‘He’s a director of a couple of charities, but no other businesses, no.’
‘Has he ever been involved in running a dating agency?’
Mrs Stanford looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Premium-rate numbers,’ Kelly explained. ‘This sort of thing.’ She slid a piece of paper across the table and showed Mrs Stanford a single advert from the London Gazette.
Again, the hand at her throat. ‘No! I mean … God, no. Why would he? I mean, what makes you think he’d …’ She looked wildly between Nick and Kelly. Either she was a superb actress, or she knew nothing about what her husband had been up to. Was that why Stanford had used a mailbox address? Not to hide from the police, but from his wife?
Kelly handed Mrs Stanford the rest of the file she was holding. ‘These documents were used to open a mailbox on Old Gloucester Road three months ago, paid for by your husband’s credit card. The same documents, and the same credit card, paid for the insertion of a number of adverts in a London newspaper.’
‘Adverts,’ Nick said, looking intently at Mrs Stanford, ‘we believe are at the heart of a series of crimes against women.’
Mrs Stanford looked at the document, anxiety written across her face; her hand tugging at her necklace. Nick watched her eyes flick from left to right, the confusion and fear gradually giving way to relief.
‘This is nothing to do with my husband,’ she said, the release of tension making her laugh.
‘James Stanford is your husband, though?’ Kelly said.
‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Stanford said. ‘But this photo’ – she pointed at the photocopied driving licence – ‘that’s not my husband.’
20
When the police have gone, Melissa silently brings me another pot of tea. She picks up the ten-pound note DI Rampello left on the table. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes. No.’ I comb my fingers through my hair, loosening it from the band which suddenly feels too tight. ‘They think I’m in danger.’ This shouldn’t have been news to me. I felt the danger when I downloaded my commute details yesterday; I felt it when Luke Friedland grabbed my arm to save me from falling; I’ve felt it ever since I saw my photo in the Gazette – a photo I allowed my family to convince me wasn’t even of me. But when I asked DI Rampello if I was at risk I was looking for a different answer. I wanted reassurance. I wanted to be told I was overreacting; paranoid; delusional. I wanted false promises and glasses-half-full. A few days ago I worried the police weren’t taking me seriously: now I’m worried because they are.
Melissa sits down in the chair previously occupied by DI Rampello, ignoring the dirty cups at the next table, and the never-decreasing queue at the counter. ‘What are they going to do about it?’
‘They’re getting me an alarm. It’ll be linked straight to their control room – in case I’m attacked.’
‘Fat lot of good that’ll do.’ She sees my panic and screws up her face, leaning forward to pull me into a hug. ‘Sorry. But when this place was broken into it was fifteen minutes before the Old Bill rocked up; the burglars were long gone. They’re a joke.’
‘So what do I do?’ There’s a note of hysteria in my voice and I take a deep breath. Try again. ‘What do I do, Melissa?’
‘Have they said what they’re doing to catch the people behind the website? That’s what’ll keep you safe, not some crappy alarm.’
‘They just said they’re working on it.’
‘They’re “working on it”? Jesus. And you’re supposed to be reassured by that, are you? A woman’s been murdered—’
‘Two women. At least.’
‘—and you’re supposed to just sit by and let them “work on it”? You need to find out exactly what they’re doing. Who they’re talking to, how they’re trying to trace this website.’
‘They won’t tell me, Melissa. I wasn’t even supposed to know how to get into the website. PC Swift implied she’d get into trouble if anyone found out she’d told me.’
‘You have a right to know how close they are to solving this. You pay their wages, don’t forget.’
‘I guess so.’ I imagine marching into the police station and demanding to see the investigation paperwork.
‘I could come with you to speak to them, if you want.’
I put my elbows on the table and press my face into my cupped hands for a second. ‘I’m out of my depth,’ I say, when I surface. I can feel the anxiety rising inside me, making my heart race. ‘I don’t know what to do, Melissa.’
‘You demand to know what the police are doing. Every lead they have. Every breakthrough.’
I don’t know if I’d find that reassuring or terrifying.
‘I feel as though everything’s out of my control. The adverts, Katie, even our finances. I used to be so on top of everything, and now …’
‘How much does Simon owe?’
‘He won’t tell me. But he’s been using credit cards since August. Every time he’s done the food shop, or paid a utility bill. Meals out, presents … it must be thousands, Melissa. He says he got us into this mess, and he’ll get us out of it.’
‘Well, if he won’t let you help it sounds as though you’re just going to have to trust him.’ She picks up DI Rampello’s empty espresso cup. I don’t tell her that right now I’m finding it hard to trust anyone at all.
It’s already 9 a.m. when I leave the café, but I decide to walk along the Embankment to work. The thought of taking the Underground – even a route that bears no relation to my commute on the website – makes my heart beat so fast I feel light-headed. I cross the Strand and head for Savoy Place, then I drop down to walk beside the river. I’m watching everyone. That man walking towards me, with his hands in his pockets: does he know about the website? Is he a member? The businessman talking on the phone, a scarf around his neck to keep out the cold: does he follow women? Rape them? Kill them?
My breath is fast and shallow, and I stand for a moment and stare at the river, trying to keep it under control. A dozen figures in wetsuits are taking paddleboard instruction from a lithe blonde wearing a bright pink all-in-one. They’re laughing, despite the cold. Beyond them, in the middle of the river, a pleasure cruise cuts a foamy channel through the grey Thames; a handful of early-bird tourists shivering on the deck.
Someone touches my arm.
‘You all right, there?’
I flinch as though I’ve been burned. The man is young; around Justin’s age, but in a suit and tie, and with the confidence that comes with a good education or a good job. Or both.
‘You looked like you were about to keel over.’
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts my ribcage, and I can’t find the words to tell him I’m fine. Not to touch me. Instead I step away from him. Shake my head. He holds up both his hands and exaggerates the wide berth he gives me before walking away.
‘Fucking loony.’
When he’s ten or more paces away he turns around and taps the side of his head twice with his index finger. Mad, he mouths, and I feel as though I am.
It’s almost ten before I reach the office. The walk has done me good, and although my feet ache I feel stronger; invigorated. Graham is talking to a woman wearing red high heels with a black trouser suit. She’s holding a sheaf of property particulars and Graham is telling her about the office on Eastern Avenue with the customer toilets and the newly refurbed kitchen area, perfect for staff breaks. I tune out the well-practised blurb as I slide behind my desk, knowing from the way Graham is bristling that he’s furious with me.
He starts the second the woman leaves, her reluctance to fix an immediate viewing serving to add to his outrage. ‘Good of you to drop in, Zoe.’
‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘But it is happening again, isn’t it? You’ve been late every morning lately.’
‘I’ve had to change the way I come to work – it’s hard to predict how long it will take.’
Graham doesn’t ask why. He’s not interested. ‘Then lea
ve home earlier. You can’t just saunter in at nigh on ten o’clock without so much as an apology—’
I did apologise, but I’m not going to repeat it. ‘I was with the police.’ I half expect Graham to carry on as though I haven’t said anything, but he stops short.
‘Why? What’s happened?’
I hesitate, not sure how much I want this man to know. I think of the website, with its menu of women, and it occurs to me Graham Hallow is exactly the sort of man who would be drawn to the idea of an exclusive membership site. I’m in no doubt that if I tell him, he won’t be able to resist looking, and I feel protective of these women. I don’t want people looking at their photos; buying their commutes like they were nothing more than objects. And then … what? I’m finding it hard to reconcile what I know is happening: that women are being attacked – murdered – because their commutes have been sold. It’s grotesque; the stuff of science fiction.
‘I’m being followed,’ I say instead. It isn’t so far from the truth. I think I see concern in my boss’s face, but it’s so unfamiliar I’m not sure. ‘The police are going to give me a personal alarm.’
‘Do they know who’s doing it?’ The question is accusatory, barked in the manner of someone who doesn’t know how else to be.
‘No.’ And then, because I’ve been holding it in for days, I start to cry. Of all the people to cry in front of, I think, as Graham stands there, rooted to the spot. I hunt for a tissue in my pockets, eventually finding one tucked up my sleeve, and blow my nose hard, but I can’t stop the tears from coming. The release is making my chest heave, and I take gulps of air that come out in juddering cries. ‘I – I’m sorry,’ I manage to say, after several false starts. ‘It – it’s all a bit overwhelming.’
Graham is still standing by my desk, staring at me. Suddenly he strides to the door and I think for a second he’s going to walk out and leave me here sobbing at my desk. But he flicks the catch that locks the door, and flips over the sign that says ‘closed’, then he walks across to where we keep the tea things and switches on the kettle. I’m so surprised by this show of compassion that I stop crying, my sobs morphing into occasional hiccoughs. I blow my nose again.
‘I’m really sorry.’
‘You’re clearly under a lot of strain. How long has this been going on?’
I tell him as much as I can without mentioning the name of the website, or the way that it works. I tell him I’ve been followed for a while, and that the police are now linking my case with the murder of two women, and to attacks on several others.
‘What are the police doing about it?’
‘They’re sorting out the alarm for me. I had to give a statement this morning – that’s why I was late.’
Graham shakes his head, making the soft folds of flesh beneath his chin wobble. ‘It’s fine, don’t trouble yourself about that. Do they know who’s behind the attacks?’
I’m touched – and surprised – by how interested Graham is.
‘I don’t think so. They haven’t arrested anyone for Tania Beckett’s murder, yet, and the website is apparently untraceable.’ Graham is thinking. ‘I’m out at meetings all day. I was planning to go home straight from my five p.m., but if you don’t mind staying slightly later than usual I’ll swing by and give you a lift home.’ Graham comes in from Essex every day. He mostly takes the train, but occasionally he drives, leaving his car in a ludicrously expensive car park round the corner from the office.
‘It’s miles out of your way! Really, I’m fine. I’m going to go home a different way, and I can get Justin to meet me at Crystal Palace—’
‘I’m taking you home,’ Graham says firmly. ‘I can go on to Sevenoaks to see my brother and his wife. To be frank, I’m surprised that bloke of yours isn’t coming to get you.’
‘I don’t want to worry him.’
Graham looks at me curiously. ‘You haven’t told him?’
‘He knows about the website, but not … I haven’t told him I’m in danger. Things are a bit difficult at the moment.’ I see Graham’s face and explain before he gets the wrong end of the stick. ‘Simon’s lost his job. Redundancy. So it’s not a great time. I don’t want to give him any more reason to worry.’
‘Right, well, I’m taking you home tonight, and that’s the end of it.’ Graham looks satisfied. If he were a caveman he’d be beating his chest.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Half an hour later Graham goes to his meeting. ‘Keep the door locked,’ he tells me, ‘until you’ve seen who they are.’
The office door is glass, as is the entire front of the shop, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to assess whether a man standing outside is here to rape and kill me, or to enquire about the mobile phone shop that’s closing down on Lombard Street. ‘The whole place is covered by CCTV anyway,’ he says. I’m so surprised by this parting shot I don’t point out that having my attack on film will be of little comfort to me when I’m dead.
‘Since when have we had CCTV?’ I look around the office. Graham looks mildly uncomfortable. He looks at his watch.
‘A couple of years. They’re in the automatic sprinklers. It’s an insurance thing. Anyway, the point is you’ve got nothing to worry about while you’re here. I’ll see you before six.’ The bell above the door jangles as he opens the door, and again when he closes it. I turn the lock but leave the sign to ‘open’, then sit down at my desk. I had no idea Graham had installed cameras. Don’t employers have some sort of obligation to inform their employees – and customers, come to that – they’re under surveillance? I look up at the ceiling.
A couple of years.
A couple of years when I’ve thought I was on my own in the office; Graham’s door shut. Eating a sandwich, making a call, adjusting an uncomfortable bra strap. Does he watch me? The thought is unsettling, and when the office phone rings it makes me jump.
At half past five I turn the ‘closed’ sign round. It hasn’t been busy: a new tenant, in to sign a lease, and a handful of enquiries about the new office block. No one suspicious; no one predatory, and I was starting to feel I’d been overreacting. But now that it’s dark outside and the lights are on in the office, putting me on display to anyone passing, I begin to feel anxious again.
I’m grateful when Graham returns, waving his car keys and asking for my postcode so he can programme the satnav. I’m relieved I don’t have to get on the Tube tonight; I don’t have to worry about who’s behind me, or risk ending up dead in a park, like poor Tania Beckett.
For tonight, at least, I’ll be safe.
I’ll always be grateful to that first dead girl.
She changed everything.
She helped me see that findtheone.com could be so much more than just a new kind of dating site; opened up a world of possibilities to me.
Sure, there’ll always be the clients who don’t want to play dirty, who want to use the site the way it was first intended; to chat you up and ask you for dinner.
But Tania Beckett showed me there were other men; men who would pay to play cat and mouse through the Underground, to hover by the parks at the exact moment you walk by, with something bigger on their mind than dinner.
Such potential.
Higher prices. A more specialist market.
I could be more than just a match-maker. I’d be a facilitator for desires hidden so deep inside they’re barely acknowledged. Who among us can truly say they haven’t imagined what it would feel like to hurt someone? To go further than society deems acceptable; to experience the rush of forcing someone’s hand?
Who among us wouldn’t take that chance, if it were handed to us?
The chance to kill someone.
21
‘Boss, we’ve got a problem.’
Nick looked up from his desk as Kelly approached. Morning meeting had only just finished, but Nick had already loosened his tie and undone the top bottom of his shirt. Kelly knew that by lunchtime the tie would be off altogether, tucked into the breast
pocket of his jacket, in case the top brass dropped by.
‘The account you opened with the website has been revoked. I just tried to sign in to see what new profiles had been added and it threw me out.’ Kelly couldn’t stop herself from logging on to the site every hour or so, even reaching for her phone when she woke up in the early hours of that morning. She did so with a growing feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, knowing the new profiles added! banner that flashed on to the screen meant more women in danger; more potential victims. The website was moving faster than the investigation could keep up with, and the previous day’s wild goose chase to Amersham hadn’t helped. James Stanford’s credit card had been cloned a year previously; he’d lost his wallet – or had it stolen – and suffered various incidents of identity theft as a result. The mail-forwarding centre on Old Gloucester Road was simply the latest in a string of crimes involving credit card details that had no doubt been sold numerous times, and MIT were no closer to finding out who was responsible for targeting London’s female commuters.
The incident room walls were covered with rows of their photos – some identified, most nameless – with more added to the website since they’d first gained access. Kelly had logged on automatically this morning after briefing, her fingers finding the keys of their own accord.
Log in not recognised.
Kelly had blinked at the screen. Tried again, assuming operator error.
Log in not recognised.
She had checked and double-checked the details for the account Nick had created, using his own credit card and a gmail address, but the mistake wasn’t hers. The account had disappeared.
‘Do you think we’ve been rumbled?’
Nick tapped his pen against the side of his laptop. ‘Maybe. How many profiles did we download?’
‘All of them. Maybe it looked suspicious.’
‘Or the whole thing’s a scam just to get your money. Who’s going to call the Old Bill and complain they were promised unlimited stalking opportunities?’