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

by Clare Donoghue

  Lockyer took a deep breath. ‘More than one,’ he said.

  Townsend nodded. ‘More than a dozen, I’d bet,’ he said, without a hint of judgement. ‘Look. I don’t blame you. When I was brought in on the Chloe Evans case I had Ashworth in my sights from the get-go. I was so cocksure I knew what was what, I didn’t stop to think. I let a team that didn’t want me here and a community who wanted Chloe’s death off their conscience get under my skin and throw me off my game. When things started to fall apart, they fell apart quick. I knew I was losing a hold on it and I just . . . lost it. I assaulted the main suspect, for God’s sake.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve been a senior DI for over ten years, Mike, and I let some supernatural mumbo-jumbo derail my case. Because of that, Chloe Evans’s family were left without justice for their daughter. Two children have been left without a mother, and a baby died before it even had chance to draw its first breath.’ He stopped, his face flushed. He was panting. The conviction in his voice was obvious. This was the Townsend Lockyer had met back in London, the one he had respected – liked, even.

  ‘OK, Bill, you’ve made your point,’ Lockyer said, sitting back in his chair and looking up at the ceiling. The only sounds were Jane rustling through the pages of the Jenkins file, and the hum of the offices beyond. He felt foolish, not for the first time today. ‘It’s possible we’ve jumped the gun on the Jenkins case.’ He dragged his hands down his face.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Jane said. He wasn’t surprised. She had been the one who had Simon Jenkins crying all over her. She wasn’t going to let go of this without a fight. ‘There’s a statement here from her father, and another,’ she said, holding a page in her hand, ‘from her case worker. Andrea lost her mother to breast cancer. It was just her and her father after that. She went off the rails . . . understandably.’ She fixed first Lockyer and then Townsend with a look that seemed to dare them to interject. ‘She started skipping school. She had an abortion.’ She looked at Lockyer. ‘She was fifteen.’

  ‘Tragic,’ Townsend said, shaking his head.

  ‘Statutory rape,’ she said.

  ‘Who was the father?’ Lockyer asked. ‘Were they ever prosecuted?’

  ‘It doesn’t say, but that’s when social services got involved. She was assigned a case worker.’ Jane closed her eyes. ‘She had another termination at eighteen . . . and who knows how many after that. She was in and out of trouble, some petty theft, problems with alcohol . . .’ She gave him a pointed stare. ‘She had treatment for substance abuse.’ He guessed she was thinking about Ashworth and whether, as with Chloe, he had played a role in Andrea’s life or perhaps even her death. ‘By nineteen she was getting her life back on track. She’d trained as a beauty therapist. Her father told me she wanted to make something of herself.’ She shook her head. ‘Why the hell was the file passed back to the coroner so quickly?’

  ‘Because Jenkins’ death was listed as accidental, I’d imagine,’ Townsend said in a not unsympathetic tone.

  ‘So why was she half-naked, tell me that?’ Jane asked, her eyes wide, her finger jabbing at the pages in front of her.

  ‘I’m no expert,’ Townsend said, ‘but as I understand it people suffering hypothermia can become very confused, delirious almost . . . removing their clothes, believing themselves to be too hot.’

  ‘OK, OK. But that would only have happened after she’d been out in the elements for a good while. So tell me, why did she crawl away from the road when she first fell?’ Jane said. ‘Why wouldn’t she try and crawl back to the pub to get help? Tell me that?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ Townsend said. ‘I wasn’t there – I wasn’t even here when she died. I simply don’t know.’ He looked at Lockyer, and then at Jane. ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you the answers you want, DS Bennett, but you have all the information there. I can see you want there to be a connection . . . that you want to give some resolution to Mr Jenkins, but I’m not sure this is the way to go about it. You and Mike are here to assist with the Jones inquiry – not to go off half-cocked looking at past cases with little or no connection . . . other than geography.’

  ‘We know Andrea and Pippa knew each other,’ Jane said, her expression defiant.

  ‘When they were kids, Jane,’ Lockyer said, unable to believe he was coming down on Townsend’s side of the argument. Ten minutes ago he had wanted to tear the guy a new one. ‘What were they, five, six?’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘What about this? Walford killed his wife because she was a drunk and slept around – with his brother, no less.’ She held up the file, pages dropping out as she waved it in their direction. ‘We know Chloe drank. We know she was promiscuous. Andrea was the same. The transcripts from her case worker could’ve come from Chloe’s file, they’re that similar.’

  ‘And Pippa?’ Lockyer asked, knowing she would not appreciate him blowing a hole in her theory, but she wasn’t listening – she hadn’t been listening. Like Townsend had just said, she was heading off on a certainty based on nothing but conjecture. ‘Have you heard or seen anything to suggest she was a drinker, or put herself about?’

  Jane folded her arms. ‘No. Not yet,’ she said, ‘but we don’t know her. We don’t know enough about her.’

  ‘You will get no argument from me there,’ he said, ‘but Bill’s point was valid. We are here . . . I am here to assist in the Pippa Jones investigation.’ He hoped she would get his point. It was the first time today he had thought about Hamilton, and it made him uneasy. Lockyer was here to keep the investigation clean, unfettered by the Walford nonsense, and yet here they were looking for more fuel to add to the metaphorical fire. ‘Whether or not Ashworth killed Chloe . . . it’s simply not our problem. It’s not our case. What happened to Andrea? We don’t and can’t know,’ he said. ‘Her body was cremated. I already checked.’

  She sat back in her seat, a piece of paper in her hand. She wasn’t looking at him.

  ‘Jane, are you even bloody listening to me?’

  ‘Have you got Chloe’s file with you?’

  He hated it when people ignored him. Clara used to do it all the time when they were married. She did it when he was saying something she didn’t want to hear. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Can I have it?’ she asked, holding out her hand.

  He reached for his bag and dug around until his fingers closed around the file. He took it out, resisting the urge to throw it at her. She was almost as bad as him when she fixated on an idea – almost. ‘Here,’ he said, putting it on the table and giving it a shove.

  Without speaking she pulled it towards her, opened it and started flicking through until she came to a stop. ‘Look at this,’ she said, turning the file around and pushing it back halfway across the table.

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ he said, looking down at Chloe Evans’s post-mortem.

  ‘And this?’ she said, holding up a photograph.

  It was a close-up of Evans’s torso where charcoal had been smeared onto her naked skin. ‘If you’re going to ask me again if I see a pattern or some kind of circle, I don’t,’ he said. ‘It still just looks like a smudge to me.’

  ‘This isn’t Chloe Evans,’ she said. ‘This photograph is from Andrea Jenkins’ post-mortem. Evidence of charcoal was found on her stomach and back.’ Lockyer opened his mouth and shut it again. ‘Still think I’m barking up the wrong tree?’

  ‘Shit,’ he said, putting his head in his hands. It hadn’t escaped his notice that he had started out this discussion in the exact same position. ‘John Walford was a collier.’

  ‘A what?’ she asked.

  ‘A collier – he made charcoal,’ he said, wondering how bad this day was going to get. ‘I looked it up this morning after we got schooled by your eight-year-old son.’ He saw Jane flinch. He raised his hands, palms facing her. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Anyway, Walford’s whole family were in the business – the technique was passed down from father to son and so on. That’s why Walford lived on the hills. He would collect a load of wood,
bury it in a pit, set it alight, cover it and then let it burn for half a day or whatever. The result was charcoal. He’d then sell it. That’s what he did. It was his job.’

  ‘So it was deliberate . . . a sign,’ Jane said. ‘A brand of some kind?’

  ‘Or a tribute,’ he said without enthusiasm.

  ‘Was charcoal listed anywhere in Jones’s post-mortem?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Christ, Jane, I don’t know. The poor girl was practically cremated. She could have been rolled in charcoal and I wouldn’t have known.’ He looked at Townsend, who was bent over his phone, his face pulled into a grimace. ‘What is it, Bill?’ he asked. ‘Or should I say, what now?’

  Townsend looked up. ‘It appears I owe you an apology, Detective Bennett,’ he said with a heavy sigh. ‘We’ve had a hit on the tyre impressions taken from the Jones scene. Casts were taken from a pull-in on the road closest to where Chloe’s body was found. They match.’ There was an edge of desperation to his voice. ‘Obviously just because the same vehicle was present at both crime scenes, it doesn’t necessarily mean it was involved in either of the murders, but . . .’

  ‘But who are you kidding?’ Lockyer offered.

  ‘Quite,’ Townsend said. He pushed back his chair and started pacing up and down the conference room.

  ‘I’m afraid it gets worse,’ Jane said, holding up her phone. ‘I’ve just had a text from Barney. A girl was found this morning at the southern end of Shervage Wood. Some hikers found her. She’s been taken to Musgrove Park Hospital in Taunton. Her name is Stephanie Lacey. Next of kin have been informed.’

  ‘She’s alive?’ Lockyer said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Townsend said, slapping his palm against the window, a dull thud reverberating around the room.

  The implications of the last few minutes had sent Lockyer’s brain into a tailspin. ‘We are in deep shit,’ he said. ‘We are all in very deep shit.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  14th December – Monday

  ‘You’ve had a week, Bill,’ Atkinson shouted, his face the colour of ripe cherries. He had listened without comment as Townsend explained how his one murder case had turned into three – or four, if you counted the attempted murder of Stephanie Lacey. Five if they factored in Jane Walford. Lockyer had interjected once or twice, but on the whole he had kept his mouth shut. Atkinson was angry enough without his help.

  ‘According to members of your own team, who shall remain nameless, half the bloody trace evidence didn’t go to South West Forensics until Friday . . . after the London lot arrived,’ Atkinson said, throwing a dismissive hand in Lockyer’s direction. ‘I just got off the phone with the crime scene manager and he tells me his team had the evidence logged and ready to go on the eighth, and yet it took you until last thing on the eleventh to get anything sent over to Linda and Larry.’ He was shaking his head back and forth, his mouth hanging open. ‘I’ve spoken to Larry this morning as well. He said his wife has been working overtime to get their findings back to us ASAP. And why?’ He didn’t leave suitable pause for Townsend to respond, although his expression suggested a reply could prove fatal at this point. ‘Because DI Lockyer called to expedite things.’

  Lockyer had thanked Linda for her help, but he hadn’t realized she had worked out of hours to get him the information he needed. Maybe he would offer her dinner with the drink he had promised.

  ‘Last time I checked this was a murder investigation, Bill. What are you playing at?’

  ‘We’ve been working on the assumption that Jones’s death was manslaughter, sir,’ Townsend said, his voice lacking conviction. ‘Our time and resources have been directed towards locating the other driver.’ Lockyer didn’t appreciate the ‘we’, but decided now wasn’t the time to break ranks.

  ‘By what?’ Atkinson said with a grimace. ‘Doing nothing in the hope they would turn themselves in?’ Townsend flinched. ‘To say this investigation has been mishandled is an understatement. I had no idea.’ He turned his attention to Lockyer, who had so far escaped Atkinson’s wrath. ‘I assure you, DI Lockyer, this is not how we usually run things.’ He pushed his fingers against his eyebrows. ‘Jesus, Bill, at the very least we could have got a warning out to motorists.’

  ‘Saying what, sir?’ Townsend asked. He must have a death wish.

  ‘Fuck, I don’t know, Bill,’ Atkinson said, almost jumping up and down on the spot, ‘but if I’d have known last week that Jones and Evans were linked – that we had some sicko murdering girls and watching them burn in their cars – you can guaran-fucking-tee I would have done something.’

  ‘But we still couldn’t have known—’

  ‘Save it,’ Atkinson said, closing his eyes and holding up one finger to silence Townsend. ‘If you’re even thinking of telling me you couldn’t have done anything to prevent the attack on Stephanie Lacey, don’t bother.’ He dropped into his chair with a thud. ‘If you had done your job, Bill, we would have known that the person responsible for Chloe Evans’s death was in all likelihood responsible for Pippa Jones’s death. If you had done your job, Bill, we would have known that Andrea Jenkins was not only murdered, but murdered by, it seems, the same guy as Chloe and Pippa. From that, Bill, we would have known that there was a serial predator who has been active in the area for, as far as we know, over two bloody years. How many other disappearances, unsolved rapes, abductions might be linked back to this guy? With all of that, Bill, we would have known beyond a shadow of a doubt that the public was at risk, and we could have put out an alert, and we could have stopped Stephanie Lacey driving across the Quantocks at night, by herself, before being beaten half to death.’

  ‘How is she?’ Townsend asked, as if Atkinson’s bollocking had been directed at someone else. Lockyer had been in his place more than once, but he had never remained this calm.

  ‘She’s alive, Bill,’ Atkinson said. ‘That’s about all we can be thankful for right now.’

  ‘The case hasn’t been straightforward,’ Lockyer said, surprised to find himself defending Townsend for the second time this morning. ‘The information on Evans and Jenkins has come up quite by chance. We—’

  ‘I fucked up, sir,’ Townsend said, dropping his head, his voice quiet. It was only the second time Lockyer had heard him swear. It didn’t suit him. ‘DI Lockyer and DS Bennett floated the idea of the Chloe Evans case being linked at the start of the weekend. I didn’t listen. It’s no secret I had some . . . issues on that case, that it . . . dented my confidence. So when DI Lockyer approached me about it, I’ll admit I didn’t give it my full attention. If I had handled the case better in the first instance, it’s possible I would have made the Andrea Jenkins connection back then.’ His shoulders seemed to sag further with each admission. ‘As for Jones – I was, until this morning, adamant it was a simple hit and run. A drink driver. I didn’t push the trace evidence through because . . . because I didn’t appreciate the urgency. I take full responsibility. It was my oversight.’

  ‘Sir,’ Lockyer said, already regretting what he was about to say. ‘It’s not all DI Townsend’s fault. You brought me in to assist with the Jones case. When DS Bennett brought information to me regarding the location where Chloe Evans’s body was found, I didn’t realize at the time the severity of the situation.’ He took a deep breath. He could be about to commit professional suicide. ‘It was my understanding that Evans’s body had been found in Dead Woman’s Ditch, the same site where John Walford had killed Jane Walford in 1789. However, I didn’t go much further than that.’ He swallowed his desire to cut and run and leave Townsend carrying the can. ‘I only discovered the full story of the Walford case this morning.’

  ‘What are you babbling about, DI Lockyer?’ Atkinson said with a sigh.

  ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I have dealt with serial offenders. If I had realized that Chloe Evans had been killed utilizing the same exact MO as Jane Walford, my handling of the situation would have been very different, I assure you, but . . .’ He stutte
red to a stop, opening and shutting his mouth like a bloody goldfish struck dumb by his own carelessness. He had been so focused on what Townsend wasn’t doing, he had lost sight of what he should be doing.

  ‘I can hardly hold you to account for something we should have picked up on,’ Atkinson said. The look he gave Townsend made Lockyer turn away.

  ‘We’ve got a witness, at least,’ Lockyer said, ‘not to mention another crime scene with potential forensic evidence. I’ll speak to Lacey as soon as she’s conscious.’

  ‘What about Ashworth?’ Atkinson asked, looking at him rather than Townsend. ‘I assume you’ll be speaking to him?’

  ‘He’ll be our best starting point, yes, sir,’ Lockyer said. ‘We know Andrea Jenkins had a substance abuse problem, so it’s possible she crossed paths with Ashworth. Nothing yet on Jones, but we’ll keep digging.’