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

by Clare Donoghue

  ‘Who’s going where?’ he asked, an edge to his voice. ‘Have you talked to armed response?’

  ‘I’ll speak to them before I leave,’ she said, ‘but I’ve told the guys that are going to keep it casual – to get a look at the vehicle and speak to the registered owner if it’s appropriate. I’ve said there’s to be no heroics if they think it’s our guy.’

  ‘So who’s going?’ he asked again. He sounded impatient, but that was nothing new, not when a case kicked up a gear like this one had. Not when lives were at risk.

  ‘Abbott and Chandler are headed to a farm over in Doddington; Pimbley and Crossley to a garage in Taunton, and I’m driving over to Holford to a house out there.’

  ‘With who?’

  ‘Well . . .’ she said, looking at her watch. It was only two o’clock, but the light was fading. ‘Townsend wanted me to wait for him to get back from the hospital, but I’m not going to. I was due to meet Barney later over in Doddington, because I wanted to check out that Jane Walford memorial you mentioned yesterday.’

  ‘What for?’ he asked. She could hear the beep of a heart monitor somewhere in the background. ‘CSI have already been over this morning and taken samples. I told you. The guy who told me about it was just some nutter with a chicken.’

  ‘Still,’ she said. ‘I spoke to Barney last night, and he said he’d be happy to show me where it was. I don’t want to assume something’s not relevant. We made that mistake before.’ Silence greeted her statement.

  ‘I’d prefer you waited for Townsend,’ he said. She could almost hear his jaw clenching. ‘You can take his 4x4 up there. Barney isn’t a police officer, Jane, and you seem to be forgetting that he knew more than one of the victims. I’m not happy about him being involved.’

  ‘It’s already arranged,’ she lied. If she was going to be in the middle of nowhere in the snow to have a look at a vehicle that could belong to a killer, then having Barney with her could only be a good thing – not least because of his size. She wouldn’t tell him, but Lockyer had a point, and under any other circumstances she would be wary of someone with Barney’s connection to a case; but if it came down to a choice between him and Townsend, she would pick Barney any day of the week. ‘What did you want to ask me?’ she said, hoping a change of subject would help.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘but I want you to keep in contact. OK?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Now what did you want to run past me?’

  There was a pause before he spoke. ‘Something has been bothering me.’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ she said, getting up and shrugging into her coat, her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder.

  ‘When I spoke to Hamilton yesterday, after my meeting-slash-bollocking from Atkinson . . . he knew about Andrea.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, taking her keys out of her handbag and dropping them into her coat pocket.

  ‘I mean, he knew about Andrea’s background, her pregnancies, that she drank – stuff like that.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, wrapping her scarf once and then twice around her neck. ‘You said Atkinson was keeping him in the loop.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but I never talked to Atkinson about Andrea Jenkins in detail. Not then, anyway.’

  ‘So how did Hamilton know?’ she asked, pausing in her search for her gloves.

  ‘Exactly,’ Lockyer said. ‘Hamilton must have got the information from someone else.’

  ‘But who?’ she asked, sitting down again as her mind worked. ‘The only people who had access to Andrea’s file were you, me and . . .’

  ‘Townsend,’ Lockyer said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  15th December – Tuesday

  Aaron lay back on the sofa and groaned. His whole body ached, although he suspected most of his discomfort was coming from his liver. He hadn’t had a hangover like this in years. He hadn’t been able to get out of bed at all yesterday. As if on cue, his stomach grumbled. Older guys at the station were always saying the older you got the longer the hangover would last. He remembered when a pizza and a pint of Coke would sort him out. Not this time. He couldn’t face eating.

  He rested his chin on Megan’s head. She was sleeping. Her hair smelled of shampoo. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend they were back in London – maybe in their own place. He was relaxing into the daydream when the cat dug its claws into his bare feet, as if determined to bring him back to reality.

  He felt in limbo between the past and the present. His chest ached every time he thought about Pip; that he would never see her again. Was he the only one who missed her? He felt like it. His parents had gone over to the Hendersons’ for Christmas drinks, and Claudette had ‘popped off’ to join them. They were all returning to normal. His aunt still looked pale and pinched, his father’s expression was fixed and his mother’s over-zealous demeanour was unnerving, but it was clear they were moving on. His mother most of all. The emotional door that had been opened by Pippa’s death was closing. She had morphed back into the vicar’s wife, her life filled with do-gooding and baking. He sighed.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Megan murmured.

  ‘They are closed,’ he said, kissing the top of her head.

  ‘Try and sleep.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  She pushed herself up on her elbow and looked at him. ‘Do you want me to get you something to eat? A drink, maybe . . . tea, coffee?’

  He smiled as she added his choices of beverage. Whisky was not a choice. Neither was vodka. It was fair to say she had gone off Cassie after their impromptu pub crawl. ‘What am I going to do when we get back to London?’

  She reached up and held his face, resting her thumb against his lips. ‘We’ll take it one day at a time.’

  ‘I meant, what am I going to do when I don’t have you to look after me?’ he said, stroking her hair.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said, resting her head back on his chest.

  He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her as tight as he dared. How could he be so happy and so sad at the same time? His life was full yet empty. He lifted his head at the sound of his phone, craning his neck to locate it. It was on the mantelpiece. ‘Sorry,’ he said, slipping out from under Megan’s arm. He stretched his back as he stood up, a dull ache settling in his spine. ‘Maybe I will have a cuppa,’ he said. She started to sit up. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I meant I would make it. Stay where you are.’ She sank back down and smiled at him. He picked up his phone. ‘Hey, Cass,’ he said, putting the phone to his ear.

  ‘Aaron, Aaron . . .’ The panic in his sister’s voice made his heart falter.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t find Casper,’ she said.

  ‘Christ, Cass,’ he said, his breath rushing out of him, ‘he’s a dog. He’ll come back.’ He shook his head. ‘Who walks someone else’s dog anyway?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be fucking doing it if Claudette hadn’t volunteered me for the job,’ she said. ‘I’m meant to be helping out, remember?’

  ‘You should have said no. She could have—’

  ‘Listen, Aaron, forget about the bloody dog,’ she said. ‘Look, this is gonna sound . . . stupid . . . hysterical, maybe. I don’t know, but . . . I think someone’s following me.’

  ‘What? Where are you?’ The air around him seemed to cool in an instant.

  ‘I’m about halfway up Hack Lane.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing up there?’ The news bulletin had been general and benign, but Cassie, more than anyone, should know it was anything but.

  ‘I chased the fucking dog up here.’

  ‘Jesus. I’m coming now,’ he said. ‘Get back to Castle Hill. Knock on a door, anyone’s door . . .’

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ she said.

  ‘Cass, what is going on?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I heard a car. I got scared . . . then Casper ran off. I think I can hear someone.’ Her voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘I can. Aaron, there’s
someone back there.’

  Aaron felt glued to the spot. He didn’t know what to do first – go to his sister, or call his boss. Megan was standing next to him now, her mouth open in an unspoken question. He needed to get to Cassie but he didn’t want to hang up on her. ‘Hold on,’ he said, ‘just talk to me, keep talking.’ He ran to the lounge door, almost taking it off its hinges as he flung it open. ‘Meg, where are the keys?’ He turned. She was gone. ‘I’m coming, Cass, I’m coming. Just keep walking.’

  ‘Aaron, I’m scared,’ she said, a hitch in her voice. This wasn’t the Cassie he knew. Cassie was the strong one. She was the one who looked after him; looked after Pip.

  ‘Can you see anyone?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Here,’ Megan said, appearing behind him. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘We’re getting in the car now, Cass,’ he said. ‘Meg, call your dad. Cass, we’re coming . . . we’ll be two minutes.’ She didn’t reply. ‘Cass, Cass, are you there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said.

  ‘Just keep moving,’ he said. ‘Keep walking, and keep talking to me.’ He ran over to Megan’s car, slipping on the snow and slush covering the road. He turned and pointed at the driver’s side. Megan ran behind him and opened the car. He climbed into the passenger seat as she landed with a thump on the driver’s side. ‘Christ, Megs, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, opening the door as she dragged herself up. Her trousers were covered in snow.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. Cass, you OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Just keeping talking, OK?’ he said. ‘Just keep talking.’ He watched as Megan turned the key, fumbling with her phone in her other hand. The car turned over but it didn’t start. ‘Oh my God, come on, Megs.’ She tried again and again. She was pumping the accelerator, her eyes wide.

  ‘It won’t start,’ she said. ‘The battery must be dead.’

  Aaron flung open the door and was out and running. ‘I’m coming, Cass,’ he said, trying to hold the phone to his ear as he ran, slipping and sliding as the ground seemed to move beneath him. She couldn’t be more than a mile away, but that was a mile too close to where he had lost Pippa. He could hear Megan shouting, running, trying to keep up, but he couldn’t stop. He was not going to stop until he saw his sister.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  15th December – Tuesday

  Lockyer stopped and looked at the floor plan for the Duchess wing of Musgrove Park Hospital. The place was more like a small town than a hospital. There was an exit and A&E to his left, and a Marks & Spencer’s to his right. He headed off in that direction, his shoes squeaking on the pastel-coloured linoleum. He looked at his watch. The sketch artist was stuck in traffic on the M5. He figured he had a good half an hour before he needed to be back at Stephanie Lacey’s room. And right now he needed caffeine, more for his brain than his body. He could deal with a headache by popping a handful of paracetamol, but this wasn’t your standard ailment. The pain wasn’t being caused by dehydration, or even stress. His brain was just at capacity, and letting him know further information and revelations would not be tolerated. How had a simple hit and run morphed into a behemoth of four cases in under a week? He had never worked a case that had transmogrified to this extent.

  Despite Townsend’s reluctance, Lockyer had always believed that Pippa Jones’s death was murder, though he could never have guessed the motivation – still couldn’t. When they had found the voicemail message confirming Pippa’s attacker had waited to either watch or check she was dead, Lockyer had been surprised, but not very. His years on the murder squad made the unusual usual, the unimaginable commonplace. Even the introduction of Dead Woman’s Ditch, legends, loopy locals, men walking chickens, drug-dealing exes and the unsolved murder of Chloe Evans hadn’t thrown him off his stride – not really. But never had he imagined he would now be dealing with the murders of three women, plus the attempted murder of a fourth, by an individual who had managed to operate under the radar for two years – if not more. The portrait specialist should do a sketch of Lockyer’s face so he could frame it for posterity, because for the first time in a long time he was not just surprised – he was shocked to shit.

  His phone rang loud in his pocket, its trilling reverberating off the sterile walls of the endless corridor. He looked at the screen as he took it out. ‘Hey, Megs,’ he said. ‘It’s not a good time, honey. I’m—’

  ‘Dad, I need you . . . Aaron needs you,’ she said before he could finish.

  He stopped walking and hung his head. ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘He’s . . . she’s. I couldn’t keep up . . .’

  ‘Megs, you’re breaking up . . . where are you?’

  ‘We were at home . . . at Aaron’s house,’ she said, the line crackling and popping in Lockyer’s ear. He cringed away from the static hiss. ‘Cassie . . . I mean, what she’s doing out I don’t . . . She saw the news the same as we did but . . . I don’t even know if it’s serious but . . . she sounded scared, Dad. She heard a car. Now she says there’s someone following her.’

  Lockyer turned on his heel and started running back along the corridor, heading for the exit. ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Outside the house. Aaron’s run off. She . . . his sister said she was on Hack Lane. I don’t know where that is . . .’

  He knew where Hack Lane was. It ran adjacent to the lane where Stephanie Lacey had been attacked, dragged into the woods and left for dead. ‘I’m on my way. How long ago did Cassie call?’

  ‘A few minutes,’ she said, ‘maybe more than that. I don’t know.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ he said, his mind racing.

  ‘Dad, what shall I do? What can I do?’

  Lockyer slowed to a stop. He couldn’t believe what he was about to say. ‘Megs, knock on doors,’ he said. ‘Get someone with a car and go.’

  ‘I don’t know where—’

  ‘They’ll know,’ he said. ‘If they’re local, they’ll know. Just find someone now . . . get in a car and go.’

  ‘OK, Dad,’ she said.

  He could already hear her pounding on a door. ‘Honey, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to call it in. Megan . . . Meg . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, coming back on the phone. He heard a door open, a voice asking what was wrong.

  ‘Megan, whatever happens you do not get out of the car, do you understand me? You get up there. You find Cassie and get her in the car. You do not get out of the car yourself. Understood?’

  ‘OK, Dad, OK,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go . . . there’s a man here. He’s going to help.’

  The line went dead in his ear. He could feel the father in him starting to panic. What had he just done? It was his job to keep her out of harm’s way, not direct her to it. He stared at his phone. Should he call her back, tell her to stay away? His car was bloody miles away in an overflow car park, no doubt getting papered with fines for not displaying a valid ticket. He needed to call the station for backup. He needed to tell Jane. He looked up just as Pimbley walked through the automatic double doors opposite him.

  ‘Sir,’ Pimbley said. ‘I was just coming to find you. Me and Crossley were just over at South West Forensics so I thought I’d give you an update before we—’

  ‘Tell me later,’ Lockyer said, running to meet him. ‘Where’s your car?

  ‘I just left it in the—’

  ‘Never mind,’ he said, grabbing Pimbley by the arm and spinning him around. ‘Let’s go. I’m driving.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Nether Stowey,’ Lockyer called over his shoulder as he ran towards the exit. When he got there he stopped and turned. ‘Where?’ he said, gesturing one way then the other.

  ‘I left it in staff parking over there,’ Pimbley said, pointing to the left.

  Staff parking. Why hadn’t Lockyer thought of that? He was off and running again, shouting for Pimbley to hurry up, when he spotted the squad car, a quizzical-looking
Crossley sitting in the passenger seat. Lockyer jumped over the low hedge surrounding the car park. ‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘Give me the keys – get in the back.’

  Pimbley threw the bundle of keys over the bonnet and climbed in behind PC Crossley. ‘What’s happened, sir?’ Crossley asked as Lockyer jammed himself into the driver’s seat. Pimbley was somewhat shorter than he was.

  He felt under his seat for the release lever, his chair flying backwards until his feet didn’t even reach the pedals. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, yanking himself back towards the wheel, putting the keys in ignition and starting the car all in one smooth motion. ‘Cassie Jones is in trouble.’ He rammed the car in gear, put his arm behind Crossley’s seat and reversed out of the space. He mounted the kerb behind them, but didn’t stop to see what damage he had done to either the kerb or the car. He pushed down on the clutch long enough to get the car into first gear and raced out of the car park, his wheels spinning as he rounded the corner. He leaned on the horn to stop some people who were about to cross in front of him. ‘Out of the way,’ he shouted. He yanked the steering wheel to the right, drove straight over the mini-roundabout and put his foot down. ‘Aaron’s on his way,’ he said, ‘but he’s on foot.’

  ‘It’ll take half an hour to—’ Pimbley began.

  ‘Just tell me the way,’ Lockyer said. ‘It won’t take me half an hour. I guarantee it.’

  Aaron pumped his arms, but he couldn’t run any faster. His muscles were screaming at him to stop. He kept bringing the phone to his ear every few strides. ‘Cass?’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m coming, Cass, I’m coming.’ He tried to keep to the centre of the road, but the snow was so deep it was hard to know where he was.

  ‘I can hear them,’ she said. ‘They’re on the other side of the hedge.’ Her voice was a strained whisper.

  Aaron swallowed as he was sick in his mouth. ‘Cassie, run,’ he said, coughing. ‘Don’t look back, just run. I’m coming. I’m coming.’ He clutched the phone in his hand, gritted his teeth and ran harder. His legs didn’t hurt any more. He couldn’t feel them any more. All he could hear was his sister’s voice. Then he heard Pippa. He heard her grunting and crying out in pain as her car burnt around her. He pushed himself faster still. He had lost one sister. He couldn’t lose another.