The Night Stalker

said.

CHAPTER ONE

7th December – Monday

Aaron rolled onto his side, wrapping his arm around Megan’s waist. When she didn’t stir he pulled her into him and buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. She breathed out a quiet snore. He smiled. Wasn’t it the guy’s prerogative to fall asleep after? He removed his left arm from under her neck and shuffled backwards until he was able to tip himself out of bed without making a sound. He covered her with the duvet before tiptoeing out of the room, snatching his boxers from the floor as he pulled the door closed. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering to be quiet. An earthquake wouldn’t wake her once she was out.

He padded down the stairs and into the kitchen, turning on the light. The rest of the flat was in darkness. It had been light when he had chased her up the stairs. He had never been a fan of winter, but working shifts seemed to make things even harder, and with Christmas only two weeks away there would soon be the shift-swapping bunfight to deal with as well. He took four pieces of bread out of the breadbin and put them into the toaster. Megan had asked him to spend Christmas with her. He had never spent Christmas with a girlfriend before. He had never been asked, much to his relief. He took a plate down from the cupboard, a knife from the drawer and the peanut butter, lemon curd and butter from the fridge. Megan thought his version of peanut butter and jelly was repulsive. The toast popped. He slathered all four slices with butter, then peanut butter, then just a thin layer of lemon curd. He used the back of his hand to push an anticipatory bit of dribble back into his mouth. The first bite was always the best. First you tasted the lemon curd, bitter and sweet, then the cloying, stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth wonder that was peanut butter. All finished off with the salty, satisfying hit you could only get from real butter. According to his health-conscious girlfriend, he deserved to be the size of a house. He couldn’t help it. He had always been slim. It was a genetic thing.

He walked through to the lounge, carrying his toast. He was about to turn on the main light, but then looked at the tree in the corner. It was covered in everything shiny – baubles, tinsel and four lots of fairy lights – all thanks to Megan. With his toe he flicked on the plug and the lounge was filled with a soft, colour-changing glow. He sat down on the sofa with a thump, folded a piece of toast in half and jammed as much of it into his mouth as he could manage, butter dripping onto his chin as he smiled. She had stayed over every night for the past two weeks. She had transformed his flat. She had transformed his life.

In previous relationships, if a girl stayed over, Aaron got nervous. He was nervous now, but for very different reasons. For the first time he wasn’t trying to figure out how to end things, how to extricate himself without setting off a bitch-bomb. Instead he was terrified that he was going to wake up one morning and it was all going to be over – that she would leave him. He was in a constant state of agitation accompanied by bouts of nausea, personifying the term ‘lovesick’. He had never felt so elated and shit-scared at the same time.

Given his day job as a PC in Lewisham’s murder squad – soon to be DC, if he passed his promotion exam – he should be made of stronger stuff. But when it came to Megan he was way out of his depth. A day in the company of killers was a piece of piss by comparison. He put his plate on the table, licked his fingers and picked up the remote. Megan had a nine o’clock lecture and he was on an early, but he wasn’t ready to sleep yet. He glanced at the clock. It was only half ten. He could catch up on a couple of Top Gear episodes. Megan wasn’t interested in cars, or men talking about cars. His phone started to ring. He looked around the room, trying to locate the sound, when Megan’s phone joined the chorus. The two ringtones clashed. His was a generic ring, but Megan’s was some song by Rihanna. He groaned and pushed himself up from the sofa. He spotted the blue glow of Megan’s phone under the coffee table. He bent down and grabbed it, glancing at the screen as his thumb moved to silence the call. He stopped.

It was DI Mike Lockyer – lead DI for Lewisham’s murder squad.

Megan’s father.

Aaron’s boss.

CHAPTER TWO

7th December – Monday

Pippa reached into her handbag and rooted around for her phone. Her car pulled to the left. She yanked the wheel back to the right, but not before her wing mirror disappeared into the hedgerow. There was a scraping sound and a thud. Her mirror snapped back into place as it emerged from the dense tangle of bare bramble and hawthorn. ‘Shit.’

Tonight’s scrape was one of many. The lanes over the Quantocks were narrow and the locals drove at alarming speeds, day and night. As if on cue, a pair of blinding headlights bore down on her from the brow of the hill. She braked and swerved, her mirror and the left side of her car taking a further battering in the process. The oncoming car zipped past, flashed its lights and was gone.

‘You’re welcome,’ she muttered as she flicked on her full beam. And people thought London drivers were bad. She upended her bag and emptied the contents onto the passenger seat, hurling items into the footwell; her wallet, tampons, her lanyard for work, her Kindle. No phone.

As she drove through Crowcombe village she dropped down into third gear and accelerated up the hill, the hedgerows coming in to meet her. The trees on either side were so dense that she only caught glimpses of the night sky above her. It was like driving into a black hole. She turned on her windscreen wipers as the first drops of rain fell. The drops turned into a deluge, sending her wipers into overdrive. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and dropped down into second gear as she heard the sound of a much more powerful engine approaching. She glanced in her rear-view mirror as the headlights of the other vehicle rounded the bend at the bottom of the hill and sped up to meet her.

‘Hang on,’ she said, tucking herself as far into the left bank as she dared. She shook her head at the sound of yet more scraping. This part of the road was wide enough for two cars – only just – but instead of overtaking, the car slowed and pulled in behind her. She had to squint to look in her mirror, they were that close.

‘You’ve got your full beams on,’ she shouted, flashing her own lights. She could just make out two silhouettes, the driver and passenger. They were right up her arse and seemed to be edging closer. She saw a turn up ahead, indicated and slowed to let them pass, but they stayed glued to her bumper. Her skin prickled as beads of sweat formed in her hairline. She stopped indicating and continued up the hill, her companions in tow. She shook off her feeling of unease and put her foot down. There was another turn-off a bit further on. If they wouldn’t pass her, she would get out of their way and double back. She wasn’t in any hurry.

Damp air seemed to seep in through the windows, making her shiver. She turned up the heat, her eyes darting to the seat next to her as she continued searching for her phone. ‘Come on,’ she said as the rain hammered down. ‘Back off a bit, mate.’ It sounded more like a plea than she had intended.

Pippa’s car looked as if it was glowing from the inside out. The breath she was holding rushed out when she saw the headlights coming down the hill towards her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, turning her eyes up to the heavens. The oncoming car flashed its lights and pulled off to the side of the road, its wheels mounting the verge to let Pippa pass. As she slowed she saw the smiling faces of an old man in the driving seat and next to him, she assumed, his wife. They both raised their hands in greeting. She held up her hand and smiled back as she pulled alongside and inched past them. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed as she accelerated away and up the hill, leaving her tailgater far behind.

She reached for her emergency pack of cigarettes. Her hands were shaking a little, and not just from her encounter. This stretch of road always gave her the heebie-jeebies. It was her sister’s fault. Cassie used to tell stories on their way home from primary school, stories that frightened Pippa witless. She could still hear her voice, quiet and low as she whispered in Pippa’s ear: Shervage Wood is haunted.

Pippa lit her cigarette and wound her window down just enough to flick her ash and let the smoke out without letting the rain in. There used to be dragons all over the Quantocks, but Gurt Wurm was the biggest. He lived in Shervage Wood. People who saw him said he was as big around as three oak trees tied together. Pippa smiled at the memory at the same time as her body gave an involuntary shudder. In the spring-time he would gobble up all the sheep, horses . . . and children if he could catch them. They say you can still hear the children’s screams on stormy nights.

A gust of wind buffeted the car, making Pippa grip the steering wheel. One day the farmers decided they’d had enough and so they sent a woodcutter to fell some trees they said were rotten, but they never told him about Gurt Wurm. When the man sits down on a log to eat his lunch he suddenly realizes he isn’t sitting on a log at all. Gurt Wurm swishes his tail out from under the woodcutter, turns his head and opens his mouth wide, ready to eat him whole. But the woodcutter is too quick. He grabs his axe and cuts Gurt Wurm clean in half. They say his blood took days to soak into the ground, and that’s why the mud is red round these parts.

Pippa had had nightmares for years because of Cassie and her tall tales. She took a drag of her cigarette, and glanced in the rear-view mirror. No sign of the other car. They must have turned off for Triscombe. Drink drivers using the back roads, no doubt. She blew the smoke out the window. What she wouldn’t give to be back in London. She missed her flat. She missed her friends.

Pippa had been out of work for four months when her aunt Claudette called to say she had got her a job at Fyne Court, a National Trust place on the top of the Quantocks. She hadn’t been keen. Why would she be? She didn’t want to move back to Somerset. But when Claudette, who was friends with the catering manager, said they had refurbished their courtyard tearoom and were now serving lunches so needed a head chef, Pippa had relented. A head chef position was a big deal, although in reality she was making sandwiches and heating up soup.

She flicked the remainder of the cigarette out the window, watching the explosion of red sparks in her rear-view mirror as it hit the road behind her. It wouldn’t be much longer. All she needed to do was save enough money to cover her London rent for the next few months, and then she could go home. She had managed to pick up some extra shifts at the Farmer’s Arms in Combe Florey as well, so with any luck she would be out of here soon.

‘What the—’ She swerved as something darted in front of her headlights. She slammed on her brakes, the car veering to the other side of the road. Her tyres lost traction for a few seconds as she skidded, but then she felt them bite and the car juddered to a stop just before the cattle grid that led to the open part of the Quantocks – the part they called the Common.

Her heart was racing. She held her breath as she looked around. Her mind filled with visions of dragons, men with axes and blood. She could hear the wind as it ripped through the trees. There was the sound of a branch cracking. She turned, screamed and jumped sideways in her seat, banging her elbow on the door. ‘Christ,’ she said as the small doe bounded past the car and disappeared into the hedgerow on the other side of the road. She blew out a breath as she brought her shoulders down from around her ears. She looked at the clock on the dashboard. If she turned around right now and headed for the M5, she could be back in London by three thirty. Tears pricked in her eyes as she remembered she was working in the morning. There was no escape – not for tonight, anyway.

She put the car into gear and pulled away, her bones juddering as she crossed the cattle grid. The woodland retreated behind her as the road cut across open grassland pockmarked by rabbit warrens and badger sets. The few remaining trees were stunted and bent from the wind.

She heard the growl of another car before she saw it; she looked in her rear-view mirror, and tensed. The lights behind her flickered as the car passed over the cattle grid and accelerated up behind her. She could feel panic trying to surface, but as she looked back again, her shoulders relaxed a little. There was only one silhouette. There was only one person in the car. It was a different car. She sighed, her breathing returning to normal as she navigated the twisting road, glad now to have someone with her. She heard her phone beep, and looked for the illuminated screen. It was buried beneath a pile of tissues. She reached over, picked it up and unlocked the screen, trying to see who the message was from, but the car was bumping all over the place. Instead she grazed the phone icon with the side of her thumb, hit speed dial one and put it on speaker. The phone rang twice, but then clicked off as her call went to answerphone. An automated voice filled the car.

‘Oh, come on, answer your bloody . . .’ Before she could finish speaking, her car jolted forward. ‘What the fuck?’

She looked over her shoulder. She could just make out the silhouette of the driver. They were holding up their hand, palm flat in apology. She shook her head.

‘Try leaving more than an inch next time, mate,’ she said, raising her hand in response just as a huddle of sheep appeared out of the darkness in front of her. They were lying down, encroaching on the road. She pulled to the right and passed them without slowing down.

‘Anything else?’ she said. ‘What with deer, dickheads and now sheep, I’m about done for the night.’ She felt the road begin to slope downwards. Fifteen minutes and she would be home. She rounded the corner just as a shunt from behind forced her to swerve to the left. ‘Jesus,’ she said, grabbing the steering wheel. Her eyes darted to her rear-view mirror. She could see the silhouette of the driver, but this time there was no hand – there was no apology.

Without thinking, she started to accelerate. She had almost managed to convince herself she was wrong, that no one was capable of the things she had read about – names and fantasies she couldn’t fathom – but he was here. Who else could it be? Who else would want to hurt her? She could see the second cattle grid up ahead. She didn’t look back. She kept her eyes on the road.

The next impact threw Pippa forward with such force her chest collided with the steering wheel, winding her, before her head snapped back, only stopped by the headrest. She heard the cattle grid pass beneath the car. She couldn’t see anything. She was surrounded by a blinding white light. She could taste blood. Her hand reached up, as if in slow motion, her fingers feeling for her mouth. Her tongue felt like a torn rag. There was another bang and she was thrown to the side, her head hitting the window. She heard a crack. Someone was coughing. She could hear a gurgling, retching sound. She felt drunk – as if she was lying on her bed in her flat after a heavy night, the room spinning around her. Another sound invaded her thoughts. A scream buried within a deep growl.

She could see the tree coming towards her, its trunk wide and thick like Gurt Wurm’s stomach. Her face rushed forward to meet it as if in an embrace. Everything went dark. Pippa relaxed. She would chase up on those job applications tomorrow. Something would come through, she was sure of it. She loved cooking. It was her passion. She hoped one day to own her own restaurant. She remembered her sister lining up two chairs against the kitchen work surface: one for her, one for her brother. They each had a go at stirring, but Pippa always had the longest turn. They would each tip the mixture into their own little cupcake liners. Cassie would hold open the oven door and slide in the tray. ‘Careful, it’s hot,’ she would say. Pippa could smell the oven now – the sweet burning of the sugar as it melted – the heat warming her face. She heard the crackle of the paper cases rustling against the heat.

She let the heat envelop her as the flames licked ever closer.

CHAPTER THREE

10th December – Thursday

Jane cupped her hands over her eyes, relishing the darkness before pulling her legs up and hugging them to her. She took a deep breath then sighed, stretching out on her back like a starfish, her hands and feet exploring the cold spots on her bedsheet. The king-size dwarfed her, but it was worth every penny. If there was a heaven, she reckoned it was this: cold sheets, a warm duvet and a lie-in on a winter’s morning.

Her slow start was in part due to having the morning off work, but also because she had been forbidden to go downstairs. The novelty of time off had not been lost on her eight-year-old son. He had tiptoed into her bedroom at just gone four thirty this morning to announce in a loud stage whisper that he was going to make her breakfast, and judging by the racket coming from downstairs, preparations were in full swing. She was itching to get down there and see what he was up to, but he had made it very clear that her help would neither be appreciated nor tolerated. She looked at her watch. It was almost seven. He had been down there for an hour. He had promised not to use the hob without asking, but she knew that when it came to surprises her son believed all promises were rendered null and void. She threw her legs out over the side of the bed, sat up and stretched her arms up over her head. The creaks and pops of her spine gave her a pleasant shiver. She sniffed the air. There was only the faint smell of burning toast.

Despite her best efforts Peter was adamant that they would be spending the day together, just the two of them. He had their activities planned out hour by hour. Jane had tried to tell him that just because she had time off didn’t mean he got time off from school, but he had refused to listen. She rubbed her face, pushed her fringe out of her eyes and pulled her hair back into a stubby ponytail. It was her unenviable job to eat whatever he had prepared and then shatter his illusions. Neither would be pretty. At least she had Friends. She had discovered the magical properties of the American sitcom last month during her parents’ move.

She pushed herself up off the bed and walked over to the door, opening it just a crack. One false move and she would be in trouble. She held her breath and listened. She had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. He was listening to the Today programme on Radio Four. She closed the door without a sound and started to get dressed, ignoring the rain hammering on the windows. There were days when she wished her son didn’t have autism for both their sakes, but how many mothers could say their eight-year-old loved a topical debate? Yes, being autistic made Peter different, challenging at times; but life was never dull. She pulled on her favourite pair of slouch jeans and then sat on the edge of the bed to put on her socks. They had dinosaurs on them. Another one of Peter’s obsessions. She walked over to her curtains and opened them, using the silk ties her mother had bought her to hold them back. She ran her fingers over the fabric.

When her mother had announced, back in the summer, that she and Jane’s father were leaving London and moving to Clevedon in the South West, she had assumed it was one of Celia Bennett’s bizarre forms of mental torture. How could they move? Her mother worshipped Peter, and what would she do without Jane to berate? And John Bennett was a Londoner through and through. Jane’s father’s knowledge of the Thames and south-east London was encyclopaedic. Before his strokes he had spent every Saturday in central London, discovering new sites or visiting his favourite haunts like the South Bank book fair. He could spend hours sifting through all the second-hand books, or just sitting in a cafe where he liked to ‘absorb the hubbub by osmosis’, as he put it. What was he going to do with himself in a sleepy seaside town?

Their relocation was meant to be all about rest and relaxation for her father, who was still recovering from a series of strokes. If the constant bickering about what ‘downsizing’ really meant and the packing up of the house were anything to go by, her father was a lot stronger than he looked. Jane had bought Peter a label maker to ‘engage him with the process’ – she had read that somewhere. He had approached his task with gusto, although he was somewhat selective. Jane knew, for example, that one box, labelled ‘dishwasher stuff’ had contained two packets of dishwasher tablets, dishwasher salt, rinse aid, the instruction manual for the dishwasher they weren’t taking with them, and six tea towels. That was it. He refused to allow anything else in the box, because nothing else fitted the category description.

Jane had discovered the wonder of Friends when she was sealing up yet another box containing fewer than twenty items. She had turned on the television to distract Peter, and gone to make a calming cuppa for her arguing parents. By the time she returned to the lounge her son had been lying on his stomach in front of the telly, his chin resting in his hands, his feet swinging, his face transfixed. He was watching a Friends marathon. When Jane had asked if he wanted any lunch, he had given her his ‘I’m very busy’ scowl. An hour later he had been in the same position. She had ordered the series box set off Amazon, and since then had doled out the episodes as treats. He was on the second series already.

Mind you, if she was honest, Peter had coped with her parents’ move better than she had. She had been fully prepared for a nightmare transition. After all, her mother was Peter’s primary carer when Jane was at work; and let’s face it, when wasn’t Jane at work? But like the little miracle he was, Peter had adjusted, and they had managed.

Jane turned and looked at the picture on her bedside table of Peter and her folks on Clevedon Pier. They were all smiling, waving at her behind the camera. She puffed out a breath. Even she had to admit there was something about the place, and as much as she hated to admit it, they were happy. She wished she could say the same.

The timing of their move could not have been worse. She had been in the middle of a stressful murder case involving children – not to mention that she was also dealing with Andy, Peter’s father, who had chosen to re-enter his son’s life after eight years. The fact that he had been absent for the previous seven birthdays was just ‘one of those things’, according to Andy.

She leaned her elbows on the windowsill and rested her forehead on the window, the glass cool against her skin. She had spent the past few months trying to extricate herself from the problem, but Andy was persistent. Now lawyers were involved. She closed her eyes.

‘Mum.’

Jane turned to find Peter standing in her bedroom doorway. His walnut-coloured hair was sticking up at odd angles. He was much fairer than her. Her hair was almost black. She smiled. He was puce, holding a spatula that was dripping an unknown substance on the carpet, and he was wearing a pinafore that one of her colleagues from the squad had given her as last year’s Secret Santa. It depicted a woman in bra, knickers, suspenders and fishnet tights.

‘You look like you’ve been having fun,’ she said.

‘Breakfast will be ready in four and a half minutes,’ he said, his expression serious.

‘Four and a half minutes,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Right.’ She gestured to her outfit. ‘Will I do?’

‘I don’t like your jeans,’ he said, leaving the room and pulling the door behind him. As the door clicked into place she heard him say, ‘But I like the socks.’

She had to restrain herself from running out the door, scooping him up and kissing him to bits. He wasn’t averse to physical affection, but it needed to be invited nowadays. She looked down at her jeans. Of course he didn’t like them. They were a slouch fit, a.k.a. messy. He had gone to the effort of making her breakfast – the least she could do was dress the part. She went to her wardrobe and had a look through her clothes. There were at least a dozen ‘work’ outfits. She swiped the hangers to the left so only her casual clothes remained: a denim skirt she never wore, three summer dresses on the same hanger, and three pairs of black trousers that she wore to funerals and job interviews. She slipped on a pair over her dinosaur socks and changed her hoodie for a Christmas jumper with a picture of a reindeer on the front. Her phone beeped. She unplugged it from the charger and unlocked the screen. It was an email. She clicked into it, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, preparing herself for yet another threatening epistle from Andy or one of his shit-bag lawyers. She opened her eyes. It was from Aaron, one of the squad’s PC’s. She had talked to him about his move up to Detective Constable last week and told him to get his paperwork sorted. She opened the email and started reading.

DS Bennett,

I need to take a leave of absence starting immediately. I am unable to come into the office this morning. I have cc’d in HR.

I will phone to explain.

Thank you for your help.

PC Aaron Jones

Jane read through the message again. ‘Thank you for your help.’ She had a pretty good idea what that meant. Lockyer was Aaron’s direct superior, not her. If he should be emailing anyone, it should be him; but then, everyone knew Aaron had spent the past few months avoiding Lockyer, and vice versa. Jane was lucky enough to have been there when Lockyer met the boyfriend of his nineteen-year-old daughter for the first time. Megan Lockyer had decided the perfect occasion for her father to learn about her relationship with Aaron was at the wedding of Lockyer’s ex-wife. As an event, it was right up there with the birth of Jane’s son – long and painful.

Her phone started ringing. She looked at the screen, half expecting it to be Aaron. It wasn’t.

‘Hey,’ she said.

‘Where are you?’ Lockyer asked, sounding irritated.

She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve got the morning off . . . remember?’

There was a sniff at the other end of the line. ‘Oh yeah, that’s right. You’re interviewing for a nanny,’ he said.

‘A childminder, yes,’ she said. She could tell by his voice that he hadn’t forgotten. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing much,’ he said. She could hear him tapping away at his computer.

‘Peter’s made breakfast.’

‘Of course, you go,’ he said.

‘OK,’ she said, about to hang up, but then she remembered Aaron’s email. ‘Before you go, I just got an email from Aaron.’

‘And?’

‘He’s asked for a leave of absence,’ she said, deciding to help Aaron out by one, telling Lockyer for him and two, withholding the fact that he hadn’t asked at all, he had just taken the leave.

‘Why?’

‘I’m getting further details on that,’ she said.

She could almost hear the cogs of his brains turning. ‘Fine. Let me know when you know.’

‘OK,’ she said, stretching out the vowels. ‘So, I’ll see you at the briefing this afternoon. I could do with going over the Mitchell interview before that, if you’ve got time?’

‘I’ve got a meeting with Roger at midday so it depends how long that takes.’

‘That’s fine,’ she said, making a note in her phone. ‘I’ll be in by one.’

‘Not that I know what the meeting’s about,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked. Lockyer’s relationship with Roger Westwood was weather-dependent these days. Roger’s promotion to superintendent had put more pressure on him, and so in turn, more pressure on Lockyer. Neither seemed happy about the situation.

‘He wouldn’t tell me. He just asked me a load of questions about my caseload, your caseload . . .’

‘He asked about me?’

‘Your name came up, yes,’ Lockyer said.

‘Maybe it’s just a general catch-up,’ she said.

‘I missed my last occupational health . . . appointment,’ he said, his voice flat.

So that was why he had called. In these modern days of policing the Met not only offered counselling, but sometimes insisted on it. The practice was meant to be a good thing, a sign of progress. However, Jane knew Lockyer didn’t see it that way. ‘Why did you miss it?’

‘I was busy,’ he said. ‘It was just a . . . check-up or whatever. I don’t see the problem.’

‘You don’t know there is a problem, Mike,’ she said. He didn’t speak. Of course, that was part of his problem: he didn’t communicate.

She could hear Peter coming up the stairs. Her four and a half minutes must have been up a while ago. ‘Listen, I’ve got to . . .’ The door opened and Peter appeared. His face was still puce but Jane could tell it was from anger, not the exertion of cooking. She covered the phone with her palm. ‘Sorry honey, I’m coming now.’

‘It’s cold,’ he said as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘Oh, I don’t mind. I bet it’s gonna be delicious,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait. I’ll be down in literally two seconds.’

‘That’s stupid. No one can get anywhere in two seconds,’ he said, leaving the room and slamming the door.

She put the phone back to her ear. ‘Look, I’ve got to . . .’

‘IT IS COLD!’ Peter shouted. She heard him stomping down the stairs.

‘Trouble?’ Lockyer asked.

‘I missed breakfast,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Sorry, Mike, I’ve got to . . .’

‘COLD, COLD, COLD!’

‘That doesn’t sound too g . . .’

‘COLD, COLD, COLD!’

‘I’ll see you later,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go and put Friends on.’

‘What—?’

Jane ended the call before he could finish speaking. This was going to be a two-episode tantrum. Maybe even three. She would deal with her son first, her boss second.

CHAPTER FOUR

10th December – Thursday

DI Mike Lockyer folded back the paper, taking care to keep his fingers clear of the ketchup, and took a large bite of the bacon roll. Fat and melted butter ran out the side of his mouth and dripped onto his desk. He opened his mouth for the second bite before he had swallowed the first and sat back, putting his feet up on the edge of his bin. Despite maintenance raising his desk, he still felt too big for his hobbit hole of an office. Traditional desks were not made for long legs. He arched his back, enjoying the stretch as he took another gigantic bite of his lunch, murmuring to himself with delight.

He had discovered the Lewisham delicacy last week when he spotted Franks, one of his DCs, eating one at his desk. Lockyer had never frequented the kebab shop opposite the station on Lewisham High Street, and for good reason. Suspicious smells emanated from the extractor grill, the pungent odours drifting into his office through his open window day and night, no matter the season. The kebab spit looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in years, if ever; the floor,