Matt looks at me again and I move my lips in the tiniest of silent thank yous. He shakes his head, and I don’t know if he’s dismissing my thanks or despairing that I felt it necessary. Simon turns to face the rear seat and I feel something against my foot; when I look down, Simon’s is pressed against mine.
Nobody speaks when, fifteen minutes later, we’re in barely moving traffic at Waterloo. I try to think of something to say, but Melissa gets there before me.
‘Have the police got any answers for you yet?’
‘Nothing new.’ I speak quietly, hoping to gloss over it, but Simon leans forward.
‘Answers? About the photographs in the Gazette, you mean?’
I glance at Melissa, who shrugs awkwardly. ‘I thought you’d have told him.’
The inside of the windows has steamed up. I pull my sleeve over my hand and use the cuff to wipe it clear. Outside, the traffic is nose to tail, their lights blurring into streaks of red and white through the rain.
‘Told me what?’
Matt edges forward. He looks at me through the mirror. Even Neil has turned round and is waiting for me to speak.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake. It’s nothing.’
‘It’s not nothing, Zoe,’ Melissa says.
I sigh. ‘Okay, it’s not nothing. The adverts in the Gazette showcase a website called find the one dot com. It’s a sort of dating site.’
‘And you’re on it?’ Matt says, with a horrified laugh.
I keep talking, as much for my own benefit as anyone else’s. Every time I talk about what’s happening, I feel stronger. It’s secrecy that’s dangerous. If everyone knew they were being watched – if everyone knew they were being followed – surely no one would get hurt? ‘The site sells details of women’s commutes to work; which Tube line they take, which carriage they sit in, that sort of thing. The police have linked the site to at least two murders, and to a number of other crimes against women.’ I don’t tell them about Luke Friedman; I don’t want Simon to worry about me any more than he already does.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Christ, Zoe!’
‘Mum, are you okay?’
‘Do the police know who’s behind the website?’
I hold my hands up in front of my face, fending off the questions. ‘I’m fine. No, they don’t know.’ I look at Simon. ‘I didn’t tell you because I thought you had enough going on.’ I don’t mention the redundancy – not in front of everyone – but he nods to show me he understands.
‘You should have told me,’ he says quietly.
‘What are the police doing?’ Melissa says again.
‘Apparently the website is practically untraceable. Something about a proxy something or other …’
‘A proxy server,’ Neil says. ‘Makes sense. He’s logging on via someone else’s server, to avoid detection. I’d be surprised if the police have any joy there. Sorry, that’s probably not the answer you want.’
It isn’t, but it’s the answer I’m starting to get used to. I look through the window as we cross Waterloo Bridge, and let the others talk about the website as though I’m not there. They ask the questions I’ve already asked the police; go round the same circles I’ve already travelled. My fears are unpacked and examined; analysed for entertainment like an EastEnders plotline.
‘How do you think they get the details of people’s commutes in the first place?’
‘Follow them, I suppose.’
‘They can’t follow everyone, though, can they?’
‘Can we change the subject now?’ I say, and everyone falls silent. Simon looks at me, making sure I’m okay, and I give a little nod. Justin is staring straight ahead, but his fists are clenched on his knees and I kick myself for talking about the website in such a flippant way. I should have sat the kids down privately and explained what was going on; given them a chance to tell me how they felt. I reach out a hand towards Justin, but he stiffens and angles his shoulders away from me. I’ll have to find a quiet moment to talk to him later, after the play. Outside there are people walking in pairs and on their own, holding umbrellas and tugging hoods over windswept hair. No one is looking behind them; no one is checking to see who’s watching them, so I do it for them.
How many of you are being followed?
Would you even know?
Rupert Street theatre doesn’t look like a theatre from the outside. The neighbouring pub is noisy and full of young people, and the theatre itself has no windows on to the street. The brickwork is painted black and a single poster on the door gives the dates of Twelfth Night.
‘Katherine Walker!’ Melissa squeals, pointing at the tiny writing towards the bottom of the poster.