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

by Clare Donoghue

‘Boots . . . army ones, with laces.’ Jane jotted down every word Steph said. ‘Combat trousers . . . tucked-in socks, army socks.’

  ‘What about his face, Steph? Can you remember anything about his face?’

  She rocked her head from side to side again. ‘I never saw his face,’ she said as another tear washed down her battered face. She reached up with bruised fingers and touched the side of her head, where a thick bandage was hiding what Jane knew was a fractured eye socket and a broken jaw.

  Jane rested a hand on hers. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘You rest, I’ll come back. We’ll talk again.’ Steph managed to shrug, tears now running down her face, soaking into her bandages. ‘We will find him,’ Jane said as she retreated to the door. She reached out for the handle as she remembered her pad was still on the bed. She crept back and picked it up. Steph’s breathing had already deepened. Jane tiptoed back and opened the door without a sound.

  ‘He didn’t want me.’

  Jane turned. ‘What do you mean? Who did he want, Steph?’

  Steph was shaking her head. ‘It wasn’t me he wanted,’ she said. ‘He kept calling her name, Annie, Annie. He said it over and over. It was her he wanted . . . but she wasn’t there.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I took her place.’

  When they reached the main group of CSIs, Lockyer noticed Abbott was standing with them.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, giving Lockyer a nod.

  ‘Abbott,’ he said. ‘This is—’

  ‘I know Ben,’ Basil said. ‘Known him since he was a boy. His father and I were golf buddies.’

  ‘All right, Basil,’ Abbott said. ‘You keeping well?’

  ‘Can’t complain, Ben,’ Basil said, ‘can’t complain. How’s that gorgeous mother of yours?’

  ‘She’s well, thanks.’

  ‘Still single?’ Abbott nodded. ‘It’s a crying shame,’ Basil said. ‘Your father would have wanted her to move on . . . to find someone to have fun with.’

  ‘I think she’s tried,’ Abbott said, ‘just hasn’t found anyone she likes.’

  ‘You tell her if I wasn’t married, I’d be beating a path to her door.’

  ‘Will do,’ Abbott said.

  Lockyer stood by and observed this intimate display. The CSI team didn’t appear to have noticed, let alone tuned in, but he was all ears. It was fascinating what you could learn about people in a two-minute conversation. The insight into Abbott’s life was interesting. He wondered if the surface aggression Lockyer had witnessed came from losing his father after some protracted illness. And he wondered if he was an only child, and if so, whether he now felt responsible for his mother’s happiness?

  Lockyer cringed as he felt the pull of his daughter’s influence. He would be glad when her psychology course finished and she stopped filling his head with psychobabble, but for now Lockyer couldn’t help himself. He was looking at Abbott through different eyes – more sympathetic eyes. It was annoying. Although he could hear Jane’s words in his head: There is always a deeper reason behind someone’s behaviour: hurt people hurt others.

  His phone beeped in his pocket. He took it out. It was a message from Jane.

  Dr said Lacey will be in for couple of weeks. Extensive injuries, life changing not life threatening. Re lifestyle – she has UTI and STD. Spoke to her. No ID on attacker. Some details. Not enough for e-fit. Heading back to station now.

  He frowned as he read the next line of her text.

  Attacker was calling out another woman’s name: Annie.

  The name rang a bell, but he couldn’t think why.

  ‘This looks pretty good,’ Basil said. Lockyer sniffed, pocketed his phone and turned to look where he was pointing. ‘That looks like a good print to me.’ One of the CSI officers was pouring a mixture that looked like Yorkshire pudding mix into the depression in the mud. ‘You’re a big guy,’ Basil said. ‘What size feet are you?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  Basil looked down at his feet, and then over to where the CSI team were working. ‘That’s bigger,’ he said. ‘Thirteen, fourteen maybe.’ A line from a film flashed into Lockyer’s mind: You know what they say about men with big feet? Big feet . . . large shoes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  15th December – Tuesday

  Jane took another bite of her smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel despite the fact that she couldn’t taste anything. Her throat was on fire and her nose had transformed into a dripping tap. It was no wonder, given her excursions over the weekend. The most unfortunate part was that she had given it to Peter. He had spent the night in her bed, kicking her in the stomach on the hour every hour. She had given up and got up at five thirty, only to be prodded awake by Lockyer offering her a cup of coffee twenty minutes later. She had collapsed on the sofa, which had resulted in a crick in her neck. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand as she yawned, her mouth wide. The snow outside was heavy. It had eased off overnight but started again in earnest this morning. The drive down from Clevedon had been slow, made slower by Lockyer’s mood. She knew, given what had happened, that he must be thinking about the Stevens case. The ripples of Lewisham’s first and, with any luck, last serial killer were still being felt in Lewisham murder squad – by Lockyer more than anyone.

  She looked around the office, listening to the hum of conversation, telephone calls and the tap-tapping of numerous fingers on computer keyboards. In contrast to Lockyer, the discovery of a serial offender on their patch had brought the CID team alive. Their apathetic, unhelpful faces had been transformed by flushed cheeks and clear, focused eyes. Amalgamating three, no, four cases was no easy task. Extra officers had been drafted in from the response teams to help. There was an almost tangible buzz around her. No one wanted to deal with violent crime, but she couldn’t help admiring Townsend’s team for their gear-change. This was new to them – something so out of their field of expertise that a few nerves would be forgiven, if not expected. But as far as Jane could tell they were raring to go, determined to catch the newly dubbed ‘Hill Killer’, or HK for short. She was impressed with them, at least.

  As for Townsend? He was a different matter. Her phone beeped on the desk. She glanced at the screen. It was a message from Lockyer:

  Arrived at hospital. Townsend said he’ll meet me here. I’ll believe that when I see it. Will call in a bit.

  She tapped the reply icon.

  ‘DS Bennett?’

  She paused and looked up as Pimbley came to a stop next to her desk. He appeared to be coveting her lunch. ‘You’re welcome to it,’ she said, ‘but I should warn you I’ve got a stinking cold.’ Her t’s were still coming out as d’s. She saw him wrestle with his hunger and good sense. ‘I really wouldn’t, Pimbley.’

  His eyes lingered for a second before snapping up to meet hers. ‘I’m through about half of the DVLA reports,’ he said, taking a step back. ‘Believe it or not, I’ve found five “Chawton White” Land Rovers in Devon and Somerset so far. Figured you’d want to check them and seize or rule them out before we carried on with the rest of the list.’

  Jane could tell by his expression that his desire to get the vehicles checked was more for his own benefit than hers. She had done some shitty jobs in her time, and checking through page after page of DVLA records with their tiny print had to be right up there with watching paint dry. She gestured for him to go on.

  ‘We’ve got three here, and two over the border. I’ve forwarded the details of the Devon ones to the relevant stations and asked them to liaise with you.’

  Jane pursed her lips. ‘Great, well done,’ she said, sensing again that there was subtext to Pimbley’s statement – referring work to her was easier than dealing with the whole Townsend/Lockyer/who was in charge debacle. ‘I can’t believe there are so many,’ she said. ‘Who’d buy a white car down this way? They show up all the dirt.’

  Pimbley’s lips flattened as he shrugged. ‘People who don’t care, I s’pect.’

  ‘You said there were three here,’ she said, taking the fo
lder he was offering her. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘All the details are in there,’ he said, gesturing to the folder. ‘There’s one registered to a guy out in Holford. Another in Doddington, and the other one’s at a garage in Taunton.’ He looked down at the piece of A4 paper he was holding. ‘The Devon ones are in Exeter – both residential – forty-odd minutes away.’

  ‘Taunton, Doddington and Exeter I know,’ she said, opening the folder. ‘Where’s Holford?’

  ‘It’s past Stowey out on the A39.’ His hand entered her field of vision as he pointed to and then slid out a sales prospectus. ‘I found this online. The house is called Hunter’s Moon.’ He looked sheepish.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, stifling another yawn. ‘Never apologize for being proactive . . . unless you’re doing something expensive. Then wait to find out if it’s been beneficial before you own up to your boss.’ She looked at a clutch of black and white photographs, a detailed plan of the property and a map. There were two buildings: a single-storey four-bedroom house that looked like sixties architecture, surrounded by a mature garden, and a one-bedroom flat at the bottom of a steep driveway. The flat was an uninspiring white box, a shuttered garage underneath. Both properties sat in just under an acre of land. Her pulse quickened as she spotted the cattle grid at the end of the driveway separating the two buildings. What was it with this place and cattle grids? She would never be able to drive over one again without thinking about Somerset, without thinking about this case. ‘Have we got a name?’

  ‘Mr L. Rice,’ Pimbley said. ‘Don’t have a first name.’

  She swallowed, feeling like each ring of cartilage in her throat had been replaced with razor blades. ‘And who are the others?’ She could almost feel her temperature rising.

  ‘The Taunton one is for sale at a local garage,’ he said.

  ‘Could be interesting,’ she said, thinking that if she had run someone off the road she would get rid of the car she did it with.

  ‘The Doddington one’s at Pepperhill Farm. A Robert Goodland,’ Pimbley said, walking behind her, leaning over her shoulder and pointing to the corresponding batch of papers. ‘Managed to get an old sales brochure for this one too – mind, it’s pretty old.’

  She looked at the cover image showing a quintessential English red-brick farmhouse with three chimneys and a slate-tiled roof at the bottom of a winding, rutted lane. No wonder they needed a 4x4. She flicked to the map at the back and stopped. At least a third of the land backed onto or was at least within a stone’s throw of Shervage Wood. ‘This one’s Goodland, you said?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Pimbley said, pulling out a chair, sitting down and rolling himself over until he was almost in her lap.

  ‘It might be an idea to do a—’

  ‘Priors check?’ he asked, looking pleased with himself.

  She snorted a laugh. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You are keen.’ He straightened and puffed out his chest. ‘And?’

  ‘None,’ he said. ‘Not for any of them.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, with a tinge of disappointment and a dose of get serious. Did she really think it was going to be that easy? Find a white Land Rover, link it to an owner with a record as long as your arm, and wham, suspect found; job done. She had a reputation in Lewisham for being Ms Positive when it came to cases, but thinking they would find their guy and have this over within a day was pushing it even for her.

  ‘I don’t get the feeling he’d be local. Not local local, anyway,’ Pimbley said. ‘People’d know him, for one; and not only that, he’d have to be pretty dumb to be doing what he’s doing if he lived here.’

  ‘Meaning?’ she asked, tapping away at her computer as she pulled up a map of the Quantocks and looked at the proximity of the two Land Rovers to each other, to Shervage Wood and the four crime scenes.

  ‘If you were going round killing people, would you do it on your doorstep with a vehicle registered in your name where you live? Talk about shitting where you eat.’

  Jane’s mind boggled at Pimbley’s mix of expressions, but he had a point. ‘I’ll need to get teams out to . . .’

  ‘I thought me and Crossley could check out the Taunton one,’ he said before she could finish her sentence. ‘I’m due to head over there anyway, to get another update from South West Forensics for DI Lockyer and drop off and pick up some more samples. They’re doing the DNA prep work on the stuff they scraped out from under Lacey’s fingernails, so we can get it run through the database.’ He sniffed. ‘They’ve got some good business out of Avon and Somerset this past week.’

  ‘That they have,’ she said, opening an action log on the computer. ‘Fine. You and PC Crossley head into Taunton.’ She looked up at Pimbley’s keen expression. His left leg was jiggling with, she guessed, a combination of excitement and adrenalin. ‘You’re to locate the vehicle and, if appropriate, speak to the registered owner . . . but bear in mind the kind of guy we’re looking for here. If you get a feeling you’re on the right track, call it in immediately and wait for backup before seizing the vehicle or even contemplating an arrest.’ She could see he wasn’t listening. ‘Pimbley, I’m serious. Armed response is on standby as and when we find this guy. In the meantime, you keep your distance and keep it casual. The last thing we want is to spook this guy into running, or worse, having an officer in the firing line if he panics. OK? Atkinson would have a fit.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ he said with an enthusiastic nod. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Abbott,’ she called across the office. He looked up. ‘Can I borrow you for a second? You too, Nicola.’ Both pushed back their chairs and crossed the office to Jane’s desk. Where Abbott was tall, dark and lanky, Nicola Chandler was short, grey and sturdy. They made an odd pair, but together Jane figured they portrayed just the right balance of subtlety and strength. What Abbott lacked in girth he made up for in height and shoulder width, and Chandler might be small, but she had the physique of a rugby prop. Jane wouldn’t mess with either of them. But then, she hadn’t killed three women and tried to kill a fourth. She felt a seed of doubt start to germinate. Should she speak to Lockyer before she sent them out? She paused for a second, then shook her head. The likelihood that any of the Land Rovers were the Land Rover was slim to none. Like Pimbley had said, the guy they were looking for would have to be crazy or stupid to shit so close to home. ‘We’ve got a vehicle over in Doddington I need you two to check out. DC Pimbley and PC Crossley are headed into Taunton, and I’ll head over to . . .’ She looked at Pimbley.

  ‘Holford,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll head to Holford with . . .’

  ‘Me,’ a voice said behind her.

  She turned. ‘DI Townsend,’ she said. ‘I thought you were going to the hospital?’

  ‘On my way now,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘but I shouldn’t be gone long. If you can hold the fort here, I’ll be as quick as I can and we’ll head over to Holford in my car. We’ll need a four-wheel drive in this weather.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she said, feeling thwarted. Despite what she had said to Pimbley, she couldn’t deny she was keen to get out there – to be doing something. The quicker they could act on the new information, while it was still fresh, the better chance they had of catching the guy unawares. A public announcement had gone out on last night’s evening news warning motorists, hikers, walkers and the like to be extra vigilant in and around the Quantocks due to the recent hit and run incident, but there was no mention of historical cases or murder. The brief had been to keep it general in terms of facts. There was nothing to tip the girls’ attacker off that they had made a breakthrough and were, at this very minute, hunting him down.

  ‘I’ll buzz you when I’m leaving Musgrove,’ Townsend said.

  He was gone before she could agree or disagree. She had intended to update him on their progress, but it was clear he had more urgent business to attend to. The business of being seen doing his job, no doubt. She blew out a breath as she updated the action logs of who was going where. Abbott, Chandl
er and Pimbley had made themselves scarce and looked to be getting their stuff together to head out. She tipped her head on one side, trying to stretch out the crick in her neck that was making her head thump. Did Townsend really think he was going to keep his job after his latest cock-up? Was he really that deluded? Her phone skittered across the desk as it started to ring. It was Lockyer.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Townsend’s on his way to you now.’

  ‘Great,’ he said, without sincerity. ‘I just wanted to run something by you.’

  ‘OK. How’s Steph doing?’ she asked, plugging in her hands-free. She wanted to text her mother to find out how Peter was doing. If she felt this shit, he would be worse. She was dreading tonight already.

  ‘I spoke to her briefly,’ Lockyer said. ‘She’s definitely starting to remember more, so I’ve managed to arrange for a sketch artist to come over and help her with an image. Should be here within the hour. Even if it’s rough it’ll be better than nothing.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘Fingers crossed.’

  ‘Any news on the DNA from under her fingernails?’

  She shook her head despite the fact that he couldn’t see her. ‘Pimbley is heading over there in a bit,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask him to ask, but to be fair, they’ve had the samples for all of five minutes. We’ll have to be patient.’

  ‘Not my favourite word,’ he said. ‘I’ll try Linda in a bit and see if I can’t get things moving.’

  She snorted. ‘Of course.’ It hadn’t escaped her notice that he appeared somewhat enamoured with the sultry-voiced scientist. Jane’s voice was low and husky as a result of her cold and red-raw throat, but she didn’t sound sexy. She just sounded full of phlegm. ‘I’m heading out in a second.’

  ‘Where to?’

  She looked out and across the road at the snow covering the car park of the NHS depot. The lorries coming in and out were leaving giant slalom skids. There was no way she was waiting for Townsend to resurface. The sooner she was out, the sooner she would be back. ‘Pimbley’s come up with some names and addresses from the DVLA data. There are three vehicles matching the description in the local area. Two this side of the hills, and one down in Taunton.’