It was only the cold breeze and the knowledge that Keith was waiting back in his flat that made her get up off the cold sand.
As she walked back along the beach, she saw the rows of houses and bed and breakfasts stretching away to where her hotel sat on the end of the prom. She came up off the beach via the steps and stopped in front of Keith’s flat. The windows above were lit up, and the twang of a sitar and smell of weed wafted down, but Keith’s windows were in darkness. She was about to knock on the door, when she pulled back her hand. Keith always left the lights on. He was scared of the dark.
Erika stepped off the small front path and into the square of concrete with the wheelie bins. She moved to the front bay window and saw that it was open. She peered into the darkness. A smell of damp and disinfectant wafted out.
She made a decision, hauled herself up onto the windowsill and climbed inside.
83
Erika stood inside Keith’s dark bedroom and listened. The air was thick with heat and dust. She tried to tune out the muffled music coming from the flat above, but couldn’t hear anything beyond the bedroom door. She moved past the gloomy bulk of Keith’s hospital bed and into the hallway. There was a pool of light cast through the glass in the front door, but as she crept down the hall she moved into the shadows. She passed the door to the second bedroom, which was ajar – she could just see the two wheelchairs, silent and empty. The two large wheelchairs loomed in the shadows.
The music ceased for a moment, and in the silence Erika strained to hear something. Then it started up again: a dull, tuneless throbbing. She kept moving, staying alert, past the wide-open bathroom door. The light pollution from the seafront seeped through a tiny window above the sink, helping her eyes adjust to the murkiness.
Erika stopped and stiffened when she heard a snuffling and then a crackle over the throb of the music. She inched towards the frosted glass door at the end of the hallway and pulled out her phone. As she turned the corner into the living room, she activated the phone’s light.
Erika almost cried out. Standing in the centre of the room was a woman. She was small, with ghostly pale skin, and an uneven bob of coarse black hair. Her eyes were pools of black that contracted rapidly to pinpricks when Erika trained the bright light on her from the camera phone. Beside the woman, she could see Keith slumped back in his chair, arms flopped apart. A plastic bag was tied tight over his head, so tight that the thick lenses of his glasses were mashed into his eye sockets.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Simone,’ the woman sniffed, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘I didn’t want to kill him.’
‘Jesus,’ said Erika, her voice trembling. She moved the light from Keith’s body and trained it directly in Simone’s face, attempting to dazzle her, to give herself enough time to think, but Simone moved fast and Erika suddenly found herself slammed up against the back wall with a knife to her throat.
‘Give me the phone,’ Simone said in her calm, oddly high voice. Erika felt the cold steel prick the skin of her throat. ‘You’ve seen what I can do. I’m not bluffing.’
Erika slowly handed over the phone. It took effort to keep her eyes open. Simone was small but stared up at her with a chilling intensity. Simone worked quickly with her free hand. The phone light blinked off and Erika heard the battery hit the carpet with a thud. In the gloom, Simone’s pupils dilated like a crazed drug addict. She dropped the phone and Erika heard it crunch under her foot.
‘Why did you have to come here, Erika Foster? I was going to do this and vanish off the face of the earth. You’d never have heard from me again.’
Erika glanced around the room.
‘No, no, no – you keep your eyes on me,’ said Simone. ‘We’re going over there,’ she added, tilting her head towards Keith’s still, seated form. She loosened her grip a little, but still held the knife to Erika’s throat. They moved in a morbid dance, shuffling around until Erika was next to the wheelchair.
‘Now I’m going to step back, but if you try anything I’ll slash you. I’ll go for your eyes, and your throat. You understand?’
‘Yes,’ gulped Erika. She was sweating and she could smell Keith next to her in the chair, a goaty mix of body odour and shit. Simone moved back to the doorway and flicked on the light. The room blazed bright. She came back, training the knifepoint on Erika.
‘Take the bag off his head,’ said Simone.
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Take it off.’ She advanced on Erika, the blade glinting under the harsh lights.
‘Okay, okay,’ said Erika, putting up her hands. She slowly lifted Keith’s head. His neck was still wet with sweat, and for a moment she thought he might still be alive – but his face was a bloated, bluish purple.
‘Come on, quicker,’ said Simone. Erika started to untie the cord from around his neck, unwinding it, panicking as it seemed to tangle. She loosened and worked the cord until it was free. Keith’s head lifted up, and there was a sucking sound as Erika gently pulled at the plastic. His glasses came too, sliding up off his nose and over his forehead with the plastic bag. His head flopped back against the wheelchair. Simone suddenly came close, and Erika shrank back as she snatched the bag, holding it out.
‘Take out his glasses, and put them back on him,’ Simone said. Erika did so, gently placing them back on the bridge of Keith’s nose, tucking the arms behind his ears.
‘Why did you kill him?’ asked Erika.
‘He had to die because he’d figured me out. He told you.’
‘He didn’t tell me. I worked it out.’
‘He wanted to meet. He’d never wanted to meet before… I’d tried to get him to in the past, but he’d chickened out. I figured you might have made the link. My paranoia was correct… Paranoia doesn’t work in a relationship,’ she finished, looking back at Keith.
‘He loved you,’ said Erika, looking between Keith’s body and Simone.
‘Oh, then that’s all I need, the love of a man,’ said Simone, her mouth curling up with sarcasm.
‘What’s wrong with being loved?’ asked Erika, her mind whirring. She was trying to work out what the woman was planning next, and until then she wanted to keep her talking.
‘The right people never love you back!’ spat Simone. ‘Mothers should love you. Husbands. The people you trust. But they let you down! And once one lets you down, it’s like a domino effect… You become vulnerable, people exploit you, they see a chink in your armour.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Erika, seeing Simone was getting dangerously wound up.
‘No, you’re not. But I bet you understand, don’t you? How did people change around you when your husband died? They see your weakness. They leave you, or they stay and exploit you.’
‘Simone… I understand.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘’So… You see why I did all this. Why I killed the doctor who didn’t believe me when I was in pain and terror; the writer, whose sick creative mind found new and original ways to inspire my torturer; the journalist who was responsible for me being taken away from my mother when I was nine years old…’
‘Jack Hart?’
‘Jack Hart. The man has a name like Hart, but he doesn’t have one! I particularly enjoyed wiping him out. He’d made a career feeding off the misery of others, making money on tears and distress. He thought he was a hero, writing about my mother… exposing my childhood… But I knew how to survive with her, because deep down she loved me, she loved me… And when things got really bad I could connect with that love… I never saw her again, I ended up in a children’s home! Do you know what happens to children when they go to those places?’
‘I can imagine,’ said Erika, shrinking back as Simone hysterically swiped at the air with the point of the knife.
‘NO, you can’t!’
Erika put her hands to her face. ‘I’m sorry, no, I can’t. Please, Simone. It’s over, let me get you some help.’
‘I need help, do I
? There’s nothing wrong with me! I just stopped taking all the shit that was being thrown at me! I wasn’t born like this! I was innocent, but that innocence was torn from me!’
‘Okay,’ said Erika, putting her hands up to protect herself as Simone swiped the knife closer.
‘Come on, be honest, Erika. Wouldn’t you love the opportunity to wipe out all those men, the ones who’ve been the architects of your future? The men who’ve shaped your life for the worse? Jerome Goodman? The drug dealer who killed your husband and your friends? Look me in the eye and tell me that you wouldn’t do to him what I’ve done. Take control and revenge!’
Erika gulped. She felt the sweat on her forehead run down into her eyes and it stung.
‘Tell me! Tell me you’d do the same!’
‘I’d do the same,’ said Erika. As it came out of her mouth she knew she was saying it to stay alive, to keep Simone happy – but she also knew that a part of her understood Simone, and it shook her to the core. She looked around the room, trying to work out how she could get away.
‘Don’t you take your eyes off me!’ shouted Simone.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Erika, frantically trying to think. She knew she was close to death. ‘I know he burnt you, Simone. Your husband. And I’m trying to understand your pain and your anger. Help me to understand even more. Show me.’
Simone started to tremble and tears ran down her cheeks.
‘He ruined me. He ruined my body,’ she said. She grappled at her T-shirt and lifted it. Erika gulped when she saw the angry, swirling mass of scar tissue all across Simone’s stomach and ribs. The skin was shiny and pinched where she’d lost her bellybutton.
‘I’m so sorry, Simone,’ said Erika. ‘I understand. Look at you… Look at you: a brave, brave warrior.’
‘I am, I’m brave…’ sobbed Simone.
‘You are, you’re brave. And you proudly show the scars,’ said Erika.
Simone pulled her T-shirt up higher to show more, and in the split second the fabric moved up to her face, Erika leaned back and kicked into the mass of red scar tissue. Simone doubled over, crying in pain. Erika managed to just get past her, but Simone recovered quickly and was on her. They crashed into the frosted glass door. Erika kicked and fought and managed to get half-up and run halfway along the corridor before Simone caught up with her again.
‘You bitch!’ she cried, launching herself on Erika. They crashed down hard on the concrete floor in the doorway of the bathroom. Erika rolled onto her back as Simone loomed above her and punched her in the face. Simone punched her again and Erika saw stars. She started to black out.
‘You lying cunt,’ hissed Simone. Erika felt herself being dragged across the cold bathroom floor and then she was pulled up into a sitting position with her back against the cold porcelain of the toilet. Simone’s sharp little face was above her, and then Erika’s vision was obscured as the plastic bag was slid over her head. The same bag Simone had used to kill Keith.
Erika heard the plastic crackle with her breathing, the blood roar in her ears, and then felt the cord tighten around her neck. Simone was sitting up on the lid of the toilet. Her legs were either side of Erika and she was pulling on the cord at the same time as her feet were pinning Erika’s arms at her side, keeping her on the floor. Erika gasped and gagged as the bag began to form a vacuum over her head.
‘You are going to die here, and I’m going to leave your body, all alone,’ hissed Simone, her grip now tight.
Erika’s arms flailed uselessly on the floor. Her hand brushed the walls behind the toilet. And then she felt a strip of thick fabric fluttering against the skirting board. It was connected to the huge swinging safety rail. Her fingers scrabbled against it and just managed to grip. Her vision was fading fast, and with a spurt of adrenalin she pulled herself forward. Simone was dragged off the toilet seat, and at the same time Erika yanked down the strip of fabric. The huge safety rail came thundering down with great force and struck Simone on the head.
Simone lost grip of Erika and went crashing to the floor. Erika grabbed at the cord around her neck and managed to loosen it, scrabbling frantically, finally getting the bag off her head. Sucking the glorious clean cold air into her lungs, she yanked on the red emergency cord beside the toilet and an alarm began to sound.
Simone lay on her front on the bathroom floor, starting to shift and moan. Erika yanked the red cord hard again, and it snapped off. She sat on Simone’s legs, pinned her hands behind her back and started to wind the red cord tight around her wrists.
‘I’m arresting you, Simone,’ Erika said breathlessly, struggling to speak, ‘for the murders of Gregory Munro, Jack Hart, Stephen Linley and Keith Hardy… And the assault and attempted murder of a police officer. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
She slumped back, sitting on Simone’s legs and holding on tight to her bound wrists. Her face was throbbing where she’d been punched. As her breathing slowed down, she heard the distant wail of sirens.
84
It was raining lightly over the back garden, and the early morning sky hung grey. Moss and Peterson huddled with Erika in the doorway of her patio window, eating croissants and drinking coffee.
The newspapers were strewn on the floor around them.
‘Now this is what I call a proper British summer: stuck indoors staring out at the rain and pretending to have fun,’ said Moss. It was the first time she and Peterson had seen Erika since Simone had been arrested four days before. ‘That last bit was a joke,’ she added.
‘Thanks for bringing all this over,’ said Erika, lifting up her takeaway cup of coffee.
‘We’re just glad you’re okay, boss,’ said Peterson, bumping his cup against hers.
‘I got punched. I’ve been through worse,’ said Erika.
‘You’ve got quite a shiner, though,’ said Moss, looking at the large purple bruise decorating Erika’s eye and cheek.
‘I’ve never felt more disturbed or conflicted about a killer,’ said Erika. ‘When they took her off on the stretcher, she called for me… Her eyes were full of fear. She said she wanted me to go in the ambulance with her and hold her hand. And I nearly did. Crazy…’
They sipped their coffee.
‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t, boss,’ said Moss. ‘You remember what happened at the end of The Silence of the Lambs? Those people who got in the ambulance with Hannibal Lecter.’
Peterson gave her a look.
‘What? I’m trying to lighten the mood here,’ said Moss.
Erika smiled.
‘It’s like they’re all competing for a name to give Simone Matthews,’ said Peterson, grabbing one of the newspapers off the floor. ‘The Angel of Death… The Night Stalker… The Night Owl’.
‘What was angelic about her?’ asked Moss, taking a gulp of coffee.
‘The Sun has her pictured in her nurse’s uniform,’ replied Peterson, holding up a picture of Simone posing with a group of nurses in a staff kitchen. The nurses at the front were holding a giant cheque for three hundred pounds, money they had raised for Children in Need. Simone was to the left of the group, grinning and holding the cheque. ‘The NHS Trust is now panicking that she’s been bumping off patients, terrified of a lawsuit, I’ve no doubt.’
‘I don’t think she did bump any patients off. She was focused on who she wanted to kill,’ said Erika. She picked up the Daily Express and looked at the article that had disturbed her most. It was Jack Hart’s original account of Simone’s mother, reproduced with details of Simone’s murder spree.
Simone had been brought up in Catford, in a grotty top-floor flat. Her mother, also called Simone, had been a prostitute and drug addict. After several concerned phone calls from neighbours, police had broken in to find that Simone’s mother had been keeping her daughter tied to the radiator in the bathroom. The young Jack Hart had been with the p
olice when they’d broken in. The photo that broke Erika’s heart was of a small, hollow-cheeked girl with bare feet, wearing what looked like a grubby pillowcase. One of her thin arms was tied to a grotty, yellowing radiator and she was looking up at the camera with large, confused eyes.
‘She didn’t have a chance, did she? She just wanted to be loved… To have someone to love.’
‘Come on, boss, you’ll start me off again,’ said Moss, grabbing Erika’s hand. Peterson reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of tissues, handing her one.
‘You always have tissues,’ said Erika, wiping her eyes.
‘He just does it so he can chat up tearful women,’ said Moss.
Peterson rolled his eyes and grinned.
‘Anyway,’ said Erika, recovering her composure, ‘it’s not all bad. You got Gary Wilmslow…’
‘I didn’t get him. I was in control when it happened,’ said Peterson. ‘Armed police swooped on the lock-up in Beckton. They arrested Wilmslow and six associates about to move the hard drives containing images and videos of level-four child pornography, and twelve thousand DVDs containing level-four child porn ready for distribution in Europe.’
‘You think they can nail the bastards and make it stick?’ asked Moss.
‘I hope so,’ said Peterson.
‘How do you think Penny Munro is doing?’ asked Erika.
‘It can’t be easy. First her husband and all this, and then her brother,’ said Peterson.
‘And what about little Peter? How could this screw him up for the future?’ said Erika. They looked back at the photos of the young and old Simone.
Moss looked at her watch. ‘Come on, we should get going. We don’t want to be late for this briefing at the nick,’ grinned Moss.
‘Did Marsh give you any idea why we’ve all be called in?’
The Night Stalker: A chilling serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster Book 2) Page 30