The Night Stalker (Detective Erika Foster 2)

Penny nodded, tears in her eyes. She stared out at the hopelessly jolly back garden. ‘If you do find out anything more, about Greg, about him being gay… I don’t want to know. Understood?’

Erika nodded. ‘Yes, understood.’

When they reached the car out by the pavement, it was baking hot, so they left the doors open for a moment to cool it down. Erika rooted inside her handbag, pulled out her phone, and dialled Lewisham Row.

‘Hi Crane, it’s DCI Foster. Can you run a name for me, please? Gary Wilmslow, 14 Hereford Street, Shirley. Everything we’ve got. He’s the brother of Penny Munro, the victim’s wife. Also can you arrange a formal interview with Estelle Munro, and sort out family liaison officers for both her and Penny?’

They were just getting back into the car when Gary emerged from the front door, holding Peter’s hand.

‘Mr Wilmslow,’ said Erika, doubling back to the front gate, ‘can you tell me where you were on Thursday night between 6 p.m. and 1 a.m.?’

Gary went to a garden hose coiled over around a tap under the living room window, and began to unravel it. He handed the hose to the little boy.

‘I was here, watching Game of Thrones with Penny and Mum,’ he said.

‘And that was all night?’

‘Yeah, all night. We’ve got the fucking box set.’

Peter took the hose and braced himself, pointing it at the grass. He looked up and grinned a gap-toothed smile. Gary turned on the tap as Peter directed the spray over the grass.

‘And they can verify this?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, with an icy stare. ‘They can verify that.’

‘Thank you.’

Erika came back to the car, and she, Moss and Peterson got in. She fired up the engine and the air conditioning.

‘You know, we could arrest him right here and now. There’s a hosepipe ban,’ said Peterson.

‘Yeah, but he’s got the kid using the hose,’ said Moss.

‘He’s one of those slippery bastards, isn’t he?’ said Peterson, ruefully.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Erika. They watched him smoking a cigarette as Peter watered the grass. He looked up and stared at them.

‘Let’s leave him for a bit,’ said Erika. ‘See what he does. He’s a possible suspect, but we need much more.’

11

It was late afternoon on the geriatric ward at the Queen Anne Hospital in London. Nurse Simone Matthews sat in one of the few single rooms leading off the ward. Beside her, in a hospital bed, lay an elderly lady called Mary. Her thin sleeping form barely made an impression underneath the blue blanket that was neatly tucked around her. Her face was gaunt and jaundiced, and through her slack mouth her breathing was ragged.

It wouldn’t be long now.

The Queen Anne Hospital was housed in a decaying red-brick building, and the geriatric ward could be a dark and challenging place. Watching people unravel both mentally and physically took its toll on the senses. Two nights previously, Simone had been tasked with bathing an old man, who up until then had been a model patient. Without warning, he had punched her in the face. She’d been sent for an X-ray, but luckily her jaw hadn’t been fractured. Sister had told her to take a couple of days off, to rest and get over the shock, but Simone had been stoic, insisting on coming back for her next shift.

Work was everything to Simone, and she wanted to be with Mary, to sit with her until the end. The two women had never spoken. Mary had been on the ward for ten days, and had been drifting in and out of consciousness. Her organs failing, her body slowly shutting down. No family or friends had visited, but Simone had built up a picture of her from the personal effects stowed in the small locker by the bed.

Mary had collapsed at a supermarket, and had been admitted wearing a threadbare dress and old gardening shoes. She carried with her a small black handbag. There wasn’t much inside, just a tin of peppermints and a bus pass, but in a zip-up pocket in the lining Simone had found a small, creased black-and-white photo.

It had been taken in a park on a sunny day. Underneath a tree, a beautiful young woman sat on a tartan blanket, a long skirt bunched around her legs. Her waist was trim and the swell of her bosom under her crisp white blouse showed an enviable hour-glass figure. Even though the photo was black and white, Simone guessed Mary had been a redhead – it was something about the way the sun shone on her long curly hair. Beside Mary was a dark-haired man. He was good-looking, with a hint of danger and excitement about him. He squinted into the sun, with one of his arms slung around Mary’s small waist, gripping her protectively. On the back was written: With my dearest George, Bromley, summer 1961.