‘You saying she bought the phones in bulk?’
‘I would have thought so. She certainly got through her stock quick enough.’
‘Like you buying in boxes of shampoo and volumiser?’
‘Makes sense, doesn’t it? If you’re a grocer you buy several cases of baked beans at a time, don’t you? Saves messing about, and it’s a damn sight cheaper.’
Tanner nodded, thinking.
When he was almost done, French excused himself and stepped across to take a call at the reception desk. Tanner quickly took her phone from her bag and made a call of her own.
‘Listen, Dipak… how do you feel about taking on a really tedious job?’
Chall laughed.
‘I’m serious. You’re not going to enjoy it, but it needs doing.’ She told Chall what she was after and he stopped laughing. Without leaving him any time to ask questions, she apologised for dumping it on him.
‘I’ll live,’ Chall said. ‘Just.’
When she’d hung up, Tanner picked up the newspaper and began to flick through it, still thinking about what French had told her about the Duchess and wondering if she was now wasting Chall’s time as well as her own. She stopped when she saw a story tucked away at the bottom of a page. French came back, saying something about bolshie clients, then looked down and spotted the story that had caught Tanner’s eye.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Have they still not caught that nutcase yet?’
Tanner had not finished reading. Three paragraphs about the dismembered body of another cat, laid out ritualistically in a front garden in St Albans. Quotes from those victims Thorne had interviewed a week and a half earlier and a statement from an unnamed officer assuring the public that the hunt for the perpetrator had been stepped up.
‘I swear to God,’ French said. ‘Anyone who can do that to a defenceless animal…’
The junior who had washed Tanner’s hair moved across and looked at the paper. She shook her head. ‘That’s so gross.’
Tanner moved a finger across the newspaper. ‘Trust me, we’re doing everything we can.’
The girl nudged French. ‘You should tell her what you told me.’
‘What?’
‘That horrible story, you know? The bloke you were inside with.’
‘Oh. Well…’
When the girl had walked away, Tanner said, ‘What story?’
French stepped slowly round Tanner’s chair and spun it a little until he was facing her. ‘Listen, I’m probably talking rubbish here, only I’ve been thinking about this ever since I started reading about what was happening to all those cats. It’s why I told Keisha, and… well, you never know, it might be something to pass on to whoever’s in charge of it.’
Tanner waited.
‘There was this bloke I was in Maidstone with. Before I went to Pentonville. I mean, I steered well clear of him, same as most people did, because he was… not right, you know?’
‘What do you mean, “not right”?’
French lowered his voice again. ‘So, they brought a couple of cats in one time… not for the prisoners, though they do all that kind of thing in America, use animals for therapy or whatever. No, they just brought these ones in because the place was crawling with rats. Huge things running around on the landings and in the kitchens. Anyway, two days after these cats came in, they were found all cut up in the exercise yard. In pieces, literally… and everyone knew it was him, this bloke I’m on about, because he was bragging about it. Said he couldn’t stand them. You can check all this with the prison if you like… I mean, he was never done for it or anything, and he was released pretty soon after that anyway.’
‘What was he in for?’ Tanner asked.
French said, ‘Rape,’ like he might have said, ‘overdue library books’ and grimaced. ‘We were all a damn sight happier when he’d gone, I can tell you that much. Like getting rid of a bad smell. Still had the rats, mind you…’
Tanner closed the newspaper. ‘What was he called?’
French leaned closer and told her the man’s name, then repositioned the chair and moved back behind it. He gave Tanner’s hair a final once-over with the dryer, applied a little spray then made a few last-minute adjustments with his fingers.
He stepped back and grinned at her in the mirror.
‘Gorgeous.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
This was how things were now, Thorne supposed, as he got his first look at the place, when you ran what for all he knew was a multi-million-pound business that took place exclusively online. The hub of your empire was actually no more than two rooms at the top of a nondescript terraced house in Rugby. A middle-aged woman called Caroline Marchant, who had taken Chall’s first call and subsequently several others, had opened a front door to reveal two more beyond a small hallway. Surprise had quickly given way to nervous enthusiasm and she had barely paused for breath as she led Thorne and Kitson through one of the doors and up a narrow flight of stairs.
A telephone voice that couldn’t quite disguise the Midlands accent.
‘Well, I suppose it’s as convenient a time as any. Or as inconvenient, I should say. I mean yes, it would have been a bit easier if we’d known you were coming, but I’m sure we can sort something out, do our best to help, now you’re here… as you’ve obviously driven all the way up from London. How was the drive? The M1 can be a pig first thing. Or did you come on the train?’
The stairs led straight into a medium-sized room containing two desks, on each of which sat a pair of large computer screens. A younger woman turned from one of the desks and smiled.
‘This is Sandra,’ Marchant said. ‘She does all the financial stuff, keeps on top of subscriptions, handles the accounts and so on.’ She nodded towards their visitors, then moved quickly to turn off the radio on the younger woman’s desk. ‘These are police officers.’
Thorne introduced himself and Kitson as the woman stood up and stepped across to shake hands. She was tall and skinny with long dark hair; almost the exact physical opposite of the woman Thorne presumed was, at least nominally, the boss. ‘Sandra Cook. I do the boring bits.’
‘Rubbish.’ Marchant smiled. ‘I can barely add up, so without you we’d all be in big trouble.’
Thorne looked around. There was a wall calendar, a few posters – sunsets, kittens, WORK HARD AND BE NICE TO PEOPLE – and an old-fashioned metal filing cabinet with a kettle on top; a tray and three upturned mugs.
‘So, how many of you are there?’ he asked. Through the door he could see another room at the end of a short corridor, a sofa and armchairs.
‘Well, I suppose I’m what you’d call the creative powerhouse of Made In Heaven,’ Marchant said. ‘I write everything on the site, arrange the advertising, what have you. Sandra comes in three days a week to do the books and then there’s Ken, who’s our technical wizard and handles all the computer and database side of things.’ She nodded towards an empty chair. ‘Kenneth Ablett.’
‘Where’s the wizard today?’ Kitson asked.
‘He’s only part time, too. Today’s not one of his days, I’m afraid.’
‘Could you give us his address?’
‘I could call him, if you want. He only lives five minutes away and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind popping in.’
‘That’s perfect.’
‘Why don’t you go through and sit down?’ She pointed to the second room. ‘I’ll give Ken a quick ring.’
Thorne and Kitson did as Marchant had suggested, the woman shouting after them, to let them know the door on their left was a toilet, should either of them need it. Kitson took swift advantage. Thorne carried on and dropped on to a large leather sofa, not quite able to make out the short conversation between the two women in the office, or whatever Marchant proceeded to say on the phone.
The room was stuffy and the windows needed cleaning and they had clearly bought a job lot of cheesy or inspirational posters. There were two more filing cabinets against one wall, a small TV in the corner and
, somewhat incongruously, an exercise bike.
Thorne took out his phone to check messages. He was immediately offered access to a Wi-Fi network called MadeInHeavenGuest, which was password protected.
Some security, at least.
He tried amatch, then marchant, then gave up.
Kitson walked in, quickly followed by Marchant. They both sat down.
‘Ken’s on his way.’
Thorne thanked her, wondering why she hadn’t offered them a drink. It was usually a go-to tactic when people were nervous and the truth was he could have murdered a coffee.
‘And Sandra’s bringing some tea through.’
Tea would do. ‘You must be psychic,’ Thorne said.
Marchant smiled. ‘Well, you have to be able to read people,’ she said. ‘If you’re in this game. Bringing strangers together.’
‘Well, that’s what we’re here to talk about, but I have to say I’m wondering why you were so surprised to see us?’
‘I don’t know… not surprised, exactly.’
‘Five women registered with your agency have been murdered in little under a year. Four in the last six months. So it’s hardly a bolt from the blue is it, us turning up?’
The woman folded her hands in her lap. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Thank you for getting us that information so quickly,’ Kitson said.
That first phone call had confirmed what they already knew about Alice Matthews and provided the game-changing information about the murder of Karen Butcher. Then, after some pushing from Dipak Chall, Marchant had finally come back to confirm, with ‘shock and sadness’, that Patricia Somersby, Annette Mangan and Leila Fadel had also been registered with her dating site.
Single and looking for matches, which Made In Heaven had provided.
‘Well, it wasn’t easy. We have hundreds of clients, and it’s not like we know any of them personally. Even when we looked… well, obviously it was Ken who did all that… several of the women had registered under different names. That isn’t unusual, because sometimes people are embarrassed about using an agency like mine, but it meant we had to go back through their financial information. Direct debits and what have you. It was a hell of a shock, I can tell you. Horrible, just… horrible.’
Thorne sat back. ‘Tell me how this business works.’
Marchant seemed more than happy to talk; on safe ground. She paused only briefly when Sandra Cook arrived with the drinks, and continued as Thorne and Kitson mumbled thanks, said yes to milk and no to sugar. ‘Well, it’s like any other business. I mean, retail is retail, but you’d get different answers if you were talking to the man who runs the local corner shop or the CEO of Marks and Spencer. For a start, there’s a subtle difference between a dating agency and a matchmaker. There are some companies who offer a more bespoke service, who meet their clients personally, tailor their profiles and so on. Of course, you pay through the nose for that, thousands of pounds a year in some cases, and it’s all a bit over the top if you ask me, but those businesses have no shortage of clients. The ones who deliberately target single people with money to burn.’
Thorne had taken two slugs of tea before he ran out of patience. ‘I mean your business.’
‘Well, obviously we’re a somewhat smaller operation.’
‘Boutique,’ Kitson suggested.
Marchant flashed her a thin smile. ‘Well, we still have a lot of clients, but we don’t offer quite that degree of… personalised service. To be honest, a lot of that is nonsense anyway. These bigger agencies that claim to have in-house psychologists and lifestyle coaching. Grooming tips and fashion advice and so on. They’re just charging people a fortune for what amounts to much the same as we offer.’
‘You’re the bargain basement end of things,’ Thorne said.
‘No, I wouldn’t say that.’
‘A more basic service, then?’
‘A more streamlined service.’
‘So, how much does it cost?’ Kitson asked.
Marchant looked at Sandra Cook.
‘Well… there are a few different packages.’ Cook looked a little uncomfortable at being put on the spot. ‘It depends how long you sign up for, but a basic membership at twenty-nine ninety-five per month for a minimum of six months, offers online registration and a guaranteed number of matches per week.’
‘I can promise you we offer a very thorough service,’ Marchant said. ‘Matches are made scientifically following a rigorous registration process.’
‘Scientifically?’ Thorne looked at her. ‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, we use all sorts of complicated algorithms… but I think Ken had better explain how all that works.’ She smiled and shook her head and Sandra Cook did the same. ‘I can just about manage to send an email, and that’s on a good day.’
‘See, I registered with your agency yesterday afternoon,’ Thorne said.
Marchant cocked her head. ‘Oh.’
‘I’m not actually looking to meet anyone, I just thought it might be an interesting exercise, you know? To hand over my twenty-nine ninety-five and take the same steps each one of those five murder victims had taken. To go through your rigorous registration process.’ He looked at Kitson, who nodded, as though this was the first she had heard about it. ‘It certainly takes a while to answer all the questions, I’ll give you that much, but I’m not absolutely convinced it was time well spent.’
Marchant blinked and swallowed.
‘No luck then?’ Kitson asked.
Thorne shook his head sadly. ‘I said I was a heavy smoker who was also a staunch atheist and by the end of the day I’d been matched up with several committed Christians and at least a couple of prospective partners whose pet hate was smoking.’
‘Well, nothing’s one hundred per cent,’ Marchant said.
‘You get what you pay for.’
‘But if you’d taken the time to read the testimonials from hundreds of satisfied clients —’
Kitson cut the woman off. ‘None of whom you’ve ever met, correct? The same would go for Alice Matthews and the other women who were killed.’
‘As I’ve already explained,’ Marchant said, ‘that’s not how the agency operates.’
‘Makes sense.’ Kitson turned to Thorne. ‘So none of them would be known personally to anyone at the agency or be recognised later on. No pictures on the front of newspapers that were likely to catch anyone’s eye.’
Thorne nodded, stared across at Marchant and Cook. ‘Yes, we were wondering why you hadn’t made the connection. Five murdered women, all of them on your books. That might explain it, I suppose.’
‘Like I said, we’ve got a great many clients.’
‘Even so —’
‘Well, you didn’t make the connection either.’ Marchant looked from Thorne to Kitson. ‘Until now.’ She sat back and folded her arms. ‘I mean, whatever you think about how this agency works, surely you can’t believe we’re supposed to do the police’s job for them.’
A few seconds of awkward silence were broken by the sound of a key rattling in a lock one floor below them and it was another half a minute before the man Thorne presumed to be Kenneth Ablett entered and stood in the doorway taking the visitors in.
He sat down on the arm of Sandra Cook’s chair and said, ‘Looks like I missed out on the tea.’
He was a shortish thirty-something, with a neatly groomed goatee and dark hair tied back into a man-bun, but was otherwise far from being the stereotypical geek Thorne had been expecting. He looked as though he took care of himself, and was smartly dressed in chinos, a soft leather jacket and highly polished brogues. Thorne found himself wondering exactly how the man had been planning to spend his day off.
Marchant made the introductions.
‘Caroline was just telling us about your computer system,’ Thorne said. ‘How you’re in charge of maintenance and so on.’
‘That’s right.’ A low, accentless voice. Colourless.
‘Did you set it up?’
�
��Yeah.’ He glanced down at Sandra Cook. ‘It’s fairly straightforward if you know what you’re doing.’
‘How secure is it?’
‘As secure as any.’ He shrugged. ‘Or as insecure.’
‘Would you know if it had been hacked?’
‘Yeah, course. It’s been hacked a couple of times.’
Thorne and Kitson exchanged a look. ‘What happened?’ Kitson asked.
Another shrug. ‘Just the kind of thing you’d expect. Porn stuff. People log into their account to check their matches and instead of the partner of their dreams they get hard-core porn images.’
‘It was disgusting,’ Marchant said. ‘It really upset some of our clients.’
‘I bet,’ Thorne said.
‘Probably only some of them.’ Ablett glanced down at Sandra Cook again, grinning. She giggled and reddened. Marchant did not look impressed.
‘Just smart-arse kids, probably,’ Ablett said. ‘Easy enough to put right, change a few passwords, whatever.’
‘I thought you said it had happened twice,’ Thorne said.
‘Yeah, well, if they’re clever enough to get round it once, they’re clever enough to figure out how to do it again. It’s just a game, really.’
‘Why would anyone do something like that?’
He looked at Thorne as though it were a very stupid question. ‘Because they can. Because they want to find out if they can. Because they’re bored.’ He looked at Sandra Cook again, who nodded in agreement. ‘That’s what most hacking is. Just dicking about, really.’
‘We’ll need to get our forensic computer team in to take a look.’
‘Fine with me,’ Ablett said.
Marchant sat forward. ‘Does that mean all our systems will be shut down?’
The Killing Habit Page 20