‘I’m going to need all their details. Names, billing addresses, phone numbers, please,’ Sian said.
Cheung looked horrified. ‘I can’t do that. What about data protection?’
Sian was having none of it. ‘We’re dealing with a murder enquiry. So I can get a search warrant. Then police officers will arrive, seize all of your equipment and take it to the technical forensic lab. They will go through everything and keep all your equipment for the next few weeks or even months as evidence.’ Sian knew that she was embellishing the truth a bit but she wanted the information now. ‘Or you can give me the information now.’
Cheung didn’t hesitate as he went over, sat down and tapped away at the computer. ‘Of course. No problem. I didn’t realise how serious it was, you see?’
Well, that got him bloody moving, she thought.
‘I need to see who Stefan Olsen has talked to in the past two weeks to start with.’ Sian was pleased how quickly she had managed to get leverage over Cheung. Sometimes people stood their ground, insisted on warrants and brought in lawyers. She assumed that Cheung had calculated that being without any of his equipment for days or weeks would bankrupt him and destroy his business.
‘Okay,’ Cheung gestured to the chatroom on the screen. ‘In the last ten days, Stefan, who is Stefan81, has been talking to this person, NightPorter.’
Sian scanned her eyes over the conversation and then came to something that caught her attention.
Stefan81: So Bar Lounge in Bala. 8 o’clock?
NightPorter: Sounds perfect.
Stefan81: Can’t wait to meet you. We’ve really clicked, haven’t we?
NightPorter: Completely. How will I recognise you?
Stefan81: Dark handsome man. Corner table.
NightPorter: See you then xx
Stefan81: xx ; )
Sian smiled. Bingo.
‘I need all the information you’ve got for this “NightPorter,”’ Sian said, feeling energised. She wondered that if NightPorter was their killer, why had he made it so easy for them to track him down?
Cheung tapped away and then looked agitated. ‘He’s still on the site’s thirty-day free trial.’
‘What does that mean?’ Sian asked, perturbed by Cheung’s anxious tone of voice.
‘He wouldn’t have to add a billing address or credit card details until he joined the site,’ Cheung explained.
‘So you allow people to use your site to meet each other, but you have no way of identifying them until they actually join your site?’ Sian asked in disbelief.
‘It’s not illegal,’ Cheung responded defensively.
‘It’s not safe or ethical,’ Sian snapped back. ‘What about an IP address?’
‘Yeah, I should be able to track them through that,’ Cheung said, returning to the computer. The IP address was a numerical number that could pinpoint the exact geographical location of the device being used. Sian knew if they had that, they could pinpoint where NightPorter was located.
As Cheung tapped away, Sian gazed around the untidy office. Coffee cups, takeaways and other rubbish were strewn across one side of the room. It was like an overgrown boy’s bedroom. She guessed that Cheung didn’t have many visitors.
‘He’s using a VPN,’ Cheung explained to Sian, who had no idea what he was talking about.
‘A what?’ Sian asked in a withering voice. Cheung was starting to irritate her, and she had never been good at hiding her feelings.
‘Virtual Private Network. It encrypts the connection to make it safe. And that makes it untraceable.’
‘Jesus. So we have no way of finding out where the NightPorter is located?’ Sian muttered in frustration. There had to be a way of tracing the person who had set up the account.
‘Not that I know of. But you could send him an email?’ Cheung suggested.
Sian was about to explain in blunt terms that an email from the North Wales Police Force wouldn’t be the best tactic if this man was, in fact, their killer. However, Cheung’s suggestion gave her an idea.
‘I need you to set up a profile for me,’ Sian said.
‘I don’t think this is the right website for you,’ Cheung frowned.
‘Don’t be a prick. I want you to set me up a profile that is almost identical to Stefan Olsen’s. Hobbies, likes, preferences, everything,’ Sian said as she worked out the logistics of how they could set a cyber-trap.
NICK WAS RUNNING LATE by the time he arrived at the offices where James Ferguson worked. A phone call earlier that day to the number on the business card that Nick had found in Harv’s study determined that Ferguson was an old school friend. The reception area was decorated with a large real Christmas tree, tinsel and lights. It put the meagre decorations at Llancastell CID to shame.
As he navigated his way through the open-plan office, Nick caught snippets of conversations about ‘sales forecasts’ and ‘quotas,’ thinking that he was glad he didn’t have to suffer the drabness of office life. However dark his demons, and despite the chaos and devastation he had sometimes witnessed, Nick knew that he was making a difference to people’s lives. He didn’t care if that sounded trite. It meant that in recent months, he could lay his sober head on a pillow secure in the knowledge that he contributed to the improvement of society every single day.
In the far corner, Nick spotted a glass-fronted office with the inscription James Ferguson – Director of Sales etched into the door. Through the glass, Nick could see that, with his slick, coiffed hairstyle, Ferguson was in good shape and smartly dressed. Nick bristled for a moment. Uber-confident men like Ferguson made him feel inadequate, something that seemed to contradict his thoughts only seconds before. That’s the beauty of the human psyche for you, he thought sardonically.
‘Mr Ferguson?’ Nick asked, tapping the door and showing his warrant card. ‘I’m DS Evans. We spoke earlier.’
Ferguson got out of his seat, came over, shook his hand firmly and gestured. ‘Of course, of course. Please, take a seat.’ His voice was one moulded by expensive boarding schools and an elite university.
‘I’m investigating the death of Harvey Pearson,’ Nick explained.
‘Yes, I was so sorry to hear about that. He was a good bloke. It’s a tragedy,’ Ferguson said without an ounce of feeling.
‘He had your business card by his computer. Do you know why?’ Nick asked.
‘Harv came to see me a few weeks ago. I gave him my card,’ Ferguson clarified with a shrug.
‘Can you tell me why Harvey Pearson came to see you? Were you friends?’ Nick asked.
‘Not really. We were friends at school. We were in the same dorm. But I had only seen him a few times since we left. He told me he was trying to organise a St Patrick’s reunion, you know, class of ’93,’ Ferguson said and then paused. ‘I found it ... surprising.’
‘Why was that?’ Nick asked.
‘Harv didn’t seem to like school that much. Eventually, his mother took him out before sixth form started. I was amazed that he wanted any type of reunion,’ Ferguson explained.
This was the picture that Nick was getting from everyone. So why would Harv want to track down students and teachers from St Patrick’s?
‘Do you know why he didn’t like school?’ Nick asked.
‘Not really. We didn’t talk about stuff like that. There was a teacher there, Mr Chivers. He seemed to pick on Harv – a lot. It was bullying. Some of us thought that’s why he left St Patrick’s.’
Nick reflected on Ferguson’s answer for a moment. Was there a darker purpose to Harv’s search into his past at St Patrick’s?
‘Did he ever mention this teacher again?’ Nick asked.
‘Actually, he told me he had seen Mr Chivers in a supermarket car park a couple of months ago. He said he had followed him to his car, which I thought was a little weird. But it also worried me.’
‘Why did it worry you?’ Nick said.
‘I bumped into Harv at a wedding a few years ago. We were both drunk. And we were tal
king about school days. And Harv said that if he ever saw Mr Chivers again, he would kill him.’
CHAPTER 9
It was ten minutes after Ruth had first knocked on the door before Gates finally opened it. Having forgotten her gloves, her knuckles were red from the cold air and she was about to leave when the key eventually turned.
‘I’m so sorry. Kerry has been calling me, but I’ve been in the annexe doing a few odd jobs. I was miles away.’ Gates smiled as he opened the door, and Ruth watched as he gestured for her to come in. Her copper’s instinct still thought there was something ‘off’ about him. It wasn’t just the tinted glasses, camp mannerisms and the anachronistic clothing. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Hunter, isn’t it? Come in, come in.’
‘Thank you, Mr Gates. I’ve just got a few things I need to clarify,’ Ruth said, noticing how warm the house was now she was inside. Too warm. The hallway was small and simply decorated in creams and soft browns. A row of Christmas cards lined the windowsill beside a wedding photograph – a close-up headshot of Gates and Kerry kissing, shoulders covered in confetti.
‘Of course. Not a problem,’ Gates said, closing the front door behind her.
‘Who is it, Andy?’ a female voice called out.
‘It’s Detective Inspector Hunter, love. Don’t worry, we won’t be long,’ Gates called back and then turned to Ruth and said in a low voice, ‘My wife Kerry. She has MS and she finds it hard to get around these days.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Ruth said, but in truth, she was watching Gates’s every move. Even though Gates had found the remains and phoned the police, that didn’t make him innocent. She knew plenty of cases where the killer had put themselves right in the middle of an investigation, often to get some kind of sick thrill.
Ruth remembered the infamous ‘Babes In The Wood’ murders in Brighton in 1986. Two nine-year-old girls, Nicola Fellows and Karen Hadaway, were strangled, sexually assaulted and left in a park. The murderer, Russell Bishop, ingratiated himself in the middle of the search for the two girls after they had disappeared. He spoke to police officers as he, and his dog Misty, helped search the woodland. He even went on a march and handed out leaflets in 1989 asking for more information on the two girls’ murders. But that was psychopaths for you. Complete and utter narcissists with no empathy for the emotions of other human beings.
‘Make sure you ask her if she wants a cup of tea,’ Kerry called from the living room, breaking Ruth’s train of thought.
Ruth looked at Gates and said quietly, ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
Gates gestured to a door which led to the small dining room. ‘We can go in here.’
Ruth went in and sat down at the polished wooden table. The winter sun gleamed off the surface and made her squint. There were neatly arranged placemats that showed painted scenes of Snowdonia. The wallpaper was dark and patterned, giving the room a small, slightly claustrophobic feel. On top of a low table on the other side of the room, Ruth noticed a glass cabinet that featured a tableau of three stuffed animals – a rabbit, a stoat and a red squirrel. She hoped it was some Victorian artefact rather than Gates’s own handiwork.
‘Our forensic team have narrowed down where the remains came from. I’m afraid they originate from your house,’ Ruth informed him.
‘Oh dear. How awful,’ Gates said calmly. His fingers moved rhythmically on the table, almost as if he was tapping away at a silent piano. When he noticed Ruth watching him, he stopped and smiled at her.
‘Yes. We will need a DNA sample from you today so we can eliminate you from our enquiries,’ Ruth explained. What she meant was so that the forensic scientists could look for Gates’s DNA within the remains and create a forensic link.
‘Of course. No problem.’
‘And there is no reason we would make any forensic link between you and the remains we found in the sewer?’
‘No, of course not. I wouldn’t have called you if I had anything to do with this,’ Gates said.
Nice try. Ruth knew that wasn’t true. ‘And you have given us the details of everyone who had access to your property in recent months?’
‘Yes. I’ve given you the details for Dai Morris Builders. That’s the only company that I use. No one else has been in there,’ Gates said. ‘You’re sure about that tea, Inspector?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Ruth took a moment as she scribbled notes in her pad. ‘Mr Gates ...’
‘Andy, please.’
‘Andy. Can you tell me your whereabouts on the evening of Saturday the eighth of December?’ Ruth asked.
‘I would have been here, I think. I don’t go out much.’ Gates thought for a moment. ‘Yes. I cooked us some food. We watched the television. Something on BBC Four, I think. I went and finished off some decorating in the annexe. That was about it.’
‘And your wife will confirm that?’ Ruth asked as she wrote in her notepad.
‘Yes. Of course. Why wouldn’t she?’ Gates said, sounding a little annoyed.
‘And you didn’t go out anywhere? You didn’t pop out to the shop or anything like that?’ Ruth asked.
‘No. I was here all night.’ Gates smiled directly at her as if he didn’t have a care in the world, let alone several bodies in his waste pipes.
Ruth waited again, taking her time as she wrote notes. She wanted the pressure to build with a prolonged and awkward silence before her next question. ‘Does the name Stefan Olsen mean anything to you?’ She looked for any reaction from Gates. A sign of recognition or anxiety.
There was nothing.
‘No. Sorry. I’ve never heard that name before, I’m afraid.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Positive. It’s not a name you would forget, is it?’ Gates chuckled slightly.
Ruth paused again. It was stuff like Gates’s little laugh that was creeping her out. As if he continually misjudged the appropriate tone or response.
‘Okay. Do you own a computer, Andy?’ Ruth asked.
‘Yes, I’ve got a laptop. Not a very good one,’ Gates said with a self-effacing smile.
Ruth nodded. At this stage, it wasn’t worth revealing any suspicions about the dating website by asking him about it. If Gates had been using U’veGotMale to contact men, she didn’t want him knowing that they knew anything about it. She couldn’t make her mind up about him. Eccentric oddball? Yes. Multiple killer? She didn’t know.
‘Thank you, Andy.’
Gates sat upright and said a little too loudly, ‘I know where I recognise you from, Inspector.’
Ruth was a little startled. ‘I didn’t realise that you did recognise me.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Gates said half to himself. ‘That’s right ...’
‘Have we met before?’ Ruth asked. Surely she would have remembered a crank like Gates ...
‘No, no. From the newspapers. Those terrible murders over in Dinas Padog. Last year ...’ Gates explained. ‘The teachers.’
‘Right. I did work on that case ...’
‘Jonathan Noakes. I guess you got that one wrong?’ Gates was smiling.
How did Gates know all about that? Had it been in the press? Was he messing with her head?
‘I guess I did.’ Ruth closed her pad and got up.
‘Oh, don’t worry, Inspector. We all make mistakes, don’t we?’ Gates said in an overly familiar way that was distinctly strange.
‘Thank you for your help, Andy. We’ll be in touch as the case develops.’
‘Thank you. It’s Ruth, isn’t it?’ Gates said as he closed the door behind her.
‘Yes ...’ Ruth said as she made her way to the door and Gates let her out.
As she got to her car, Ruth released a sigh and frowned. She didn’t know why but talking to Gates had unnerved her. How did he know her first name? She rarely went by her first name in official capacities and she hadn’t told him it at any point when meeting him. And the stuff about Dinas Padog and Jonathan Noakes was creepy.
CHAPTER 10
For
the next hour, Gates sat and listened to Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours album through a set of headphones. Listening to music like this allowed him a clarity of thought that he often lacked during the day.
He sat back and closed his eyes. He still wasn’t sure why he had identified the human heart and offered to call the police the day before. He could have made excuses. He could have pacified the young man next door, promising to get a company to fix the problem right away. He had even planned on buying chicken breasts from the supermarket and removing the human remains from the sewer by the cover of night. He could then refill the sewer with chunks of chicken. But he didn’t. Why not? On the surface, Gates knew that acting horrified at the remains and being the one that called the police would deflect suspicion. At least for a while. Yet Gates suspected a deeper desire. His longing to survive and not get caught was being overwhelmed by a different want. He craved to find some peace from the unbearable anxiety that he was living in. Holding onto these horrible secrets was utterly exhausting.
At first, he thought of suicide. Hanging or poison? But that would leave Kerry on her own and the thought of killing her as a release terrified him. He could run away, but he would still be left with himself. After all, that’s what the killings were for. A temporary fix to ease the discomfort of being Andy Gates.
But like any addict, he wanted just one more fix. One more soul to fix that aching emptiness inside him. Then he’d stop. Actually, he was resigned to the inevitability of being arrested. Whether it was days or weeks, he didn’t know. And to be honest, he didn’t care.
Gates took off the headphones and wandered into the kitchen. He poured himself a large rum and coke and swigged at it thirstily. Going outside, he lit a menthol cigarette. Bliss. He checked that Kerry was now asleep under her favourite blanket in front of The Chase. She looked like an angel. As the light from the screen flickered on her motionless face, he marvelled at her beauty. He might be a psychopath, but what he felt for her was pure love. It was overwhelming.
The Dee Valley Killings Page 7
