The Night Stalker (17 page)

S
imone realised
she had drifted away. The blur of the computer screen came back into focus. Duke had been writing repeatedly, asking where she had gone.

S
imone thought of the list
. It existed nowhere except in her head. But it was still very real. When she’d killed Dr Gregory Munro – the doctor who had believed Stan over her – she’d drawn a thick black line through his name. She’d done the same, too, with Jack Hart. Hart had been harder to track down. Back when he’d written the piece about her cruel neglectful mother, he’d been an ambitious journalist; her story had been a nice piece of tabloid sensationalism for him. It had helped him on his way up the career ladder… But Simone had ended up in care, all alone, with a new set of horrors to face. Jack Hart had taken her mother from her.

Simone thought about her next victim and smiled to herself. It was going to be the best yet.

E
rika arrived
at Lewisham Row station at seven-thirty the next morning. She’d been summoned to another strategy meeting. A meeting that had been hastily arranged when she’d reported back to Marsh the previous day that she was still working on the case – and that they now had a female serial killer.

She parked and came out into the morning heat. The cranes whirred around the half-finished high-rise buildings, and the sky was heavy and humid. Low cloud was forming and glinting like steel in the sunshine. Erika locked her car and made for the main entrance. A storm was brewing, both outside and in her work life.

‘Morning, boss,’ said Woolf when she stepped into reception. He was hunched over the morning’s newspaper and had a half-demolished Danish pastry in his left hand. An article about Jack Hart in the
Daily Star
was strewn with flakes of pastry. The headline read: ‘
SERIAL KILLER SHOCK IN JACK HART MURDER
’.

‘Shit,’ Erika said, leaning over the desk to peer at the article.

‘Look, they’ve even done a supplement,’ Woolf said, pulling out a glossy black magazine with a giant picture of Jack Hart staring into the camera. ‘RIP’ was written above his head ‘You can’t touch it without getting your hands dirty,’ moaned Woolf, showing where the black ink had left a murky residue on his hand.

‘Maybe that’s a metaphor,’ said Erika, as she swiped her card on the door.

‘Do you really think a
woman
killed him?’ asked Woolf, his brow furrowing.

‘Yes,’ Erika said, pulling open the door and moving through into the station.

T
he air conditioning
had been fixed in the conference room, which only added to the chilly atmosphere. Around the long table sat Erika, Chief Superintendent Marsh, Colleen Scanlan, Tim Aiken, the criminal psychologist and Assistant Commissioner Oakley.

Oakley cut straight to the chase. ‘DCI Foster, it greatly troubles me that you have reached the conclusion that these murders were committed by a woman.’

‘Sir, there are female serial killers,’ replied Erika.

‘I know that! It’s just that the evidence in this case is paper-thin. We have DNA from an ear print on the back door of Jack Hart’s house…’

‘Sir, we also managed to glean skin cells from the bag placed over Jack Hart’s head. It took him several minutes to asphyxiate, and we believe he thrashed around, striking the killer in the face.’

Oakley cocked his head to one side and was silent. Erika knew this to be a technique of his, to remain silent. It often caused the person he was questioning to babble, or to blurt something out which Oakley could later use to strengthen his argument. Erika remained silent.

‘I’d be keen to hear what Tim can bring to the table,’ said Oakley, turning his gaze on the criminal psychologist. Tim looked up from where he was writing on his pad. His hair jutted upwards from his head, and he had several days’ stubble.

‘The only compelling evidence that this is a woman comes from two sources. The ear print on the back door, and the plastic bag. This could be explained in many ways. The door had recently been repainted, six weeks before the murder: the print could have been left by one of the workers. There was a case a few years back of an ear print being used in a court case for a home invasion which led to the murder of a man and his wife. The ear print was used to prosecute a man who, it later turned out, had been working legitimately at the property as a plumber.’

‘And how do you explain the plastic bag?’ asked Erika.

‘The utility room is where Jack Hart kept his DIY and garden supplies. In the crime scene report, it states that there were two drawers containing bin liners, plastic freezer bags and old newspapers. It’s feasible that the same painter-decorator could have opened these drawers and contaminated the plastic bag with her DNA.’

‘The murder weapon wasn’t just an ordinary plastic bag. It was a suicide bag, or exit bag. A specialist item which has to be ordered online.’

‘Yes, and this suicide bag is much like the industrial plastic and zip lock bags used around the home, in DIY. Leaving the physical evidence to one side for a moment, the profile is more aligned to a male murderer. We shouldn’t forget that with the first victim, Gregory Munro, there was a homosexual element to the killing… And both victims were found naked in bed. I don’t wish to revert to stereotypes, but female serial killers are incredibly rare, and we need more concrete evidence before we abandon the theory that this is a single white male.’

‘So you’re saying we should ignore forensic evidence and concentrate on statistics?’ asked Erika.

‘The coverage in the media is extensive,’ interrupted Colleen, who had a stack of the day’s newspapers in front of her. ‘We need to make a statement, and this is what they call silly season in the press. There isn’t a lot else going on, besides coverage of this heatwave. A serial killer story is going to run and run.’

‘I believe that a woman is responsible for these killings,’ said Erika. ‘If the ear print on the outside of the back door were the only DNA evidence, then I would propose we were cautious. But the female DNA is on the bag used to kill Jack Hart, and very shortly we will have more details about the supplier of this bag – a website which has agreed to hand over the details of purchasers. We have more of a chance of catching the killer if we make the focus of our enquiries a woman. I am suggesting that we do a reconstruction. I’d like Colleen to contact the BBC
Crimewatch
programme. They are due to broadcast their monthly show in a few days. We can reconstruct Gregory Munro and Jack Hart’s last movements in the lead-up to their murders.’

There was silence. Colleen looked between Marsh and Oakley.

‘You’ve been very quiet, Paul,’ said Oakley to Marsh.

‘I support DCI Foster’s position,’ said Marsh. ‘I feel that this is a unique case, and with the DNA evidence it would be prudent to concentrate on finding this woman. As a caveat, I would suggest to Erika that we also pursue the line of enquiry that this woman could have been working in tandem with a man. We could ask for members of the public to consider that also.’

‘But this is almost unprecedented. In all my years of police work, we’ve never put in place a hunt for a female serial killer,’ said Oakley.

‘Perhaps you should get out a bit more, sir,’ said Erika. Marsh shot her a look.

‘Very well, it’s your call, Erika. Although I will be monitoring this very closely,’ said Oakley.

E
rika left
the meeting and walked down the stairs to the incident room, buoyed by her victory. She heard the door open on the floor above. Looking up, she saw Marsh, and stopped to let him catch up with her. They met on the landing, where a huge glass window looked out over the vast sprawl of Greater London. Dark clouds were forming on the horizon.

‘Thank you for your support, sir,’ said Erika. ‘We’ll get to work on the
Crimewatch
reconstruction.’

‘It’s a big opportunity, a television reconstruction. Don’t blow it.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Erika. I’m fifty–fifty about whether this is a female killer, but, as I say, it’s your call.’

‘I have a good track record, sir. You know I’m rarely wrong about these things. I always deliver.’

‘I know.’

‘So, speaking of my track record, any more news on the promotion?’

‘Catch this crazy bitch, and then we’ll talk promotions,’ said Marsh. ‘Now, I have to go. Keep me in the loop.’

He left Erika standing on the stairs, looking out over the city through the tall glass window.

It’s funny how much we have in common, the killer and me
,
thought Erika.
We’re both being doubted for our abilities as women.

A
few days later
, Erika and Moss were in Laurel Road, watching as the
Crimewatch
television reconstruction was being filmed. The heatwave had broken that morning, and the rain was torrential, hammering with a roar on top of two large BBC Television vans, which were parked at the top of the street.

Erika and Moss sheltered in front of one of the vans under a giant umbrella, and watched as an actor who had been cast to play Gregory Munro rehearsed walking along the street and going into 14 Laurel Road. A cameraman followed behind him, swathed in a vast rain poncho of clear plastic, a Steadicam strapped to his body with a black metal harness. The rest of the television crew were bunched together under umbrellas on a wall opposite, and the neighbours who weren’t at work watched curiously from under their porches, sheltered from the rain.

At the bottom of the street, a row of crash barriers had been erected, lined with journalists and members of the public watching the proceedings.

They had been told by the producer and director that it takes a lot for rain to show up on camera, but as Moss and Erika watched the rehearsal, rainwater was surging down the road, spraying over the kerb and making the drains gurgle thirstily.

‘This isn’t exactly going to jog people’s memories of a hot summer night,’ said Erika, taking a drag of her cigarette. A runner, wearing another of the huge, clear rain ponchos, approached them holding a clipboard. With him was a small, dark-haired girl wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a black jumper. They were both huddled under a large umbrella.

‘Hello, which one of you is DCI Foster?’ asked the young guy.

‘That’s me,’ said Erika, adding, ‘This is Detective Inspector Moss.’

They all shook hands.

‘I’m Tom, and this is Lottie Marie Harper, she’s been cast as the murderer.’

The young girl was petite, with compact features and poker-straight hair. She had a small mouth which, when she smiled, showed a row of bottom teeth.

‘This is rather odd,’ said Lottie, speaking with a refined accent. She reached up and checked that her dark hair was still fixed in the topknot. ‘I’ve never played a real killer before. What else can you tell me? My agent really wasn’t all that specific…’

Erika looked over at the young runner.

‘It’s okay, we’ve had her sign the release and the confidentiality agreement,’ he said.

Erika nodded. ‘Okay. She’s very methodical. We believe she prepares quite thoroughly, checking out the houses she’s going to target days in advance. She’s broken in to the houses on both occasions and lain in wait for the victims, waiting for them to drink or eat something she has laced with a sedative.’

‘You’re kidding!’ said Lottie, putting a small, immaculately manicured hand up to her small mouth.

‘Afraid not,’ said Moss.

‘I just can’t imagine someone breaking into my flat, let alone someone doing it several times to learn things about me…’

Moss pulled out the plastic file from under her arm and found the picture of the killer under Jack Hart’s bed. It had been digitally enhanced to show as much of a close-up as possible of the crouching figure. It was chilling. The bottom of her face was visible, but from her nose upwards her face vanished into shadow. The mouth was small and almost identical to that of the young actress.

‘They’ve got the bottom half of the face right,’ said Erika, holding up the picture beside Lottie. ‘I take it you’ll do some close-ups?’

‘The director will do, yes,’ said the young runner.

Lottie took the photo from Moss and looked at it in silence for a moment. There was a crackling sound as rain hit the umbrellas.

‘And it all happened, for real, in that house,’ she said, looking over her shoulder at number 14.

‘Yes. And we’re going to get her with your help today,’ said Moss. ‘Are you sure you’re okay with this? You look far too sweet and kind to be a killer.’

‘I trained at RADA, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art,’ said Lottie, a little sniffily, handing the photo back to Moss. There was an awkward pause, broken only when the director came over. He was a tall, ebullient-looking man with a red face.

‘Okay, we’re ready to start,’ he said. ‘We’ve got three hours, and then we’ll be moving the unit over to Dulwich to shoot the second murder sequence.’

They went away, leaving Erika and Moss under their umbrella. The sound of the rain increased on the van behind.

‘Does it worry you, that we think a tiny woman like that is our killer?’ asked Moss. ‘You’ve seen what they’ve been writing in the press.’

‘I just find it odd that if we investigate a rape or a murder committed by a man, it’s a given. Men rape women – they murder them, too – and people don’t seem to think they need much of a “reason” to do it… But if a woman does the same, there’s all this soul-searching from society, endless opinions as to the whys and the wherefores…’

Moss nodded. ‘And this one fits the profile for a female serial killer. When women kill, it tends to be far more pre-meditated and well-planned. And poisoning is often a tool of the female multiple murderer.’

‘Although this one couples it with violence, and she stalks her victims at night,’ added Erika.

‘The “Night Stalker”…That was in
the Sun
today.’

‘I saw it,’ said Erika, turning to look at Moss.

‘It’s good. I wish I’d thought it up,’ grinned Moss.

‘Yeah, well, I’ll remind you of that in the future, when it comes back to haunt us,’ said Erika.

They stared down the street as distant thunder began to rumble and Lottie rehearsed with the cameraman and the director. At the bottom of the road, behind a crash barrier, the banks of photographers snapped away, and members of the public gawked with their camera phones. Coupled with the lookalike actors, and the film crew, it all seemed farcical, reduced to pantomime.

‘Does it worry you we might have it wrong?’ asked Moss.

‘Yes,’ said Erika. ‘But everything worries me. It’s my instinct I have to listen to. My instinct is telling me that this could be our killer. And seeing herself on screen might prompt her to do something stupid and slip up.’

Her phone rang. She pulled it out of her bag and answered.

‘Boss, it’s Crane… You got a moment?’ he asked.

‘What is it?’

‘Do you remember the rent boy who visited Gregory Munro, JordiLevi?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I went ahead and contacted one of our covert Internet investigators, who set up a fake profile on Rentboiz. They’ve been messaging back and forth with him, pretending to be a punter. He wants to meet. Today.’

‘Where?’

‘The Railway pub in Forest Hill, at four o’clock this afternoon.’

‘Great work, Crane. I’ll meet you there at quarter to four,’ said Erika. She came off the phone and relayed the info to Moss.

‘I’ll stay here and supervise our serial killer,’ said Moss, looking over at Lottie, who was now waiting under an umbrella as a lady in a rain poncho applied make-up.

‘Yeah, I bet you will,’ grinned Erika, rolling her eyes.