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

by Clare Donoghue

  She knew she had to go in hard and fast if she was going to take Townsend out. Surprise was her only leverage. She felt the weight of the stone in her hand. When had she picked that up? She closed her eyes for a second and took a series of quick breaths, adrenalin driving her forward. ‘It’s now or never.’

  ‘Turn right,’ the satnav said. ‘Turn right soon.’

  ‘There is no fucking right,’ Lockyer shouted at the same time as he saw a postbox and the beginning of a lane. He slammed on his brakes, pulled the wheel to the right and skidded into the hedge. There was a thud as his bumper made contact, followed by another thump as a drift of snow dislodged from the top of the hedge and landed on his bonnet. He rammed his car into reverse and started to back the car up, resisting the urge to floor the accelerator, which would just cause his tyres to lose purchase and skid. His lights were on auto, so sprang to life in the descending gloom. He could see several pairs of tiny red eyes staring out at him from the hedgerow. The animals scattered when he revved the engine. He waited until the nose of his car was level with the right turning, then put the car into first and started up the lane, building momentum as he went. The speedometer crept upward as the snow-covered hedgerows slipped by faster and faster.

  ‘Your destination is ahead,’ the robotic woman said in a drawling Australian accent. It had never bothered him until now. The incline increased, forcing him to accelerate to maintain his speed, which was now up to forty-five miles an hour. He would worry about how he was going to stop when the time came. ‘You have reached your destination,’ she said. ‘Windows up, grab those sunnies and don’t let the seagulls steal yer chips.’ He wrenched the satnav off the windscreen and threw it over his shoulder into the back seat.

  Up ahead and to his left he could see a squat red-brick bungalow. It was a much higher elevation than the lane he was on, and as he crested a rise in the road he saw the flat up ahead and on his right. Barney’s 4x4 was in a pull-up just beyond the flat. Lockyer was still looking at the truck when he saw two people appear from around the side of the building. The snow was heavy, obscuring his view even with the wipers at full pelt. He narrowed his eyes. The two figures seemed bound together, slipping and sliding into the middle of the road. It had to be Townsend, but who was with him? Who was he wrestling with? Was it Claudette, or – Lockyer’s stomach flipped – was it Jane?

  He realized too late what was going to happen. He had nowhere to go. The lane was narrow, a car’s width. He could veer to one side, but his car would keep going, and neither of the struggling figures seemed to have registered his presence. He began pumping the brakes, gentle taps to take his speed down without the wheels locking, and he leaned on the horn. The effect was immediate. The two figures turned their heads in his direction, their eyes wide. He couldn’t tell who was who. They separated, each jumping away from the oncoming car, but it was too late. Lockyer yanked the wheel to the right, forcing his car into the hedgerow. There was a shrieking sound as the brambles tore along the side of the car, but as he had guessed, his efforts were in vain. The front end of the car made contact with one of the fleeing figures at almost the same time as the back end took out the other. The corresponding thuds and screams made Lockyer’s throat close as both went flying over the snow-covered tarmac like skittles after a strike.

  The figure on his left was thrown clear, but the one on his right came down in slow motion and, with a sickening noise, disappeared under the car. Lockyer bounced in his seat at the impact. A voice inside his head was screaming, Don’t let it be Jane, over and over. Please don’t let it be Jane.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  18th December – Friday

  ‘How is she?’ Atkinson asked, pushing back from his desk and leaning back in his chair. The strain of the past three days seemed etched on the superintendent’s face.

  ‘She’s doing well,’ Lockyer said. ‘She’ll be out before Christmas. She’ll make a full recovery . . . thank God.’ No one was more grateful than him. His car had been doing well over forty miles an hour when it had ploughed into Claudette Barker, but other than a few broken bones and concussion, she was recovering well.

  ‘And we’ve got her statement?’ Atkinson asked, the thudding of the rain on the atrium roof punctuating his words.

  Lockyer nodded. ‘Yes. Jane went in to see her this morning. Claudette confirmed Townsend arrived on foot. At least, she never heard or saw a vehicle.’ Townsend’s car had been found on a lane north of the property, his footprints hugging the boundary as he crossed a frozen field to get to the back of the main house. The shortcut would have bought him precious extra time. His keys to the house and flat had also been found close to his body. ‘Claudette said she was standing in front of the garage, her back turned, when Townsend arrived. Apparently he was stumbling and almost incoherent and then, without provocation, he grabbed her and put his hands around her throat. He was calling her Annie, sir.’

  Atkinson sucked in his cheeks as he shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter how many times I hear it, I still can’t believe it. I mean, Christ, I had the guy down as incompetent . . . not crazy.’

  ‘You’re not alone there,’ Lockyer said. ‘If you’d have told me two weeks ago that the Jones case would go from a simple hit and run to a triple murder bound up in legend and superstitions, I wouldn’t have believed you. If you’d said Townsend would end up in the frame, I would have laughed in your face . . . sir.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, I also got a contact number for the tenant – Barbara Downs. She and her partner aren’t due back from the States until after the New Year, according to Claudette, but I’ve left a message for them to contact me ASAP.’ Lockyer felt as if he had been relegated to admin, which, in a way, he had.

  There was a knock at the door as it opened. ‘Room for one more, Terry?’ Hamilton asked, coming into the room, shutting the door and pulling a chair up next to Lockyer. ‘I thought I’d check in before the press conference later today.’

  ‘I really appreciate you doing this, Les,’ Atkinson said.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Hamilton said, although Lockyer knew the DCC had, at first, flat-out refused to hold the press conference. According to office whispers he was none too happy about having his name associated with the Townsend debacle. Who could blame him? However, word had come down from above in the form of the Assistant Commissioner and representatives from the IPCC – the Independent Police Complaints Commission – that the public needed to be reassured, and Hamilton, in his full dress uniform as he was now, was the man for the job. Lockyer didn’t envy him the dubious honour, but he didn’t feel much sympathy for the guy either. ‘Avon and Somerset is a team, Terry. We stand together, we fall together.’ Hamilton folded his thick arms over his chest.

  ‘DI Lockyer was just filling me in on Claudette’s statement. DS Bennett was over at Musgrove earlier, establishing the events leading up to the accident,’ Atkinson said.

  ‘Yes, I spoke to her on the phone this morning,’ Hamilton said, turning to look at Lockyer. ‘I suppose I should thank you, detective.’

  ‘Thank me, sir?’ That would be a first.

  ‘If you hadn’t turned up and flattened my ex-wife and Townsend, then Claudette could be the one in the morgue right now instead of him,’ Hamilton said with a sardonic smile. ‘As much as I would love to hear Townsend try and talk his way out of this one – rather him than her, I say.’

  ‘Of course, Les,’ Atkinson said.

  ‘Has your team got anything more from the property?’ Hamilton asked, looking at his watch. The press conference wasn’t due to start for another hour, but Lockyer figured he must be apprehensive. As DCC it would be Hamilton’s job to confirm Detective Inspector William Townsend’s involvement in the murder of three women and the attempted murder of another. Either that, or he didn’t want to look Lockyer in the face.

  ‘I’ve had confirmation this morning that the Land Rover recovered was the vehicle used in both Pippa Jones’s and Chloe Evans’s murders, as well as the attack on St
ephanie Lacey out at Shervage Wood,’ Lockyer said. ‘The car Townsend left to the north of the property has also gone off to be forensically examined.’ He had spoken to Linda at South West Forensics this morning. She had bent over backwards to expedite the results so far. He owed her more than a drink now, for sure. ‘We’re still trying to trace the purchase of Hunter’s Moon back to Townsend. Along with the false name, the money goes back through a maze of third parties, so it’ll take time. As for the flat itself – the place was like a library. To be honest, sir, it’s been kinda hard to manage this whole thing off-site.’ He knew he should keep his mouth shut, but his patience was running thin.

  ‘I’m sure, detective,’ Hamilton said, still not looking at him, ‘but as I think I made clear before, I had no choice but to agree to a full investigation of the incident, and you being on scene would only serve to further muddy the water. A senior officer died and a civilian was injured . . .’

  ‘And a killer was stopped,’ Lockyer said, feeling his neck beginning to heat. He balled his hands into fists to keep his anger in check.

  ‘No one is disputing that, Mike,’ Atkinson said, his face the picture of sincerity. ‘As Les said, you probably saved Claudette Barker’s life, not to mention Barney’s . . . and Jane’s.’ Even the thought made Lockyer’s stomach turn. ‘But with the IPCC getting involved, we need to keep you out of . . . out of harm’s way.’

  ‘To be quite frank,’ Hamilton said, ‘the sooner you are back in London, the better – for you and us.’ He sniffed. ‘I myself have been on site as often as my schedule will allow, to ensure the team have all they need to expedite the evidence recovery process.’ It hadn’t escaped Lockyer’s notice that his team had morphed into the team. ‘Obviously the urgency with which we’ll need to examine the documents is no longer there, not with Townsend in the morgue; however, all that can be handled in-house. Your help has been invaluable, but . . .’

  ‘I’m surplus to requirements?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Hamilton said. ‘Your assistance has been, as I said . . . invaluable. And believe me, I do understand your frustration, DI Lockyer, but I assure you, keeping you clear of this mess is by far the best course of action for your career and this case.’

  Lockyer stayed silent. He knew the guy was right. If he had been given the choice, he would have removed himself from the on-scene team to prevent issues with cross-contamination of the accident site – but that was just it. He hadn’t been given a choice. He had been told what to do. And for as long as he could remember, Lockyer had never relished being told what to do.

  ‘Anything else Les needs to know, Mike, before we send him off to face the wolves?’ Atkinson said, in a vain attempt at levity.

  Lockyer took a deep breath and relaxed his hands. ‘As I said, the flat was more like a library than anything else,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Detective Bennett and the team are cataloguing a raft of documentation, books and photographs – all relating to the murder of Jane Walford and John Walford’s subsequent hanging. From the genealogy documents recovered so far, it appears Townsend was – or believed himself to be – a direct descendant of John Walford.’

  ‘Quite a claim to fame,’ Hamilton said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘There are numerous files relating to land titles, applications and so on,’ Lockyer said as his pulse returned to normal. ‘Townsend had spent years trying to break a heritage clause on the land in and around Shervage Wood in order to buy it, so—’

  ‘Back,’ Hamilton said.

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘Back,’ Hamilton said again. ‘He was trying to buy the land back. I assume the land was originally owned by the Walford family . . . way back when, so I can only assume Townsend was trying to reclaim his . . . what would you say, birthright?’

  Lockyer nodded. ‘I guess, sir, yes. I hadn’t thought of it like that, but it would make sense. Townsend used the name Mr L. Rice on the Land Rover registration, as well as his many applications.’

  ‘That’s the bit I don’t get,’ Atkinson said, getting up from behind his desk and beginning to pace back and forth. ‘Walford’s children were bastards – the first two, at least – so why would Townsend want to associate, or re-associate, himself with that?’

  ‘I’m not sure you’re going to find a logical explanation for this, sir,’ Lockyer said, picking at a thread on his trousers that had come loose.

  ‘It seems to me,’ Hamilton said with a sniff, ‘that as illogical as it sounds, Bill was trying to right what he perceived to be a wrong against his family. There are those in Nether Stowey who believe John Walford was wrongly hanged, that the facts of the case were twisted – that his wife . . . Jane . . . was the one who had trapped him with her second, or was it third pregnancy? She was, by all accounts . . . correction, by some accounts, a very difficult woman, and there are those who think she drove Walford to kill her; that she emasculated him and mocked him for his infatuation with the other one – Anne Rice. From what I’ve read, John Walford’s family were hounded out of the community after he was hanged. Their lands were burnt, and then taken away from them. They were punished for what Walford had done, and I suppose if you look at the land as a legacy, then in a way, Bill was punished too. The stigma must have followed his family for generations.’ Hamilton looked at Lockyer. ‘I did my homework, detective,’ he said, his inference clear. ‘It seems to me this might have been resolved somewhat earlier if other people had done theirs.’

  Lockyer bit the inside of his lip. Had he really thought Hamilton was just going to let his oversight pass? He had been summoned from London to give Townsend and the case the benefit of his experience – make sure no stone was left unturned. And what had he done? He had swanned in and neglected to look under the first sodding stone. ‘I take full responsibility for—’

  Hamilton held up his hand. ‘Relax, DI Lockyer,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a witch-hunt. As I said to Terry, we stand together at Avon and Somerset. Errors have been made at all levels,’ he said. ‘But with Townsend on the slab, this is all a moot point. The whys and the wherefores are irrelevant. No point wasting any more of the team’s valuable time on the man, or his . . . library.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Lockyer said, wishing it was that simple. With Townsend dead, there was no case to build for the CPS – no prosecution – but given Townsend’s rank and years on the force, the IPCC were opening their own inquiry. It would be the team’s job to prepare the evidence for them, and he somehow doubted the IPCC folk would be impressed with a dozen boxes just marked ‘stuff’. He ran his fingers up the back of his neck and over his head. But then, that wasn’t his problem any more, was it? As Hamilton said, Lockyer was better off out of it, and right now that suited him fine. London, Lewisham and his own bed were calling.

  ‘Well, I’d better be getting on,’ Hamilton said, pushing back his chair and standing up. ‘Good work, gentlemen. I’ll leave you to wrap things up while I go and give these press boys and girls something to write about, eh?’ He raised his eyebrows and left the room with a flourish.

  ‘You get used to him,’ Atkinson said, the colour returning to his cheeks.

  ‘I’m kinda glad I don’t have to,’ Lockyer said.

  ‘I just think it’s odd, that’s all,’ Jane said, dragging her hands down her face, remembering too late that she had put mascara on this morning. ‘Panda?’ she said, looking at Lockyer.

  ‘You’re fine,’ he said, turning his Costa Coffee takeaway cup in his hands.

  ‘Walford killed Jane,’ she said. ‘He loved Anne.’

  ‘So?’

  She could see he wasn’t interested. He had spent more time looking at his watch in the past hour than anything else. He was heading back to London tonight, due to a development in the Bashir case. Jane knew that was bollocks, but Lockyer had refused to say any more. It seemed he could keep his mouth shut when it suited him.

  She pushed a finger into her temple. He was leaving. She was staying. That was the long and short of it. The powers t
hat be had decided Jane should stay behind, for the time being, to ensure a smooth transition when a replacement DI was found and to oversee the case handover to the IPCC. If they hadn’t been in a team briefing when Lockyer had dropped his mini-bombshell, she would have thrown something at him. She was just as keen to get back to London as he was. Well, maybe not as keen. She wasn’t sure that was possible, but she had a life and cases to get back to. However, as the consummate professional, she would suck it up and get her revenge later. ‘So,’ she said, waiting for him to look up. ‘Townsend called Steph and Claudette “Annie” when he was attacking them, yes?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said in mock deference.

  ‘Well, wouldn’t it make more sense for him to call them Jane?’ she asked.

  Lockyer’s eyes moved from side to side, then up and down before coming to rest on hers again as he processed what she had said.

  ‘From what we know, Townsend saw himself as some kind of avenger, carrying on Walford’s legacy, or whatever,’ Jane said, uncomfortable with how ridiculous it sounded. ‘So if that’s the case, why wasn’t he calling the women he killed Jane? Jane was the one who tricked him into marriage. Jane was the one who slept around . . . with his brother, no less . . . and she was the one who spent all his money and drove him nuts – so nuts he killed her. Surely Townsend should be killing “Janes”, not “Annies”.’ She waited. The mirth in Lockyer’s eyes had gone. He frowned, but didn’t speak. She held his gaze.