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

by Clare Donoghue

  ‘She’s pregnant, not made of glass,’ Reed said.

  ‘DI Waters’ pregnancy aside, this was Atkinson’s decision,’ Bill said, hoping a mention of the superintendent would be enough to assuage Reed’s misplaced irritation.

  ‘Should have been hers,’ Reed said, turning and skulking away from the body without so much as a backward glance.

  Townsend opened his mouth to call after him, but decided not to bother. He rocked his head from one side to the other, easing his tired muscles. As his eyes came back level he stumbled forward, losing his balance for a moment. He reached out to a nearby tree and steadied himself. He looked down at the body, his eyes tracking from the wound at the woman’s throat to the smudges of black on her torso, to the swell of her pregnant belly, to the blood still soaking into the ground.

  ‘Seven months,’ a voice said behind him. Bill turned to see a young detective he recognized from DI Waters’ team. ‘She was seven months pregnant – if that’s what you were wondering. Her third kid . . . or would have been.’

  ‘Tragic,’ he said without inflection, remembering the detective’s name as he spoke. It was Abbott.

  ‘Her whole life was tragic,’ Abbott said.

  ‘You knew her?’ Bill asked, frowning.

  ‘Who didn’t?’ was all Abbott said.

  CHAPTER ONE

  7th December – Monday

  Aaron rolled onto his side, wrapping his arm around Megan’s waist. When she didn’t stir he pulled her into him and buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. She breathed out a quiet snore. He smiled. Wasn’t it the guy’s prerogative to fall asleep after? He removed his left arm from under her neck and shuffled backwards until he was able to tip himself out of bed without making a sound. He covered her with the duvet before tiptoeing out of the room, snatching his boxers from the floor as he pulled the door closed. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering to be quiet. An earthquake wouldn’t wake her once she was out.

  He padded down the stairs and into the kitchen, turning on the light. The rest of the flat was in darkness. It had been light when he had chased her up the stairs. He had never been a fan of winter, but working shifts seemed to make things even harder, and with Christmas only two weeks away there would soon be the shift-swapping bunfight to deal with as well. He took four pieces of bread out of the breadbin and put them into the toaster. Megan had asked him to spend Christmas with her. He had never spent Christmas with a girlfriend before. He had never been asked, much to his relief. He took a plate down from the cupboard, a knife from the drawer and the peanut butter, lemon curd and butter from the fridge. Megan thought his version of peanut butter and jelly was repulsive. The toast popped. He slathered all four slices with butter, then peanut butter, then just a thin layer of lemon curd. He used the back of his hand to push an anticipatory bit of dribble back into his mouth. The first bite was always the best. First you tasted the lemon curd, bitter and sweet, then the cloying, stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth wonder that was peanut butter. All finished off with the salty, satisfying hit you could only get from real butter. According to his health-conscious girlfriend, he deserved to be the size of a house. He couldn’t help it. He had always been slim. It was a genetic thing.

  He walked through to the lounge, carrying his toast. He was about to turn on the main light, but then looked at the tree in the corner. It was covered in everything shiny – baubles, tinsel and four lots of fairy lights – all thanks to Megan. With his toe he flicked on the plug and the lounge was filled with a soft, colour-changing glow. He sat down on the sofa with a thump, folded a piece of toast in half and jammed as much of it into his mouth as he could manage, butter dripping onto his chin as he smiled. She had stayed over every night for the past two weeks. She had transformed his flat. She had transformed his life.

  In previous relationships, if a girl stayed over, Aaron got nervous. He was nervous now, but for very different reasons. For the first time he wasn’t trying to figure out how to end things, how to extricate himself without setting off a bitch-bomb. Instead he was terrified that he was going to wake up one morning and it was all going to be over – that she would leave him. He was in a constant state of agitation accompanied by bouts of nausea, personifying the term ‘lovesick’. He had never felt so elated and shit-scared at the same time.

  Given his day job as a PC in Lewisham’s murder squad – soon to be DC, if he passed his promotion exam – he should be made of stronger stuff. But when it came to Megan he was way out of his depth. A day in the company of killers was a piece of piss by comparison. He put his plate on the table, licked his fingers and picked up the remote. Megan had a nine o’clock lecture and he was on an early, but he wasn’t ready to sleep yet. He glanced at the clock. It was only half ten. He could catch up on a couple of Top Gear episodes. Megan wasn’t interested in cars, or men talking about cars. His phone started to ring. He looked around the room, trying to locate the sound, when Megan’s phone joined the chorus. The two ringtones clashed. His was a generic ring, but Megan’s was some song by Rihanna. He groaned and pushed himself up from the sofa. He spotted the blue glow of Megan’s phone under the coffee table. He bent down and grabbed it, glancing at the screen as his thumb moved to silence the call. He stopped.

  It was DI Mike Lockyer – lead DI for Lewisham’s murder squad.

  Megan’s father.

  Aaron’s boss.

  CHAPTER TWO

  7th December – Monday

  Pippa reached into her handbag and rooted around for her phone. Her car pulled to the left. She yanked the wheel back to the right, but not before her wing mirror disappeared into the hedgerow. There was a scraping sound and a thud. Her mirror snapped back into place as it emerged from the dense tangle of bare bramble and hawthorn. ‘Shit.’

  Tonight’s scrape was one of many. The lanes over the Quantocks were narrow and the locals drove at alarming speeds, day and night. As if on cue, a pair of blinding headlights bore down on her from the brow of the hill. She braked and swerved, her mirror and the left side of her car taking a further battering in the process. The oncoming car zipped past, flashed its lights and was gone.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she muttered as she flicked on her full beam. And people thought London drivers were bad. She upended her bag and emptied the contents onto the passenger seat, hurling items into the footwell; her wallet, tampons, her lanyard for work, her Kindle. No phone.

  As she drove through Crowcombe village she dropped down into third gear and accelerated up the hill, the hedgerows coming in to meet her. The trees on either side were so dense that she only caught glimpses of the night sky above her. It was like driving into a black hole. She turned on her windscreen wipers as the first drops of rain fell. The drops turned into a deluge, sending her wipers into overdrive. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and dropped down into second gear as she heard the sound of a much more powerful engine approaching. She glanced in her rear-view mirror as the headlights of the other vehicle rounded the bend at the bottom of the hill and sped up to meet her.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said, tucking herself as far into the left bank as she dared. She shook her head at the sound of yet more scraping. This part of the road was wide enough for two cars – only just – but instead of overtaking, the car slowed and pulled in behind her. She had to squint to look in her mirror, they were that close.

  ‘You’ve got your full beams on,’ she shouted, flashing her own lights. She could just make out two silhouettes, the driver and passenger. They were right up her arse and seemed to be edging closer. She saw a turn up ahead, indicated and slowed to let them pass, but they stayed glued to her bumper. Her skin prickled as beads of sweat formed in her hairline. She stopped indicating and continued up the hill, her companions in tow. She shook off her feeling of unease and put her foot down. There was another turn-off a bit further on. If they wouldn’t pass her, she would get out of their way and double back. She wasn’t in any hurry.

  Damp air seemed to se
ep in through the windows, making her shiver. She turned up the heat, her eyes darting to the seat next to her as she continued searching for her phone. ‘Come on,’ she said as the rain hammered down. ‘Back off a bit, mate.’ It sounded more like a plea than she had intended.

  Pippa’s car looked as if it was glowing from the inside out. The breath she was holding rushed out when she saw the headlights coming down the hill towards her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, turning her eyes up to the heavens. The oncoming car flashed its lights and pulled off to the side of the road, its wheels mounting the verge to let Pippa pass. As she slowed she saw the smiling faces of an old man in the driving seat and next to him, she assumed, his wife. They both raised their hands in greeting. She held up her hand and smiled back as she pulled alongside and inched past them. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed as she accelerated away and up the hill, leaving her tailgater far behind.

  She reached for her emergency pack of cigarettes. Her hands were shaking a little, and not just from her encounter. This stretch of road always gave her the heebie-jeebies. It was her sister’s fault. Cassie used to tell stories on their way home from primary school, stories that frightened Pippa witless. She could still hear her voice, quiet and low as she whispered in Pippa’s ear: Shervage Wood is haunted.

  Pippa lit her cigarette and wound her window down just enough to flick her ash and let the smoke out without letting the rain in. There used to be dragons all over the Quantocks, but Gurt Wurm was the biggest. He lived in Shervage Wood. People who saw him said he was as big around as three oak trees tied together. Pippa smiled at the memory at the same time as her body gave an involuntary shudder. In the spring-time he would gobble up all the sheep, horses . . . and children if he could catch them. They say you can still hear the children’s screams on stormy nights.

  A gust of wind buffeted the car, making Pippa grip the steering wheel. One day the farmers decided they’d had enough and so they sent a woodcutter to fell some trees they said were rotten, but they never told him about Gurt Wurm. When the man sits down on a log to eat his lunch he suddenly realizes he isn’t sitting on a log at all. Gurt Wurm swishes his tail out from under the woodcutter, turns his head and opens his mouth wide, ready to eat him whole. But the woodcutter is too quick. He grabs his axe and cuts Gurt Wurm clean in half. They say his blood took days to soak into the ground, and that’s why the mud is red round these parts.

  Pippa had had nightmares for years because of Cassie and her tall tales. She took a drag of her cigarette, and glanced in the rear-view mirror. No sign of the other car. They must have turned off for Triscombe. Drink drivers using the back roads, no doubt. She blew the smoke out the window. What she wouldn’t give to be back in London. She missed her flat. She missed her friends.

  Pippa had been out of work for four months when her aunt Claudette called to say she had got her a job at Fyne Court, a National Trust place on the top of the Quantocks. She hadn’t been keen. Why would she be? She didn’t want to move back to Somerset. But when Claudette, who was friends with the catering manager, said they had refurbished their courtyard tearoom and were now serving lunches so needed a head chef, Pippa had relented. A head chef position was a big deal, although in reality she was making sandwiches and heating up soup.

  She flicked the remainder of the cigarette out the window, watching the explosion of red sparks in her rear-view mirror as it hit the road behind her. It wouldn’t be much longer. All she needed to do was save enough money to cover her London rent for the next few months, and then she could go home. She had managed to pick up some extra shifts at the Farmer’s Arms in Combe Florey as well, so with any luck she would be out of here soon.

  ‘What the—’ She swerved as something darted in front of her headlights. She slammed on her brakes, the car veering to the other side of the road. Her tyres lost traction for a few seconds as she skidded, but then she felt them bite and the car juddered to a stop just before the cattle grid that led to the open part of the Quantocks – the part they called the Common.

  Her heart was racing. She held her breath as she looked around. Her mind filled with visions of dragons, men with axes and blood. She could hear the wind as it ripped through the trees. There was the sound of a branch cracking. She turned, screamed and jumped sideways in her seat, banging her elbow on the door. ‘Christ,’ she said as the small doe bounded past the car and disappeared into the hedgerow on the other side of the road. She blew out a breath as she brought her shoulders down from around her ears. She looked at the clock on the dashboard. If she turned around right now and headed for the M5, she could be back in London by three thirty. Tears pricked in her eyes as she remembered she was working in the morning. There was no escape – not for tonight, anyway.

  She put the car into gear and pulled away, her bones juddering as she crossed the cattle grid. The woodland retreated behind her as the road cut across open grassland pockmarked by rabbit warrens and badger sets. The few remaining trees were stunted and bent from the wind.

  She heard the growl of another car before she saw it; she looked in her rear-view mirror, and tensed. The lights behind her flickered as the car passed over the cattle grid and accelerated up behind her. She could feel panic trying to surface, but as she looked back again, her shoulders relaxed a little. There was only one silhouette. There was only one person in the car. It was a different car. She sighed, her breathing returning to normal as she navigated the twisting road, glad now to have someone with her. She heard her phone beep, and looked for the illuminated screen. It was buried beneath a pile of tissues. She reached over, picked it up and unlocked the screen, trying to see who the message was from, but the car was bumping all over the place. Instead she grazed the phone icon with the side of her thumb, hit speed dial one and put it on speaker. The phone rang twice, but then clicked off as her call went to answerphone. An automated voice filled the car.

  ‘Oh, come on, answer your bloody . . .’ Before she could finish speaking, her car jolted forward. ‘What the fuck?’

  She looked over her shoulder. She could just make out the silhouette of the driver. They were holding up their hand, palm flat in apology. She shook her head.

  ‘Try leaving more than an inch next time, mate,’ she said, raising her hand in response just as a huddle of sheep appeared out of the darkness in front of her. They were lying down, encroaching on the road. She pulled to the right and passed them without slowing down.

  ‘Anything else?’ she said. ‘What with deer, dickheads and now sheep, I’m about done for the night.’ She felt the road begin to slope downwards. Fifteen minutes and she would be home. She rounded the corner just as a shunt from behind forced her to swerve to the left. ‘Jesus,’ she said, grabbing the steering wheel. Her eyes darted to her rear-view mirror. She could see the silhouette of the driver, but this time there was no hand – there was no apology.

  Without thinking, she started to accelerate. She had almost managed to convince herself she was wrong, that no one was capable of the things she had read about – names and fantasies she couldn’t fathom – but he was here. Who else could it be? Who else would want to hurt her? She could see the second cattle grid up ahead. She didn’t look back. She kept her eyes on the road.

  The next impact threw Pippa forward with such force her chest collided with the steering wheel, winding her, before her head snapped back, only stopped by the headrest. She heard the cattle grid pass beneath the car. She couldn’t see anything. She was surrounded by a blinding white light. She could taste blood. Her hand reached up, as if in slow motion, her fingers feeling for her mouth. Her tongue felt like a torn rag. There was another bang and she was thrown to the side, her head hitting the window. She heard a crack. Someone was coughing. She could hear a gurgling, retching sound. She felt drunk – as if she was lying on her bed in her flat after a heavy night, the room spinning around her. Another sound invaded her thoughts. A scream buried within a deep growl.

  She could see the tree coming towards her, its trunk wide and thic
k like Gurt Wurm’s stomach. Her face rushed forward to meet it as if in an embrace. Everything went dark. Pippa relaxed. She would chase up on those job applications tomorrow. Something would come through, she was sure of it. She loved cooking. It was her passion. She hoped one day to own her own restaurant. She remembered her sister lining up two chairs against the kitchen work surface: one for her, one for her brother. They each had a go at stirring, but Pippa always had the longest turn. They would each tip the mixture into their own little cupcake liners. Cassie would hold open the oven door and slide in the tray. ‘Careful, it’s hot,’ she would say. Pippa could smell the oven now – the sweet burning of the sugar as it melted – the heat warming her face. She heard the crackle of the paper cases rustling against the heat.

  She let the heat envelop her as the flames licked ever closer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  10th December – Thursday

  Jane cupped her hands over her eyes, relishing the darkness before pulling her legs up and hugging them to her. She took a deep breath then sighed, stretching out on her back like a starfish, her hands and feet exploring the cold spots on her bedsheet. The king-size dwarfed her, but it was worth every penny. If there was a heaven, she reckoned it was this: cold sheets, a warm duvet and a lie-in on a winter’s morning.

  Her slow start was in part due to having the morning off work, but also because she had been forbidden to go downstairs. The novelty of time off had not been lost on her eight-year-old son. He had tiptoed into her bedroom at just gone four thirty this morning to announce in a loud stage whisper that he was going to make her breakfast, and judging by the racket coming from downstairs, preparations were in full swing. She was itching to get down there and see what he was up to, but he had made it very clear that her help would neither be appreciated nor tolerated. She looked at her watch. It was almost seven. He had been down there for an hour. He had promised not to use the hob without asking, but she knew that when it came to surprises her son believed all promises were rendered null and void. She threw her legs out over the side of the bed, sat up and stretched her arms up over her head. The creaks and pops of her spine gave her a pleasant shiver. She sniffed the air. There was only the faint smell of burning toast.