A policeman sat on my sofa, a notepad open as he jotted down my answers to his various questions.
Did I see or hear anything suspicious?
Had I seen any suspicious characters hanging around?
Did George have any enemies that I knew of?
I told them I saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing.
When asked what had made me check on George after I’d admitted that George’s front door being open hadn’t alarmed me, I told them about Samson screaming at my door.
The officer had looked at Samson then, who was sat staring down at the street, staring at the exact place he and I had watched George’s body being loaded into an ambulance before being sped away.
“It’s a mean bastard, that cat,” the officer commented, and I agreed. The officer then thanked me and left my flat.
I had overheard enough from the officers to learn that nothing had been stolen from George’s flat and that valuables were left untouched, so robbery was not the motive.
I moved to my front door and watched the forensic team going in and out of George’s flat, and I felt guilty.
Guilty for everytime I’d tiptoed past the man’s flat in order to avoid a conversation.
The killer’s words echoed in my mind; paedophile, inappropriate relationship with a schoolgirl and sacked and disgraced because of it.
I thought of the times Becky had complained about George and the way he looked at her. “He looks at me like he’s seen me naked, but like, I didn’t know he was there when I was naked. He’s creepy.”
I had put it down to Becky’s ego. She was an attractive young woman with a fine body. She wasn’t full of herself, not as bad as some women, but she appreciated male attention as much as the next woman. I thought maybe she had misinterpreted George’s gaze of sheer nosiness for one of lust and desire.
Thoughts of Becky made my throat tighten and I wondered how I could have the energy left to give a damn about her right now.
There was a nutcase on the loose who’d killed two people and injured a third.
The link between these two cases, was me.
“Danny.”
Startled I jerked my head right, then an overwhelming fear and dread swamped me.
Detectives Jackson and Dobson were standing in the hallway staring at me.
On some level I did expect them, but I was still shocked. Sure they were going to arrest me, I stared at them, expecting a pair of cuffs and the reading of my rights. Instead, Jackson frowned whilst Dobson merely stared. “Are you okay, Danny?”
My neighbour was in hospital, the victim of a brutal attack that had nothing to do with robbery the day these two detectives had questioned me regarding the couple I had followed who’d then been murdered. And the murderer was ringing me, taunting me and apparently trying to set me up.
‘Okay’ was very far away from how I was feeling.
“Come on in,” I told the detectives.
They both took the same seats on my sofa as they had the day before and I sat on my chair.
De ja vu.
“How are you feeling?” Jackson asked.
“I just found my neighbour and friend with his head bashed in― I’m not feeling too good.”
Jackson nodded. “You were looking sort of guilty when we spotted you.”
I sighed. “I like George, but there were times I’d sneak past his door, so he wouldn’t hear me and keep me talking for ages. I was thinking how much I’d give for him to come in here right now and talk my ear off.”
“You tiptoe past his door very often then? Tiptoe past his door today at all?” Dobson asked.
I realised that I kind of had an alibi. I had been to my aunt’s house. But then they would contact my aunt and have her verify my presence there. She would then want to know why police were questioning my whereabouts.
I didn’t want her to know. Not for as long as I could keep it quiet.
“No. I haven’t been out today.”
“Still waiting on your girlfriend to drop by?” Dobson asked with a distinct hint of malice in his tone. I decided that I rather hated this man.
“I believe you’ve made a statement claiming you heard nothing at all?” Jackson said.
“That’s right.”
He shrugged. “We’re struggling with this one Danny. It appears as if George didn’t believe in banks; he has a considerable amount of cash hidden in his home. An experienced burglar would have found most of it. His wallet was untouched as were other valuables we’ve found in plain view. So robbery was not the motive. George appeared to have been making a cup of tea when he was attacked in the kitchen. He appears to have been hit on the head from behind. Whoever this person was, it seems their reason for being inside George’s flat today was to harm him. You have no idea why someone would want to do that?”
Because he was sacked for having an inappropriate relationship with a schoolgirl and pissed off a moralistic killer, I thought.
I shook my head.
“Were you on your way out when you found George?”
I gestured to Samson. “He was screaming at my front door. I went out to see what his problem was, but not right away. Damn cat torments me constantly so I ignored him at first. I can’t really explain it, after a short while, I realised there was something wrong by the noise he was making. When I came out of my flat, I noticed George’s door was open. You know the rest.”
Jackson nodded and both detectives regarded Samson, who remained on the windowsill with his back to everyone.
“Two paramedics and one officer were treated for quite bad scratches from him,” Dobson said. “They stated that he was guarding George and would only let you near him.”
I nodded. “I always thought he hated me.”
“He’s attacked you too?” Jackson asked.
“No, it’s more tormenting behaviour, not aggressive. Like, I had to start bringing in my shoes from outside my door because he kept pissing in them. And he stalks me on the stairs, hides and jumps out on me when I’m walking down them. Just stuff like that.”
“Has he ever scratched you?”
“No. Though I did think he was gonna take my face off earlier when I picked him up to fetch him here. I saw him attack that ambulance bloke.”
“But he didn’t?” Dobson asked and I shook my head.
Both detectives looked at Samson again and I realised the damn cat might have just provided me with a witness, as such.
That he would defend George against the people who were trying to help him and only let the attacker near didn’t make sense.
I made a mental note to feed Samson the can of tuna I had in the cupboard.
“So, by your own admittance,” Dobson said, “George could be a little nosy?”
I bristled at the word, thought I did indeed think that.
“I’d say bored and lonely is a better description. He doesn’t have many visitors.”
Jackson nodded as Dobson said “Almost sounds like he’s pressed against his eye-hole watching you.”
I said nothing.
“Maybe,” Dobson added, “seeing something that you wouldn’t want him to see.”
I jumped to my feet. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
They’re cops, I thought. Calm down.
I couldn’t be calm though. Dobson had all but accused me of hurting George to silence him. I realised that my reaction was over the top, especially for an innocent man, but I couldn’t sit there and take much more when I couldn’t tell them the truth about the killer.
Jackson was patting the air with his open hand in a downwards motion. “Calm down, Danny. We’re just looking at all the angles. There was a reason someone came to George’s flat with the intention of hurting him. We find the motive, we may find the suspect.”
Exhausted and feeling on the verge of tears, I sat back down.
Too much. Too much to handle.
A mental image of my trial for murder flashed in my mind and I selfishly thought how much
worse things would be for me if George died. I needed him to be okay so he could tell the police I had nothing to do with his assault.
If they arrest me, I’ll have to tell the truth.
I wondered whether in this case, the truth would set me free, or have me banged up in prison for a long time.
“Anything you want to tell us, Danny?” Jackson asked as both he and Dobson regarded me with interest.
I felt it, I felt the words rising in my throat. I needed help and protection. I do believe I’d have opened up and blurted the whole thing out right then and there, but a sudden commotion erupted in the hallway.
“Detectives,” a voice shouted.
Jackson and Dobson rushed out of my flat and I followed, hopeful that whatever had been found would clear me of suspicion, but also dreading what the item that had caused so much interest may be.
“Reports of a man in green overalls, claiming to be a plumber and buzzing various apartments to gain entrance.”
The words of the news reporter tumbled through my mind as I stared at the overalls in the technician’s hands.
They once would have been a dark green all over, but now you could tell their colour only by the few remaining patches here and there that were not saturated in dark bloodstains.
“Fresh blood,” the technician said, indicating the right sleeve and spatters across the chest area. “The rest is dried stiff.”
I stared and wondered how I would handle jail, how my family would cope with me being arrested for murder and assault. I imagined my whole childhood presented as evidence against me. I even pictured my own mother testifying against me.
How could I tell the truth? How could anyone understand my addiction to following strangers? No-one would believe that I didn’t harm these people I followed.
I was in very deep trouble, and the way I looked at it, I couldn’t tell the truth because that would make things worse for me.
I was aware of Jackson and Dobson staring at me, their frowns of suspicion causing others to turn and look at me.
I’m going down. God help me, I’m going down.
Chapter Fifteen
I don’t know how long I sat staring at the wall for after the detectives and forensic technicians left. I had thought I was in enough trouble when my van was placed at Sunnyside Apartments. Though suspicious, they couldn’t really pin anything on me from lack of evidence. But now, bloodstained overalls, green overalls had been found in the storage cupboard right outside my front door. If they traced the dried blood on those overalls back to the Sunnyside victims, then I was in a heap of trouble.
Plus, the bartender from Thursday evening had told the detectives that not only did I appear agitated by Michael, but that I’d actually followed him when he left, which the CCTV footage from the apartment block confirmed when my van pulled in after Michael and Diane arrived.
I felt myself crumble inside as I thought of my arrest. With George’s attack thrown in, my situation looked dire. I’d been set up perfectly by the overalls and George’s attack. It had been made to look as though perhaps George had seen something that I hadn’t wanted him to see, and I’d attacked him to shut him up. George was still alive, though. If the police were working on that assumption, wouldn’t it be obvious that I’d have finished the job instead of leaving George alive not only with the information I supposedly didn’t want him to share, but also the opportunity to finger me as his attacker?
The police had to be pretty damn confused right now. But, they needed to make an arrest. The killings’ were all over the news and people were afraid. Sunnyside Apartments were expensive and in the upper-class area of town and had security. If someone could gain entrance and commit horrific murder in there, then how could anyone else be safe?
My mobile phone rang suddenly, startling both me and Samson who still sat on the windowsill.
The number was unknown and withheld. I pressed the green answer button and put the phone against my ear without saying anything.
“Hey Danny. How goes things with you?”
It was the killer.
“You bastard,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “You crazy bastard!”
“Now, now Danny. Be careful, you might hurt my feelings.”
“Why?” I yelled, all control leaving me as I shook with emotion. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Oh please don’t whine, Danny. Find your balls and act like a man.”
“You’re setting me up for murder, you son-of-a-bitch. I’m warning you, if they arrest me, I’ll tell them everything about you.”
The killer chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall for that conversation. And how exactly will you tell them about me? Without dropping yourself in it, of course. You’d have to tell them that you were following Michael that night, wouldn’t you? So, you’d tell the police that you happened to be following a man, a man you randomly spotted in a bar, who then just so happened to get himself murdered that night― but you didn’t do it. I understand the barman told the officers you were following Michael, too. I think that story will get you in more trouble than anything else.”
He was right, of course. Killers must have made up some amazing stories to get away with their crimes. The police would pay no more attention to my story that any other suspect before me. The most overwhelming sense of self-pity flooded through me. After everything I had been through and how far I’d come, this is how it ended for me: The suspect and possibly convicted killer of a horrific crime I didn’t commit.
How the hell was I going to get out of this.
“George is alive, you bastard. He’ll pull through and clear me.”
“I took that child-molesting bastard out so easily,” the killer said, his tone sounding amused. “I bet he doesn’t tell the police that I told him he was being punished for having an affair with a schoolgirl in his teaching days. And, if I’d intended to kill him, Danny, I would have.”
I grimaced at the mental image.
“The thing is, Danny, I don’t know about you. Every person I deal with I’ve studied and followed, gathered the information I’ve needed to teach then and guide them. You kind of landed in my lap. You’re obviously fucked up in your own way, and I’m simply enjoying myself until I find an appropriate way to deal with you. You’re the puppet on my string, Danny. And there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.”
All the anger and animosity melted away as I slumped in my seat. He was right, and I’d never felt so helpless in my life.
“Anyway, I didn’t call you to torment you. I wanted to ask your opinion, since, from what I’ve gathered about you so far, you’d be the perfect person to ask. How do you feel about prostitutes, Danny?”
A mental image of my mother immediately slammed through my mind.
“Do you think of them as down-trodden women, doing what they can to make ends meet? Or, do you think of them as drug-dealing, child-abusing fuck-ups?”
I remained silent. “Has your mother influenced your view at all?”
I gasped out loud. “I teach people lessons, Danny. I’ve been watching a woman for a while now. Not a bad looker, likes to party with drugs and sells herself to fund the habit. Live and let live, some people say―but I can’t do that, I’m afraid. It’s disgusting that things like that happen in our society, but what goes on behind closed doors in other people’s business, right? Wrong. Do you know this women has three children? She leaves them home alone while she goes out drinking in bars and looking for men. The money she gets from the government and from her clients, she spends on drugs and booze. Her children are hungry, malnourished and neglected. Why hasn’t anyone reported this woman?”
I didn’t respond to his silence. I couldn’t, my mind had taken me back to my childhood and was tormenting me with vivid memories.
“Can you imagine how those children feel?” the killer continued. He hesitated slightly, then said quietly: “Of course you can imagine. You lived that life, didn’t you, Danny? You paint a pitiful pictu
re on the newspaper story, standing outside your house the night your mother was attacked by a crazed client. Wouldn’t you have hoped that someone would intervene sooner? That it wouldn’t have taken a physical attack on your mother for people to notice your plight? I plan to save these children tonight, Danny. Right now, this woman is sat in a bar―Saturday night, date night. Those children will be home alone all evening. Until of course, she comes home with a client. There she sits, at The Fox and Wine Bar on Glove Street, laughing and flirting with a bunch of her friends and her bleached hair, tight black top and bright red boots. I think her chances of finding a client tonight are very good. I’ll be waiting for her tonight when she arrives home. If she has a client, I’ll take him out too. Rest assured, Danny, her children will stop their suffering tonight.”
The line went dead, but I remained frozen in position with the phone still clutched to my ear.
He was going to kill someone, tonight. A woman. I heard the news-reader’s voice once again, reading the details of the horrific mutilations carried out on the Sunnyside victims. A mother, a prostitute.
I pictured neglected children. Did she beat them? Were they picked on by other children because of her profession, because of their neglected appearance?
I glanced at the clock. It was 8.02pm. What the hell was I supposed to do?
Call the police, I told myself. I picked up my phone to do just that, when I realised that would probably do more harm than good. They would want to know how I know that a woman’s in danger. They’d want to know who was going to harm her. When I couldn’t answer those questions, they would find out my name from my phone number. Then they’d link me to my van being outside of Sunnyside apartments and I’d probably be visited once again by the detectives.
I thought of worse scenario. Me, calling the police, and them not believing me. Then, a woman’s body being found in the morning. My phonecall is remembered, my number traced, and I’m arrested. After what had happened here today, they’d arrest me on sight.
I felt like kicking myself for being so selfish. In both scenarios, my welfare had come above a woman’s life. I didn’t want anyone to die, and I knew I would never be able to look myself in the mirror again if a woman died tonight and I did nothing about it.
Stalked Page 9
