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

by Clare Donoghue

  ‘Concourse,’ Lockyer muttered under his breath as he started up the stairs. ‘Could this place get any further up its own arse? Give me the rabbit warren of Lewisham any day of the week.’

  ‘There you are,’ a voice above them said. Jane looked up. Townsend was standing at the top of the stairway. ‘Where are you two headed?’

  ‘They were trying to find the canteen,’ Abbott called up. The lack of ‘sir’ was noticeable.

  ‘Lost, eh?’ Townsend said with a smile. He beckoned them to join him. ‘I still get disorientated and I’ve been here for six months. I was with CID up in Bristol at Ken Steele House before, and this place couldn’t be more different. What do you need?’

  ‘We were just getting a coffee,’ Lockyer said, ‘while we waited for the briefing to start.’ Jane knew he didn’t like to be kept waiting, but this morning’s hiatus seemed to be getting under his skin more than normal.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Townsend said. ‘We’re all set. Abbott?’ He turned and caught the detective just as he turned away. ‘Do you think you could rustle up a couple of coffees for our guests, please?’

  Abbott looked like he would rather poke pencils up his nose. ‘How do you take it?’ he asked, looking from Jane to Lockyer.

  ‘White, no sugar,’ Jane offered with an apologetic smile.

  ‘Same,’ Lockyer said. He wasn’t even looking at Abbott.

  Townsend herded them along the walkway towards the CID offices. ‘Here we are,’ he said, opening the door to a large conference room. It was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass, with accents of black and lime green on panels hanging from the ceiling and a large oval table in the centre. ‘The team are on their way.’ Jane heard Lockyer sigh.

  ‘Did you have to relocate?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Townsend said, gesturing to two seats at the head of the table. ‘Please,’ he said, pulling out Jane’s chair for her. She sat down, unaccustomed to such gallantry. ‘I live in Clifton. It’s a forty-minute commute down the M5, but I don’t mind. It’s twice the distance, but getting through Bristol in morning rush hour took me about the same time – and it was a lot more stressful.’ He walked to the other side of the table and sat down. ‘As I was telling Mike last night on the way down, I enjoyed Bristol CID; it was certainly varied. But on balance I’d say there’s even more variety here – town and rural policing. It’s been challenging at times, but . . .’ There was a metallic clang as the glass doors opened.

  ‘You ready for us, boss?’

  Jane swivelled in her chair to see a stout-looking woman with short greying hair.

  ‘Yes, Nicola. Tell them to come in,’ Townsend said.

  ‘What’s on the agenda?’ Lockyer asked, looking at his watch, then the door, then back at Townsend.

  ‘I’ll be allocating today’s jobs . . .’

  ‘Such as?’ Lockyer asked. He had his pad out again.

  ‘Well, there’s the post-mortem. I’ll need to arrange for you to be taken out to the crash site. We’ve got a lot of data to collate – reports to follow up on from the crash investigation team . . . the exhibits team.’ Townsend wrinkled his nose. ‘I was planning on having a proper chat with Jones’s family as a starting point, and beyond that, work associates to establish a timeline, and then people local to the area – dependent on how things progress.’

  ‘As a starting point,’ Lockyer said to Jane out of the side of his mouth. ‘He’s had three days already.’

  ‘What about CCTV coverage . . . to track her journey?’ Jane asked, sitting forward.

  ‘I’ve already assigned a couple of officers to speak to traffic to see what they can come up with,’ Townsend said in an indulgent tone.

  ‘Surely with traffic cameras you can follow her, if not for the entire journey, then for part of it?’ Lockyer said.

  ‘This isn’t London, Mike,’ Townsend said. ‘The majority of the roads Pippa Jones would have used are B roads, if that. Most are no more than single-track lanes.’

  ‘What about her digital footprint?’ Lockyer asked, shaking his head. ‘Have you seized her computer, phone, et cetera, for further examination?’

  ‘We’ve got her phone, as it was in the vehicle with her, but it’s damaged,’ Townsend said. ‘The forensic tech guys are yet to tell me if they can get anything off it. As for her computer, et cetera, I haven’t asked the family for anything else at this stage.’

  ‘Because?’ Lockyer asked, stretching out the word. If Townsend was thrown off by the terrier-like interrogation, he didn’t show it.

  ‘It’s early days, Mike,’ he said. ‘Pippa’s death has been listed as suspicious but we can’t say more than that at this stage. I don’t want to jump the gun.’

  ‘You told us yourself she was run off the road, Bill,’ Lockyer said, his expression incredulous.

  ‘Another vehicle was involved, yes,’ Townsend said, ‘but as I said before, we could well be looking at a drink driving incident . . . it was icy that night, which might explain the multiple collisions.’ Jane bit her lip. Lockyer had told her that he and Townsend hadn’t discussed the case on the way down in the car. What else hadn’t he told her? It wouldn’t be the first time he had withheld information. A familiar feeling of distrust settled in her stomach. ‘Finding the other vehicle is my top priority as of right now.’

  ‘I agree that we can’t know at this stage whether the incident was premeditated,’ Lockyer said with a frown, ‘but surely we need to get into this girl’s life to find out who she knew, what was happening . . . any problems she might have had?’

  ‘If the driver of the other vehicle doesn’t hand themselves in or we are unable to find them from the evidence collected so far, then of course I will certainly be getting into Pippa’s life, but at this stage I feel moderation is the way to go.’ It was clear from Townsend’s tone that he was running out of patience. ‘I’m sure once we have a clearer timeline we’ll be in a much better position to consider what we’re looking at here.’

  ‘We’re looking at murder,’ Lockyer said.

  ‘I am looking at manslaughter,’ Townsend said, ‘and until I have evidence to the contrary that is the line I am going to take. This is a close-knit community. We have a family coming to terms with the loss of their daughter . . . sister, colleague. Rushing in there talking about murder is unlikely to win you many friends, Mike.’

  ‘I’m not here to make friends,’ Lockyer said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  11th December – Friday

  Lockyer watched as Townsend’s team filed into the conference room. It was about bloody time. The morning was progressing at a snail’s pace. Townsend and his team, not to mention the case, needed a serious kick up the arse – and it was Lockyer’s job to ensure that happened, whether he liked it or not. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t help but think the guy was dragging his heels. The investigation was three days old, and what had Townsend done? Well, he had come up to London in order to brief Lockyer, in person, on the case. Although yesterday’s revelation had somewhat overshadowed his efforts. If Townsend had done even a basic check on the Met DI he had driven all that way to meet, he would have no doubt seen that Lockyer had a PC Aaron Jones working on his team, and that the victim just so happened to have a twin brother of the same name.

  Lockyer pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring Jane’s searching look. He hadn’t had a chance to tell her about his meeting with Roger – about the array of phone calls bouncing back and forth about Townsend’s competence. And no wonder. She had put him in an impossible situation. He had witnessed Celia Bennett in action, albeit while earwigging conversations between Jane and her mother over the years. Call it cowardice, but he wasn’t about to reject the woman’s hospitality by phone, let alone in person. So now, on top of everything else, he was being forced to take part in an episode of Keeping Up Appearances.

  ‘Sir,’ a female officer in her thirties said as she passed him. She was shaped just like a pear. Her torso was almost fun-house long, giving way to an
enormous arse and the shortest legs he had ever seen.

  ‘Detective,’ he said with a nod. She was the only one of Townsend’s team that had so much as acknowledged him – or Jane, for that matter, in spite of the obsequious smile plastered on her face.

  ‘Is that everyone?’ Townsend asked, closing the door and walking to stand behind him and Jane. There was a murmur of yeses. When Lockyer ran a meeting, his team arrived on time, and each and every one of them would address him as ‘sir’ when they entered the room and throughout the meeting. Maybe Townsend was more relaxed – which would be fine, but that wasn’t the vibe Lockyer was getting. He wouldn’t go as far as to say Townsend’s team were hostile, but they couldn’t be described as welcoming or respectful. It made him wonder if his first impression of the guy was off base somehow. The higher-ups didn’t like him. His team didn’t appear to like him either. There had to be a reason.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ Townsend said, addressing the room. ‘We’ll get on to this morning’s briefing in a moment, but first I’d like to formally introduce you to DI Mike Lockyer and DS Jane Bennett from the Metropolitan Police.’ There were a few murmurs, though whether they were positive or negative, Lockyer couldn’t tell. ‘They are going to be working with us to establish the events leading up to and including the death of Miss Pippa Jones on the evening of the seventh of December.’

  ‘Not a lot to establish,’ a lanky-looking officer on the opposite side of the table said. It was the same guy Lockyer and Jane had spoken to just now about the canteen. ‘Some arsehole ran her off the road.’

  ‘That, detective, is a matter of opinion,’ Townsend said. ‘As I’ve said before, whilst tragic, I am inclined to think this may come to nothing more than . . .’ He seemed to be struggling to find the words. ‘A . . . a non-malicious hit and run, most likely involving alcohol. In which case, we will say thank you and goodbye to our Met colleagues, who I’m sure have better things to do than chase down a drunk driver.’ It was the first time Lockyer had heard real fire in Townsend’s voice. He couldn’t agree with his statement, but he respected his level of passion at least.

  ‘Why the Met?’ one of the female officers asked.

  Lockyer looked at the grey-haired detective who had spoken. Her expression was unreadable.

  ‘Well, Nicola,’ Townsend said. ‘As the victim in this case was primarily London-based, Superintendent Atkinson felt it prudent to have the Met’s input from the outset.’ He cleared his throat. ‘There will no doubt be instances where we will need to see or speak to family members or associates of the victim, and in all likelihood they too will be based in London. That’s where DI Lockyer and DS Bennett come in.’ He paused for a moment. ‘So we are very grateful to them for taking time out of their busy caseloads to come and give us a hand on this one.’ Again there were murmurs from the assembled team.

  ‘So,’ Townsend said, stretching out the word. ‘Quick introductions. On my right –’ he gestured to the grey-haired officer – ‘this is DC Nicola Chandler. Continuing on round to the right, we’ve got DS Nathan Foster, DC Daniel Pimbley and DS Ben Abbott. Then we’ve got DS Clare Dunlop, DC Daniel Clark . . . or the other Daniel, as we call him.’ He laughed. None of the team joined him, not even ‘the other’ Daniel. ‘And this is PC Charles Farley and, last but not least, PC Emma Crossley.’ Lockyer nodded to each one in turn, Crossley with the big bottom last. She nodded, but none of the others did. He bristled, but managed to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘Who’s running the case?’ the long streak of piss asked.

  ‘Sorry, what was your name again, detective?’ Lockyer asked before he could stop himself.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Abbott,’ he said, folding his arms.

  Lockyer had to use all his self-control to stay in his seat. ‘Sir or boss will be fine,’ he said. Abbott shrugged but didn’t speak. ‘Jane,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘How would you like to be addressed while you’re here?’ He gave her a warning look. She knew what he wanted her to say. She always knew what he wanted her to say.

  ‘DS Bennett is fine,’ she said, although he could see that she was saying it under duress. She would no doubt have said they could all call her Jane. That might work in a day or two, but right now Lockyer felt like they needed to put on a united front. He didn’t need a ‘sir’ or ‘boss’ to blow smoke up his arse, but Abbott struck him as the kind of copper who would take the piss if you gave him the proverbial inch.

  ‘Good, good,’ Townsend said in an apologetic tone. Lockyer was unsure if he was apologizing to him or for him.

  He pushed his seat back and stood up beside Townsend. ‘Fantastic. Now we all know who’s who and what’s what, I suggest we get started. As DI Townsend rightly said, DS Bennett and I are busy people, so don’t dick us around and we’ll return the favour. OK?’ He looked at Abbott, holding his eye until he looked away. Lockyer might not be able to say he was in charge, but he wanted these guys in no doubt who was calling the shots. He couldn’t say yet whether Townsend was incompetent, but there was no doubt the guy was weak. He and his team were about to get a crash course in investigations à la Lockyer. By the looks he was getting around the room, it was going to be a baptism of fire for them – and him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  11th December – Friday

  ‘Yeah, I had prawns last night,’ Steph said, trying to make her voice sound croaky. ‘They must have been off. I’ve been up all night.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Connie said without sympathy.

  Who could blame her? This was the third day that Steph had called in sick, and it was her third excuse. She realized now she should have come up with a better lie on the first day: a virus, the flu. That way she could have been off for several days, maybe even a week without causing an issue. ‘I feel awful,’ she said.

  ‘You’re not having a lot of luck, are you, Steph? You get bitten by a dog, have an allergic reaction to the tetanus jab and now you’ve gone and given yourself food poisoning.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s just not been my week.’

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Well, you see, that’s the thing, Steph,’ Connie said. ‘It doesn’t seem to be your week a lot.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You’ve been with us for, what, two months? And how many times have you called in sick or turned up late? To be honest with you, I’ve lost count.’ It was true. Steph had hated the job at first, sweeping up hair and making cups of tea. It was so boring. She couldn’t have cared less if she was fired then, but she didn’t feel like that any more. This was a way out. This was her chance to be independent, to be a grown-up. She was eighteen. She was driving and yet she still felt like a little girl, living with her parents, having to ask permission to go out, to do anything. ‘I’m beginning to wonder,’ Connie said, ‘if you really want this job, Stephanie. Many girls your age would jump at the chance to train and be paid at the same time.’

  ‘I do want this job,’ Steph said, realizing too late that she had forgotten to sound sick.

  ‘Then you need to seriously consider whether or not you want to come in today.’

  ‘But I really don’t think I—’

  Her boss didn’t let her finish. ‘Don’t decide now, Steph,’ she said. ‘Your shift doesn’t start until two, so there’s plenty of time for you to have a think and, with any luck, be well enough to come in.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. What else could she say?

  ‘And you need to understand, Steph, that if you do decide that you are too ill to come in to work again today, then you and I are going to be having a serious chat when you get back. I hope you understand me. No one can help it if they are sick, I know that, but there’s sick and then there’s sick. Do you hear what I’m saying?’ The words dried up in Steph’s throat. She felt so stupid; so weak. ‘I am giving you a chance here, Steph. You come in for your shift this afternoon and that will be the end of it, OK? This conversation never took place . . . all’s forgotten, OK?’


  ‘OK,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I’ll be in this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s good, Steph, that’s really good to hear,’ Connie said. ‘Now, until then, you rest up and take it easy and then this afternoon we’ll all get back to work.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great,’ Connie said. ‘We’ll see you in a few hours.’ The line went dead before Steph could respond. Who called in sick because of a dog bite? Of course Connie didn’t believe her, but then no one ever did – even when she told the truth.

  Her father had noticed the damage to her car, but when she told him what happened he had waved away her ‘story’ with a dismissive hand, taking two beers out of the fridge. You’re getting a bit old for stories, Stephanie, he had said. How many times have I told you? Driving is a privilege, not a right. He had been furious, banging his fist on the kitchen table, making the cutlery jump. Who’s going to pay for the damage? Muggins here, I suppose. She had made the mistake of saying it wasn’t the only damage on the car, given that it wasn’t brand new when he bought it for her. The rest of the conversation had been loud and one-sided. Steph had started to cry, then and now as she relived the argument. She dropped her phone and lay back down on her bed, pressing her face into the duvet, letting the fabric soak up her tears. Why wouldn’t they listen? Couldn’t they see how frightened she was?

  It had all started two weeks ago. She had been out on a bender with Connor and Ash, who convinced her to drive them home even though she was way over the limit. They had all been drinking in the Hood Arms over in Kilve. The boys lived in Dunster, the complete opposite direction to Cannington, but she had never been very good at saying no. Connor and Ash kept goading her to go faster. Don’t be such a girl, they had shouted. She had almost lost it when she rounded a corner and another car was racing towards her in the middle of the road. She had flicked off her full beam only to find she was driving way too fast now she couldn’t see as far. Connor had screamed when she swerved. Ash had laughed until she thought he would cough up a lung. When they finally got to Dunster, Steph had gone to Ash’s flat first. It was a dingy room he rented over a pub. She didn’t go in, and breathed a sigh of relief when Connor climbed out of the car after Ash and said he was going to stay there, that they were going to keep on drinking. She made a weak excuse and left, never more grateful to be alone in the car. She knew if Connor had wanted her to take him home he would have expected a detour to the field next to his parents’ place. It had happened before, more times than she cared to remember; sticky fumbles in the back of her clapped-out Ford Fiesta followed by some pushing, some grunting, and then it would all be over. He would slap her on the arse as she pulled up her knickers, then climb out of the back seat, wipe himself on his jeans and be gone, climbing over the back fence and letting himself in the back door with a key he had stolen out of his mother’s bag. His parents didn’t know he drank. His parents didn’t know much. She wriggled herself under the duvet, and breathed in the smell of fabric softener.