The Night Stalker (Detective Erika Foster 2)

There was a pause. A bubble popped up, saying ‘DUKE typing…’ Then the screen fell silent for a moment.

NIGHT OWL: U still there?

DUKE: Yeah. I never thought you’d do it.

NIGHT OWL: Did you think I was bullshitter, like most of the people online?

DUKE: No.

NIGHT OWL: You don’t think I’m strong enough?

DUKE: NO!

NIGHT OWL: Good, because I’m serious. I’ve had too many years of people underestimating me. Thinking I’m weak. Walking all over me. Abusing me. I am NOT WEAK. I have POWER. Mental and physical POWER, and I’ve unlocked it.

DUKE: I don’t doubt you.

NIGHT OWL: Don’t you dare.

DUKE: I’m sorry. I never doubt you. Ever.

DUKE: How did it feel?

NIGHT OWL: Like God.

DUKE: We don’t believe in God.

NIGHT OWL: What if I am HIM?

A few minutes passed with nothing, and then DUKE wrote.

DUKE: So what happens now?

NIGHT OWL: This is just the beginning. The Doctor was just the first on my list. I have the next one in my sights.

6

Erika pulled into the car park of Lewisham Row police station just before eight the next morning. Work at the crime scene had gone on until the early hours, and she’d only had time for a couple of hours’ sleep and a shower before coming into work. The hot air was thick with exhaust fumes as she stepped out of her car, and lorries crunched gears as they crawled past on the ring road. There was a distant whirr and clank from the cranes working on the high-rise buildings that were dotted around in various stages of development – the squat concrete building of the station was dwarfed in comparison. Erika locked her car and made her way across the car park to the main entrance, grumpy from lack of sleep, already sweating and in need of a cold drink.

It was cooler inside the reception area, but the warmth, mingling with a nasty cocktail of vomit and disinfectant, wasn’t improving the atmosphere. Sergeant Woolf sat hunched over his desk, filling out a form. His stomach hung over his trousers, and his round jowly face was red and glistening with sweat. A tall, thin lad in a grubby tracksuit stood waiting nearby, eyeing his belongings nestled in a plastic tub on the desk: a brand new iPhone and two packets of cigarettes still sealed in plastic. The lad’s gaunt, hungry face didn’t match the expensive belongings he was waiting for, and Erika had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before he was back.

‘Morning. Any joy on getting them to serve iced coffee down in the canteen?’ Erika asked.

‘Nope,’ said Woolf, rubbing at his face with a hairy forearm. ‘They seem to have no problem dishing up the food stone-cold; I don’t see why they can’t do it with the coffee.’

Erika grinned. The thin lad rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, ’ave a chat, cos I’ve got nowhere to be. I just want my iPhone back. It’s mine.’

‘This was seized at the scene of a crime four months ago, you can wait another ten minutes,’ said Woolf, giving him a hard stare. He put down the pen and buzzed Erika through a door into the main part of the police station. ‘Marsh is already here, said he wants to see you as soon as you’re in.’

‘Right,’ said Erika. She went through the door and the buzzing stopped as it closed behind her. She passed empty offices in the stuffy, fluorescent-lit corridor. It was still early in the day, but lots of officers had taken holiday and the atmosphere seemed to have clicked down a gear.

She took the lift up to her boss’s office on the top floor. She knocked and, when she heard a muffled reply, entered. Detective Chief Superintendent Marsh stood with his back to her in front of the window, looking out over the concrete sprawl of cranes and traffic. He was tall and broad, and his close-cropped hair was a spray of salt and pepper. When he turned, Erika saw that his lips were locked around a bright green straw, which led down to a large Starbucks iced coffee. He was handsome, if exhausted. He raised his eyebrows and swallowed.

‘Morning, Sir,’ she said.

‘Morning, Erika. Here, thought you could use one too.’ Marsh went to his messy desk and picked up another iced coffee, which he handed to her with a paper wrapped straw. The cup left a large wet ring on the printout of the preliminary report on Gregory Munro’s murder, which Erika had emailed through in the early hours of the morning.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Erika took the cup and whilst she fiddled with the paper-wrapped straw, cast her eye around his office. It was a mess; she always said to herself that it was a mix of high authority and teenage boy’s bedroom. There were certificates on the wall, a large unit whose shelves were stacked untidily with case files, and papers peeping out from the edges of overstuffed drawers. The bin was overflowing, but, rather than do something about it, Marsh had simply balanced a couple of plastic sandwich boxes and empty coffee cups on top of the rubbish and so they now tottered a foot above the brim. There were dead plants strewn across the windowsill, and a coat stand lay in pieces along one wall. Erika wasn’t sure if it had snapped under the weight of things piled onto it, or if Marsh had snapped it in two in a petulant rage she’d had the pleasure of avoiding.