by Leona Deakin
‘And I’m afraid I’ve uncovered another forty people who disappeared after receiving one of the cards,’ DC Logan continued. ‘And the number is rising.’
‘Forty?’ said Barker, his voice tinny. ‘As in four zero?’
‘Yes, Sir. Four zero. I repeated Jane Reid’s online approach, asking if anyone’s loved ones had gone missing after receiving a strange birthday card. I posted the enquiry via multiple accounts across multiple platforms. And I’ve confirmed at least forty further disappearances.’
‘Not as a police officer, I hope?’ Barker asked.
‘No. With a dummy persona. A young man looking for his sister. I didn’t include any specific details – the look of the card, the exact wording or the existence of a sticky patch – so I’ve been able to filter out the frauds.’
‘When did the first person receive a card?’ asked Jameson.
‘That’s the weird thing. The first was over a year ago.’
‘So what’s the next step?’ asked Barker.
‘Craig and I will continue to monitor the responses,’ said DI Mathers. ‘And if Dr Bloom and Mr Jameson could take a look at the questionnaires?’
‘We’ll do that straight away,’ said Bloom. ‘Were any of them completed by our original four players?’
‘Yes,’ replied DC Logan. ‘I’ll send over a list of who did what, but in short, all four completed at least one of these quizzes.’
‘Are you on the dark web, Craig?’ asked Jameson.
‘Yes,’ said DC Logan. ‘No references to the Birthday Card Game there, as far as I can tell. And if there was a website or forum, I’d have found something by now.’
‘On that note,’ said DC Kaye Willis, ‘I have an update on Faye Graham’s phone usage. Not much to find there either. Just after she went missing, she accessed 315 megabytes of data, but there’s been no activity since then.’
‘They probably dump their own phone and get an unregistered one,’ said DC Logan. ‘They could use it to access whatever they need to play.’
‘Can we find out what the 315 megabytes were used for?’ asked Jameson.
‘I’ve requested details from the phone company. We should have that today or tomorrow,’ said Willis.
‘Good work,’ said Barker. ‘Let’s speak again tomorrow.’
‘So they’ve given it a name,’ said Jameson, after hanging up. ‘The Birthday Card Game. Catchy.’
‘Or not.’
‘Forty players.’
‘And rising,’ said Bloom.
They spent the next few hours analysing the questionnaires from DC Logan. Those identifying as psychopath tests were too obvious and therefore too easy for respondents to manipulate. The profiler would need potential players to answer questions honestly, so they couldn’t know the motive behind the questions. The social media quizzes were more promising. They included ‘How Persuasive Are You?’, ‘The Five-Minute Personality Test’, and Bloom’s personal favourite, ‘Which Greek God Would You Be?’ The latter included clever questions to determine vengefulness and ruthlessness. The four players Bloom and Jameson had been investigating had each completed several similar quizzes and posted their results online. Bloom flagged the quizzes and sent them back to DC Logan with a note to find more like these. An accurate profile would require numerous questionnaires.
26
Jameson had struck up a rapport with Alina the Latvian barista over the last few days, but there’d been no sign of Dr Sarah Something. He was sitting flicking through the Metro, hoping she might appear, but he needed to get to the office to carry out telephone interviews with the witnesses to Stuart’s car accident along with DC Akhtar. With luck, they might have a description of their games master by the end of the day.
‘Thanks, Alina,’ he called as he headed outside.
At the end of the block, walking towards him, was Dr Sarah Something.
‘Hello,’ she said. Her tone sounded polite but her eyes screamed stalker.
‘You were right about the coffee,’ said Jameson. ‘Shame about the name.’ He smiled up at the cafe’s sign.
Sarah looked at it and frowned.
‘The owners aren’t English,’ he said. ‘They don’t realize how easily Fork can sound like – well, you know.’
‘I see,’ said Sarah, looking up at the sign again.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘have a nice day.’ He turned and walked away as quickly as he could.
The telephone interviews were wholly unsatisfactory. The first interviewee was convinced that a tall, slim, olive-skinned man in an expensive suit had exited the other car and handed a white envelope to Stuart while he sat in his damaged vehicle. She said that no words were exchanged and the tall man then returned to his white Land Rover Discovery and drove away. She suspected it was to do with drugs. The second witness contradicted much of what the first had said. He had been in his work van and had slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting Stuart’s car when it was shunted into his path. He remembered a fair-skinned man of average height exiting a white Land Rover Discovery and exchanging details with Stuart. He remembered a small piece of paper being handed over. He’d assumed it was a business card. The third witness saw the collision and then pulled up to call emergency services. By the time he got out of his car, the white Land Rover was gone. He approached Stuart to tell him the police were on their way. He didn’t see Stuart leave.
‘People never see the same thing,’ said DC Akhtar. ‘Best-case scenario is they don’t directly contradict each other.’
‘But they did,’ said Jameson, feeling frustrated. The only consensus was that a white Land Rover had hit Stuart’s car and that both drivers had left the scene before the police arrived. ‘How do we trace this guy?’
‘No one took down the Land Rover’s registration. The West Yorkshire force are checking CCTV but I wouldn’t hold my breath.’
‘Before you go,’ said Jameson, ‘can I ask you to check your database for someone? His name’s Thomas Lake. Probably aged between thirty-five and forty-five. He may have been arrested for drink or drug offences fifteen or so years ago in the Greater London area.’
‘Thomas Lake. Got it.’
‘You’d better look at domestic abuse or any violent crimes too. He had a temper, by all accounts.’
‘Who is he? Another player?’
‘I hope not. He’s Jane Reid’s father. I’ve checked the electoral register for Greater London and he’s no longer on it, so he must have moved.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
While Jameson and DC Akhtar were interviewing the witnesses to his accident, Stuart Rose-Butler sat in a rented BMW in a car park near the maternity ward at Airedale Hospital in Yorkshire. He had been keeping tabs on Libby through Facebook and had seen the messages of congratulation appear yesterday afternoon. Apparently he had a son.
He’d planned to go in, but had changed his mind on the drive. He’d progressed up the league table at a pace and life was sweet. He was living in the swanky apartment of Harriet Goodway, the woman he’d selected in the lobby of The Principal Hotel, and was gradually siphoning money from her savings account. He’d infiltrated her small group of friends and was creating as much conflict and chaos as possible. He was pretty confident he could get Harriet’s closest friend into bed.
It was liberating to be living life on his own terms and finally using his talents. It would be foolish to walk back into his old life with Libby. He would have to give up this freedom, sacrifice the thrills. And in the eyes of his competitors, he would be a dropout. And he never wanted to be a dropout again.
So he sat in the car park with a hat pulled low over his forehead and waited. He just needed one look at his son and then he would leave.
27
Like butter wouldn’t melt. Her granny used to say it all the time, but Seraphine hadn’t understood before.
‘I know what you mean by “outstanding”,’ Seraphine said. ‘I found your PhD thesis.’
She’d expected an apology. That was what usually ha
ppened when she caught someone out. But Bloom simply sat and smiled, like butter wouldn’t melt.
‘I said I know what you mean. I know what you’ve been doing.’
‘And what is that, Seraphine?’ said Dr Bloom, her smile fixed in place.
‘Trying to catch me out. You’ve been trying to trick me.’
Dr Bloom tilted her head a little to the left. ‘And why would I do that?’
She was so calm. Why was she so calm? Seraphine felt herself growing angrier and angrier. ‘So you can tell my parents and my teachers and the police probably.’
‘I see,’ replied Dr Bloom. ‘Let me reassure you that I won’t be doing any of those things.’
Seraphine stared, but Dr Bloom didn’t react. Again, this was unusual. People almost always looked away from Seraphine’s stare.
Dr Bloom leaned forward in her chair. ‘What do you think I mean by “outstanding”?’
‘That I’m some kind of monster.’
‘And why would you think that?’
‘Because that’s who you studied … serial-killer psychos.’
Bloom sat back and finally frowned. ‘No, I didn’t. I studied teenagers and young adults with specific traits. They were not serial killers; none of them had ever committed a murder.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m interested in what it takes to be human. And I wanted to study one extreme aspect of mankind, one that I think is very revealing.’
‘No. Not that. I mean why didn’t they murder anyone?’
‘Because they chose not to.’
‘Or maybe no one pissed them off enough.’
Bloom’s lips curled just a little. ‘Or that – yes.’
‘And you think I’m one of these psychos, just because I defended myself?’
‘It’s totally irrelevant what I think. What matters is what you think, or what you know about who you are and how you differ from other people. You said I’d tricked you, but I’ve not revealed anything new to you. You already knew that you were different. You work hard to cover it up, and may I say, you do so with an impressive level of self-control for someone so young.’
‘So why am I here if you’re only telling me what I already know?’ Was she giving too much away? ‘If that’s what’s happening.’
‘So that you have one person who’s on your side and willing to help you.’
‘Help me what?’
Bloom looked at her and said, ‘Help you to choose, Seraphine.’
28
Chief Superintendent Steve Barker had scheduled daily conference calls. Bloom dialled in and listened to the music on the other end of the line. She had planned to rush back from her one-to-one to dial in alongside Jameson, but things had taken longer than expected.
She put in her earphones and scanned through her emails as she waited, opening one from the Crown Prosecution Service solicitor. They were charging her client with inflicting grievous bodily harm. There was no evidence to suggest wounding with intent.
Barker introduced himself and Bloom closed down the email.
In a sobering update, DC Logan revealed that the Birthday Card Game had at least 109 players. He had finally tracked down the game’s website deep in the dark web and, so far, it was totally inaccessible. DC Kaye Willis was yet to hear from the various phone companies regarding the data usage, but she had confirmed that Stuart, Grayson and Lana had all downloaded something similar in the first few hours after disappearing. As Barker set out the priorities for the next few days, Bloom received three missed calls from the same London number. Someone was keen to speak to her. She listened to the voicemail message. A Dr Claude Fallon from the Health and Care Professions Council asked her to return his call as a matter of urgency.
The governing body for professional psychologists was a passive regulator. Bloom had never received a call from them before, not since they’d taken over from the British Psychological Society. But she did as requested and returned the call.
‘Dr Claude Fallon.’ The man had a deep voice and an assertive tone. Bloom guessed he was in his fifties, perhaps older.
‘This is Dr Bloom returning your calls.’
‘Ah yes, Dr Bloom, I’m afraid we have something of a problem. We’ve received a rather serious complaint regarding your suitability to practise.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yes. We’ve forwarded it on to our Health and Care Professions Tribunal Service. The HCPTS.’
‘Without speaking to me first? What’s it about?’
‘It’s a rather delicate matter, so we felt it should be handled by the professionals at this stage. I would advise you to secure some professional advice for yourself … legally, I mean.’
Bloom’s shock gave way to anger. ‘Who made this complaint? What exactly is it about?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say any more over the telephone.’
‘You can summon me to a tribunal but you can’t tell me why? That’s ridiculous. I demand to know.’
‘The HCPTS will be in touch to talk you through the process and provide the necessary details. This is simply a courtesy call.’
‘A courtesy call?’
‘Like I say, the HCPTS will be in touch,’ said Dr Claude Fallon and then he was gone.
This made no sense. Who had she worked with recently? Who might have an issue with her advice? Who would hold such a grudge?
Each question led to one answer: Dave Jones, the man who had accused asexual Jamie Bolton of grooming his twelve-year-old daughter, Amy. This was all she needed.
29
Lana hated to admit it, but her latest opponent was out of her league. PV had already posted evidence of his latest triumph, pictures of an old lady he’d defrauded asleep with a large purple bruise across her eye. He’d also attached evidence of the cash she’d handed over for whatever fake job he’d promised to do, and a bank statement showing a transfer of £42,300 from her legitimate account to his ghost account. Lana hadn’t even identified a target. She was going to drop down the league table – again – and have a lower-level opponent assigned, someone who, like PV, would walk all over her. Why couldn’t she stop drinking? She had lost thirteen of the last twenty-four hours to the bottle.
The answer came to her with total clarity.
She couldn’t do it alone. She couldn’t stay sober alone. She needed help.
Jameson was standing outside Fork trying to access the game. One hundred and nine confirmed players, he thought as he followed the link and instructions sent over by DC Logan. He downloaded the Tor browser bundle needed to access encrypted websites via his phone. The site opened with a bright white screen and three boxes requesting your full name, date of birth and unique user reference. The only other content was three lines of silver writing at the bottom of the page that read:
HAPPY 1ST BIRTHDAY.
YOUR GIFT IS THE GAME.
DARE TO PLAY?
YOU HAVE ONE CHANCE AND ONE CHANCE ONLY.
THE GAME MUST START TODAY.
‘Good morning.’
Jameson looked up to see Dr Sarah Something standing in front of him.
‘Dr Sarah Something.’
Her laugh was low and husky. Jameson liked it. A lot.
He shrugged. ‘That’s how Steph introduced you.’
‘I see.’
‘It makes you sound like a comic-strip sidekick.’ Why was he saying these ridiculous things?
‘You looked engrossed,’ she said, nodding to his phone.
‘Yeah. Work. It’s a little crazy at the moment.’ Understatement of the century.
‘What do you do?’
Their first proper conversation and here, just a few moments into it, was his first lie. ‘I’m a researcher,’ he replied.
‘University?’
‘Freelance.’
She looked at him. Her light blue eyes were captivating. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ she asked.
‘No, thanks,’ Jameson replied. ‘I’ve got to …’ He held the phone up; he needed to f
inish this.
‘It’s no problem. I’ll get you a take-out. What do you have?’
‘Just a latte.’
‘Just a latte it is then, James.’
‘Jameson. Marcus Jameson.’
She held out her hand. ‘Something. Sarah Something.’
Jameson laughed and shook her hand, this first physical contact pinching in the pit of his stomach. He wondered if she’d felt it too.
She opened the door to the cafe and he called out, ‘In case you were worried, I’m not stalking you. I just like the coffee.’
Just before the door closed behind her, he heard her say, ‘Disappointing.’
‘Why are you smiling?’ Bloom asked as Jameson walked into their office with a takeout cup and a small paper bag.
‘Because it’s a good day, Sheila,’ he said. ‘I bought croissants.’
‘Have you seen Logan’s email?’
‘Yup.’ Jameson sat down and passed a pain au chocolat across the table.
‘We can’t get any further without an access code. It’s locked up tight.’
‘I don’t like the name,’ said Jameson through a mouthful of croissant. ‘The Birthday Card Game sounds like it’s for toddlers. I vote for a rebrand. The Psychopath Collector? Maybe it’ll get more attention.’
‘Why would we want attention?’
‘Not from the public. From the police.’ Jameson wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘DC Akhtar couldn’t get any CCTV from Stuart’s accident from the West Yorkshire force. Not a priority, apparently. Well, maybe they’d pay more attention if they knew we were looking for hundreds of psychopaths.’
Bloom nodded and took a bite of the croissant. ‘Thanks for this.’
Jameson winked at her.
‘What’s with you today?’ she asked. ‘You’re all … odd.’
‘I’ve got a date.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, so long as your social life is tickety-boo …’ She felt unreasonably irritated. He was allowed to go on dates, after all. But in light of what they were dealing with, romance seemed pretty unimportant right now.