The Night Stalker (27 page)

K
eith Hardy’s
flat was carpeted throughout with a dated pattern of lime green, yellow and red hexagons. Erika and Peterson followed him down the corridor, the wispy top of his head just visible over the high back of his whirring wheelchair. Through the first door to the left was his bedroom; on the back wall, opposite the large bay window, Erika saw a large hydraulic hospital bed on wheels. Next to the bed was an old polished wood dresser with a three-panelled fold-out mirror. The dresser was crowded with an array of medication: large tubs of medical creams, preparations and a bale of wispy cotton wool. Clothes hung off the curtain rail, and the bay window looked out over the seafront promenade, where people moved past and seagulls could be heard cawing faintly. A ceiling light burned brightly, along with two small lamps on the bedside and the dresser.

They passed another tiny room, which was packed with junk, including an old manual wheelchair, piles of books and another electric wheelchair with the back panel off, its wires and innards spilling out. Another door on the right-hand side of the corridor led to a large, specially equipped bathroom.

Keith reached a frosted glass door at the end of the hallway, manoeuvred his chair through, and they followed him into a poky kitchen-living room with views of a tiny courtyard backing onto a tall brick building. The kitchen was old and grubby, with specially adapted low counters. There was a whiff of drains, mixed with fried food.

In the other half of the room, three of the walls were filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing hundreds of books, video cassettes and DVDs. A small gas fire sat against a chimney breast, and above it were more shelves, loaded with more books, paperwork and a mismatched selection of table lamps – which were all switched on, so that the space, although small and cramped, was brightly lit. Nestled in one corner was a PC on an old metal stand. A series of coloured balls bounced around its screen.

‘I don’t get a lot of visitors,’ Keith said, indicating a small armchair on the opposite side of the gas fire, which was covered in piles of magazines and newspapers. ‘There are a couple of stacking chairs in the gap beside the fridge,’ he added. Peterson went and pulled them out.

Keith moved to the computer in the corner and, using the joystick, swivelled his chair round to face them. He pushed his glasses up his nose and peered at them through the greasy lenses, his large eyes shifting from side to side. Erika imagined that if a fly buzzed past, his tongue might shoot out and catch it.

‘You can’t arrest me,’ Keith blurted. ‘I never leave this flat… I haven’t done anything.’

Erika pulled some paperwork from her bag and unfolded it, smoothing out the pages. ‘I have here details of your bank account with Santander. Can you confirm this is your account number and sort code?’ She passed the paper to him. Keith looked at it briefly and passed it back.

‘Yes.’

‘It shows that in the past three months you have ordered five items from a website called Allantoin.co.uk. Five suicide bag kits. I’ve highlighted the transactions on your bank statement…’ Erika leaned forward to hand it to Keith.

‘I don’t need to see it,’ he said.

‘So you acknowledge this is your bank statement and these transactions are correct?’

‘Yes,’ he said, biting his lip.

‘You also ordered what is called a bump key. That’s also highlighted on your bank statement…’

‘I got it from eBay, and it’s not illegal,’ Keith said, sitting back and folding his short arms across his chest.

‘No, it’s not,’ said Erika. ‘But we have a real problem here. I have three murders committed in and around London by someone who has used a) a suicide bag to asphyxiate the victims and b) a bump key to gain entry to one of the properties.’

Erika reached into her bag and pulled out a crime scene photo of Stephen Linley. She held it up to Keith, who winced.

‘As you can see, the suicide bag on this occasion burst… The intruder used a bump key to gain entry.’

Erika put the photo away and pulled out photos of Gregory Munro and Jack Hart lying dead with the bags over their heads. ‘On these occasions, the bags remained intact, but still did the job…’

Keith gulped and looked away from the photos. ‘I can’t be the only person to have bought these items,’ he said.

‘We’ve been given a list of people who have purchased suicide bags in the past three months. Many of them bought them for the purposes of ending their lives and, tragically, are not here to speak to us. You are one of the few who has bought multiple bags and is still here to tell the tale.’

‘I’ve been suicidal,’ said Keith.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Have you attempted to take your own life?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have the five bags here? If you can show them to us, we can tick you off our list.’

‘I threw them out.’

‘Why?’ asked Peterson.

‘Dunno.’

‘And the bump key?’

Keith wiped his sweaty forehead. ‘I got it in case I get locked out.’

‘You just told us you never leave your flat?’ said Peterson.

‘I have a carer who comes over three times a week. I bought it for her.’

‘Why not give her a normal key?’ fired back Peterson. ‘Or get another key cut? Why go to the trouble of ordering a skeleton key online?’

Keith gulped and licked sweat from his upper lip. His eyes, large behind his glasses, slid between them both.

‘What is this country coming to? I’ve done nothing illegal,’ he said, suddenly regaining his composure. ‘I never leave this flat, and you can’t prove anything. Now you are being bullying and inappropriate and I’d like you both to leave before I call your superiors.’

Erika looked at Peterson and they both stood.

‘Very well,’ she said, collecting up the photos and bank statements and pushing them into her bag. Peterson folded up the two chairs and tucked them back beside the fridge. Keith started forward in his chair. As it whirred towards them, they were forced out of the room, past the frosted glass doorway and back out into the hall.

‘I can make a complaint. I’ll say you’ve been harassing me!’ said Keith.

‘As you can see, we’re just going,’ said Erika. She stopped at the large disabled bathroom and pushed open the door, stepping inside. Peterson followed.

‘What now?’ asked Keith, stopping outside the door. There was a large white bath with a motorised bath lift platform, a low sink and mirror, and a disabled toilet with a huge metal safety bar on one side which was on a hinge at the wall, enabling it to be swung up and out of the way.

‘Who answers if you pull this alarm?’ asked Erika, touching a red cord hanging down from the ceiling beside the toilet.

‘The police, and social services. It links to a control centre,’ said Keith. Erika came out of the bathroom and looked at the small junk room opposite.

‘What’s this?’ she asked.

‘That’s my storage room,’ replied Keith.

‘You mean, a second bedroom?’

‘It’s a store room,’ said Keith, gritting his teeth.

‘No, that’s a second bedroom, Keith,’ said Erika.

‘It’s a store room,’ insisted Keith.

‘No, I’d definitely call that a second bedroom,’ said Peterson, emerging from the bathroom to join them. Keith was now gripping the arms of his chair, looking agitated.

‘You could fit a big bed in there… definitely a second bedroom,’ said Erika.

‘Yup, second bedroom,’ agreed Peterson.

‘That’s NOT a bedroom! You know nothing!’ shouted Keith.

‘Oh, we know a lot!’ said Erika, moving close to Keith. ‘We didn’t just come all this way for you to piss us around! We know that the government has cut your disability benefits because you have a second bedroom… We also know you haven’t been able to rent it out, and you can’t afford to live here much longer. When they evict you, which they will, where are you going to go? I presume the only other place you can afford on your disability is out on one of the estates, miles from the shops, banks and doctors. You’ll be reliant on piss-stinking lifts and murky walkways filled with drug dealers.’

‘And life on one of those estates is tough for anyone, let alone someone like you,’ said Peterson.

‘Or you could go to jail for obstructing the course of justice, aiding and abetting a murderer. I doubt being banged up would be a picnic for you either,’ said Erika. She let it hang in the air for a moment. ‘Of course, if you help us with our investigation instead of lying, then, perhaps, we can help you.’

‘All right!’ Keith shouted. ‘All right!’ He was now in tears and anxiously pulling at his remaining wisps of hair.

‘All right, what?’ asked Erika.

‘I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you what I know… I think I’ve been talking to her online. The killer…’

‘What’s her name?’ asked Erika.

‘I don’t… I don’t know her real name, and she doesn’t know mine. She only knows me as Duke.’

‘
I
met
Night Owl online a few years ago,’ said Keith. They were sitting back in his cramped, brightly lit living room.

‘“Night Owl”?’ asked Erika.

‘Yes, that’s her handle; the name she uses in the chat rooms. I don’t sleep much, and I go and talk to like-minded people.’

He saw Peterson glance at Erika.

‘I’m not a like-minded person like Night Owl… What I mean is, she’s different with me. We’ve connected on a deep level. We can tell each other anything.’

‘Has she told you her real name?’ asked Erika.

‘No, I only know her as Night Owl… But that doesn’t mean we’re not close. I love her.’

Erika realised they were dealing with something far darker than they had thought. Keith was in deep.

‘What exactly did you talk to her about?’ asked Peterson.

‘Everything. We started off just chatting, for months really, about what we liked on telly, favourite foods… And then one night the chat room was busy, other users kept butting in, so I invited her to go and have a private chat, one that other people in the chat room couldn’t see. And things got… heavy.’

‘How do you mean, “heavy”? Cyber sex?’ asked Peterson.

‘Don’t say “cyber sex” – it was more than that,’ said Keith, shifting awkwardly.

‘I understand,’ said Erika. ‘Did anything else happen that night?’

‘She started talking about her husband and how he would rape her.’

‘Rape her? Where?’

‘At home, in bed, during the night… He’d just wake up and make her do it. She said lots of people don’t think that’s rape, but it is, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Erika.

Keith let that sink in for a moment.

‘I just listened to – well, I read – what she said on the screen. She poured it all out. He was violent and abusive to her, and she felt trapped. What was worse was she couldn’t sleep. She’s an insomniac. Like me.’

‘When was this?’ asked Erika.

‘Four years ago.’

‘You’ve been talking to her for four years?’ asked Peterson.

‘There are times when she goes off the radar, and I have times too, but we hook up most nights. We’re going to be together. She wants to run away with me…’ Keith looked down for a moment, realising. ‘Well, that was the plan.’

‘What did you tell her about yourself?’ asked Erika.

Keith opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure of how to say it. ‘She thinks I have my own business, a charity, for clean drinking water. She thinks I’m unhappy in my marriage too. That my wife doesn’t understand me like she does.’

‘And I take it you’re not married? Divorced?’ asked Peterson, looking around at the tiny living area.

‘Neither,’ replied Keith.

‘How did you describe yourself, physically?’ asked Peterson. Erika shot him a look; she didn’t want Keith closing down on them. There was another awkward pause.

‘It’s okay. So you weren’t entirely truthful with her. What happened next?’ she asked.

‘She said she fantasised about killing her husband… At the same time, I was going through a very dark patch in my life and I was looking at how to commit suicide. You see, with my condition I’m not expected to live beyond the next few years… I’m often in constant pain… I’d been on this forum where it explained how you could buy one of these suicide bags, and together with a gas canister you could use it to kill yourself. No pain, just drift away.’

A look passed between Erika and Peterson.

‘And you gave her details of this bag, and how to kill her husband?’

Keith nodded.

‘And did she ask you to buy one of these bags for her?’

‘No. At this stage, I had one. I posted it to her.’

‘You posted it?’

‘Yes, well, I got my carer to put it in the post, to a PO Box address in Uxbridge, West London. She told me she’d set it up, the PO Box, so her husband wouldn’t find out. He didn’t, but before she could go through with it he died.’

‘How?’ asked Erika.

‘He had a heart attack. I thought she’d be happy, but she felt like she’d been robbed of the opportunity to do it herself. She then got really obsessive and angry, looking at her life. She seemed confused. She started to talk about all the men she wished she could kill. Her doctor was one; she’d gone to him because her husband had started to be abusive in other ways. He’d held her down and poured boiling water over her.’

‘Jesus. That’s what happens in one of Stephen Linley’s books,’ said Erika to Peterson.

‘That’s why he was her third victim,’ Keith said. ‘She hated Stephen Linley. Her husband was obsessed with his books and he acted out a lot of the scenarios from them.’

‘And didn’t you think you should talk to someone, call the police?’

‘You have to realise… I’m condensing years and years, hours upon hours of our chats here.’

‘Keith, come on!’

‘I love her!’ he cried. ‘You don’t understand! We… we were going to run away. She was going to get me out of…of… THIS!’

Keith broke down, his head forward on his chest, sobbing. Erika went to him and put her arm around his shoulders.

‘Keith, I’m so sorry. Are you still talking to her?’

He looked up from his sobbing and nodded. The lenses of his grimy glasses were wet with tears.

‘And what? Were you about to leave together?’

Peterson pulled out a small pack of tissues and handed one to Keith.

‘Thanks,’ Keith said, through his sobs. ‘We were going to take the train to France. The Eurostar has disabled access. I checked. And then we were going to make our way down slowly on trains, staying in French chateaus, heading to Spain to live by the sea.’

Erika noticed that pinned up above the computer stand were some pictures of Barcelona and a seaside town in Spain.

‘When were you planning on going?’ asked Peterson.

Keith shrugged. ‘When she’s done.’

‘Done what?’ asked Erika.

‘Done… All the names on her list.’

‘How many names are on her list?’

‘She said there were four.’

‘And has she given you any idea of who the fourth victim will be?’ asked Erika.

‘No, all I know is that when she’s done, we’ll be together.’ Keith bit his lip and looked between Erika and Peterson. He started to cry again. ‘It IS real. She loves me. She might not know what I am but we have a real connection!’ He took some deep breaths and took off his glasses, beginning to clean them with the edge of his T-shirt.

‘Keith, you do know that now you’ve spoken to us, there are implications? This woman is wanted for three murders.’

Keith put his glasses back on and his face crumpled.

Erika’s voice softened. ‘And you’re sure at no point she gave you her real name, or a location where she lived – any kind of idea about who she is?’

Keith shook his head. ‘She said London, once. And I checked, the PO Box is anonymous.’

‘Have you ever tried to trace her using an IP address?’ asked Peterson.

‘I tried, but I couldn't trace her IP address. She’s probably using Tor. I do.’

‘What’s Tor?’

‘Encryption software, so no one can know what you do online.’

Erika put her hand to her temple. ‘So you’re saying it’s going to be impossible to trace her whereabouts when she accesses the chat room.’

‘Yeah,’ nodded Keith. ‘Impossible.’