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

by Clare Donoghue

  ‘She’s mistaken,’ Townsend said again. ‘I left right after you.’

  ‘Why?’ Lockyer asked, moving his phone to his other ear and picking up his cup of coffee. It was a double espresso macchiato. He didn’t go in for the fancy stuff, but today he had decided to treat himself and see what all the fuss was about. The M&S cafe was packed. You could always rely on a hospital to keep trade brisk: death and taxes. The line crackled in his ear. ‘Bill, are you still there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ Townsend said, some of his words lost in the ether. ‘I’m meeting Jane over in Holford. I’m stuck in traffic on the motorway, but I should be there . . .’ The static ate his words.

  ‘Hello – hello,’ Lockyer said, looking at his screen to see if the call was still connected. ‘Bill, are you there?’

  ‘. . . spoke to . . . back at the office,’ Townsend said. ‘They filled me in on what had happened with Cassie Jones and with Stephanie Lacey. It’s . . . unfortunate.’

  ‘Unfortunate? That’s not really the word, Bill,’ Lockyer said. ‘Besides, if you left right after me, that’s . . .’ He pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch, almost tipping his coffee into his lap at the same time. ‘That’s almost two hours ago.’

  ‘I had to head home,’ Townsend said. ‘Family emergency. I’ve just got back now. I’ll be with Jane in twenty, thirty minutes with any luck, and then I’ll come straight in to the hospital. I’ve tried to get hold of her, but she’s not answering. The signal is terrible up there, so that might be why.’ The line fizzed and crackled again.

  ‘Atkinson isn’t happy,’ Lockyer said, unsure why he was giving the guy a heads-up.

  ‘I spoke to Terry before I called you,’ Townsend said, his voice clear as their connection settled. He must be near a mast. ‘I’ve explained the situation. Listen, Mike, the traffic’s moving, I’ve got to go.’

  The line went dead in Lockyer’s ear. He put his phone on the table and stared at it as he took a big gulp of his coffee and held it in his mouth. He could almost feel the caffeine charging his blood. He half tuned into the conversation on the table behind him. Things weren’t looking good for Uncle John, it seemed, made worse by the fact that Aunty Jacky was already hooking up with someone else. Lockyer smiled, gratified to know other people weren’t perfect either. He pulled on his bottom lip. A feeling was taking up residence in his gut; a squirming irritation that he knew, unless he discovered the cause, would only get worse. What was bothering him about his call with Townsend? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something didn’t add up.

  ‘Typical,’ Claudette said, stamping her feet. Her shoes were thin leather pumps. Her feet must be freezing. ‘There’s got to be half a dozen keys with some derivative of “Flat”, but none of them fit.’ Jane’s mind had yet to find suitable traction to speak to Claudette. The woman had talked non-stop down the driveway, over the cattle grid and over to the garage door below the flat. Jane would hear the jangle of keys, a pause and then a sigh as yet another key failed to do the trick.

  Jane’s eyes had, she would admit, been tracking up Barney’s generous bicep with interest when she had seen it. Her brain had taken half a second to process the image and attach it to its mate. The deep black ink, the wings spread wide in flight. Pippa Jones had the exact same tattoo on her ribcage. The same Pippa Jones who Barney said he had known as an acquaintance. The same Pippa Jones he had then admitted to taking on one date, but nothing more. The same Pippa Jones whose body was still lying waiting to be released for burial. One date? No way. No one got matching tattoos after one date. Why did he lie? The question was circling her mind like that same bird of prey. The natural follow-up question made Jane’s stomach flip with anxiety. What else had Barney lied about?

  ‘It’s none of these,’ Claudette said. ‘I’ll just run up and get the box. I should have brought it with me in the first place. Typical.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Jane said, her voice dull, her tongue leaden in her mouth.

  ‘Don’t be silly, I know where—’

  ‘I will go,’ she said. ‘You stay here. I won’t be long.’ She held Claudette’s gaze for a few seconds. ‘Stay down here, OK?’

  ‘All right,’ she said, her expression confused. ‘The box is in the kitchen.’ Jane turned and walked away, her thoughts jumbling like knotted yarn in her head. ‘Next to the microwave.’

  Jane didn’t look back. She crossed the cattle grid, words and images filling her mind. The tattoo drew the most focus, but there was more. He was big. Steph’s words were loud inside Jane’s head. Tall. Her blood seemed to have slowed down in her veins as if it had turned to treacle. Combat trousers . . . tucked in socks, army socks. How had Jane not seen it? It was as if Steph was describing Barney. She stopped; her feet unwilling to take her any further up the drive, any closer to the house.

  Steph was describing Barney.

  Lockyer dialled the Express Park CID number. It was answered on the second ring.

  ‘DS Abbott, Bridgwater CID.’

  ‘Abbott, it’s Lockyer,’ he said. ‘Have you heard from Sergeant Bennett at all?’

  ‘Not for a while, sir, no,’ he said.

  Lockyer showed his ID and walked through the double doors. The takeaway coffee he had brought back for Atkinson was heating the inside of his hand. He felt as if he was carrying molten lava and any moment it would break through the cardboard cup and deprive him of a couple of fingers. ‘Have you got an address for where she is?’

  ‘Yes, hang on . . .’ Abbott said. Lockyer heard a rustling of paper and a hushed question. He stopped at a nurses’ station and mimed a request for pen and paper. The nurse took a few sheets of paper out of the printer and passed them to him before handing over a pen.

  ‘Don’t walk off with it,’ he said.

  Lockyer nodded as he got Abbott to repeat the address and jotted it down. He handed back the pen and turned away, folding the paper and putting it in his jacket pocket. ‘How far is it from here . . . from the hospital?’

  ‘Twenty minutes, half an hour,’ Abbott said. ‘Depends on the roads, I guess . . . and how fast you’re going.’

  Lockyer found himself looking at the exit sign. ‘I’ve called her a couple of times. Is there reception up there?’

  ‘Doubt it, sir,’ Abbott said. ‘Most of Kilve and Holford way is a dead zone.’

  ‘Have we got a number for the property? A landline?’ More shuffling and the tapping of computer keys greeted his question. ‘So?’

  ‘The owner is Mr L. Rice,’ Abbott said. ‘There’s a number here, but it can’t be right, the area code is for Exeter. Hang on, let me do a search.’ Tap, tap, tap. Lockyer walked over to a bank of windows and leaned his elbows on a windowsill as he looked out. The roads were still pretty clear, given the heavy traffic around the hospital. He doubted the lanes around the Quantocks would be the same. ‘I can’t find one, sir. Looks to be ex-directory. Have you tried DI Townsend?’

  ‘I spoke to him not long ago. He’s stuck on the M5. I think I’m gonna head up there myself,’ Lockyer said, surprising himself. ‘Jane’s there on her own. Well, she’s with Barney, but still, I’m not happy about it. I reckon if I left now, I could beat Townsend there.’ The squirming doubt in his stomach had stepped up a gear.

  ‘Do you want me to go, sir?’ Abbott asked.

  ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ Lockyer said. ‘I want everyone working on the CCTV.’ He was about to hang up when a thought occurred to him. ‘Abbott?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Do me a favour, will you?’ Lockyer asked. ‘I’m trying to get a timeline sorted in my head. I think I left the hospital about two, after Aaron called. Can you check the CCTV at the front entrance of the Duchess wing and look out for me?’

  ‘Sure,’ Abbott said. Lockyer could hear the fast tapping of keys and the familiar swoosh and click of a mouse. ‘Shall I call you back?’

  ‘No, it’s OK. I’ll hang on.’ He waited in silence, the gentle tap, tap of the snow on the window accompanying Abbott
’s tap, tap on his computer.

  ‘Got it,’ Abbott said. ‘It’s time-stamped two ten, sir.’

  ‘Great, great,’ Lockyer said. ‘Now just move it on frame by frame, and talk me through who you see.’

  ‘OK. Am I looking for anyone in particular, sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  Lockyer listened as Abbott commentated the comings and goings of the Duchess wing entrance. ‘Two nurses, in,’ he said. ‘Three . . . no, four doctors and a . . . looks like a cleaner out. Oh no, the cleaner’s back. No one . . . no one,’ he said, sounding bored. ‘A nurse coming in . . . and a guy in a suit. He’s now talking to the nurse . . .’ Abbott paused. ‘It’s Townsend.’

  ‘What’s the time-stamp?’ Lockyer asked, feeling a lump forming in his throat.

  ‘Two twelve, sir.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘If DS Bennett calls in, tell her to call me.’ Lockyer hung up the phone before waiting for a response.

  Without thinking he started to increase his pace as he approached the exit, dropping Atkinson’s coffee in a bin as he passed. Townsend had talked to Janice. So why did he say he hadn’t – that she was mistaken? Either the guy had a severe case of short-term memory loss or he was lying. But why would he lie? Lockyer swallowed the lump in his throat. It solidified, getting heavier and heavier until it hit his churning stomach like a stone. Why would Townsend lie? There was a simple answer to that question, but it wasn’t good. In fact, it couldn’t be worse.

  Jane stood at the open door to the house and tried to steady her breathing. She should wait for Townsend. He had to be here soon, and if she waited, they could confront Barney together. She knew she should do that, but she also knew she wasn’t going to. Why? Because Barney had made a fool of her. She wanted to ask him straight out, and dare him to lie to her again. It wasn’t so long ago that she had got it wrong, and it had cost her on both a professional and personal level. She had promised herself then that she would never be taken in again – that she wouldn’t let a handsome face fool her. And yet, here she was: a fool and a failure. She stepped over the threshold. He wouldn’t try anything. Not with Claudette there.

  The hallway was quiet. ‘Barney?’ she said, her voice steady. When there was no response, she tried again. ‘Barney.’ His name seemed to bounce back at her from the flowery wallpaper around her. She willed herself to keep moving, to keep breathing. She passed a bedroom, a bathroom and on her left, the kitchen. ‘Barney, I need you to . . .’ Her words shrivelled to useless pips in her mouth. Just inside the entranceway to the kitchen were two large, sock-covered feet.

  Her instinct took over. She was through the door and on her knees next to him before she had a chance to think about what she was doing. He was lying motionless, the skin on his face pale and waxen. ‘Barney?’ She put her head to his chest. He was breathing. ‘Barney?’ She looked for the injury, the blow that could have felled a man of his size. Her knee felt damp. She looked down at the pool of blood soaking into her trousers. ‘Shit, Barney, no.’

  She was searching for something to stem the bleeding when her phone started to ring. Startled, she dropped it, unaware that it had been in her hand this whole time. She snatched it up. It was Lockyer. ‘Mike,’ she said. All she could hear was static. ‘Mike?’

  ‘. . . you there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said, standing, lifting the phone, staring at the screen as she looked for a signal. ‘Hang on.’ Leaping over Barney’s prostrate figure, she ran down the hallway and out onto the driveway. A bar appeared, then disappeared. The screen was empty. She had lost him. ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ she said, darting one way and then the other. She opened her mouth to shout to Claudette for help when her phone rang again. She stabbed at the green answer icon and crouched down, not wanting to move her phone an inch in case she lost him again. ‘Mike?’

  ‘Jane.’

  ‘Barney’s been attacked,’ she said. ‘You need to get an ambulance up here now.’ She listened but only heard static. She bobbed around, searching for a signal. ‘Are you there? Shit, Mike, are you there?’ The crackling stopped. ‘Mike?’

  ‘Jane, listen—’

  ‘Did you hear me before?’ she said. ‘Barney’s been attacked.’

  ‘I heard you,’ he said. She could hear the sound of an engine. He was in the car. ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m up at the main house – well, on the driveway. Barney’s out cold in the kitchen. He’s bleeding. Claudette’s down at the flat waiting for me. She was here when we got here.’ She put her hand to her cheek. Her skin felt hot to the touch. ‘I thought it was him, Mike. I thought it was Barney. I remembered Steph’s description, saw his boots . . . I put two and two together and came up with ten. I mean, he does have the tattoo, so why wouldn’t I think that, but . . .’ The line crackled. ‘Oh Christ, did you hear any of that? Are you there?’ She held her phone out like an unexploded bomb, shifting it one way and then the other. She dropped to her knees to keep the phone steady. Her hands were shaking, but the signal held.

  ‘Where’s Townsend?’ Lockyer asked, his words punctuated by the crunch of gears.

  ‘He’s not here yet,’ she said, craning her neck. She couldn’t see the flat crouched down like this. She would have to stand to be sure, but if she did she might lose Lockyer again.

  ‘He’s there,’ was all he said.

  ‘What? How do you know?’ She strained to hear voices. She heard none.

  ‘Trust me, he’s there, Jane,’ Lockyer said. ‘He must still be in the house. You’ve got to get out of there and take Claudette with you.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘It’s Townsend, Jane,’ he said, accentuating each word. ‘He’s been lying. He lied about where he was Sunday night – the night Steph was attacked. He lied about trying to get into the hospital – about not having ID.’

  ‘What ID? Mike, you’re not making any sense.’ Her brain felt sluggish, unable to catch up. ‘Why would Townsend lie?’

  ‘My guess would be that he has something to hide,’ Lockyer said, each of his words weighted – like darts hitting a dartboard, only she was the board. ‘Now get out of there.’

  ‘What about Barney?’ she asked, her brain serving up more questions than she could handle – than she could ask. ‘He’s still in the house. I can’t leave him. Do you think . . . I mean, is Townsend dangerous?’ The question felt stupid the second she said it aloud. If she understood Lockyer right, he was saying Townsend was the one who had attacked Barney.

  He was more than dangerous. He was a killer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  15th December – Tuesday

  Lockyer put his foot down as far as he dared. He couldn’t be more than a few minutes away. He could see the chequered flag on the satnav. His windscreen wipers were going full pelt trying to keep the flurries away.

  Of course Townsend was there. All that bullshit about being on the motorway, being stuck in traffic? That’s what had been bothering Lockyer about their conversation. The line had been terrible, static, breaking up – the same as it had been with Jane. Townsend hadn’t been on the motorway. He had been in Holford all the time. Had he already taken Barney out when Lockyer spoke to him on the phone? The second he ended his call with Jane, another part of the puzzle had slid into place assisted by the information he had gleaned from Peter and since verified. The name – Rice. It had landed in Lockyer’s head like an anvil, crushing any and all other thoughts. The house in Holford, the ‘Chawton’ white, 1999 Land Rover; they were both registered to Mr. L Rice. Rice was the maiden name of Anne. Anne was the woman John Walford had been in love with – the woman he wanted to marry. It was her name Stephanie Lacey’s attacker had been calling over and over – Annie. If Annie was the original Mrs, what was the betting Townsend was playing at being Mr Rice? Lockyer resisted the urge to shake his head for fear of taking his eyes off the road. And all this because of Walford – because of some long-dead piece of shit who killed his wife. Lockyer hated him. The guy
might have been dead for two hundred years, but Lockyer still hated him. If Walford was here right now, he would hang him all over again. He would have to make do with Townsend. He wasn’t going to hang him, but if he laid a finger on Jane, he was going to kill him.

  Jane felt frozen to the spot, Lockyer’s words still ringing in her ears. The snow had been replaced by a fine drizzle, soaking her hair and face. Not a sound disturbed the silence, which bothered her. She looked up at the house. There was no sign of Townsend. Unless he came out the front door there was no way he could see her. Was he waiting for her to go back in? To do to her what he had done to Barney? She shuddered just as she heard a car in the distance. Could that be Lockyer? She raised her eyes upward and prayed it was.

  The lone bar on her phone had disappeared. She took a deep breath and pushed herself up and into a crouch. She looked left and right, deciding which was her best option. She didn’t want to go back the way she had come, down the drive and over the cattle grid. If Townsend came out, he would see her straight away. She moved crab-like to her left until she could no longer see the house or the driveway. With her heart in her mouth she inched upward, craning her neck until she was standing. She let out a breath. She couldn’t see Claudette. She turned. She couldn’t see the house. ‘It’s OK,’ she said to herself. If she couldn’t see the house, then Townsend couldn’t see her. The snow silenced her footsteps as she followed the line of the hedge. There was a gateway leading to a field beyond. She broke into a run, only stopping when she reached it, her breath clouded in front of her. With a skill from childhood she put her left hand on the third rung down and her right on the top. She dropped her head to the ground, put her weight on her left arm, her elbow coming into her chest as she threw her legs up and vaulted over the gate. She landed on the other side with a soft thump.

  Again she followed the line of the hedge to another gate that led to the lane, the flat visible to her left. She stretched her neck, looking over the gate left and right. No one. She held up the latch and opened the gate just enough to squeeze through, flattening herself against it as it clanged shut. She was about to call out to Claudette when she stopped. Off to her left, out of her field of vision, she could hear voices; a woman’s and then, without question, a man’s voice, low and rumbling. ‘Shit,’ she whispered to herself. How did he get down here without her seeing him? She remembered going into the house, calling Barney’s name. There had to be a back door. He must have legged it when he heard her come calling. The voices were moving in her direction. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Townsend appeared to be doing most of the talking. She took a deep breath.