Page 99 of The Psychopath Next Door

Lucy had given me a few questions to ask this couple. Jamie and Kirsty Knight. The names weren’t familiar, but I asked Dylan to look them up on Google while I drove off the estate, leaving the police cars and rubberneckers behind. I stuck the address Lucy had given me in the satnav. Finsbury Park in north London. Twenty miles away. I knew that every red traffic light would make my nerves jangle, every clogged street would tempt me to thump my horn. I took deep breaths, telling myself to stay calm. The last thing I needed was a road rage incident or, God forbid, an accident.

‘Jamie Knight, Kirsty Knight.’ He tapped the names into his phone along with the area where they lived. ‘Um, something about a home security company. Looks like it was based in Australia but is over here now.’

Australia? Was that the connection with Fiona? ‘Are they Aussies?’

‘Hang on. Hmm, neither of them seem to be on social media. There’s an “About Us” page on the security company site with aletter written by Jamie Knight. Listen to this:My own personal experiences led to me understanding how dangerous the world can be and how vitally important it is to feel safe in your own home.Sounds like he’s been through some shit.’

‘Add Lucy to the search,’ I suggested.

He thumbed his phone and then, seeing the results, said, ‘Bollocks. I mean ...’

‘I told you, I don’t care if you swear. What does it say?’

We had left the estate behind and were heading out of South Croydon, through Addington towards Bromley. From there we would head through Greenwich, across the river and into north London.

‘It’s a news story from 2013.IT worker not guilty in “Magpies trial”. They’re all mentioned here. Jamie and Kirsty and Lucy. Her surname is Newton.’

‘Oh my God. You. Are. Joking.’ I glanced at him. ‘Are you saying you haven’t heard of her? I bet Keira has! Lucy Newton’s a serial killer. The Dark Angel, I think that’s her nickname. She murdered loads of elderly people in this nursing home where she worked. She would have been sent to prison shortly after this trial.’ It was coming back to me now. ‘This Jamie guy was her neighbour, and I think he was accused of murdering Lucy’s husband.’

‘Chris Newton.’

‘Yeah, that was it. But Jamie Knight was found not guilty because of extreme provocation. Something like that. Then Lucy went to prison for the murders, got out on appeal because of a technicality and then killed someone else. Maybe several people? I can’t remember, but I definitely heard about it a few years ago. She was arrested again and given a whole life sentence.’

Dylan’s mouth hung open. ‘A serial killer? And you were just talking to her on the phone? And she’s friends with Fiona?’

It was the kind of statement that, typed online, would require several exclamation and question marks.

‘Do you think Fiona is a serial killer too?’ He had gone ghost-white, his voice an octave higher than normal. ‘Dad, she’s got Mum and Rose. What’s she going to do to them?’

‘We’re going to find them.’

‘We need to go to the police,now. If this Lucy knows where they are, the cops can make her tell, can’t they?’

‘I don’t think it works like that, Dylan.’ I reached across and squeezed his shoulder. ‘They certainly wouldn’t be able to get the information out of her quickly, not if she didn’t want to give it. Right now we have to go along with what Lucy asked. But at the first sign she’s lying or messing us around ...’

He was silent for the remainder of the drive. We were lucky with the traffic, which actually put me more on edge. Were we using up our good luck with these green lights and relatively clear roads? We found the address, then drove around for five minutes looking for a parking space. But in the end I thought,So what if we get a ticket?I pulled up on the kerb, on double-yellow lines, outside the Victorian house – converted into flats – where the Knights lived, and Dylan and I approached the front door.

I pressed the buzzer. They had something similar to a Ring doorbell, but off-brand, with a camera and microphone. It was the middle of the afternoon and I was worried they’d both be out at work, but a man’s voice said, ‘Hello?’

He sounded wary. Suspicious.

I considered lying, telling him I had a package for him, to get him to come to the door, but if this was going to work – if we were to get information that would satisfy Lucy – I judged I needed to be honest. There could be too many unforeseen consequences once I launched into fabrications.

I knew he could see me and Dylan through the camera, and hoped the presence of my teenage son would reassure him.

‘My name’s Ethan Dove,’ I said, ‘and this is my son, Dylan. I know you don’t know who we are, but my wife and little girl might be in trouble and I need your help.’

Did I imagine the intake of breath?

He went silent. Had he gone?

‘Jamie? Mr Knight?’

I heard footsteps, and seconds later the door flew open to reveal a man a few years younger than me. Brown hair, average height and build, quite good-looking except there was something about his eyes. A haunted look.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, peering over our shoulders.

‘I told you, I’m Ethan—’

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