The Night Stalker

There was a crack of thunder, and a large raindrop hit her leg. Moments later there was another and another and then, with a roar, it began to pour down. She stood for a moment, turning her face up to the rain, enjoying the feeling of the cold water pounding down on her. Thunder crackled and rumbled as the rain moved up a gear, crashing down in sheets, soaking her to the skin and washing away the tears and sweat of the day.

And then she realised. The patio door had been closed when she’d sat down on the sofa and fallen asleep. She turned and looked back at the open patio door, gaping black. She couldn’t see indoors. She moved to the edge of the garden, grabbing a large rock from the thin flowerbed running along the fence, and hefting it in her hand, she went back inside the flat.

She flicked on the light. The living room was empty. She moved through the hall, turning on the light, holding the rock up, ready to hit with it when she turned on the bathroom light. Nothing. She reached the bedroom door and turned on the light. It, too, was empty. She crouched down and checked under the bed, and then she saw it.

A thick cream envelope lay on her pillow. Written on it, in blue ink, was: DCI ERIKA FOSTER.

Erika stared at the letter, her heart pounding. She braced herself with the rock and moved through to the living room. She slammed the patio door, locking it. It was pitch black outside and the rain thudded onto the glass. She went to her bag and found a spare pair of latex gloves. It took several attempts to pull them onto her trembling hands. She returned to the bedroom and approached the note cautiously, lifting it off her pillow.

She’d been inside… inside her home. It was the Night Stalker, Erika was sure. She brought the note back through to the kitchen and placed it on the counter. The rain continued to hammer on the windows. She gently slit the envelope open with a knife and pulled out a card. It showed the image of a sunset above the sea. The sun was like a vast, bloody egg yolk, bursting on the horizon. She took a deep breath and carefully opened the envelope. Inside, in neat blue handwriting, was written:

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Beneath the poem was written:

You must learn to let him go, Erika…

From one widow to another. THE NIGHT STALKER

Erika dropped the card on the kitchen counter and took a step back, pulling the latex gloves off her shaking hands. She moved around the flat again, checking the windows and doors were locked. The Night Stalker had been inside the flat; she had been inside as Erika slept. How long had she been there? Had she watched Erika sleeping?

Erika looked around the living room and shivered. Not only had she been inside her home, it felt as if she were now inside her head. The poem was beautiful. It spoke to her, spoke to her feelings of loss and bereavement. How could someone so sick and twisted connect with her so deeply?

55

Simone was running fast through the back streets, of which there were few in Central London. It was pouring with rain and she could feel blood running down the side of her neck; her mouth was numb and her top lip felt painfully engorged with blood. It hadn’t gone to plan. She’d fucked up.

It started out smoothly. She gained access again to the Bowery Lane Estate flats in her nurse’s uniform. The second floor hallway was empty and she moved stealthily, passing the open kitchen windows. Through one window a man lay sleeping in front of a flickering television. Simone stopped and stared at him for a moment. His feet splayed out in front, an arm across his chest, rising and falling in the flickering light…

She forced herself to move on through the shadows until she reached number 37, Stephen Linley’s front door. She pressed her ear to the red paint and heard nothing. She slid the key in the lock and the door opened with a soft click.

Stephen Linley came home an hour later. She lay in wait for him, downstairs in the shadows, listening as he moved about in the kitchen. Through the glass hatch in the living room she watched him pour a large glass of the juice she had laced with the date rape drug. He drank it rapidly, then poured another and took it with him upstairs.

He passed so close to where Simone waited, behind the thick folds of the curtain in front of the large glass window. She felt the air shift as he moved past, and she smelled him: a sweet, overpowering scent of cologne, dank sweat and sex. It focused her hatred of him.