The Night Stalker

‘Stephen, I need to see this!’

They watched as the woman moved across the lawn, broke into the house through a side window and stepped into the kitchen.

‘It’s a creepy thought,’ said Stephen. ‘Someone sneaking up on you, moving around your house without you knowing…’

44

It had been a good day at work for Simone; she’d managed to spend some quality time with Mary. The doctor had been in, and had said that she was showing signs of improvement, going as far to suggest that she might even wake up. Thankfully, he hadn’t said anything about the bruise on Mary’s temple. He must have assumed that it happened before she was admitted to hospital. So it was good news all round. Mary was going to live, and Simone would be there for her when she was discharged. Simone had two spare rooms. She would paint both in lovely pastel colours, and Mary could choose between the two. Although she hoped that Mary wouldn’t get better too fast. She still had a name left on her list, and she had preparations to make.

Before she went out, Simone decided to make her favourite food: tinned macaroni cheese, with the special topping – stale bread crumbled on top with a little grated cheese. She carried the steaming hot bowl on a tray into the living room, which was a mess of newspapers and magazines piled high around the sagging furniture. She sat on the sofa and turned on the television, looking for Coronation Street. She stopped and stared at the screen. For a long moment, she thought that the hallucinations were back.

But this was different.

The hallucinations were playing out on her television. She watched in morbid fascination as a woman with a likeness to her moved around inside Jack Hart’s house.

She tilted her head to one side, confused.

The girl on the screen was petite, with small, attractive features. Simone, in comparison, was small but chunky. Her forehead was high and wide, furrowed even when resting, and her blue eyes were dull, unlike the girl’s, which sparkled.

The pretty girl on the screen was now watching a man who looked like Jack Hart; watching him through the bathroom door as he showered. She then moved off into his bedroom. Her waist was defined, whereas Simone was straight up and down, with a slight curvature of her spine.

The Crimewatch music began to play and the screen cut to the television studio. The presenter began to speak.

‘As I’ve said, we’ve left out the more distressing elements of the reconstruction. We’re joined in the studio tonight by Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster. Good evening…’

Simone leant forward as she got the first look at the police officer who was leading the investigation. It was a woman. She was pale and thin, with short blonde hair and soft brown eyes, and for a moment Simone thought this was good, that a woman might understand her, sympathise with what she had suffered. But as she listened to DCI Foster talk, Simone felt anger build inside her. Blood began to roar in her ears.

‘We’re asking anyone for information. If you’ve seen this woman, or if you were in the area on the night these murders happened, please get in touch. We believe she’s small in stature but we advise the public not to approach her: she is a dangerous and deeply disturbed individual.’

Simone felt pain, and she looked down to see that her hands were clenching and unclenching in the bowl of boiling hot macaroni. The cheese sauce oozed between her fingers. She looked up again and saw the bitch on the screen, heard her repeat that they were looking for a disturbed woman who may have suffered psychiatric problems. She swept the bowl off the tray and it shattered against the wall.

‘I’m the victim!’ she shouted at the screen, getting to her feet. ‘THE VICTIM, you fucking whore! You know NOTHING of the years of abuse! You don’t know what he did to me!’ She jabbed her finger up to the ceiling, towards her marital bed. ‘You know NOTHING!’ she screamed, and a spray of the thin, synthetic cheese sauce splattered over DCI Foster’s face.

‘So please, if you know anything at all, call or email. Your information will be treated as confidential. The details are there now, across the bottom of the screen,’ finished the presenter.

Simone stood, shaking, and went to her computer in its nook under the stairs. She sat and dragged the keyboard towards her, not noticing her hands were a mess of sauce and scalded red skin.

She typed into Google: ‘DCI ERIKA FOSTER’ and began to read the results, her breathing slowing down as a plan began to form.

45

It was late when the car from the television studio dropped Erika back at her flat in Forest Hill. When she came indoors, the sight of her living room was deeply depressing. She’d been on television before, and she’d made television appeals, but this had been different. It had been in a proper television studio, and she had been nervous. Moss had suggested that she should imagine she was talking to one family and visualise them sitting in their living room.