He took a sip. It was cold, but a little flat. He went back to the fridge and saw it was the last bottle. He was sure there had been three left… He pondered this for a moment, flicked off the lights and made his way upstairs.
The living area was still for a moment. There were some bumps and bangs from the bathroom above, and then the shower began. Slowly, a small, compact figure in black slid through the utility room door, bathed in shadows. Moving swiftly, it crossed the kitchen and climbed the stairs, feet placed wide on each step to avoid creaking.
The landing was in darkness, and a shaft of light from the bathroom fell across the carpet. Night Owl moved close to the door, just a pair of eyes gleaming through the slit in the hood.
Jack was well-built with a strong, lithe body. Night Owl watched him in the shower as he lathered up, the shampoo foaming white against his wet hair. A stream of soapy water coursed down his muscular back and between his buttocks. As he showered, Jack began to hum lightly, tunelessly.
‘You disgust me,’ whispered Night Owl. The singing stopped as Jack ducked his head under the water, his wet hair now sleek as a seal.
It was intoxicating to stand and watch, undetected. To think that everyone in the country was talking about this man… this arrogant, selfish, bastard. The water was extinguished with a metallic squeak, and Night Owl ducked swiftly back into the shadows.
Jack came out of the shower, passing his son and daughter’s bedrooms. He kept the doors closed on their empty rooms. With the doors closed, he could pass them each night without feeling a twang of regret and longing. He padded through to the elegant master bedroom, his bottle of Bud in one hand, towel in the other, drying his hair. He sat naked on the edge of the bed, dropping the towel on the carpet. The Bud was quickly getting warm and flat, so he chugged back the last of it and placed the empty on the spare bedside table, on the unoccupied side.
He thought of his wife’s warm, comfortable body. How she’d often be sitting up, pretending to be reading a book when he came home late. The book was always a prop, an excuse for her to be awake so that she could play out her disappointment.
He went to get up and go downstairs for another drink, but his head was suddenly heavy. So were his limbs, and he felt exhausted. He eased himself into a lying position, shuffling round so his head was on the pillow. He reached for the remote control on the side table and flicked on the TV. Footage of him leaving the club on Charlotte Street an hour earlier was running on Sky with a red ‘BREAKING NEWS’ banner across the bottom of the screen: ‘OFCOM TO INVESTIGATE JACK HART CONTROVERSY’.
As he looked around the room, the colour seemed to bloom out of the television news in streaks. Jack lifted his head and the room spun violently. He flopped back on the pillow. He was shivering too, despite the heat. He managed to pull the duvet cover out from underneath him and burrowed under, relishing the warmth.
‘Hang on, hang on,’ he murmured, vaguely aware of the words moving across the screen. The sound from the television rolled over him; the room spun. He jerked his head, as a smear of black seemed to move beside the bed. A flash by the door and it was gone. From somewhere deep in his mind, Jack realised that something wasn’t right. Maybe he had some kind of twenty-four-hour flu thing. Hang on, I should call someone, if I’m being investigated by OFCOM, he thought.
Night Owl worked quickly, moving downstairs and dead-bolting the front door, and then taking a small, neat pair of secateurs and clipping the Internet modem and phone cable next to the landline. The lights on the modem blinked off. Night Owl moved to the thin jacket that Jack had hung up in the hall, pulled out a Blackberry phone from the pocket, swiftly removed the SIM card and dropped the phone on the floor, pressing a heel against it as the screen buckled and cracked.
The final task was flicking off the mains electricity. The security panel beeped, and Night Owl keyed in the PIN, then absorbed the silence. The faint sound of a groan floated down from above. Night Owl placed a hand on the bannister and slowly began to climb back up the stairs.
The room now spun violently for Jack, as he lay in bed. It took him a few moments to realise that the television was now dark and silent, and so was his bedroom. Panic seemed to be just beyond his reach, a fuzzy, far-off emotion. His mind went back to his wife, Marie. He reached out to touch her side of the bed in the darkness and was confused. Where was she?
He felt the mattress move and flatten beside him; someone had climbed into bed. He reached his arm out and felt a warm body.
‘Marie?’ he croaked into the silence. He groped around and felt flesh under thin clothing. ‘Marie? When did you come home?’ Despite the drugs in his blood, he remembered she was gone. She’d left him. Moved out with the kids. He stiffened and tried to pull away.
‘Shhhhhh… Just relax,’ said a voice. It wasn’t Marie’s voice. It was sharp and had a strange high tone to it.
Jack tried to get away, the bed tipping and lurching underneath him. His limbs had no strength or coordination. He grabbed at the landline on his bedside table, knocking it to the floor. He then felt the person climb onto his back, and he was turned over onto his front. His limbs flopped helplessly as he tried to fight, but swift, strong hands fastened his wrists together and then flipped him back over.
Jack tried to shout, but his mouth was slack; his voice came out slurred and weak: ‘Whouw harrr ou?’
‘Just someone who wants fifteen minutes of fame,’ laughed the voice. Jack heard the sound of a zipper and a crackle, and then a plastic bag slowly slid over his head. The hands moved fast, pulling at what felt like a drawstring, and Jack felt it gather and tighten around his neck. He started to breathe faster, and the plastic crackled and closed in around his head, growing tighter against his skin. One eye was clamped shut, but the other was trapped open by the plastic. And then there was no more air to breathe.
Night Owl held on fast to the plastic bag, enjoying the sounds: the rattling gasps and retching. Jack carried on thrashing, his strength increasing with his will to live. Night Owl felt an explosion of pain as Jack’s head jerked up and made contact with Night Owl’s face. Night Owl increased the pressure, pulling the cord around Jack’s neck tighter, and bringing a fist up and slamming it down on the squashed, contorted face underneath.
One of Jack’s last thoughts were that the photographers might still be outside, and what a great story this was going to be.
Finally, with a shudder and a weak whimper, Jack was still. Night Owl lay with Jack’s body for several minutes, watching, breathing through the euphoria, shaking with excitement.
Then Night Owl rose silently and slipped out of the house like a shadow.
28
It was early the next morning and, despite the hour, the heatwave had intensified. It seemed to have permeated the walls of Lewisham Row station. Despite the fans being on full power, the incident room was roasting. Moss was standing in front of the whiteboards, addressing Erika and the team.
‘There were no prints found on the picture frame in 14 Laurel Road, but we have had a positive ID on one of the young men seen by Gregory Munro’s neighbours opposite,’ she said. ‘Last night, Marie and Claude Morris were able to give us this e-fit image.’
Erika and the rest of the officers regarded the face which had joined the photos of Gregory Munro and Gary Wilmslow. It was of a young man with dark hair swept back off a high forehead and a lean, handsome face.
Moss went on, ‘DC Warren decided to broaden his horizons and spent the best part of the night cruising profiles on rent boy websites…’
There were several wolf whistles, and Warren rolled his eyes and blushed.
‘And we now have this…’
Moss pinned up a profile photo from a website called RentBoiz. It was remarkably similar to the e-fit image. The handsome young man who stared into the camera had the addition of green eyes and designer stubble. Moss paused and wiped her forehead with her rolled-up sleeve, and nodded over to Warren.
He stood, a little shyly. ‘Um, okay
. His profile name is JordiLevi and on the website it says he’s eighteen years old and London-based. He charges £250 an hour, and it seems that he’ll do most things if the money is right. Of course, he doesn’t give his real name or an address. I got in contact with the website administrator, who said that registration is anonymous, so no joy there, but I’ll keep working on it.’
Moss gave him a wink and he sat back down. ‘Now, we can all agree that this looks like the same guy.’ She indicated the e-fit and JordiLevi’s profile picture. ‘I think this could be a real breakthrough for us.’
There was a round of applause. Erika got up from where she perched by the printers, her heart heavy.
‘This is great work, Moss and Warren, thank you. But I have to let you know that after careful review with Detective Chief Superintendent Marsh and the Assistant Commissioner it has been decided that this is a case for one of the Murder Investigation Teams who specialise in sexually motivated murders,’ explained Erika. ‘I’d like you all to ready your files and the data gathered so far, and this afternoon the case will be transferred over.’
‘Boss, can’t you see how huge this is? If we can track down this JordiLevi, he could be our direct link to the Gregory Munro murder. He could have witnessed something!’ said Moss.
‘We just need time, boss,’ added Crane, ‘and we wouldn’t need much. We’re gonna set up a fake punter profile on RentBoiz and arrange a meeting with this JordiLevi. He might be able to give us an e-fit of whoever it was who called round at Gregory Munro’s house and we’d have our suspect.’
‘I’m sorry, this isn’t a debate,’ said Erika. Moss sat back in her chair, folding her arms in frustration. ‘I don’t like this any more than you all do. Please have your reports and all data relating to the case ready by noon.’
There were a chorus of protests and Erika left the incident room. She went out in the corridor to the coffee machine, fed in the correct change and pressed the worn and faded ‘cappuccino’ button, but nothing happened. She thumped her fist against it and thumped it again and again, taking out her frustration on the stupid machine. She didn’t hear Moss approach.
‘All right, boss? Having a spot of caffeine rage?’
Erika turned and nodded.
‘Stand back.’
Erika stepped back and Moss raised a booted foot and kicked the machine under the picture of a steaming coffee cup which adorned the front. There was a beep, then a cup plopped out into the dispenser and began to fill.
‘You’ve got to aim for the saucer,’ said Moss.
‘Brilliant work, detective,’ said Erika. ‘Is there no end to your talents?’
‘I have to say that it also works with tea, and sometimes if you press the soup button.’
‘There’s a soup button?’
‘Yes, oxtail soup. I wouldn’t risk it.’
Erika grinned weakly and took her coffee out of the dispenser.
‘Can I ask you something, boss? Do you really think this case is better off with another team?’
Erika blew on her coffee. ‘Yes, I do.’ She hated not being able to talk to Moss about this. She’d always been loyal and a wise sounding board.
‘I hear there’s a superintendent promotion up for grabs,’ said Moss. ‘Nothing to do with you wanting to get rid of a tricky case, is it?’
‘I thought you knew me, Moss. That’s not my style.’
‘Good. So why, then? I know you. You don’t give up a case easily. You’re very Charlton Heston about it.’
‘What?’
‘“From my cold, dead hands”,’ said Moss, in a bad American accent. There was a pause. ‘Come on, boss, we’re bloody close, after banging our heads against the wall for so long.’
‘Moss, I’ve said all I want to say about this. My decision is final.’
‘Okay, okay. You can’t talk about it. What if you blink once for yes and twice for no?’
‘Moss…’ said Erika, shaking her head.
‘If you can’t tell me what’s going on, can I at least tell you what I think is going on?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘I think that we’re overwhelmed with cases and Marsh is under pressure to massage his figures. This case is getting more complex and a bit of a hot potato. He’s offloading it.’
‘Moss…’
‘I think that the only way we’ll find a motive is when a pattern emerges. For a pattern to emerge, there has to be another body.’
‘That figures.’
‘And I just know what’s going to happen when this case is out of our hands. If there’s another body, it will be classed as a gay bashing, and there will be no end of fear-mongering and debate about the gay community. There are ten times more murders committed by straight people. When men rape and kill women, people think they’re evil. But when someone gay does the same thing, it’s seen as an extension of their sexuality! Of their lifestyle as a whole!’
Erika had been watching Moss quietly as she got increasingly worked up.
‘Sorry, boss. It’s just… I’m sick of it. We were just getting started on this. If we’re overworked, then things are going to be no different in one of the other Murder Investigation teams? And I knew this case was in a good pair of hands with you. I can already see the headlines: “Gay Bashing in Suburbia”, “Gay Terror in the London Commuter Belt!”’
‘I didn’t know this was so personal to you.’
‘Not directly… Jacob’s school did a whole Father’s Day card-making exercise the other week, and his stupid teacher – who also happens to be married to the vicar – couldn’t get her head around the fact that he has two mothers. She got him to make a card for his daddy who was “out there somewhere”. Celia had to restrain me from going up there and slapping her. ’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Shit happens. I just hoped I’d get to see this case through. And I hoped you would. You don’t take shit and you always know when to do the right thing. Well, until…’
Erika saw Moss had caught herself before she said ‘until now’. They stood in silence for a moment.
‘Do you know where Peterson is today?’ asked Erika.
‘He called in sick, boss.’
‘Did he say what was wrong?’
Moss paused just long enough to show Erika she knew something, then said, ‘No, boss, he didn’t. I’ll make sure everyone has their reports ready for you by noon.’
‘Thanks,’ said Erika. Realising that they both wanted to say things they couldn’t, she watched as Moss made her way back into the incident room.
29
The rest of the morning passed in a depressing haze of an overheated incident room, and the dismantling of an investigation that had got under Erika’s skin.
What Moss had said kept running through Erika’s mind. From my cold, dead hands… Here she was, with an incredible lead in the Gregory Munro murder, her team poised to work their arses off, and she was going to give up on the case! Just before one, Erika was still sitting at her desk, staring at the computer screen, when Moss came over.
‘Boss…’
‘Yeah?’
‘Did you send the case files over yet?’
Erika looked up, ‘No. Why?’
‘We’ve had a call come in from uniform. White male, found naked and asphyxiated in bed in a house in Dulwich. No signs of forced entry or a struggle. Preliminary ID is that it’s Jack Hart.’
‘Why do I know that name?’
‘He hosts The Jack Hart Show, tabloid TV for the unemployed and stay-at-home parents. Celia watches it.’
‘And uniform think it’s the same guy who killed Gregory Munro?’
‘Uniform is waiting for someone from the murder investigation, but it sounds like him. Is this still our case?’
‘Yeah. Officially, it’s still our investigation. Let’s get over there,’ said Erika.
30
Jack Hart’s house was in an upmarket area of Dulwich, South London. The road climbed steeply, and then
fell sharply away. A police cordon had closed off the road, and beyond it they could see five police cars, an ambulance and two large support vans blocking the street. Erika parked close to where three uniformed officers were manning the police tape cordon. A crowd was growing on the pavement in front, holding cameras and mobile phones aloft.
‘Christ, word travels fast,’ said Erika, when she and Moss got out of the car. They pushed their way through the crowd, which was made up of a large group of teenagers, a cluster of elderly ladies and a woman clutching a tiny dark-haired baby.
‘Is it Jack Hart?’ shouted a lad with ginger hair.
‘That’s Jack Hart’s house. I’ve seen him around,’ added a young girl with a pierced lip.
‘This is a crime scene, turn off your camera phones,’ said Erika.
‘It’s not illegal to film in public,’ said a small, ratty-haired girl with a pink fluffy handbag, and for emphasis she held up her phone to Erika’s face. ‘Smile: you’re on YouTube.’
‘What about having some respect? This is a crime scene,’ replied Moss, evenly. The elderly ladies remained silent, just watching.
‘He was a right bastard, Jack Hart. He good as killed that Megan Fairchild. He exploited people, so why shouldn’t I exploit him?’ asked a boy with a shaved head. Emboldened by his statement, more of the teenagers started to hold up their mobile phones.
‘Get this lot moved further back,’ said Erika to one of the officers.
‘But this is the police tape cordon,’ he replied.
‘Then use your common sense: move the cordon further back!’ snapped Erika.
Just then, a Sky News van arrived with a large satellite dish perched on the roof and parked on the opposite side of the road.
The Night Stalker: A chilling serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster Book 2) Page 12