by Linda Coles
I’d advise you to tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.
He knew she wouldn’t, but still, he had to make sure.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
After Amanda had left, Jack sat up in his hospital bed. He’d loaded a few more songs onto his playlist and he marvelled at the collection he’d made. While ELO was his life’s fuel, he’d gathered Rainbow, Status Quo and other old rockers into one place and they played in his earphones while he worked. He never knew work could be quite such fun.
A self-confessed luddite, he’d been apprehensive about surfing the dark web, not really knowing what he was doing, but sometimes ignorance was bliss. Amanda had given him a brief tutorial, a brief warning about clicking on images and videos, and set the browser up for him. He’d put in search terms that he thought would bring up results that he could dig into. The crude search engine reminded him of back in the day when he’d first started using the web. It had looked very different than it did today. It was like going back in time, a blast from the past. He’d put in ‘fetish’ and ‘hair fetish’ specifically and was working his way through, though nothing of interest had revealed itself.
Unless you called other people’s kinks interesting.
When he’d found a site for some of the more bizarre fetishes, he’d closed the page as fast as he’d opened it and fought hard to forget what he’d seen. But that was impossible: you couldn’t scrub your brain clean or rewind your life like an old movie. No, you couldn’t un-ring the bell. The image of a young man drinking from a wine glass filled with blood and masturbating at the same time would take him a while to forget. Determined to not fall into any other places that might scar him for life, he realized he needed a bit more direction to what he was doing.
He dialled Ruth’s number and she answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Jack. How are you doing? Feeling any better?”
“I’m a lot better, thanks. Though Amanda has given me a task to do to while away my recovery. No rest for the wicked. And I could do with your help.”
“She told me she’d given you an old laptop to surf with. What do you need?”
“Some instruction, if I’m honest. I think she’s forgotten I’m a luddite, not a techy like you. I can search and surf, but I don’t want to click on shit that’s going to stay in my head forever. I’ve just seen what I can only describe as a vampire having some fun with himself and I nearly puked my guts up again. I swear it’s cauterized onto my eyelids. Any advice, O Technologically Savvy One?” Jack could hear her laughing. He smiled despite himself. “It wasn’t funny, let me tell you. I’m sure it will stay with me forever, burned right into my eyeballs too. Gross!”
“Then don’t click on it, Jack. And keep away from anything with the initials CP on or near it.”
“Dare I ask what CP is?” Then it dawned on him. “Ah, no chance of that, let me assure you. Child pornography is the lowest of the low. God only knows how the special units cope with that shit; they must need a shrink on call seven days a week.”
“Just keep digging as you are. There’s got to be something in there of use for your case. And it’s an old computer, so if you do pick up something with a virus, say, it won’t matter. But while the boss lady has you working, remember you’re supposed to be getting better, not stressing.”
Jack smiled into the phone at her thoughtfulness. “In that case, I shall have a nap, then pick this up again later. Thanks for the heads-up, Ruth.”
“Good idea. Take care, Jack.”
Jack glanced at the disconnected phone. He really could do with a nap, come to think of it. He closed the laptop down and wriggled gingerly down under the covers for a snooze. He smiled wryly: his mid-morning cuppa would probably arrive sometime around then.
Griffin had found Femme Fet-Elle, a group that had interests in things he simply couldn’t comprehend. Why would someone be turned on by such seemingly odd experiences? Did these people not enjoy ordinary sex? How could someone get turned on with human excrement in their midst, for example? He shook his head to clear the images.
He remembered what Vee had said about the women in the videos looking out of it, not active or as interested as the males. Were they high of their own accord, then, or had they been drugged? There was no way of knowing, and as Vee wasn’t in contact with her ex anymore, getting his hands on the files wasn’t an option. And they probably didn’t exist anymore anyway, in hard copy at least, though Vee’s ex probably had copies in the cloud for safekeeping and private viewing.
He knew there were all types of chat rooms and forums on the dark web, for all types of subject matter – he spent time in them himself, after all – but something about this discovery didn’t feel right. His urge to tell someone was getting stronger. What if women were being involved against their will? And what if they were being hurt? And what happened to them after their involvement in the videos: were they passed on to someone else after they’d outlived their usefulness? He’d heard of victims being ‘sold on’ after criminals had had their fun with them, usually to someone who would degrade them even further for their own or someone else’s personal pleasure, and at a price. But that only happened in the movies – didn’t it? He picked up his phone and dialled. He didn’t want their misery to be on his conscience.
It was almost two hours later when Jack woke to his phone vibrating on the bedside cabinet.
“I have a name for you to check out,” the voice said excitedly. Jack’s brain was having trouble coming back into focus after his deeper than usual sleep. But finally, it registered that Ruth was speaking.
“Hang on, let me sit back up,” he grunted groggily. “Okay, what is it?”
“Check into a club called Femme Fet-Elle,” she said, and spelled it for him.
“And what is that?”
“Quite by chance, a friend’s new girlfriend came across some disturbing videos on her ex-boyfriend’s computer some time ago. They involved one of the more . . . unpleasant, I’d guess you’d call it. . . fetishes. The ex was apparently trying to coax her into it as well, but she wasn’t having anything to do with it and ditched him shortly after. Seems he then posted a revenge sex recording of her to get his own back, and she eventually told this friend of mine, who came to me for help with it. Anyway, long story short, that’s the name of the group. Check into it. I’ve told Amanda, so she’ll probably call you later. If there’s something in it, she’s hoping the DI will pass it up the chain to the cyber unit to deal with.”
“Great, because this is out of my league, that’s for sure.” He rubbed fresh sleep from his eyes and yawned. “Thanks, Ruth. I’m on to it.” He hung up and rested his head back to think. They needed something concrete to go on for the cyber unit to take action, and a couple of hair thefts were still not enough. While he didn’t wish for a dead body to turn up, he needed a bigger picture, something big enough to warrant more resources and intervention. In the meantime, perhaps he could sniff around a bit more and join the group, pretending he had a fetish that needed fulfilling – though drinking blood had no appeal even in pretend. So, what, then? He glanced at the floor beside his bed. He remembered Amanda coming to see him with the old leather bag from his wardrobe and what she would have had to remove from it. And voila: there was the idea for his own very personal fetish. The question was, would anyone else share it?
Jack got to work, a wide grin fixed on his stubbly face as he typed. He’d have a shave later.
Chapter Seventy
Jack had spent most of that afternoon creating his fake profile and trying to find a way into the group. There were two aspects to it: first was the chat room, where any member could discuss their interests and ask questions and generally arrange meet-ups. He’d already started chatting and finding his way around in there. So far, so good. But he’d found there was also a premium service on offer. That was the part Jack wanted to look into. Unfortunately, it was available only to those who had been members for at least six months and had a track record of positive activ
ity and respect within the forum. He, however, had neither. Even if he had the prerequisites, he knew the moderators could still refuse to give him premium service for reasons they didn’t state. And he expected that, as with any premium service, there would be a handsome price tag attached to it. There had be another way, but what?
The news was playing on the little TV screen over his bed; a local jewellery shop had been turned over and thieves had got away with some key pieces. Security camera footage had luckily supplied reasonable photos of the intruders as they’d fled. One of them had taken his mask off a bit too prematurely. Jack laughed. Idiot.
That was when the idea hit him. He laughed again, though this time at its simplicity – and the irony of a cop even contemplating it.
He needed to break in.
He needed a geek. And he knew who might be able to help.
Chapter Seventy-One
“Jack, do you realize what you are asking me?” Ruth sounded incredulous and flattered at the same time. “And what even makes you think that I’d know how to get in? I build websites and apps, for heaven’s sake, not knock them down. You need qualified hackers like the cyber team, not a self-taught like me who, quite frankly, wouldn’t be able to pull it off.”
“Ruth, you expect me to believe that you only know ‘a certain type of coding’? You’re far brainier than that; you’ve already proven that. And I wouldn’t ask unless it was important. Besides, the cyber team are overstretched and not interested, so I’m going it alone.”
He heard Ruth swallow a guffaw at the idea of him going it alone on the dark web. Doggedly, he went on. “Shall I get Amanda to chat to you?” He knew mentioning her name would wind Ruth up and away from saying no. Over the last couple of years, he’d got to know her well through their common friend.
“Oh no you don’t, Jack Rutherford. Leave her out of this.” Jack heard a heavy sigh on her side of the phone. She was tempted. Jack knew what her next words were going to be and he smiled in anticipation. When the confirmation came, he silently punched the air with his fist, then winced as his stitches twinged. A passing nurse glared disapprovingly at him.
“Here’s what I’ll do,” Ruth went on. “I’ll set up a profile too and see what I can see from the front end, like you have. Make up an interest and get chatting in the forum. And I’ll do a bit of snooping behind scenes where I can, though I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to achieve, if anything. Remember, it’s all anonymous. That’s for a reason. And if they suspect someone is snooping too deeply, and they’ll have ways, they may get spooked, close up and move to another address. From what I know of illegal groups and forums, they move about real easy so they don’t get caught. But let’s see what we can do between us. Is your profile all set?”
“Yes. My username is Rutter, and apparently I’m into women’s shoes, the more pungent the better.”
“What? That’s gross. Where did that idea come from?”
“Actually, Amanda gave it to me. In a roundabout kind of way.”
“I won’t ask,” Ruth said. She went on, “I’ll call myself ‘Gregory’s Girl’ – close but not close enough. Look out for me later. What time will you be chatting?”
“After visiting hours tonight until the nurses turn my light out. Even in a private room they make you sleep more than you want to.”
“It’s called recovery, Jack. That’s why you’re there.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a bit over it now. I prefer my own bed. And mug.”
“Well, do as they say and you’ll be home soon enough. Look out for me later, then, and keep out of mischief.”
Ruth said goodbye and looked at the half-filled-out profile on the screen in front of her. ‘Gregory’s Girl’ liked hair, since that was where it had all started. The longer the better. She saved the information and closed the page down until later. While she didn’t mind helping out with the case, she had a business of her own to run, and a client was waiting in the meeting room for her. She doubted the website this particular client was having built would be as fun as the one she was going to dig into later.
New members joined the chat room all the time, each with their own very personal desire, and the operator made it his business to never judge them. It was the more affluent members who went on to become clients of the other side of his business – the premium service, the darker service. They paid big money to have their desires delivered on a silver platter, and many of them were repeat business to him.
There were six new requests to join in the last 24 hours, and he looked at their interests. He’d seen and heard it all before, and pungent ladies’ shoes were no exception. He allocated the access level for the new member and did the same for the other five. Then he did some basic digging with the information he had. As usual, there was nothing to see: all anonymous users with anonymous backgrounds. Still, occasionally he got lucky with someone’s stupidity and ended up with information he could use somehow. But not today. Hopefully a couple of them had money.
Chapter Seventy-Two
Ellen had been sent packing. And the client wasn’t happy. She knew her feet weren’t looking their best after she’d run barefoot from the hotel; they hadn’t had time enough to recover. In reality, she should have pulled a sicky and not gone to the job in the first place, but school fees didn’t pay themselves. Now Jules was going to be pissed at her when the client phoned to complain, which they’d inevitably do. What was Ellen going to say? What was her excuse going to be? She’d worked with Jules for many years and they had a good relationship. Ellen was one of her top earners, so why hadn’t she just said no to the job?
She knew why: when you fall off a horse, you have to get back on. After waking up in a strange hotel room, with her ankles bound and smelling of expensive perfume, she’d realized she hadn’t got herself there – she’d been taken. Somehow. She’d turned up at the studio for work, but everything after that was a blank. And now she was letting Jules down for a second time.
It was as if there had to always be stress in her life. At least Danny was feeling better; his stress had gone, and that had taken a weight off her shoulders too. But now it had been replaced with another one, a different type. Instead of Danny being miserable and Ellen trying to sort it out, it was now Jules’s turn.
She smiled as she thought about her son; she had spoken to Danny several times on the phone, and the transformation in his voice was incredible. He sounded almost back to himself, almost happy again, and it was good to hear. Whatever had happened, whatever the story was, she was pleased for him.
The driver pulled up back outside her house. She thanked him, stepped out, and walked up her front path. Once inside, she closed the door and leaned back on it, gazing up at the ceiling for the answer that wasn’t there. Still, she was home now. She untied the laces of her protective walking shoes and slipped her socked feet into the waiting slippers. The phone in her bag rang. Probably Jules. She let it go to voicemail.
“I’ll call you and explain when I’ve had some tea, okay?” she mumbled to herself, and the phone, as though hearing her, went silent. Ellen walked through to the kitchen and turned the kettle on, staring out of the kitchen window to the small patio outside. The few planters were filled with low-maintenance greenery; just enough to add some style to the little space without needing any work. A small link of irrigation hose joined them up; it jumped into life on a timer in the evening during the warm months. A water feature gurgled in the centre; a simple bronze pipe recirculating water into a large concrete basin completed the oasis. The sound always soothed her. It was all she needed: a little space of green tranquillity to appreciate and relax in. She took her mug of tea outside and sat in the recliner to listen and think.
Ellen hated lies. But she and Jules went back many years. Should she tell her the truth? It was unheard of for Ellen to not have the best feet at all times, and she couldn’t think of an excuse to give Jules as to why they were in such bad shape now. Sure, she could say she’d been mugged and had run off, but
that was a lie. Jules would want to know why she hadn’t informed the police, for starters. Yet the truth, whatever that was exactly, was far more sinister.
Tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.
And the debt being paid? What was that about? She didn’t owe anybody anything, so how could a debt have been paid? Has someone got identities mixed up, confused her with someone else, maybe? She was unharmed, apart from her feet, though that had been her own doing in running from the room that she hadn’t actually been held captive in. But she’d bolted, been scared out of her mind, and hadn’t cared as she’d fled barefoot down the pavement.
She sipped her tea and listened to the soothing sound of water trickling into the pool. Finally, she knew what she needed to do.
Tell the truth to Jules, but don’t tell anyone else.
Before she had a chance to change her mind, she retrieved her phone from where she’d left it inside and listened to the voicemail message. While Jules didn’t sound angry, she did sound concerned. Ellen dialled and waited.
“Hi, Ellen. You got my message, then?”
“I did, and let me first apologise. I should have said something sooner and let someone else do the job rather than hope the client didn’t notice. I’m really sorry, Jules. It won’t happen again.”
There was a long pause before Jules spoke again. “Apology accepted. And what happened with the no-show? You say you went; they say you didn’t. Why would they lie? What’s going on with you, Ellen? This is not like you.”
What indeed, wondered Ellen. Suddenly it came to her: she hadn’t lied. The client had lied.
She took a deep breath. “Jules. I need to tell you something. Something a little odd, in fact, and also the reason my feet are looking the way they are. But first, I need you to tell me you won’t tell a living soul. Can you do that?”