by Louise Voss
Patrick scrutinised the list, each of the names printed by Hammond in cramped block capitals. As Carmella had said, it looked like a who’s who of the British music industry, many names that he recognised – mostly veteran rock stars – but more that meant nothing to him. Shawn Barrett’s name was there, along with Lana Vincent, the woman he’d been secretly sleeping with. Several of the people they’d met at Global Sounds Music were on there too, plus a section headed ‘STAFF’ under which Mervyn had written Kerry Mangan’s name along with his housekeeper and the name of the catering company that had temporarily employed Jade and Kai.
‘Pop stars; magazine editors; record company people; actors; a couple of football players . . .’ Carmella laughed. ‘Hammond asked me if I’d ever thought about a career in the media. Said he could make me famous.’
‘He used that one on me too.’
‘Suddenly I don’t feel special anymore. I told him I’m happy doing this. He called me a mug.’
‘But you still like him?’
She shrugged again. ‘I like people with hidden depths. Not sure why I get along so well with you . . .’
‘Ha ha.’ He frowned suddenly, aware of the ticking clock. ‘I need to tell you what Kai said. Actually, we should get Suzanne in here – she needs to hear this too.’
Patrick decided to tell the story standing up, pacing. It helped him think. As he spoke he looked down at the faces of the two women staring up at him. Carmella, who he would take a bullet for. And Suzanne . . . How did he feel about Suzanne now? When he was in the same room as her he felt more alive; more aware of his body; the blood pumping in his veins; the hairs standing on end on his arms. She cast other people into shadow. But it wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed – or wouldn’t allow himself to enjoy. When he left her company he felt simultaneously saddened and relieved.
He had no idea if she felt anything like this when she was with him. Sometimes he caught her gazing at him when she didn’t know he was looking, and she would turn her face away quickly. Right now she was all business: drawn with worry; a little tic beneath her right eye. He felt the urge to reach out, touch her face. But it could never happen. They could never touch. And the realisation blew through him like a cold draught, a stiff wind slamming a door shut.
He recounted the first part of what Kai Topper had told him about StoryPad.
‘Then, he said, war broke out. The person who was leaving all the negative comments on Jade and co’s story had written her own OnTarget fanfic. It was far less popular than Fresh Blood – that’s the story written by Jade, Chloe, Rose and Jess.’
‘Boy bands and vampires,’ Carmella said.
‘I see.’ Suzanne shook her head almost imperceptibly.
‘You can guess what happened next,’ Patrick went on. ‘Jade and friends started to slate this other person’s stories, leaving loads of scathing reviews, encouraging other users to join in, to laugh at her writing. This made the other person retaliate and do the same on Fresh Blood. Kai said Jade was pretty sure this “troll” was setting up loads of sock-puppet accounts, as he called them, in order to leave bad reviews. Then it got even worse. It spilled over onto the official OnTarget forum, where this other user also had an account. Everything Jade and her friends posted got slated, and they did the same back. Kai says that it was mainly Jade and Jess, that Chloe and MissTargetHeart, as he calls Rose, wanted to let it go.’
‘But they didn’t?’ Suzanne asked.
‘Far from it. According to Kai, Jade became obsessed with this troll, decided to see if she could find out their real identity. So she started trawling back through the troll’s old posts until she found one in which her nemesis had posted a link to her Tumblr account. The Tumblr account had a link to this girl’s blog—’
‘It was a girl?’ Carmella looked disappointed. ‘I was hoping—’
‘That it was our killer? No. Let me tell you the rest. The blog linked to the girl’s Facebook page. Now Jade knew her real name: Melanie Haggis. And the Facebook page and blog had photos of Melanie on them that she hadn’t protected. Our charming friend in room three says that Melanie was a “real minger”. He reckons she was in her mid-twenties, too old to be on the OnT forums or StoryPad, according to him. And Jade decided to go nuclear.’
Both women were holding their breath.
‘She set up a fake Facebook profile in Melanie Haggis’s name, filled it with all of these cruel status updates about how she’d just eaten seventeen Mars Bars and used the last one to masturbate with; stuff about fancying really “sad” people like David Cameron; some really cruel things too. Statuses saying that she’d been molested by her uncle and felt guilty because she enjoyed it. How she’d had sex with a German shepherd and was worried she was going to have babies who were half puppy. Sick shit. Jade got all these photos of morbidly obese women too and Photoshopped Melanie’s head onto them. Once she’d set this all up, she shared the link to the Facebook page on the OnTarget forum.’
Carmella gasped. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Apparently the whole forum went mental, everyone on there wading in and giving Melanie Haggis abuse. It got shared on Twitter, Tumblr, everywhere.’
He was pacing faster now, back and forth across the room.
‘At first, Melanie tried to fight back, to respond to the posts. But then she went quiet. Disappeared. Kai didn’t want to tell me the last bit, but he said that Jade sent Melanie a private message, saying she was going to send her boyfriend round to rape her, that she knew where she lived. He swears it was an idle threat, that he didn’t know about it until after Jade had sent the message. Anyway, Melanie didn’t respond.’
‘Because . . .’
Patrick could see that Carmella had guessed it.
He nodded. ‘She killed herself.’
The room was silent for a few seconds. ‘How,’ Carmella asked, ‘did Jade and Kai know she’d committed suicide?’
‘It was in the local paper, apparently. Just a small piece, following the coroner’s report. She took an overdose. According to Kai, Chloe’s nan reads the paper front to back and mentioned it to Chloe because it said she was a big OnTarget fan in the report. Chloe then told the other girls and they were mortified. Even Jade felt bad about it, according to Kai. Although it sounds like she was more worried she was going to get the blame, that people were going to find out. So she deleted the fake Facebook page and all the posts she’d written about Melanie, getting the others to do the same. Kai says the others blamed Jade and they had a massive falling-out. Chloe and Jess were “real life” friends, so they stayed mates, but Jade never communicated with the others again, except to send Kai round to Chloe’s to get back some UV nail thing she’d borrowed. They even deleted their Fresh Blood story.’
‘And now two of them are dead,’ Carmella said.
Patrick pointed at Mervyn Hammond’s list. ‘Melanie Haggis and the party. Find the connection, and we find the killer.’
Patrick left the interview room to find Martin Hale, giving him Melanie Haggis’s name and asking him to find out everything he could about her. Then he headed for the incident room, followed by Carmella and Suzanne.
He pinned Mervyn’s list to the wall, studying it again, willing a name to jump out at him. Everyone on it was being run through the database. If there was time, if Chloe and Jade weren’t currently missing, they would bring in everybody who’d been at the party, ask them if they knew Melanie, if they’d seen or heard anything. He could imagine the furore in the press if they did this, the obstacles that would be thrown into their path. It had been hard enough interviewing a single boy-band member.
He studied each of the four girls’ photographs in turn: Rose, Jess, Chloe, Jade. Gazing at them, with Topper’s story ringing in his ears, Patrick felt certain he knew the motive for the murders now. Vengeance. But who? Who had sought bloody revenge against the girls who unwittingly drove Melanie Haggis to suicide?
‘It’s Hammond.’
He turned. Winkler had entered the room, Gareth just behind him. Winkler had a look of triumph on his face.
‘What are you talking about?’ Patrick asked.
‘This Haggis girl – she used to live at St Mary’s Children’s Home. You telling me that’s a coincidence?’
‘But Mervyn was in custody all day.’
‘He must have an accomplice.’
Patrick opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. Could Winkler be right?
‘There’s more, boss,’ said Gareth. ‘Melanie Haggis’s address. She lived in Wimbledon – on the same street as Nancy Marr.’
That was the final piece of proof. The murders had to be connected to Melanie. But Mervyn? Had he fooled them? Was his list incomplete, all names present apart from Mervyn’s secret accomplice?
He snatched up his jacket and headed towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Winkler demanded.
‘St Mary’s.’
Patrick hammered on the door of St Mary’s Children’s Home, Carmella standing beside him. It was 9.30 p.m. and he was trying not to panic. What were the chances that Jade and Chloe were still alive? They needed to get in here and get the information they needed fast.
A middle-aged man with a grey beard opened the door and Patrick immediately flashed his badge at him and said, ‘Police. Are you the manager?’
‘I’m the deputy. The manager’s not—’
Patrick cut him off, stepping past him into the entrance hall, Carmella following. It reminded Patrick of the reception area of a clinic or, indeed, a police station: uncomfortable seating; low tables piled high with leaflets; posters on the wall offering advice or guidance. He wondered where all the kids were. As he thought this a skinny teenage girl with copper hair wandered into the room, spied Patrick and Carmella, and slipped away, vanishing like a ghost.
The bearded man shut the door behind them and turned, his eyes wide. He reminded Patrick of a hamster, with his chubby cheeks and furry face. ‘What’s your name?’ Patrick demanded.
‘Simon Fletcher.’
‘How long have you worked here, Mr Fletcher?’ Patrick knew that if he asked questions rapidly like this, in his most authoritative tone, he would get speedy, honest answers.
‘Five years.’
‘I need to speak to someone who was here a decade ago.’
Fletcher hesitated.
‘Come on!’
‘Fran Dangerfield. She’s one of our senior care workers. She’s here now, but—’
‘Get her,’ Patrick said. ‘And tell her we’re investigating a murder and abduction. This is life or death, Mr Fletcher.’
‘You’d better come to my office.’
On the way up to the office, Patrick and Carmella passed a communal room, where several teenagers of both genders were watching TV and chatting loudly. They reached the office – more official posters on the walls, plus lots of photos of groups of teens – and Fletcher scurried away to fetch Fran Dangerfield.
‘I didn’t know places like this still existed,’ Carmella said after a while.
‘They’re still necessary, unfortunately.’
A woman in her late fifties had entered the office. She had short plum-tinted hair and the air of someone who had seen a lot and didn’t take any nonsense.
‘Some kids aren’t able to go into foster homes because of the terrible situations they faced at home. Or they have very difficult behavioural issues. We exist for the minority of children who can’t fit into family life.’
Patrick nodded, remembering the skinny redhead downstairs, the kids watching TV and chatting boisterously. What had they been through? Imagining it made his heart ache.
‘What’s this all about?’ Dangerfield asked. ‘We had one of your blokes here this morning, asking ridiculous questions.’
‘About Mervyn Hammond? This may or may not be related to that.’
Patrick remembered what Kerry Mangan had told them about Mervyn’s visits to St Mary’s. Could Kerry have been lying? A chill ran through his blood as he imagined one possible scenario: that Kerry was Mervyn’s accomplice, or even working on his own, and that Topper had been right.
‘What do you mean?’ Fletcher, who had re-entered the room, asked.
‘We know that Hammond helps out here, gives motivational speeches and so on to the children, and that he wants this to remain confidential.’
Neither Fletcher nor Dangerfield responded verbally, though he could see in their eyes that this was right.
‘We actually want to ask you about a former resident here: Melanie Haggis.’
‘What about her?’ Dangerfield asked, crossing her arms over her heavy bosom.
‘You remember her?’
‘I do.’
‘And are you aware that Ms Haggis died last year?’
Dangerfield’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh. No, I didn’t know that. How awful. What happened?’
Patrick met her eye.
‘She committed suicide.’
Dangerfield almost fell into a chair. For someone who had clearly dealt with hundreds of kids, who must be hardened to some degree, she appeared surprisingly upset.
‘That poor girl.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘I guess she was, what, twenty-six?’
‘That’s right.’
Fletcher looked on as Dangerfield gathered herself. ‘She was a lovely girl, but . . . damaged. Like so many of the children here. Her mum and stepdad, they . . . well. Do you need to know all these details?’
‘Not necessarily. Did Melanie meet Mervyn Hammond?’
‘I think . . . I guess so. She would have been here when he first started visiting us. Why are you asking that?’ She had recovered a little from the blow of hearing about Melanie’s death. ‘Simon said you are investigating a murder, not a suicide. Oh my God, do you think somebody murdered Melanie, made it look like she’d killed herself? Not Mervyn Hammond?’
‘Mervyn is a good man,’ Fletcher said. ‘A great man.’
Carmella spoke up. ‘Was there any deeper connection between Melanie and Mervyn that you know of?’
‘No. To be honest, Mervyn has always seemed more interested in helping boys – and no, not for sexual reasons, before you make insinuations. There have been one or two boys who Mervyn helped after they left: gave them a hand finding a job, for example.’ She made an amused noise in her throat. ‘Actually, one of those boys was Melanie’s boyfriend.’
Patrick stepped towards her.
‘Mervyn helped Melanie’s boyfriend?’ Was that the connection? ‘What was his name?’
But Dangerfield appeared to be lost in a memory. ‘You know, even though Melanie had a lot of serious issues – emotional problems, difficulties with trust and authority, you name it – I always thought she’d be OK, that no harm would befall her. We all used to talk about it.’
‘Why?’ Patrick asked.
‘Because of her great protector. The boyfriend I mentioned. They were only fourteen, fifteen, but they were obsessed with each other. It was a bit of a mismatch intellectually, but I think he liked the fact that she was vulnerable, and that she saw him as some kind of hero. He thrived on it, on the way she worshipped him. If anyone did the slightest thing against Melanie, he would be there, protecting her. It caused a lot of issues because he often went too far.’ She frowned as she remembered more details. ‘There was a girl who Mel had a big falling-out with, typical teenage-girl stuff. But then Mel went running to Graham to tell him and the next thing we knew, this girl’s room had been trashed, her teddy bear’s head ripped off, pet goldfish nailed to the wall . . . God, I’d forgotten about that.’
Patrick and Carmella both stared at her.
‘What did you say her boyfriend’s name was?’ Patrick asked.
‘Graham,’ Dangerfield
replied. ‘Graham Burns. Like I said, Mervyn helped find him a job. I think he works with that band now, OnTarget, and . . . What is it? What did I say?’
Patrick was already on his phone, calling Suzanne. Graham Burns. The social media manager at Global Sounds.
He was the killer.
Chapter 57
Day 14 – 10 p.m. – Chloe
Chloe slid down the pipe she was attached to, her legs unable to bear the weight of her – or, rather, the weight of Jade’s screaming. It felt as though the sound of it was pressing down on her head, filling her eyes and nose and mouth as well as her ears – quick-drying cement that she would never escape.
She couldn’t even put her fingers in her ears to block it out because her hands were tied to the pipe behind her back. The smell of Friendship drifted over to her as if Jade had screamed it out of her own mouth.
Chloe squeezed her eyes tightly closed and told herself to think of the worst, most painful, frightening, horrible things that had ever happened to her:
Chemotherapy.
Lumbar punctures.
That terrifying moment right before jumping out of the plane.
The guilt. The guilt.
Stem cell transplant.
That time that Brandon shut her hand in the car door.
Pete punching me in the chest.
Finding out that Melanie Haggis, the girl we tormented online, following Jade’s lead like a pack of crazed dogs, had killed herself.
But none of it, nothing, nothing, nothing was, ever had been, or ever could be worse than this.
She forced herself not to look, to peek out between the stage flats like she was waiting in the wings – well, she was waiting in the wings, wasn’t she? Waiting for it to be her turn, for him to carve her up with that horrific knife, as if she was in some nightmarish play and she had to wait for her cue for it to be her turn in the spotlight . . .