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

by Clare Donoghue

  ‘Oh, yeah? How so?’

  ‘Mills said all the locals would be in tomorrow night. It’s skittles night. I thought you could go . . . maybe take one of Townsend’s lot with you and get some background on Pippa, but at the same time do some surreptitious digging on Chloe and Ashworth, and whether there might have been any way Pippa could have run into the guy.’

  ‘And I’m doing this because . . . ?’

  ‘Because, Jane, you’re good at talking to people,’ he said, ‘and I’m . . .’

  ‘Not,’ she offered.

  ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.’

  Jane smiled, flicked forward a few pages to the post-mortem and read the transcript. ‘Blimey, Chloe’s blood alcohol level was high,’ she said, ‘especially for someone who was seven months pregnant.’

  ‘She had some issues with alcohol,’ Lockyer said with a sniff.

  ‘Not a lot of defensive injuries.’

  ‘Looks like he knocked her out and then slit her throat,’ he said with a shrug.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said, holding up one of the photographs.

  He looked up from his computer. ‘It’s listed as charcoal on the pathology report,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ She looked at it again, moving the photo from side to side, trying to decipher the image. There was a dark ring on Chloe’s stomach, almost like a target drawn in the centre of her distended belly. ‘What do you see?’ He was tapping away on his computer, only half listening to her. ‘Mike?’

  ‘I don’t see anything. Just looks like a smudge to me,’ he said, still focused on his screen.

  ‘But it’s been put there deliberately?’ she said.

  ‘Who knows?’

  She decided to cut her losses and read in silence. When she had gone through the interview section, which was sparse to say the least, she said, ‘I still can’t believe Townsend assaulted a suspect.’

  ‘I know,’ Lockyer said. ‘Although having said that, I was talking to Crossley earlier when we got back to the station, and she happened to mention that Townsend also had a run-in with another officer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, some scuffle over an interdepartmental football match,’ Lockyer said, pulling at his eyebrow. ‘Apparently Townsend lost it and went for some DS on the opposing team.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem the type,’ Jane said, flicking through the file. It wasn’t as thick as she would have expected. There were photographs of the scene. She glanced at them, but didn’t linger.

  ‘I made a call to a superintendent I know in Bristol earlier,’ Lockyer said, glancing up from his screen. ‘He couldn’t speak highly enough of Townsend – said he was one of their best DIs. An asset to the department.’

  ‘Until the Evans case,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘But then, everyone has their trigger – the death of a pregnant mother . . . and therefore the baby. It can’t have been easy. Something made him attack Ashworth.’

  ‘According to Hamilton, Townsend alienated himself from his team and the local community. The initial interviews were delayed, or not completed.’ Lockyer shook his head. ‘There’s nothing systematic about the way it was handled. Even basic information is missing. I’d expect these types of errors from a trainee, maybe; but someone of his seniority? By the time Townsend got Ashworth into custody, the case was already in trouble. He didn’t even have statements from Ashworth’s known associates – nothing to support the spurned lover motive. There was DNA evidence on the body, but as far as I can see, he never even attempted to match it to Ashworth. And he didn’t bother to get the DNA back, to prove or disprove whether Ashworth was the father of the baby. The whole investigation was a shambles.’

  She read through the exhibits page. ‘Was any of this trace evidence utilized once Ashworth was in custody?’

  ‘No,’ Lockyer said. ‘Ashworth voluntarily provided DNA, but he was released without charge before the samples even made it to the lab. CSI had recovered footprints, not to mention tyre tracks from the nearby road. None of them were ever matched to Ashworth or his vehicle. It was all too late, so they just got shelved.’ He dragged his hands down his face. He looked as tired as she felt.

  ‘Well, Hamilton did tell you the guy wasn’t up to the job.’

  ‘I know, and from what I’ve seen it would be hard to disagree.’

  ‘But you do?’

  ‘It just strikes me as odd that someone with his level of experience would drop the ball like that . . . out of nowhere. That he could go from invaluable to inept overnight.’

  Jane looked at him. ‘You think he deliberately screwed up the Evans case?’

  ‘No, no,’ Lockyer said. ‘I just feel like I’m dealing with two different people: the respected DI, and the guy who doesn’t seem to know his arse from his elbow.’ She heard his phone buzz. ‘That’s me,’ he said, shifting in his seat and reaching into his trouser pocket. He took out his phone. ‘I put it on vibrate.’ He looked at her. ‘I figured your mother wouldn’t appreciate an interruption to her dinner.’

  Jane laughed. ‘You’re right there.’

  ‘It’s through,’ he said, reaching for the laptop. ‘It’s just downloading.’ He stared at the screen. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ she said, knowing it wouldn’t make easy listening if Aaron’s reaction was anything to go by.

  The sound of static filled the conservatory. Jane felt her stomach tighten. There were times when she wished she had chosen a different profession. Now was one of those times. The static cleared, and there was a crunching sound.

  What the fuck? Jane could hear Pippa’s breathing over the sound of the engine. Try leaving more than an inch next time, mate.

  A shiver ran down Jane’s back as Pippa’s disembodied voice filled the room. She heard a sharp intake of breath.

  Anything else? Jane looked at Lockyer. He shrugged. What with deer, dickheads and now sheep, I’m about done for the night. They both nodded in understanding, just as there was a loud bang on the recording. Jane heard Pippa grunt. Jesus. Jane could hear the sound of metal on metal. Pippa’s breathing was jagged, but it was drowned out by the sound of the engine as she accelerated away – away from whoever was behind her. Jane could hear Pippa muttering, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. She looked over at Lockyer, and then at the door to the lounge to make sure her mother was nowhere in sight. The sound of the next impact made Jane jump in her seat. There was a sickening thump and the sound of Pippa’s breath being forced out of her lungs. The next thing Jane heard was a fast rumbling sound.

  ‘The cattle grid,’ Lockyer said.

  She nodded. There was more static, the sound of the engine revving, and then a gurgling sound. The sound of rapid breathing. Then another impact, this time much louder, much closer. She heard the dull crack before realizing what it was. It was Pippa’s head hitting the driver’s-side window. Her skull fracturing. She was coughing and retching. Jane put her own hand to her mouth. The noises Pippa was making didn’t sound human. There was yet another bang, and then silence.

  ‘That must be when she hit the tree,’ Lockyer said.

  Jane let out a long breath. ‘Thank God it ends there,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t bear to hear . . .’ Before she could finish, the recording sprang back into life. There was the sound of static. It crackled.

  Careful, it’s hot.

  Jane frowned. ‘What’s she talking about?’

  ‘God only knows,’ Lockyer said.

  She listened as the static continued; it popped, crackled and sizzled. Pippa’s voice was muffled now, but Jane could hear her moaning. It was then that it hit her. She wasn’t listening to static; it was fire. ‘How long do you think she was conscious?’

  ‘Too long,’ Lockyer said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  13th December – Sunday

  ‘I really don’t want to have to listen to it again,’ Jane said, walking away from the conference table. ‘Why can’t you just tell me?’

&nbs
p; ‘Because you need to hear it,’ Lockyer said, looking at his watch. ‘Where the hell is Townsend? Is that guy ever in the office?’

  ‘It is Sunday,’ she said, turning her back to him.

  He was about to launch into a rant about why ‘it’s a Sunday’ was not a good excuse when he thought better of it. She had been subdued all morning. She hadn’t said a word at breakfast and had then excused herself to go for a walk, to get some fresh air. He knew that was bollocks. Jane was like him – she went everywhere at a run. The only times he had ever known her to go for a walk were when something was eating away at her. The Andy fiasco meant she had been going out for a lot of ‘walks’ of late. He decided to leave her to her own thoughts. She had a lot to process – they both did.

  When the recording had ended Jane had left the conservatory in a hurry – to be sick, he assumed. When she returned neither of them had said a word for a good fifteen minutes. She went back to studying the Chloe Evans case file as if nothing had happened. When she did speak, it was to ask a question or make a comment. He watched as she leaned against the window, the low winter sun silhouetting her shape. She looked knackered. There was a knock at the conference room door. Lockyer waved for DC Pimbley to come in.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Sir, DI Townsend said he’ll be with you in a few minutes. He’s just on the phone with the superintendent.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Pimbley.’

  Pimbley turned to leave but stopped, staring at his shoes. ‘Sir . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I just wanted to apologize for yesterday,’ Pimbley said. ‘I think maybe I went a bit overboard with Aaron.’

  ‘You and me both,’ Lockyer said. Pimbley paused for a second, nodded and left the room.

  As Lockyer turned he caught sight of himself in the window of the conference room. If Jane looked haggard, he looked a lot worse; like a cartoon character who had just stuck a finger in a plug socket. Jane’s mother had insisted on opening the skylight in his room to let him hear the sea. Don’t worry. It won’t let the rain in, but the sound of the sea is magical. It soothes the nerves like nothing else, she had told him in a sing-song voice, opening the window with such force he was surprised it hadn’t come off its hinges. However, Lockyer’s nerves hadn’t been soothed; in fact, he had found the precise opposite to be true. He would have shut the bloody thing, but couldn’t find the pole Jane’s mother had used. The constant smashing of water on stone had done nothing but give him a headache and make him want to pee every five minutes.

  He ground his fists into his eye sockets. He would have to get Jane to close the window tonight. There was no way he was going to ask her mother. That woman was like no one he had ever met. Although she did have one thing going for her: she was brilliant with Jane’s son. The two of them were like a weird double act. Neither stopped talking. Neither seemed to realize or care that no one was listening. Lockyer had never met Peter before, other than for maybe a few minutes here and there at work barbecues and other social events. He had imagined him to be a mini version of his brother. Bobby was quiet and, for the most part, locked away in his own world. Peter was nothing like that. For a start, he talked non-stop. His vocabulary would rival that of most adults, and if this morning’s discussion was anything to go by, he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of dinosaurs, velociraptors being his favourite.

  A familiar pain rippled across Lockyer’s chest. It was always the same when he thought about Bobby. His oh-so-wise daughter, who was halfway through some online psychology course alongside her degree, had told him that he was grieving. When he pointed out that his brother was in fact still alive, she had rolled her eyes, something she had picked up from her mother, and said, Not that kind of grief, Dad. She talked to him as if she were the parent and he the child. You’re grieving for the brother you lost when your parents sent him to live with your aunt when you were little. And . . . you’re grieving for the brother you can’t have because of Uncle Bobby’s condition. His daughter had become his emotional caretaker, whether he liked it or not.

  He moved his head around his shoulders, resisting the urge to pull a face. Psychobabble drove him nuts. The occupational health woman he had been forced to see earlier in the year had sounded just the same – talking at him in soft, patronizing tones. She had spoken a lot about grief too. However, the kind of grief she was talking about was real and only happened when someone had been ripped out of your life. He sniffed. The emotions he felt about his brother came in waves, but when it came to her? Thoughts of her knocked him off his feet like a tsunami. He would be tossed around in its wake, kicking for the surface, only to be sucked down again by the current of his memories. Even when he resurfaced, gasping for air, it could take hours, sometimes days, for the pain to subside.

  He had spent over ten years with Clara. She was the mother of his child. Their split had left a scar, no doubt, but nothing like this – not like with her, and they had been together less than two weeks. She had left an indelible mark in his head and on his heart. It was a relationship that should never have happened, that had changed his life and ended hers. In the early hours, when he couldn’t sleep, he would find himself worrying that he was forgetting her face. He had one picture on his phone. It was a blurred shot of the side of her face. He remembered taking it. She was rolling away from him in bed, laughing, her arms and legs caught up in the sheet. He sighed. There were other photographs on file, but he didn’t want to look at those.

  The sound of the door opening broke his train of thought. It was Townsend. Lockyer took a deep breath and pushed the pain away, back into its lair where it would lie dormant until the next time. This was why he didn’t like shrinks. No good could come from dwelling on the past.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Townsend said. ‘I just got this from Basil.’ He held up a tan paper file. ‘It’s his full post-mortem report.’

  ‘Great,’ Lockyer said, reaching out for the file. Townsend handed it over without comment. ‘Be good to check I didn’t miss anything.’

  ‘I’m sure you haven’t,’ Townsend said.

  Lockyer slid the file over to his right and dragged his laptop towards him. ‘Thanks for coming, Bill,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ Townsend said, taking a seat at the head of the table. Jane remained by the window. ‘I would have been in yesterday, but I was . . . circumstances kept me elsewhere.’

  What the hell did that mean? Lockyer rolled his lips over his teeth and bit down hard to keep himself from asking the question out loud. Now wasn’t the time. Hearing Pippa’s last moments on the recording had changed everything – in his mind, at least. She wasn’t just a victim any more. She wasn’t just Aaron’s twin sister. She had a voice. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend how Aaron must be feeling.

  He had called Megan this morning to check on her eye, but he couldn’t deny that part of the reason he had phoned was to ask after Aaron. Lockyer had been witness to the ravages of grief throughout his entire career. It was tough, a harsh reality of the job, but he had become practised at compartmentalizing. But with Aaron it was different. His pain was tangible, and the closer Lockyer got, the more it seemed to transfer to him.

  ‘Can we get this over with, please?’ Jane asked, walking back to the table as if her feet were encased in concrete.

  Lockyer nodded as Townsend took a seat next to hers. He pressed play on his laptop. The recording crackled into life. ‘You won’t have to listen to the whole thing,’ he said, talking over the static. ‘It’s only the last minute or so I want you to hear.’

  ‘That’s precisely the part I don’t want to listen to,’ Jane said, putting her head in her hands.

  ‘Just listen,’ he said, turning up the volume until it was at maximum. The sound of Pippa moaning filled the conference room. Jane seemed to shrink into herself. Townsend, in contrast, was focused, which made a change. His eyes were glued to the laptop. Lockyer held up one finger. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Listen.’

 
‘This is after the car has caught fire, of course,’ Townsend said, his face impassive.

  Lockyer nodded, but didn’t speak. ‘Don’t listen to that and don’t listen to Pippa.’ Jane looked up at him. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Try to put the sound of the fire and Pippa to the back of your mind. What else can you hear?’

  Jane was shaking her head. ‘All I can hear is her,’ she said.

  ‘The noise from the fire is pretty loud, Mike,’ Townsend said. ‘I can hear crackling, spitting . . . I can hear what I guess would be the air being dragged into the vehicle by the flames, but other than that, I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Jane said.

  Lockyer let the recording play on for a couple more seconds before stopping it. ‘OK, hang on,’ he said, dragging the icon back to the same starting place on the recording. He looked at them both. ‘Try again. I want you to listen to the sounds beyond the fire, beyond Pippa. Try closing your eyes. That’s what I did earlier when I listened to it again.’ They both stared at him. ‘Indulge me,’ he said. ‘Just close your eyes and listen. Push the noises you know are there to the side and listen for what else you can hear.’ Townsend closed his eyes. Jane rolled hers but then closed them, holding her hand to her mouth. ‘And try not to throw up on the conference table, Jane,’ he said in an attempt at levity. He was trying to break the spell that was fixing her mind in place. She was so focused on what she didn’t want to hear that she wasn’t picking up what he needed her to hear. ‘Here we go.’ He pressed play. Again Pippa’s moaning filled the room. It was soon accompanied by the sounds of the fire igniting and then taking hold. He tried to increase the volume, pressing the button in vain. He could hear it, but could they?

  ‘The fire’s much louder now,’ Townsend said.

  ‘She’s quieter,’ Jane said.

  ‘What else?’ Lockyer said, willing them to hear it.

  ‘Her engine is still running,’ Townsend said.

  ‘Keep listening,’ he said.

  Jane frowned. ‘That’s not Pippa’s engine,’ she said.