Stalked

by Chris Smith

  ‘He’s not a mystery man, Dad.’ Libby spoke to the first policeman, ‘I think he may still be here, officer, out the back. Come and I’ll show you.’

  The two policemen scoured the backyard, over the fences, behind the shed, up along the side of the house and back over the neighbouring fences again. Libby’s mother stood by her daughter on the patio and held her tight. It was useless; Hopkins had either vanished or he’d found a well-disguised hiding place. Libby needed to prove he’d been stalking, if there was even a way of doing such a thing. It seemed hopeless—this was his modus operandi; he’d frighten the living daylights out of her, get away with it, then do it again, just for the thrill of it.

  ‘I’m sorry she dragged you gentlemen all the way out here to play hide and seek,’ her father joked. ‘But she’s had an ugly break-up recently and, well, all is not well I fear.’

  Libby had no comeback. The officers offered a half smile in reply and then bid their farewells.

  ‘Before you go,’ Libby said, ‘I want it noted that I truly believe he was here, because he was.’

  ‘Okay, ma’am, not a problem. It’s noted,’ said one of the officers, pulling out his notebook and pen.

  After the officers had left, Libby refused to go anywhere near her bedroom. Her mother agreed to stay up with her, until the sun came up if need be. Libby regarded the dawn as the only sign that the coast was clear. She was prepared to watch as many corny repeated American soapies as she needed to, until she was satisfied Hopkins would not return. Each time her mother nodded off, Libby cleared her throat to keep her awake. They raided the tea tin until it was empty and kept the lights on throughout the house.

  As soon as the birds began chirping and the darkness outside was softened by the beginning of day, she said thanks to her mum, kissed her on the forehead and went back to her bedroom to sleep. Sleeping in daylight shifts was the only combat tactic that she could conjure up for now.

  After sleeping until two in the afternoon, she called Shane and asked him to come to Balgowlah. He’d just returned from interstate and was eager to catch up with Libby. When he arrived, she gave him a run-down of recent events.

  ‘What do I do, Shane? What the hell do I do? I can’t live anywhere without Phillip finding me. He scares me senseless. The police are no help; my father and now maybe mum think I’m overreacting and all I can do to stop this stalker is stay up all night and sleep all day. I’ll lose my job soon and one night, somewhere, he’ll get me again and I know he’ll hurt me. He’s already done it. He’s hopelessly obsessed. How can I be this helpless?’

  The pair was sitting on the patio watching the harsh afternoon sun sink in the west over the back fence. Both sat forward nervously in their seats. Libby leaned her head on her hand, partially covering her face.

  ‘Well, I don’t think I have any magical solutions—but you could stay at my place,’ he said.

  It was the second time Shane had made the offer. Libby instantly detected awkwardness between them. Was he being helpful, or just using her problems as a way of starting up some kind of relationship? Or was she so paranoid that she couldn’t even trust her closest friends? She gave it little further thought and concluded that she was being unfair to Shane.

  ‘I could, I guess,’ she said finally. ‘But that’s just putting a bandaid on the situation,’ she said.

  ‘Why? Do you think he’ll keep doing this?’ asked Shane. ‘Unless he’s a dead set professional at this stuff. He’s a sick mongrel—incredibly jealous and angry all rolled up into one … but he’s too good at it as well.’

  ‘A professional?’

  ‘Yeah. He seems it—never gets caught for one. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s perfected the art of stalking by doing it over and over again to other women.’ Shane said, ‘Maybe he’s doing this to multiple women at the same time and has done it many times before.’

  ‘A serial stalker? He does get a thrill out of it. The more frightening the episodes for me, the bigger the thrill. He’s so sick. It could also explain where he gets to sometimes, when he just doesn’t turn up. It would explain a lot of things, a lot of why he just went missing in action so often when we were together. Nights of nothing—and no proper explanation.’

  ‘The way you describe his movements,’ Shane continued, ‘the way he finds where you’re staying, the way he remains undetected, knows exactly how to avoid the sensor lights, creeps up on you without you knowing … well, maybe he’s an old hand at this—a self-trained stalker.’

  Libby looked at Shane, stunned.

  ‘You’re exactly right, Shane. He’s been doing this for ages, I bet! Oh, it makes my blood curdle, thinking of being with him. When we were together, he’d often vanish and miss dates we’d planned. He moves through his women, his conquests and then revisits them, stalks them after it’s over. He’s even joked about seeing others and how good it was. I could never work out why he’d say this all the time. It wasn’t funny but he kept saying it was his joke. But he was obsessed by the prospect … and toyed with me about it all the time.’

  Libby paused, in deep thought, fossicking through what she’d discovered, linking other bits and pieces to complete the puzzle. She was convinced he’d done this before.

  ‘Why? Why does he keep stalking and playing the crack-on game as well? Someone knows, his ex-girlfriends must know because he’s such a pro at this. They may know why he moves on too. I bet there are others—all witnesses, all prepared to get him back for what he’s done. It can’t possibly be just me.’

  Shane wondered aloud whether any of these ex-girlfriends, these victims, even if they could be found, would want to revisit the drama. Would they want to dredge up their memories?

  ‘That cop, Haddock, he could find out about the other girls in the police files, right?’ Libby said. ‘There must be other reports on record. And they could tell me who they are and I can work out the formula, what drives him away, what stops him. He’s a professional who’s had reason to move on. He couldn’t be stalking them all still, otherwise he wouldn’t have spent so much time on me.’

  If Libby was going to do her own detective work, it had to be done quickly. Her life was in tatters; she felt close to breaking point. She realised that she was on her own and had to take responsibility for her own survival, just as the others would have done. She’d had enough of squatting in a room like a scared kitten, praying for dawn. The time for praying had to end; she had to get her life back—she had to go in search of others like her. If they existed, it was time his victims teamed together. Her desire to stop feeling so alone, so isolated and vulnerable, was motivation in itself to find an ally, even one. She really had no choice. Her life was not hers anymore.

  Back at work, Libby spent most of the morning fiddling with the mouse beside her computer, not performing any worthwhile tasks, deep in thought, trying to work out how to approach a stranger, a policeman she’d only known for such a short time. Would he help? Would he be prepared to search for another victim, and was it legal? Libby needed a break, someone to back her case, to help her extricate this creep from her life forever. But she’d only get one shot at recruiting Senior Constable Haddock; she knew she had to be convincing, not a desperate victim who’d become a permanent pain.

  Libby dialled the number and asked for Haddock. She had to come clean about what she wanted. The time was right.

  ‘This Phillip Hopkins, who’s been scaring the hell out of me for months now, is a professional stalker, Rowan. I know it. He loves these night games. He follows me to all kinds of venues, all different suburbs. I’ve been to restaurants on the other side of the city and he turned up outside, just to show me that he’d found me. He must have been lurking in the shadows for hours before he decided to show himself. That’s complete madness. When we were together, he went missing all the time, no matter how intense our relationship was. He’s out there, gathering this captive group of victims. I know it but I can’t prove it … and I need your help. I’ve got no argument without othe
rs like me and no way of working out how he can be stopped.’

  Rowan Haddock had not heard anything like this before. A stalking case was never easy to prove and, apart from the odd call to police to ward off an aggressive former boyfriend, victims rarely sought their help to investigate further. Very little would eventuate from Libby’s two actions before the courts. They both knew this. Rowan would have to bend a rule or two to help, but he knew how he’d feel if he did nothing and Hopkins hurt or even killed Libby. ‘I feel for you. I know what you want. I’ll see what I can do. If he’s had old AVOs against him, the information will be available.’

  It didn’t take long for Haddock to turn something up. ‘You’ve got a friend out there, Libby,’ he told her over the phone the following afternoon. ‘You were correct! But you may be shocked at what I’ve found. There’s a woman with a number of AVOs out on him. You’ve got off lightly. This bloke is dead set crazy. He’s not to be trusted, Libby, believe me. He’s far more violent than you think.’

  Libby wrapped her arms around her chest, as if to brace herself against this new information. She needed to know, but she didn’t want to hear it.

  ‘Her name’s Simone Crowe. She was a girlfriend too. She’s had three AVOs out on Hopkins—three! I don’t have the full details, as I can’t access the computer, but they’re based on at least three serious cases of violence dating back only a couple of years. He bashed this girl over and over again, Libby—and wouldn’t leave her alone. It was unrelenting and covered so many years. The sheer number of AVOs tells me that too. He was convicted of assault against her and ten years earlier, as a student, he had similar charges proven.’

  Libby went silent. Her body was rigid with anger and aching with empathy for this girl she’d never met. Here was a victim who’d shared her pain. Finally she spoke: ‘I should have known; it’s been so psychotic. I should have guessed. I could kill him. I’ve thought about it many times. I just wouldn’t know how, wouldn’t think I could do it.’

  ‘Stop that talk. Stop telling me that. Stop telling anyone that—it’ll get you in trouble. Hopkins needs to be stopped. Just focus on that. Do you want me to find out more? To find Simone?’

  ‘I don’t want to get you in trouble. If I wait for the assault case to make it to court, the prosectors will probably get me this kind of info anyway.’

  ‘Libby, depending on what his lawyers do, that case could be way off. Plus, you’ll be lucky to see any detail related to his antecedents, it’s classified material … it’s not like the DPP to hand out names and phone numbers. Let me see if I can get a message to her about meeting you.’

  Libby knew Simone Crowe would probably want to stay well clear of Libby’s case, surely not wishing to talk about it, or replay the drama and dirt over again. But it was worth a shot, Libby thought. It was worth waiting for. So much of her life had been out of her control; she had already displayed more patience than she knew she had.

  What an incredible path her life had taken, she thought, ever since that one silly night out on the drink with a girlfriend.

  PART TWO:

  TO TURN BACK TIME

  3

  HIMBOS AND HIM

  ‘If you can’t score tonight Libby, you’d better give up,’ Sarah said as the pair stepped up onto the kerb outside the Oaks Hotel.

  It was August 1995. Even from here, the girls could hear the hum from inside their occasional Friday-night haunt. Each time one of the doors swung open, the hum became a roar. For the lower North Shore’s generation X, the Oaks was the place to be seen.

  ‘I’m not here for that,’ Libby replied, as her heels slapped the pavement.

  ‘It’s a compliment. You look great,’ Sarah said.

  Friday night at the Oaks was, for many, a strategic game of sexual energy and dominance. The place was packed with gym-addicted hunks and himbos, whose come-on lines were normally as corny as they were insincere. Genuine, intelligent men rarely approached the girls at this watering hole, but that didn’t stop the pair looking; who knows who they’d meet tonight … maybe Mr Right, probably not. There was no harm in finding a bloke who fun to be with.

  It was the ideal place to find such a man; it was a den of cold beer, sweet wine and wandering eyes. Libby had a model-like figure which most other women envied. Tonight she wore a white blouse and her favourite pair of bottom-hugging jeans. Her long, wavy, white-blonde hair hung over her shoulders attractively; her face was made-up, but not overdone. She didn’t need too much; her skin was close to perfect, paler than most, set off by high cheekbones. She’d been told more than once that she had eyes to die for.

  Sarah was one of Libby’s best mates. Tonight she was happy to let Libby take the lead heading through the frosted doorway at the side entrance to the rowdy pub. Libby ran her fingers through her hair—a last-minute adjustment in preparation for tackling the well-lubricated crowd. She hit the brass doorplate with her open palm and the noise rushed out at them. It now truly felt like Friday night at the Oaks: confronting, noisy, exciting—nothing a few glasses of bubbly couldn’t help them take on.

  The pair stepped up into the main bar area. There were around a hundred other people aged between sixteen and thirty, mostly standing in groups, drink in hand, gesticulating wildly with each other. Laughter filled their faces. The room was large in comparison to other hotels; the bar hugged the left-hand side, covering a full fifteen metres. Across the other side, a twelve square-metre alcove was jammed with teenagers who looked barely eighteen. It was their hiding spot, away from the scrutiny of the publican and security, but unfortunately within view of entering constabulary. Between the alcove and the centre of the room, scores of drinkers crowded around a series of stools and tables covered in empty glasses and ashtrays and obscured by swaying bodies. Most of the male contingent had come straight from offices in North Sydney, wearing flash business suits that after two and a half hours of drinking time looked noticeably shabby. The decor was a combination of wooden panels and red-striped wallpaper, divided by a shoulder-height wall rail. There were reproduction brass light fittings and picture frames holding black-and-white prints of sporting heroes of yesteryear. The smoky air and loud music kept all this yuppie chaos pumping, despite the fact that it was almost impossible to hear what song was playing.

  This, however, was not the area the girls preferred. They needed to push their way through the throng in the centre of the room to reach the courtyard opposite. Pub-shoving was never the most pleasant task for women to attempt; unless, of course, male company escorted them. Libby, hesitated for a second, before she charged into the sea of suits and faces, moving crab-like, her right shoulder braced for the wall of people ahead.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she shouted as she shoulder-charged her first victim, her mate tailing her closely.

  Before she knew it, a young man had moved aside and Libby found herself surrounded by a group of beer swillers whose conversation had come to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Absolutely, any time love,’ one exclaimed.

  There were muffled comments, presumably sexual in nature, backed up with approving grunts all round.

  ‘Creeps,’ Libby replied quietly, not stopping to survey the circle of gloating faces.

  This was normal primitive fare for the Oaks. The two women came to expect it, although they detested the veiled obscenities. They had another fifteen metres to traverse and they picked up speed as they moved, willing their brief pub-shove to end. The next group said nothing, probably because it was a mixed gathering, until Libby’s shoulder jolted what looked like a gin and tonic almost out of the hands of one of the women.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Libby said without stopping.

  There were dagger stares in return, but Libby gave as good as she got and walked on. She passed two other groups, mostly young men whose tongues were all but touching the floor drooling. They parted as the girls approached but Libby could feel a softly cupped hand brush her jeans as she passed. She stared at the letch for half a second, before pushing
his forearm away … hard. Their stride unbroken, the girls found themselves emerging from the other end of the scrum, through the courtyard door and into the cooler night air. This initial unpleasant Friday-night ritual was over and the night had begun.

  ‘Neanderthals,’ Sarah sighed.

  ‘Nothing’s changed,’ Libby added. ‘Don’t worry about it. What are you drinking? My shout.’

  The Oaks was an interesting division of five different areas, all with their peculiar social groups. While the main bar was where the more uncouth and under-age congregated, a small bar on the other side of the building usually housed older drinkers and had access to betting facilities and cable sports programs. At the other end of the courtyard, a small number of families and a crowd of couples used the under-cover bistro facilities. But the main part of the courtyard was where the cool, well-heeled yuppies gathered. There were around 40 cast-iron tables and chairs, with the bulging oak tree towering over the square. For lighting, a thousand small coloured lights weaved around the branches like a giant octopus, adding a little sophistication to the ambience. Women outnumbered men, but both sexes had plenty of cash, were well-groomed and wore the trendiest gear. It was the closest a pub could get to a nightclub and, like those thumping dungeons, the Oaks was a renowned pick-up-joint for cashed-up young things, most patrons much happier to be picked up by a wealthy, career-orientated looker than by a grungy student in an inner-city nightclub.

  Libby and Sarah found a table under the oak. There wasn’t really a choice; the pub was packed. They sipped their champagne starters and began chatting about how the week had gone, including which losers at work had been making nuisances of themselves in an effort to attract attention and maybe a date. Libby was a streetwise young woman and was rather choosy as well. All she really wanted was to have a good time with someone she could trust enough to spend a chunk of her currently very laid-back life with. It had been a long time between lovers—although a permanent mate wasn’t what she was looking for tonight.