The Night Stalker: A chilling serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster Book 2)

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘Before you go, sir, any more news about the superintendent post up for grabs?’

  Marsh stopped and turned back to face her.

  ‘I’ve already said I’ll be putting you forward, Erika.’

  ‘Have you informed Oakley that you intend to put me forward?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘I can’t go into details about the process, you know that. Now, I have to go.’ Marsh turned to go back through the doors.

  ‘One more thing, sir. What’s happening with Peter Munro living under the same roof as Gary Wilmslow? I’m concerned for his welfare.’

  Marsh stopped and turned back.

  ‘For the past week, Peter has only left the house with his mother to go to school. We have several of the rooms inside bugged. As far as we know, he’s fine. And Gary Wilmslow is old-school working class. He talks about honour and family and all that. He wouldn’t let anyone touch one of his own.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too much Eastenders, sir. Let’s hope you’re right.’

  ‘I am right,’ said Marsh, icily, and disappeared though the double doors to his office.

  ‘I seem to be so popular with everyone. All I’m trying to do is my bloody job,’ Erika muttered to herself, as she carried on down the flights of stairs.

  When she reached the incident room, the ceiling fans were working overtime, but they only seemed to be circulating the heat and the smells of coffee and body odour.

  ‘Boss, I’ve just heard from uniform division; the neighbours living opposite Gregory Munro’s house are back from holiday,’ said Peterson, putting down his phone.

  Moss was sitting opposite Peterson, her face red from the heat as she came off a call. ‘That was Estelle Munro. She says that Gregory Munro’s General Medical Council certificate is missing from 14 Laurel Road.’

  ‘When did we hand the house back to the family?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Yesterday. I’ve been through the forensics log, and everything we took away. There is no mention of a GMC certificate.’

  ‘Which means the killer could have taken it. Shit. How could we have missed this?’

  20

  When Erika, Moss and Peterson arrived at Laurel Road, it was balmy and quiet. The sun had sunk down far enough so that the houses on Gregory Munro’s side were in the shade.

  A cluster of men and women in office clothes rounded the end of the road with flushed faces, the men with their sleeves rolled up, carrying their jackets. It was just after five-thirty and Erika realised this was the first wave of commuters returning from work in Central London.

  She rang the bell at number 14. Moments later, Estelle Munro opened the door. She was dressed in pale slacks, a smart white blouse covered in a pattern of roses, and a pair of yellow Marigolds.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Munro. We’re here about the medical certificate,’ said Erika.

  ‘Yes,’ was all she said. She stepped back and they filed in. Erika recognised the zesty, lemony smell of cleaning products, which mingled with an overpowering scent of synthetic blossom. It was, however, cool inside the house. The windows were all shut and the air conditioning hummed throughout.

  ‘It was in Gregory’s office,’ said Estelle, closing the front door and locking it. Erika noticed she’d had the locks changed: a gleaming new Yale and two new bolts.

  They followed Estelle up the stairs, moving slowly behind her as she breathed heavily.

  ‘How are things?’ asked Erika.

  ‘I’m still cleaning up the mess your lot left,’ Estelle snapped.

  ‘We do try to treat the crime scene with as much respect as we can, but a great number of people are involved, all coming into the property at once,’ said Moss.

  ‘And all these people, are they any closer to finding who killed my son?’

  ‘We are pursuing several leads,’ said Erika.

  They reached the top of the stairs. Estelle paused to catch her breath, resting a Marigold-gloved hand on her hip. The heavy curtains covering the hall window had been removed, and it was much brighter on the landing.

  ‘When will my son’s body be released, DCI Fosset?’ Estelle asked.

  ‘It’s DCI Foster…’

  ‘Because I have a funeral to arrange,’ Estelle said, teasing off the gloves, finger by finger.

  ‘We’ll have to check who our first contact is in the family before passing on any details, I’m afraid,’ said Moss.

  Estelle’s face clouded over even more. ‘Gregory was my son. I carried him in my belly for nine months. You will phone me first, do you understand? Penny was only married to him for four years. I was his mother for forty-six…’ She took a deep breath to compose herself. ‘She phoned me up, Penny. Demanding to know when the body was being released. “The body”! Not “Gregory” or “Greg” – he hated being called Greg. Penny wants to book the Shirley football club for the wake. A football club! No doubt Gary and his hooligan friends will get a good deal.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Munro.’

  Estelle stepped into the bathroom and ran her hands under the tap. She came back out drying them on a small towel. ‘I’ve had Gary on the phone today, threatening me.’

  ‘Threatening you?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Gregory altered his will when he and Penny separated. We’ve just found out that he left the house to me, and his rental properties in trust to Peter.’

  ‘What about Penny?’

  Estelle shot Erika a look. ‘What about her? She’ll get the four-bedroom house in Shirley. It’s worth plenty. Gary was abusive on the phone, he said Penny was owed this house and that I’m to sign it over to her or else…’

  ‘Or else what?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Oh, use your imagination, DCI Fosset. Or else I’ll be dealt with. He’ll send the lads round. A car might plough into me on my way home from the shops. I take it you’ve read Gary’s criminal record?’

  A look passed between Erika, Moss and Peterson.

  Estelle went on, ‘I’ve changed the locks, but I’m still worried.’

  ‘I can assure you that Gary Wilmslow will not cause you any harm,’ said Erika.

  Estelle’s eyes filled with tears and she scrabbled around for a tissue. Peterson was on hand again, and produced a pack from his pocket.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, gratefully.

  Erika signalled to Moss and they left Peterson to reassure Estelle. They moved along the corridor to the small bedroom Gregory Munro had used as his home office.

  A heavy, dark wood desk was squeezed in against the window, and opposite were a set of shelves with the same dark wood finish. The shelves were filled with a mixture of medical books and paperback novels. Erika noted that Gregory Munro had three of the DCI Bartholomew crime novels written by Stephen Linley.

  ‘Shit!’ she said.

  ‘What is it, boss?’

  ‘Nothing…’ Erika remembered her conversation with Isaac last week, and that she’d agreed to dinner with him tonight. She looked at her watch and saw it was approaching six.

  Estelle shuffled back into the room, followed by Peterson.

  ‘It was here,’ Estelle said, pointing to the wall behind the desk where there hung two gold picture frames. One was filled with photos: Gregory and Penny cutting their wedding cake; Penny holding a pair of sunglasses on their cat’s unimpressed face; Penny in a hospital bed, clutching what must have been Peter when he was born, with Gary, Estelle and Penny’s bespectacled mother standing awkwardly either side. The other frame was empty.

  ‘I asked Penny if she had it, but for once I think she’s being truthful when she says no,’ said Estelle, pointing to the empty frame. ‘If it was the television or the DVD player she’d have had it, but not this.’

  Erika went over to the empty frame, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. She lifted it off the wall, finding it was very light and made of plastic.

  ‘Have you touched this at all, Mrs Munro?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ she said.


  Erika turned the frame over, but couldn’t see anything.

  ‘We should call in a fingerprint technician. It’s a long shot, but…’

  ‘Okay, boss,’ said Moss. She pulled out her radio and placed a call; a voice came back saying no one was available.

  Erika grabbed the radio. ‘This is DCI Foster. I need someone today, now, as soon as you can. This is new evidence which we’ve found at the 14 Laurel Road crime scene, SE23.’

  There was a pause and a couple of beeps.

  ‘We’ve just got a technician finishing up on a burglary over at Telegraph Hill, I’ll radio for her to come over as soon as she’s finished. Although can you authorise overtime?’ replied the tinny voice through the radio.

  ‘Yes. I authorise overtime,’ Erika snapped.

  ‘Okay,’ came the voice.

  Erika replaced the frame on the wall and removed the gloves. ‘Okay, so we’ve got a little wait. Moss, you come with me. Let’s talk to this neighbour who’s back from holiday. Mrs Munro, would it be okay if DI Peterson waited with you?’

  ‘Yes. Would you like a cup of tea, dear?’ asked Estelle.

  Peterson nodded.

  The neighbours were a couple in their late thirties: a white woman called Marie and a black man called Claude. Their house, opposite number 14, was smart and stylish, and they had an urban coolness about them. The hall was still filled with several brightly coloured suitcases, and they ushered Erika and Moss through to their kitchen. Marie grabbed some glasses and filled them with water and ice from the dispenser in the door of a large stainless steel fridge. She handed Moss and Erika a glass each. Erika took a long drink, savouring the coolness.

  ‘We were shocked to hear about Dr Munro,’ said Marie, when they were settled around the kitchen table. ‘I know this area isn’t the nicest, but murder!’ Claude sat next to her and she reached out and grabbed his hand. He squeezed hers reassuringly in return.

  ‘I can understand how harrowing it must be. Although we do stress that, statistically, murder cases are still extremely rare,’ added Erika.

  ‘Well, statistically, a bloke being knocked off in his bed a few doors down is one too many!’ said Claude, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ said Erika.

  ‘We need to ask if you’ve noticed anyone unusual hanging around?’ asked Moss. ‘Anything, however small… In particular, on the 21st of June between 5 p.m. and 7 p.m.’

  ‘It’s not that kind of street, love,’ said Marie. ‘We’re all too busy working and living to peer out of the window at our neighbours.’

  ‘Would you have been in that day, between 5 p.m. and 7 p.m.?’ asked Erika.

  ‘That was around four weeks ago…’ Marie started.

  ‘Yes, it was a Tuesday,’ replied Moss.

  ‘I’d have still been at work. I’m an accountant in the City,’ said Marie.

  ‘I finish work earlier, and I work locally for the council,’ added Claude. ‘If it was a Tuesday, I’d have been at the gym. Fitness First, down the road in Sydenham. They can vouch for me, we have to swipe a card to get in.’

  ‘It’s okay. You’re not suspects,’ said Erika. ‘Did you know Gregory Munro well?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘He was always pleasant and polite, though,’ added Claude. ‘He was our GP, but we never had to go. I think we saw him once, a few years back, when we registered.’

  Erika and Moss exchanged a despondent glance.

  ‘There is one thing,’ started Claude. He took a sip of his iced water and rolled it around his mouth thoughtfully. Condensation dripped off the glass onto the wooden table.

  ‘Anything at all, however small,’ said Moss.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Marie. ‘Yes, I’ve seen them too.’

  ‘Seen who?’ asked Erika.

  ‘There seemed to be quite a few handsome young men in and out of Dr Munro’s house in the past few weeks,’ said Claude.

  Erika looked at Moss. ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘You know, muscly types,’ said Marie. ‘I thought the first one was some sort of hunky workman that Dr Munro had employed, but then the next day a different young man knocked on the door and went in. He was so good-looking. Sort of high-end good-looking, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Like a rent boy?’

  ‘Yeah. And they only seemed to stay for an hour or so,’ added Claude.

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘The first two were on weekdays. I can’t remember which days. I was coming home from work, so around seven-thirty… Dr Munro sort of hustled the first guy inside when he saw me passing, just said a quick hello. And then an hour or so later, we’d just had our supper and I was in the living room and I saw him leave,’ said Marie.

  ‘And the others?’ asked Erika.

  ‘There was one on a Saturday morning, I think? Didn’t you see him leaving early, Claude?’ asked Marie.

  ‘Yeah, the window from our upstairs loo looks down on the street; I was having a pee when I saw this young chap leaving early, around seven on a Saturday morning,’ said Claude.

  ‘And didn’t you think it was odd?’ asked Moss.

  ‘Odd? This is London, and it was before we knew he’d spilt up with his wife… It could have been a friend, a colleague, a medical student, or even a manny – you know, a male nanny,’ said Claude.

  ‘Do you think one of these men, you know, killed him?’ asked Marie.

  ‘I’m going to be honest with you: we don’t know. This is one of several leads.’

  It hung in the air for a moment. Marie rubbed at the condensation on her glass. Claude put a protective arm around her.

  ‘Would you be willing to do a police e-fit? If we can get a likeness of these young men it could be very valuable,’ said Erika. ‘We can get someone over tonight, to do it in the comfort of your home?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Claude. ‘If it helps you catch whoever did this.’

  Moss and Erika came back out into the baking street and moved across to the shady side.

  ‘I call that a result,’ said Moss.

  ‘And, with any luck, we could have a photo fit this evening,’ agreed Erika. She pulled out her phone and called Peterson for an update.

  ‘Nothing yet, boss,’ he said. ‘The fingerprint technician still isn’t finished over in Telegraph Hill. Estelle Munro has gone out for more milk… I don’t have a key to this place, so I can’t secure it.’

  ‘Okay, we’re on our way,’ said Erika. She hung up, tucked her phone back in her bag and looked at her watch. It was gone seven.

  ‘You need to be somewhere?’ asked Moss.

  ‘I’m supposed to be going for dinner, with Isaac Strong.’

  ‘I can stay here with Peterson if you want to scoot off. It looks like this is going to be a long boring one. I doubt we’ll get any prints off the frame, but I can let you know as soon as, and I’ll keep you posted on the photo fit.’

  ‘Don’t you want to be getting home, Moss?’

  ‘I’m fine. Celia’s taking Jacob to mother-and-baby swimming so I’ve got the evening, I know you don’t get out…’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘You know I don’t get out much?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that, boss,’ said Moss, going redder than she already was.

  ‘I know. It’s okay.’ Erika chewed her lip and squinted at Moss in the sun.

  ‘Honestly, boss, the millisecond we lift a print, I’ll call. And the e-fit might take a few hours. What’s Isaac cooking?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘By the time you’ve eaten whatever it is we’ll have a some answers.’

  ‘Okay. Thank you, Moss. I owe you one. You phone me the second something happens, however small, okay?’

  ‘I promise, boss,’ said Moss. She watched as Erika went back to her car and drove off, and hoped that they would find something to further the investigation.

  It looked like DCI Foster needed a breakthrough.

  21


  ‘Next week will be the longest day of the year, and then the nights will begin to draw in,’ said Simone. She stood by the small window in Mary’s hospital room. It looked down over a cluster of industrial rubbish bins and the incinerator. The brick walls of the surrounding buildings loomed high, closing in on them, but a sliver of the London skyline blazed through a gap in the brickwork. The yellow orb of the sun looked as if it were about to be skewered on the spire of the clock tower above King’s Cross station.

  Simone came over to the bed, where Mary lay with her eyes closed, the blanket pulled up to her chin. It barely moved with her shallow breathing, and her body seemed to taper away to nothing under the blanket. Simone’s shift had ended an hour ago, but she’d decided to stay on. Mary was fading fast. It wouldn’t be long now.

  She took the black and white photograph of Mary and George out of the locker and propped it up against a water jug.

  ‘There, we’re all here together. Me, you and George,’ said Simone, reaching through the safety bar to take Mary’s hand. ‘You look so happy in the photo, Mary. I wish you could tell me about him. He looks quite the lad… I’ve never had a close girlfriend to talk to. My mother never talked about sex, only to tell me it was filthy. I know she was wrong. It’s not filthy. When coupled with love it must be perfect… Was it perfect with George?’

  Simone turned to the photo. George’s handsome face squinted at the sun; his strong arm gripped Mary’s slim waist.

  ‘Did you enjoy nights out? Did he take you dancing? Did he see you safely home in the dark?’

  Simone took out a hairbrush and gently began to brush Mary’s hair with soft whooshing strokes.

  ‘The darkness scares me, Mary. It’s the time when I feel most alone.’

  The whooshing sound of the brush was soothing as it moved through Mary’s fine silvery hair. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in places, and a thin blue vein threaded its way across her temple to her hairline. Simone lifted the old lady’s head so she could reach the back with the hairbrush.

  Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

  ‘My marriage isn’t happy. Things have never been good, but a few years ago it got worse. So I moved into the spare room…’