‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ Zoe said, her face flushed. ‘I know how to look after my drink and, anyway, Becca was over there watching me like a hawk.’
Clare glanced across the bar at a slightly built girl of about nineteen and thought she wouldn’t have been much of a match for John Mason.
‘He didn’t turn up,’ Zoe went on. ‘But, even if he had, I’d have been perfectly safe.’
The officers were drifting away now, heading back to the station but the other customers were still watching the proceedings with interest. Clare and Chris steered Zoe and Becca over to a corner and sat them down at a table.
‘Zoe, listen to me,’ Clare said, trying to keep her voice calm. ‘This man could be our killer. He’s already killed three woman, older and more experienced than you. There’s any number of ways he could have diverted you – and Becca – and slipped something into your drink. He might have suggested going onto another pub, having some food, walking you home. Even if you’d got into a taxi without him, he could have followed you in another car then turned up at your door. Surprised you with flowers or asked if you’d picked up his keys by mistake. Then you’d go looking in your handbag and he’d be in your flat. These people are clever.’
Zoe said nothing, her expression mulish. ‘I’d have known,’ she said, sounding less certain than before. ‘I’m not stupid.’
Clare looked at Zoe. She’d taken such care with her appearance. Her dark red jersey dress and black Doc Martens went perfectly with her ruby lips and dark eyes. She’d tied a matching scarf in her hair and her ear was studded with pink earrings. She must have looked stunning when she’d entered the bar but now she was close to tears. ‘Look, Zoe,’ she said, softening her tone. ‘It’s okay. You’re fine and no harm done. But, please, no more dates until we’ve caught this man. Promise?’
Zoe nodded. ‘Suppose.’
Clare smiled. ‘Now, Chris will run you two ladies home if you’ve had enough excitement for one night.’
At quarter past eight Clare stood the officers down. ‘With luck the news reports will throw up John Mason’s whereabouts. Meantime, I doubt there’s much more we can do tonight.’
‘Why do you reckon he didn’t turn up to Zoe’s date?’ Sara asked.
Clare shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea although, from what Zoe said at the bar, it sounds like it was her making all the running. Maybe she said something like See you there if I don’t hear from you and he didn’t bother to reply.’
‘Do you still think he’s our killer?’ Chris asked.
‘John Mason? Yes. I’m convinced of that. But I’m starting to wonder if he is Stoneman. The similarity in the two names might just be a coincidence. I’m probably overthinking it.’ She yawned. ‘I need to go home. Come on, guys. We’ll review things in the morning.’
As if on cue the phone began to ring. Jim moved to answer it and Clare wandered into her office. She wondered idly when she might have a day off. Not until this killer had been caught, that was for sure. Thankfully, Moira was happy to step in with extra walks for Benjy. She glanced at her phone and saw that Moira had been round to Daisy Cottage and had fed Benjy for her. She really was a godsend. Maybe she would pick her up some…
‘Clare!’ Jim’s voice broke across her thoughts. ‘999 call.’
She stared at him. ‘Is it…’
‘Think so. Chris has gone to start the car.’
She grabbed her coat and ran for the door, not stopping for an explanation. Out in the car park she could see exhaust fumes coming out the back of the car, cutting through the still night air. She skidded on a patch of early frost but regained her footing and reached the car. She jumped in and Chris roared away out of the car park, not even waiting for her to pull on her seat belt. She checked over her shoulder and saw another three cars following, blue lights flashing. As Chris raced past a car that had pulled into the side of the road, Clare wondered where they were going – and what they would find when they got there.
‘It’s an old farmhouse, on the way to Dunino,’ he said, overtaking a taxi. ‘South of the town. The control room said the caller was incoherent so we don’t really know what we’re going to. She kept saying The man on the news, over and over again. That, and the address, is all they could get out of her.’
Clare felt sick at the thought of what they might find when they reached Dunmerry Farmhouse. She lurched forward as Chris hit the brakes, swinging the car round and up a farm track. The house stood at the top of the track, silhouetted against the night sky. It was a two-storey, solid block of a house with stout chimney stacks at either end. Lights burned in the ground floor windows and the front door stood open. As they neared the entrance Clare saw the figure of a woman, bent over, her arms clutched round herself. She could see the woman was sobbing uncontrollably and when they leapt out of the car they heard her cries cutting through the air like an animal caught in a trap. Clare raced towards her as the cars behind disgorged officers. The woman fell into Clare’s arms, her body convulsed with sobs.
‘Get an ambulance,’ she said softly to Chris, ‘and make sure you have overshoes on before you go inside.’
Sara and Gillian rushed up and Clare handed the woman to them then followed Chris into the farmhouse, pulling the overshoes from her pocket. As they stepped inside she felt a stillness as the sound of the sobs receded.
‘In here,’ Chris said, from a doorway further up the hall. Clare followed him in and stood surveying the room. It was a large dining kitchen, probably formed from two smaller rooms. To one end there was a wall of kitchen units finished in sage green with deep Belfast sinks under the window. The room was dominated by a large island with a gas hob in the centre, an orange Le Creuset casserole standing on one of the rings. To the left was a round oak table with four matching chairs and at the other end of the room a brick-red sofa faced a wall-mounted TV. A side table held a bottle of wine and two glasses and in front of the sofa was a brightly patterned rug covering what seemed to be original flagstones.
And on top of the rug, the life draining out of him, lay the figure of John Mason.