‘Finance have organised a prepaid credit card,’ Kelly said. She’d seen the email come in while she was trying to log into Nick’s account.
‘Great. Get a new account set up and let’s see how long before that one’s taken down, too. I want you to look for any profiles based in Kent.’
‘They’ve all been London-based so far, boss.’
‘There was an abduction in Maidstone yesterday. A witness reported seeing a man drag a woman into a black Lexus and drive off. An hour later Kent police received a call from a distressed female who had been abducted and sexually assaulted, before being pushed out of the car in an industrial estate on the outskirts of the town.’ He handed several printed sheets to Kelly, who glanced at the details written at the top of the statement.
Kathryn Whitworth, 36.
‘Commuter?’
‘She travels from Pimlico every day to a recruitment firm in Maidstone.’
‘Did she get the index number of the Lexus?’
‘No, but the car triggered a speed camera a few miles from the incident. Local officers are bringing in the driver now.’
It didn’t take Kelly long to set up a new account, and to find Kathryn Whitworth, promoted as newly listed on the first page of the website. She checked the details given in Kathryn’s victim statement against the profile on the screen in front of her.
White.
Blonde.
Mid thirties.
Flat shoes, dresses with fitted jackets. Woollen checked wrap. Black umbrella with tortoiseshell handle. Grey Mulberry laptop bag.
Size 8–10.
0715: Enters Pimlico Tube. Takes escalator and turns left to northbound platform. Stands by large advert to the left of Tube map. One stop to Victoria. Exits platform, turns right and up escalator. Turns left towards platforms 1–8. Goes to Starbucks adjacent to platform 2, where barista prepares venti skinny decaff latte without instruction. Takes Ashford International train from platform 3. Opens laptop and works for duration of journey. Gets off at Maidstone East. Walks up Week Street, turns left into Union Street. Works at Maidstone Recruitment.
Availability: Monday to Friday
Duration: 80 minutes
Difficulty level: moderate
There was no doubt it was the same woman. On impulse Kelly looked up Maidstone Recruitment. A professional headshot accompanied the short bio beneath Kathryn’s name and job title. Senior Recruitment Consultant. In the photograph on the website Kathryn had her hair tucked behind her ears; she looked – if not stressed, exactly – as though her mind were elsewhere. In her work shot she sat left-shoulder forward against a white background, shiny blonde hair resting on her shoulders in a neat bob. She met the camera with a gleaming smile; professional, trustworthy, confident.
What did Kathryn Whitworth look like now, Kelly wondered? What did she look like when she gave this ten-page statement to a Maidstone detective; when she sat in the rape suite in a borrowed robe, waiting for the Force Medical Examiner to violate her all over again?
The images came all too easily.
She took the profile off the printer and leaned over her desk to pass them to Lucinda.
‘It’s a match.’
Kelly’s mobile rang, ‘number withheld’ flashing on the screen. She picked up.
‘Hi, is that DC Thompson?’
Kelly was on the verge of telling the caller he had the wrong number, when she remembered. ‘Yes, that’s me.’ She glanced at Lucinda, but she had turned back to her computer.
‘It’s DC Angus Green, from Durham CID. I’ve dug out the rape file you were after.’
‘Hang on a sec, I need to take this outside.’
Kelly hoped it wasn’t obvious to anyone else in the office that her heart was racing. She forced herself to walk casually away from her desk, as though the call were of little importance.
‘Thanks for returning my call,’ she said, when she was in the corridor. She stood at the top of the stairwell, where she could see who was coming up the stairs, and keep an eye on the door to MIT at the same time.
‘No problem. Have you got someone in custody?’
‘No, we’re just doing some work on similar jobs around the country, and this one came up. I was calling to see if there had been any developments in the last few years?’ Kelly’s heart was banging so hard now it was hurting her chest. She pressed the flat of her palm squarely over her sternum. If anyone ever found out about this she’d lose her job for sure; there’d be no second chances this time.
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. We’ve got DNA on file, so if he’s ever nicked for something else we’ll get a match, although our chances of a prosecution are slim, even then.’
‘Why’s that?’ An arrest was what Kelly had hoped for, ever since she joined the job, when she realised how many historic crimes were solved not by dogged investigation work, but by sheer chance. An elimination swab submitted after a burglary at work; an evidential sample taken after a positive roadside breath test. That sharp intake of breath, when a simple job turns into so much more, and a crime committed twenty years previously is finally solved. It had happened to Kelly a couple of times, and it was what she wanted now more than anything. Kelly had never seen the man who raped Lexi, but she could almost visualise the arrogance on his face morphing into fear; a relatively innocuous charge paling into insignificance beside the positive DNA match that would prove unequivocally he had stalked her sister; watched her; attacked her.
‘There’s a letter from the victim on file,’ DC Green was saying. ‘A Miss Alexis Swift. The letter says that although the evidence given in her written statement still stands, she does not support a prosecution, and does not wish to be informed of any developments in the case.’
‘But that’s impossible!’ It was out before Kelly could stop it, her voice echoing in the empty corridor. She could hear DC Green’s confusion in the silence that followed. ‘I mean, why would a victim retract her support? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘There’s no explanation, just the signed declaration. Maybe it wasn’t quite as cut-and-dried as she’d put forward in her initial statement? Perhaps it was someone she knew, after all; maybe she consented then changed her mind.’
Kelly fought for control. An image of Lexi flashed into her mind; curled up in an armchair in the police rape suite, too broken even to stand up when Kelly arrived, every speed limit from Brighton to Durham ignored. Lexi dressed in borrowed clothes that didn’t fit, her own in paper bags, neatly labelled and forensically sealed. Lexi on the medical examiner’s bed, tears escaping from beneath closed lids; her hand squeezing Kelly’s so tightly it left a mark. There was nothing consensual about what happened to Lexi.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ she said lightly. ‘Well, thanks for calling back. I don’t think it’s part of our series, but you never know.’ She ended the call and turned around, pressing her forehead against the cool plaster of the wall.
‘If you want to meditate, Kelly, perhaps you could do it in your own time.’
She wheeled round to see Nick in his running gear, his trainers quiet on the stairs behind her. Dark patches circled his armpits and dotted the front of his T-shirt.
‘Sorry, boss, I was just taking five.’ Kelly’s mind was racing. What had Lexi done? And why?
‘You’ve had them. I’m going for a shower. I’ll see you in the briefing room in ten minutes.’
Kelly forced herself to focus on the job in hand. ‘You were right about the Maidstone rape; I’ve given the details to Lucinda.’
‘Okay. Let Kent police know they’re off the hook. We’ll take over from here. First things first, though; I’ve asked Cyber Crime to come and enlighten us as to what the fuck they’ve been doing for the last two days. You can’t move without leaving a digital footprint nowadays; just how hard can it be to ID the person behind this website?’
‘Very hard,’ Andrew Robinson said. ‘He’s covered his tracks too well. The details for the site are registered in the Cayman Islands.’
&nb
sp; ‘The Cayman Islands? Is that where he’s running the website from?’ Kelly said.
Nick looked at her. ‘Don’t get excited – you’re not going off on some Caribbean jolly.’
‘It doesn’t mean the offender’s there,’ Andrew said, ‘only that his contact details are held there. It won’t surprise you to know there’s no love lost between the British police and the Cayman Islands – the chances of us getting the information we need from them are zero. However, what it did give us was the IP address of where the website is answering from.’ Andrew took in Kelly’s and Nick’s blank faces and started again. ‘Basically, when I look up a domain it sends a signal out to that website. If the website doesn’t exist, we don’t get a response, but if it does – as in this case – the reply tells us not only where the domain details are held, but which device is being used to join that particular network. So, for example’ – he indicated Nick’s phone, which was on the table in front of them – ‘if you were to log on to, say, Internet banking now, that website would record the IP address of your phone, enabling us to track you.’
‘Got it,’ Nick said. ‘So where is the administrator logging on from?’
Andrew laced thin fingers together and cracked his knuckles; first one, then the other. ‘It’s not that simple, sadly.’ He opened his notebook and showed Nick and Kelly a number: 5.43.159.255. ‘This is the IP address – it’s like a postcode for computers. It’s a static IP but it’s hosted on a Russian server, and unfortunately the Russians—’
‘Let me guess.’ Nick cut in. ‘The Russians don’t cooperate with British police. For Christ’s sake!’
Andrew raised both hands. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’
‘Is there any way at all to trace the website?’ Kelly said.
‘Honestly? No. At least, not within the timeframe you need, given the threat level. It’s a virtually undetectable website.’
‘Does this mean we’re looking for someone particularly savvy?’ Kelly asked. ‘Someone with a background in IT, perhaps?’
‘Not necessarily. All this stuff is available online for anyone who wants to find it. Even the DI could do it.’
Kelly hid a smile. Nick let it go. ‘So what do you suggest?’
‘It’s that old adage: you’ve got to follow the money.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kelly said.
‘Have you never seen All the President’s Men?’ Andrew said. ‘You’ve missed out. The offender is taking payment from people registering on his dating site, right? That’s the money we need to follow. Each transaction can be traced from the customer’s credit or debit card to the PayPal account associated with the site, and finally to the offender’s bank account. When you know how the money’s being withdrawn, and by whom, then you’re on to something.’
Kelly felt a glimmer of optimism.
‘What details do you need?’
‘You used your own credit card, right?’
Nick nodded.
‘The date of transaction, the amount, and the credit card you used to pay. Get me those, and I’ll get you our man.’
22
We sit in near-stationary traffic on Norwood Road for half an hour, inching forward in Graham’s car. He’s an impatient driver, jerking the car into any available space he sees, and leaning on his horn if the car in front dares wait more than a split second before moving forward at the lights. It’s the second day running that Graham has driven me home, and we’ve run out of conversation, exhausting our usual topics about whether the old video shop will go for the asking price, and how there are never enough split-level offices to keep up with demand, and so we sit in silence.
Every now and then I say sorry again for taking Graham so far out of his way, and he dismisses my apology.
‘Can’t have you wandering around London with some pervert after you,’ he says.
Fleetingly it occurs to me that I’ve never been specific about the nature of the attacks on other women in London, then I realise it’s a natural assumption to make about a man who stalks women.
I know I could ask Matt to pick me up, and that he would insist on driving me between work and home for as long as I needed him to. I don’t ask because Simon would hate it, and Matt would like it too much.
The fact that Matt still loves me is the unspoken truth that circles between us all. Between me and Matt, when we see each other to talk about the children, and he holds my gaze for a fraction longer than he needs to. Between me and Simon, when I mention Matt’s name, and see the hard flash of jealousy in Simon’s eyes.
Simon can’t take me. He sold his car a few weeks ago. At the time I thought he was mad; he might not have used it much during the week, but our weekends were full of supermarket shops and trips to Ikea, or heading out of town to see friends and family.
‘We can take the train,’ he told me, when I suggested we’d miss having a car. It never once crossed my mind he couldn’t afford to keep one.
I wish I had a driving licence. There never seemed to be a need for it, living in London, but now I wish I could drive myself to work. Ever since I found out about the adverts I’ve been on high alert; every nerve-ending tingling, waiting for the time I will need to run. Or fight. I look everywhere; watch everyone.
It feels safe here, in Graham’s car, where I know no one is following me, and I can lean into the soft leather and shut my eyes without worrying I’m being watched.
The traffic begins to move freely again once we’re over the river. The heating is on and I feel warm and relaxed for the first time in days. Graham puts the radio on and I listen to Capital FM’s Greg Burns interview Art Garfunkel. The strains of ‘Mrs Robinson’ play over their closing remarks, and I think how funny it is that I still remember all the words, but before I can shape them in my mind, I’m falling asleep.
I slide in and out of consciousness as we drive. The traffic noise changes constantly and I’m pulled awake, only to drift off again moments later. I hear the start of a new song on the radio; shut my eyes for what seems like a split second, then wake to the closing refrain of a different track entirely.
My subconscious confuses the sounds that push their way into my sleep; the buses, the music, the radio adverts. The car’s engine becomes the dull rumble of an Underground train; the presenter’s voice an announcer telling me to mind the gap. I’m standing on the Tube, commuters packed in beside me; the smell of aftershave and sweat in the air. The aftershave is familiar and I try to place it, but it eludes me.
Listed: Friday 13 November
White.
Late thirties.
Eyes, everywhere. Watching me. Following me. Knowing every step of my journey. The train stops and I try to get off, but someone’s pushing against me, forcing me against the wall of the carriage.
Difficulty level: moderate.
It’s Luke Friedland. He’s pressing hard against my chest. I rescued you, he’s saying, and I try to shake my head; try to move. The smell of aftershave is overpowering; it fills my nostrils and chokes me.
My eyes are closed.
Why are my eyes closed?
I open them, but the man pressed against me isn’t Luke Friedland.
I’m not on a train; not surrounded by commuters.
I’m in Graham Hallow’s car.
It’s Graham with his face next to mine, his arm across me, pressing me into my seat. It’s Graham I can smell; that woody, cinnamon fragrance mixed with body odour and the musty scent of his tweed jacket.
‘Where are we? Get off me!’
The pressure on my chest disappears but I’m still fighting for breath; panic filling my throat as surely as though there were two hands around it. Darkness surrounds the car and seeps in through the windows, and I fumble for the door handle.
The light makes me blink.
‘I was undoing your seat belt,’ Graham says. He sounds angry; defensive.
Because I accused him?
Or because I stopped him?
‘You fell asleep.’
<
br /> I look down and see my seat belt has been unclipped, the strap hanging over my left arm. I realise we are parked in my street: I can see the front door of our house.
Colour floods my face. ‘I – I’m sorry.’ Sleep has left me confused. ‘I thought …’ I try and form the words, ‘I thought you were …’ I can’t say it, but I don’t need to. Graham turns the ignition key, the roar of the engine putting a full stop to our conversation. I get out of the car and shiver; the temperature fifteen degrees lower than inside. ‘Thank you for the lift. And I’m sorry I thought—’
He drives off, leaving me standing on the pavement.
With findtheone.com there are no blind-date nerves, there’s no stilted conversation over dinner. I’d argue it’s more honest than most online dating sites, with their air-brushed photos and their profiles full of lies. Salary range, hobbies, favourite foods … all irrelevant. Who builds a relationship on a mutual love of tapas? A match might be perfect on paper, yet lack the spark needed to set it alight.
findtheone.com cuts through all that rubbish; the pretence that anyone cares if you like opera or walks in the park. It means men can take their time. They can follow you for a while, engage you in conversation; see if you’re interesting enough to take for dinner, instead of wasting their time on a garrulous air-head. It means men can get up close and personal. Smell your perfume; your breath; your skin. Feel a spark. Act on it.
Are you wondering who my clients are? Who would use a website like this? Are you thinking the market can’t possibly be big enough?
I can assure you it is.
My customers come from all walks of life. They’re men with no time to form relationships. Men with enough money not to care. Men who haven’t found that ‘special someone’; men who get their kicks from being in control. Everyone has their own reason for joining findtheone.com; it isn’t my job to care what it is.