The Night Stalker (28 page)

E
rika and Peterson
stepped outside Keith’s flat for a moment and walked across the street to the promenade. The small waves down on the shore pulled softly over the shingle and there was a murmur of chatter and laughter from the beach.

‘I know it’s wrong, but I feel sorry for him,’ said Peterson.

‘I feel sorry that his life has ended up like that. But he’s been protecting whoever this woman is, Night Owl,’ said Erika.

‘We shouldn’t leave him too long,’ said Peterson, looking back at the flat. ‘Who knows what he’s going to do?’

‘He’s not going to go anywhere fast,’ said Erika. ‘What do you think we should do?’

’What we
should
do is pass this information on to the SIO of the case, which is Sparks,’ said Peterson.

‘But Sparks is convinced it’s Isaac Strong who killed Stephen, and he’s convinced he can link Isaac to the two other murders,’ said Erika. ‘If I tell Sparks or Marsh about this, they could tell me to hand it over or not to pursue it, and then that would mean if I
do
pursue it, I would be going against a direct order.’

‘So, right now we’re…’ started Peterson.

‘Right now, we’re still just visiting someone in Worthing,’ said Erika.

‘Our good friend Keith…’ finished Peterson.

Erika looked over at the Pavilion Theatre, which loomed up like a giant curved jelly mould, the pier stretching out to sea behind it. A large flock of seagulls huddled together on the end, their heads buried in their feathers.

‘What if we can engineer a meeting between Keith and “Night Owl”?’ said Erika.

‘Where? And how would we get him there? And if she saw him, wouldn’t she just turn around and…’

‘No, Peterson. Keith wouldn’t be waiting for her. We would. Along with half the Met Police.’

L
ater that day
, Erika had managed to call in a favour from Lee Graham, an old colleague from the Met who was now with Sussex Police. He came over to Worthing to look at Keith’s computer. He was a brilliant, young and slightly intense forensic computer analyst.

A couple of hours later, Lee, Erika, Peterson and Keith were all crammed into Keith’s tiny living room.

‘Okay, so you’ve now got his computer—’ started Lee.

‘My name is Keith,’ said Keith, regarding Lee suspiciously.

‘Yes, you’ve now got Keith’s computer here networked in with these,’ said Lee, handing two laptops to Erika. ‘You’ll be able to see what’s happening in real time and you can also jump in at any time and type. Whoever is chatting with Keith online won’t be any the wiser.’

‘Thank you,’ said Erika.

‘I can also keep a log and I’ll be able to monitor the chat room remotely from my office. I’ll have a crack at tracing this Night Owl’s whereabouts, but if she’s using the Tor network it’ll be virtually impossible.’

‘So, how does this Tor network operate?’ asked Peterson.

‘Say you use the Internet normally, for example to send me an email. It goes from your computer via a server to my computer. Both of us can easily find out where the other person is via their IP address. An IP address is a unique string of numbers separated by full stops that identifies each computer using the Internet Protocol to communicate over a network. With the Tor software on your computer, it directs Internet traffic through a free, worldwide volunteer network of computers. There are more than seven thousand of these acting as relays to conceal a user's location and usage from anyone conducting network surveillance or traffic analysis.’

‘They call it onion computing, because there are so many layers in the relay,’ said Keith.

‘That’s right. Using Tor makes it more difficult for Internet activity to be traced back to the user. This includes visits to websites, online posts, instant messages and other forms of communication,’ said Lee.

‘And anyone can download this Tor program?’ asked Erika.

‘Yep. Free online software,’ said Lee. ‘Makes it a bloody nightmare for us.’

‘If you can’t trace Night Owl, then why do you want to spy on me talking to her?’ asked Keith.

A look passed between Erika and Peterson.

‘We want you to arrange a meeting with her,’ said Erika.

‘I can’t meet her. I’m not ready. I wanted to be able to prepare!’

‘You’re not really going to meet her,’ explained Erika.

‘No, no, I can’t… I’m sorry. No.’

‘You will,’ said Peterson, with an air of finality.

‘London Waterloo train station,’ said Erika.

‘How am I going to suddenly think of a way to get her to meet?’ cried Keith, panicking.

‘You’ll think of a way,’ said Peterson.

‘I saw that you’ve saved your entire chat room history with this Night Owl,’ said Lee. ‘I’ve copied it across to your laptops,’ he told Erika and Peterson.

‘But… those were private chats!’ insisted Keith.

‘We have a deal here. Remember?’ said Erika.

Keith nodded, nervously.

W
hen everything was set up
, Erika and Peterson came out of the flat to say goodbye to Lee. The air was still and warm, and from far down on the beach they could hear the squeaky strains of a Punch and Judy show.

‘I also got a copy of his hard drive. I’ll check out if there’s anything dodgy we need to know about,’ said Lee, going to his car, which was parked by the kerb. He opened the boot and put his bag inside. ‘I sometimes wish that the Internet had never been invented. Too many people with too much time to indulge their sick fantasies.’

‘It seems every time I see you I’m giving you something nasty to look into,’ said Erika. ‘Thanks for doing this.’

‘Maybe the next time we meet should be outside work,’ he said with a grin.

Peterson looked between them, as Erika blushed red and was lost for words. ‘Thanks again!’ she said finally.

‘No probs. I hope it helps you catch this nasty bitch. I’ll be in touch online when you boot up your computer,’ he said, then got into his car.

‘I didn’t know you knew him so well,’ said Peterson, as they watched Lee’s car drive off along the promenade.

‘What’s it to you?’ asked Erika.

‘Nothing,’ he shrugged.

‘Good, let’s get back inside. I’m worried Keith is going to bottle out on us.’

S
imone was buzzing
with excitement as she walked to work. She’d taken the bus to King’s Cross and was walking through the back streets behind the station to the Queen Anne Hospital. She liked working nights, the feeling of going to work when so many were returning home. She was like a salmon, swimming against the tide. When she worked nights, she didn’t have to stress about not sleeping, about being alone in her house and vulnerable.

She didn’t have to stress about seeing things.

It was a warm, balmy evening and as she waited to cross the road she found that she was excited to see Mary again. The old lady was a fighter, and she’d still be there, Simone was sure. She’d brought presents for Mary: a picture frame for the photo with George and a new hairbrush. She was sure that Mary’s hair would be tangled.

A nasty, warm smell of urine and disposable nappies hit Simone’s nose as she walked the long corridor to Mary’s ward. A few nurses nodded at her, and she nodded back and exchanged pleasantries. Many of the nurses looked surprised to see the big grin on her usually sullen face.

When Simone reached the door to Mary’s room, she opened it without knocking and was shocked to see a smartly dressed elderly woman sitting in
her
chair, beside Mary’s bed. The woman’s hair was cut in a sleek silver bob. She wore crisp white slacks, black patent leather court shoes and a silk floral blouse. The bed was empty and Mary was sitting in a wheelchair beside the woman, dressed neatly in a pair of smart charcoal trousers and a houndstooth jacket. Her hair was neatly tied back with a red ribbon, and the woman was leaning down and helping put Mary’s feet into a pair of new shoes.

‘Who are you?’ asked Simone, looking between them. The woman slipped on Mary’s second shoe and stood. She was very tall.

‘Hi there, nurse,’ said the woman. She had a drawling American accent.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Simone sharply. ‘Does the doctor know you’re here?’

‘Yes, honey. I’m Dorothy Van Last, Mary’s sister. I’m here to take her home.’

‘Sister? I didn’t know Mary had a sister. You’re American!’

‘I was born here, honey, but I’ve been away from England a long time.’ Dorothy looked around the dingy hospital room. ‘Seems things haven’t changed much.’

‘But Mary,’ said Simone, ‘you belong here with… with us…’

Mary cleared her throat. ‘Who are you, dear?’ she asked, searching Simone’s face. Her voice was quavering and very frail.

‘I’m Nurse Simone. I’ve been caring for you.’

‘Have you? My sister heard from my neighbour that I was here. She flew all the way over from Boston. I don’t know what I’d have done if she didn’t come,’ said Mary, her voice weak.

‘But you’re… my… I was going to…’ started Simone, feeling her eyes start to water.

‘The doctor says she’s made
quite
the recovery,’ interrupted Dorothy. ‘I’m gonna stay with her until she’s better.’ She took the brake off Mary’s wheelchair and manoeuvred her round the bed.

‘But Mary…’ said Simone.

Mary peered up at her from the chair. ‘Who is this?’ she asked her sister.

‘She’s a nurse, Mary. They all look the same after a while. No offence, honey.’

Dorothy pushed the chair past Simone, out of the room and away down the corridor. Simone moved to the door and watched Mary being wheeled away. Mary didn’t even try to look round and see Simone. Then they rounded a corner and were gone.

Simone locked herself in one of the disabled toilets. She stood for a moment, shaking. She then opened her bag, pulled out the picture frame she’d bought for Mary and hit it repeatedly on the edge of the sink until it smashed. She stared at her reflection, anger growing inside her. She had been abandoned. Abandoned again.

E
rika booked
two rooms in the aptly named Sea Breeze Hotel, which was cheap and cheerful and a few doors down from Keith’s flat. The rooms were next to each other, rather small and poky, and overlooked the dustbin-filled courtyard behind. They grabbed some food from the restaurant downstairs, then came back up to Erika’s room and prepared to wait.

To kill time until darkness fell, they started to look through the colossal amount of chat logs that Lee had downloaded from Keith’s computer. There were four years’ worth in total, and reading through the pages and pages of data would have been impossible. After dividing the chat logs into years, they imported each year into a Word document. They then spent time searching through a list of keywords which could take them directly to specific exchanges.

‘This chat is disturbing,’ said Peterson, who was sitting in a chair by the small window. ‘I just put in the keyword “suicide” and I’ve got pages and pages where Keith is talking about killing himself, and exactly how he would do it. Listen to this: “I’d turn off the lights in my flat. It would be the one time I would let the darkness envelop me. I’d take a hit on the gas canister and pull the bag over my head, filling it with gas to stop me from panicking. I would then draw it tight and breathe, taking in great gulps until I passed out. I’d just slip away, painlessly, easily… like a dream which never ends.”’

‘When was this dated?’ asked Erika.

‘This was three years ago, early on in their correspondence,’ said Peterson.

‘I’ve put in a search for the words “wheelchair” and “disabled”,’ said Erika, working at her laptop. ‘There are only fleeting mentions from Night Owl, one talking about seeing a disabled man in the street and how sorry she felt for him, and another minor mention. He’s never told her.’

‘She talks here about being scalded by her husband,’ said Peterson, after a silence. ‘It’s dated around the same time. He tried to rape her and she ran and locked herself in the bathroom. He came after her with a pan of boiling water, punched her in the face and then put her in the bath, half-unconscious, stripped her and slowly poured the scalding water over her naked body. She says she was badly scarred, but didn’t go to the doctor until a week later and only because the sores became infected.’

‘Did she say who he was? Does she name the doctor?’ asked Erika.

‘No, but she says that the doctor didn’t believe her when she said her husband had burned her.’

Erika looked up at Peterson in horror.

‘She says the doctor thought that the medication she was taking, coupled with chronic lack of sleep, was making her hallucinate… She’d previously come to him with similar burns when she had accidentally filled a bath with scalding water and stepped into it. Her husband had, in the past, confided in the doctor about her psychotic episodes and she had previously been sectioned.’

‘Jesus,’ said Erika. ‘He believed the husband over her…’

It was now dark outside and they could hear, through the open window, the faint sound of the waves dragging at the shingle.

‘In the press they always describe people as monsters, and we use that term too,’ said Erika. ‘But surely monsters aren’t born? A tiny baby is never a monster. Doesn’t everyone come into this world good? Isn’t it their lives and their circumstances which turn them bad?’

A beep came from the laptop Peterson was using.

‘It’s Keith,’ he said. ‘He’s started talking online with Night Owl.’

K
eith sat
at his computer stand in his tiny living room. The lights seemed to beat down on him and he was drenched in sweat. It dripped down from his wispy hair onto the black PVC of his seat. Erika and Peterson sat on the folding chairs behind him.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said, turning to face them.

‘You need to just talk normally for a bit. We don’t want her to get suspicious,’ said Erika.

He nodded, turned back and started to type.

A few moments passed. Erika opened another button of her blouse and fanned the material. She looked over at Peterson, who was sweltering too. ‘Can we turn off any of these lights?’ he asked, wiping his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

‘No! No, I don’t like the dark. The shadows,’ said Keith. ‘You can open a window, if you like.’

Peterson went to the small kitchen and opened the window above the sink. The smell of blocked drains floated across the garish carpet but at least it was cooler.

‘She’s not typing,’ said Keith, turning to Erika and Peterson again.

‘Is this normal?’ asked Peterson, coming back to his folding chair.

‘I dunno… I don’t normally have an audience here when I talk to her. People breathing down my neck. What if she knows?’

‘She doesn’t know,’ reassured Erika. They sat in silence for a few more minutes.

‘I’m just going to use your bathroom,’ said Erika. Keith nodded and turned back to the screen. She left the living room and came out into the hall. She could hear a dull drone of music from upstairs, and the bulbs glowed brightly. She came to the bathroom and closed the door.

She gingerly hovered over the grubby toilet and peed as quickly as she could. When she reached around to see where the toilet paper was, her shoulder bashed painfully against the large safety rail. She pushed it and watched as it swung upwards, almost like a bizarre guillotine in reverse. She quickly finished and washed her hands. The bathroom was deeply depressing, almost like a hospital. She had to crouch down to see her reflection in the mirror; she wished she hadn’t bothered. She looked exhausted.

When she came back to the living room, it seemed even hotter under the blazing lights. Peterson was just browsing through the shelves of DVDs.

‘Hang on, she’s typing,’ said Keith, leaning toward the computer screen. Erika and Peterson both moved over to join him.

‘This is good,’ said Erika, as she and Peterson peered over the back of Keith’s chair. They stayed and watched the conversation unfold.

‘This has to be a first for me, watching a serial killer talk about her crap day at work and explain how she likes her eggs poached,’ murmured Peterson, as he sat watching the screen, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. ‘What time is it?’

‘Two-thirty,’ said Erika, looking at her watch.

A
t five-thirty
, as it started to get light, the conversation was still going. The courtyard outside the kitchen window began to brighten with a bluish tinge.

Erika nudged Peterson, who had managed to sleep in the folding chair, his head tipped back. He rubbed his eyes as he awoke.

‘I think he’s finally cutting to the chase,’ whispered Erika. They watched the screen.

T
here was a long pause
.

‘I’ve done it. I’ve scared her off,’ said Keith, his tired eyes beginning to show panic. ‘I’ve tried. You’ve seen me, here all night, trying!’

‘It’s okay,’ said Erika. ‘Look.’

Keith turned back to the screen.

‘Jesus,’ said Keith. He started typing.

‘Where? What should I write?’ asked Keith.

‘Tell her you want to meet at Waterloo Station, in London,’ said Erika.

‘No, ask her first, suggest it,’ added Peterson. ‘And then if she says yes, arrange it for 5 p.m. this evening, under the clock on the concourse.

Keith nodded and started to type again:

She logged off from the chat room. They sat in silence for a moment. Keith was grinning. His hair was dank and stood on end, and he stank of body odour.

‘
F
ive p.m. is
rush hour at Waterloo Station,’ said Peterson. ‘We should have got him to say earlier.’

‘It’s going to make grabbing hold of her much tougher,’ agreed Erika. ‘But there’s also less leeway.’

‘Boss, you’re going to have to tell Marsh. There’s no other way to get a big surveillance op authorised… Let’s hope he’ll authorise it.’

‘Yeah,’ said Erika. She looked at her watch. It was quarter to six. ‘Let’s get something to eat, and give Marsh a chance to wake up before I tell him.’

‘I’ve got to get back. I’m on duty in two hours,’ said Peterson.

‘Course you are,’ said Erika. ‘Sorry. You go. I don’t want to get you into any trouble. And, er, you weren’t here. Well, if the shit hits the fan, you weren’t here. If it’s a triumph, you were.’