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

by Clare Donoghue

  ‘Who knows, Bill,’ Atkinson said, sitting back in his chair, ‘you might yet be able to redeem yourself on not one but two of your cases, and maybe even solve a third.’ He sat up, pulled himself closer to his desk and started tapping away at the keys on his laptop. ‘Although I’ve gotta say, Ashworth didn’t strike me as much of a historian. I’d be surprised if the boy could read.’

  ‘We’re assuming the correlation to Jane Walford’s murder is more of a diversionary tactic rather than a straightforward copycat, sir,’ Lockyer said, realizing he was voicing something Townsend had said. It made more sense, and if he was honest, he was more comfortable with the idea that the person he was pursuing was devious rather than the alternative – someone who was emulating a centuries-old murderer. Townsend was nodding. He looked relieved to have Lockyer on his side – in some form. And no wonder. As Atkinson had said, if they could nail Ashworth with all three murders, Townsend would not only be vindicated for two legendary screw-ups but he would no doubt be commended for solving such a complex case.

  Lockyer ran his tongue along the front of his teeth. The fact that the guy had so far had bugger all to do with solving this or any other case was beside the point. Lockyer knew he wasn’t going to get any credit at the end of this. There was only one scenario where his true reason for being here would be revealed – if things went wrong, really wrong, and Hamilton and Avon and Somerset Constabulary needed a fall guy. ‘They’ve taken scrapings from under Lacey’s nails, and Ashworth’s DNA is on file, so assuming we get a match, we’ll bring him in. If we can link him to any of the victims before that’s back from the lab, we’ll bring him in sooner.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ Atkinson said, turning his laptop around and looking at Townsend. ‘Your friend Ashworth was nicked for aggravated assault. He’s been on remand for the past month, so Jones and this girl . . . Lacey are out.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still a fit for Chloe’s murder . . . or Andrea Jenkins,’ Townsend said. He had taken a step towards the superintendent’s desk. Lockyer could see it was a desperate gesture, but he could also feel the aggression coming off Townsend in waves. He might be desperate, but he was also angry.

  ‘No, no, no,’ Atkinson said, taking back his laptop and wagging his finger at Townsend. ‘You can’t have it both ways, Bill. You and DI Lockyer have just made an excellent case for a serial offender. Jenkins and Evans share the charcoal residue. Evans and Jones share tyre tracks. Jones and Jenkins knew each other, and Stephanie Lacey . . .’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘She was attacked at the southern end of Shervage Wood, this guy’s hunting ground. That’s good enough for me. There’s one guy, and it isn’t Ashworth.’

  ‘But, sir . . .’

  ‘It isn’t Ashworth,’ Atkinson said again. ‘Bill, drop it. Move on.’ He straightened his tie. ‘So, now he’s out of the picture, tell me, detectives, what’s next?’

  Lockyer cleared his throat. He couldn’t say he was all that surprised about Ashworth. From what he knew about the guy, he was a bottom-feeder with more baggage than brains. To get away with murder was no mean feat. To get away with it more than once?

  ‘Your silence is not reassuring, gentlemen,’ Atkinson said. ‘Here’s what I suggest.’ He held up his index finger. ‘You can start by getting a statement from Miss Lacey. She’s seen this guy. With any luck she can give you a description, and with a good e-fit you might just be able to catch this guy before someone else ends up in that Dead Woman’s sodding Ditch.’

  ‘Well, that went well,’ Lockyer said, as he and Townsend walked back to the CID offices. His phone was vibrating in his pocket. He took it out and looked down at the screen. ‘Excuse me, Bill,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a second.’ He turned and walked back the way they had come, heading for the stairs at the far end of the atrium. He didn’t recognize the number, but thought he knew who it might be. ‘Hello,’ he said as he put the phone to his ear.

  ‘Lockyer,’ Hamilton said. ‘I’m outside, back of the station, black BMW.’

  ‘On my way, sir,’ he said, taking the stairs two at a time. He wondered if he needed to prepare himself for the second dressing-down of the day. He paused as the automatic doors slid open. The car park was a mess of snow and slush, cars parked askew or just abandoned where they ended up. The snow had eased, but they were forecast for more. It wouldn’t be helping the CSI guys at the Lacey crime scene. He would guess they would need more than a few footboards to maintain any kind of evidence trail.

  As he rounded the building he spotted Hamilton’s car at the far end of the car park. It was one of those huge dual-fuel hybrids, an X5. He broke into a jog, careful not to slip. He put his hand on the door handle and looked in. Hamilton waved him inside. ‘Sir,’ he said as he climbed in and shut the door behind him.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Hamilton said, without turning to look at him. He was smoking a cigarette, his window open an inch for him to flick his ash. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No, go ahead,’ Lockyer said.

  ‘So I hear things have progressed somewhat since we last spoke,’ Hamilton said, taking a drag of his cigarette, staring out the windscreen at something of unknown interest.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Want to tell me your take on it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Lockyer decided to tell Hamilton the same as he had told Atkinson. ‘Ashworth is out of the picture.’

  ‘On remand, I understand.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lockyer said, thinking news travelled fast.

  ‘So he’s not around to pin it on.’

  ‘So it appears,’ Lockyer said.

  ‘So what direction is your merry band heading in now, then?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Well, sir, it is beginning to look as though the . . . Walford issue could have more bearing on the case than previously thought.’

  ‘So now you think the nutty locals are right? The ghost of John Walford is back . . . and this time, he wants revenge,’ he said, putting on a dramatic voice. Townsend had used the exact same phrase.

  Lockyer dragged his finger and thumb down the sides of his mouth. ‘Something like that, sir, yes,’ he said. ‘Although I very much doubt we’re looking for a ghost.’

  ‘An apprentice, then? A killer seeking legendary status?’

  Lockyer shook his head. ‘Not exactly, sir,’ he said. ‘More like someone who wants us to think that’s what they’re doing . . . to throw us off . . . keep us chasing our tails.’

  He snorted. ‘Like our friend Townsend on the Evans case?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll tell you the issue I have with this new . . . theory.’ Hamilton rested his head back against the headrest.

  ‘Please do,’ Lockyer said, hoping it didn’t sound like he was kissing arse.

  ‘John Walford took a knife to his wife’s throat for three reasons. One, she spread her legs for anyone. Two, she drank like a fish, and three, she spent all his money.’ He took another drag of his cigarette and rolled his head to the right as he blew the smoke out of the gap in the window. Lockyer was as good as talking to the back of the guy’s head now. ‘Chloe Evans, God rest her soul, was by all accounts not fussy when it came to guys. What did she have, four kids?’

  ‘Three,’ Lockyer said. ‘Two and one on the way.’

  ‘Upsetting,’ Hamilton said, ‘but as we know, almost identical to Walford’s wife.’ He looked down at his cigarette and threw the remainder out of the window. ‘I also understand that Chloe liked a drink.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lockyer said.

  ‘Do we know if she was a spender?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fine,’ Hamilton said. ‘Two out of three ain’t bad. Now to the next one. What was her name?’

  ‘Andrea Jenkins.’

  Hamilton paused. ‘That’s right, the hit and run you’re now trying to prove wasn’t accidental,’ he said. ‘Jenkins had been pregnant when she was what . . . ?’

  ‘Fifteen, and a
gain at eighteen,’ Lockyer said.

  ‘The world today,’ Hamilton said. ‘And she was a drinker too, but again, we don’t know if she spent her daddy’s money.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What do we know about Lacey?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing yet, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m heading over to the crime scene after this and then hoping to get in to see the girl later on today, with any luck.’

  ‘I thought she was critical?’

  ‘She was, but she’s improved enough to come out of the high dependency unit.’

  ‘Small mercies,’ Hamilton said, looking at his watch. ‘Fine. So you’ll find out more about her in due course, but I hope you can see the point I’m driving at, Lockyer. If your suspect is picking his victims with deference to Walford and his pet peeves – and given what we have just discussed, that does appear to be the case – then you, detective, are suggesting that my niece was something of a drunken hussy. Is that right?’

  ‘No, sir, not at all,’ Lockyer said, knowing he had done just that. If Hamilton wanted to remain under the illusion that his niece was whiter than white, he wasn’t about to argue with him. It was clear Atkinson was feeding the case information back, but he seemed to have had the good sense to withhold Pippa’s failed pregnancy. Without that knowledge, Hamilton’s reticence to see her case attached to the others made sense. ‘However, it does appear that your niece may have drawn the attention of our suspect, for whatever reason . . . perhaps a case of mistaken identity?’ Hamilton sniffed, then nodded. ‘I want to assure you, sir,’ Lockyer said, putting on his best arse-kissing voice, ‘your niece remains my first priority.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Hamilton said, shifting in his seat and putting both hands on the wheel. It seemed their conversation was over. ‘You have my full support to throw as many resources at the Walford girls as you deem fit: money, manpower, whatever it takes to catch the person responsible. But I want it made clear that Pippa’s case, her death, is different. I won’t have her memory tainted by this . . . mess.’

  ‘And if she was killed by the same man?’ Lockyer posed it as a question, despite knowing it was as good as fact given the tyre impressions hit.

  ‘Then I will happily rip the guy to pieces with my bare hands,’ Hamilton said. ‘No one sullies my family’s name and gets away with it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  14th December – Monday

  ‘I don’t know if they’re going to let me in to see her yet,’ Jane said.

  ‘So why are you calling me again?’

  ‘Because I wanted you to know I was waiting to speak to the consultant,’ she said. ‘And I’ve spoken to her parents.’

  ‘Oh yeah – and?’ he said, cracking his neck and using his shoulder to hold his phone up to his right ear while he pulled on the gloves being handed to him by one of the perimeter officers.

  ‘She doesn’t drink much, doesn’t have time for boys, no boyfriend . . . the usual.’

  Lockyer huffed out a laugh. ‘So in reality she drinks like a fish, spends all her time with boys and there’s not one boyfriend but ten.’

  ‘I’d say that’s a fair assumption . . . within reason,’ Jane said.

  ‘OK, well let’s see what she has to say,’ he said. ‘It’d be good to get a statement while the incident is still fresh in her mind.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ she said. He didn’t need to see her face to know she was rolling her eyes.

  ‘No one likes a smartarse, Jane,’ he said, lifting up his feet as the officer bent down and helped him into some booties. He didn’t get this kind of service in Lewisham. ‘Is it snowing there?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘raining. What about with you?’

  ‘Snowing,’ he said, ducking his head down so he could look out from underneath the awning. ‘It’s bucketing down.’

  ‘That won’t help,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ He sighed. ‘Well, I’d better go and show my face.’

  ‘No one knows your face.’

  ‘Jane, what did I say about—’

  ‘I know. No one likes a smartarse.’

  ‘Precisely. I’ll text you in a bit,’ he said. ‘Keep me posted on Lacey.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Good luck.’ He ended the call and dropped his phone into his jacket pocket just as it rang again. ‘I am popular,’ he said to himself, pulling it back out and looking at the screen to decide whether to take the call. He saw Roger’s name flashing up at him. He would be taking the call.

  ‘You got my message, I take it.’ He had sent an email to Roger’s private Gmail account this morning to give him an update, or a heads-up, depending on how you looked at it. He can’t know that I know that you know, Roger had almost squeaked down the phone when Lockyer had called over the weekend to tell him he knew Hamilton was the secret benefactor. He guessed it was only natural for Roger to be on edge. He had been superintendent for all of five minutes. The last thing he needed was trouble with a DCC.

  ‘You know how to pick ’em,’ Roger said.

  ‘You picked me, sir, remember?’ he said, shoving his free hand as far into his jacket pocket as it would go.

  ‘You really think you’ve got a serial offender?’

  Lockyer shrugged, the gesture letting the cold wind up and under his coat. He shuddered. ‘Not many other ways to look at it,’ he said. ‘Like I said, I’ve got trace evidence linking a six-month-old unsolved murder case with an accidental death dating back two years, and tread impressions linking the same case back to the Jones murder scene. And . . . the Jones girl knew our accidental death victim.’

  ‘Shit,’ Roger said.

  ‘You said it.’

  Roger cleared his throat. ‘You need to play this one . . . carefully,’ he said.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Lockyer said with a snort.

  ‘I’m being serious, Mike. Hamilton called me this morning.’

  ‘What did he want?’ he asked, knowing it wouldn’t be a chat about old times.

  ‘He didn’t say explicitly,’ Roger said, ‘but he was beside himself with this Townsend situation. I also got the impression he’s none too pleased with his niece being associated with the other two victims. Some issue with their sex lives?’

  ‘They had them, Rog. I think that’s the problem,’ Lockyer said, feeling his shoulders stiffen. What did Hamilton want? His niece had been murdered. What did it matter who she had or hadn’t slept with?

  ‘Just try and stay on his good side. He’s not the kind of guy you want to piss off, DCC or not. He’s worked his arse off and fought hard to get to where he is. He spent years moving all around the Country to move up the ranks – taking on the shittiest cases – you name it . . . all while nursing a wife with dementia and terminal cancer.’

  ‘His second wife?’ He had heard about Hamilton’s marriage, or rather his divorce from Claudette, but nothing much else. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t care, but as Hamilton was holding Lockyer’s career in his meaty hands, he figured the more he knew about the guy the better chance he had of keeping his job.

  ‘Elaine, yes,’ Roger said. ‘From what I’ve heard, the woman was a nightmare. Their marriage was on the skids when she was diagnosed but Hamilton stood by her – moved heaven and earth to get her the best treatment. Family and the force. That’s about all he cares about, and so I don’t imagine he will appreciate having his niece’s – or his – reputation smeared all over the press when this comes out. Which it will.’

  ‘A public advisory is going out tonight,’ Lockyer said. ‘I’ve spoken to the press office and they’re keeping it loose, but we can’t keep this quiet. Someone else could . . . will get hurt.’

  ‘Jesus, Mike,’ Roger said. ‘This is going to get big quick. Where are you on the vehicle?’

  ‘Nothing yet. Traffic’s looking. We’re pulling DVLA records left and right and half the team are sifting through weeks’ worth of traffic cam footage. We’ll get something, but it’s gonna take
time.’

  ‘What about the girl, the one who was attacked last night?’

  ‘Stephanie Lacey. Jane’s at the hospital now,’ Lockyer said. ‘We’re hoping for an ID, an e-fit at least – that’s if she’s conscious.’ He shook his head, despairing at his own offhand language. Politics, power and position. It was always the same. When a case went national the game of ‘quick, quick, cover your arse’ began. ‘I’m doing my best, Roger. I’m doing my job.’

  ‘I know that. Hamilton knows that. And he is grateful to have you there . . . he said as much, but you have to appreciate that this situation with Townsend is a PR nightmare. If it gets out that he missed this charcoal residue link,’ Roger said, ‘all because he didn’t do a simple cross-check, Avon and Somerset are going to be in serious trouble.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Hamilton just get shot of him?’ Lockyer asked, feeling, of all things, disloyal. He had left Townsend back at the station licking his wounds. The poor guy looked broken.

  ‘I think that’s inevitable now,’ Roger said, ‘but not on this case. Not on something this high-profile. All I’m saying is, Hamilton is gunning for Townsend, with good cause. Just make sure you don’t inadvertently add yourself to his shit list.’

  ‘You know me,’ Lockyer said, feeling far less flippant than he sounded.

  ‘Yes, Mike. I do.’

  Lockyer had already ended the call before he thought to ask how things were back in Lewisham. He couldn’t wait to get back – to sleep in his own bed, deal with his own team and be allowed to take credit for his work, or at least fight his corner if the blame shifted his way.

  He stepped forward and looked at the circus going on around him. If he had to guess, he would say this was the most people ever to visit this part of Shervage Wood since the first tree sprouted root. The lane was packed with cars tucked up against the banks of snow covering the verge. He had counted eighteen, plus two CSI vans. He would be making the suggestion that the bulk of them got out of there before it started to get dark, otherwise he could foresee people getting stuck. The temperature was expected to drop well below freezing this evening and the section of road where Stephanie Lacey’s car had been found was on a steep incline.