‘I take it you haven’t found a link between Operation FURNISS and Durham?’ The question was directed at Kelly, but it was Nick who answered.
‘I’ve ruled it out,’ he said, without any of Kelly’s hesitation.
‘I thought as much.’ Diggers looked from Kelly to Nick and back again. Kelly held her breath. ‘Might I suggest we consider the background research into similar crimes complete?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Get back to work, the pair of you.’
They were in the doorway when Diggers called to Kelly. ‘One more thing …’
‘Sir?’
‘Offenders, coppers, witnesses, victims … there’s one common thread running through them all, Kelly, and it’s that no two people are the same. Every victim deals differently with what’s happened to them; some are hell-bent on revenge, others want justice, some are looking for closure, and some’ – he looked her straight in the eye – ‘some just want to move on.’
Kelly thought of Lexi, and of Cathy Tanning’s desire to start over, in a house to which no one but her had the keys. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t get hung up on the victims who want a different outcome to the one we want. It doesn’t make them wrong. Focus that drive of yours – your not inconsiderable talent – on the case as a whole. Somewhere out there is a serial offender responsible for the rapes, murders and stalking of dozens of women. Find him.’
People get caught when they get careless.
You won’t find my name in the digital trail leading to findtheone.com – I’ve only ever used other people’s names, borrowed from wallets and coat pockets.
James Stanford, who had no idea he had a mailbox on Old Gloucester Road, or a credit card with which he was paying for adverts placed in the London Gazette. Mai Suo Li, the Chinese student who was happy to hand over his British bank account in exchange for enough cash for his flight home.
Other people’s names. Never mine.
The receipt, though. That was careless.
A door code, scribbled thoughtlessly on the nearest scrap of paper, never a consideration given to the fact that it could mean the end of everything. When I think of it now – when I think of the carelessness – it fills me with rage. So stupid. Without that receipt everything was perfect. Untraceable.
It isn’t over, though. When you’re cornered, there’s only one thing to do.
Go down fighting.
30
By lunchtime the dining table is clear again and the house has regained some semblance of order. I sit at the table and work my way through Graham’s accounts, finding the methodical process of logging taxi fares and lunches strangely relaxing. My phone beeps with a message from PC Swift, returning the text I sent her earlier.
Sorry haven’t been in touch. Quick update – I’ll try and call later. We believe offender has administered the website from a café called Espress Oh near Leicester Square – enquiries ongoing. Luke Harris still on bail – I’ll let you know what the CPS say. Sounds like working from home is a good move. Take care of yourself.
I read the message twice. Then I pick up the file of miscellaneous paperwork from the table and retrieve the receipt for Espress Oh! I look at the number scribbled on the back, then search for the date. The ink at the bottom is smudged and I can’t make it out. How long has it been here? It’s not cold in the house, but I’m shaking and the receipt flutters in my hand. I walk into the kitchen.
‘Katie?’
‘Mmm?’
She’s buttering bread on the counter without using a plate. She brushes the crumbs into her hand and shakes them into the sink. ‘Sorry.’ She sees my face. ‘It’s only a few crumbs, Mum.’
I hand her the receipt. ‘Have you ever been to this place?’ I feel light-headed, as though I’ve come up for air too fast. I can feel my pulse ticking, and I count each beat in an effort to slow it down.
Katie screws up her nose. ‘Don’t think so. Where is it?’
‘Near Leicester Square.’ When you face danger your body is supposed to go into one of two modes: fight or flight. But mine isn’t doing either. It’s frozen, wanting to run but unable to move.
‘Oh, I know it! At least, I think so. I’ve not been there, but I’ve walked past it. Why do you want to know?’
I don’t want to panic Katie. I tell her about PC Swift’s email, but calmly, as though it’s nothing of great importance. The buzzing in my ears grows louder. It’s not a coincidence. I know it.
‘It’s just a receipt. It doesn’t have to belong to the person behind the website. Does it?’ Her eyes flicker across my face, trying to read me; trying to gauge how worried I am.
Yes.
‘No, of course not.’
‘It could have come from anyone; a coat pocket, an old plastic bag, anything.’ We’re both pretending it’s something innocuous. A lone sock. A stray cat. Anything but a receipt that somehow links a maniac to our house. ‘I leave receipts in bags all the time.’