The Night Stalker (Detective Erika Foster 2)

The high wall marked the side of a long row of back gardens. The houses stretching away were smart and elegant. Night Owl tucked the mountain bike behind a postbox, which was positioned close to the wall, then used it to scale the wall. Four of the houses in the row had security alarms. A high back wall ran the length of all six gardens, backing onto a bus depot.

The first garden was easy. An old lady lived in the large house and the garden was overgrown; the house windows were dark. Night Owl crossed with a whispering rustle and climbed the low fence into the second garden.

Again, no lights activated, but the owner of this house had built a large extension, jutting out and reducing the garden to a thin strip of grass by the high back wall. The first ground-floor window was dark, but the second was open a few inches and emitted a soft multicoloured glow. It was a large nursery, almost completely bare inside save for a large wooden crib close to the window.

A small toddler with large eyes and a messy fuzz of black hair stood in the crib, its chubby hands gripping the side of the rail. The baby could see into the garden in the soft light emitting from the slowly turning night-light. Night Owl moved to the open window, whispering, ‘Hello.’

The toddler shifted a little, grasping the edge of the crib. It was a little girl. She wore a pink all-in-one with a pink knitted matinee jacket. The air was close and heat resonated from the brickwork.

‘Are you all hot and bothered?’ whispered Night Owl, smiling. The little girl smiled and jiggled on the spot. She pulled at the matinee jacket and gave a little soft wail.

There were still three more gardens to cross, but Night Owl felt for this little innocent girl, slowly grilling in the hot room. The window pulled open easily, and Night Owl hitched a leg up and inside. The little girl looked up with big round eyes, unsure of the person who had climbed into her room.

‘It’s okay… It’s all right,’ whispered Night Owl. ‘You are innocent. You have yet the chance to wreak havoc on the world.’ Moving swiftly, Night Owl lifted the little girl and held her up at arm’s length. She giggled. Placing her back down again, Night Owl worked quickly on the tiny buttons on the front of the matinee jacket, grasping it so the little girl wouldn’t lose balance, then unhooking each arm until the jacket was off.

‘There, is that better?’ cooed Night Owl. The little girl allowed herself to be lifted and laid down on the small mattress. The material was white with a pattern of small grey elephants. She reached up with her arms as Night Owl slowly wound the mobile hanging above the crib.

As the soft melody of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ began to play, Night Owl retreated from the little girl’s view.

The third garden had a security light mounted on the back wall, so it was a tense job to cross it, far enough away to keep out of its beam.

The fourth garden was running a little wild, with tall grass and overflowing flowerbeds. Night Owl moved past a plastic swing set and an overgrown sandpit and crouched down by the utility room door.

Night Owl pulled the hood up so that only a pair of eyes glowed through, listened at the door, then slowly pulled out a long, thin piece of wire and inserted it into the lock.

27

When TV presenter Jack Hart emerged from the members-only bar in Charlotte Street, Central London, he paused to enjoy the warm summer night. Despite the late hour, a large group of photographers were waiting on the pavement and their camera flashes burst in a flurry as Jack came towards them down a short flight of stairs.

Jack was lean and handsome, with ice-white blond hair shaved fashionably high with a short back and sides, and styled on top with a smooth quiff. His teeth were as white as his hair, and his sharp suit was tailor-made for his tall frame. He was pleased to see journalists from the BBC, ITV and Sky News waiting for him, along with the usual tabloid crowd – some of whom were ex-colleagues. He didn’t show this pleasure on his handsome face, though, instead attempting serious contemplation.

‘Do you take responsibility for the death of Megan Fairchild?’ shouted a reporter from one of the broadsheets.

‘Do you think they’ll take your show off the air?’ yelled another.

‘Come on, Jack. You killed her, didn’t you?’ purred one of the paparazzi, coming up close, his camera firing off a bright flash.

Jack ignored the questions and pushed through them, climbing into a black cab waiting at the kerb. He slammed the door and it drove off slowly, the cameras keeping pace, lenses bumping against the window and filling the interior of the cab with a strobe of flashes. Once they had rounded the corner of Charlotte Street, the driver was able to speed away.