The Night Stalker (18 page)

T
he Railway
in Forest Hill was very close to where Gregory Munro’s mother, Estelle, lived. The irony wasn’t lost on Erika, as she pulled up in the car park. It was an old-fashioned public house, clad in porcelain tiles, polished brass lamps above every window and a swinging sign high above the car park.

A summer terrace extended into the car park, and she could see Crane sitting on his own at one of the tables, trying to look inconspicuous amongst the crowds enjoying a drink in the afternoon sun.

‘He just went inside a couple of minutes ago,’ said Crane, standing up when she approached the table.

‘Good. Whose photo did they use? Who does he think he’s meeting?’ asked Erika, as they picked their way through the tables to the front entrance.

‘DC Warren’s… I thought it needed someone a bit better-looking than me!’

‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ said Erika. ‘As my husband used to say, every pan has its lid.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment – I think.’ Crane grinned.

The inside of the pub had all the original fittings, but the walls had been painted white, soft mood lighting had been added, and there was an expensive gastro-pub-style menu above the bar. There weren’t many people inside and Erika saw the young lad straight away, sitting in a corner booth, nursing a half of lager and a shot.

‘How do we do this?’ murmured Crane.

‘Softly, softly,’ said Erika. ‘I’m glad he picked a booth.’

They moved over to where the lad was sitting and stood at either side of the curved seat, so he couldn’t run for it. He was wearing a shiny red and black tracksuit, and his hair was shoulder length and loosely parted in the middle.

They flashed their IDs. ‘JordiLevi?’ asked Erika. ‘I’m DCI Foster, this is Sergeant Crane.’

‘What? I’m having a drink? Nothing illegal about that…’

‘And you’re waiting for this guy, who you’ve arranged to meet up with,’ said Crane, pulling out Warren’s photo.

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes, I do. I arranged it,’ said Crane.

The boy pursed his lips and downed the shot. ‘Well, nothing illegal about meeting someone in a pub,’ he said, slamming the shot glass down on the table.

‘No, there isn’t,’ said Erika. ‘We just want to talk to you. What are you drinking?’

‘Double vodka. And I’ll have some Kettle Chips.’

Erika nodded at Crane and he went off to the bar. She took a seat.

‘Jordi. Do you know why we want to talk to you?’

‘I can take a wild guess,’ he said, downing his pint and placing the glass back down.

‘We’re not from Vice. We’re not interested about what you do for a living,’ said Erika.

‘What I do for a living! I’m not a bloody dental hygienist…’

‘I’m investigating the murder of Gregory Munro, a local doctor. He was killed ten days ago.’ Erika pulled a photo of Gregory Munro from her bag. ‘This is him.’

‘Well, I didn’t bloody do it,’ said Jordi, barely glancing at the photo.

‘We don’t think you did. But a neighbour saw you coming out of his house a few days before he died. Can you confirm you were there at the house?’

Jordi sat back and shrugged. ‘I don’t have a calendar, all days blur into one.’

‘We just want to know what happened and if you saw anything. You’ll be helping with our investigations. You are not a suspect. Please, look at the photo again. Do you recognise him?’

Jordi looked down at the photo and nodded, ‘Yeah, I recognise him.’

Crane returned with the tray of drinks. He handed a double vodka and the crisps to Jordi, and gave Erika one of the two glasses of coke from the tray. Crane slid into the seat on the opposite side. Jordi tucked his hair behind his ears and opened the crisps. He had a whiff of body odour about him and his fingernails were grubby.

‘Okay. We need to know if you were at Gregory Munro’s house between Monday, the 20th and Monday, the 27th
of June?’ asked Erika.

He shrugged. ‘I think so.’

Erika took a sip of her coke. ‘In your opinion, was Gregory Munro gay?’

‘He never said his real name, and yeah, he was gay,’ said Jordi, through a mouthful of crisps.

‘And you know that for sure?’

‘Well, if he wasn’t, I’m not sure what my cock was doing up his arse.’

Crane’s eyebrows shot up.

Erika went on, ‘How did you arrange to meet him?’

‘Craigslist. I put an ad on there.’

‘What kind of ad?’

‘The kind of ad where I meet up with guys, and they can give me donations. Giving donations isn’t illegal.’

‘And did Gregory Munro give you a donation?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How much?’

‘Hundred quid.’

‘And did you stay the night?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What did you talk about, Jordi?’

‘Not much. A lot of the time my mouth was full…’ He smirked.

Erika pulled one of the crime scene photos out of her bag and placed it on the polished wood of the table in front of Jordi.

‘Do you think this is funny? Look. Here Gregory is lying in bed, with his hands bound and a plastic bag tied over his head.’

Jordi gulped when he saw the photo, and what little colour he had in his face drained away.

‘Now, please. This is very important. Tell me what you know about Gregory Munro,’ said Erika.

Jordi took a gulp of vodka. ‘He was just like all the other guilty married men. Gagging for a good hard shag and then got all guilty and teary afterwards. The second time I went he was really nervy. Kept asking me if I’d taken his key.’

‘What key?’

‘His front door key.’

‘Why?’

‘He thought I was a thieving whore… Lots of them think you’re gonna steal, but then he asked me if I had been inside his house while he was out.’

Erika looked at Crane. ‘Had you been in his house when he was out?’

Jordi shook his head. ‘He said stuff had been moved around.’

‘What stuff?’

‘Underwear all laid out on his bed… He was really freaked out by it.’

‘He was getting divorced,’ said Erika, excitement rising in her. ‘Do you think it could have been his wife?’

‘He said it couldn’t be her. He’d just had the locks all changed. No one else had a key. He called this woman out to check everything, from some security company.’

A look passed between Erika and Crane again.

‘Did you see this woman?’

‘No.’

‘Did he say what she looked like?’

‘No.’

‘Okay, can you remember if he mentioned
when
this woman came to the house?’

Jordi pursed his lips as he thought. ‘Dunno. Hang on; it was the second time I went over. She’d just been there. He seemed relieved that she’d checked everything.’

‘Can you remember if it was a Monday? If so, that would make it the 21st June.’

Jordi grimaced at the photo again and bit his lip.

‘Um, yeah… Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was a Monday.’

Erika rummaged in her bag, pulled out three twenty-pound notes and held them out to Jordi.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, looking at the money.

‘A donation,’ said Erika.

‘I agreed a hundred.’

‘You’re not in a position to negotiate.’

Jordi took the money, grabbed a small rucksack from under the table and squeezed past her.

‘We’re so bloody close,’ said Crane, a few minutes after Jordi had gone. ‘Do you think she staged a break-in, and then went back posing as someone from GuardHouse Alarms on Monday, 21st June?’

‘Yeah. Dammit! If only Jordi had seen her, we could have gone into the
Crimewatch
reconstruction with an e-fit,’ said Erika. The door to the bar opened and she suddenly sat up in her seat. Gary Wilmslow had come in with a tall, dark-haired man in jeans wearing a Millwall shirt. A small boy accompanied them, and Erika realised it was Peter, Gregory Munro’s son.

‘Jeez. This is just what we need,’ said Crane. They went to the bar, then Gary noticed them. He said something to the dark-haired man and came over with Peter.

‘Afternoon, coppers,’ he sneered.

‘Hello,’ said Erika. ‘Hi, Peter, how are you?’

The little boy stared up at Erika, his face pale and drawn. ‘My dad’s dead… Yesterday they dug a hole in the ground and they put him in it,’ he said, tonelessly.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Erika.

‘This your boyfriend?’ asked Gary, tilting his head towards Crane.

‘No, I’m Sergeant Crane,’ said Crane, flashing his ID.

‘Whoa, what’s with the ID?’ said Gary.

‘You just asked who he was,’ explained Erika.

The situation felt tense. Gary looked between the two of them. ‘So, what are you two coppers doing here? You just having a drink in my local?’

‘There’s a lot of locals around here, Gary,’ said Crane.

‘Who’s your friend?’ asked Erika, as the man at the bar was paying for a round of drinks.

‘Business associate… Now, I’m gonna get back.’

‘Are you okay, Peter? Is everything okay?’ blurted Erika, looking at the listless little boy.

‘His dad’s just died. What a stupid fucking question,’ said Gary.

‘Hey, easy,’ said Crane.

‘I am going easy,’ said Gary. ‘Now, I’m going.’

He walked off, pulling Peter with him. Erika wanted to grab the little boy and take him out of there, but she knew it would be crazy. How could she explain taking him, without blowing a major undercover investigation?

Erika and Crane left the bar and came out into the sunshine. The tables on the terrace were now full. Erika recognised a tall, skinny, dark-haired man sitting with a thin woman who was hunched over her phone, texting. She was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt with thin straps. She had a prominent nose and fair hair scraped back into a ponytail. The man was pale, with an acne-scarred face, and his shoulder-length greasy black hair was combed back from his high forehead. He was wearing a plain T-shirt and beige shorts.

As they picked their way through the tables, Erika stayed ahead of Crane and made a beeline for them.

‘DCI Sparks?’ she said, when they approached the table.

‘DCI Foster,’ he said, looking surprised. The woman with him sat up and her eyes darted over to the pub window.

‘Day off? Having a drink?’ asked Erika, following the woman’s gaze.

‘Um, sort of,’ said Sparks. Crane caught up with Erika.

‘All right, Sparks, long time no see… Where are you based now?’ he asked.

‘Erm, I’m heading my own Murder Investigation Team, based out in North London,’ he said, looking between Erika and Crane. ‘This is DI Powell,’ he added. They all exchanged pleasantries.

‘Crane, would it be okay if I met you at the car?’ asked Erika.

‘Okay,’ said Crane. He gave Erika an odd look and then went off.

‘So, you’re both here, on a weekday, having a drink in South London, trying to look inconspicuous. Has it got anything to do with Gary Wilmslow?’ said Erika when Crane was out of earshot.

‘Excuse me, who are you?’ asked the woman.

‘DCI Erika Foster, an ex-colleague of Sparks here,’ said Erika, in a low voice. ‘You’ve got a couple of guys who are heavily involved with the production of child sex abuse videos in that pub, unsupervised with a small boy.’

‘We know…’ started the woman.

Sparks leaned over the table. ‘You need to turn around and walk away, Foster. This is covert surveillance.’

‘Operation Hemslow, yeah?’ said Erika.

A look passed between Sparks and Powell.

‘Yes. Erika. We’ve been drafted in for extra manpower,’ said Sparks, eyeing the pub windows. ‘Now you need to leave, before you blow our cover.’

‘Yeah, well, you two stick out like a sore thumb. Have you any idea how vulnerable that little boy is right now? Peter, his name is.’

‘We know. And if you don’t leave immediately, you’ll not only blow our cover, but I’ll make sure to speak to your senior officer,’ said Sparks.

Erika gave them a long look and then went off to the car.

‘What was all that about, boss?’ asked Crane, as she got in.

‘Nothing,’ said Erika. She was still shaking.

‘I haven’t seen Sparks since you got him chucked off the Andrea Douglas-Brown murder case… Not the best copper in the world, is he? Not what you’d call a details man.’

‘No, he isn’t,’ said Erika.

‘Was that his girlfriend?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘That figures. She’s a bit out of his league, although most women are,’ said Crane. ‘Anyway, we’ve got another positive ID on a woman at Gregory Munro’s place. I call that a result!’

‘Yeah,’ said Erika.

As they drove away, she thought of little Peter in there with Gary Wilmslow and his dark-haired ‘business associate’, and she felt powerless.

T
he next evening
, after a long week at work, Isaac Strong lay on his sofa with Stephen Linley. He had just cooked a meal for them both, to celebrate Stephen having finished his latest novel and submitted it to the publisher.

‘Do you want some more champagne, Stevie?’ asked Isaac.

‘You mean from the champagne in the ice bucket, with the white cloth around its neck?’ asked Stephen, looking up from where he lay on Isaac’s chest.

‘What’s wrong with doing things properly?’ Isaac murmured, planting a kiss on Stephen’s forehead.

‘I don’t know anyone else who serves champagne at home as if they’re having it in a restaurant,’ laughed Stephen. He shifted over so Isaac could get up. ‘And where did you get that?’ asked Stephen, holding out his glass and pointing to the ice bucket, which was perched on a metal stand beside the sofa.

‘The Lakeland catalogue,’ said Isaac, lifting the bottle out with a clink of ice and topping up their glasses.

‘And the stand?’

‘That’s from the mortuary. I normally keep the bone saw on it, and my scalpels… I thought it appropriately macabre to use it to celebrate your new book.’

‘Mr Strait-laced stole from work! I’m honoured,’ said Stephen, taking a sip of the crisp, cold champagne. Isaac came back and went to lie on the sofa. A timer went off in the kitchen and he got back up to turn it off.

‘Not another course?’ groaned Stephen.

‘No, I set it because
Crimewatch
is on.’

‘Bloody hell. Not your awful copper friend with the blunt manner… and the blunt bob.’

‘Erika doesn’t have a blunt manner. Or a blunt bob.’

‘Well, that hair is certainly utilitarian. Is she a lesbian?’

Isaac sighed. ‘No, she was married, I told you… She’s a widow.’

‘Topped himself, did he?’

‘He was killed in the line of duty…’

‘Oh yes,’ said Stephen taking another gulp of champagne. ‘I remember now, the drug raid. She was responsible for his death and for the deaths of four other members of her team… You know, that would make a good plot.’

‘Stephen, you’re being cruel. And I don’t like it.’

‘This is what you signed up for,’ grinned Stephen. ‘I’m a brutal bitch… Anyway, I’d change her name.’

‘You are not putting that in a book… And we’re watching
Crimewatch
. This is a case I worked on. I have a professional interest, as well as a personal one.’

Isaac grabbed the remote and turned on the television. The opening credits of
Crimewatch
began.

‘So, it’s a double murder, a serial killer. Yeah?’

‘Yes.’

‘That was a shocker. Jack Hart, wasn’t it?’ said Stephen.

‘Shhh!’ hissed Isaac. They watched in silence as the case was introduced by the
Crimewatch
presenter.

‘The first victim was Dr Gregory Munro, a GP from Honor Oak Park in South London. He was last seen returning home from work around 7 p.m. on June the 27th…’

The actor playing Gregory on the screen walked up to the house in Laurel Road. It was still daylight, and a group of small children were playing jump with a skipping rope in the street.

‘That’s not accurate. Who lets their kids play out in the street these days?’ started Stephen, sipping his champagne. ‘They’re all on lock-down. Parents keep them indoors where they sit on their computers and phones… And what’s the number one way child abusers get to children? They groom them online, it’s crazy…’

‘Shush,’ said Isaac.

On the screen, the young actress was dressed in black and walking along a stretch of darkened scrub path behind the house. The camera cut to a close-up of her face as it was lit by the train clattering past on the track behind.

‘She’s very pretty,’ said Isaac.

‘Quite elfin,’ agreed Stephen. ‘They really think it’s a woman? She’s no more than a slip of a girl…’

The screen cut to a view of the back of the house from where the girl stood on the path. Her hand reached up and pulled the branch of a tree down, and they saw the actor playing Gregory Munro moving around in his kitchen. The girl then pulled a black running hood over her face and ducked down, crawling through the fence and into the garden.

‘How do they know all this?’ asked Stephen.

‘I can’t discuss the case with you,’ said Isaac. ‘You know that.’

‘We’re watching it on BBC One with millions of other saddos on a Friday night. I think the cat’s out of the bag,’ said Stephen, rolling his eyes. ‘Come on, let’s stick on some porn and I’ll let you fuck me. I’m slutty drunk…’

‘Stephen, I need to see this!’

They watched as the woman moved across the lawn, broke into the house through a side window and stepped into the kitchen.

‘It’s a creepy thought,’ said Stephen. ‘Someone sneaking up on you, moving around your house without you knowing…’