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

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘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.

  73

  Erika 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.’

  74

  Keith 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.

  DUKE: Hey, Night Owl. What’s up?

  NIGHT OWL: Hi.

  DUKE: What’s up?

  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.

  NIGHT OWL: Sorry, I had some food on the stove.

  DUKE: Ooh, what are we eating?

  NIGHT OWL: Poached egg on toast.

  DUKE: Yum. Is there one for me? Can mine have a dollop of brown sauce?

  NIGHT OWL: Yes, I bought some for you especially.

  ‘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.

  At 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.

  DUKE: So… I’ve wanted to tell you something for a while.

  NIGHT OWL: Uh-huh?

  DUKE: I went to see the doctor the other day.

  NIGHT OWL: Oh yeah?

  DUKE: I know you hate doctors.

  NIGHT OWL: Fucking loathe them.

  DUKE: Mine’s a woman. She’s OK.

  NIGHT OWL: You two-timing me?

  DUKE: Course not. She said I have very high cholesterol. My job is high stress… I need to take it easy or I could…

  NIGHT OWL: Could?

  DUKE: I could get a heart attack. It’s freaked me out, really. Made me put things in perspective.

  NIGHT OWL: I thought you wanted to die. To end it all.

  DUKE: It comes and it goes. But right now, the sun is coming up outside and life is short… And I love you.

  DUKE: So, I wanted to ask, and I know it’s a big ask, if you wanted to meet me. For real. As real people.

  There 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.

  NIGHT OWL: OK, then. Let’s meet.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Keith. He started typing.

  DUKE: That’s GREAT!!!

  NIGHT OWL: But I don’t want you to be disappointed.

  DUKE: Never. Never. NEVER!

  NIGHT OWL: Where?

  NIGHT OWL: And when?

  ‘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:

  DUKE: How about London Waterloo train station?

  NIGHT OWL: OK. When?

  DUKE: Tomorrow. Well, that’s today really. Under the clock at 5 p.m.

  NIGHT OWL: OK.

  DUKE: YESSSSS! I’m so happy!!! How will I know it's you?

  NIGHT OWL: Don’t worry.

  NIGHT OWL: You’ll know.

  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.

  ‘Five 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.’

  75

  It was 6.30 a.m. when Erika said goodbye to Peterson outside Keith’s house on the promenade. She was surprised at how sad she was to see him go. When his taxi drew up at the kerb, he surprised her by giving her a hug goodbye.

  ‘Quick hug!’ he grinned. ‘I must stink!’

  ‘No – well, a little. I must do too,’ she grinned back.

  He shook his head. ‘Keep me posted, boss.’

  ‘I will,’ she said. He gave her the fingers crossed sign, as he climbed into the taxi. She watched as it drove away.

  She crossed the road to the beach. It was the start of a beautiful day, and in the early morning sun the air was fresh and the sand empty apart from a couple of dog walkers and a young guy who was setting out deckchairs for hire. She went and sat on a bank of shingle, a few feet from where the waves were lightly breaking on the shore, took a deep breath and called Marsh. She tried his house phone first. Marcie answered – she didn’t sound pleased to hear Erika’s voice. She didn’t exchange pleasantries, just dropped the phone on the table and yelled up the stairs for her husband. She heard him come thudding down the stairs and pick up the phone.

  ‘Erika, I hope that you’re calling me from somewhere hot and you want my address for a postcard?’ he said.

  ‘About that, sir…’ said Erika. ‘I’m not in London. I’m in Worthing.’

  ‘Worthing? What the bloody hell are you doing there?’

  Erika told him, quickly getting to the point that she had made a major breakthrough in the Night Stalker case and detailed the meeting that had been arranged later that day at London Waterloo.

  ‘So you defied my orders, again?’ said Marsh.

  ‘Is that all you can say, sir? This is a HUGE breakthrough. I know that I should have told you, but you know I work on my instincts. Now, we need surveillance in place asap. In and around Waterloo station. I really do think that she’s going to show up and we need to be there to bring her in. I have evidence of conversations between her and this man, Keith Hardy. He uses the chat room handle “Duke”. She calls herself “Night Owl”.’

  ‘Where are Moss and Peterson?’

  ‘They’ve been reassigned. I’m here on my own, sir.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Erika, you are so naive. You act as if there are no rules, as if there is no line of authority.’

  ‘But, sir, I’ve made a breakthrough, a huge one! When I get back to the hotel room, I can send you everything – the details of the meet, chat logs. We’ve only touched the tip of the iceberg. This guy, Keith, he’s been talking to her online for four years. We have a log of all those conversations. I also believe she was a patient of Gregory Munro. She was badly burnt. We can use this information to look back over medical records.’

  ‘Okay, you are to send this over to me the second you get off the phone.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And Erika, I am ordering you to take that holiday and really think about your position in the force. If I see you near the nick, or any other nick for that matter, you will be suspended, and don’t think it will be easy to get your badge back for the fourth time! And if I see you near Waterloo station, I won’t just take your badge. You’ll be fired. Do you hear me?’

  ‘So that means you’re going to go ahead? Sir?’

  ‘I will phone you,’ he said, and then hung up.

  Despite the telling off, Erika had heard the excitement in his voice.

  ‘We’re going to get you, Night Owl. We’re going to get you,’ said Erika. She sat back on the shingle, looking out at the vast expanse of horizon and adrenalin began coursing through her veins.

  76

  ‘I don’t see why this is necessary,’ protested Keith. Erika was crouched under his computer stand, pulling out the leads and plugs, which all seemed to be feeding into one extension lead. The carpet, with its pattern of lime green, yellow and red hexagons was covered in a thick layer of dust, much of which was now floating around and sticking to her with static.

  ‘You should be careful with all this stuff running off one socket,’ said Erika, crawling out from under the computer stand.

  Keith flicked the joystick on his wheelchair towards him and his chair backed away to the shelves behind, giving Erika room to get back up.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said.

  A clock above his greasy cooker said it was 3 p.m. ‘Is that clock right?’ Erika asked, pulling out her phone.

  ‘Yeah. What happens now?’ he asked, staring up at her through his dirty glasses. He suddenly looked vulnerable.

  ‘A police officer will be ready to meet Night Owl and take her into custody for questioning…’

>   Erika was being economical with the truth. On the strength of the chat logs that Erika had emailed over to Marsh, a major surveillance operation had been hastily arranged in Waterloo station to arrest Night Owl at 5 p.m. Erika looked around at the cramped and brightly lit room and tried to tell herself she was still part of this. It was important that she stayed with Keith, to make sure he didn’t tip off the killer.

  ‘I meant, what happens to me?’ replied Keith.

  ‘You’ll be called as a witness. And it’s most likely that you will be arrested for aiding and abetting and withholding evidence, but with your circumstances and the fact you are going to cooperate, I doubt the CPS will want to prosecute. As long as you cooperate fully. And we’ll sort your housing problems. I want to at least make that right.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. The clock on the greasy cooker ticked.

  ‘What must you think of me?’ asked Keith.