The Night Stalker (9 page)

I
t was
on a hot sticky afternoon, a week after the discovery of Gregory Munro’s body, that Erika was summoned to attend a progress meeting about the Gregory Munro case at Lewisham Row. The investigation had ground to a halt, and her confidence in her abilities had taken a knock, so she went in feeling less than confident.

The meeting was held in the plush conference room on the top floor, and in attendance were Detective Chief Superintendent Marsh, Colleen Scanlan, the matronly Met Police media liaison officer, Tim Aiken, a young criminal psychologist, and Assistant Commissioner Oakley, who sat imperiously at the head of the long conference table. Oakley never tried to hide his dislike for Erika. He had neat, sly features, and his steel-coloured hair was always immaculately groomed, reminding Erika of a sleek fox. However, the heat had taken away a little of his sleekness today. His usually immaculate hair was soaked in sweat, and he had been forced to remove his Met Police jacket, with its epaulettes sewn with the ornate symbol of his rank, and sit with his sleeves rolled up.

Erika opened the meeting, detailing how the case had progressed so far.

‘Boosted by the discovery that our killer engineered a pre-visit to Gregory Munro’s house, my officers have been working round the clock examining hundreds of hours of CCTV from the cameras in and around Honor Oak Park train station. The residents of Laurel Road have been re-interviewed, but no one remembers seeing a representative from the fictitious GuardHouse Alarms. The company itself doesn’t exist. The email address on the leaflet was fake, and the phone number was from an untraceable prepaid phone.’

Looking around the conference table, Erika realised that the meeting was a make or break opportunity to retain the large amount of manpower she’d been assigned. In addition to the pressure she was feeling, the air conditioning had broken, leading to an uncomfortable sticky atmosphere.

She went on, ‘I am aggressively pursuing every detail of Gregory Munro’s personal life. I believe he knew or had previously met his attacker, and that his private life could unlock the identity of the killer. But with a case of this complexity, I will need more time.’

‘The victim’s brother-in-law, Gary Wilmslow, is also under investigation for unrelated crimes, which are part of Operation Hemslow,’ interrupted Oakley.’ I trust that the two investigations will remain separate, and officers on the Munro murder will be kept away from Operation Hemslow?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s all under control,’ said Marsh, giving Erika a look. There was silence as all eyes around the table stared back at her. Marsh changed the subject.
‘What about the presence of gay pornography at the murder scene? I understand that Gregory Munro had downloaded a gay dating app on his mobile phone?’

Marsh had already discussed this with Erika. She realised that he was asking the question for Oakley’s benefit.

‘Yes, sir. There were some gay porn magazines and he’d downloaded the Grindr gay dating app, but he hadn’t activated it. There were no contacts or messages,’ replied Erika.

‘So the victim was potentially engaging in homosexual behaviours, anonymous meetings with men?’ said Oakley.

‘There is no evidence, beyond a few dog-eared gay porn magazines, to show Gregory Munro was acting on any homosexual impulses,’ said Erika.

‘Why haven’t you considered investigating the gay cruising areas around London? Public lavatories? Parks?’ pressed Oakley.

‘I have considered them, sir. We know of several areas, but they’re not covered by CCTV. My officers are stretched to the limit dealing with the evidence we
do
have, without going off to make general enquiries in the bushes…’

‘He was a married man with homosexual desires. I can’t see why this hasn’t been your main line of enquiry, DCI Foster?’

‘As I said, sir, we have several lines of enquiry. I would need more officers, if I was to start…’

‘You already have a large team, DCI Foster. Perhaps we should talk about how you are using your resources, before you come cap in hand for more?’

‘I can assure you, sir, that every one of my officers is being used to the best of their ability.’

Oakley picked up one of the crime scene photos of Gregory Munro and studied it. ‘Violence in the gay community is often linked intrinsically with sexual desire. Don’t men like this seek out clandestine encounters? Invite dangerous men into their houses?’

‘We obviously know different kinds of gay men, sir,’ Erika shot back. There was silence around the table.

‘It’s the heat; it’s getting to us all, sir,’ said Marsh, glaring at Erika.

Oakley scowled and took a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his face, wiping under his sweaty hairline. The way he gently lifted his fringe made Erika suddenly wonder if he wore a wig. A ‘syrup’. The word popped into her head. Syrup
…
Syrup of figs… wig… She remembered Mark telling her about cockney rhyming slang when she’d first come to England, and how much it had made her laugh.

‘Is something funny, DCI Foster?’ asked Oakley, as he tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket.

‘No, sir,’ said Erika getting a hold of herself.

‘Good, because alongside the issue of manpower levels the media has seized upon your failure to find a suspect as another reason to give the Met Police a good kicking. First the local, and now the national newspapers.’ He indicated the papers in the centre of the conference room table, which bore the headlines: ‘
SUPER GP KILLED IN BED
’ and ‘
POLICE STILL HUNTING KILLER OF TOP DOC
’. ‘You’ve been rather quiet, Colleen, what can you add to this?’

‘I am working…’ started Colleen and paused.

She was going to say,
‘
robustly
’ thought Erika.

‘I’m working very hard to ensure that my press team steers the media in the correct direction. Of course, there is little new evidence to give them,’ she added, trying to throw the blame back onto Erika.

‘It isn’t our job to keep spoon-feeding journalists. I think it was a little premature to release information this early,’ said Erika. ‘We should have been at least two steps ahead and ready with more information. Now they’ve gone and done exactly what I thought they’d do and found their own angle, linking this case to the austerity cuts by the government.’

‘Yes, where did they get this quote, DCI Foster?’ asked Oakley, picking up one of the newspapers. ‘“Across London, 14,000 CCTV cameras are no longer in use; police don’t have the man-hours to effectively keep residents of the capital safe.”
You’ve been rather vocal about the lack of CCTV cameras, haven’t you?’

‘Are you suggesting that I’ve been briefing the press about this case, sir?’

‘No, the Assistant Commissioner is not suggesting that,’ interrupted Marsh.

‘Now, Paul, I can speak for myself,’ snapped Oakley. ‘What I’m saying is that it doesn’t do to start fear-mongering, DCI Foster. You lead and influence a vast number of officers. Your team has been given a great deal of manpower for this murder investigation. I just don’t think it’s good for morale if you are constantly harping on about what you haven’t got. How many more officers do you believe you require?’

‘Sir, I am not being negative, and I don’t harp,’ said Erika.

‘How many?’

‘Five. I have prepared a paper for you which details exactly how I will use—’

‘A week has passed since the murder of Gregory Munro, and I need to ensure that manpower is being properly deployed,’ interrupted Oakley.

‘Yes, sir, but—’

‘I would strongly advise that you refocus our investigation, DCI Foster, working on the assumption that Gregory Munro invited a man into his house for the purpose of sexual intercourse, and that this man, whomever he was, saw an opportunity and killed him. A crime of passion.’

‘A gay bashing?’ said Erika.

‘I don’t like that phrase, DCI Foster.’

‘But the press loves it. And the gay community will, no doubt, experience a backlash of negativity if we refocus the investigation with that angle. We also found evidence of forced entry through the kitchen window, and the fence at the rear of the property had been clipped. It doesn’t sound like Gregory Munro invited whoever did this into his house. The fake security firm leaflet is our strongest lead. This is summer holiday season. We haven’t yet spoken to all of the Laurel Road residents because some are still away on holiday. We’re also going through the list of complaints from Gregory Munro’s patients. Again, this is taking time.’

‘Have any complaints proved to be a worthwhile lead so far?’ asked Oakley.

‘As of yet, no, but…’

‘I’d like to hear from our criminal profiler,’ said Oakley, cutting her off yet again. ‘Tim?’

Tim Aiken, the criminal psychologist, had remained silent until now. He had a short, shiny mop of hair, designer stubble and, despite his shirt and tie, wore a thick bunch of multicoloured woven bracelets on his wrist. He looked up from where he had been doodling a series of cubes in his notebook. ‘I think the man we’re looking for is a very controlled individual. He plans every move very carefully. Physically, he’s strong. Gregory Munro wasn’t a small man and there was little evidence of a struggle.’

‘Gregory Munro was drugged; he had a huge dose of flunitrazepam in his body. Flunitrazepam is used as a date rape drug. Whoever broke in made time to drug him, and then waited for the drug to take effect,’ added Erika.

‘Yes. There is also widespread use of flunitrazepam in the gay community for a sexual high, for enjoyment,’ replied Tim.

‘I doubt many people who’ve had it slipped into their drink in a bar enjoyed themselves,’ said Erika.

Tim went on, ‘The killer could have been very intuitive, using a honeypot method with the security leaflet to lure the victim into calling him. Coupled with the use of a sedative, we shouldn’t rule out the possibility of a homosexual element.’

‘Gregory Munro wasn’t sexually assaulted,’ said Erika.

‘True, but our killer may have had issues with masculinity, and previous bad experiences with type A, or alpha males. He may want to suppress masculine individuals.’

‘
B
loody hell
. How much is he costing us?’ asked Erika when the meeting had ended, a sticky, uncomfortable forty minutes later. She was walking down the stairs from the conference room with Marsh.

‘Don’t hold much stock in forensic profiling?’

‘I think it can be helpful, but so often they’re called in and seen as miracle workers. Forensic profilers don’t catch criminals, we do.’

‘Don’t complain. He works for you, remember. He talked Oakley out of cutting your budget.’

‘Only by blinding him with science.’

‘You don’t seem pleased?’

‘I’ll be pleased when we catch whoever did this,’ said Erika. ‘Tim didn’t really tell us anything we don’t know already. Although the whole thing about alpha males is an interesting theory. But how do we put that to good use? It’s so broad. We can’t put every aggressive dominant male under surveillance. The world is full of them.’

Marsh rolled his eyes. ‘You could do yourself a favour by trying to build bridges with Oakley.’

‘I didn’t pull him up on his homophobic attitude, that’s a start. And anyway, what’s the point? He’s never going to like me, sir. I’m never going to be on his Christmas card list.’

They had reached the landing for Marsh’s office. ‘Keep me in the loop, okay?’ he said, as he made to go through the double doors.

‘Before you go, sir, any more news about the superintendent post up for grabs?’

Marsh stopped and turned back to face her.

‘I’ve already said I’ll be putting you forward, Erika.’

‘Have you informed Oakley that you intend to put me forward?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘I can’t go into details about the process, you know that. Now, I have to go.’ Marsh turned to go back through the doors.

‘One more thing, sir. What’s happening with Peter Munro living under the same roof as Gary Wilmslow? I’m concerned for his welfare.’

Marsh stopped and turned back.

‘For the past week, Peter has only left the house with his mother to go to school. We have several of the rooms inside bugged. As far as we know, he’s fine. And Gary Wilmslow is old-school working class. He talks about honour and family and all that. He wouldn’t let anyone touch one of his own.’

‘You’ve been watching too much
Eastenders
, sir. Let’s hope you’re right.’

‘I am right,’ said Marsh, icily, and disappeared though the double doors to his office.

‘I seem to be
so
popular with everyone. All I’m trying to do is my bloody job,’ Erika muttered to herself, as she carried on down the flights of stairs.

When she reached the incident room, the ceiling fans were working overtime, but they only seemed to be circulating the heat and the smells of coffee and body odour.

‘Boss, I’ve just heard from uniform division; the neighbours living opposite Gregory Munro’s house are back from holiday,’ said Peterson, putting down his phone.

Moss was sitting opposite Peterson, her face red from the heat as she came off a call. ‘That was Estelle Munro. She says that Gregory Munro’s General Medical Council certificate is missing from 14 Laurel Road.’

‘When did we hand the house back to the family?’ asked Erika.

‘Yesterday. I’ve been through the forensics log, and everything we took away. There is no mention of a GMC certificate.’

‘Which means the killer could have taken it. Shit. How could we have missed this?’

W
hen Erika
, Moss and Peterson arrived at Laurel Road, it was balmy and quiet. The sun had sunk down far enough so that the houses on Gregory Munro’s side were in the shade.

A cluster of men and women in office clothes rounded the end of the road with flushed faces, the men with their sleeves rolled up, carrying their jackets. It was just after five-thirty and Erika realised this was the first wave of commuters returning from work in Central London.

She rang the bell at number 14. Moments later, Estelle Munro opened the door. She was dressed in pale slacks, a smart white blouse covered in a pattern of roses, and a pair of yellow Marigolds.

‘Hello, Mrs Munro. We’re here about the medical certificate,’ said Erika.

‘Yes,’ was all she said. She stepped back and they filed in. Erika recognised the zesty, lemony smell of cleaning products, which mingled with an overpowering scent of synthetic blossom. It was, however, cool inside the house. The windows were all shut and the air conditioning hummed throughout.

‘It was in Gregory’s office,’ said Estelle, closing the front door and locking it. Erika noticed she’d had the locks changed: a gleaming new Yale and two new bolts.

They followed Estelle up the stairs, moving slowly behind her as she breathed heavily.

‘How are things?’ asked Erika.

‘I’m still cleaning up the mess your lot left,’ Estelle snapped.

‘We do try to treat the crime scene with as much respect as we can, but a great number of people are involved, all coming into the property at once,’ said Moss.

‘And all these people, are they any closer to finding who killed my son?’

‘We are pursuing several leads,’ said Erika.

They reached the top of the stairs. Estelle paused to catch her breath, resting a Marigold-gloved hand on her hip. The heavy curtains covering the hall window had been removed, and it was much brighter on the landing.

‘When will my son’s body be released, DCI Fosset?’ Estelle asked.

‘It’s DCI Foster…’

‘Because I have a funeral to arrange,’ Estelle said, teasing off the gloves, finger by finger.

‘We’ll have to check who our first contact is in the family before passing on any details, I’m afraid,’ said Moss.

Estelle’s face clouded over even more. ‘Gregory was my son. I carried him in my belly for nine months. You will phone
me
first, do you understand? Penny was only married to him for four years. I was his mother for forty-six…’ She took a deep breath to compose herself. ‘She phoned me up, Penny. Demanding to know when
the body
was being released. “The body”! Not “Gregory” or “Greg” – he hated being called Greg. Penny wants to book the Shirley football club for the wake. A football club! No doubt Gary and his hooligan friends will
get a good deal
.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Munro.’

Estelle stepped into the bathroom and ran her hands under the tap. She came back out drying them on a small towel. ‘I’ve had Gary on the phone today, threatening me.’

‘Threatening you?’ asked Erika.

‘Gregory altered his will when he and Penny separated. We’ve just found out that he left the house to me, and his rental properties in trust to Peter.’

‘What about Penny?’

Estelle shot Erika a look. ‘What about her? She’ll get the four-bedroom house in Shirley. It’s worth plenty. Gary was abusive on the phone, he said Penny was owed this house and that I’m to sign it over to her
or else
…’

‘Or else what?’ asked Erika.

‘Oh, use your imagination, DCI Fosset. Or else I’ll be dealt with. He’ll send the lads round. A car might plough into me on my way home from the shops. I take it you’ve read Gary’s criminal record?’

A look passed between Erika, Moss and Peterson.

Estelle went on, ‘I’ve changed the locks, but I’m still worried.’

‘I can assure you that Gary Wilmslow will not cause you any harm,’ said Erika.

Estelle’s eyes filled with tears and she scrabbled around for a tissue. Peterson was on hand again, and produced a pack from his pocket.

‘Thank you,’ she said, gratefully.

Erika signalled to Moss and they left Peterson to reassure Estelle. They moved along the corridor to the small bedroom Gregory Munro had used as his home office.

A heavy, dark wood desk was squeezed in against the window, and opposite were a set of shelves with the same dark wood finish. The shelves were filled with a mixture of medical books and paperback novels. Erika noted that Gregory Munro had three of the DCI Bartholomew crime novels written by Stephen Linley.

‘Shit!’ she said.

‘What is it, boss?’

‘Nothing…’ Erika remembered her conversation with Isaac last week, and that she’d agreed to dinner with him tonight. She looked at her watch and saw it was approaching six.

Estelle shuffled back into the room, followed by Peterson.

‘It was here,’ Estelle said, pointing to the wall behind the desk where there hung two gold picture frames. One was filled with photos: Gregory and Penny cutting their wedding cake; Penny holding a pair of sunglasses on their cat’s unimpressed face; Penny in a hospital bed, clutching what must have been Peter when he was born, with Gary, Estelle and Penny’s bespectacled mother standing awkwardly either side. The other frame was empty.

‘I asked Penny if she had it, but for once I think she’s being truthful when she says no,’ said Estelle, pointing to the empty frame. ‘If it was the television or the DVD player she’d have had it, but not this.’

Erika went over to the empty frame, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. She lifted it off the wall, finding it was very light and made of plastic.

‘Have you touched this at all, Mrs Munro?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ she said.

Erika turned the frame over, but couldn’t see anything.

‘We should call in a fingerprint technician. It’s a long shot, but…’

‘Okay, boss,’ said Moss. She pulled out her radio and placed a call; a voice came back saying no one was available.

Erika grabbed the radio. ‘This is DCI Foster. I need someone today, now, as soon as you can. This is new evidence which we’ve found at the 14 Laurel Road crime scene, SE23.’

There was a pause and a couple of beeps.

‘We’ve just got a technician finishing up on a burglary over at Telegraph Hill, I’ll radio for her to come over as soon as she’s finished. Although can you authorise overtime?’ replied the tinny voice through the radio.

‘Yes. I authorise overtime,’ Erika snapped.

‘Okay,’ came the voice.

Erika replaced the frame on the wall and removed the gloves. ‘Okay, so we’ve got a little wait. Moss, you come with me. Let’s talk to this neighbour who’s back from holiday. Mrs Munro, would it be okay if DI Peterson waited with you?’

‘Yes. Would you like a cup of tea, dear?’ asked Estelle.

Peterson nodded.

T
he neighbours were
a couple in their late thirties: a white woman called Marie and a black man called Claude. Their house, opposite number 14, was smart and stylish, and they had an urban coolness about them. The hall was still filled with several brightly coloured suitcases, and they ushered Erika and Moss through to their kitchen. Marie grabbed some glasses and filled them with water and ice from the dispenser in the door of a large stainless steel fridge. She handed Moss and Erika a glass each. Erika took a long drink, savouring the coolness.

‘We were shocked to hear about Dr Munro,’ said Marie, when they were settled around the kitchen table. ‘I know this area isn’t the nicest, but murder!’ Claude sat next to her and she reached out and grabbed his hand. He squeezed hers reassuringly in return.

‘I can understand how harrowing it must be. Although we do stress that, statistically, murder cases are still extremely rare,’ added Erika.

‘Well, statistically, a bloke being knocked off in his bed a few doors down is one too many!’ said Claude, rolling his eyes.

‘Of course,’ said Erika.

‘We need to ask if you’ve noticed anyone unusual hanging around?’ asked Moss. ‘Anything, however small… In particular, on the 21st of June between 5 p.m. and 7 p.m.’

‘It’s not that kind of street, love,’ said Marie. ‘We’re all too busy working and living to peer out of the window at our neighbours.’

‘Would you have been in that day, between 5 p.m. and 7 p.m.?’ asked Erika.

‘That was around four weeks ago…’ Marie started.

‘Yes, it was a Tuesday,’ replied Moss.

‘I’d have still been at work. I’m an accountant in the City,’ said Marie.

‘I finish work earlier, and I work locally for the council,’ added Claude. ‘If it was a Tuesday, I’d have been at the gym. Fitness First, down the road in Sydenham. They can vouch for me, we have to swipe a card to get in.’

‘It’s okay. You’re not suspects,’ said Erika. ‘Did you know Gregory Munro well?’

They shook their heads.

‘He was always pleasant and polite, though,’ added Claude. ‘He was our GP, but we never had to go. I think we saw him once, a few years back, when we registered.’

Erika and Moss exchanged a despondent glance.

‘There is one thing,’ started Claude. He took a sip of his iced water and rolled it around his mouth thoughtfully. Condensation dripped off the glass onto the wooden table.

‘Anything at all, however small,’ said Moss.

‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Marie. ‘Yes, I’ve seen them too.’

‘Seen who?’ asked Erika.

‘There seemed to be quite a few handsome young men in and out of Dr Munro’s house in the past few weeks,’ said Claude.

Erika looked at Moss. ‘Can you be more specific?’

‘You know, muscly types,’ said Marie. ‘I thought the first one was some sort of hunky workman that Dr Munro had employed, but then the next day a different young man knocked on the door and went in. He was so good-looking. Sort of high-end good-looking, if you know what I mean.’

‘Like a rent boy?’

‘Yeah. And they only seemed to stay for an hour or so,’ added Claude.

‘What time was this?’

‘The first two were on weekdays. I can’t remember which days. I was coming home from work, so around seven-thirty… Dr Munro sort of hustled the first guy inside when he saw me passing, just said a quick hello. And then an hour or so later, we’d just had our supper and I was in the living room and I saw him leave,’ said Marie.

‘And the others?’ asked Erika.

‘There was one on a Saturday morning, I think? Didn’t you see him leaving early, Claude?’ asked Marie.

‘Yeah, the window from our upstairs loo looks down on the street; I was having a pee when I saw this young chap leaving early, around seven on a Saturday morning,’ said Claude.

‘And didn’t you think it was odd?’ asked Moss.

‘Odd? This is London, and it was before we knew he’d spilt up with his wife… It could have been a friend, a colleague, a medical student, or even a manny – you know, a male nanny,’ said Claude.

‘Do you think one of these men, you know, killed him?’ asked Marie.

‘I’m going to be honest with you: we don’t know. This is one of several leads.’

It hung in the air for a moment. Marie rubbed at the condensation on her glass. Claude put a protective arm around her.

‘Would you be willing to do a police e-fit? If we can get a likeness of these young men it could be very valuable,’ said Erika. ‘We can get someone over tonight, to do it in the comfort of your home?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Claude. ‘If it helps you catch whoever did this.’

M
oss and Erika
came back out into the baking street and moved across to the shady side.

‘I call that a result,’ said Moss.

‘And, with any luck, we could have a photo fit this evening,’ agreed Erika. She pulled out her phone and called Peterson for an update.

‘Nothing yet, boss,’ he said. ‘The fingerprint technician still isn’t finished over in Telegraph Hill. Estelle Munro has gone out for more milk… I don’t have a key to this place, so I can’t secure it.’

‘Okay, we’re on our way,’ said Erika. She hung up, tucked her phone back in her bag and looked at her watch. It was gone seven.

‘You need to be somewhere?’ asked Moss.

‘I’m supposed to be going for dinner, with Isaac Strong.’

‘I can stay here with Peterson if you want to scoot off. It looks like this is going to be a long boring one. I doubt we’ll get any prints off the frame, but I can let you know as soon as, and I’ll keep you posted on the photo fit.’

‘Don’t you want to be getting home, Moss?’

‘I’m fine. Celia’s taking Jacob to mother-and-baby swimming so I’ve got the evening, I know you don’t get out…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘You know I don’t get out much?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that, boss,’ said Moss, going redder than she already was.

‘I know. It’s okay.’ Erika chewed her lip and squinted at Moss in the sun.

‘Honestly, boss, the millisecond we lift a print, I’ll call. And the e-fit might take a few hours. What’s Isaac cooking?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘By the time you’ve eaten whatever it is we’ll have a some answers.’

‘Okay. Thank you, Moss. I owe you one. You phone me the second something happens, however small, okay?’

‘I promise, boss,’ said Moss. She watched as Erika went back to her car and drove off, and hoped that they would find something to further the investigation.

It looked like DCI Foster needed a breakthrough.