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

by Clare Donoghue

  ‘Do you want breakfast?’ she heard her mother call from downstairs.

  She took a deep breath. She felt sick at the thought of it, but she couldn’t avoid the day any longer. ‘OK,’ she shouted back. ‘I’m just getting in the shower now.’ She threw back the duvet, swung her legs out over the edge of the bed and sat up. She didn’t need to open her curtains to know it was raining. She could smell it, soaking into the thatch of her parents’ cottage, dampening the walls. A spread of something fungal was growing up her wall behind her bookshelf.

  ‘Don’t use all the hot water,’ her mother called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Your father will be back from his shift soon.’

  ‘It’s a combi-boiler, Mum,’ she said, padding down the hallway in her socks. ‘It can’t run out of hot water.’

  ‘It takes longer to heat if you have a long shower,’ her mother said.

  ‘Fine,’ Steph said. ‘It doesn’t,’ she continued under her breath, ‘but since when does anyone listen to me?’ She shut the door to the bathroom, pulled the curtain around the bath and turned on the shower. She picked up her toothbrush and toothpaste, climbed in and stepped into the flow of warm water. As soon as she closed her eyes it all came back to her in fleeting images, flashing before her eyes like a strobe light.

  She had just passed Washford when she noticed the car behind her. It was close on her bumper, so close she couldn’t see the driver. Her first thought was that it might be the police. She knew if they stopped her she would lose her licence.

  She opened her eyes and grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste, squeezed a glob onto the brush and started to clean her teeth.

  The lights had been blinding, a combination of cold white and blue light. She had been convinced they were flashing at her. Maybe they had been. She still didn’t know. Her skin flushed hot at the memory. She had been desperate to stop, to pull in somewhere to let the car pass, but she hadn’t had the nerve; not least because she was about to drive her least favourite stretch of the A39. By day it was a beautiful route with views of the Bristol Channel and, on a clear day, Wales. The hills on the other side of the car rolled out into the distance, covered in gorse and heather and wild ponies munching on any grass they could find. But at night it changed. It became a pale slash on the landscape, the sea black and ominous, the hills remote and barren. Almost every ghost story she had been told as a child involved the Quantocks.

  The one she remembered – the one her friends still told – was about the young couple who had driven up past Pines Cafe to make out. They had been getting down to it when the boyfriend heard a sound coming from the woods – a baby crying. He got out of the car and walked into the forest, walking further and further, desperate to find the child. It wasn’t long before his girlfriend couldn’t see him at all. He was swallowed up by the darkness and she was left alone. She waited and waited. Minutes turned into hours, her only company the sound of the woods, branches creaking, scraping the roof of the car. She opened her window and called out again and again, but she was too frightened to get out of the car. When the police found her the next day they told her to get out of the car, to come with them but not to look back. But she did. She did look back and saw her boyfriend, strung up by his feet over the car, his throat cut, his fingernails scraping the roof as the wind moved the tree he was hanging from.

  Steph shivered and turned up the heat on the shower. It was just a story, but that and her fear of losing her licence had been enough to make her keep driving. She spat out a mouthful of toothpaste, and ran her toothbrush under the shower.

  ‘Your father’s home,’ her mother said from outside the bathroom door.

  ‘I’m almost done,’ she said.

  ‘He’ll want to jump straight in the shower,’ her mother said, ‘best leave it running.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, grabbing the soap and washing herself.

  When she was done she pulled back the curtain and climbed out, grabbing her towel off the radiator. She patted herself dry before getting back into her pyjamas. As she opened the door she could hear her father telling her mother all about his shift and what an arsehole his boss was. ‘Shower’s running, Dad,’ she called.

  ‘Thanks, honey,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right up.’ She ran across the landing to her room. It sounded like he was in a good mood. Maybe if she asked, he might agree to take her to work. The thought quickened her pulse. She would give anything not have to drive home tonight.

  It was as she passed Frog Lane that she had felt the impact from behind her. There had been a low thud as the two bumpers connected. She was jolted in her seat, and the shock made her throw up in her mouth – just a little. She had gripped the steering wheel with two hands. At first she had tried to convince herself that it was an accident, but when a second thud threw her forward in her seat, her seatbelt cutting into her stomach, she knew she was wrong. Without thinking she had begun to accelerate. She passed Kilve in a blur, desperate to put distance between herself and the car behind, but even more so to get off the hills. She didn’t want to die up here, alone in the dark.

  There was a soft tapping at her door.

  ‘Honey,’ her father said. ‘You decent?’

  ‘Just a second,’ she said, grabbing an oversized jumper and pulling it on over her head.

  The door to her bedroom opened. ‘You OK?’ her father asked. She nodded, swallowing back tears. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday.’ She didn’t speak. ‘If you say you were ill, of course I believe you. I’d had a long shift, I was knackered. These nights are killing me, you know that.’ She nodded again. ‘I remember what it was like to be your age,’ he said, ‘to have more important things on your mind than work, but seriously, honey –’ he took a step towards her – ‘I’m only thinking of you. If you can keep this job, work up through the ranks and get some qualifications, it’s going to mean everything. You’ll be able to do what you want . . . that’s about the only perk there is to being an adult. The rest is responsibility and regret.’ His face clouded over. She recognized the expression. She knew her parents’ marriage had been over the day she was born.

  ‘Are you working tonight, Dad?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got a late afternoon shift, yes,’ he said, turning to leave, ‘so I’d better get showered and get some kip. I’ve got to be out of here again in a few hours.’

  ‘Would I be able to . . . would you mind giving me a lift to work?’

  ‘Can do,’ he said. ‘Why?’ He frowned. ‘What’s wrong with your car? What’s happened now?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing, it’s just—’

  He held up his hand. ‘Don’t, Steph,’ he said, ‘just don’t.’

  Why wouldn’t he listen? She felt the tears wanting to come. ‘I . . . I just thought it’d save on petrol, if we’re both going that way,’ she said, swallowing the lump in her throat.

  He looked at her, paused for a second and then shrugged. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Only thing is I don’t finish ’til half ten. How will you get home? You finish at six, don’t you?’

  ‘Not today,’ she lied. ‘They want me to stay behind to help set up for tomorrow. There’s a load of people coming in to get their hair done for a Christmas party.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘but be ready to go by one.’ He turned away and left the room.

  She closed the door after him, and went and sat on the edge of her bed. Her eyes pricked with tears. She felt overwhelmed with relief. She wouldn’t have to drive home in the dark. She wouldn’t have to risk it happening again. Once had frightened her. Once should have been enough, but it hadn’t happened just once. It had happened again on Tuesday last week. They hadn’t hit her this time, but they had ridden her bumper for over two miles. She didn’t know it was the same car, and yet she did. She lay back on her bed, rolled onto her side and brought her legs up into the foetal position, rocking herself back and forth. When it had happened again on Thursday she had been left in no doubt. Someone wanted to frighten her; maybe ev
en hurt her. She took a deep breath.

  At least she would be OK tonight. She would be safe with her father.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  11th December – Friday

  Lockyer leaned back against the stainless-steel countertop. The bench ran almost the full length of the room. It was interspersed with sinks, hoses, drawers of utensils and three sets of weighing scales suspended above. There were four permanent mortuary tables, each with their own sink, overhead light and white plastic rollers along the edges of the table to assist with the loading and unloading of the trays that carried the bodies to be examined. Above and behind Lockyer was the viewing room. Panels of glass on a forty-five-degree angle looked down on him. It was an impressive set-up.

  ‘You OK there?’

  He looked to his left as Dr Basil Reed, the senior pathologist for the county, walked into the room. ‘Yes,’ Lockyer said. ‘Are you OK with me here?’

  Basil nodded, pulling a plastic apron from a dispensing roll by the door. ‘Sure,’ he said, putting it over his head and tying it in a knot at his back. ‘You might want to get a bit closer once we get down to it, but for now that’s perfect.’ He picked up some gloves off the end of the bench, passed Lockyer, and joined his colleague at the far left-hand table.

  Nigel, Basil’s assistant, had wheeled Pippa’s body in from the fridge room ten minutes ago. He had transferred her onto the post-mortem table, head at the top end, nearest the sink resting on a block, her body covered with a piece of plastic sheeting. It did nothing to mask the smell. Lockyer had only witnessed half a dozen post-mortems on burn victims. He would have been happy not to add to that number. The smell was hard to describe. It came in waves. There was a smell like frying steak, overlaid with burning pork fat. The odour was by no means pleasant, as the dominant smell was sulphur. It burnt his eyes and stung his nostrils. He was about to take a deep breath, but thought better of it.

  ‘Not much like London, I’d imagine,’ Basil said over his shoulder.

  Lockyer thought he sounded apologetic, as if the facility were somehow lesser than its London counterpart. ‘It’s bigger,’ he said.

  ‘They have their own on-site mortuary in Lewisham,’ Townsend said over the speaker system. He had chosen to stay in the viewing room.

  ‘Ah,’ Basil said. ‘I’m sure that must expedite things for you.’

  ‘It can do,’ Lockyer said, ‘but our place is nothing like this. This is purpose-built, I take it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Townsend said, answering for the doctor. ‘It opened in March 2009.’

  ‘Two point three million,’ Basil said in a hushed voice, looking at Lockyer over his shoulder and raising his eyebrows. ‘We’ve got the two rooms, one general and this one, forensic.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Lockyer said, and he meant it. When Townsend had pulled off the motorway and started driving further and further into the countryside, Lockyer had expected to find something out of date and old-fashioned. The building itself was nothing to look at: a modern single-storey block, with rows of opaque windows and a high pitched roof. There was nothing to indicate what went on inside. It was tucked away behind the main coroner’s court, which was anything but plain; more like some gothic National Trust place, with lead lattice windows and gabled half-dormers.

  ‘It replaced all the hospital mortuaries in the area,’ Townsend continued. ‘It’s state of the art.’

  Lockyer looked up over his shoulder. ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said. Townsend was standing above him to his right. It might have been the glass, but he looked pale. ‘You don’t have to stay and observe, Bill. I can manage.’

  ‘No, no, I’m—’

  ‘There’s no point us both being here,’ Lockyer said, cutting him off. ‘I’m guessing . . .’ He turned back to Basil. ‘I’m guessing this will take a couple of hours.’

  ‘About that,’ Basil said.

  ‘In which case,’ Lockyer said, ‘you may as well head back to the station.’

  ‘How will you get back?’ Townsend asked. He had already started to move towards the door.

  ‘I’ll get Jane to pick me up on her way back to Clevedon. We can’t be far away . . .’

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ Nigel said, holding up his gloved hand and rocking it from side to side. ‘Give or take.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Lockyer said. ‘I thought as much.’ He turned again to look up at Townsend. ‘You go, Bill,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else scheduled for today.’ More’s the pity, he wanted to add but didn’t. ‘We won’t have the accident report back until Monday; most of the interviews are scheduled for after the weekend. If there’s anything significant here, I’ll call you. I’ll be in tomorrow, even if Jane isn’t. I know she’s seeing Jones’s employer over at Fyne Court. One of your lot is taking her up there – not sure what time. I’ve got a meeting with the paint specialists booked in for the afternoon.’ He registered Townsend’s surprise. ‘I don’t know a lot about it, so wanted to familiarize myself with the process . . . especially if the paint transfer from the other car is going to be significant when it comes to finding the other driver.’

  Townsend appeared to hesitate, but only for a moment. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘Great,’ Lockyer said, turning away. He didn’t want to see Townsend’s face as he left. There was no doubt he needed a push, but still, railroading the guy didn’t feel good.

  The sun had been shining when they left Express Park. Townsend had started out like a hyperactive tour guide, pointing out the Somerset sites as they travelled up the M5. However, by the time they reached Weston-super-Mare the weather had changed and they were driving through sleet and snow. The London weather had made its way down to them, it seemed. The downpour had mirrored the mood in the car. The longer they were alone, the longer it was they weren’t talking about the briefing, or the conversation beforehand when Lockyer had all but told Townsend he wasn’t running the investigation right.

  He half listened to Basil and Nigel talking in hushed voices as they continued the external examination of Pippa’s body – her remains. She didn’t have a body any more. The fire had seen to that. Lockyer moved towards the table and clasped his hands behind his back. He wanted to take notes, but Basil had said he would give him a copy of the post-mortem tape, so anything he wanted to highlight, he should just speak up and it would be recorded. In Lewisham Dr Dave Simpson didn’t like anyone to speak when he was working, but then, Lockyer guessed every pathologist had their own approach.

  ‘You ready for the internal examination?’ Nigel asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Basil said, walking to the back of the room and collecting a stainless-steel tray covered in equipment: scalpels, forceps, scissors, rib shears and an instrument called a skull key. Lockyer licked his lips wishing he had said yes when he was offered a glass of water. He had always found the examination of the skull and brain the hardest to stomach. He couldn’t stand seeing a person’s face folded back on itself. If he timed it right, he could excuse himself at the opportune moment and miss that part of the procedure.

  ‘Anything on the external worth noting?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing unexpected,’ Basil said, looking at him over the rim of his glasses. It reminded Lockyer of Dave: he did the same, now he wore glasses. ‘The victim has first-degree burns covering about . . . I’d say seventy-five per cent of her body. Would you agree, Nigel?’

  ‘I’d say less,’ Nigel said, his mouth turning down at the corner. ‘Sixty, sixty-five maybe?’

  Basil took a step back and looked at the remains again. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Let’s meet in the middle and call it seventy, shall we?’

  ‘Sure,’ Nigel said. ‘I’ll go with that.’

  ‘There’s a significant amount of bruising and evidence of trauma,’ Basil continued. ‘You can see here –’ he gestured for Lockyer to join them at the table – ‘you can see where the seatbelt has cut into the sternum here.’ He indicated a livid mark at the top of Pippa’s left breast. ‘You can also see, des
pite the burns, that she has a head contusion on the front right of her temple.’

  ‘Her head hit the driver’s-side window,’ Lockyer said, remembering the crash scene photographs of the car he had been through this morning.

  ‘That would do it, yes,’ Basil said. ‘The charring is quite severe around her face, so it’s difficult to see, but Nigel noticed she has a broken nose.’ He looked up at Lockyer as if waiting for him to explain the injury.

  ‘The air bag didn’t deploy, so no doubt she made contact with the steering wheel before . . .’ Lockyer said.

  ‘It melted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ Basil said. ‘I was on site during the recovery. I had to insist they remove the entire seat with the body still attached. There was no way she could come out without it – we would have lost half the evidence . . . not to mention her.’ Lockyer frowned. Hadn’t Townsend told him that he was the one who decided Pippa’s body and the driver’s seat had to be removed in their entirety?