The Night Stalker

In the past few days, covert surveillance had seen a woman going in and out with a little boy. It was a risk. They had to anticipate that Jerome could use the kid as a shield, a bargaining tool, or, at his worst, threaten to end the little boy’s life – but they were prepared. Erika had drilled the routine over and over to her team. They worked well together.

Fear rolled over her as her watch reached 4.30 p.m. She looked up and gave the order. She watched as her colleagues moved past the gateposts and surged towards the front door. She brought up the rear, moving stealthily past the gateposts. Something bright caught her eye, dazzling her. She realised it was the sunlight glinting off the disc in the electricity meter as it spun. It glinted again, and again, almost matching the thunk of the battering ram. On the third attempt, the wood splintered and the front door burst inwards with a clatter.

It was quickly apparent that Jerome had been tipped off. Within a few life-changing minutes, Brad, Beamer and Sal lay dead. Erika took a bullet to her vest, which knocked her back, and then a bullet passed through her neck, missing all the major arteries. Mark was close by as she clutched at her neck, the blood pouring between her fingers.

He looked at her, horror in his eyes at the realisation of what was happening – and then he seemed to stop.

It was then that Erika saw that the back of his head had been blown open.

Erika and DI Tim James were airlifted from the scene, badly injured. She left her officers – her friends and her husband – dead.

In reality, it had all been over within minutes, but since 4.30 p.m. on that fateful day, life had slowed down for Erika. From then on, she felt that she was walking through a nightmare from which she would never wake up.

53

Simone stood back, looking at Mary lying awkwardly in the bed, half inside a patterned nightgown. She was out of breath and angry.

She’d seen the nightgown in a charity shop in Beckenham and had decided to buy it for Mary. It was a good place to pick up bargains; the people who tended to donate to charity shops in Beckenham were much better off than they were in her area and you could pick up some nice stuff.

The nightie had set her back twelve pounds. She’d hesitated before spending so much, but she loved the pattern of cherries against the white background, and she’d thought it would really suit Mary.

The problem was that it didn’t fit. Mary’s shoulders were too broad and Simone had spent fifteen minutes trying to wrestle her limp form into it, only for it to get stuck. The old lady was now lying with the garment over her head, pinching her shoulders together, which in turn lifted her arms so they jutted out limply in front.

Simone paced the small room. It was only minutes until protected mealtimes, when nurses would come round and feed the patients. Mary wasn’t eating, but someone was bound to open the door.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were bigger than a size twelve?’ said Simone. ‘You’re not eating. I spent a lot of money on this!’

She grabbed at the collar of the nightgown and pulled. Mary’s head flopped forward and then back, unsupported as her torso was lifted off the mattress. Simone wrestled with the nightie until it suddenly came free with a tearing sound and Mary flopped to one side, her head hitting the safety bar with a thud.

‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Simone, holding up the torn nightdress. ‘I can’t even take it back to the shop!’ She shook the old woman, feeling her limp body, small and frail, in her grip. She let go. ‘Why is it that people always disappoint me?’

She roughly pulled Mary into her backless hospital gown and shoved her back under the blankets.

‘I won’t be talking to you for a while,’ announced Simone, folding the nightgown and shoving it back into her bag. ‘You’ve disappointed me. You’re nothing but a fat old woman, and ungrateful too. I spend my hard-earned money on nice new clothes for you and you don’t even have the decency to fit into them!’

Simone pulled her bag onto her shoulder and opened the door. The sounds of moaning echoed down the hallway outside.

She turned to Mary. ‘No wonder George left you… I’ve got someone else I’m going to visit.’

54

Erika opened her eyes. The living room was dim and gloomy. It was dark outside, and a breeze was rushing in through the open patio door. She got up and felt pain throbbing through her head: the beginning of a hangover from all the whisky she’d drunk.

A small pile of leaves had blown through the patio door and now flapped on the carpet in the breeze. She leant down and picked them up. They were long and waxy in her hand and she recognised them as eucalyptus. She put them to her nose and inhaled the honey-mint smell, fresh and warm. She felt warmth inside her chest as the memory of Mark came back. Eucalyptus had been his favourite smell. She used to buy him small bottles of eucalyptus oil to put in his bathwater. She held the leaves to her nose and stepped through the open patio door into the dark garden. Cool gusts of wind ruffled her hair, and she could see the dark outline of the huge eucalyptus tree out on the road behind the houses.