Dom steps into the hallway. He can see the table in the lounge has been pulled out and set for dinner. Three places. Chrissie, Darren Harris and him.
He shakes his head. It’s killing him to go, but he can’t stay here and play happy families. ‘I’m sorry.’
He sees the disappointment in her expression and hates himself even more.
‘I’ve got to go.’ He holds up his mobile like it’s a doctor’s note for getting out of PE. ‘Work, you know.’
‘I know,’ she says. Her tone is dull, resigned. ‘It always is.’
He’s still feeling like a shit as he exits Chrissie’s building. He hates it when she’s disappointed in him; they used to be so close, and he knows she’s confused by him keeping his distance. Trying not to dwell on it, his thoughts turn back to the missed call he had earlier from Simon Lindsay.
Why’s Lindsay calling now? He’s been dodging me for weeks.
He hasn’t spoken to Lindsay since the debrief of Operation Atlantis. They’d been tight enough before; often going out for a pie and a pint, and putting the world to rights for the evening. But, after everything went tits up, nothing.
Dom pulls his phone from his pocket and looks at his missed calls list. Lindsay’s number is at the top.
Better to know than not.
He presses the number. Hears the call connect and the ringing start. His palms feel hot, the phone slippery. He grips the handset tighter as he waits. It pisses him off that he’s this nervous.
Three repetitions later the call is answered. ‘Lindsay.’
‘It’s Dom. You called?’
‘I did. We need to talk.’
Dom says nothing. Waits out the silence. He wants to ask why Lindsay has called him now, why it’s taken over a month, what has suddenly changed, but he doesn’t. He’s realised that he already knows.
‘So you know Therese woke up three days ago?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And the IPCC’s proceeding with the inquiry?’
There’s a nasty taste in his mouth. ‘Yep, they’ve been in touch. I’ve an interview tomorrow morning.’
‘Then you’re the last. They’ve spoken to the rest of us. Wasn’t pleasant – they’re looking for a scapegoat, gunning hard.’
‘So this is, what, a heads-up?’
‘No, there’s something else,’ Lindsay says. ‘She wants to see you.’
20
CLEMENTINE
Professor Wade is waiting for me outside my flat. Pacing three steps along the pavement, then turning and repeating; back and forth, the hem of his long mac flapping in the wind. I curse under my breath. I don’t want to face an inquisition now, I need to get inside and upload my photos, prove I’m good enough to make the team.
He stops pacing when he spots me. ‘Clementine. Where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting ages.’
‘I told you never to come here.’ I walk past him and up the steps to my front door. Touch the key fob to the lock and hear the clunk as it disengages. Shoot him an irritated look. ‘I’m busy.’
‘We need to talk.’
I push the door open but don’t go inside. ‘Like I said, I’m busy.’
He runs his hand through his hair. As ever, it looks just that shade too black. I’m convinced he uses dye. ‘I’ve sent you thirteen emails,’ he says. ‘You’ve not opened any of them.’
He must have put a read-receipt tracker on his email. Typical Wade. ‘I know.’
‘And you haven’t accessed the university systems for over a fortnight.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You’re checking up on me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Don’t.’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Not any more.’ I step into the hallway, ready to close the door. ‘Look, I’ve handed in my thesis. I met the deadline. There’s no problem.’
Wade exhales. His breath clouds into the frigid night air. ‘You met the deadline, sure, but you’re wrong about there not being a problem.’ He leans closer, softens his tone. ‘I’m worried about you. This obsession of yours with that true-crime group, it’s not healthy.’
‘You said I should get out more, get a hobby.’
He looks stern. Shakes his head. ‘Fixating on an online community group for months on end isn’t getting out more. Changing the conclusion of your thesis to some cock and bull idiocy that says crowdsourced crime solving is possible in real time isn’t a hobby. It’s lunacy, truly. I’m in half a mind to call in Student Services.’
I fix him with a hard stare. ‘Do not do that.’
He nods. ‘But we do need to talk.’
I sigh. ‘Fine.’
‘Tomorrow. Twelve o’clock. The tea shop.’
The tea shop is always Wade’s preferred place for a face-to-face meet. It’s not on university grounds, letting him play the ‘maverick professor’ card he so loves.
‘Come alone.’
‘I always do.’
‘Don’t be late, Clementine.’
I resist the urge to make a sarcastic retort. He knows I’m always late. Instead I shut the door in his face.
It’s almost nine but I’m too buzzed to think about food. What I’m hungry for is acceptance – I have to know if I’ve made the cut.
I’ve uploaded the photos. Eighteen pictures from inside the crime scene, each geotagged to prove I’m not bluffing; the co-ordinates matching those on Death Stalker’s photos uploaded this morning.
The comments have been building beneath my photos.
Crime Queen Chilling to think that bed is where Kate Adams died.
Ghost Avenger You must have nerves of steel! I was nervous enough taking the victim pictures at work, but at least I was allowed in the room. You’ve taken things to a new level.
Witness_Zero Nice work.
Justice League I wish I could have been there with you – it must have been fascinating to witness the crime scene first-hand. Did you notice where the forensic team had dusted for prints?
The Watcher Thanks guys. It looked like they’d dusted for prints on the coffee table, the dressing table and a few other surfaces. It was dark though, so hard to tell.
Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson It’s lucky you live so close to the crime scene – easier for you to get back there!
Bloodhound Lucky you weren’t seen. Breaking and entering is a crime! Although we’re investigating a more serious crime, we should try to stay within the limits of the law!
I haven’t said anything about the red brush and my conversation with the neighbour yet. I’m still weighing up if I should, gauging their reactions to the photos and my infiltration of the crime scene. Bloodhound’s reaction makes me think it’s better not to share.
The Watcher @Bloodhound True. I thought it was worth it though.
Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson Definitely worth it.
Bob’s right; it was. I reckon that’s the closest I’ll get to a well done from him, but I don’t care about his faint praise. I care about Death Stalker’s thoughts, and he hasn’t passed comment.
On the right of the screen all the members of Case Files: The Lover are listed. The dot beside Death Stalker’s avatar remains white. He’s not online at the moment.
I move the cursor to hover above Death Stalker’s name. A text box appears: User last online ninety-two minutes ago.
It’s been forty minutes since I uploaded the photos. Doesn’t he get alerts on his phone? Isn’t he paying attention?
I stare at his avatar. Twist the butterfly ring around my index finger. The skin beneath the silver is raw from the motion.
Where is he?
Why isn’t he online?
Why isn’t he replying to me?
I twist the butterfly ring faster. The metal bites into my flesh. I close my eyes and count to ten, concentrating on my breath. Refocus. Gain control.
I need a distraction. Bob’s comment about me being close to the crime scene has given me an idea. Getting up, I cross the room to the bookcase on one side of th
e fireplace and run my fingers across the books as I search for what I need. I find it halfway along the second shelf – a map of London.
Unfolding it, I grab some Blu Tack and attach the map to the wall next to my whiteboard. With a black marker I plot the locations of the three Lover murders, the police building DI Bell and DS Abbott work from and my address. Then I mark other places of significance – the homes and places of work I know of the members of Case Files: The Lover.
Overall the plotted points appear random, with one exception. Almost equidistant between the three murder sites is a location well known to one of the group members – the London Cellular Pathology Service, workplace of Jonathan Pike, aka Ghost Avenger.
Interesting. There’s no evidence to say Ghost Avenger has been to the crime scenes, and no indication he has greater knowledge of the murders than the rest of us, aside from what he’s observed in his job. But the more I think about it, something about him does seem out of kilter.
Leaning back in my chair, I think about what I know of Ghost Avenger: his online interactions, and how he never disclosed his work to the broader group until the task assigned to him made it necessary. I wonder why he held it back. Telling his online peers about what he did, what he had access to, would have elevated his status; instead he’d sought favour through sharing cartoons.
In response to my questionnaire he’d said he joined True Crime London to help him understand more about those who kill, to help him make sense of how some people do the things that result in another person ending up on a slab in his mortuary. The answer reveals his deeper side, and his enthusiasm to join the investigation is unquestionable. But this behaviour seems incongruent. He’s chosen to join a group that are working closer together, sharing more than in the main group, the very opposite of what he’s been doing for the past eighteen months. Question is, why the change in behaviour, and why now?
Studies on the personality profiles of people who spend higher proportions of time interacting in the virtual world rather than the real world, like many true-crime fans, show them as high in the need for affiliation and fulfilment. A significant proportion self-report as introverted. They’re more comfortable sharing things online, and are prone to oversharing. Not so with Ghost Avenger. He’s withheld knowledge rather than sharing it. He’s an outlier, an anomaly.
Grabbing a dry marker I jot down my thoughts under Ghost Avenger’s name on the whiteboard: secretive, located centrally to crime scenes, change in online behaviour inconsistent with previous interaction – why? An idea occurs to me. I open a new private message and type Ghost Avenger into the recipient field.
The Watcher to @GhostAvenger Thanks for your kind words about my nerves. It was pretty scary, but exciting too. I really wanted to contribute something to the investigation. It’s so ridiculous the Lover is still out there, don’t you think?
A couple of seconds pass, then three dots appear. Ghost Avenger is replying.
Ghost Avenger to @TheWatcher Totally. Kate Adams shouldn’t have died. The police should have caught the killer before this. It’s been four weeks, but they’re operating on minimal staffing and long hours. Overstretched, just like we are at the mortuary. It needs to change.
Interesting.
The Watcher to @GhostAvenger So how did you get interested in true-crime stuff?
The three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again. He must be typing, then changing his mind and deleting what he’s written. A message appears.
Ghost Avenger to @TheWatcher Kind of a long story. Let’s talk at the meet.
I frown.
The Watcher to @GhostAvenger The meet?
Ghost Avenger to @TheWatcher Don’t worry, you’ll get an invite. Death Stalker will tell you. Look forward to meeting IRL.
I’m no further forward. I want to know what this meeting is, and who else is invited; I want an invite. For such a significant change in Ghost Avenger’s behaviour there must be a powerful motivator: I need to find out what it is.
There’s still no response from Death Stalker.
I raise my arms above my head and feel my back muscles, cramped up from sitting at my desk for far too long, begin to stretch out. I’m fed up with waiting.
My laptop pings. There’s a new comment beneath my photo album post. I smile when I see who it’s from.
Death Stalker Good work. Great to have pictures from inside the crime scene.
I force myself to wait ten minutes before responding.
The Watcher @DeathStalker Thank you. This investigation is important to me. I wanted to contribute something useful.
I wait for more – another comment, a private message – something to tell me I’ve made the final group. Nothing comes. The dot beside Death Stalker’s name is still green. He’s online. Why isn’t he talking to me? I want him to talk to me.
There’s a way I can get him to talk. It will also let me test how much of a team player he really is. I select his name and type.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker I have more information.
He replies in nineteen seconds.
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher From the crime scene?
The Watcher to @DeathStalker Yes
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Tell me …
I smile.
Got you.
I wait four minutes before answering.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker I spoke to a neighbour – it sounds like she might have seen Kate Adams’s killer entering the flat last night.
The reply is immediate.
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Did she see his face?
21
CLEMENTINE
I don’t reply immediately. There’s something about the message, the speed he sent it or the way it’s worded, that makes me uneasy. I’m considering how to respond when another message appears, and then another.
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Can she describe him?
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Has she told the police?
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Is she going to tell the police?
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher This is important! Answer me!
It’s scaring me. I lean away from the screen. Why is he reacting like this?
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Please answer.
I wait thirty seconds before I respond.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker She said he was wearing a hoodie. She didn’t get a look at their face, she thought it was the boyfriend at first – Mart Stax. But he was at work.
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Has she told the police?
I wonder why he keeps asking that. Does he think this information gives us an edge over the police, or is he trying to hide something more sinister? He was at the crime scene early this morning. Now I’m wondering how early.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker No, she doesn’t trust them.
Forty-six seconds pass before he replies.
Death Stalker to The Watcher: Good work. Anything else to report?
The red brush is sitting on the corner of my desk. I’m worried by Death Stalker’s reaction to the neighbour’s sighting of the killer. I’m not sure I should trust him, but who else can I tell? I can’t go to the police; they’d want to know how I got it.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker At the crime scene I found something. It’s a broken brush. Stax had it in his pocket, he was all upset over it. I grabbed it on my way out.
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Wait, you saw Stax??
The Watcher to @DeathStalker He came back while I was there. I had to hide then run when he went to the bathroom.
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Respect
The Watcher to @DeathStalker Shall I post a pic for the team? I could tell them about Stax and the neighbour, too.
The answer comes in under ten seconds.
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher No, let’s keep this to just us for now.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I pull the fleece blanket around me, suddenly cold. He’s letting me into his confidence, but it
doesn’t feel good. There’s something dangerous about this man. I should stop, log out, delete my profile; but I don’t. I can’t leave the investigation now.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker What do you suggest?
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher I know a guy who can run analysis for us. Bring the brush to the meet tomorrow. We can talk more then.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker What meet?
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Check the group page tomorrow and you’ll see.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker OK
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Have a good evening. You’ve earned it.
I start to type a response. Before I press return the dot beside Death Stalker’s name turns white, and I know he’s gone. I take a deep breath and try to calm my racing heart rate. I can’t stop shivering. I feel sick to my stomach.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter, I’ve made the final cut, I’m in; but it doesn’t help. The sense of dread I have about Death Stalker is growing. His controlling nature, the secrets he keeps, and the way he reacted tonight are scaring me, but it’s more than just that – perhaps we are alike, him and me.
What if he’s the killer?
22
He misses her even though he’s been less than fifteen feet from her most of the night. He misses touching her, that’s the difference. He hasn’t been able to touch her tonight. He had to watch instead.
He watched his rival, some scruffy blond idiot, collect her from her flat at twenty past eight. He followed behind them, just within line of sight, on the eleven-minute walk to the Italian restaurant. He heard her laughing. Watched his rival grab her arm when she caught her heel in a crack between the pavement slabs. Felt the jealousy needle through him.
He took a corner table for one towards the back of the restaurant. Ignored the candlelight, the piano music and the hushed conversations of the other couples around him. He ignored the man she was sitting opposite at the table halfway into the restaurant. He had eyes only for her. But he had a book with him, the latest John Grisham, for disguise. He played with his phone a bit too; social media, messages. It made him just another lonely businessman reading for company over dinner; someone to feel sorry for, someone to discount and forget.
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