The Night Stalker (6 page)

‘Yeah,’ agreed Erika. They watched him smoking a cigarette as Peter watered the grass. He looked up and stared at them.

‘Let’s leave him for a bit,’ said Erika. ‘See what he does. He’s a possible suspect, but we need much more.’

I
t was
late afternoon on the geriatric ward at the Queen Anne Hospital in London. Nurse Simone Matthews sat in one of the few single rooms leading off the ward. Beside her, in a hospital bed, lay an elderly lady called Mary. Her thin sleeping form barely made an impression underneath the blue blanket that was neatly tucked around her. Her face was gaunt and jaundiced, and through her slack mouth her breathing was ragged.

It wouldn’t be long now.

The Queen Anne Hospital was housed in a decaying red-brick building, and the geriatric ward could be a dark and challenging place. Watching people unravel both mentally and physically took its toll on the senses. Two nights previously, Simone had been tasked with bathing an old man, who up until then had been a model patient. Without warning, he had punched her in the face. She’d been sent for an X-ray, but luckily her jaw hadn’t been fractured. Sister had told her to take a couple of days off, to rest and get over the shock, but Simone had been stoic, insisting on coming back for her next shift.

Work was everything to Simone, and she wanted to be with Mary, to sit with her until the end. The two women had never spoken. Mary had been on the ward for ten days, and had been drifting in and out of consciousness. Her organs failing, her body slowly shutting down. No family or friends had visited, but Simone had built up a picture of her from the personal effects stowed in the small locker by the bed.

Mary had collapsed at a supermarket, and had been admitted wearing a threadbare dress and old gardening shoes. She carried with her a small black handbag. There wasn’t much inside, just a tin of peppermints and a bus pass, but in a zip-up pocket in the lining Simone had found a small, creased black-and-white photo.

It had been taken in a park on a sunny day. Underneath a tree, a beautiful young woman sat on a tartan blanket, a long skirt bunched around her legs. Her waist was trim and the swell of her bosom under her crisp white blouse showed an enviable hour-glass figure. Even though the photo was black and white, Simone guessed Mary had been a redhead – it was something about the way the sun shone on her long curly hair. Beside Mary was a dark-haired man. He was good-looking, with a hint of danger and excitement about him. He squinted into the sun, with one of his arms slung around Mary’s small waist, gripping her protectively. On the back was written:
With my dearest George, Bromley, summer 1961
.

There was one other picture of Mary, from the ID photo on her bus pass. It had been taken three years previously. Mary stared fearfully into the camera against a stark white background, a rabbit caught in the headlights: limp grey hair, her face creased and lined.

What happened to Mary between 1961 and 2013?
thought Simone.
And where was George?
As far as she could tell, they hadn’t lived happily ever after. From the medical records, she could see that Mary had never married. She had no children or dependents.

From the bed, Mary spluttered. Her sunken mouth slowly opened and closed and her breathing caught for a moment, before settling back into its ragged rhythm.

‘It’s okay, Mary, I’m here,’ said Simone, reaching out and taking her hand. Mary’s arm was thin, the skin loose and covered with dark stain-like bruises, from repeated attempts to find a vein to connect the IV line.

Simone checked the small silver watch pinned to the front of her uniform and saw her shift was coming to an end. She took a hairbrush from the locker beside the bed and began to brush Mary’s hair, first away from her high forehead, then supporting her head so she could reach the rest in long strokes. As the brush moved, the thin silver strands glowed in the sunlight coming through the small window.

As she brushed, Simone wished that Mary could have been her mother, wished she would open her eyes and tell her that she loved her. She’d loved George, Simone could see that in the photo, and she was sure Mary could love her too. A different kind of love, of course. The love a mother has for her daughter.

Simone’s mother’s face flashed across her mind, causing her hands to tremble so badly that she dropped the hairbrush.

‘ONE OF THE WORSE CASES OF CHILD NEGLECT EVER SEEN!’
the newspaper headlines had screamed. Ten-year-old Simone had been found by a neighbour after her mother had gone away on holiday, leaving Simone chained to the bathroom radiator. The neighbour, and the journalist she’d contacted, thought they’d saved Simone’s life, but life in the children’s home had been worse. When her mother had finally returned from holiday, she’d shown up at the home unannounced and the police had been called. Simone’s mother ran before they could arrest her. Later that night she’d jumped off Tower Bridge and drowned in the freezing Thames. Simone liked to think her mother had killed herself out of guilt, but she couldn’t be sure.

Simone picked up the hairbrush and forced her shaking hands to relax. ‘There, you look lovely, Mary,’ she said, stepping back to admire her work. Mary’s thin hair was neat, the silver strands now fanned out on the crisp white pillow. Simone put the hairbrush back in the locker.

‘Now I’m going to read to you,’ said Simone, reaching behind the plastic chair and rummaging in her bag for the local newspaper.

She started with the horoscopes – she knew from the medical notes Mary was a Leo – and then she read out her own. Simone was a Libra. She then turned to the front page and read out the story about the doctor from South London who had been found strangled in his bed. When she’d finished, Simone put the newspaper down on her lap.

‘Mary, I’ve never been able to understand men. I never know what my husband, Stan, is thinking… Stan, it’s short for Stanley. He’s like a closed book. It makes me feel lonely. I’m glad I’ve got you… You understand me, don’t you?’

Mary carried on sleeping. She was far away, back in the sunny park, sitting on the blanket with George, the man who had broken her heart.

E
rika
, Moss and Peterson arrived back at Lewisham Row station just before 6 p.m., and they regrouped in the incident room.

‘So, Gregory Munro seems to elude us,’ said Erika, addressing her officers in front of the whiteboards. ‘His mother thinks he’s a saint; his wife paints him as sexually confused, and tightly wound. We visited his medical practice and ran into two of his patients, who have vastly different opinions of his bedside manner… I also spent half an hour on the phone with his practice manager who, after hearing her boss was dead, went off to Brighton for the day for some bar-hopping in the sun. She’s worked for him for fifteen years, and she had no knowledge of his impending divorce, or that his wife left him three months ago.’

‘He compartmentalises his life, then?’ said Crane.

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ said Erika. ‘We’ve requested details of any feedback or complaints made against him by patients. The practice manager wasn’t too keen, but I mentioned a warrant and she changed her tune. She should have it sent over by tomorrow morning at the latest.’

Erika turned and regarded a new addition to the whiteboard. A mugshot of Gary Wilmslow. In the photo he had a little more hair on his head, and stared into the camera with a glowering face and bags under his eyes.

‘So, the closest we’ve got to a suspect so far is the victim’s brother-in-law, Gary Wilmslow. There’s a motive: he hated Gregory and they’d had several run-ins. And his sister will inherit Gregory’s considerable estate. As a family, Gary, Penny and their mother seem as thick as thieves, if you excuse the pun. What have we got on Gary?’

The atmosphere in the incident room changed as Detective Chief Superintendent Marsh entered. Officers sat up straighter and looked more alert. Marsh perched on the long table of printers and indicated to Erika that she should keep going.

Crane stood up. ‘Okay, Gary Wilmslow, aged thirty-seven. Born in Shirley, South London. Currently works sixteen hours part-time as a bouncer at a nightclub in Peckham… Just enough hours for him to still claim benefits. He’s a charming individual, with a record as thick as a Miss Universe contestant,’ he said, dryly. He put his biro between his teeth and rooted around on his desk, locating a large file, which he opened. ‘Wilmslow was tried as a juvenile in 1993, for an attack on an old man at a bus stop on Neasden High Street. The old man was in a coma for three days but recovered to give evidence. Gary spent three years in Feltham Young Offender Institution for that one. Then in 1999 he was tried and found guilty of GBH and ABH, spent eighteen months inside. Did another two years from 2004 to 2006 for dealing drugs.’ Crane was flicking through pages in the thick file. ‘He got another eighteen months in 2006 for attacking a man in a snooker hall in Sydenham with a pool cue. He was charged with rape in 2008, but the charges were dropped due to insufficient evidence. He was then tried for manslaughter last year.’

‘That was whilst he was working as a bouncer?’ asked Erika.

‘Yeah, he works at the H20 nightclub in Peckham, or
Haitch Twenty
, as it’s known – and hated – by uniform division at the weekends. Gary Wilmslow’s barrister argued that he was acting in self-defence, and he was given a two-year sentence. He got out after one year and is currently on licence… What’s interesting is that his barrister was paid for by none other than Gregory Munro.’

Erika went back to the whiteboard and looked at Gary’s photo. The officers leaned back in chairs and there was a silence as they chewed it over.

‘Okay. So Gary Wilmslow’s a scumbag. He’s got a record as long as a crocodile’s arse, but did he do this?’ asked Erika, tapping the crime scene photos of Gregory Munro lying dead on his bed, arms bound to the headboard, his head misshapen through the plastic bag.

‘Gary Wilmslow’s also given us an alibi,’ said Crane.

‘He’s taking the piss with that alibi: they all stayed in watching TV!’ said Peterson, barely disguising his hatred.

‘Okay, but remember he’s out on licence and Penny is very protective. Please let’s not jump to conclusions,’ said Erika.

‘Boss! Look at his record, he’s more than capable. I say we bring him in.’

‘I hear you, Peterson, but this murder was planned very carefully and executed with real skill, leaving virtually no forensic evidence. Gary Wilmslow is an angry little thug.’ Erika took the file from Crane and flicked through. ‘All of these crimes were spur of the moment – violent, impetuous outbursts of anger.’

‘The motive of inheriting Gregory’s money is very strong,’ said Peterson. ‘Three London properties, a medical practice. Have we looked into life insurance? Gregory Munro would most probably have damn good coverage. And then there was the personal hatred towards him. The means of entry could have been
staged
,’ said Peterson.

‘Okay, I hear you,’ said Erika. ‘But we need more evidence if we are going to bring him in.’

DC Warren stood up.

‘Yes. What have you got?’ asked Erika.

‘Boss. We’ve had more stuff back from the lab. Four fibres have been lifted from the fence wire at the bottom of the garden; they are all from a piece of black clothing, a cotton Lycra mix. There’s been no luck with lifting any bodily fluids, though.’

‘What about behind the house? The railway line?’

‘Um, there’s a nature reserve,’ Warren stuttered, unnerved by Marsh’s silent presence watching from the back of the incident room. ‘It’s small, but it was created seven years ago by some local residents. It runs a quarter of a mile along the train tracks in the London-bound direction and then stops at Honor Oak Road before the train station… I’ve already requested CCTV from South West Trains on the night of the murder.’

‘How far does the nature reserve go in the other direction?’ asked Erika.

‘A hundred yards past Gregory Munro’s house, and it’s a dead end. I’ve requested CCTV from the surrounding streets, although regular surveillance has been withdrawn from several of the cameras in the area.’

‘Let me guess, austerity cuts?’ asked Erika.

DC Warren again stuttered his response. ‘Umm, I’m not sure of the exact reason…’

‘I can’t comprehend how the idiots in government think that getting rid of CCTV cameras is somehow helping to save money…’ started Erika.

Marsh interrupted. ‘DCI Foster, this is something that’s happening all over London. There just aren’t the resources to man the thousands of CCTV cameras across the capital.’

‘Yes, and these same CCTV cameras were down eighteen months ago when we were trying to track down a killer. It would have saved thousands of hours of police time and resources if we’d had access to the images on just one camera…’

‘I hear you, but this isn’t the forum,’ said Marsh. ‘Now, I think you should continue.’

There was an awkward pause. Officers looked at the floor. Then Erika went on, ‘Okay. Pull all the CCTV you can. See if there were any suspicious-looking characters hanging around. Anything: height, weight… If he arrived by train, bike, bus, car…’

‘Yes, boss,’ said DC Warren.

‘How are we doing with the door-to-door, and pulling the bank and phone records of the victim?’ asked Erika.

DC Singh stood up. ‘Lots of people on Laurel Road are away on holiday, and plenty more were out on the night of the murder. With this weather, people have been going to parks and pubs after work, staying out late. Also, Gregory Munro’s neighbours on either side are on holiday until the weekend.’

‘So you’re saying no one saw anything?’ snapped Erika, impatiently.

‘Erm, no…’

‘Bloody hell. What else?’

‘Gregory Munro had an annual salary of £200,000. This is partly due to him running one of the largest and most profitable GP surgeries in the south of England. No debt, apart from an eighty grand mortgage on the main residence in Laurel Road. He also owns a house in New Cross Gate, which he rents out to students, and the house in Shirley, where Penny Munro now lives. Phone records are fairly straightforward, nothing unusual. He did phone his wife three days before he was due to go away, as she stated. And all his records check out. He was flying to Nice to attend a conference with the BMA.’

‘Was he a member of any gay sites or apps?’

‘He did download the Grindr app a month ago. It was found on his phone, but he didn’t complete the profile.’

‘What about a solicitor? Who’s dealing with the divorce?’

‘I’ve left him several messages today. But he hasn’t got back yet.’

‘Okay, keep on him.’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Singh, sitting back down, looking despondent.

The officers watched Erika as she paced up and down in front of the whiteboards.

‘It’s Gary Wilmslow, boss. I think we should bite the bullet. Bring the scumbag in,’ said Peterson.

‘No. It’s not enough right now that’s he’s a scumbag.’

‘Boss!’

‘No, Peterson. If and when we bring him in, I want to be sure and I want evidence to back it up, okay?’

Peterson sat back, shaking his head.

‘You can shake your head all you want. Don’t let your personal feelings cloud your judgement. When the time is right, if it’s right, then we’ll get him. Okay?’

Peterson nodded.

‘Good. Now, has anyone else got anything for me?’

There was silence. Erika checked her watch.

‘Okay… Let’s refocus this on Gary Wilmslow, with an open mind. Someone check out his employer, and do some digging. Work your contacts.’

The incident room burst into chatter and Marsh came over. ‘Erika, have you got time for a chat when you’re done?’

‘Yeah, I think we’ll be a few more hours, sir.’

‘No worries, give me a shout when you’re done and we can grab a coffee,’ said Marsh, moving off to the door.

‘You want to buy me
two
coffees in one day?’ muttered Erika suspiciously to herself. ‘What’s that all about?’.