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

by Clare Donoghue

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘call me Bill.’

  ‘Fine, Bill. Same again?’

  ‘Can I have tea instead?’ he asked, smacking his lips together. ‘I’m parched.’

  ‘Sure, builder’s or something fancy?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll have Earl Grey, if they’ve got it?’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’ Jane walked over to the counter. She hoped he hadn’t take offence at her ‘fancy’ reference. She should have known he liked fancy tea by the way he spoke. He had the Somerset accent – or Zummerset, as it was pronounced down south – but he sounded as if he had been to a private school. His vowels were rounded, his consonants sharp and clear. She could hear Lockyer’s phone ringing. ‘Can we have the same again, please?’ she said, handing the used mugs to the waitress, ‘but substitute the Americano with an Earl Grey.’

  ‘A pot?’

  ‘Make them to go, Jane,’ Lockyer called over.

  She looked at the waitress. ‘Did you get that?’

  ‘Sure,’ the girl said, turning and busying herself with their order.

  Jane sifted through her wallet and put a tenner on the counter. She looked at her watch, and then outside at the snow. The sooner they finished up here, the sooner she could get herself sorted. They needed to be back to meet the DI and two DS’s due to arrive from the north London branch, who had been drafted in to ensure Lockyer’s cases and her own were dealt with. She was impressed he had managed to get them on board at such short notice. He could move mountains when he was motivated. Though what had got him so fired up, she wasn’t sure.

  She looked at her watch again, trying to figure out the timings in her head. She needed to get home, pack for her and Peter. He would be waiting for her with her neighbour. Cathy had been a godsend in the past month. Jane chewed at the edge of her lip, watching the traffic creep past Bella’s. On a good day it would take an hour to get out to the M4, but she doubted they would be that lucky today. The snow and rush hour would have been enough to slow them down, but it was late-night shopping as well. There was no way they were getting to Somerset much before nine, at a guess. She pushed her tongue into the space between her upper lip and her front teeth. There was a lot to do. Both her and Lockyer’s teams needed to be briefed and the handovers completed before they left the office. They would need to see Roger as well, to confirm plans for their transfer to Somerset. She drummed her fingers on the counter. She felt the familiar buzz as her brain kicked into a higher gear. She loved the beginning of a case. It was all about the planning, and if anyone loved a plan, it was Jane. The inquiry into Pippa Jones’s death was like untouched snow on Christmas morning. They were yet to take a wrong step.

  ‘Jane.’

  She turned as Lockyer approached.

  ‘I just got off the phone with Aaron.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, wary of his expression.

  ‘He’s taken the leave of absence because of a death in the family.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘That makes sense. When? Who? Was it expected?’ She was racking her brains. Was it Aaron who had the terminally ill mother?

  ‘It’s his sister,’ Lockyer said. ‘His twin, in fact.’

  ‘God. I didn’t know he was a twin,’ she said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She died earlier in the week. A hit and run . . . in Somerset.’

  ‘Hang on, you’re not saying . . . ?’

  ‘Yep. Pippa Jones is – was – Aaron’s twin sister.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  11th December – Friday

  Aaron continued to stroke the back of his mother’s hand, her skin soft beneath his palm. The fingers on his other hand had gone numb from her vice-like grip. At least it matched the rest of him. He felt as if he had just been pulled from an icy lake.

  His father was on the other side of the room, sitting in a high-backed rocking chair. He was dressed in black, his hands clasped in his lap, his dog-collar prominent at his neck. His expression remained blank as an ancient-looking cat wound itself around his legs unacknowledged. Aaron cleared his throat, restraining a peculiar urge to laugh. He felt like a player in a farce; the vicar, the wife, the twin, the aunt, the girlfriend, the cat and the dead sister. He imagined the audience’s guffaws of laughter as the cast rushed in and out of the lounge, each one tripping over the cat, each one saying in a stage whisper, Whatever you do, don’t mention the dead daughter . . . sister . . . niece. [Cat howls. Kitchen door swings on its hinges.] Who’s dead? someone would ask. The aunt’s sister’s daughter’s sister’s sister, another would say. You mean the vicar’s daughter’s son’s sister’s sister, surely? Without warning he barked out a laugh, his chest heaving as if he might be sick. His mother squeezed his hand tighter. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. They were part of the same black comedy, rushing headlong into a parallel universe. When they had left London, all bundled into Megan’s car, every passing mile had moved them further from the reality they all knew – a reality they could never return to. Not ever.

  ‘I’ll pop the kettle on, shall I?’ his aunt asked, making a break for the kitchen. If she wasn’t making tea, she was ‘just popping to the shops’, no doubt desperate to escape the cloying fug that had descended over her house. Her hair was dragged back in a severe bun, she wasn’t wearing any make-up and her clothes were hanging off her thin frame. If anyone looked like a grieving parent, it was her. The two sisters were near identical, though his mother was the rounder sibling. However, in contrast to Claudette’s washed-out state, Aaron’s mother – the vicar’s wife – was camera-ready. Her hair resembled a brown motorcycle helmet and her pinched, fox-like features had been plastered with a putty-coloured foundation, topped off by two pink swathes of blusher. The combination of perfume and hairspray had formed a noxious fog around them. Cinderella and one of the Ugly Sisters, Aaron thought as another bubble of laughter started to rise up in his throat. He had to get a grip.

  ‘I’ll help her,’ Megan said, getting to her feet and heading off towards the kitchen, ‘and I’m gonna make you a sandwich. You need to eat,’ she said, stroking his cheek as she passed. ‘Mrs Jones . . . Reverend Jones. Can I get you something?’

  Aaron looked at his mother. Her eyes were glazed over. His father had picked up a newspaper and was staring at it although his eyes weren’t moving. ‘You should eat,’ he said to his mother. ‘Both of you need to eat.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ Megan said, her voice so soft it was almost soporific. ‘I’ll sort out a selection of stuff and you can pick and choose. OK?’

  Aaron managed to smile and nod as she left the room, his gaze settling on the fire spluttering and dying in the grate. It wasn’t his place to revive it. This wasn’t his home any more. He was just a kid when they moved. He and Pippa had been born in the kitchen – much to his mother’s dismay. They had both taken their first steps in this room. Pippa had been first – she did everything first. Cassie said she just stood up one day after church and walked from the sofa to the rocking chair his father was sitting in, as if she had been doing it every day of her young life. Without thinking, Aaron reached up and fingered the depression in his skin just above his left eyebrow. It had taken another three months before he even attempted walking. According to Cassie he had taken one faltering step before toppling head first into the hearth. Head wounds bleed like hell, his sister would say, and I should know. I had to clean it up.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose. The smell was so familiar; warm, dry and earthy, the thick cottage walls absorbing every scent during the day only to release them again in the evening. It was as if the house breathed with them. He wondered if it could sense pain – if it soaked up emotions as well.

  ‘Sugar?’ Claudette called from the kitchen.

  ‘No,’ he said for the hundredth time. ‘Mum has a sweetener and Dad has his black, no sugar.’ He heard the clatter of plates and cutlery and the banging of cupboard doors; Megan’s voice an accompanying murmur. No doubt she was trying to ‘talk�
�� to his aunt. Megs believed it was important to share your feelings. He snorted. Claudette would be squirming. She didn’t like to admit she had feelings, let alone talk about them. His mother and father were the same.

  ‘She called me,’ he said, without realizing he was going to speak.

  His father nodded, his eyes opening and closing like a child’s baby doll. ‘It’s well documented that twins have a sixth sense when it comes to communicating with one another,’ he said in a robotic voice.

  ‘No, Dad,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Pip called me.’

  His father’s head bobbed in sync with Aaron’s words, a knowing expression on his face. ‘I’m sure it feels like that, son,’ he said, tilting his head on one side. ‘Why don’t you try and relax?’

  ‘Fuck relaxing,’ he said, shaking himself free of his mother’s grip.

  ‘We don’t need that kind of talk, son,’ his father said without expression. ‘It’s lazy language.’

  Aaron ground his teeth. He felt cheated. There was a time when he and his sisters were younger that a well-timed ‘fuck’ would have their father chasing them around the dining table with a wooden spoon. Each sibling would try and trip the other up to ensure they weren’t the ones who were caught and spanked. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he shouted, desperate for a reaction; something, anything to break the spell he was under. ‘What’s the fucking difference?’

  ‘Aaron,’ his father said. ‘You’re upsetting your mother.’

  ‘Her daughter’s dead, Dad,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘She should be fucking upset.’ His body was trembling. He tasted bile in his mouth as he watched his father close his eyes and clasp his hands together in prayer. ‘It’s a bit fucking late for praying, Dad.’

  ‘Aaron, that’s enough.’

  He turned on his heel at the sound of Cassie’s voice, her warm Somerset accent mingling with an Australian drawl. His heart seemed to rise up in his chest, stopping his breath as his sister walked towards him, her arms outstretched. He couldn’t move, his sadness overwhelming him, occupying every part of him, every cell fat and swollen with grief. She pulled him into a tight hug. His mother never hugged him the way Cassie did. His mother didn’t like physical contact. It wasn’t that their mother didn’t love them – she did – she always had. It was just unfortunate that their childhood, his and Pip’s, had coincided with their father being given his own parish to look after. You have to understand, your father’s parishioners are his children too. We can’t be selfish, she had said more times than Aaron could count. Cassie was the one who had played with him and Pippa. She had fed them, cared for them when they were sick, told them stories.

  ‘She called,’ he said, as a tear escaped and rolled down his cheek.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cassie said, pushing him back and holding him at arm’s length. ‘When?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘You spoke to her?’

  ‘I didn’t answer,’ he said. ‘I was going to call her back. I would have called her back. Maybe if I had, I could have . . . I could have . . .’

  ‘This is not your fault, Aaron,’ Megan said, appearing at his side. He didn’t know how long she had been there. ‘It’s no one’s fault.’

  He looked at her, then back at his sister. ‘I think you’ll find it’s someone’s fault,’ Cassie said, her eyes hard.

  ‘The police aren’t sure what happened yet, Cass,’ Claudette said, walking into the lounge carrying a tray laden with cups and an assortment of sandwiches cut into triangles.

  ‘Why the hell not?’ Cassie said. ‘They’ve had, what . . . three, four days?’

  ‘You have to let them do their job,’ Claudette said. ‘They know what they’re doing.’

  ‘You would say that,’ Cassie said, pacing like a caged animal.

  Aaron saw his aunt flinch. ‘We’re all upset, Cass,’ Claudette said. ‘Being angry about it won’t bring her back.’

  ‘We need to pray for patience and understanding,’ his father said, getting to his feet and giving Cassie a cursory hug.

  ‘I’m not really known for my patience, Dad. Or praying, come to that,’ she said with a ghost of a smile.

  ‘Me neither,’ Aaron said, following his sister’s lead. ‘I’m more of a swift justice kinda guy.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ his mother said. Everyone turned to look at her. ‘It doesn’t matter what happened,’ she said again. ‘It doesn’t matter who did this . . . or why. Nothing the police do – no prayers – no words will bring her back. Nothing will bring my daughter back.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  11th December – Friday

  ‘I’m gonna grab a real coffee,’ Lockyer said, striding away from Jane and the vending machine he had been eyeing for the past ten minutes.

  ‘What about the briefing?’ She broke into a jog to keep pace with him.

  ‘I wasn’t planning on collecting the beans and grinding the coffee myself,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’m sure a station as fancy as this can rustle up a takeaway cup.’

  She followed in his wake, his mood coming off him in waves. At least he was talking to her. That was an improvement on yesterday, and who could blame him? Anyone who had witnessed the awkward display when Lockyer met Celia Bennett could feel nothing but pity for the guy. A group of uniformed officers passed them, kit bags thrown over their shoulders. All but one nodded a greeting in their direction. The one who didn’t was sporting an elf hat. She guessed, given his sullen expression, that he was not wearing it by choice.

  Jane should have expected it, been prepared, but her mind had been elsewhere. Of course her mother had insisted they all stay at the new house in Clevedon. When she told Lockyer he had assumed she was joking. And why wouldn’t he? It was insane, but then, that was Celia Bennett all over. Jane had tried to explain to Lockyer that she had said no – she had said no in every way possible for forty minutes – but her mother had refused to listen. What were you thinking, that you would drop Peter off each morning and pick him up at whatever time you finish work? And, The Met has so much money it’s happy to waste hundreds . . . maybe thousands of pounds on hotel accommodation when you both have a place to stay right here? Then the finale: Would your boss prefer to stay in a hotel than here? The answer to her rhetorical question was, of course, yes.

  Lockyer had refused to speak to her, let alone share a car with her, so he had ended up catching a lift to Somerset with Townsend. She had tried to reason with her mother again on the journey down, to explain that whilst she was happy staying with Peter, it was inappropriate for Lockyer; but her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. I’ve already made up the spare room. I popped to Cribbs Causeway this afternoon and got new bed-linen and towels and I’m just back from the supermarket. I’ve got enough food to feed you both for a week at least. When Jane had pulled into the car park for the Bridgwater Police Centre at the Express Park trading estate she could see by Lockyer’s expression that he was waiting for her to confirm that she had sorted it, that he wouldn’t be subjected to her family. What could she do? Her mother’s final words had been, If DI Lockyer has a problem staying here, then you tell him to have the courtesy to call me and say so himself. Not even Lockyer had the balls for that conversation.

  It had been past ten by the time they arrived in Clevedon. The first ten minutes had been excruciating. Her father was monosyllabic, whereas her mother was like a cat on acid. The icing on the cake was Peter, who had hurled himself to the floor and barked like a seal pup as the stress of his new surroundings and companion took its toll. In the end, Jane had no choice but to manhandle him to his room and leave Lockyer and her folks to get acquainted on their own. Lockyer was yet to comment on her parents, either because he was being polite, which she doubted, or because he was still processing what had no doubt been a military-style interrogation from her mother.

  ‘Jesus. Are we even going the right way?’ he said, stopping dead, Jane ploughing into the back of him. ‘We’ve walked past it once, I know. Which floor was
it on?’ She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it. ‘Am I going the right way for the canteen?’ he said, blocking the path of a young detective Jane recognized from earlier. They had met some of Townsend’s team – ‘met’ in the loosest sense of the word. Lockyer had badgered her out of the house by six thirty, keen to get started, but they had been twiddling their thumbs for the last thirty minutes while Townsend got everything together for a team briefing and to ‘introduce’ the newcomers. This guy was one of the officers who had looked up and grunted an acknowledgement when they were shown up to the CID offices.

  ‘It’s on the first floor on the other side of the concourse,’ the officer said, pointing up and to the left.

  The place was huge. From the outside it looked like a London skyscraper, all concrete, glass and metal, except this behemoth was lying on its side. Inside was no less impressive. It was split over three floors. The ground floor had reception, the custody suite and holding cells, the response teams, the kit room – which in itself was enormous, with multi-coloured lockers as far as the eye could see – and general office space. But it wasn’t until they got past reception that the scale of the place could really be appreciated. The open-plan offices on the second and third floors that housed CID, armed response, traffic and all the other departments were divided by two full-height atriums, boasting cedarwood benches and an array of snack machines at ground level. The walkways and stairways at the end of each floor looked like they had come from an international airport. Jane didn’t like to think how much it had cost. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s . . .’

  ‘Abbott,’ he said with a scowl. Lockyer ushered Jane towards the stairs, oblivious to the animosity radiating off the junior detective. She wasn’t surprised. Unlike Lockyer, she was hyper-aware that the two of them must look like the self-important Met swanning in on a local investigation – the implication being that country cops weren’t up to snuff.