by David Barry
‘Is this someone on the internet?’ I said. ‘Someone you don’t really know?’
‘We just got chatting on this forum. A chat room. He seemed quite nice at first. We just talked about our interests and made jokes. Then my friend Diane got an email from me, telling her she was too fat to dance and saying lots of horrible things about her dancing. Only it wasn’t from me. Not really. He must have found a way of sending her an email as if it came from me.’
Michelle leaned over Olivia and spoke quietly and intensely. ‘Have you explained to Diane it wasn’t you?’
‘I tried, but she wouldn’t believe me. Now she won’t speak to me at all. Nor will Chrissie or Jessica. And now he’s starting to say disgusting things, and sending pictures of...’
‘Pornographic pictures?’ I questioned.
Olivia shook her head. ‘Not really. Some of the women had no clothes on but they weren’t doing anything. They were tied up or handcuffed, and wearing weird masks. You know, like that bondage stuff. In a torture chamber. And then, this morning, when I checked my emails I got a scary, horrible...’
Olivia broke off again and tried to control her tears. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and sniffed loudly.
‘Can you show us?’ I asked. ‘Maybe we can trace his email.’
She shook her head intensely. ‘Anyone can have an email account, Dad, and you can send emails from an internet café or anywhere. You must know that.’
‘Even so, I’d like to see what he sent you.’
She nodded her agreement and seemed relieved to be unburdening herself. She grabbed some sheets of kitchen roll to blow her nose, and then we followed her upstairs and into her bedroom. The lid of her laptop was open on her desk. She sat on her swivel chair in front of the desk and clicked the laptop on.
‘It’ll just take a moment to boot up,’ she said.
While we waited, I glanced around at the familiar room, a room which still looked like a young child’s. There were soft toys and teddy bears propped comfortably in various places, like a family of comforting characters, and girlie emblems decorating the walls. But far from comforting me, it had the opposite effect of heightening the way I felt sickened and disturbed by the thoughts of a pervert targeting my little girl on the internet.
‘When did this start happening, Olivia?’ Michelle asked.
‘Just over two weeks ago. Maybe a bit longer. Nearer three weeks.’
She clicked on the email that had been sent. Her swivel chair was on castors and she propelled it back a foot, as if the threat of what was on her computer was tangible and could reach out and harm her physically.
Most of the email was an image of an elderly man I recognised from the newspapers a while back. And next to his picture was the script:
‘Josef Fritzl. Wow! What a man. My hero. Imagine locking his daughter in a cellar for 24 years. Now that’s what I call fun. Would you like to have some long term fun, Olivia? I bet you would. Don’t worry, kid. We’ll get there in the end. One day I’ll come and I’ll find you. You can bet on it. Whatever it takes, I’ll find you.’
I saw Michelle shiver and cross her arms over her chest. It was an instinctive gesture of self-preservation, and a moment later she unfolded them and placed her hands on Olivia’s shoulders, massaging gently. My throat felt dry, and I felt utterly helpless. What the hell could I do about a message that came from Christ knows where? How could I protect my family from this type of disgusting violation? But I knew I had to do something to set her mind at ease. I looked at the email address, which was from someone calling himself Eclipse, but what caught my eye was the country suffix following the dot com. It was PL.
‘That email address,’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen that suffix before. Which country signs itself PL?’
‘I looked it up, Dad. It’s Poland.’
Michelle and I exchanged looks, both at a loss, wondering what we could do about this. Michelle was the first to verbalise what I’d been thinking.
‘If this is someone from another country, then why not change your email address?’
Olivia shook her head. ‘I’ve done that already. Several times. But whoever it is seems to find out. And I’ve used different passwords every time, but it doesn’t do any good. I just wish whoever it is would go away.’
‘At least,’ I said, gently smoothing Olivia’s hair, ‘knowing this person is in another country - a long way from here - means this is not physically threatening. It’s probably some geeky nutter who gets his thrills from frightening kids on the internet. I know it’s not much comfort me saying this, but you’re probably not the only one he’s latched on to.’
‘Assuming it’s a man,’ Michelle said.
I chuckled humourlessly. ‘Oh, come on, Michelle. How many female computer geeks d’you know? These sad bastards are usually blokes.’
‘I don’t care who it is,’ Olivia shouted, staring at the screen with loathing. ‘I just wish it would stop. And my friends hate me because of it.’
She burst into tears again and buried her head in her hands. Michelle cuddled her, and spoke just above a whisper.
‘Sweetheart, this man’s a long way off and can’t harm you. I’m sure if you explain to your friends, and show them your emails, they’ll know it’s not you sending them out.’
‘But I don’t get a chance to speak to them. They don’t want to know me.’
Michelle straightened up and looked me in the eye, as though she was seeking approval for what she was about to say, then leant forward again and spoke quietly to Olivia. ‘I’ve got a suggestion to make. I’ve got to go and see some new venues for my dance classes. Why don’t I ring up the school, tell them you’re not feeling well - I mean, it’s only a few weeks into the new term - and you can come with me to look at some of these halls. We can have lunch out, and then we can make an appointment to see one of the staff at the school to tell them what’s been going on. They can help explain to some of your friends that these nasty emails haven’t come from you. We can open up your emails at the school and show them what’s been happening. How does that sound?’
There was a pause while Olivia thought about this. Through her sniffles she mumbled, ‘If you’re sure - ’
‘Of course, I’m sure. What do you think, Freddie?’
‘Sounds like a good idea.’ I clicked my fingers as another idea came to me. ‘It’s our first day at Weston and Turner today, and our secretary Nicky’s a wiz on computers - which is why we employed her - she might be able to sort something out, and she might know how to stop this bastard from contacting you.’
‘How can she?’ Olivia sniffed.
‘I haven’t a clue. But she’s been the one to organise our system in the office - real state-of-the-art stuff - and the bloke who’s done our system’s apparently brilliant. Knows all there is to know about IT. I’ll have a word with Nicky about this, and if she can’t help, she can put me in touch with her expert. How does that sound?’
Olivia nodded. ‘Yeah. Thanks, Dad.’
‘Good girl.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’d better head off. If Nicky gets into the office early, as I think she might, I’ll have a word with her before we start. The sooner we get this business sorted, the better.’
I kissed them both before leaving, and Michelle squeezed my hand and whispered, ‘Thanks, Freddie.’
It was just gone seven-thirty when I left the house, and it felt strange to be up and about at this time. Normally I’m a night bird, but the job of supplying doormen to London clubs could now be run from my computer and smart phone, with occasional visits just for appearances sake. And once our investigation agency was up and running, we could leave Nicky in charge of the early morning administration of the business, while Bill and I got on with the job of investigating... well, whatever needed investigating.
Our office was situate
d just off Chalk Farm Road, not far from the Tube station. We had looked at premises in a more central location, but the rents were crippling. Even Chalk Farm was bad enough, but we didn’t want to move any further than this out of central London. And we needed somewhere smart; somewhere that gave the impression to potential clients that we were successful operators. The building we chose was spacious, had recently housed theatre wig suppliers and was somewhat rundown, but we soon converted it into two stylish offices, the outer one being Nicky’s and the reception area. The most useful element of the premises, though, was the small parking space at the side, just space enough for one car. Nicky and Bill travelled to Chalk Farm on the Tube, so I was the only one who needed to park, although if the business took off, Bill would need a company car so we could work independently of each other. But we would cross that bridge later.
As I set off from Wanstead to Chalk Farm, although it was probably no more than twelve miles distant, I guessed it would probably take a good forty-five minutes because it was bang in the middle of rush hour. Normally, I don’t mind driving, but on this particular morning I found it difficult to concentrate. As I thought about Olivia’s anonymous tormenter, my mood darkened. I kept thinking about all the evil computer geeks who enjoy wrecking people’s lives. And for what? Just because they get a kick out of it? Invading unsuspecting internet user’s privacy, spying on them, feeding them false information, and threatening and frightening them for no reason other than a desire to play sadistic games.
Feeling impotent, and knowing I was powerless to protect my daughter from something that was activated hundreds of miles away, my mood got even darker. Because I drifted into a fantasy scenario, dishing out a vicious beating to a perverted computer geek, I lost concentration and had to slam on the brakes, nearly hitting the back of a black cab who had spotted a fare and pulled up suddenly.
I tooted angrily and yelled obscenities at the cab. He couldn’t have heard me, and I felt no better for having discharged my anger in this way.
Chapter 2
I was first to arrive at our workplace, but it was still only ten past eight, so I wasn’t expecting either Bill or Nicky for a good twenty minutes yet. I made a cafetiére of coffee and sat at my desk surveying the surroundings. Comfortable brown leather chairs, a dark grey carpet, framed pictures on the wall, photographs of Bill and me in army gear when we were in our early twenties, and a shelf on which stood a camera with a telephoto lens to show we were in the business of surveillance.
I should have been pleased with the way our office looked, but my thoughts were still morbidly stuck in the internet bullying groove, thinking about the predator who had singled out my daughter for harassment.
Nicky arrived just before Bill and immediately noticed how down I was. I didn’t want to go through the story twice, so I told her I had a problem and could she wait for Bill to arrive before I unloaded my worries.
Although I didn’t know Nicky that well - Bill and I had interviewed her for the job three weeks ago - she struck us both as being highly efficient and bright. She was certainly charming and personable. I didn’t know whether she was a genuine blonde or if her hair was dyed. If the latter, it was expensively treated and had a beautiful sheen to it that you only get in television commercials. She was an attractive forty-five, although she had knocked five years off at the interview. Going by her CV, it was clearly a blatant lie, but what the hell! - she could easily have passed for late-thirties. She had once been a high-flyer in an advertising agency, rising to creative director level, but she had always had an ambition to act and gave up the daytime job to train at a drama school for two years. After leaving, she got one or two jobs in touring theatre shows, mainly understudying, and after a gruelling three years she decided she had left it too late to realise her ambitions and, accepting defeat, she decided to start over again. At her interview she said she liked the idea of being in sole charge of the office as a manager rather than just a secretary, so we promoted her immediately to office manager and upped the advertised salary from four- to five-hundred a week.
Although this Monday morning was the first day we were open for business, Nicky had already worked more than a fortnight for us, organising the office, and choosing our furniture and fixtures. She suggested that two desks, positioned in an L-shape, might prove intimidating to clients, so we ended up with just the one large desk, which Bill and I decided to share, depending on who was doing what and when. Nicky also spent time liaising with her computer expert, getting our system up and running, our website designed and ordering any surveillance equipment we might need. So we were raring to go. And I would have enjoyed the anticipation of setting off on this great adventure were it not for the Olivia business.
Bill arrived five minutes after Nicky and they both came into the inner sanctum and sat and listened to the desperate account of my daughter’s online persecution. After I had finished Bill looked at me and shrugged, and I wondered if this was to indicate that he felt helpless, knowing as much about computers as I did - which was very little.
‘If this arsehole is in Poland,’ he said, ‘at least Olivia’s not in any real danger. I mean, I know it must be upsetting for her, and even a bit scary, but someone in East Europe’s not going to...’
I interrupted him. ‘Yeah, Bill, but - and I’m only guessing - I would think you could fly from Poland to London in well under three hours.’
‘Olivia wouldn’t have provided him with her address, I hope.’
‘Even so, she’s got lots of friends at school. They’re always emailing and texting. If he can read her emails, I dread to think what he can find out about her.’
It was then I noticed Nicky was disturbingly quiet, staring at her nails and frowning thoughtfully.
‘What do you think, Nicky?’ I asked.
I noticed the nervousness in her voice as she spoke.
‘Freddie, I don’t want to frighten you, but anyone with the requisite knowledge of computers can mask the physical location of a computer.’
‘You mean, give a Polish address and the person could be right here in London.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Oh, Jesus!’
She saw me wiping my fingers across my forehead, trying to wipe away the fear, and said with a tentative smile of reassurance, ‘But this person may well be a sad weirdo hacking away from some dank hole in Gdansk, who gets his kicks from scaring people a long way away.’
‘Even so...’ I began, but she didn’t let me finish.
‘Why don’t I give Ricky Lee a ring? He knows much more than I do about computing. He’s a good programmer, so he’s pretty shit-hot. I’ll tell him it’s urgent and ask if he can meet you late this afternoon, after our second meeting.’ Nicky stood up purposefully and walked towards her own office and reception area, saying as she went, ‘I’ve just got time to call him before our first meeting. Try not to worry, Freddie. I’m sure Ricky Lee can help us out.’
It eased my concerns for the moment. Now that I felt something was being done, I could concentrate on our first client’s investigation. None of us knew what his problem was, and he said he was reluctant to discuss it with Nicky over the phone.
Chapter 3
Piers Granville-Aston had a voice to match his posh name, plummy and rich. I guessed he was somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore a dark blue suit and an expensive-looking mauve-striped shirt, open at the collar. His brown hair was longish and curly, and a one-sided fringe flopped above his right eye. Nicky announced him, and gestured for him to take a seat, but he shook hands with me and Bill first while we introduced ourselves. Nicky carried a notebook and pencil but, before sitting down, he stared pointedly at her notebook.
‘Nicky will take notes in shorthand,’ I explained. ‘So we don’t have to rely on our memories for all the little details.’
He looked slightly uncomfortable, shifting his we
ight from one foot to another. ‘I don’t think,’ he began hesitantly, ‘I don’t think I want you to take notes at this stage. I’ll just give you an overview of what the problem is. It won’t be difficult to understand what it is I want you to do. It’s quite straightforward in fact. But I would sooner...’ He hesitated, glancing at Nicky. ‘Would sooner talk man-to-man in private.’ He chuckled nervously. ‘Delicate matter and all that.’
Nicky looked to me for guidance and I said, ‘That’s OK, Nicky. I’m sure we can deal with Mr Granville-Aston’s enquiry for the moment.’
Once Nicky had gone, closing the door behind her, our potential client relaxed, flopped into a leather chair, crossed his legs elegantly and asked us to call him Piers.
‘Well, Piers,’ I began, what can we do for you?’
‘I’ve been arrested. I’ve been bailed, and if I’m sentenced after the trial, I could face a lengthy prison term. That’s if it goes horribly wrong.’
‘What are you charged with?’
He paused before answering. ‘Attempted rape.’ He made a childish face, as if he was a naughty boy. Nothing more than a silly prank.
‘That sounds to me quite serious,’ Bill said. ‘Would you care to fill us in on the details, right from the beginning?’
Our upper class client laughed confidently. ‘Oh, it’s not that serious when you hear the truth about what went on between the three of us.’
I shot him a puzzled frown. ‘Three of you?’
He glanced at my business partner and said, ‘Bill is right. Let me start at the very beginning. An old school chum of mine, Clive Westbourne - we were at Eton together - and we were in high spirits...’ He broke off to chortle at his own private joke before resuming his tale. ‘In other words, we were pissed as rats, and we’d been knocking them back all lunchtime at this pub in Ealing. We chatted the barmaid up, probably behaved quite outrageously but she didn’t seem to mind. Far from it. We thought she might be up for it, if you catch my drift.’ He broke off to give us a familiar brotherhood leer before continuing. ‘Anyway, she finished work around three, so we invited her for some Chinky chow. Of course, by the time the food arrived at this restaurant, where they were quite happy to take our money but clearly wanted to close for the afternoon, we had ordered several bottles of wine, and the food wasn’t good, so we had a bit of fun with it instead.’