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

by Clare Donoghue

  ‘So I heard,’ Lockyer said.

  Hamilton raised his eyebrows. ‘Anyway, even without the assault, Townsend was a disaster. He let the locals run all over him. They were feeding him disinformation . . . ghosts and legends . . . how the Quantocks was haunted.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘God knows,’ Hamilton said, ‘but it took the guy a week to even get one statement on record.’

  Lockyer couldn’t help thinking Townsend was on the same path with the Jones case.

  ‘Townsend said he thought the locals were trying to protect their own.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Hamilton said. ‘Ashworth wasn’t local. No one wanted him around. He was nothing but trouble. Why would they want to protect him? If they’d wanted to protect anyone, it’d be Chloe. She’d lived there all her life.’

  ‘This legend stuff,’ Lockyer said, not sure how to proceed. He didn’t want to make matters worse for Townsend – or himself.

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s still on about that?’

  ‘Not him,’ Lockyer said, ‘but I’ve heard the locals are pretty unsettled, given what happened with your niece.’

  ‘What the hell does any of that have to do with Pippa?’

  ‘Well, as far as I can gather, the locals are under the impression the incidents are somehow linked.’ Lockyer felt like he was in the head teacher’s office getting a bollocking. Hamilton had a way of speaking that suggested he was used to being surrounded by idiots.

  Hamilton started shaking his head. ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ he said. ‘This is why you are here. You’ve got to take control, DI Lockyer. Chloe Evans wasn’t killed by some ghost, and neither was my niece.’

  ‘Sir, I’m not suggesting that’s the case. But has it occurred to you the two could be linked, purely by proximity?’

  ‘No, detective,’ Hamilton said, raising his head and looking at him. ‘My niece died in a car wreck. Chloe Evans was almost decapitated by her ex-partner, Kevin Ashworth. They are in no way related, and you would know that if you knew the Evans case or . . . knew my niece.’ He let out a shuddering breath. ‘Ashworth should be in prison, and he would be if Townsend hadn’t fucked things up. What happened to my niece . . . what happened to Pippa . . .’ He stopped. ‘Whoever did this . . .’ He looked close to tears.

  ‘Understood,’ Lockyer said, looking away to give Hamilton time to compose himself. By the time he turned back the DCC had lit up another cigarette, his mouth pulled into a tight line.

  ‘You said Atkinson was worried about the press, sir?’

  ‘Hence the low profile,’ Hamilton said, gesturing to where he was standing.

  ‘You’re not worried about Abbott and Pimbley? I’m assuming they know who you are?’

  Hamilton waved his hand. ‘I’m not worried about them,’ he said. ‘They know who I am . . . who I am to Pippa, but they know better than to say anything to the press. They’d be under as much scrutiny as me . . . if not more.’

  ‘So what’s Atkinson’s concern?’ Lockyer asked.

  ‘If the press sniff out my association, it’ll attract a lot of attention, and I assume Terry wants to make sure his team . . . look good. That it’s apparent he’s gone above and beyond.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Your presence being one of those measures.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but that only works up to a point,’ Lockyer said.

  ‘Meaning?’ Hamilton said.

  Lockyer sniffed. His toes were starting to go numb. ‘I can understand the superintendent wanting outside help to . . . cover his arse, shall we say?’ Hamilton nodded but didn’t speak. ‘But if the press do find out who you are to the victim . . . to Pippa, then I would have thought my presence would do more harm than good. Local officers not up to the job, would be the headline, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Quite,’ Hamilton said. ‘And I can assure you I wasn’t thrilled when I found out Terry had gone ahead with this without speaking to me first. He was, as you say, covering his arse and in a way, I suppose, trying to cover mine. I’m sure you can appreciate the kind of stuff that goes hand in hand with an investigation of this type – DCC uses undue influence, would be the headline.’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, sir,’ Lockyer said, hoping he wasn’t about to talk himself out of a job, ‘but isn’t that exactly what you are doing?’

  Hamilton put his tongue in his cheek and looked at him. ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

  ‘And the other way?’

  ‘I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t, detective,’ Hamilton said. He was fingering his cigarette packet despite being only halfway through the one he was smoking. ‘If the press find out who I am and the investigation into my niece’s death goes as it should . . . her attacker is caught and brought to justice. Then there’ll no doubt be talk of undue influence and preferential treatment, which could be damaging to me and the force. However, if the investigation falls apart, then the press will ensure Townsend, the team, Avon and Somerset . . . and me, look like a bunch of incompetent idiots who can’t even look after their own.’

  ‘So that’s where I come in,’ Lockyer said. ‘To make sure Townsend doesn’t make a mess of it, whilst also making sure that no one knows why I’m here . . . oh, and that the press don’t find out who you are?’ He wanted to add, and I’ll take the fall if it goes tits up.

  Hamilton threw away the rest of his cigarette. ‘No, detective,’ he said. ‘You are here for one reason, and one reason only. You are here to find out who killed my niece.’

  Lockyer almost fell back as the door behind him opened. He turned. It was Megan. ‘Megs,’ he said. ‘Can you give us a minute, please?’

  ‘Aaron wanted me to give you his phone,’ she said, ignoring his request. She held out the mobile phone like it was coated in acid.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking it and putting it in his pocket. ‘Now if you can—’

  ‘No, Dad,’ she said. ‘You need to listen to his voicemail now.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, noticing for the first time how pale his daughter was.

  ‘There’s a message from Pippa,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hamilton said, approaching Megan in two strides. ‘What did she . . . ? What did she say?’ he stammered.

  ‘It’s a voicemail from the night she died,’ Megan said, looking at Hamilton and then back at her father. ‘It was recording when she died.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  12th December – Saturday

  Jane pulled the bedroom door closed and tiptoed back along the hallway. She and Lockyer had arrived twenty minutes after Peter’s bedtime. It was now an hour past that, and she had only just managed to get him calm enough to sleep. She crept into her bedroom and changed out of her work clothes into a pair of leggings and a baggy grey hoodie. She shoved her feet into her slippers.

  When she walked into the dining room she found her father sitting alone at the head of the table. He had the shadow of a smile on his face. ‘You all right, Dad?’ she asked, planting a kiss on his cheek. His skin felt dry and warm beneath her lips.

  ‘Your boss is helping your mother in the kitchen,’ he said with obvious amusement.

  Jane sucked in a breath. ‘Ooh, that can’t be good.’

  His expression changed. ‘How’s Pete?’

  She blew out a long breath. ‘He’s . . . asleep,’ she said, smiling and sitting down next to him. ‘What are we having?’

  ‘A heart-healthy curry,’ he said with a shake of his head.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ she said. ‘So that’s basically tofu and a curry sauce made predominately with coriander, then?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ he said, reaching for his glass. His movements were still slow but she noticed there was less of a tremor in his hand.

  ‘Do you think I should help?’ she asked, giving him a mischievous look. ‘Or maybe let him suffer?’

  ‘Let him suffer,’ he said. ‘They deserve each other.’

  ‘How’s that?’ she asked, breaking a poppadum with her finger
and offering her father one of the pieces.

  ‘Well,’ he said as he shoved it in his mouth. ‘He drives you nuts and yet you spend almost all your time with the guy, right?’ Crumbs fell from the corners of his mouth. She nodded. ‘Your mother’s the same. Let them drive each other nuts for a bit. It’ll make a change – give us a break.’

  She nodded and yawned. She had worked longer days than this, but she felt ready to drop. ‘So how are you finding it, Dad?’ she asked, realizing it was the first time they had been alone since her arrival on Thursday night.

  ‘Clevedon?’ he said. ‘It’s a nice place.’

  ‘Don’t go overboard, now,’ she said, breaking another poppadum and giving him the larger piece. ‘You miss London?’

  He covered her hand with his. ‘I miss you, Jane. You and Peter.’

  ‘Dad,’ she said, doing her best not to cry.

  ‘You’re so far away,’ he said with a sigh, his shoulders dropping. ‘Clevedon’s fine, honey. It’s a lovely place, tons for us old fogeys to be getting on with. There’s the beach, the pier, enough antique shops to bankrupt a fat cat – and there’s this place.’ He gestured around him. ‘We would never have been able to afford this in London . . . never. I’ve got the garden, my shed, the conservatory . . .’

  ‘You’ve got Mum,’ she offered, cocking her head on one side.

  He chuckled. ‘That is true, Jane . . . painfully true. I will live a long time if she has anything to do with it . . . but it’s not the same without you and Peter.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she said, wanting to lighten the mood. She was too tired for this. ‘Peter I believe, but me? I’m not buying that. You just need me as a buffer. If she’s on my case, she can’t be nagging you to death.’

  ‘We both miss you, poppet,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘Your mother will never say it, but she’s worried sick about you being up there on your own.’

  ‘I’m fine, Dad,’ she said, taking her hand from beneath his and patting it.

  The door to the kitchen opened and Lockyer walked in carrying an enormous bowl of curry, the smell of coriander overwhelming. ‘Hey,’ he said.

  ‘Having fun?’ she asked. ‘Nice pinny.’ Lockyer put the bowl down in the middle of the table on the waiting heat mats and looked down at himself. He was wearing a blue apron with a daisy pattern on the front.

  ‘Your mother was worried about my clothes,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s very fetching,’ her father said with a snort.

  Jane could see that Lockyer was unsure how to react to her father’s amusement. He had been the same since they arrived. It was as if he was worried John Bennett might keel over at any moment with another stroke.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Dad understands your pain.’

  ‘Your wife is very concerned about your health,’ Lockyer blurted out.

  Jane looked at her father and they both started to laugh. ‘It didn’t take her long to have you dancing to her tune,’ her father said.

  The door swung open again. Celia Bennett strode into the room carrying dishes in each hand, one filled with naan bread and the other samosas and onion bhajis. ‘Here we are,’ her mother said in a sing-song voice. Lockyer moved to sit down opposite Jane. ‘No, no, Michael. You go and sit over there. The view’s better.’ Lockyer looked at Jane, and then turned to look at the view from her side of the table. As they were in a room with no windows, she could imagine what he was thinking. Her mother pointed to the picture hanging over the sideboard. ‘We got that in an antique shop in town,’ she said, adding in a whisper, ‘They didn’t know what they had,’ and giving Lockyer a nudge as he passed her. He took his seat next to Jane.

  ‘How’s Peter?’ Lockyer asked.

  ‘Oh, he’s fine,’ Jane’s mother said with a wave of her hand.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Jane whispered, leaning into Lockyer, nudging his shoulder with hers. ‘Thanks for asking.’

  ‘He’s just unsettled, Michael. That’s all it is. He isn’t often like that, is he, Jane?’

  ‘He struggles with change,’ Jane said. ‘Even small changes to his routine or surroundings can throw him off. We normally eat in the kitchen when we’re here.’ She gave her mother a pointed look.

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Jane,’ her mother said, not looking at her, ladling curry onto her father’s plate. ‘What child isn’t a little . . . frazzled this close to Christmas?’

  ‘I understand,’ Lockyer said. ‘My brother’s autistic.’ His statement dropped into the conversation like a boulder into a bowl of rice. Jane had never known him to mention Bobby, not without serious coercion. He looked at her and returned the shoulder shove. She smiled.

  ‘Don’t stand on ceremony,’ her mother said, as if Lockyer hadn’t spoken. ‘Dig in.’ She offered the spoon to him. He took it without comment. Jane looked at her father. It was clear he was enjoying the show as he tried and failed to hide his smile.

  ‘Soooo, you two,’ her mother said, sitting down. ‘You have been busy. I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve actually been able to sit down together properly since you arrived. Did you have a good day?’

  Jane glanced down at Lockyer’s right hand. A bruise ran across his knuckles. ‘It was a . . . long day,’ she said. He seemed to sense her looking as he put his hands in his lap.

  ‘Aren’t they always?’ her mother said. Jane ignored the dig. These moments, however surreal, were to be savoured.

  Over the next twenty minutes Lockyer was cajoled and then forced into eating two huge helpings of Celia Bennett’s over-herbed curry. He tried to say no to the fourth bhaji, but it was clear Jane’s mother wasn’t listening. The novelty of having a healthy middle-aged man in the house was having quite an effect. Jane spent the majority of the meal exchanging looks with her father at her mother’s bizarre behaviour. Now that they were on to dessert, she could feel Lockyer’s desperation to flee. ‘That was amazing, Mum,’ she said with as much sincerity as she could muster. ‘Leave the dishes and I’ll do them later. Mike and I have got some work we need to do before tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ her mother said, shaking her head. ‘You never stop. Do you work as hard as my daughter?’ she asked, her tone veering towards accusatory.

  ‘No one works as hard as your daughter,’ Lockyer said, giving Jane a look that said he wanted to laugh and cry, in that order.

  ‘Do you mind if we use the conservatory, Dad?’ Jane asked, pushing back her chair. Lockyer followed her lead.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s fine, dear,’ her mother answered for him. ‘Your father and I will be off to bed very shortly. We aren’t the night owls we used to be.’

  ‘When were we ever night owls?’ Jane’s father asked, leaning on the table as he stood.

  ‘Oh, shush,’ she said. ‘You go and sit yourself down. I’ll bring you through a cup of tea.’ She put on a big show of rolling her eyes. ‘Waited on hand and foot, this one,’ she said, gathering up the plates.

  ‘Leave them, Mother,’ Jane said. ‘Honestly. I’ll do them after we’ve finished.’

  ‘And have the whole house smelling of curry?’ Celia said. ‘No, thank you. I’ll do it. You go on now and get your work done. I can look after your father.’ With a pile of dishes in her hands, she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Jane knew a dismissal when she heard one. She gestured to Lockyer to follow her, and put her hands on her father’s shoulders as she passed. ‘We’ll see you in a bit.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You leave me with your mother . . . I’m used to it.’

  ‘I’d feel sorry for you, Dad, but you married her.’ She kissed his cheek.

  ‘Your mother’s . . . interesting,’ Lockyer said, as he closed the door that separated the conservatory from the lounge. ‘And is it just me, or has she got posher?’

  ‘She’s just trying to impress you,’ Jane said, sitting down on a wicker armchair with navy blue cushions edged in yellow piping. Her mother had decided
on a jungle theme. All the lampshades were different animal prints, and there was a big bear throw draped over a matching wicker sofa. Peter (or rather, her mother at Peter’s instruction) had strung multi-coloured paper chains all around the room and going up to the centre of the conservatory like an indoor maypole. The flower pots and windows had been sprayed with a liberal helping of fake snow. Jane shifted, trying to get comfortable. ‘How’s your hand?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, looking at the sofa and the throw as if it might come to life and attack him.

  ‘Just toss it on the floor,’ she said.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, positioning himself at one end of the sofa before reaching for his laptop bag. Jane waited while he logged on.

  ‘Anything?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Tech said it might take a while,’ she said. They had tried to listen to Pippa’s message back at the station. The phone would turn on, but it wouldn’t dial out to the voicemail.

  ‘They’ll be lucky to recover it, I think,’ he said. ‘Especially as Aaron cracked the sim card when he broke the phone on my daughter’s face.’

  ‘OK,’ Jane said, raising her hands. ‘Let’s not get all worked up over that again. Pass me the Evans file, will you?’ He reached into his bag again, took out the file and tossed it to her. ‘Thanks.’ She opened it and scanned the first page. ‘Who was the guy they had down for this again?’

  ‘Kevin Ashworth. He’d dated Chloe on and off. They had a kid together.’

  ‘But the one she was carrying wasn’t his?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Is there anything to suggest Ashworth knew Pippa?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No reason why he should. I was going to ask Hamilton earlier, but he was upset. I figured it wasn’t the best time to imply his recently deceased niece might be associated with a known drug dealer and low-life.’

  ‘Probably wise,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to find out for ourselves.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘And I thought you were just the woman for the job.’