Stalked By Shadows Read online

  Stalked by Shadows

  CHRIS COLLETT

  Hachette Digital

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Chris Collett was born in East Anglia and graduated in Liverpool, before moving to Birmingham to teach both children and adults with varying degrees of learning disability. Chris is married with two grown-up children.

  She is the author of The Worm in the Bud, Blood of the Innocents, Written in Blood and Blood Money, also available from Piatkus.

  Also available in the DI Tom Mariner series:

  The Worm in the Bud

  Blood of the Innocents

  Written in Blood

  Blood Money

  Stalked by Shadows

  CHRIS COLLETT

  Hachette Digital

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Published by Hachette Digital 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Chris Collett

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in

  writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or

  cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

  including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those

  clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  eISBN : 978 0 7481 1269 2

  This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE

  Hachette Digital

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DY

  An Hachette UK Company

  For Joe and Beth

  CHAPTER ONE

  PC Ralph Solomon was facing a dilemma. Ten minutes ago he’d picked up a call to go to the home of one Nina Silvero, to check that there was nothing amiss. Apparently a friend of Mrs Silvero, who was aged sixty-one and a widow, had contacted the station concerned that she had not turned up to an appointment for that afternoon. Since then, said friend had been ringing Mrs Silvero’s house continually and been unable to raise anyone. Finally she had contacted the police. There could, as far as Solomon could see, be any number of reasons why Mrs Silvero had not kept that appointment, not least that she had wanted to avoid a woman who was clearly a busybody. Now, in the early evening, after nightfall and in a blustery breeze, Solomon happened to be in the area so had been asked to go and check over the house, and that was what he was doing. The March winds came in gusts, rattling the street lights and rustling the emerging leaves on the horse chestnut tree in the corner of Mrs Silvero’s front garden, all of which reminded Solomon of The Munsters. It was a nicer house, though - detached, with a mature garden. Solomon had been brought up on a council estate not two miles away, where his parents still lived, the only African-Caribbean family in their road, and this was the kind of house his mother had aspired to.

  As he walked up the drive, across the pool of light cast from the hall, and around to the side of the house, he could see the promising glare that he guessed was from the kitchen. Solomon’s substantial stomach rumbled loudly and he optimistically envisaged a short and apologetic conversation with Mrs Silvero, during which she would confirm his theory about the neurotic friend, and he’d be on his way, back to the station for R&R, a thick bacon sandwich and mug of strong coffee, very soon. After a weekend off it would be nice if his first night back was an uneventful one.

  Solomon rang the doorbell and was rewarded by the prolonged and satisfying peal of a bell inside the house. But there was no movement behind the frosted glass. It didn’t mean anything of course. The old dear could have gone out anyway, just not with her over-anxious friend. Crouching down, Solomon could see nothing through the spring-flap letterbox except a long and empty hallway, with its perfectly centred carpet runner, though he thought he spied the corner of a couple of letters immediately below him on the mat. Similarly the lounge, though only partially illuminated by the residual light from the hallway, viewed through the front windows looked perfectly normal, the furniture and ornaments all intact and in place. Solomon walked round to the side of the house, coming to a seven-foot-high wooden side gate that blocked access to the back garden. It was, of course, bolted from the inside; and this was his dilemma.

  Solomon had scraped by his medical a couple of months ago and was neither slim nor athletic. Should he take the undisturbed nature of the house as proof positive that all was well with Nina Silvero, or should he try to heave his considerable bulk over the wooden gate?

  Lucy Jarrett looked down from the computer screen, picked up her pen and scored a line through the last item on the Post-it note stuck to her diary. It was after six and she’d completed everything on the list she had intended to do this afternoon. Not bad for a Monday. Clicking the mouse, she logged off and closed down the computer. She should have been satisfied with such a productive day. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of occasions when she had previously cleared her in-tray, and those harked back years to the time when she was newly qualified. But, instead of satisfaction, all she felt was the bubble of anxiety that rose in her stomach like indigestion, because now the only remaining option was to go home.

  The sole person left in the office was the contract cleaner, an efficient woman of Eastern European origin who spoke little English, except to say hello and goodnight. And now Lucy must go out into the dark alone. The feeling was disconcerting. For once in her life, she, a grown, mature woman, who had always been so absolutely in control, was afraid. And afraid of what exactly? A feeling; no more, no less. She got her coat on and, calling out goodbye to the cleaner, went down the stairs. The lobby was empty. On impulse she took out her mobile and speed-dialled Will. She had no idea what he’d be up to but -

  ‘Hey, babe.’

  He made her smile instantly. A few months off his fortieth birthday and he still insisted on talking like a fifteen-year-old. Occupational hazard, she supposed. Even he admitted that his was the kind of job that rendered him the eternal teenager. ‘Hi. What are you doing?’ In the background she could hear the thrum of an acoustic guitar over the random clatter of drums.

  ‘Setting up. We go on pretty soon.’ It was a couple of hours by her reckoning but he was telling her this was a bad time. ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Just needed to hear your voice. ‘I’m just leaving work.’

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘What’s new?’

  She heard a yell in the background to which Will responded, turning away from the phone.

  ‘You should go. I’ll talk to you later,’ she said.

  ‘Sure. It’s all happe
ning here. I’ll call you.’

  ‘When? What time?’ Lucy knew as soon as she’d said it that it was a mistake.

  ‘I don’t know.’ His voice had hardened, almost imperceptibly. ‘Does it matter?’

  Yes, she wanted to say, it does. ‘Of course not, have a good -’ But he’d already, abruptly, ended the call and now she had no more delaying tactics in her armament. Pocketing the phone, she took a deep calming breath. Pull yourself together, woman. In ten minutes you’ll be home and tonight it may not even happen. She used to be irritated by media commentators who made Birmingham sound like the knife- and gun-crime capital of Britain, but now, after dark, even for her, the city took on a menacing feel.

  Cautiously she emerged from the building and quickly crossed the almost empty floodlit car park, buffeted by the gusts of wind that swept across the open space. The few remaining vehicles all seemed empty and there were none that she recognised, but the park was also used by shoppers for the main street and customers for the nearby video store and cashpoint. She couldn’t ever remember seeing the same car twice. Her own car was in the middle of the compound, parked under a light, and fumbling for her car keys Lucy felt suddenly exposed; she’d been so busy on the phone she hadn’t thought to have them ready. Panic began to bubble up inside her. At last she got the door open, threw herself inside and slammed shut the door, locking it again immediately. Her hand trembled as she sought out the ignition, eventually finding it and revving too hard as the engine started. She paused at the car-park entrance, but her rearview mirror showed nothing behind her. Which way to go home; the short way or the best-lit way? Would it make any difference? She’d play it safe and stick to the main roads.

  Pulling out, Lucy drove into the side street and up to the traffic lights with the main road, glancing behind as she pulled to a halt. A car had fallen into line behind her and Lucy tried to make out the driver, male or female. She couldn’t. A horn blared, making her jump; the lights had changed. Signalling left, she turned on to the dual carriageway, the car behind her keeping close, but then this was a major road; the main Bristol Road going south out of the city. And, as she accelerated away from the lights, it almost immediately pulled out and overtook her. Going down the hill, the road behind her was clear, in her rearview mirror she could see the trees that lined the route rolling and swaying in the wind. She kept steadily to the speed limit and a couple of cars passed her on the outside, brake lights flaring as they hit the speed camera zone. Lucy began to relax. Then, as she was approaching the footbridge, headlights homed in towards her, hugging her tail unnecessarily closely, and as she signalled and left the main road, heading towards her estate, it did likewise; the same pattern as before. Inside she could just make out the outline of a single occupant. Lucy’s mouth went dry and her heart rate quickened. Only headlights, but driving too close, crowding her, urging on her speed in the narrow winding lane, the headlights dazzling in her mirrors, and nowhere to pull over to let him pass. Fear propelled her even faster, until finally, turning into the estate, she glanced into the rear-view mirror again. The road was completely empty. Relief washed over her. It was going to be all right. And, by the time she pulled into her driveway, she wondered if it was all in her imagination.

  Glancing across as she got out of her car, she could just about make out her neighbour at number sixteen, hunched as always over his computer. She waved to him but he didn’t respond, staring instead into space, and she realised that he probably couldn’t see her at this distance, beyond the half-open slatted blinds. Nonetheless, Lucy took some comfort from seeing another familiar presence so close and lightened her step with relief as she walked up to the house. She started as something nearby clattered, and hastily got her key in the lock, pushing her way in through the front door and stepping over the ever increasing pile of junk mail that greeted her every day. She slammed the door behind her, and switched on the lights, exhaling with relief. The house was all in order, everything right with the world. The phone rang. Will, ringing to check that she’d got home all right and apologise for being short with her. She picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  For seconds she was mesmerised by the long and raspy exhalation, followed by further laboured breathing, in, out, in, out, before the line went dead. Wrenching the phone line from its socket in the wall, she sank, dizzy and light headed, on to the stairs, her confidence crumbling like dry sand.

  ‘Table fourteen, salmon and lamb!’

  Stephanie Rieger dumped down the dirty plates with a clatter, her plan for a five-minute break from beating her relentless route back and forth from the kitchen temporarily thwarted by the chef’s efficiency.

  ‘Come on, Stephanie love, they’re getting cold!’

  ‘I’ve only got one pair of hands,’ she snapped back, picking up the plates nonetheless and reversing out through the swing doors and into the restaurant. She was run ragged, mainly because her mean bastard of a boss refused to employ anyone else during the week. Switching on a smile, she placed the dishes in front of the table-fourteen customers, and that was when she saw the new punter at table eight. She noticed him at first because he appeared to be dining alone and because he was holding the menu almost at arm’s length. ‘You should get your eyes tested,’ she smiled as she walked past.

  He looked up. Not bad looking, clean cut and sharply dressed in suit and tie. Salesman probably. No wedding ring, which didn’t mean he wasn’t married, of course, only that he didn’t advertise the fact. In those few seconds she had him half-naked and making love to her.

  ‘Sorry?’ he was saying.

  ‘Get yourself some specs. Your arms aren’t going to grow any longer. I’ll come back and take your order.’ She smiled again.

  Coming to her senses, Lucy lunged at the front door and with shaking fingers fumbled the chain into its runner, and shot the top and bottom bolts, before hurrying through to the kitchen to check that the back door was secure. Satisfied that it was, she went from room to room, drawing the curtains and blinds to keep out the night, making sure - making sure of what? That there was no bogey man hiding there? This was ridiculous. She switched on the radio, but turned it off again immediately. That was no good; she had to be alert to any sounds that shouldn’t be there.

  Up in the master bedroom Lucy changed quickly out of her work clothes and threw on jeans, T-shirt and a baggy jumper. Even as she did so, she kept one eye on the thick velvet curtains as if they might suddenly part to reveal her tormentor on the other side, some ghastly apparition, ogling in at her. Impossible, of course, but she was certain he was out there. How else could he know the exact moment when she’d walked in the door? So far he had kept his distance, but for how long? And what did he want? Lucy’s heart thumped and she was gripped by a wave of nausea. A couple of weeks ago she might have got changed and gone out for a run, but not any more; she couldn’t risk going out again.

  No good calling Will, the gig would be about to start, he’d never even hear his phone. Julie-Ann would be at aerobics; Tamsin would be busy with the family. For a second Lucy considered Martin just across the road. She could ask him to come over. Simply speaking to him would be a comfort. But that would be a mistake. He’d misunderstood her intentions once before - at least that was what she told herself - so she couldn’t risk that happening again. Gazing helplessly around the big bedroom, she recalled the day she’d first looked round. On that sunny autumn afternoon it had seemed perfect. After four years in her cramped flat, all the size had seemed such a luxury; with ample room in here for the king-sized bed, and the separate en-suite bathroom with shower and sunken bath. Now all the space frightened her, leaving her feeling exposed and wanting to shrink into the corner of the room and hide. With hindsight it would have been so much better to have simply upgraded her apartment. There she would have been close to other people, and be able to hear their voices and their movements, instead of feeling remote and stranded, and so very alone. It might have been different if Will was here, but most of the time she had no
husband here to protect her. The wind gusted, splattering rain against the window, underlining her isolation and shaking her from her trance-like state. She needed a distraction. With some trepidation she switched on her computer and went online. Tonight again her email account was flooded with spam. But these were not the usual penis-enlargement, African-prince messages, they were nasty and personal, including replies to a blog that she’d never posted. As fast as she could delete them, more appeared, taking their place, and in the end Lucy abandoned the machine in despair.

  Down in the kitchen she made a sandwich, but within inches of her mouth the salty smell of the cheese made her gag and she had to drop it and run for the downstairs cloakroom, where she retched unproductively, before finally leaning her head against the cool wall, feeling clammy and dry at the same time. After consigning the rest of the sandwich to the bin, she took a bottle of mineral water out of the fridge and went into the lounge, where she switched on the TV, muted the sound and sat rigidly on the sofa, staring at the meaningless images, while her ears strained to catch the slightest unwanted noise.

  Gradually, Lucy began to relax. Bang! Something slammed against the window and Lucy leaped out of her seat, crying out with fear. The tapping against the window continued and frantic with indecision she hovered by the curtains, daring herself to look and yet terrified of what she might see. Eventually she forced herself to lift aside the curtain and relief washed over her. A sheet of hardboard, picked up and carried by the wind, lay flapping against the window. Shuddering, she peered into the blackness of the garden. Was he out there?