When I get to the checkout, there’s a British family in front of me who seem to be taking their time paying for their stuff. What’s really worrying me, though, is their young daughter, who’s turned around and is staring up at me blankly.
‘Nick, will you hurry up, please? I wouldn’t mind getting these ice creams back to the car before they melt,’ the wife says. She seems like a bit of a cow, from what I can see.
‘Give over, Tash,’ the man replies, insisting on counting out every last coin from his large handful of change, rather than just handing over a banknote like most people. ‘She’s pregnant. It’s the hormones,’ he says to the cashier whilst receiving an icy glare from his wife.
Their bloody daughter’s still looking at me. Just staring. As if she knows me. As if she knows everything that’s gone on. Children are meant to be perceptive. Her family’s British, so there’s a good chance they’ve read the newspaper and she’s recognised my face from the front page. I try my best not to smile, not to look like I do in the photo. Before I can worry too much, the man’s finally paid for his shopping – to the last centime – and they’re trying to coax their daughter from the shop.
‘Ellie, come on,’ the mother says, grabbing her hand and pulling her along behind her.
I’m not going to lie; I’m panicking. But I try to keep that panic off my face as I step up to the counter to pay for my shopping. My brain’s already conjured up the little girl’s voice as she tells her parents That’s the man from the newspaper! Little brat. Fortunately for me, neither of the parents so much as glanced at me, so there’s no chance of them being able to take her seriously. One of the benefits of those sorts of parents being so self-absorbed, I guess.
Once I’ve paid for my shopping, trying to avoid making eye contact with the shopkeeper the whole time, I saunter over towards the exit. There’s a stand selling magazines just inside the door, so I pretend I’m browsing through those, whilst actually looking through the glass door and watching the British family disappear off towards their car. I can’t risk them looking back and seeing me. Eventually, I see them all climb into a hired Skoda Octavia and drive off towards the north. That’s particularly handy, because I’m headed south.
Walking back towards the campsite, I start to feel more positive. It’s almost as if the shopping bags have provided the ultimate disguise. I look just like any other holidaymaker or local walking through the streets. The most normal bloke in the world.
It’s allowing me to think more clearly, too. Emotion has started to subside a little, and I can feel myself thinking logically and sensibly. I’m starting to be able to put my anger behind me somewhat and focus on the facts.
Firstly, Lisa came to the hotel in Herne Bay for a reason. It can’t have been off her own steam, either, as she didn’t know where I was staying. Sure, if she’d hacked into my laptop and found the email confirmation it might have been possible, but my passwords are pretty strong and Lisa didn’t know a laptop from a rucksack. Someone else must have lured her there. The killer.
That person needed a good reason to get Lisa to come all the way over to Herne Bay from East Grinstead. A really good reason, too. They also needed to be able to get into my room and send text messages from my phone. It’s that last bit that I can’t quite fathom. How would someone manage to get into my mobile phone when they would’ve needed to know my passcode? It’s not even something someone could guess, either. It’s 7297 – I chose it because it makes a triangle shape when you type it in.
Getting into the hotel room without breaking in sounds difficult, but there were a fair few people staying in that hotel and I’m pretty sure each key card must open more than one door. Anyway, aren’t they all just magnetic sensors or RFID chips or something? I’m fairly certain someone could’ve used some sort of gadget, battery or device to fool the doors into opening. That’s one of the downsides of computer technology – it’s never as safe as a big brass bolt.
Or, of course, there’s always the chance that the killer could’ve got a spare key card from the reception desk.
The reception desk where Jess worked.
The people who worked on reception would’ve had access to my room.
Jess would’ve had access.
29
Daniel’s life had changed irrevocably over the past few years. It had initially been difficult for him to come to terms with the feeling of belonging. He’d always felt like he had an identity at Pendleton House, but he’d quickly come to realise that the identity he had there was the same as all the other boys’. His identity had been that he had no identity. Now, though, he was a son. He had parents.
Mrs Cooper was a strange sort, always fussing around and seemingly desperate to make sure Daniel was happy at all times. She was constantly asking him if he was okay, asking him if he wanted to go somewhere for the day, giving him sweets and cakes. Mr Cooper, on the other hand, would just sit and look at him while Daniel watched TV in the evenings. Daniel could see him out of the corner of his eye, just looking at him and smiling. He could tell Mr Cooper was happy, though, so he didn’t ever let on that he could see him watching him.
He knew Mr and Mrs Cooper weren’t his real parents, but that didn’t matter. They were the only people in his entire life who had actually wanted him. His birth parents had rejected him from the start, and he’d always felt like he was an imposition on the nuns, as though they were resentful of having to look after him.
Those days at Pendleton House seemed like an age ago, as if they were happening to someone else and Daniel was watching the memories like a film. Small things like being at school occasionally reminded him – the formal, stilted nature of a class of children obediently listening to every word the adult said. Sometimes it ran shivers down his spine. But school had its own perks, too. School had Roseanne. But today, things were changing yet again.
He should have realised something was wrong when Roseanne refused to meet his eye when he said hello to her that morning. She’d tried to slink through the school gates unnoticed, but Daniel always noticed her. It was as if she carried a permanent glow, an aura which made her stand out a mile off and made everything else seem insignificant.
She’d seemed genuinely impressed with the roses the day before. A dozen bright-red flowers picked specifically by him, for her, for Valentine’s Day. It was the first time he’d ever done something like that – the first big romantic gesture of his fourteen years. He’d fancied many girls over the past few years, more and more as time went on, but Roseanne Barker was the first one he really wanted. The one he could see a future with. The one that was worth going the extra mile for.