‘Voilà!’ he grinned, triumphantly.
They stared at him for a moment. A small drain beside the door gurgled.
‘You’re wasted in forensics. You should have your own magic show,’ said Moss.
‘It’s brilliant, but how do you know this is how he got in?’ asked Erika.
‘We found a piece of broken wire inside the lock, and a small piece of newspaper had caught on the wood under the door,’ said Nils, producing an evidence bag from his pocket with a flourish. It contained a stub of silvery wire and a scrap of torn newspaper.
An image popped into Erika’s head. A bathroom filled with steam. Mark, wearing just a towel around his waist, pressing a similar-sized scrap of toilet tissue onto a shaving cut, a spot of blood soaking through.
The whirr of the lawnmower starting up again jerked Erika back to reality.
‘Were there any prints on the draught-excluding strip?’ Moss was asking. Nils shook his head. ‘If the killer got in using this newspaper-under-the-door trick, how did they get out again – lock the door and leave the key on the shelf?’
‘They didn’t. Just like at Gregory Munro’s house, they could have paid a visit previously. Taken the key, had a copy made, and then replaced it,’ said Moss.
‘It makes sense. It’s a bit of a stretch, but it makes sense. Would it hold up in court, though?’ replied Erika.
‘Yes, coupled with the print we’ve lifted from the outside of the door, down here in the bottom half,’ he said, indicating the glossy blue paintwork.
‘You lifted a fingerprint?’ asked Erika.
Nils beckoned the fingerprint technician back over. ‘It’s not a fingerprint…’ He showed them a piece of white card with the perfect outline of an ear. ‘He put his ear to the door, to listen,’ said Nils.
The ear print was small, almost child-like. Despite the sweltering heat in the garden, it gave Erika the shivers.
33
Erika and Moss had moved to one of the large police support vehicles parked in front of the house. Sitting across from them at one of the small plastic tables was Danuta McBride, the woman who had discovered Jack Hart’s body. A uniformed officer came over with three plastic cups of tea and placed them on the table. They all took a cup and sipped.
Erika calculated that Danuta was in her late forties. She looked pale and shocked. Her dark hair was long and sleek, worn with a blunt fringe. She wore a floral print wraparound dress over her large frame, cinched in at the waist by a thick belt. She had a large smartphone on a lanyard around her neck, and on her feet she wore hot pink toe trainers.
‘How did you know Jack?’ asked Erika.
‘Um, I’m the executive producer of his show. And we’re partners in HartBride Media. Our company, which makes the show.’
‘Have you known him long?’
‘Yes, we were at university together. We studied journalism.’ Danuta looked at them with disbelief in her eyes. ‘Can I have a cigarette? I’ve been asking your colleagues for the past couple of hours.’ She indicated the two young uniformed officers at the door.
‘Course. I could use one, too,’ said Erika, pulling out her cigarettes and lighter.
‘Sorry, you can’t smoke in here – health and safety,’ said one of the uniformed officers, a dark-haired lad.
‘Well, you go and breathe outside, and we’ll make sure we don’t burn the furniture,’ said Erika, easing a cigarette into the corner of her mouth and offering the pack to Danuta. She took one gratefully. As Erika lit up for them both, the uniformed officer went to say something else, then thought better of it.
‘Can you think of anyone who would want to do this to Jack?’ asked Erika, placing the cigarette packet down on the table. The ceiling fans were working hard inside, but it was still hot.
‘Take your pick,’ Danuta said, exhaling smoke and looking down at the small plastic table.
‘You need to be more specific,’ said Moss.
‘He was a pantomime villain… He was Marmite. Loved by millions and hated by millions in equal measure. He was an investigative journalist for years on the Sun, then the Mirror and the Express, the News of the World. He was a bloody good one. Always got the story, whatever it took. And he’d split up with his wife a few months back, after she caught him shagging one of our researchers. So he’s made plenty of enemies on the way to the top, but who hasn’t? I can’t think of anyone who’d do… that…’ Danuta’s eyes filled up with tears for a moment and she wiped them with the back of her hand. ‘Since Megan Fairchild committed suicide, he’s been getting a lot of hate mail. Well, I say hate male, most of it’s from trolls online.’
‘How did he feel about Megan’s death?’
‘What do you think?’ Danuta snapped. ‘We both felt devastated. The crazy thing is that Megan wrote to us. She came down to London for auditions. Twice. We explain to everyone what the show is like. We warn them about the press coverage, potential intrusion, but they still want their fifteen minutes of fame. Although they barely get five minutes, let alone fifteen. Jack used to say he wished Andy Warhol was still around, so he could see what these crazies are prepared to do to get on TV.’
‘What time did you come over to Jack’s house?’
‘Dunno, around eleven. He was supposed to come to a crisis meeting with the producers and the network about the whole Megan business.’
‘I thought the show went out live every morning at 9 a.m.? Today is a Friday,’ said Erika.
‘It’s only live Monday to Wednesday. We record another two shows “as live” on a Wednesday, after the live morning show. Saves money on studio time.’
‘And you didn’t see anyone hanging around?’
‘No, I only saw the bedroom and I freaked out, climbed back down into the back garden and called 999.’
‘Do you know Jack’s wife?’
‘Yeah. Claire; she left him a couple of months back. Took the kids.’
‘How old are his kids?’
‘Nine and seven.’
‘I’ve read in the press she’s been diagnosed with cancer?’ said Moss.
‘She got the diagnosis a month after she left him. He told her to come back, tried to patch it up, but she refused. The press didn’t report that bit; they prefer to paint him as the villain, saying that he cheated on her while she was sick. Claire’s been staying with her mum by the sea in Whitstable.’
‘Have you ever been romantically involved with Jack?’ asked Erika.
‘We shagged a couple of times when we were students. I’m married now, and Jack was like a brother to me.’ Danuta’s cigarette had burned right down. Erika pushed a plastic cup into the centre of the table for them to use as an ashtray.
‘How did you get in the house? You said you climbed?’ asked Moss.
‘Yes. I climbed up to the bedroom window at the back.’
‘Is that something you’d normally do?’
‘No. Well, only once before, when he slept in on a live show day, and to be fair that was the day after he’d done the Text Santa twenty-four-hour charity broadcast. He was dead to the world… I mean, he was asleep. I climbed up and banged on the window until he woke up.’
‘And today, you broke the window?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why? Did you think he was still alive?’
‘No… Yes… I don’t know. He had a bag over his head. I thought I might be able to save him. There’s a small stone ashtray on the roof. Jack used to go out there for a smoke. I used that to break the glass. And then when I got inside, I saw he was past help…’
‘Did you think he was trying to kill himself?’
‘No.’
‘What did you think it was, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was Jack heterosexual?’ asked Moss.
‘Course he was bloody heterosexual! And he wasn’t a homophobe. We’ve got gay guys working on the show who he gets on with. Got on with.’
‘Was he a big drinker, drug taker?’
Dan
uta looked out of the small van window over to the house where crime scene officers were filing in and out.
‘We’re asking this in confidence. It will help our investigation,’ said Erika.
‘He liked a smoke…’
‘Marijuana?’
Danuta nodded. ‘And he dropped E once, years ago when we made a documentary at Burning Man – but we all did. He liked to go out on the lash, but I wouldn’t say he had a problem with drink, or drugs.’
‘Okay.’
‘Does he own the house?’ asked Moss.
‘Yes.’
‘Is there anything else you can think of?’
‘Be gentle when you tell his wife, okay? She’s been through a lot.’
Erika nodded. They watched through the window as a black body bag emerged from the house on a stretcher and was carried over to an ambulance. From far up the street, the crowds had swollen even more. Camera flashes went off like tiny bright pinpricks.
There was a knock on the open door of the van, and Crane popped his head around the door.
‘All right, boss, can I have a word?’
‘Thank you, Danuta. We’ll arrange you a lift home,’ said Erika. Danuta nodded weakly. Erika and Moss excused themselves and came out of the van.
‘There’s a neighbour wants to talk to you. She says someone broke in to her house last night and stole some baby clothes,’ said Crane.
‘How can she be sure?’ asked Erika.
‘There were stolen off her baby.’
34
‘And nothing else was taken?’ asked Erika, moving towards a pair of windows in the nursery. The room was on the ground floor, looking out over a yellowing lawn with overgrown flowerbeds. The sun streamed through, casting two bright squares on a new beige carpet. The walls were freshly painted in white, with a border of marching multicoloured elephants.
‘No. Nothing…’ said the young woman, who lived two doors along from Jack Hart’s house. She looked pale and exhausted, and clutched her tiny dark-haired daughter close to her chest. They both had short, thick dark hair and large brown eyes.
Moss moved from the freestanding wooden crib in the centre of the room to a tall wooden set of drawers on the left-hand wall. On top were a changing pad, a large bottle of lotion and a baby monitor.
‘Was this monitor on at the time?’ asked Moss.
‘Yes.’
‘Was the baby monitor on all night, Mrs Murphy?’ asked Erika.
‘Please, call me Cath. Yes. It was on all night. Our bedroom is next door. I check on Samantha often.’
‘How often is that?’
‘Every three hours. I set my alarm.’
‘Do you know what time the piece of clothing went missing?’
‘I can’t be sure. I didn’t notice until this morning.’
‘And you heard nothing unusual through the baby monitor? Nothing that, in hindsight, was odd?’ asked Moss, moving over and holding out her finger. The little girl grabbed it in her tiny hand and giggled.
‘No. Samantha is a very quiet little baby. I didn’t put two and two together until I heard the commotion outside. Is it true that Jack Hart was found strangled? Much like that doctor was a couple of weeks back?’
‘We can’t comment on the case,’ said Erika.
‘This is my home! I have a right to know!’
‘We are treating his death as suspicious. That’s all we can say.’
‘He was a nice man. Jack Hart. He was one of the only people on the street who always said hello. He stopped to ask about Samantha. Put a congratulations card through the door. Nothing like the man on the television.’
‘Has anyone been round in the last couple of weeks, asking door-to-door about security alarms?’ asked Moss.
‘Not that I know of. I can ask my husband when he gets back.’
‘When is he back?’
‘Late, tonight. He works in the city.’
‘Okay. Was one of these windows open last night? There’s no sign of forced entry.’
The woman looked guilty. ‘Yes, but I only opened it a little. This area is usually so safe, and we’re tucked in here amongst the houses. It was such a hot night. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to keep her warm, but I didn’t want her to overheat. You hear all these conflicting things about babies…’ She started to cry and clutched the little girl tighter.
‘Is Samantha your first?’ asked Moss. Her finger was still grasped in the little girl’s tiny fist. Cath nodded. ‘It’s tough being a mum,’ Moss said. ‘Everyone’s doing it, but no one wants to admit how hard it is. And I’m talking as a police officer.’
Cath relaxed a little, and smiled. Erika looked around at the freshly painted nursery, half-listening to Moss and the neighbour talking about children. She pushed her maternal feelings to the back of her mind and went over to the window, peering out at the grass on the other side.
‘And you’re sure your husband or a nanny hasn’t taken the jacket to be washed?’
‘We don’t have a nanny. I’ve searched the house, and the laundry. I am the only one who gets up for her during the night, and she’s too small to undo all the tiny buttons…’ Cath’s voice trailed off again; she clutched little Samantha tight. ‘Why would someone do that? It’s just sick. It’s deliberately spreading fear. I’m locking all of the windows. I’m never going to open them again!’
Erika and Moss emerged from the house a few minutes later.
‘I want that nursery fingerprinted from top to bottom. And every single garden in this row gone over with a fine-tooth comb,’ said Erika. ‘Whoever did this is going to have to slip up somewhere soon. He’s killed two people.’
‘So we’re talking serial killer now?’ asked Moss.
‘I don’t know. Why take the baby’s clothes, though, and leave the baby unharmed? It doesn’t add up. He’s also visited the victims’ houses beforehand, in broad daylight, and we’ve got nothing.’
‘We’ve got an ear print,’ said Moss.
Erika thought of the ear print again, its black outline on the fingerprint paper. It made her feel cold.
35
It was late when Erika returned home to her flat. When she unlocked the front door, the heat and darkness were overwhelming. She flicked the switch in the hall, but the light didn’t come on. She stood on the threshold in the darkness for a moment, and then the light in the communal hallway, which was on a timer, cut out. She was plunged into darkness.
Jack Hart’s face appeared in her mind. His eye trapped open under the plastic. A silent scream.
Erika took several deep breaths, came back out to the front entrance and pressed the timer switch. The lights came back on and began to make a light ticking sound. She came back into the threshold of her flat and pulled out her phone, activating the torch. It cast its bright arc of light over the inside of the flat and she cautiously made her way down the darkened hall and into the bedroom. She scrabbled on the wall and found the light switch, but nothing happened. She swung her arm from left to right, illuminating the corners of the room, crouching down to shine the light under the bed. She opened the wardrobe doors.
Nothing.
More images flooded her mind: Gregory Munro, Jack Hart. Lying naked on their backs, naked bodies exposed, heads misshapen through the tight clear plastic bags.
There was a click as her front door closed.
‘Shit,’ she said, under her breath. Her heart began to thump against her chest. She could still smell the sickly aroma of the pond water on her sweaty skin. Quickly, she came out of the bedroom and, keeping one eye on the front door, she reached round the bathroom door for the light pull. It did nothing when she yanked it. She rounded the corner of the bathroom door and directed the phone light inside. It was empty: white toilet, bath and sink. She yanked back the white shower curtain. Nothing. The reflection from the phone’s light bounced back at her from the mirror, momentarily dazzling her. She tried to shake the painful sensation and the bright spot in her vision as she hurried b
ack out of the bathroom, past the front door and through to the living room.
She tried the light switch but, again, nothing. It was just as she’d left it: messy. A couple of flies buzzed around above the old coffee cups on the kitchen counter. She relaxed a little. The flat was empty. She returned to the front door and put the chain on, and then came back through to the living room. She grabbed the string for the large blinds over the patio window and pulled them up with a whoosh.
A silhouette of a tall man stood in front of the window. Erika screamed and staggered back, falling over the coffee table with a crash of cups.
She dropped her phone, plunging the room back into darkness.
36
As Erika lay on the floor, the silhouette of the tall figure was still for a moment, then swayed a little, saying, through the glass, ‘Boss? You in there? It’s me, Peterson.’ He cupped his hands against the window and peered inside. ‘Boss?’
‘What the bloody hell are you doing coming to my flat?’ asked Erika, getting up and pulling open the patio door. The light pollution from the surrounding sky bathed Peterson in an orangey glow.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t find the front door. I didn’t know it was on the side of the building.’
‘Spoken like a true detective,’ said Erika. ‘Wait here a second.’
She retrieved her phone from the shadows under the coffee table, turned the light back on and grabbed a chair so she could reach the fuse box high on the wall above the television. She opened it and reset the trip switch. The lights all came on in the flat, apart from the one in the hall above the front door.
The Night Stalker: A chilling serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster Book 2) Page 14
