The Night Stalker (19 page)

I
t had been
a good day at work for Simone; she’d managed to spend some quality time with Mary. The doctor had been in, and had said that she was showing signs of improvement, going as far to suggest that she might even wake up. Thankfully, he hadn’t said anything about the bruise on Mary’s temple. He must have assumed that it happened before she was admitted to hospital. So it was good news all round. Mary was going to live, and Simone would be there for her when she was discharged. Simone had two spare rooms. She would paint both in lovely pastel colours, and Mary could choose between the two. Although she hoped that Mary wouldn’t get better too fast. She still had a name left on her list, and she had preparations to make.

Before she went out, Simone decided to make her favourite food: tinned macaroni cheese, with the special topping – stale bread crumbled on top with a little grated cheese. She carried the steaming hot bowl on a tray into the living room, which was a mess of newspapers and magazines piled high around the sagging furniture. She sat on the sofa and turned on the television, looking for
Coronation Street
. She stopped and stared at the screen. For a long moment, she thought that the hallucinations were back.

But this was different.

The hallucinations were playing out on her television. She watched in morbid fascination as a woman with a likeness to her moved around inside Jack Hart’s house.

She tilted her head to one side, confused.

The girl on the screen was petite, with small, attractive features. Simone, in comparison, was small but chunky. Her forehead was high and wide, furrowed even when resting, and her blue eyes were dull, unlike the girl’s, which sparkled.

The pretty girl on the screen was now watching a man who looked like Jack Hart; watching him through the bathroom door as he showered. She then moved off into his bedroom. Her waist was defined, whereas Simone was straight up and down, with a slight curvature of her spine.

The
Crimewatch
music began to play and the screen cut to the television studio. The presenter began to speak.

‘As I’ve said, we’ve left out the more distressing elements of the reconstruction. We’re joined in the studio tonight by Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster. Good evening…’

Simone leant forward as she got the first look at the police officer who was leading the investigation.
It was a woman.
She was pale and thin, with short blonde hair and soft brown eyes, and for a moment Simone thought this was good, that a woman might understand her, sympathise with what she had suffered. But as she listened to DCI Foster talk, Simone felt anger build inside her. Blood began to roar in her ears.

‘We’re asking anyone for information. If you’ve seen this woman, or if you were in the area on the night these murders happened, please get in touch. We believe she’s small in stature but we advise the public not to approach her: she is a dangerous and deeply disturbed individual.’

Simone felt pain, and she looked down to see that her hands were clenching and unclenching in the bowl of boiling hot macaroni. The cheese sauce oozed between her fingers. She looked up again and saw the bitch on the screen, heard her repeat that they were looking for a disturbed woman who may have suffered psychiatric problems. She swept the bowl off the tray and it shattered against the wall.

‘I’m the victim!’ she shouted at the screen, getting to her feet. ‘THE VICTIM, you fucking whore! You know NOTHING of the years of abuse! You don’t know what he did to me!’ She jabbed her finger up to the ceiling, towards her marital bed. ‘You know NOTHING!’ she screamed, and a spray of the thin, synthetic cheese sauce splattered over DCI Foster’s face.

‘So please, if you know anything at all, call or email. Your information will be treated as confidential. The details are there now, across the bottom of the screen,’ finished the presenter.

Simone stood, shaking, and went to her computer in its nook under the stairs. She sat and dragged the keyboard towards her, not noticing her hands were a mess of sauce and scalded red skin.

She typed into Google: ‘DCI ERIKA FOSTER’ and began to read the results, her breathing slowing down as a plan began to form.

I
t was late
when the car from the television studio dropped Erika back at her flat in Forest Hill. When she came indoors, the sight of her living room was deeply depressing. She’d been on television before, and she’d made television appeals, but this had been different. It had been in a proper television studio, and she had been nervous. Moss had suggested that she should imagine she was talking to one family and visualise them sitting in their living room.

The only person she had been able to visualise was Mark: how he used to slouch on the sofa, and the way she fitted snugly under his arm. That’s what she’d visualised during the live broadcast. And now she was home, she realised she’d found yet another way to miss him. She missed coming home to him sitting on the sofa, watching television. She missed having someone to talk to, someone to get her out of her own head. Here, she just had the four bare walls closing in on her.

Her phone rang and she fumbled in her bag to answer it. It was Mark’s dad.

‘You didn’t tell me you were going to be on telly,’ said Edward.

It had been a few weeks since they’d spoken, Erika realised guiltily. Her emotions caught in her throat for a split second. Edward sounded so much like Mark.

‘It was all a bit last minute… I haven’t seen it back yet. I didn’t come across all schoolmarmish, did I?’

Edward chuckled. ‘No, lass, you did well. Although it sounds like you’ve got another nutter on the loose. I hope you’re going to be careful?’

‘This one likes men,’ said Erika. ‘No – I don’t mean to be flippant. So far, she’s targeted men.’

‘Yes. I saw the programme,’ said Edward. ‘Do you really think a woman’s got it in her, to do all that?’

‘You’d be horrified about the state of the human psyche if you came to work with me for a couple of days…’

‘I bet I would. But as I always say, love. Be brave, but don’t be stupid.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘I’ve been meaning to give you a buzz, but seeing your mug on the telly jogged me into it. I wanted to ask for your sister Lenka’s address.’

‘Hang on, I’ve got it somewhere here,’ said Erika, putting the phone under her chin, moving to the shelves and scrabbling about amongst the takeaway leaflets. She found her slim address book.

‘How come you want Lenka’s address?’ she asked, flicking through pages.

‘Isn’t her little baby due soon?’

‘Oh, yes, I almost forgot. She’s due in a few weeks.’

‘Doesn’t time fly when you’re hunting people on the run?’ Edward said.

‘Very funny! You should be a stand-up comedian,’ Erika laughed.

‘Her little boy and girl are lovely,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t understand what they were jabbering on about, or your sister, but we got by!’

When Erika’s sister had come to stay, Edward had travelled down on the train for the day and they’d all gone to the Tower of London. It had been an exhausting day. Lenka didn’t speak a word of English and Erika had found herself having to be translator for her and the kids, Karolina and Jakub.

‘Do you think they liked it, the Tower of London?’ asked Edward.

‘No, I think Lenka was a bit bored. All she really wanted to do was stock up on new clothes at Primark,’ replied Erika, dryly.

‘Weren’t it expensive, though, the tower? I wonder what percentage the Queen is on?’

Erika smiled. She missed Edward and wished he lived closer.

‘Ah, here it is,’ she said, and she read out the address to him.

‘Thanks, love. I was going to pop in some Euros, for the baby, if I can get to the big post office in Wakefield. Did you know they’ve shut the money exchange at our local post office.’

‘It’s the age of austerity,’ said Erika.

There was silence. Edward cleared his throat. ‘It’s come round again, hasn’t it?’ he said, softly. He was referring to the anniversary of Mark’s death.

‘Yes, it has. Two years.’

‘Do you want me to come down? I can stop with you for a few days. Your sofa’s comfy.’

’No. Thank you. I’ve got so much work. Let’s wait until I’m finished with this case and then do something properly. I’d love a few days up north… What are you going to do?’

‘I’ve been asked to make up the team for indoor bowls. I think they know I need my mind taken off things.’

‘Then you should do that,’ said Erika. ‘You take care.’

‘You take care too, lass,’ he said.

When he’d hung up, Erika flicked on the television just in time for the
Crimewatch
reconstruction recap show. She was quite horrified seeing herself in high definition: every line, bag and wrinkle. When the number flashed up at the end, her phone rang again. She answered it.

‘DCI Foster?’ came a muffled, high voice.

‘Yes?’

‘I saw you talking about me on the television… You know nothing about me,’ the voice said, calmly.

Erika stiffened where she sat. Her mind started to whir. She jumped up, turned off the lights and went to her patio window. The garden was dark, the branches of the apple tree moved in the breeze.

‘You can calm down. I’m nowhere near you,’ the voice said.

‘Okay. Then where are you?’ asked Erika, her heart racing.

‘Somewhere you won’t find me,’ said the voice. There was another pause and Erika tried to think what she could do. She looked at her phone, but had no idea how to record calls.

‘It’s not over,’ said the voice.

‘What do you mean?’ said Erika.

‘Come on, DCI Foster. I just looked you up. You were a rising star in the force. You have a degree in criminal psychology. You have a commendation. And lastly, you have something in common with me.’

‘What’s that?’

‘My husband died too – although, sadly, unlike you, I wasn’t responsible for his death.’

Erika closed her eyes and gripped the receiver.

‘You were responsible, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, I was,’ said Erika.

‘Thank you for being honest,’ said the voice. ‘My husband was a brutal, sadistic pig. He enjoyed torturing me. I have the scars to prove it.’

‘What happened to your husband?’

‘I’d planned to kill him. And if I’d had the opportunity, none of this would have followed. But he dropped dead, quite by chance. And then I became the merry widow.’

‘What do you mean when you say it’s not over?’

‘What I mean is there will be more men who will die.’

‘This won’t end well, I’m telling you,’ Erika said. ‘You are going to slip up. We’ve got witnesses who’ve seen you. We are so close to finding out what you look like…’

‘I think that’s enough for now, Erika. All I ask is that you leave me alone,’ said the voice.

There was a click and the line went dead.

Erika quickly dialled 1471, but the recorded voice told her that the number was not available. She checked the sliding glass door was locked and took the key out, pushing it into her pocket. She then went to the front door and checked the deadbolt was on. She moved through the flat, shutting and locking the remaining windows.

It quickly began to warm up inside, with all the windows closed. She was starting to sweat when she called the number for Lewisham Row station.

Woolf answered. ‘Oh, it’s the new face of the Met Police. You did well on the telly,’ he said.

‘Woolf, have there been any phone calls for me?’ asked Erika.

‘Yes, we’ve had
Playboy
on the line; they want you to do a centrefold. I told them only if they do a good job. I don’t want your naughty bits getting lost where they crease the paper…’

‘Woolf, I’m serious!’

‘Sorry, boss, I was only kidding. Hang on…’ She heard him turning through the call log.

‘There was only that producer, the one from
Crimewatch
. Did she get your handbag back to you?’

‘I’ve got my bag,’ Erika said, seeing where she’d dumped it on the coffee table.

‘She rang saying that you’d left your bag in the studio, and asked if she could have your number… So, you didn’t leave your bag?’

’No, I didn’t. And you’re going to tell me that the call was a withheld number?’

‘Uh, yes, it was…’ started Woolf. ‘If it wasn’t the producer, then who was it?’

‘I just had a call from the Night Stalker,’ said Erika.

W
hen Simone arrived back home
, after her phone call to Erika Foster, a nasty smell hit her nose. She saw the macaroni cheese sauce smeared over the mirror in the hallway, over her computer in the hall. She went through to the living room and it was splattered everywhere: up the wall, over the TV.

As she cleaned, she turned things over in her mind. How did the police know it was her? How did they know it was a woman?

She’d been so clever, so careful.

She’d been nothing more than a shadow.

She was scrubbing at the living room carpet when she saw movement in the corner of her eye. She stopped scrubbing. There was a pat, pat, pattering coming from behind her. She gripped the wooden brush and turned.

Stan stood in the living room doorway, naked, the water running off his pasty skin, raining down on her clean carpet. His mouth fell open, showing a row of black teeth. Simone was surprised that she didn’t feel scared. She slowly stood up, her knees cracking.

‘Duhu…kah,’
came a sound from Stan’s mouth. It wasn’t exactly a voice, more of a sigh. An exhale. ‘
Duhu…kah, Duhu…kah.
’ His arm flopped down by his side and his mouth pulled up at both sides into a grin. It was the grin she remembered: hungry, looming close to her face, coupled with pain. He started to walk towards her, the water pouring off him and soaking the carpet. Now she felt fear.

‘NO!’ she screamed. ‘NO!’ She hurled the heavy wooden scrubbing brush at him. He vanished, and there was a crash as the brush hit the mirror in the hall. It burst into shards and they scattered down onto the floor.

Stan was gone. The carpet was dry, and she realised what he’d said.

Duke. He’d said
Duke
.

She hurried to her computer in the hallway under the stairs and logged on.

Moments later, Duke logged on.

Simone paused with her hands above the keyboard.

This time there was a long pause. Simone stared at the cursor, as it blinked. She wondered if Duke was sitting there with his fingers poised, trying to think what to type. Had he put things together?

For the first time, she wondered where Duke lived. She was used to thinking of him living here in her computer. She’d talked to him for the past few years about her plans, what she fantasised about, the pain she would inflict on her doctor, on the TV man, the others to come. Duke had always been the one to encourage her. And he’d spoken about his own fears – his fear of the dark, his failed suicide attempts. She remembered the harrowing description of how he’d attempted suffocation with a suicide bag without gas. He had placed it on his head, tightened the string around his neck and then, as he’d begun to asphyxiate, he’d panicked and clawed at the bag, eventually ripping it off his head – but the cord had caught his left eye, ripping the eyelid and tearing open his eyeball.

He’d said he would die without her, and she believed him.

Simone blinked. The cursor was moving again across the screen.