream like a vast oil slick. The tide was going out.
“When was she found?” he asked.
“About an hour ago by a dog walker,” explained Mallory. “The man lives in the complex behind the allotments and takes his pooch for a walk along this path every evening around six thirty. He’s coming in tomorrow to give an official statement.”
At six thirty he’d been in bed with Yvette, while some poor girl was lying out here having just been murdered. He shivered. “It must have been pouring down then.”
