I See You (27 page)

‘Got it,’ Nick said. ‘So where is the administrator logging on from?’

Andrew laced thin fingers together and cracked his knuckles; first one, then the other. ‘It’s not that simple, sadly.’ He opened his notebook and showed Nick and Kelly a number: 5.43.159.255. ‘This is the IP address – it’s like a postcode for computers. It’s a static IP but it’s hosted on a Russian server, and unfortunately the Russians—’

‘Let me guess.’ Nick cut in. ‘The Russians don’t cooperate with British police. For Christ’s sake!’

Andrew raised both hands. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’

‘Is there any way at all to trace the website?’ Kelly said.

‘Honestly? No. At least, not within the timeframe you need, given the threat level. It’s a virtually undetectable website.’

‘Does this mean we’re looking for someone particularly savvy?’ Kelly asked. ‘Someone with a background in IT, perhaps?’

‘Not necessarily. All this stuff is available online for anyone who wants to find it. Even the DI could do it.’

Kelly hid a smile. Nick let it go. ‘So what do you suggest?’

‘It’s that old adage: you’ve got to follow the money.’

‘What do you mean?’ Kelly said.

‘Have you never seen
All the President’s Men
?’ Andrew said. ‘You’ve missed out. The offender is taking payment from people registering on his dating site, right? That’s the money we need to follow. Each transaction can be traced from the customer’s credit or debit card to the PayPal account associated with the site, and finally to the offender’s bank account. When you know how the money’s being withdrawn, and by whom, then you’re on to something.’

Kelly
felt a glimmer of optimism.

‘What details do you need?’

‘You used your own credit card, right?’

Nick nodded.

‘The date of transaction, the amount, and the credit card you used to pay. Get me those, and I’ll get you our man.’

We
sit in near-stationary traffic on Norwood Road for half an hour, inching forward in Graham’s car. He’s an impatient driver, jerking the car into any available space he sees, and leaning on his horn if the car in front dares wait more than a split second before moving forward at the lights. It’s the second day running that Graham has driven me home, and we’ve run out of conversation, exhausting our usual topics about whether the old video shop will go for the asking price, and how there are never enough split-level offices to keep up with demand, and so we sit in silence.

Every now and then I say sorry again for taking Graham so far out of his way, and he dismisses my apology.

‘Can’t have you wandering around London with some pervert after you,’ he says.

Fleetingly it occurs to me that I’ve never been specific about the nature of the attacks on other women in London, then I realise it’s a natural assumption to make about a man who stalks women.

I know I could ask Matt to pick me up, and that he would insist on driving me between work and home for as long as I needed him to. I don’t ask because Simon would hate it, and Matt would like it too much.

The fact that Matt still loves me is the unspoken truth that circles between us all. Between me and Matt, when we see each other to talk about the children, and he holds my gaze for a fraction longer than he needs to. Between me and Simon, when
I mention Matt’s name, and see the hard flash of jealousy in Simon’s eyes.

Simon can’t take me. He sold his car a few weeks ago. At the time I thought he was mad; he might not have used it much during the week, but our weekends were full of supermarket shops and trips to Ikea, or heading out of town to see friends and family.

‘We can take the train,’ he told me, when I suggested we’d miss having a car. It never once crossed my mind he couldn’t afford to keep one.

I wish I had a driving licence. There never seemed to be a need for it, living in London, but now I wish I could drive myself to work. Ever since I found out about the adverts I’ve been on high alert; every nerve-ending tingling, waiting for the time I will need to run. Or fight. I look everywhere; watch everyone.

It feels safe here, in Graham’s car, where I know no one is following me, and I can lean into the soft leather and shut my eyes without worrying I’m being watched.

The traffic begins to move freely again once we’re over the river. The heating is on and I feel warm and relaxed for the first time in days. Graham puts the radio on and I listen to Capital FM’s Greg Burns interview Art Garfunkel. The strains of ‘Mrs Robinson’ play over their closing remarks, and I think how funny it is that I still remember all the words, but before I can shape them in my mind, I’m falling asleep.

I slide in and out of consciousness as we drive. The traffic noise changes constantly and I’m pulled awake, only to drift off again moments later. I hear the start of a new song on the radio; shut my eyes for what seems like a split second, then wake to the closing refrain of a different track entirely.

My subconscious confuses the sounds that push their way into my sleep; the buses, the music, the radio adverts. The car’s engine becomes the dull rumble of an Underground train; the
presenter’s voice an announcer telling me to
mind the gap.
I’m standing on the Tube, commuters packed in beside me; the smell of aftershave and sweat in the air. The aftershave is familiar and I try to place it, but it eludes me.

Eyes, everywhere. Watching me. Following me. Knowing every step of my journey. The train stops and I try to get off, but someone’s pushing against me, forcing me against the wall of the carriage.

It’s Luke Friedland. He’s pressing hard against my chest.
I rescued you
, he’s saying, and I try to shake my head; try to move. The smell of aftershave is overpowering; it fills my nostrils and chokes me.

My eyes are closed.

Why are my eyes closed?

I open them, but the man pressed against me isn’t Luke Friedland.

I’m not on a train; not surrounded by commuters.

I’m in Graham Hallow’s car.

It’s Graham with his face next to mine, his arm across me, pressing me into my seat. It’s Graham I can smell; that woody, cinnamon fragrance mixed with body odour and the musty scent of his tweed jacket.

‘Where are we? Get off me!’

The pressure on my chest disappears but I’m still fighting for
breath; panic filling my throat as surely as though there were two hands around it. Darkness surrounds the car and seeps in through the windows, and I fumble for the door handle.

The light makes me blink.

‘I was undoing your seat belt,’ Graham says. He sounds angry; defensive.

Because I accused him?

Or because I stopped him?

‘You fell asleep.’

I look down and see my seat belt has been unclipped, the strap hanging over my left arm. I realise we are parked in my street: I can see the front door of our house.

Colour floods my face. ‘I – I’m sorry.’ Sleep has left me confused. ‘I thought …’ I try and form the words, ‘I thought you were …’ I can’t say it, but I don’t need to. Graham turns the ignition key, the roar of the engine putting a full stop to our conversation. I get out of the car and shiver; the temperature fifteen degrees lower than inside. ‘Thank you for the lift. And I’m sorry I thought—’

He drives off, leaving me standing on the pavement.

With findtheone.com there
are no blind-date nerves, there’s no stilted conversation over dinner. I’d argue it’s more honest than most online dating sites, with their air-brushed photos and their profiles full of lies. Salary range, hobbies, favourite foods … all irrelevant. Who builds a relationship on a mutual love of tapas? A match might be perfect on paper, yet lack the spark needed to set it alight.

findtheone.com cuts through all that rubbish; the pretence that anyone cares if you like opera or walks in the park. It means men can take their time. They can follow you for a while, engage you in conversation; see if you’re interesting enough to take for dinner, instead of wasting their time on a garrulous air-head. It means men can get up close and personal. Smell your perfume; your breath; your skin. Feel a spark. Act on it.

Are you wondering who my clients are? Who would use a website like this? Are you thinking the market can’t possibly be big enough?

I can assure you it is.

My customers come from all walks of life. They’re men with no time to form relationships. Men with enough money not to care. Men who haven’t found that ‘special someone’; men who get their kicks from being in control. Everyone has their own reason for joining findtheone.com; it isn’t my job to care what it is.

So who are these men?

They’re
your friends. They’re your father, your brother, your best friend, your neighbour, your boss. They’re the people you see every day; the people you travel to and from work with.

You’re shocked. You think you know them better than that.

You’re wrong.

‘Is
this your vehicle?’ Kelly pushed a photograph of a black Lexus across the table. Gordon Tillman nodded. ‘For the benefit of the tape, the suspect is nodding his head.’ Kelly looked at Tillman, less confident now his flashy suit had been exchanged for a grey custody-issue tracksuit, but still arrogant enough to try and out-stare his interviewers. His date of birth put him at forty-seven, but he looked ten years older; his skin mottled by years of excess. Drugs? Or drink? Drink and women. Late nights spent flashing the cash to attract girls who wouldn’t otherwise give him a second glance. Kelly tried to keep the look of disgust off her face.

‘Were you driving it at approximately quarter to nine yesterday morning?’

‘You know I was.’ Tillman was relaxed, his arms folded across his chest as he answered Kelly’s questions. He hadn’t asked for a solicitor, and Kelly hadn’t yet worked out how the interview was going to go. Full admission? It was looking that way, and yet … there was something in Tillman’s eyes that suggested it wasn’t going to be quite that easy. She had a sudden memory of another interview room – a different suspect; the same crime – and she clenched her fists tightly beneath the table. It had been a one-off. He’d pressed her buttons but she was younger then, less experienced. It wouldn’t happen again.

But sweat trickled down her spine, nevertheless, and she had to fight to keep focus. It had never come back to her; the words whispered in her ear. The words that had tipped her over the edge and caused the red mist to descend so completely that she lost control.

‘Could
you tell me, in your own words, what happened between half past eight and ten o’clock yesterday?’

‘I was returning from a conference I’d been to the night before. There was a dinner afterwards and I stayed the night in Maidstone so I was about to head back to Oxfordshire. I was going to work from home for the rest of the day.’

‘Where do you work?’

Tillman looked at her, letting his eyes flick briefly, but very deliberately, down to her chest before he answered. Kelly felt, rather than saw, Nick lean forward in his chair. She willed him not to speak. She didn’t want to give Tillman the satisfaction of knowing she’d even noticed where his gaze fell.

‘In the City. I’m a wealth manager for NCJ Investors.’

Kelly hadn’t been surprised when the DI had told her he’d be sitting in on the interview. She had begged him to let her interview Tillman, reminding him of how hard she’d worked on the case, and how badly she wanted to be there at the finish. He had taken for ever to reply.

‘Okay. But I’ll be there too.’

Kelly had nodded.

‘You’re too inexperienced to lead this alone, and there’ll be a few noses out of joint in the office as it is.’

The other reason lay unspoken between them. He didn’t trust Kelly not to lose it. How could she blame him? She didn’t trust herself.

She had been suspended instantly, the threat of criminal proceedings running alongside the internal disciplinary.

‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Diggers had said, when Kelly had been hauled out of custody, her shirt ripped and a bruise forming on the side of her face where the suspect had fought back. She was shaking violently, the adrenaline leaving her body as quickly as it had arrived.

‘I didn’t think at all.’ That wasn’t true. She’d been thinking
about Lexi. It was inevitable, she’d known that as soon as the case came in. A girl, raped by a stranger on her way home from school. ‘I’ll take it,’ she’d told her DS instantly. She’d treated the victim with the compassion she had wished her sister had experienced, feeling like she was making a difference.

A few days later they brought in the offender; a DNA hit on a known sex offender. He declined a brief; sat smirking in the interview room in a paper suit.
No comment. No comment. No comment.
Then he yawned, as if the whole situation were boring him, and Kelly had felt the rage building inside her like a kettle about to boil.

‘So you were driving home …’ Nick prompted, when Kelly didn’t say anything. She forced herself to focus on Tillman.

‘I was coming past the station and I realised I was probably still over the limit from the night before.’ The corner of Tillman’s mouth curled into a smile, and Kelly realised he knew full well the admission could never result in legal proceedings. She would have bet her pension on Gordon Tillman being a regular drink driver: he was just the sort of arrogant wanker who would claim to drive better after a few pints. ‘I thought I’d better stop for a coffee, so I pulled over and asked a woman if there was somewhere nearby.’

‘Can you describe this woman?’

‘Mid thirties, blonde hair. Tidy figure.’ Tillman smiled again. ‘She recommended a café relatively close, and I asked if she wanted to come with me.’

‘You asked a complete stranger out for coffee?’ Kelly said, not bothering to disguise her disbelief.