The Night Stalker (Detective Jane Bennett and Mike Lockyer series Book 4)

by Clare Donoghue

  CLARE DONOGHUE

  THE NIGHT STALKER

  PAN BOOKS

  For Chris

  My brother, my first reader and the best plot trouble-shooter ever!

  I couldn’t have done it without you x

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  WALFORD

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  NEVER LOOK BACK

  NO PLACE TO DIE

  TRUST NO ONE

  PROLOGUE

  July

  He watched as she threw back her head and laughed, her mouth so wide he could see flecks of food stuck in her teeth. She was drunk again, regaling the locals with one of her wild stories. His jaw tightened with each lie and exaggeration. His mother had warned him not to get involved with her, but he hadn’t listened. He shook his head, despairing at his own idiocy.

  ‘Drink up, gentlemen,’ the landlord shouted. There was a chorus of disapproving murmurs. ‘Have you not got homes to go to?’

  ‘One for the road?’ a voice called out from the crowd, the plea supported by a surge of movement towards the bar.

  As he watched the stampede he pulled at the back of his neck, trying to tug away the tension that had bound his muscles into knots. He had only agreed to come for one drink. He had to be up at five, whereas she would laze in bed until mid-morning. What did she do all day? He had no idea. The kids were feral. The house was a mess. His dinner was always late, but not always edible. He ground his teeth as her cackle invaded his thoughts.

  He could still remember the first time he saw her. She had been in the pub with her father, her cheeks pink from the fire, a half of cider in her hand, her tits on display. And that had been it. Within a week she was sneaking over to his place at night. He would haul her in through his bedroom window and then tip her out of it again in the morning after they were done. She wasn’t forever, but she passed the time – or so he told himself. He sniffed and took a slug of his pint, coughing as it fizzed at the back of his throat.

  When she had told him she was pregnant, he had hoped it was a joke. His father thought he should marry her, that it was his responsibility. What did it matter that he didn’t love her, that he didn’t want a baby? How would he even support them? He didn’t earn enough to support himself, let alone a kid. Lucky for him, his mother agreed, and managed to persuade his would-be father-in-law that his only daughter was better off alone, but telling him that as the baby’s grandmother she would stump up the cash to pay for the poor little bastard.

  ‘Hey, watch it,’ he said as his pint was almost jostled out of his hand by the crush of more people pushing past him, desperate for one more drink. He stepped back from the bar, lifting his pint above his head. The space he left was filled in an instant and the calls for service resumed.

  He moved closer to the door and leaned against the wall, glad to be away from the crowd. ‘It was fifteen hands at least,’ she was saying, throwing her chubby arms up in the air. He knew the story well. She claimed to have been approached by an enormous stag up near the Seven Sisters. ‘He looked up, sniffed the air and then just walked right up to me.’

  ‘Must have smelled something he liked, Janey,’ one of the locals drawled. He knew without looking that there would be an accompanying leer and fumbling hand along with the remark. Annie would never have let herself be pawed at by another man. He let out a long and heavy sigh. He wasn’t good enough for Annie – then or now. From the day she agreed to marry him, their relationship was doomed to fail. She was clean and pure, like the spring at Lady’s Fountain. He was young, stupid and led by his dick. She had forgiven him his affair with Jane, but it hadn’t been enough to save them, not least because his mother had never approved of the relationship in the first place and so Annie had left, their engagement a distant memory.

  ‘You tell me,’ Jane said, offering her flushed bosom. ‘Go on, have a sniff.’

  The man buried his head in the pillows of flesh. ‘Honey and heather,’ he said with a satisfied groan.

  ‘Give me strength,’ he muttered, turning his back on the sordid show. He had seen it all before.

  ‘You’re a lucky man,’ the man said, stumbling towards him.

  ‘Oh yeah? How’s that?’

  ‘Your missus. She’s one of a kind.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said with a shake of his head. So why had he gone back to her?

  He knew why. Without Annie he had felt empty, and Jane and her tits had been only too eager to fill the void – despite the fact that she had given birth to another man’s child not four months before. The rumour was, his brother was the father. He supposed he should have been angry, but in truth he pitied Will for getting caught in the same trap.

  ‘Better get ’em in, fella,’ Alfie said. ‘Pat’s still serving and it’s your round.’

  ‘Fine. Fine,’ he said, bracing himself for the slap on the back he knew was coming.

  ‘Good man,’ Alfie said, hitting him with such force it drove the air out of his lungs. ‘Get me two.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, shuffling his way back to the bar whilst digging around in his pockets. He was broke. But then he was always broke, and the reason was standing at the other end of the bar cackling like a fishwife. Her tits were now so far out of her top, she might as well let the group of slobbering men suckle straight from the teats. She was surrounded by half the men in the pub, locals and strangers alike. Why did he agree to bring her here? Why did he give her money? He gestured to Pat, who nodded and began serving half a dozen pints, passing them to their recipients with the words, ‘Make it quick.’ No one ever listened. He took his pint without enthusiasm, and handed over the last of his cash.

  ‘Your missus is on form tonight,’ Pat said.

  ‘When isn’t she?’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘No more than usual,’ he said.

  ‘That’s marriage, my friend,’ Pat said with a shrug. ‘Drink up. Some of us actually want to get home.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, retreating to his place by the door, tipping his head back and downing half his pint in one gulp. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. She had used his loneliness to trap him. His eyes moved from the ring on her fourth finger to her swollen belly. He had escaped his paternal responsibilities once. Twice
was too much to ask. He pushed through the crowd of leering men and took Jane by the arm. He squeezed her pudgy flesh harder than he needed to, but it felt good, so he increased the pressure.

  ‘Ow,’ she yelped. ‘What are you playing at?’

  ‘Time to go,’ he said.

  She pulled back and looked at him with a scowl. ‘Andy just got a round in,’ she said. ‘I’m not leaving a pint of cider.’

  He opened his mouth to argue, but knew it was a waste of time. She was a belligerent drunk. ‘Drink up, then,’ he said, feeling himself shrink as he skulked away.

  ‘Guess we know who wears the trousers in that house,’ someone jeered.

  He wheeled round, his fists clenched, ready to pound whoever had insulted him; but no one was even looking in his direction. No one was challenging him. No one was interested in him. They were all looking at Jane. Her tits were holding court, a stain spreading across her top where her milk was leaking. Her growing belly was swollen and misshapen as she adjusted her weight from one foot to the other. Just looking at her made him want to gag. He turned away and took another gulp of his pint.

  ‘I’m done.’ Jane appeared at his side, swaying. ‘You still nursing that pint?’ she said, gesturing to his drink.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, dumping his glass on the edge of a table and taking her arm, again squeezing just that bit harder than necessary.

  ‘What a waste,’ she said, snatching his glass and downing the rest of the contents. ‘Come on, handsome.’ She stumbled towards the door, dragging him with her.

  As soon as they were outside she let out an enormous belch. ‘Urgh, I’ve been holding that in all night,’ she said, giggling. Her breasts jiggled. He felt his body respond. Damn those tits. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ She swiped at his arm.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, crossing the road onto the dirt path that led back to the cottage in Bincombe. It was past eleven, but the heat of the day still hung in the air. It was suffocating.

  ‘You’ve been a miserable bastard all night,’ she said from behind him. ‘You were the one who wanted to go out.’

  ‘We both know that’s not true,’ he said, tramping ahead, his feet sinking into the moss at the side of the well-worn trail. The twisted trees surrounded them, their branches gnarled and stunted by the wind and rain, their bark pale and peeling. He had always hated this stretch of woodland. His father had left him up here once, insisting he find his way home alone. He couldn’t have been more than five or six, but his father said if he didn’t learn the land, how could he ever hope to work it?

  ‘What did you say?’ she shouted from behind him.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, kicking at a clump of dry leaves, disturbing a cloud of mushroom spores.

  ‘You really are pathetic.’

  He could hear the sneer in her voice. He felt his fists clench at his sides. They would be home in ten minutes, she would pass out on one of the kids’ beds, and he would have made it through another day.

  ‘What kind of man are you? You’re no kind of father and you’re certainly no kind of husband. Tell me,’ she yelled, ‘what kind of man are you?’

  He slowed to a stop and bowed his head, taking a deep breath in through his nose, dragging in the hot air. The smell of the undergrowth filled his nostrils. He could almost hear the ground breathing, each breath warm and moist. He tipped his head back and looked up at the stars through the strangled boughs of the trees.

  ‘What kind of woman are you?’ he said, turning to face her, his voice low and rumbling like a storm rolling over the hills.

  ‘Me?’ she asked, pointing at herself and laughing. ‘I’m a bloody saint.’ She squared up to him, her saliva hitting his cheeks. ‘I’d have to be a bloody saint to put up with you and your family. How many others are there? How many other women have you and your idiot brother used and left?’

  ‘Only you,’ he said. ‘I only ever left you. I only ever wanted to leave you.’

  ‘So leave,’ she spat. ‘Who’s stopping you? You think I want you in the house . . . in my house?’

  ‘It’s not your house,’ he said. He felt the sensation of someone walking their fingers up his spine. He shivered.

  ‘Not what the judge will say,’ she said with a grin. Her teeth flashed white in the moonlight. He didn’t trust himself to speak. ‘You are pathetic,’ she said, pushing past him. ‘I can’t look at you. You make me sick. You are not a man. And I need a man.’

  He spun around, his fist connecting with the back of her head before he knew he was going to hit her. She grunted and stumbled, but soon righted herself. She turned and charged him, her distended belly swinging. He dodged and watched her stumble and fall to her knees. His heel connected with something solid. He looked down. It was a length of wood, a discarded fence post covered in leaves and mulch. Before he could think about it he was bending down and picking it up, weighing it up in his two hands. It was heavy. Heavy enough. Her back was to him. She was swearing under her breath as she tried to stand. In one smooth motion he lifted the post and brought it crashing down on the back of her head. There was a satisfying crunch as she fell forward again, this time landing face down at the edge of the trail. He waited for her to speak. He dropped the post and stepped back.

  ‘What kind of man am I?’ he asked. He put the toe of his boot under her left hip and rolled her over. He could see the blood pooling in the leaves and long grass around her head. He bent down, leaned over her stomach and put his ear to her mouth. Her breath gurgled in her throat. He sat back on his heels and patted down his trouser and jacket pockets until he found what he was looking for. He took out the knife, unfolded it and, holding her hair with his other hand, tipped back her head and ran the blade across her throat. He was surprised how much pressure was needed. When he reached her right ear he removed the blade from her neck, wiped it clean on the shoulder of her dress, folded it and put it back in his pocket.

  He was about to stand when he remembered something. With a sniff he reached into her top, found the money wedged between her breasts, took it out and put it in his pocket, together with the knife.

  The walk home was quiet. The air seemed to have cleared. He let himself into his cottage and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He pushed her pillows off the bed with the back of his hand and repositioned his own into the middle as he kicked off his shoes. He shrugged out of his jacket and trousers and climbed under the covers. As he lay back, he closed his eyes and rested his hands on his chest.

  He would sleep well tonight. And he did.

  July

  DI Bill Townsend looked down and blew out a breath. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, irritating his three-day stubble. The sudden heatwave might be welcomed by the majority of the Country, but it was doing him no favours as the body of the woman in front of him raced towards decomposition – taking her secrets with her.

  ‘We’ll give you a second,’ the CSI team leader said, ushering his team away so that Bill could observe the body in situ without interruption.

  He took a step forward, taking care to remain on the network of raised platforms. They were there to protect any and all forensic evidence, though given the amount of walkers and wildlife in the area, Bill doubted they were preserving much of use. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked the crouched figure in front of him.

  Somerset’s local pathologist was bent at the knees, hunched over the head and neck of the woman. Flies buzzed around Bill’s head. He waved them away. The place was more akin to a tropical jungle than ancient oak woodland on a hillside in Somerset. The swarm left him and returned to its meal. Bile pooled beneath his tongue, and he looked away to compose himself.

  His breakfast was not sitting well. The grease from the fry-up his wife had cooked earlier lined his mouth, refusing to clear when he swallowed. He took a deep breath and tipped his head back, swaying on his feet as he looked up at the trees. The branches were so intertwined and thick with leaves that the sun only penetrated in occasional shafts of light, b
urning into the ground.

  ‘Much deeper and they’d have taken her head off,’ Basil Reed said with a sigh. ‘Both arteries were severed.’ He cleared his throat and looked around him. Bill followed his eyes, taking in the darkened soil, blood-soaked leaves and plastic yellow markers that littered the scene.

  ‘Anything else you can tell me . . . other injuries? Sexual assault? Anything you can tell me about her attacker?’

  Reed straightened his legs and stood up. ‘Blunt force trauma . . . back upper right,’ he said, gesturing the position of the injury on his own head. ‘Heavy, flat object.’ He sniffed. ‘Throat cut from the front – left to right.’ He pointed to the woman’s torn clothes and the skirt hoisted up on one side, almost to the waist. ‘This and this,’ he said, ‘implies a sexual element to the attack, but I won’t be able to confirm that until after the post-mortem.’ He sighed. ‘I’d guess the attacker was male, right-handed – physically strong – above average height . . .’ He drifted into silence.

  ‘And that?’ Bill asked, gesturing to the smudges on the woman’s torso.

  ‘Carbon-based residue,’ Reed said. ‘Charcoal, by the looks of it.’

  Bill nodded without understanding. ‘And when can we expect the post-mortem to be carried out?’

  ‘We can expect the post-mortem when we have time.’

  Bill swallowed hard, his frustration fighting its way to the surface. ‘I’m briefing my team later today,’ he said, ‘and no doubt the superintendent, not to mention the press, will want an update by close of business at the latest.’

  ‘Your team.’ Reed turned away. ‘Didn’t take you long,’ he said under his breath.

  What was this guy’s problem? If anyone should be pissed off, it was Bill. He was the one who had been told to drop everything and get down here from Bristol. He was the one who had just cancelled his holiday to Italy. And he was the one who had been thrown head first into a violent murder inquiry with the sole instruction, ‘get this solved quickly and quietly’. There was fat chance of that once the press got hold of the details of the attack. He measured his tone. ‘It wasn’t appropriate for DI Waters to continue with this investigation, given the circumstances.’