The Night Stalker (Detective Erika Foster 2)

‘Give me the phone,’ Simone said in her calm, oddly high voice. Erika felt the cold steel prick the skin of her throat. ‘You’ve seen what I can do. I’m not bluffing.’

Erika slowly handed over the phone. It took effort to keep her eyes open. Simone was small but stared up at her with a chilling intensity. Simone worked quickly with her free hand. The phone light blinked off and Erika heard the battery hit the carpet with a thud. In the gloom, Simone’s pupils dilated like a crazed drug addict. She dropped the phone and Erika heard it crunch under her foot.

‘Why did you have to come here, Erika Foster? I was going to do this and vanish off the face of the earth. You’d never have heard from me again.’

Erika glanced around the room.

‘No, no, no – you keep your eyes on me,’ said Simone. ‘We’re going over there,’ she added, tilting her head towards Keith’s still, seated form. She loosened her grip a little, but still held the knife to Erika’s throat. They moved in a morbid dance, shuffling around until Erika was next to the wheelchair.

‘Now I’m going to step back, but if you try anything I’ll slash you. I’ll go for your eyes, and your throat. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ gulped Erika. She was sweating and she could smell Keith next to her in the chair, a goaty mix of body odour and shit. Simone moved back to the doorway and flicked on the light. The room blazed bright. She came back, training the knifepoint on Erika.

‘Take the bag off his head,’ said Simone.

‘What?’

‘You heard me. Take it off.’ She advanced on Erika, the blade glinting under the harsh lights.

‘Okay, okay,’ said Erika, putting up her hands. She slowly lifted Keith’s head. His neck was still wet with sweat, and for a moment she thought he might still be alive – but his face was a bloated, bluish purple.

‘Come on, quicker,’ said Simone. Erika started to untie the cord from around his neck, unwinding it, panicking as it seemed to tangle. She loosened and worked the cord until it was free. Keith’s head lifted up, and there was a sucking sound as Erika gently pulled at the plastic. His glasses came too, sliding up off his nose and over his forehead with the plastic bag. His head flopped back against the wheelchair. Simone suddenly came close, and Erika shrank back as she snatched the bag, holding it out.

‘Take out his glasses, and put them back on him,’ Simone said. Erika did so, gently placing them back on the bridge of Keith’s nose, tucking the arms behind his ears.

‘Why did you kill him?’ asked Erika.

‘He had to die because he’d figured me out. He told you.’

‘He didn’t tell me. I worked it out.’

‘He wanted to meet. He’d never wanted to meet before… I’d tried to get him to in the past, but he’d chickened out. I figured you might have made the link. My paranoia was correct… Paranoia doesn’t work in a relationship,’ she finished, looking back at Keith.

‘He loved you,’ said Erika, looking between Keith’s body and Simone.

‘Oh, then that’s all I need, the love of a man,’ said Simone, her mouth curling up with sarcasm.

‘What’s wrong with being loved?’ asked Erika, her mind whirring. She was trying to work out what the woman was planning next, and until then she wanted to keep her talking.

‘The right people never love you back!’ spat Simone. ‘Mothers should love you. Husbands. The people you trust. But they let you down! And once one lets you down, it’s like a domino effect… You become vulnerable, people exploit you, they see a chink in your armour.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Erika, seeing Simone was getting dangerously wound up.

‘No, you’re not. But I bet you understand, don’t you? How did people change around you when your husband died? They see your weakness. They leave you, or they stay and exploit you.’

‘Simone… I understand.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘’So… You see why I did all this. Why I killed the doctor who didn’t believe me when I was in pain and terror; the writer, whose sick creative mind found new and original ways to inspire my torturer; the journalist who was responsible for me being taken away from my mother when I was nine years old…’

‘Jack Hart?’

‘Jack Hart. The man has a name like Hart, but he doesn’t have one! I particularly enjoyed wiping him out. He’d made a career feeding off the misery of others, making money on tears and distress. He thought he was a hero, writing about my mother… exposing my childhood… But I knew how to survive with her, because deep down she loved me, she loved me… And when things got really bad I could connect with that love… I never saw her again, I ended up in a children’s home! Do you know what happens to children when they go to those places?’