‘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 When you know how the money’s being withdrawn, and by whom, then you’re on to something.’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.’
22
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.