by EJ Lamprey
'Excuse me, but your name wouldn’t be Bob, would it?'
'Cheryl! Very nice to meet you at last. So, er, Suzi, nice to bump into you.' He hastily scrambled to his feet with the aid of his crutch. Cheryl pumped his hand enthusiastically and the faintest of winces crossed his face before she released him. Without even a backward glance he ushered her into the Bistro and Edge glanced at her watch. Noon.
She looked across at the entrance to the courtyard as a particularly stout man waddled through and looked around. If this was Nick, even Brian’s photo would have been a better likeness, but he turned on his heel and left again, looking disgruntled, and having barely glanced at her. Maybe he had also been hoping for Cheryl. Feeling her confidence slipping further by the minute, she wondered how long she would be expected to wait, but at that moment a man who could only be Nick hurried into the courtyard, spotted her immediately and headed for her table.
'I’m so sorry I’m late,' he said ruefully, and displayed his palms, which were smudged with black. 'A flat! I’ve never changed a tyre so fast in my life! I’ve got to wash my hands. Now, what can I get you to drink on the way back?'
He headed off with her request for a cream liqueur and she watched after him appreciatively. The Nick in the photos had been a little younger, but the passing of time had only added laughter lines and removed some hair, not unattractively. He was tall, comfortable in build, and moved well. So his teeth were a little too white; he wasn’t the first to improve on nature, and certainly wouldn’t be the last. She liked his voice, too, with its trace of Yorkshire accent more obvious face to face than it had been when they had talked on the phone. Well, well. This little job for the police could have some perks after all.
An hour later, as they walked together to the car park, she was still of the same opinion. Nick was good company, had listened well and done his share of the talking, made her laugh more than once despite her nerves, and was already asking to see her again.
'I’d like that,' she said honestly, stopping by her car.
'I hate this bit,' he looked slightly nervous. 'The first goodbye. Do I crush you in my powerful arms? Shake your hand? Beg you to take me home? Become all Continental and kiss you on both cheeks?'
'That sounds nice,' she felt herself blushing. 'The Continental one, I mean. The crushing, after that enormous meal, could be disastrous.'
He looked fleetingly disappointed and kissed both cheeks politely, lingering on the second cheek to murmur, warm breath on her ear, 'You smell wonderful'.
There was the tiniest muffled giggle in her earpiece and Edge froze with horror, but he hadn’t heard and soon reluctantly took himself off. As he walked towards his car a burly man in jeans, smoking a cigarette and leaning against a wall in the sun, gave her a tiny nod and she hopped into her car, locked the door and pulled her seatbelt across.
'He was smoooooth.' Kirsty’s voice was sarcastic, and Edge let out a whoosh of breath.
'I should have known it was you,' she said crossly. 'Honestly, I nearly passed out in case he heard you. I didn’t even know you’d be on the listening team!'
'Oh, I doubt they’ll let me anywhere near here again. The looks I got when I giggled, you should have seen them. I was worried sick about your whole date, but it seems to have gone really well.'
'Let me get home, I feel a complete eejit sitting in a car talking to myself. And there’s a big bloke across the road watching me closely, by the way.'
'Jeans and a red fleece?' another voice asked in her ear. She nodded, then remembered and answered instead.
'Nae worries, he’s one of us. He was there to make sure there was no trouble at the car, but also to get Nick’s registration number. You did very nicely, Miz Cameron.'
As she drove home she remembered something else. 'I know I’m not supposed to say anything to anyone, but you must have heard that I got rumbled by that man from Grasshopper Lawns? What now?'
'Mountain Bob,' the disembodied voice sounded amused rather than otherwise. 'I’ll report back and you’ll get a phone call soon.'
Mortimer was pleased to see her, if not effusive in his welcome. He hopped down from the window seat to strop her legs affectionately while she tore open a pouch and shook the contents into one of the black china bowls Kirsty had brought from his old home. The phone rang as she slotted his meal into the double-bowl rack on the floor. The caller was Kirsty’s superior officer, Iain McLuskie. Although not in charge of the investigation, he was acting as overall liaison and he congratulated her on her performance.
'Just right – friendly, not too little, not too much. He’ll have gone away thinking he made a bit of a hit, but not completely sure of himself. And now we’ve got a real name and address for one of the main suspects.'
'He was the only one who appeared on every victim’s website profile, wasn’t he?'
'Aye, so far – we still don’t ken for sure that the dating websites are the link. Once someone’s looking for a partner they could be speed-dating or phoning magazine dating lines, but what you’re doing here is really valuable. I wouldn’t want to underplay the value – or the risk.'
'Do I have to see him again?'
'Preferably not, but don’t cut him straight off. We may need you to talk to him again. I liked the way you got him talking about his website experiences. It’s a sign in his favour that he mentioned two of those poor women perfectly naturally, but he could also be a really good actor.'
Susan’s phone chimed from her handbag and she disinterred it, looked at the caller identification and told Iain, 'Speak of the devil. What now?'
'Damn, did no-one tell you to have the phone switched off at home? There’s a nasty little variation of the mobile phone tracking app that can load itself onto phones without being asked. Ken, people using it can track anyone whose phone is switched on, not only the friends who agreed to join the network? Susan’s phone is shielded, but it isn’t one of the Airwave ones, it isn’t completely safe. These viral apps grow by the day and even a shielded phone pops up on their map once it’s answered. Dinna fash, we’ll get all your calls forwarded automatically to a special phone we’ll give you that can’t be tracked.'
'I’ve spoken to him once before from here – no, actually it wasn’t. I was on the train when he rang, so that’s okay. But if the killer already knows the house?'
'Oh aye, ken, but we’re still not sure Susan’s murder was linked. Can you meet Sergeant Dinwoodie at Susan’s house at six?'
'Yes, of course, no problem. One last thing, what do I say to people about getting caught up in the whole singles thing? You’ll have heard about Mountain Bob.'
'What would you normally do? What did you do last time?'
'I told Vivian, so that there was always one person who knew where I was going and who I was meeting – basic safety precaution. I didn’t know William and Donald back then. Vivian trotted out every statistic she could think of about the risk, and was very relieved when I stopped, and I only ever went on one date. It was awful. She’s not going to believe that I got lonely and started again.'
'Well, Kirsty already told you our main worry. Let the media get a hint of a serial killer and there’ll be a frenzy which will either drive him underground or make him change his selection process to something we don’t know about. We’ll have to think of something.'
Chapter 9 - Q
By the time Edge met Sergeant Dinwoodie at Susan’s house at six, Nick had tried calling her five times and she was feeling decidedly less friendly towards him. The phone rang again as the cheerful young sergeant let her in, and she took a deep breath and answered it.
'You’re a hard lady to reach.' His teasing voice was warm and intimate and she tried not to sound annoyed as she said apologetically that the phone had been on silent. Maybe some of the irritation lingered anyway, because he throttled back on the heavily seductive tone. 'I really enjoyed our lunch. When can I see you again?'
'I – Nick, are you rushing me? I did tell you at lunch that I’ve not been wi
dowed that long, and I need time to get used to being on my own.' Sergeant Dinwoodie gave her thumbs up as she creased her eyes, trying to get back inside the character that Susan had invented.
'I wanted to be sure you were safely home, and to say how much I enjoyed myself.' Definitely less husky now. 'I do know what you’re going through. I went through it myself, remember, not that long ago, when Monica died? Good friends, people you can rely on, is the only way you’ll cope, and I want to be your friend. I didn’t want to rush you; I only wanted to hear your voice again. Also to say there’s a new restaurant opened in Linlithgow which is apparently very good and I’d like to try it. This weekend? Or is that too much rush?'
'The weekend after?' She couldn’t help weakening; under different circumstances, being pursued by a very attractive man she’d just met would be wonderful. Sounding more confident, he said he looked forward to instant messaging later via the website, and finally rang off.
'Phew!' she told the sergeant, who grinned, took the phone from her, and took the back off. She picked up the one she would be taking away with her and studied it with interest. It was slim, with a tiny screen and a plain keyboard, surprisingly heavy.
'Virtually indestructible,' the sergeant told her helpfully, 'that’s why it’s so heavy. It’s a covert variation of the Airwave radio phone terminals we use now – no radio facility, mind, but some other tricks. It transmits all your phone conversations and texts to our recording devices, but that tiny screen does make texts a bit of a bugger to read, sorry about that. Now, there are two other features;'
'I feel exactly, but exactly, like James Bond,' Edge said joyfully. 'May I call you Q?'
He grinned and took the phone from her. 'Now pay attention, 007. This cannae be tracked normally, but it does broadcast a very specific shortwave signal, assigned just to this phone, which we – the special ops team - will be tuned into. And this, at the back – looks like a battery cover, see, but it’s a panic button. Twist it sideways, then press to call for help, any stage. It will show up on any police scanners within fifty miles, anywhere in the country.'
He unhooked his own shoulder unit to phone her so she could familiarize herself with making and taking calls and exchanging texts. She had hoped for a chance to explore the house, in view of Kirsty’s interest in it, and teasingly asked if there was a camera facility so she could take a few pictures. He laughed at her.
'You’ll be wanting the camera spectacles for that! This wan is for use with a back-up team, you willnae be needing to take photies, we do that for you.' He removed the battery from Susan’s original phone and tucked it into his carry bag, then gestured for her to lead the way out. Before they parted he dialed her number to check she could hear the ring signal, an insistent chirrup like a cricket from the depths of her handbag, then waved before heading for his own car.
Edge’s own phone rang before she started the car, Kirsty’s name flashing up on the screen.
‘Susan’s ex has accepted my offer on the house!’ she announced without preamble, sounding a little breathless. ‘All signed up on the lease and he’s committed to the purchase as soon as probate goes through. In fact, I’m moving last weekend of the month!’
‘Ooh, how exciting! Do you need any help?’
‘Well, if you’re offering...’ Edge could hear her smiling down the phone. ‘Yes please! Drew is away down South, he can’t get out of it, and I didn’t think it was a particularly big deal at first. I was renting this flat furnished, after all, and Susan’s ex gave me a really good price on the furniture in the house, so I can take my time furnishing it my way, when I’ve got the money. But I can’t believe how much junk I’ve accumulated here! There’s – I’m sorry, but there’s about three carloads of boxes. Clothes and books and shoes and ornaments. Oh, and I’ve just remembered, I’ve got Christmas decorations in the attic. Does your car have a tow hitch? Should I rent a trailer?’
‘Nonsense, I’ll rope in Joey and the Lawns minibus. Oh, hang on though, does it have to be a Saturday? I’ve got a nasty feeling there’s an outing up on the board for every Saturday this month, so the minibus won’t be available. And Sundays it’s always busy ferrying churchgoers. Okay. Forget the minibus. I’ll ask Donald, I’ll be seeing him tonight for bridge and he’s got a fairly big car. If Vivian will volunteer to unpack, and I’m sure she will, she’ll twist William’s arm, too. He’s bought himself a very large 4x4 which will be very handy. What time do you want us?’
‘Well, if you can fit it into your hectic calendar.’ Kirsty was slightly snide, but Edge laughed at her.
‘I’ll need a break by then, I’ve set up about seven dates already. I’ll confirm about the others as soon as I’ve spoken to them, and congratulations!’
As she drove back to the Lawns, she started fleshing out details for the story she had decided to use as cover, in case Brian had already passed on their meeting.
He had—when she arrived at William’s bungalow that evening for bridge, Vivian greeted her with a face like thunder.
'Brian told Donald an interesting story this afternoon.' She glared at Edge, who met her eyes squarely.
'Oh, how did his date go?' She looked across at the others and lifted her eyebrows. 'You all look quite cross. So, did Brian say, is Cheryl the one?'
'No idea.' Donald also looked disapproving. 'Are you really trying website dating?'
'Yes I am, and you can both stop glaring at me, thank you. It struck me there’s a really good script in it, but as far as meetings go, it’ll only ever be once, in public, to gather material. The guy today was really good; he’s been on the circuit for a while and had tons of stories. The very first date he ever went on, the woman reached over to pat his hand as they sat at the table and told him it was okay, she’d got permission from her dead husband via a medium to meet him.'
Vivian’s frown cleared and she laughed. 'You’re pulling my leg.'
'No, really, he said he nearly knocked over his glass. No one could make that sort of stuff up; I have to get the real stories. I was going to milk people via the website but I decided I have to get out, at least a few times. You sound like Kirsty, she’s disapproving as well. I promised her I would borrow Buster and get him to check every guy out before he gets within ten paces.'
'Well, you’re very welcome. He’s never been wrong yet. I still think you’re nuts, but if Kirsty knows about it… Do we go back to the old arrangement, you’ll tell me when and where?'
As Olga had joined them for bridge, Donald, the best player by far, insisted he would teach, not play. He wasn’t as easily fobbed off as Vivian, and beckoned her into William’s kitchen to help him refresh drinks when she was dummy.
'You really will be careful, won’t you? Brian told me the police have had him in twice; a couple of the women he dated have actually got into some serious trouble. He could prove where he was each time but he now makes a point of being in the house pub in the evenings, so if there is ever another incident he’ll have an alibi. He’ll be able to give you some stories, too – he’s met some odd women in his time. You don’t need to go out and about all over the place.'
Edge was genuinely touched by his concern, and didn’t laugh it off.
'I promise you,' she said with completely sincerity, 'I will never go to meet anyone without telling somebody. Kirsty has already made me promise. And Vivian will probably insist. As for going out, don’t you see, if I’m just instant messaging someone, or exchanging messages through the website, I can’t really quiz them about other ways singles get to meet each other, but it’s easy conversation face to face?'
His face had lightened at her obvious sincerity. 'Maybe we’ll come along on a few. Hide in the corner and watch you squirm while we snigger.'
Olga, who was playing out a difficult no-trumps hand, called for him from the main room. He pushed himself off the counter before Edge could answer, and went back to help.
Mortimer greeted her late return with a stretch and delicate fanged yawn and insisted on settli
ng on her lap when she sat at her desk to flip through the files. Yes, there was Mountain Bob. Questioned and released after one of the suspicious deaths, in September – he had been seen having dinner in a Livingston restaurant with the victim a week earlier – and again after the December death, which had been investigated as a burglary. He described himself accurately on his profile, and was looking for ‘friends, maybe more’.
She switched on her computer to update the notes on him and frowned when she saw a cross-reference on his file. Susan had picked up his photo on the other website where he was calling himself ‘Phwoar’. He’d dated another of the victims under that name and she clicked into the archive to check the record. Phwoar and Yummy Mummy had sent messages a few times, had lunch, and then she had blocked him, nearly six weeks before her apparent suicide in a hotel bedroom. Phwoar. Good grief…
There was an email from the police team about Nick, and she read it with interest. With his car registration as a starting point, they’d established that his real name was David Parker and he was much younger than the early sixties he had claimed. Small wonder he had looked good for his age, since he was instead a rather jaded late forties. He was a freelance investment broker boosting investments in smaller companies, making a good enough living to maintain an expensive apartment in a fashionable part of Edinburgh. She remembered how he had got onto the subject of investments, and started to laugh.
'He’s after my money, Mortimer,' she told the cat. '‘You smell wonderful’, indeed! Cheeky bugger. Still, at least his victims survive, eh?' She sent a quick email back to the team suggesting they get in touch with Patrick for his client’s address, but reflected wryly that the woman was unlikely to press charges.