The Scribe

by A A Chaudhuri

  She’d been so foolish. The Stirlings had tried to lure her into their ugly, deceitful trap and she hated herself for ever trusting them.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘Any improvement?’ Carver looked up hopefully at Drake, back from Kingston Hospital. It was nearly 9 pm and he had just tested Maddy’s theory about the killer having used a faulty printer.

  It appeared she was right. The killer’s first three letters to him had the same faint lines running across the page as his letters to her and Paul King, in stark contrast to his last letter – printed out by a member of Carver’s forensic team – which was clean.

  Now he was waiting to hear back from Jim Turner, head of computer forensics, as to whether copy from Stirling’s home or work printers displayed the same marks. He was sure they wouldn’t, because he was now certain Stirling wasn’t the killer.

  ‘Afraid not, sir. Doctors aren’t sure she’ll ever wake up.’

  ‘Damn!’ She’s our bloody answer. She needs to wake up and tell us who or what she saw.’

  ‘Forensics are examining her personal items, including her personal mobile and work phones. Maybe they’ll help us determine how she came to be in Hampton Court Maze on a wet Monday afternoon.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Carver’s phone rang. ‘Yes?’ A pause. ‘I’ll be there right away.’

  It was Drake’s turn to look expectant. ‘Something’s come up, sir?’

  ‘Copy from Stirling’s home and office printers comes out clean. It also looks like his PC’s been hacked.’ He jumped up from his chair and made for the door. ‘We’ve got the wrong man, Drake. Trouble is, I still don’t have a bloody clue who the right man is.’

  ***

  Maddy sank down into the bath, still racked with guilt.

  She chastised herself for getting sucked in by Elizabeth Stirling’s bullshit story. Paul had been her citadel for nearly four years; the brother she never had, with whom she’d shared so many special memories. How could I ever have doubted him? I’ve been so gullible. It was preposterous when she thought about it. And the fact that the Stirlings had been prepared to cook up such a malicious scheme to frame an innocent man for a series of despicable crimes he didn’t commit, dissolved any shred of sympathy she might otherwise have had for Professor Stirling.

  The attempted murder of Suzanne Carroll that afternoon might well put Stirling’s guilt into question, but he and his wife were far from innocent as far as Maddy was concerned.

  ***

  ‘Tell me what you’ve got.’

  Carver waited for Jim Turner to explain. Turner was in his late thirties but looked at least ten years older. A thin, wiry man, he had a slight stoop and sallow skin suggestive of someone who spent most of his time indoors. In front of him was Stirling’s home computer and laptop.

  ‘We ran an anti-malicious software program for traces of any Trojans.’

  ‘Trojans? You mean some sort of hidden virus?’

  ‘Yes. Disguised as something normal or desirable, which a user unwittingly installs.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It appears that around the end of last September, Stirling’s system was infected by a remote administration tool.’

  The man is brilliant but incapable of speaking in English.

  ‘What does that mean exactly?’

  ‘It’s a malicious program that runs invisibly on the host PC and permits the hacker to connect to and control it, as if they had actual physical access to it. They can monitor a user’s activity, manage files, install additional software and control the entire system, including any present application or hardware device. They can also modify essential system settings, turn off or restart a computer, et cetera.’

  ‘How might Stirling’s PC have become infected like that?’

  ‘Any number of ways. The most likely is that Stirling opened a bogus email which appeared legitimate on the surface. Or got given an infected floppy disk or CD-ROM which, when inserted, unleashed the malicious software and gave the hacker unfettered access to his PC.’

  ‘And Stirling wouldn’t have picked up on this?’

  ‘It seems the hacker also installed a software package known as a “rootkit” – something which modifies the host’s operating system so that the virus is hidden from the owner. Also, more practically, if the hacker operated at night, Stirling wouldn’t have been aware that someone else was controlling his PC. Hackers tend to work between 6 pm and 8 am.’

  ‘Bring up Stirling’s letters. Let’s see what time they were created.’

  Turner navigated his way to a file hidden within Stirling’s documents folder. All but the last letter, which Carver already knew had been written the afternoon Stirling was arrested, had been created between 7 and 11 pm.

  ‘So, whoever’s been controlling Stirling’s server could have browsed all those dodgy websites?’

  ‘Yes. He could have done anything.’

  ‘If Stirling had noticed something wasn’t right with his system, what might have alerted him?’

  ‘Password changes, the cursor moving by itself, new toolbars, that sort of thing.’

  ‘We need to have a word with Stirling.’ Carver turned to Drake.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Turner said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ve picked up the same malicious software on Bethany Williams’ system.’

  Carver’s face brightened. He glanced again at Drake. ‘If that’s the case, the killer could easily have written the email from Williams to Stirling, asking him to meet her at Waterloo Bridge.’

  He turned back to Turner. ‘Are you able to decipher whether it’s from the same source?’

  ‘We’re working on that. The hacker’s very good at hiding his tracks.’

  Turner walked over to another table and removed an iPhone from a clear plastic bag. He came back over, appeared to search for something on the device, then showed the screen to Carver. ‘This is Suzanne Carroll’s phone.’

  Carver looked at the screen, displaying an email from Janis Stirling to Carroll on Friday, January 9th at 9.15 pm. Drake leaned over Carver’s shoulder to get a closer look.

  ‘She was meeting Stirling’s mother?’ Drake said.

  ‘No,’ Carver shook his head. ‘It’s the same hacker, I suspect. The killer … who’s also managed to infiltrate Janis Stirling’s system. That email address is odd, though.’ He peered at it: ‘rellikeht@mai.co.uk,’ he said slowly. ‘Holy fuck. The little shit.’

  ‘What is it?’ Turner asked expectantly.

  ‘Read it backwards, Drake.’

  Drake studied the address. Then he saw it. ‘Bloody hell, sir … it says “i-am-the-killer”.’

  ‘Arrogant son of a bitch. We need to get someone over to Janis Stirling’s place. Drake, tell Keel I want her to go because she’s dealt with Janis before. Turner, I’d like you to go along with Keel. Run the anti-virus software on Mrs Stirling’s computer and report back as soon as you have something.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Drake, let’s go see Stirling.’

  ***

  Carver and Drake waited for the guard to open the door, then walked into the interview room. Stirling was already there. Dressed in the standard grey prison uniform, sitting behind a rectangular table, shoulders slouched, a broken man. Gone was the charming smile, the twinkle in his eye, his normally smooth face now covered with stubble.

  ‘Hello, Professor Stirling,’ Carver said, pulling back a chair and parking himself in it. With new leads to go on, he’d forgotten how tired he was. He knew Stirling was innocent, the victim of a cruel, masterfully planned deception. And yet he still had no way of definitively proving it. He was still no closer to unveiling the identity of the real killer.

  ‘Hello, DCI Carver.’ Stirling’s voice was flat.

  ‘Professor Stirling, we have reason to believe your computer has been infected with a virus which allowed the hacker to control it.’

  Stirling’s eyes were suddenly alive, a glimmer o
f hope filtering through them. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since the end of September. Professor, do you remember seeing anything suspicious on your computer … some strange message, virus warning, some sign it was being tampered with?’

  Stirling thought for a while. Then he remembered something. ‘That Sunday, when I was in my office, a few hours before you arrested me, I’d mostly been working on paper. I’m old-fashioned like that – still prepare all my tutorials by hand, then get my secretary to type them up. I’ve got a tutorials folder stored in my documents file. When I went back to look at an old tutorial from last year, my mouse wouldn’t do what I wanted it to do. It was sort of moving by itself.’

  ‘Can you put a time on that?’

  Stirling sighed, made a puffy sound. ‘God, I don’t know, around 2.30, 3-ish, I should think.’

  Carver retrieved a piece of paper from his inside pocket. It was a printout of the document history of Stirling’s letters to him, Maddy and Paul, listing the date and time each was created. The last one was dated 4 January 2015, created at 2.40 pm.

  ‘Do you remember seeing or opening anything dodgy, Professor Stirling, towards the end of September? Either an email, or a CD-ROM you might have received. Alternatively, did you ever speak with anyone on the phone, someone who claimed to work for your internet service provider and asked you to confirm specific security questions? Think, Professor Stirling. This could be the key to your freedom.’

  Stirling pondered the question for a moment. Then recognition engulfed his face. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘One afternoon, I think it may have been the last Monday in September, a CD-ROM had been left on my desk. It had the standard academy logo and was labelled “Draft Information Evening Guide 25 January 2015 for final approval”. Essentially, it was an open evening for prospective students.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘All the tutors are expected to attend, me especially, being the Head of Contract. I always have a say over the look and content of the guide before it’s finalised.’

  ‘Had you any idea who left it?’

  ‘No, but I assumed it was my secretary or someone in the press department. I didn’t think to check, and automatically inserted it into my hard drive.’

  ‘And was it what you’d expected?’

  ‘No, all that was on it was the academy logo. Nothing else.’

  ‘And what did you do then?’

  ‘I spent some time clicking various buttons, inserting it and reinserting it, wondering if I was doing something wrong.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Nothing happened, so I rang my secretary. She said she knew nothing about it. She spoke to the press department for me, and neither did they.’

  ‘What then?’

  Stirling shook his head. ‘I was stupid. I should have looked into it further, found out who was responsible, but I didn’t. I tossed the CD in the bin and thought nothing more of it.’ He lowered his eyes, then looked up again. ‘Until now.’

  Carver held his gaze. ‘I believe you are innocent, Professor Stirling, but the fact remains that your DNA was all over Bethany Williams’ flat, and the killer’s letters were created on your PC.’

  ‘But you know it’s been infected. You know I didn’t create them.’

  ‘Yes, but until I know who did, I can’t let you go. Right now, my men are trying to track the software to the source. But it’s not easy. It takes time.’ He paused. ‘There’s another reason why I want to keep you in here for now, and if you’ll allow me to explain, I think you’ll agree it’s a credible one.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We need the killer to still feel like he’s in control. We don’t want to give him any reason to suppose we’re onto him.’

  Stirling nodded, then appeared to hesitate, as if weighing up whether to divulge what was obviously on his mind.

  ‘What is it, Professor?’ Carver asked. ‘Is there something you’re not telling us? If you think you know something that could be helpful to our investigation, to your cause, you need to tell me, however embarrassed or ashamed you might be to reveal it. Your freedom depends on it. A killer is out there, and he needs to be caught. The pattern is complete, but who knows whether or not he’s done?’ At that moment, Carver thought of Maddy. He quickly banished her from his mind. ‘He may well strike again. Other lives may be at stake.’

  Stirling looked at both men, a look of resignation in his eyes. ‘Okay, you’re right. I have a theory – something I explained to my wife when she came to visit, and which I asked her to relay to Madeline Kramer.’

  Carver straightened in surprise. ‘Madeline Kramer? What’s she got to do with it?’

  ‘Listen, and you’ll find out.’

  ***

  Carver wearily stepped into his hallway at just gone 1 am. He switched on the light, then tossed his keys and some loose change on the ledge. Without bothering to remove his jacket, he went straight to the kitchen, grabbed a tumbler from a tall cupboard and reached for the single malt on the side. He filled two thirds of the glass, before downing half en route to his tiny living room where he crashed onto the tired-looking settee. It had seen better days – a bit like Carver.

  Stirling’s story had been so unexpected; at first, he’d wanted to laugh in his face. The idea that Maddy Kramer’s flatmate might have something to do with the murders was ludicrous. Paul King was a decent, down-to-earth guy who’d been nothing but helpful with their enquiries. What’s more, he was Kramer’s best friend, had been close to Paige Summers; and the idea of him threatening Kramer, killing her cat, not to mention ransacking their own apartment was nonsensical.

  But he couldn’t ignore it. Paul was a former student at the academy who, as Stirling had pointed out, had a difficult relationship with his mother. And, assuming Stirling had been telling the truth about the incident in his office, had been in love with, and rejected by, the man being framed for the murder of six women, and the attempted murder of one. Not to mention the unfortunate security guard.

  He had to follow it up. But for now, he was deadbeat. He’d drink his single malt, and then he’d sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Tuesday, 13 January 2015

  Maddy opened her eyes. Turned and gazed at the clock. 9 am. She’d woken late. Shockingly late for a work day.

  It was gone 3 am before she’d finally drifted off to sleep, too restless to switch off, her mind spinning with recent events, her emotions in turmoil.

  And even as she slept, it hadn’t been a deep, peaceful sleep; faces appearing in her dreams: the victims, Paul, Carver, Rose, and Stirling locked in a prison cell, protesting his innocence. At one point, she’d woken up in a cold sweat, relieved to know she’d just been dreaming but still haunted by the realness of her dreams.

  She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she flung off her duvet, and swung her bare legs off the bed and onto the floor. She’d never done it before, and her conscience certainly wasn’t okay with it, but she decided to pull a sickie. She was knackered, mentally and physically. She couldn’t face people today. She needed time to herself.

  She wondered if Paul was up. She’d only just crawled into bed when she heard him come through the front door around 11.45. She’d popped her head out to say hello, but he’d been in a foul mood. He’d had a row with Justin and didn’t want to talk about it. He did briefly mention having to visit his mother again today. Apparently, she had something important to tell him she didn’t want to say over the phone. Why she couldn’t have told him when he’d gone round earlier, Maddy couldn’t figure out.

  ‘Fuck knows what it’s about,’ Paul had grumbled before disappearing into his bedroom without so much as a goodnight. Maddy had returned to hers, unable to settle herself, half-expecting Paul to crash out of his at any moment, demanding to know why she’d been snooping around his belongings, even though she was certain she’d left things exactly as she’d found them. />
  As she opened her bedroom door, she vaguely heard the radio playing in the kitchen, the clitter-clatter of crockery. She walked towards the noise, the music gradually becoming louder.

  Paul was at the sink, washing a bowl. He must have heard her approach as he turned around before she had the chance to speak.

  ‘Morning, not like you to sleep in till gone nine. You do realise it’s a work day?’ He looked both amused and concerned. At least he appears to be in a better mood this morning.

  ‘Yeah, I know. I just couldn’t drop off last night.’ Maddy felt the skin under her eyes sag. ‘I’m pulling a sickie.’

  Paul looked at her in amazement. ‘You sure you’re not actually sick?’ he grinned. ‘I would never have thought it of you.’

  She watched him swivel back round to rinse the bowl before stacking it on the dish rack. When he was done, he turned to face her again, wiping his hands with a tea towel. ‘Something’s up, I can tell. Maybe I can help?’

  For a moment, Maddy was sorely tempted to tell him about her conversation with Elizabeth Stirling. But her instinct said otherwise. There was no point upsetting him. Even if there had been an incident between him and Stirling, she didn’t want to embarrass him further by bringing the subject up. Why rehash an old memory he clearly wants to forget, and has deliberately avoided telling me about in five years of friendship?

  She shook her head. ‘Just one of those nights, that’s all.’ She stretched out her arms, gave a big yawn. ‘Want a coffee? I need one badly.’

  ‘Er, no, thanks.’ Paul gave her a quick peck on the cheek as he dashed past and out the door. ‘Got to finish proofing the last two chapters of my book, then be at my mother’s by midday,’ he called out over his shoulder, ‘and I’m already running behind schedule.’

  ***

  12.30 pm. Carver tapped his right knee incessantly, willing the thick traffic ahead to disperse at his touch, like Moses parting the Red Sea. ‘You know I hate taking liberties, Drake,’ he said, having finally lost all patience, ‘but put the damn siren on. We need to get there. Fast.’