The Night Stalker: A chilling serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster Book 2)

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘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.’

  69

  ‘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.’

  70

  Erika 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.’

  71

  Later 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.

  When 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.’

  72

  Simone 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 n
urses 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.