‘Pairing them up with the adverts?’ The guess came from somewhere behind Kelly.
‘Precisely. I’ve identified four matches, digging deeper into the case files to cross-reference the advert image against other victim photos.’ Lucinda moved the PowerPoint on, briskly summarising each slide in turn. ‘Charlotte Harris. A twenty-six-year-old legal secretary from Luton who works in Moorgate. Attempted sexual assault by an unidentified Asian man.’ To the left of the slide was a photo labelled with the victim’s name; to the right, the corresponding London Gazette advert.
‘Snap,’ Nick said grimly.
‘Emma Davies. Thirty-four-year-old female, sexually assaulted in West Kensington.’
Kelly let out a slow breath.
‘Laura Keen. Twenty-one. Murdered in Turnham Green last week.’
‘That one’s already on our radar,’ Nick interrupted. ‘West MIT flagged it as a possible link to Tania Beckett because of her age.’
‘Not just possible,’ Lucinda said. ‘I’d pin it as a dead cert, if you’ll excuse the pun. Right, last one.’ She flicked to the next slide, which showed a dark-haired woman in her forties. As with the other women, her photo had been laid out next to a copy of her advert in the Gazette. ‘This is an odd one. Ongoing complaints from a Mrs Alexandra Chatham near Hampstead Heath, that someone is breaking into her house when she’s asleep and moving things around. It’s sitting with the Safer Neighbourhood Team at the moment, but there’s been a bit of a question mark over it from the start. Apparently the attending officer wasn’t convinced anything had ever happened, even though Mrs Chatham is adamant someone is coming into her house.’
Lucinda surveyed her board. ‘Then, of course, we have Cathy Tanning – another victim of a possible midnight prowler – and Tania Beckett, our murder victim. Six. So far. I’m still working on it.’
There was silence in the briefing room, as Nick allowed the significance of Lucinda’s update to sink in, then he pointed to Lucinda’s closing slide, on which the six confirmed cases were listed next to their relevant advert. ‘In total, eighty-four adverts have run so far, which means there are seventy-eight women yet to identify, who may or may not have been victims of crime. Copies of these adverts are here,’ Nick indicated a second whiteboard, ‘as well as in your briefing pack.’ There was a shuffling of paper, as everyone immediately began looking through the stapled document they’d been handed on arrival, while Lucinda continued to talk.
‘I’m still working on matching the adverts that have run with crimes against women carried out in our force area, and I’m also in touch with Surrey, Thames Valley, Herts, Essex and Kent, in case there’s anything cross-border that might fit. I’ve found a couple of possibles, but I’d like to wait till I’m certain before muddying the waters with those, if that’s all right, boss?’
‘That’s fine.’
‘You asked me to do some work on the similarities between the victims, and between the crimes committed. I haven’t got a lot for you, I’m afraid. At first glance the crimes are very different, but when you strip out the obvious – the offence itself, the primary MO – the common thread is public transport: all these women were on their way to, or from, work.’
Nick nodded. ‘I want all their journeys mapped. Let’s see if there’s any crossover.’
‘Already on it, boss.’
‘What do we know about the offender?’
‘Offenders,’ Lucinda said, stressing the plural. ‘Charlotte Harris describes a tall Asian man with a distinctive aftershave. She didn’t see his face, but he was smartly dressed, in a pinstripe suit and grey overcoat. Emma Davies, who was sexually assaulted in West Ken, described her assailant as white and significantly overweight. We’ve got very little on the Turnham Green job, but one of the CCTV images shows a tall white man in the vicinity immediately prior to Laura Keen’s murder.’
‘Cathy Tanning’s keys were taken by an Asian man,’ Kelly said. ‘The CCTV doesn’t show his face, but his hands are clearly visible.’
‘Six crimes,’ Nick said, ‘and potentially six different offenders. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that the adverts are a key part of this investigation; our focus will therefore be on identifying who is placing them.’ He moved to stand at the front of the room, and Lucinda clicked on to the next slide, which showed an enlarged version of Zoe Walker’s advert.
‘The adverts have been running since the beginning of October. They appear in the classifieds, on the second to last page, and all in the bottom right-hand corner. None of the photos have been professionally taken.’
‘Zoe Walker rang me yesterday,’ Kelly said. ‘Turns out her photo was taken from Facebook – she sent me the uncropped version. It’s a picture of her and her daughter, Katie, taken at a wedding a few years ago.’
‘I’ll check out Tanning’s and Beckett’s Facebook pages again,’ Lucinda said, pre-empting Nick. ‘There are similarities between all of the photos, in that none of the women are looking directly at the camera.’ As though they didn’t know they were being photographed, Kelly thought.
Nick carried on: ‘Every advert carries this web address.’ He pointed to the top of the screen, where www.findtheone.com was written.
‘A dating agency?’ The woman next to Kelly had been taking copious notes in a spiral-bound notebook. She looked at Nick, her pen poised. A detective on the other side of the room was looking at his phone, glancing up at the screen to double-check the URL.
‘Possibly. None of the victims recognise the name. Cathy Tanning was a member of Elite for a while, and we’re in touch with them to see if their systems have been compromised. Tania Beckett’s fiancé unsurprisingly insists she’s never been near a dating site, and Zoe Walker says the same. As some of you have no doubt already discovered, the web address takes you to an empty page, black except for a box asking for a password. Cyber Crime have taken on this aspect of the investigation and I’ll keep you updated on their findings. Okay, I’m conscious of time. Let’s move on.’
‘The phone number,’ Lucinda said. She turned to the whiteboard behind her and underlined a number, written in large red letters: 0809 4 733 968. ‘No trace on our intel systems, and an invalid number, which makes its inclusion on the advert – unless it’s an error – rather pointless.’
Nothing was pointless. That number was there for a reason. Kelly stared at the enlarged London Gazette advert on the screen behind Lucinda. There was a line of text beneath the photo.
Visit the website for more information. Subject to availability. Conditions apply.
The website, yes, but then what? What was the password?
Nick had moved to stand next to Lucinda, issuing actions and impressing upon the team the importance of keeping him updated. Kelly stared at the adverts, wondering what they were missing.
‘At this stage of the investigation we’ve got lots of information coming in, with no clear understanding of how it’s linked,’ Nick was saying. ‘Whoever put these adverts in the Gazette is either announcing their intention to commit a crime, or facilitating the commission of crimes by other offenders.’
Kelly was only half listening, her mind twisting itself into knots. What was the point of an advert without a call to action? Why send potential customers to a website without giving them the means of accessing the site?
0809 4 733 968
She sat up, jolted by a sudden thought. What if the phone number wasn’t a phone number at all, but a password?
She made sure her phone was switched to ‘silent’, opened Safari and typed in the domain name.
www.findtheone.com
The cursor blinked at her. She typed 0809 4 733 968 into the white box and pressed enter.
Your password has not been recognised.
Kelly suppressed a sigh. She’d been so certain the phone number was the key. Just as she closed down Safari a text message flashed on to the screen.
Looking 4wrd 2 cing u 2nite. Call + let me no if u will b L8.xx
The abbrev
iated words and the combinations of letters with numbers would have told her the text was from Lexi, even without seeing her sister’s name. Kelly didn’t know anyone else who still wrote texts as though it were the nineties. She imagined her sister frowning over the tiny screen, patiently holding down each key on her ancient Nokia to cycle through the letters.
0809 4 733 968
A thought began to take shape, and she brought up the keypad on her phone. She looked at the number four; at the letters beneath it.
G. H. I.
Reaching one-handed for her notebook, she flipped it open randomly, flicking the lid off her pen and writing down the letters without taking her eyes off her phone.
There were four letters beneath number seven: P, Q, R, S. Kelly wrote them all down.
Up next, two number threes: the letters D, E and F.
Kelly scribbled furiously, the briefing forgotten as she worked her way through to the last number. She picked up her notebook and scoured the numbers, looking for a pattern, a word.
I.
A space.
S. E. E …
I SEE YOU.
Kelly took a sharp intake of breath. She glanced up to see DI Rampello looking at her, his arms folded.
‘Do you have an update on the investigation you’d like to share with us?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Kelly said. ‘I think I do.’
The first match I witnessed was hardly a matter for the police.
There was a girl on the Bakerloo line. Every Friday she’d get off at Piccadilly Circus and buy a lottery ticket for the EuroMillions.
‘These are the winning numbers,’ she said to the man behind the counter, as she handed him the money.
He laughed. ‘You said that last week.’
‘This time I’m sure of it.’
‘You said that, too.’
They both laughed, then, and I knew this was a conversation they had every Friday, at exactly this time.
The following Friday I watched her get off the train at Piccadilly Circus and make her way to the newsagents.
He was waiting for her.
Standing five metres or so from the kiosk, pumping his fists by his sides like he was psyching himself up for a job interview. Expensive suit; nice shoes. A man with more money than time. He stopped when he saw her; wiped his damp palms against his trouser leg. I expected him to speak to her, but instead he fell into step with her, walking towards the kiosk and reaching it a fraction before her. He’s lost his nerve, I thought.
‘A lucky dip for tonight’s EuroMillions, please,’ he said. He paid for it and took the ticket. ‘These are the winning numbers, you know.’ The girl behind him smiled to herself.
He made a show of putting his wallet away, waiting to one side so he could interrupt as the girl asked for a lucky dip of her own. ‘I think I jumped ahead of you in the queue. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s fine, really.’
‘But what if you were meant to have this ticket?’ He handed it to her. ‘Take it. I insist.’
She protested, but not for long. They smiled at each other.
‘You can buy me dinner if you win,’ he joked.
‘What if I don’t win?’
‘Then I’ll buy you dinner.’
You can’t deny you’d have enjoyed that encounter. You might have blushed at his approach; perhaps even found it a little forward. But you’d have been flattered; grateful for the attention from a good-looking man. Someone rich. Successful. Someone you might not otherwise have met.
Now that you know what I do, you’re intrigued, aren’t you? You’re wondering what information I’ve collected about you; what’s listed on my ever-growing website. You’re wondering if you’ll be stopped, like this girl, by an attractive stranger. You’re wondering if he’ll ask you out for dinner.
Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. Maybe he’s already found you; already been watching you. Maybe he’s been following you for weeks.
Life’s a lottery.
He might have something entirely different in mind for you.
17
Listed: Friday 13 November
White.
Late thirties.
Blonde hair, usually tied up.
Glasses (may wear contact lenses).
Flat shoes, black trousers with fitted top. Red three-quarter-length waterproof coat.
Size 12–14
0810: Enters Crystal Palace Tube station. Speaks briefly to busker, and throws coin in guitar case. Takes the Overground northbound to Whitechapel. Changes to District line (westbound), boarding carriage 5, to arrive opposite exit at Cannon Street. Turns right out of station and walks on road to avoid crowded section of pavement. Carries phone in right hand, and handbag across chest. Works at Hallow & Reed estate agent, Walbrook Street.
Availability: Monday to Friday
Duration: 50 minutes
Difficulty level: moderate
‘We have to tell her.’ Kelly looked in horror at the screen, on which was listed in precise detail what could only be Zoe Walker’s commute to work.
‘Is it definitely her?’ Lucinda asked. Kelly and Nick were leaning over the DI’s desk, his laptop open in front of them. The lights were off elsewhere in the large, open-plan space, and the yellow strip light above Nick’s desk was flickering slightly, as though the bulb were about to go. Lucinda was working at a neighbouring desk, painstakingly checking each image on the website against the London Gazette adverts.
‘The description matches, the date of the listing fits, and Hallow & Reed is where she works,’ Kelly said. ‘There’s no doubt it’s her. Should we tell her over the phone, or go and see her?’
‘Wait.’ Nick hadn’t said much when Kelly had explained how she’d worked out the password. He’d taken one look at her phone; the small screen showing now a change to the text above the white box.
Log in or create an account.
He had dispatched the rest of the team home, with strict instructions to return at 8 a.m. the following day for another briefing. ‘Tomorrow’s going to be a long day,’ he’d said grimly.
It had taken them just seconds to fire up Nick’s computer and access the website. Far longer to try and get through to Finance; a process that, out of hours, was so frustrating that Nick eventually slammed down the phone and took out his own credit card from his wallet.
‘We can’t let the media get hold of this,’ he said now, ‘it would cause a riot. That means keeping it from Zoe Walker for the time being.’
Kelly took a second to compose a more appropriate response than the one that threatened to burst from her lips. ‘Sir, she’s in danger. Surely we have a duty of care to warn her?’
‘At the moment the situation is contained. The person – or persons – responsible for this website doesn’t know the police are involved, which means we have a chance of identifying them. If we show this to Zoe Walker she’ll tell her family, her friends.’
‘So we ask her not to.’
‘It’s human nature, Kelly. She’ll want to make sure other women she knows are safe. Before we know it, the papers will pick up on it and there’ll be widespread panic. Our offender’ll go underground and we’ll never find him.’
Kelly didn’t trust herself to speak. Zoe Walker wasn’t cannon fodder.
‘We’ll see her tomorrow and suggest she changes her route to work,’ Nick said. ‘We can give her the standard advice for anyone concerned about their personal safety; mix it up a little, don’t be predictable. She doesn’t need to know any more than that.’ He closed the laptop, sending a clear message to Kelly that the conversation was over. ‘You two can head off now, if you like. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.’ Just as he finished talking, the bell for the outside door sounded. Kelly went to answer it.
‘It’ll be the Cyber Crime guy,’ Nick said. ‘Buzz him up.’
Andrew Robinson had black-rimmed glasses and a goatee beard trimmed to next to nothing. He wore a grey T-shirt and jeans beneath a khaki parka
he took off and dropped on the floor next to his chair.
‘I appreciate you coming by,’ Nick said.
‘It’s no bother. We’re snowed under at the moment, so I wasn’t planning on going home any time soon. I’ve had a look at your website. Whoever owns the domain name has paid to opt out of the WHOIS directory – that’s like a telephone book for websites – so I’ve submitted a data protection waiver to obtain their name and address. In the meantime I’m working on identifying the site administrator via their IP address, although my guess is they’ll be using a proxy, so that’s not going to be straightforward.’
Despite understanding little of what Andrew was saying, Kelly would have liked to have stayed to listen, but Lucinda was already putting on her coat. Reluctantly, Kelly did the same. She wondered how late Nick would stay working on the case, and if he had anyone waiting for him at home.
They took the stairs down to the ground floor. Lucinda’s hair was as sleek and shiny as it had been first thing that morning, and Kelly felt suddenly conscious of the unkempt crop that stood on end every time she ran her fingers through her hair. Perhaps she should dig out some make-up. Lucinda didn’t seem to be wearing much, but a slick of lip gloss and defined brows gave her a groomed, professional look that Kelly definitely lacked.