The Night Stalker (Detective Erika Foster 2)

‘The wife loves your show, mate,’ said the driver, eyeing him through his rear-view mirror. ‘S’all made up, though, innit?’

‘It’s live, and anything can happen,’ said Jack, repeating the catchphrase he used at the start of every show.

‘I heard the girl who was on your show, that Megan who killed herself, had loads of mental problems. Bet she’d have done it anyway, mate,’ said the driver, again catching his eye in the rear-view mirror.

‘It’s all right. I was going to give you a good tip anyway,’ said Jack. He sat back and closed his eyes, the gentle rocking motion soothing him as the cab trundled through Central London.

‘Suit yourself, mate,’ muttered the driver.

The Jack Hart Show was broadcast live five mornings a week and had risen in the ratings over the past year – but it still had a way to go to beat its rival, The Jeremy Kyle Show.

Jack Hart prided himself that the show was broadcast live. It gave them an edge, and kept them in the press. Five days a week his guests, in the grand tradition of The Jerry Springer Show, sought out and fought out their fifteen minutes of fame by airing their dirty laundry on camera, and people loved it.

Jack had started out as a journalist in Fleet Street, and learned his murky trade as an investigative journalist exposing torrid celebrity affairs, dodgy politicians and ‘human interest’ stories. He often described The Jack Hart Show as a tabloid newspaper smeared across the camera lens.

Megan Fairchild had been a case in point. Her baby daddy had been sleeping with her own father, but the researchers on the show had failed to dig up that Megan’s father had also sexually abused her throughout her childhood. The day after the controversial show was broadcast, Megan had taken her own life and that of her unborn child by drinking a litre of weedkiller.

Publicly, Jack had been repentant, and he wasn’t stone-hearted enough not to be saddened by the deaths. But privately Jack and his producers had courted the press exposure, hoping that the media storm would send their ratings through the roof.

He opened his eyes and pulled out his phone, logging on to check his Twitter feed. He was reassured to see that people were still talking about Megan’s death, and there were some more great RIP tweets from D-list celebs. He retweeted them and then logged onto the Go Fund Me page that had been set up to raise money in Megan’s honour. It had just reached £100,000 in donations. He retweeted this with a message of thanks, and then settled back, humming ‘And the Money Kept Rolling In’ from his favourite musical, Evita.

Forty-five minutes later, the taxi pulled up at Jack’s large, handsome house in Dulwich. He thanked the driver, feeling part-relieved, part-disappointed that there weren’t more photographers waiting for him outside. He could only count five. They must have got what they wanted outside the bar, without having to schlep across the river, he thought. He got out and paid the driver through the passenger window. The photographers started clicking away, their bright flashes bouncing off the black taxi and surrounding houses.

He pushed his way through the small group and opened the gate leading up to his front door, thinking that this bizarre scene in a quiet corner of Dulwich in South London could soon be plastered all over the media across the country.

‘Do you have a message for Megan Fairchild’s mother?’ asked one of the photographers.

Jack stopped at his front door and turned, saying, ‘Why didn’t you take care of your daughter?’ He paused and stared broodingly into the cameras as they flashed away. Then he turned on his heel, unlocked the front door and came inside, closing it on the strobe of flashes.

The security alarm began its warning tone and he punched in the four-digit code. The screen lit up green and the alarm fell silent. Jack took off his thin jacket, took out his wallet and keys and put them on the hall table. He came through to the open-plan living area, which looked out over the dark garden. When he flicked on the lights, the vast empty space stared back at him. He went to the fridge and stopped for a moment to stare at the pictures stuck to the door, which had been painted by his small son and daughter. He opened the door and pulled out a bottle of Bud. It didn’t make a fizzing sound; the lid popped off soundlessly, clinking as it skittered across the counter.

He took a sip. It was cold, but a little flat. He went back to the fridge and saw it was the last bottle. He was sure there had been three left… He pondered this for a moment, flicked off the lights and made his way upstairs.

The living area was still for a moment. There were some bumps and bangs from the bathroom above, and then the shower began. Slowly, a small, compact figure in black slid through the utility room door, bathed in shadows. Moving swiftly, it crossed the kitchen and climbed the stairs, feet placed wide on each step to avoid creaking.