The Night Stalker (29 page)

I
t was
6.30 a.m. when Erika said goodbye to Peterson outside Keith’s house on the promenade. She was surprised at how sad she was to see him go. When his taxi drew up at the kerb, he surprised her by giving her a hug goodbye.

‘Quick hug!’ he grinned. ‘I must stink!’

‘No – well, a little. I must do too,’ she grinned back.

He shook his head. ‘Keep me posted, boss.’

‘I will,’ she said. He gave her the fingers crossed sign, as he climbed into the taxi. She watched as it drove away.

She crossed the road to the beach. It was the start of a beautiful day, and in the early morning sun the air was fresh and the sand empty apart from a couple of dog walkers and a young guy who was setting out deckchairs for hire. She went and sat on a bank of shingle, a few feet from where the waves were lightly breaking on the shore, took a deep breath and called Marsh. She tried his house phone first. Marcie answered – she didn’t sound pleased to hear Erika’s voice. She didn’t exchange pleasantries, just dropped the phone on the table and yelled up the stairs for her husband. She heard him come thudding down the stairs and pick up the phone.

‘Erika, I hope that you’re calling me from somewhere hot and you want my address for a postcard?’ he said.

‘About that, sir…’ said Erika. ‘I’m not in London. I’m in Worthing.’

‘Worthing? What the bloody hell are you doing there?’

Erika told him, quickly getting to the point that she had made a major breakthrough in the Night Stalker case and detailed the meeting that had been arranged later that day at London Waterloo.

‘So you defied my orders, again?’ said Marsh.

‘Is that all you can say, sir? This is a HUGE breakthrough. I know that I should have told you, but you know I work on my instincts. Now, we need surveillance in place asap. In and around Waterloo station. I really do think that she’s going to show up and we need to be there to bring her in. I have evidence of conversations between her and this man, Keith Hardy. He uses the chat room handle “Duke”. She calls herself “Night Owl”.’

‘Where are Moss and Peterson?’

‘They’ve been reassigned. I’m here on my own, sir.’

There was a long pause.

‘Erika, you are so naive. You act as if there are no rules, as if there is no line of authority.’

‘But, sir, I’ve made a breakthrough, a huge one! When I get back to the hotel room, I can send you everything – the details of the meet, chat logs. We’ve only touched the tip of the iceberg. This guy, Keith, he’s been talking to her online for four years. We have a log of all those conversations. I also believe she was a patient of Gregory Munro. She was badly burnt. We can use this information to look back over medical records.’

‘Okay, you are to send this over to me the second you get off the phone.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And Erika, I am ordering you to take that holiday and really think about your position in the force. If I see you near the nick, or any other nick for that matter, you will be suspended, and don’t think it will be easy to get your badge back for the fourth time! And if I see you near Waterloo station, I won’t just take your badge. You’ll be fired. Do you hear me?’

‘So that means you’re going to go ahead? Sir?’

‘I will phone you,’ he said, and then hung up.

Despite the telling off, Erika had heard the excitement in his voice.

‘We’re going to get you, Night Owl. We’re going to get you,’ said Erika. She sat back on the shingle, looking out at the vast expanse of horizon and adrenalin began coursing through her veins.

‘
I
don’t see
why this is necessary,’ protested Keith. Erika was crouched under his computer stand, pulling out the leads and plugs, which all seemed to be feeding into one extension lead. The carpet, with its pattern of lime green, yellow and red hexagons was covered in a thick layer of dust, much of which was now floating around and sticking to her with static.

‘You should be careful with all this stuff running off one socket,’ said Erika, crawling out from under the computer stand.

Keith flicked the joystick on his wheelchair towards him and his chair backed away to the shelves behind, giving Erika room to get back up.

‘It’s fine,’ he said.

A clock above his greasy cooker said it was 3 p.m. ‘Is that clock right?’ Erika asked, pulling out her phone.

‘Yeah. What happens now?’ he asked, staring up at her through his dirty glasses. He suddenly looked vulnerable.

‘A police officer will be ready to meet Night Owl and take her into custody for questioning…’

Erika was being economical with the truth. On the strength of the chat logs that Erika had emailed over to Marsh, a major surveillance operation had been hastily arranged in Waterloo station to arrest Night Owl at 5 p.m. Erika looked around at the cramped and brightly lit room and tried to tell herself she was still part of this. It was important that she stayed with Keith, to make sure he didn’t tip off the killer.

‘I meant, what happens to me?’ replied Keith.

‘You’ll be called as a witness. And it’s most likely that you will be arrested for aiding and abetting and withholding evidence, but with your circumstances and the fact you are going to cooperate, I doubt the CPS will want to prosecute. As long as you cooperate fully. And we’ll sort your housing problems. I want to at least make that right.’

‘Thank you,’ he said.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. The clock on the greasy cooker ticked.

‘What must you think of me?’ asked Keith.

‘I don’t think anything. I think about the victims. I think about catching her,’ said Erika.

‘One of the most important friendships in my life was with someone who is a mass murderer. I’m in love with her… What does that make me?’

Erika leaned over and took his small hand. ‘Plenty of people have been duped by friends, by lovers and spouses. You met her online, where people pretend to be someone else. They often create another life for themselves. So they can be seen differently.’

‘Online, I can be the person I want to be. I’m not constrained by… Keith adjusted the tube under his nose and looked down at his chair. ‘Do you want to watch a DVD? I’ll show you my favourite
Dr Who
episode, when Tom Baker regenerated.’

‘Yes, okay,’ said Erika. They still had two hours, which she knew were going to feel like an eternity.

A
s the largest
train station in the United Kingdom, London Waterloo is busy before first light and until late at night. The concourse is more than eight hundred feet long, contains over twenty platforms, with shops and a mezzanine with restaurants. More than a hundred million passengers pass through its doors every year.

Detective Chief Superintendent Marsh was stationed with DCI Sparks in the vast CCTV control room. It was a windowless concrete square, high above the station. A wall of twenty-eight CCTV monitors offered a portal to the station from every angle. Thirty-five officers had been drafted in – the majority in plain clothes – to watch the exits and to patrol up and down the concourse. Support vehicles were waiting at the north, south, east and west exits, each with three police cars. The transport police, some of whom were armed, were also doing their regular patrols of the station perimeter.

At 4.30 p.m. it looked as if every one of the hundred million people had converged on the station at once. The marble floor of the concourse vanished under the throngs of travellers. They surged up through escalators from the underground station, they poured in through the four main entrances and exits, they milled around under the giant electronic boards running the length of the twenty-two busy platforms and they congregated outside the shops or queued at the long ticket hall opposite the platforms.

‘This is going to be a fucking nightmare, sir,’ said Sparks, leaning against a bank of computer screens where the Transport for London employees were quietly monitoring the station. Sweat glistened on his acne-scarred face.

‘There’s nowhere else in London with more eyes. The moment she makes herself known, we have her,’ said Marsh, scanning the wall of CCTV monitors.

‘And you think DCI Foster’s hunch is right, sir?’

‘It’s not a hunch, Sparks. You saw the material she sent through,’ said Marsh.

‘I did. But at no point is this woman named or described physically. Whatever happens, this is going to be bloody expensive.’

‘Leave me to worry about that. You do your job,’ said Marsh.

A young Asian guy approached and introduced himself. ‘I’m Tanvir. I’m supervising the control room today. We’ve got these four screens, which will be covering your key area,’ he said. On cue, a wide shot of the station clock flashed up. Below it stood Sergeant Crane, dressed in jeans and a light jacket, and clutching a cheap-looking bunch of roses.

‘Are you reading me, Crane?’ said Sparks, into his radio. ‘Touch your ear to show you can hear me.’

From the wide shot Crane looked normal, but a close-up from another angle showed he had tilted his head to his jacket lapels and was touching his free hand to his left ear. ‘You sure I don’t stand out? I’m the only one here in a jacket – it’s boiling hot!’ he said, his voice coming through the radio.

‘It’s all good, Crane. This Keith fellow arranged to meet her under the clock in half an hour. It’s romantic. It figures that he’d get dressed up,’ said Marsh into his radio, adding, ‘And it doesn’t show that you’re wired up. Now, no more chatting… we’ll keep you posted via radio.’

‘What time is it?’ asked Crane.

‘Jesus, he’s under a fucking clock,’ said Sparks. He grasped his radio. ‘It’s four-thirty. Look up next time you need to know.’

Marsh turned back to Tanvir. ‘Which camera gives us a view of the side entrance leading away from under the clock?’

‘Can you put camera seventeen up on these screens?’ said Tanvir to a woman wearing a headset by a computer in the corner. Another view of Crane from behind came into view, although this time it was from above an escalator leading up behind the clock.

Marsh gripped his radio again. ‘Okay, Crane, we’ve got all eyes on you. Just stay calm. We’ll count you down. Don’t get too close to her, if she approaches you earlier. You’re covered from all sides. She makes a move and we’re there in seconds.’

‘What time is it?’ asked Crane again, nervously.

‘He’s under the fucking clock,’ muttered Sparks.

‘Four thirty-three,’ said Marsh. ‘We’ll be in constant contact.’

E
rika sat
on the wall by the line of wheelie bins and lit up a cigarette. Keith had objected to her smoking inside and she’d said she wouldn’t leave him on his own, so as a compromise he’d come as far as the front door.

‘Would you like to just walk along the promenade – I mean
go
along? It’s nice and sunny,’ said Erika.

‘I don’t like it, leaving the flat,’ said Keith, craning his head suspiciously up to the clear blue sky.

Erika carried on smoking and stared out at the water, which was still and glittering in the sunshine. A group of kids were making sandcastles by the shore, watched over by their parents on deckchairs. A pink-and-white themed tourist train trundled past, a bell ringing tinnily by the miserable-looking driver’s head. Groups of kids eating ice-creams and candyfloss waved from behind the cloudy plastic windows in the carriages.

Keith waved back, which Erika found touching. She looked at her watch: it was coming up to 4.50 p.m. She checked her phone and saw that she had a strong signal and battery.

‘It’s like a watched pot,’ said Keith. ‘Never boils.’

Erika shook her head ruefully and lit another cigarette. She could have screamed with frustration at having to stay so far away from the action. She thought of DCI Sparks, who would be heading up the team, giving the orders and taking the glory.

As well as feeling frustrated, she felt robbed.

I
t was now
5.20 p.m. and no one had approached Crane, who was still stationed underneath the clock in Waterloo station.

Marsh and Sparks watched from the control room, as the crowds in the concourse swelled even more. It had become difficult to keep Crane in their sights on the close-up CCTV screen, so they were now using a long shot from across the concourse, which had been blown up to a huge size on the centre screen in the control room.

‘Crane, you okay? You need to stick to your spot. Dig your heels in,’ said Sparks into his radio. They could see from the long shot that the surging crowds were jostling him.

‘Yes, sir,’ he murmured. He sounded panicky.

Marsh looked across the screens and spoke into his radio. ‘We’re still on you, Crane. You’ve got six plain-clothes officers stationed around, who can be with you in seconds. You’ve also got two armed transport police officers in the walkway behind you. Just stay calm… She’s a woman, she’s decided to be fashionably late,’ he added, trying to ease the tension.

‘She’s not fucking showing up,’ said Sparks. ‘We should be concentrating on Isaac Strong, not pissing away resources on some blind date.’ Marsh shot him a look. ‘Sir,’ he added.

Just then, on the large screen, the crowds around Crane shifted and a group of women approaching Crane were shoved forward. One fell, hitting the concourse floor, causing the crowd around her to bump and surge. Crane was pushed and the flowers he was holding were knocked from his grasp.

‘What’s going on here?’ said Marsh. ‘Crane, talk to me?’

‘Hang on, sir,’ said Crane, as he was jostled along.

‘Look. It’s a fight, a bloody fight,’ said Sparks, pointing to the CCTV monitor, showing the escalator behind the clock. A group of young lads in baseball caps came into view, shouting and jeering and parting the crowd of commuters like the Red Sea. Two of the boys, one dark and one blond, were fighting, and they went down on the floor. The dark-haired boy landed a punch to the blond one, and his face was quickly a mess of blood. The crowd surged away in all directions and the British Transport Police waded in, clasping their guns, which caused even more screams and commotion.

Crane had managed to get himself into the doorway of a Marks & Spencer convenience store, and watched as his meeting place under the clock was overrun with police, as they restored order. The two boys were put in handcuffs and the police began the laborious task of booking them.

‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Marsh into his radio. ‘Get them to bloody well move, this is screwing up our meeting place.’

‘She isn’t going to be crazy about meeting him there, even if she does show up!’ said Sparks.

‘Crane, can you hear me?’ said Marsh, ignoring Sparks.

‘Yes, sir. Things got a bit hairy there,’ said Crane as he stepped out from the doorway of the Marks & Spencer.

‘We’ve still got you on camera, Crane. All okay?’

‘I’ve dropped the flowers,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry. We’re going to get the uniform crowd moved on, and then you move back,’ said Marsh.

‘What the fuck is this? Mrs Mop?’ said Sparks, looking up at the view under the station clock. A wizened old cleaning lady had stopped her cart where blood had splattered from the blond-haired boy’s nose, and she was dipping her grotty mop in a bucket of grey water with slow determination. One of the boys being interviewed started to heckle her, but she either didn’t hear or paid no attention, and starting to mop the concourse floor at a glacial pace.

‘Where is DC Warren?’ asked Sparks. There was a beep and Warren came on the radio.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What’s your position?’

‘I’m at the WH Smith on the concourse opposite.’

‘Get that old dear out of the way, will you? And don’t let her put one of those yellow signs up under the clock,’ he started.

‘Hang on, hang on, hang on,’ said Marsh. He was looking back at the screen where Crane was waiting close to the clock. A small dark-haired woman wearing a smart black jacket was approaching him. Marsh grabbed his radio. ‘Shit! All units, a dark-haired woman is approaching Sergeant Crane. I repeat, a dark-haired woman is approaching Sergeant Crane. Stand by.’

‘All units standing by,’ came a voice through the radio. Two of the large screens on the wall cut to a view of Crane from above and an angle on the other side. The woman was now talking to him, looking up at him enquiringly. They talked for another minute or so, then Crane said something back and she walked away.

‘Crane, report, what the hell is going on?’ asked Marsh.

‘Sorry, boss, false alarm. She was asking if I wanted to buy car insurance.’

‘Shit!’ said Marsh, slamming his hand down on one of the desks. ‘Shit! Sparks, I want that woman questioned anyway. Stop her, ID her and find out everything you know.’

‘Something tells me she’s not going to hit her sales target,’ said Sparks as the woman was surrounded by three plain-clothes police officers.