‘Do you think they have done this before?’ He sat up.
‘It’s possible,’ she said. ‘Likely, even. The statistics certainly indicate that serial stalking is common, particularly if the stalker is a stranger or an acquaintance, rather than a current or former partner.’
She’d read through pages and pages of information on stalkers last night, hour after hour instead of sleep, scrolling through numbers and percentages and nameless, countless cases.
‘A stranger?’ Ravi doubled down on the word.
‘It’s unlikely to be a stranger,’ Pip replied. ‘Nearly three out of four stalking victims know their stalker in some capacity. This is someone who knows me, someone I know, I can feel it.’ She knew more statistics too, could reel them off the top of her head, burned into the backs of her eyes from the white light of her laptop screen. But there were some she couldn’t tell Ravi, especially not the one that said more than half of female homicide victims reported stalking to the police before they were killed by their stalkers. She didn’t want Ravi to know that one.
‘So, it’s someone you know, and they are pretty likely to have done this to someone else before?’ Ravi asked.
‘I mean, yes, if we go along with the statistics.’ Why hadn’t she thought of this herself? She was too inside her own head, too fixated on the idea of her against them that she hadn’t considered the involvement of anyone else. Not all about you, said the voice that lived in her head, beside the gun. It’s not always about you.
‘And you always favour a science-based approach, Sarge.’ He doffed an imaginary cap at her.
‘Yes, I do.’ Pip chewed her lip, thinking. Her mind guided her hands to the laptop, checking in with her only after she’d already awoken the computer and brought up Google. ‘And the first stage in a science-based approach is… research.’
‘The most glamorous part of crime-solving,’ Ravi said, pushing up from the bed to come and stand behind her, hands resting on her shoulders. ‘And, also, my cue to go get snacks. So… like, how are you going to research this?’
‘Yeah, not really sure, actually.’ She hesitated, fingers hovering above the keys while the cursor blinked at her. ‘Maybe just…’ She typed in chalk lines chalk figure dead pigeon stalker stalk Little Kilton Buckinghamshire. ‘It’s a stab in the dark,’ she said, thumbing the enter button, and the page of results filled her screen.
‘Oh excellent,’ Ravi said, pointing at the top result. ‘We can go clay pigeon shooting at Chalk Farm in Chalfont St Giles for only eighty-five pounds each. What a bargain.’
‘Shhhh.’
Pip’s eyes scanned the entry below; a story from last year, about GCSE results from a nearby school where two teachers just happened to be called Miss Chalk and Mr Stalker.
She felt Ravi’s breath on her neck as he leaned closer, head against hers as he said, ‘What’s that one?’ and the low vibrations of his voice felt like they were coming from within her. She knew which one he meant, fifth result down.
DT Killer Still At Large After Claiming Fourth Victim It had four matches to her search items: Buckinghamshire, pigeon, stalks, chalk lines. Small snippets from the UK NEWSDAY article, truncated sentences separated by three little dots.
‘The DT Killer,’ Ravi read aloud, voice catching on something in his throat. ‘What the fuck is that?’
‘It’s nothing, that’s an old story. Look.’ Pip underlined the date with her finger: the article was from 5th February 2012. Over six and a half years ago. This wasn’t news; Pip knew this case, how it had ended. She could tell you at least two true crime podcasts that had covered it in the last few years. ‘You don’t know this story?’ she asked, reading the answer from his dread-widened eyes. ‘It’s OK,’ she laughed at him, nudging him with her elbow. ‘He’s not still at large. He killed another woman after this, a fifth victim, and then they caught him. He confessed. Billy, um, something. He’s been in prison since.’
‘How do you know that?’ he asked, his grip loosening a little.
‘How do you not?’ She looked up at him. ‘It was big news when it was going on. Even I remember and I was, like, eleven, twelve. Oh – I,’ she stuttered, stroked the bones in his hand. ‘It was around the time that Andie and Sal…’ She didn’t need to finish.
‘Right,’ he said quietly. ‘I was a little distracted at the time.’