by Maggie James
Another manipulative tactic - to mention living in the poshest part of Bristol. His ploy was clearly to paint a picture of a successful businessman, albeit one with short-term financial problems. I hated the prick.
Ellie drew in a long breath. ‘Eventually I realised I’d been suckered. And it hurt like hell.’
My poor sister. I’d remembered a television documentary I’d once watched about con artists. The programme highlighted how men like Steven Simmons sought out women to use as cash machines by playing on their insecurities. Some victims that were interviewed had lost as much as half a million pounds. All of them appeared bewildered, as though unable to understand what had happened. Most said they still loved their ex. At the time, I’d found their gullibility an embarrassment to my gender. Right then, with my beloved sister a victim, the only emotion I felt was empathy. Hadn’t I also been hoodwinked by a man, albeit in different circumstances? Who was I to judge?
All the women included in the documentary said they were reluctant to involve the law. I wondered if Ellie had ever contemplated such a course of action. Probably not. Too damaged, too raw, she decided on suicide instead.
I needed to ask though. ‘Did you consider going to the police? What he did was fraud, Els. This guy should be in prison.’
‘No.’ Emotion choked her voice. ‘Hadn’t I been humiliated enough? I couldn’t bear the idea of telling some police officer how gullible I’d been. The shame of it, Lyddie. Mum would be so disappointed. Dad too, if he were alive. That’s why ...’ She swallowed, and I realised what was coming. ‘I didn’t want to live anymore. Everything hurt too much.’
Silence filled the room for a minute.
‘You won’t tell Mum? Please, Lyddie. She must never know.’
I agreed. Our mother lacked a filter on her tongue, and I didn’t trust her not to wound Ellie further. ‘I won’t say a word.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ Ellie burst out. ‘Fifty thousand pounds wouldn’t wipe you out the way it has me. You’re smart with your finances, whereas I’m not. I don’t have a clue about stock market investments and all that stuff.’
She was right. Financial skills were my forte, not hers, but that could be changed. What was that saying about teaching a man to fish, thus feeding him for a lifetime?
‘I’ve lost everything. With no hope of getting it back.’ Her shoulders hunched in defeat.
Manipulation wasn’t Ellie’s style. She wouldn’t realise her words sounded like a plea for money. Nevertheless I almost offered.
‘I’ll help you,’ I said. ‘We’ll go through your finances, see where you can cut costs, make changes. I’ll get you through this, I promise.’
Ellie stood up, her mouth tight. She looked exhausted. ‘I’m going to bed.’
After she’d gone I poured myself a whisky, allowing its smoky taste to soothe my soul. My preference in alcohol might be unusual for a thirty-something woman, but I had Dad to thank for that. He’d first introduced me to the delights of a decent single malt on my eighteenth birthday; my first few sips made me shudder and I’d endured them out of sheer stubbornness. In time I learned to love the fiery taste. Dad and I often set the world to rights over shots of Lagavulin. God, how I missed him.
Glass in hand, I sat on the sofa and mulled over what Ellie had said about Steven Simmons. She’d been foolish, I didn’t deny that, too besotted to realise that her gallant knight’s armour was dirty and corroded. How could I blame her, though? It wasn’t her fault, given her brain injury and mental health issues. The bastard had tricked a vulnerable woman into handing over her savings, and if what I suspected was true, he’d have conned other victims as well.
Anger burned inside me at how Steven Simmons had walked away without a twinge of conscience. His behaviour was all kinds of wrong – criminal, in fact. I loathed him, and not just because he’d driven my sister to attempt suicide.
Impossible to deny that my own pain was helping to fuel my fury. Hadn’t I also been a victim of a con artist? Oh, I’d not lost any money to Gary McIlroy. The bastard stole my heart instead, and with it, my self-respect. We dated for six months, during which time I plummeted headlong into love. Gary possessed a faulty memory, though. So bad he forgot to tell me he had a wife. My world shattered into fragments so small I didn’t think I’d ever piece them together again. Throughout one long, dark night I considered suicide. Some instinct of self-preservation saved me, after which I locked my emotions in a metaphorical cage and threw away the key.
And then Richie returned to Bristol, and the bars around my heart melted. Gary had ruined me where other men were concerned, though. As my love for Richie grew, so did my insecurity. I knew he wasn’t married, thanks to my friendship with Caroline, but I still couldn’t accept he was mine. Everywhere I looked, women slimmer and prettier than me posed a threat. I interrogated him about where he was going, his friends, his work colleagues. One evening he caught me snooping through his phone, and our relationship ended that night.
‘I love you, Lyddie,’ he told me, anguish in his eyes. ‘But if you don’t trust me, we can’t be together.’
So, thanks to the damage inflicted by Gary McIlroy, I lost Richie. In the light of Ellie’s revelations, all the hurt came crashing back. My sister and I had both been conned, just in different ways. The only difference was that Ellie’s heartbreak came with a fifty-thousand-pound price tag. In both cases, the bastard concerned got off scot-free. Not how it should be, in my opinion.
Caroline often said I had a downer on men. She was right - the rotten, cheating ones, anyway. An idea was gathering force in my brain. One that involved revenge, retribution, justice.
4
I didn’t sleep much that night. Instead, I lay in bed, rehashing what Ellie had told me, fury blazing in my belly. I thought of one of the women interviewed on the documentary I’d watched. Wasn’t she conned by a guy she met on a dating website? A premium-price site provided an obvious hunting ground to prey on lonely well-heeled women. It made sense for swindlers to source their victims online; that way such men could hide behind any mask they chose.
And now one of them had hurt my sister. My father’s voice came into my head. Once we’d been warned by Ellie’s doctors of the effect the temporal lobe damage might have, he’d taken me aside, his expression serious.
‘Promise me you’ll look out for her,’ he’d said.
‘Haven’t I always?’
‘Yes. And I love you for that. Now, though ...’ He’d shaken his head. ‘She’ll need you more than ever.’
‘I’ll be there for her,’ I’d said. ‘I swear.’
Guilt shot through me as I recalled our conversation. No matter how well Ellie had appeared, I shouldn’t have left her to cope alone. I was back in Bristol again though, and it was time to keep the commitment I’d made. My sister needed me, and I’d look out for her the way I’d promised. If that included administering vengeance to her ex, that was fine with me.
When the red numbers on my bedside clock showed the time as 3am and I’d still not fallen asleep, I gave up the attempt. Instead, I swung my feet out of bed, making for my laptop sitting on the desk under the window. Once online, I searched for the dating website Ellie had used. Soulmate Search, wasn’t it? She was right; it appeared a cut above the meat-market mentality of the freebie sites. I didn’t think I’d find Steven Simmons on it, though. Hadn’t she told me he’d deleted his profile? He must have shifted his focus to a different site. With that in mind, I typed ‘premium dating websites’ into Google.
The top result was called Premier Love Matches. I clicked the link and scanned the homepage. Similar in style to Soulmate Search, it touted itself as offering ‘a quality service for the discerning seeker after love’ and required a sizable set-up fee and monthly charge. Members had to complete a questionnaire together with a personality profile, both designed to persuade them they stood the best possible chance of finding love among Premier’s clientele. The site also allowed searching and filtering of pr
ofiles before joining. That made sense - few people would sign up unless they could view the goods on offer.
I drew in a deep breath, preparing to look for the bastard who had shattered my sister’s heart.
I kept my parameters wide, figuring that if he was still in the South West, he’d prefer a different poaching ground for his next target. I chose a radius of forty miles around Bristol, searching for a dark-haired male between twenty-eight and thirty-five. A few seconds after I clicked the ‘search’ button, dozens of results filled my screen.
Most of them I dismissed at once. All those with a profile picture, for example; Ellie had said this man operated without one. That left seven possibilities. I clicked on the top one and skimmed though it. It didn’t take long to discount the guy. An insurance broker, widowed with one son, his interests lay in football and camping. Not how a con artist would portray himself. I also discarded the next four after reading them. Two of them claimed to be divorced and one had a profile so badly written it could only attract a dictionary. And the last guy stated he preferred casual relationships. None of them appeared to be my target.
The next one seemed a possibility despite living in Bristol, which didn’t fit with Steven Simmons shifting his game further afield. He called himself Scott, user name Scotty123, but I didn’t expect Ellie’s ex to have kept the same name. The bastard would already have morphed into his new persona. This guy listed his profession as middle management, but the rest of his profile was sparse, citing his interests as art, music, travel and sport. A wide enough net to capture most women.
The final line caught my eye. Scotty123 mentioned being ready to move on after a failed relationship, how what he wanted was to find Ms Right. His profile ended with ‘why don’t we meet over coffee?’
Weren’t those similar words to the ones that hooked Ellie? Many profiles used near-identical wording, though. I clicked on the final one, that of Looking For Love.
This guy appeared a far better prospect. He gave his name as Liam and his age as thirty, the same as Steven Simmons. Tall, almost black hair, blue eyes. He listed his location as Charlcombe, not far from Bath, within easy distance of Bristol. What caught my eye was his occupation; he’d ticked ‘construction and property development’. While I understood Ellie’s ex would use a new name each time, I thought his method unlikely to change. Easier that way, fewer lies to remember. As for his spiel, it was well-written, designed to portray Mr Nice Guy who wanted to find his princess and make her his wife. As proven by the answer to the ‘seeking’ question. He had ticked ‘marriage’, not ‘long-term relationship’ or ‘casual fun’.
As with Scotty123, the final line of his profile snagged my attention.
‘I got my heart broken in my last relationship,’ he wrote, ‘but I’m now ready to move on and find my soulmate! Could it be you? Let’s talk over coffee!’
Soulmate, that was it, not Ms Right - the word Ellie said Steven Simmons used on his profile. It had stuck in my mind, given the name of the site she’d joined. His other wording was similar, too. From what I could see, this guy Liam was the best match to my sister’s con man.
I hesitated, unsure whether I should take this any further. The clues I’d found on Liam’s profile were tenuous, easy to explain. Lots of men worked in construction and property development. And didn’t most people on dating websites claim to be searching for their true love? Wasn’t an invitation to coffee a common ice-breaker? None of it meant anything by itself.
And yet it might mean everything if Looking For Love was the bastard who’d hurt my sister. If he was, I planned to take him down, and hard. Two could play his game.
Only one way to find out.
I took it.
Within half an hour, I had completed my profile, paid my first month’s membership and was live on the site. Not as myself but as Lynnette Connor, user name Lynnie Loves Art, with my other details more or less truthful. Aged thirty-one, curvaceous build, blonde hair, brown eyes, occupation that of manager in an accountancy firm. Well, the last part had been true once, and should flag me as sufficiently well off. As for my pitch, I kept it brief, describing myself as hoping for a serious relationship that would lead to marriage. I debated over whether to email Looking For Love but didn’t. Let him assume the role of predator, I decided. If I had found Steven Simmons, he would be in touch, and soon.
One thing concerned me a little, and that was the picture I uploaded. This man had been to Ellie’s home - the odds were good he’d seen my sister’s family photos. I’d have to risk him recognising me if we met, although those photos had been taken when Dad was still alive; I’d weighed less then and my hair had been shorter. With any luck, it would be okay. Chances were the prick been too engrossed in fleecing Ellie to notice a few old snapshots.
Once I put the first part of my plan into practice, I felt tiredness steal over me. It was after 5am by then. I fell asleep making plans for when we left the cottage.
I’d also need to decide what, if anything, to tell Ellie. Caution warned me to keep quiet for the time being, especially as she still fancied herself in love with Steven Simmons.
Over the next couple of days, I concentrated on my sister. Ellie remained withdrawn but small improvements signalled her recovery. Her appetite increased, she seemed more forthcoming when we talked and the shroud of pain that cloaked her didn’t seem so thick. We walked each day along the cliff top, the wind in our hair and the shrieks of the gulls in our ears, and I allowed myself to hope that Ellie might mend.
Every night I logged onto Premier Love Matches, only to be disappointed. No messages from Looking For Love, but dozens from other hopeful guys. A thirty-one-year-old accountant seemed quite the catch, although I guessed my blonde hair, dark eyes and curves were more of a draw than my occupation. I sent a polite reply to each one, saying I didn’t think we had enough in common to justify a meeting. With each passing day, my urge to contact Looking For Love grew but I told myself to stay patient.
I also joined another site. Not the dating kind though. Instead, I created a profile on a site called Love Rats Exposed.
My rationale was that Steven Simmons must have conned other women besides Ellie. It wouldn’t hurt to check whether any had told their stories online. I wanted to understand more about how Ellie had been duped. Know thy enemy, as the saying went. I called myself Sad Sister, keeping my profile information brief and not making any posts. Instead, I browsed those already there.
No shortage existed of women eager to recount their stories. Most of them, like Ellie, were too ashamed to contact the police. Many possessed scant evidence to warrant pursuing prosecution anyway. The majority of these men operated under the radar, avoiding paper trails of their activities, the sad tales on Love Rats Exposed their victims’ only recourse.
One woman described her experience with a man she met while on holiday in Tunisia. He had been a waiter at her hotel, younger than her by ten years, all soulful eyes and practised patter. Once married to her and in the UK, he disappeared back to Tunisia after two weeks, leaving her broken-hearted and several thousand pounds worse off. She’d given him her life savings to fund his college education. I snorted. More likely the money had vanished on hookers and drugs.
Another victim told of the man she married having a wife and two children in Scotland.
‘I believed all his lies about why he needed to be away from home three weeks out of four,’ she posted. The bastard ended up serving time in prison for bigamy, a fact that had done little to assuage her grief.
Two other postings caught my eye. One woman based in Swindon, calling herself Broken And Betrayed, described being conned by a man called Rick Montgomery. She explained how she met him via a dating website, and had been touched by his description of himself as ready to find his soulmate. Same method of operation as with Ellie, with a similar result: Broken and Betrayed lost all her savings, convinced that Rick Montgomery was sincere about his building firm needing short-term cash. By the time she’d realised the tr
uth, he was long gone and so was her money.
‘I want to make sure no other woman falls for his lies,’ one of her vitriol-filled posts stated. ‘Although if you’re reading this, it’s probably too late.’ She followed up with a detailed description of her ex, along with his mobile number and email address.
Interesting, I thought. Swindon was a mere forty miles away from Bristol. The guy who had fleeced Broken and Betrayed might well be Steven Simmons - the physical description was certainly close, as was his method of operation. I filed the thought in my head and continued reading. Another story from a poster called Sophie’s Mum, real name Anna, grabbed my attention.
Anna hadn’t been the victim of a love rat, but her daughter had. She spoke with feeling about Sophie, who fell prey to a man calling himself Michael Hammond, whom she met on a premium dating website. At first, all went well, although her mother became concerned over Sophie’s reluctance to introduce her new boyfriend to her parents. She’d claimed he was shy, then cited his need to travel for work most weeks.
That fitted the profile, I thought. Meeting his victim’s parents wouldn’t have featured in his game plan. Far better to stay anonymous, unmet by friends and family.
I read on. By the time Sophie realised she had been duped, she’d lost her life savings. In total he’d fleeced her of forty thousand pounds. The man’s method was what snagged my attention. Michael Hammond had persuaded her to part with cash so he could pay construction workers at the holiday complex he was developing. The similarity was too strong to ignore. Could Michael Hammond be Steven Simmons? As well as Rick Montgomery?
Sophie lived in Melksham, a town within easy driving distance of Bristol. It was possible.
Anna said she was encouraging her daughter to go to the police, despite the lack of hard evidence. She’d also noticed similarities between her daughter’s story and that of Broken and Betrayed, convinced the same man had struck twice. Sophie was resistant though. Like Ellie, she was too ashamed.