Текст книги "The Blissfully Dead"

Автор книги: Louise Voss

Соавторы: Mark Edwards
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter 29

Day 9 – Winkler

Come on, then,’ Winkler said, ignoring the furious beeping from the Beamer he’d just cut up on the roundabout. ‘Describe your ideal woman.’

DS Gareth Batey squirmed in the passenger seat. Maybe he’s gay, Winkler thought. He’d never heard Gareth mention a girlfriend, and he blushed so easily. He glanced at the younger man as they pulled up at a red light. Regulation haircut, no jewellery or tattoos – unlike that poser Lennon – and nothing to suggest Gareth had any kind of life outside the Force. Married to the job; no time for a partner of any kind. Winkler had pretty much ignored Gareth throughout the three or four years they’d worked together. But DS Gareth Batey, Winkler realised, could be useful. His suppressed ambition, his longing to be recognised by the powers-that-be – that was the weak spot Winkler was ready to exploit.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

‘No, I just . . .’ Gareth laughed nervously. ‘I just feel a bit uncomfortable, that’s all.’

Winkler slapped the other man’s knee. ‘Don’t worry, mate, I’m not going to report you for political incorrectness. I’m not Lennon. It’s just a bit of banter to make the journey less boring.’ When Gareth didn’t immediately respond, Winkler said, ‘All right, let me tell you about my ideal woman.’

As he went on to detail the cup size and leg length and proclivities of his perfect bird, Winkler could tell that Gareth was desperate to join in. He just needed a little more coaxing.

‘Let me help you. Tell me what you think about Masiello.’

‘Carmella?’ Gareth seemed shocked. ‘But she’s, er, not heterosexual.’

Winkler spluttered with laughter. ‘I’m not saying your ideal woman has to actually let you shag her. I’m just trying to figure out what kind of chick you’re into. I know a lot of women who like men in uniform. I might be able to put a word in for you.’

‘But we’re plain clothes.’

Give me strength, Winkler thought. ‘So you don’t like Irish-Italian redheads, then?’

Gareth blushed.

‘What about blondes? Older blondes? Suzanne Laughland. Would you give her one?’

Gareth’s face went from candyfloss pink to fuchsia. ‘She’s our DCI,’ he spluttered.

‘That hasn’t stopped Lennon from, you know.’ He whistled.

Gareth stared at him as Winkler turned onto the industrial estate where the self-storage unit was based. ‘Patrick and Suzanne?’

‘Yeah, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? How else do you think he gets all the plum jobs? He makes Suzanne promise him all the cushiest assignments while he’s got her bent over her desk.’ Winkler was horrified to feel a twitch in his pants as he pictured this.

‘But Patrick’s married. And so’s the guv.’

Winkler laughed, focusing on the blackheads on Gareth’s nose to make his semi-retreat. ‘What planet did you beam down from, Batey? Firstly, Lennon’s wife’s a baby-battering loony who was locked up for nearly two years. You think our esteemed colleague restricted himself to bashing the bishop while the missus was in her padded cell? And have you ever seen Laughland’s husband? I haven’t. That picture on her desk was probably printed off the Internet. Fake husbands dot com.’

He spotted the yellow sign that told him they’d reached their destination and swerved in front of a lorry, eliciting another angry beep, into the car park.

As he unfastened his seatbelt he leant over conspiratorially. ‘Lennon’s not the man you think he is. Secrets and layers, that’s him. Always thinking strategically. The bloke should have been a politician. Not like me. I’m the kind of guy who’s straight down the line, who says it as I see it.’

He got out of the car, smiling to himself, not waiting for Gareth’s reaction.

‘Right,’ Winkler said, striding towards the building. ‘Let’s see what old Nancy left behind.’

Winkler had spoken to Nancy Marr’s son, George, the previous evening. George told him he was keeping his mother’s possessions in storage because he didn’t have room in his little flat. Mrs Marr’s house was still up for sale, but her son had been advised by the estate agent to move everything out. Winkler had already been through the old woman’s possessions once, when they were still in situ, but he hadn’t looked too closely. And now he was trying to prove that this case wasn’t connected to the OnTarget murders, he’d decided it was worth another look. He’d been round all the neighbours again and nobody had seen or heard anything. A couple of the neighbours hadn’t lived in the street when Nancy was murdered, and Winkler needed to follow that up, find out who had been there six months ago. But first, he was going to have a good sort through the old bird’s stuff.

Or, rather, he was going to watch Gareth do it. Winkler had a horror of touching stuff that had belonged to old people. He couldn’t bear the smell: boiled beef and mothballs and cat wee. The thought of their wrinkly hands fingering it gave him the heebie-jeebies. Gareth wouldn’t mind. This was the sort of stuff he excelled at.

George Marr had called ahead to let the storage centre know the police were coming. Winkler flashed his badge at the stocky black bloke at reception and made his way to the room where Nancy’s stuff was stored, Gareth trailing behind, checking his phone as he walked.

‘Anything interesting?’ Winkler asked. ‘Hot date?’

‘No. I’ve been waiting to hear back from Peter Bell about the key card that Rose Sharp’s murderer used to get into the hotel room.’

Winkler slowed his step. ‘And?’

‘Still nothing. It’s so frustrating.’

‘Never mind. Sounds like you’re doing a good job anyway, Gareth. Reckon you’ll make an excellent DI when the time comes.’

The look of pleasure that came onto Gareth’s face reminded Winkler of his mum’s cat when you stroked it. Poor old Gareth didn’t get stroked very often. Winkler turned away and smiled to himself.

‘Well, here we are,’ he said, a moment later. ‘All Nancy Marr’s worldly goods. Better get started.’

Nancy’s possessions were collected into a dozen brown cardboard boxes, with ‘Small Box’, ‘Medium Box’ or ‘Big Box’ stamped on the side. George had stuck a handwritten label on each one. Winkler examined them in turn. ‘Kitchen stuff’. George had no doubt taken the best knives and any pots and pans that weren’t old and rusty. ‘Knick-knacks’, which was written on two of the boxes. Winkler remembered that Mrs Marr had a large collection of porcelain frogs and hedgehogs, along with a number of brass statuettes that gathered around the electric fire like little sentries. ‘Keepsakes’. ‘Personal items’. ‘Paperwork’. ‘Books and records’. ‘Misc.’.

‘Go through the paperwork first,’ Winkler said, taking a seat while Gareth crouched on the floor and removed a lid from a Medium Box.

‘What am I looking for?’

Winkler shrugged. ‘Anything interesting. Something that shows she was in debt or struggling to pay her bills. Letters from friends – maybe she wrote to one of her pals to say she was worried about someone lurking around. Maybe we’ll strike lucky and there’ll be a diary.’

As Gareth sorted through the papers, quickly glancing at each sheet before setting it aside, Winkler ate the chicken sandwich he’d brought with him.

‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ he said with his mouth full.

‘What does?’ So far, all Gareth had found were lots of bills (all paid, no red ones), a pension book, a number of letters from twenty or thirty years ago and Nancy’s driving licence.

‘Well, it’s sad, to think about what gets left behind when someone dies. A load of junk, mostly. And ungrateful kids who just care about their inheritance, what there is of it. What impression did Nancy Marr make on the world? What was her legacy?’

Gareth looked up and Winkler held his eye.

‘That’s what’s important, isn’t it? Making the most of your life; making an impression. So that people remember you and care that you’re not around anymore.’

Gareth nodded thoughtfully, clearly thinking about his own legacy.

‘The really sad thing is that the person who Nancy Marr made the biggest impression on was the person who murdered her.’

After finding nothing among the paperwork, Gareth went through the keepsakes and then the personal items – framed family photographs, an engraved Bible, some very unattractive brooches. George had obviously appropriated any jewellery of value.

‘This is a waste of time,’ Gareth said, sitting back and rubbing his knees, which were dusty from the floor of the storage room.

‘I agree. But we might as well have a look through the last box, eh?’

Gareth pulled the lid off the large box marked ‘Misc.’. This one contained stuff that, as far as Winkler could see, should have been sent straight to the tip. A tatty-looking cuddly rabbit; a children’s book called Chips the Magic Hamster; an old hat; an ancient golliwog; and a teddy bear. Gareth pulled an A4 folder out of the box and some loose photos fluttered to the floor. Winkler picked one up. It had a date on the back: July 1967. Mrs Marr had her arms around a bloke with long hair and a big grin on his face. She’d been quite a looker in her day. Nice boobs.

He admired the photo as Gareth continued to look through the folder. He was lost in a reverie about the sixties, free love and hippie chicks when he heard Gareth saying, ‘Boss? Boss? Look at this.’

He held up a photograph, A4 sized. It was signed, ‘To Nancy. With all my best wishes, Mervyn Hammond xx’.

Winkler jumped off his seat and snatched the photo out of Gareth’s hand.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

Gareth’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘This is a connection to the other case. At last.’

‘Mervyn bloody Hammond. What’s she doing with a signed photo of him? Hey, what are you doing?’

‘Phoning DI Lennon.’

Winkler snatched the phone out of Gareth’s hand. ‘Wait a minute. Let’s think about this. Mervyn Hammond probably sends out hundreds of signed photos every year. I bet most of the people who like him are old ladies like Nancy.’ He tapped the photo. ‘I reckon this is a coincidence. It will just cause a distraction. And then who’ll get the blame if Lennon wastes days looking at Hammond, eh? It won’t be Patrick, and it sure as hell won’t be me.’

Gareth’s brow creased with doubt.

‘On the other hand, if Hammond has got something to do with it, who’ll get all the credit? Lennon. And while Suzanne and the press are – literally and metaphorically – sucking him off for being the big hero, do you think he’ll say, “Actually, it was all down to a bright young officer called Gareth Batey”? Will he hell.’

Gareth cringed at Winkler’s choice of words, but nodded. He was clearly torn. ‘So what do you think we should do?’

Winkler put his arm around Gareth’s shoulder. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you and me look into it, discreetly, and if we find any more evidence that points to Hammond, we’ll hand it over to Lennon; officially tie the two operations together, but make sure everyone knows it was your hard work that gave us a break. And if we don’t find anything, we won’t have wasted anyone’s time but our own. I mean, it’s not like we have any other hot leads to pursue on this side of the investigation. Make sense?’

Gareth hesitated. ‘I guess. It probably is just a coincidence.’

‘I’m sure it is. But if it isn’t, think how good you’ll look. Solving a multiple murder while you’re still a sergeant? A case involving one of the most powerful men in Britain? You’ll be famous, Gareth. And there won’t be anything Lennon can do to take the credit.’

Chapter 30

Day 9 – Patrick

Patrick beckoned for Carmella to follow him into the major incident room and walked up to the boards where Rose’s and Jessica’s pictures were displayed. He took a whiteboard eraser and rubbed out Shawn’s name from the list of suspects, adding it to the column containing the names of potential witnesses.

Carmella perched on the edge of a desk. ‘So his alibi checks out?’ She sounded disappointed.

Patrick nodded. ‘I just got off the phone with Lana Vincent. She confirms that she and Shawn spent the night together on the seventh and she also gave him an alibi for the fourth – said they were on the phone for hours that evening, when Shawn said he was home playing Minecraft. She was extremely nervous, kept asking me to reassure her about confidentiality. She’s terrified of the press and her boyfriend finding out.’

Carmella rolled her eyes. ‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.’

‘They should put that in big letters on the front of the station.’

Their laughter was disproportionate to the quality of the joke, but shit, Patrick thought, he needed a laugh. His whole body was taut with tension. After the meeting with Shawn, and the realisation that their only suspect was innocent, he’d come back to the station, hiding at his desk until he felt duty-bound to go home.

He didn’t want another discussion with Gill about their feelings. Even more than that, he didn’t want another awkward conversation in which they didn’t talk about their marriage. Fortunately, Gill had been asleep, and he’d slipped out early this morning before she or Bonnie woke up. He’d crept into his daughter’s room, kissing her warm head, aching with guilt as he’d barely seen her since they’d moved home last weekend.

At least when they were living with his parents he’d seen a lot of Bonnie. Now, though, it was too easy to be like so many other male cops: married to the job, their kids growing up without them. He was determined not to let that happen. He just needed to crack this investigation first.

Although, of course, then there would be another. And another. And . . .

He sighed heavily and Carmella came over and rubbed his upper arm.

‘So what next?’ she asked.

Patrick produced his Moleskine from his pocket and opened it to the page of notes he’d made when interviewing Shawn.

‘I was thinking, Shawn and Lana Vincent communicated using Snapchat. Wendy – DC Franklin – tells me that most teenagers use it. And we already know that Rose consumed data on her phone on the evening of her death, as did Jess’ – this was one of the first things they had checked after Jess’s murder – ‘maybe they were using Snapchat.’

‘To communicate with their killer?’

‘Seems the perfect method for a murderer, doesn’t it? A way of communicating without leaving any trace. Second only to actually chatting face to face.’

‘Technology. Friend of serial killers everywhere.’

Patrick smiled faintly, wondering what police work must have been like in the days before DNA and the Internet and CCTV. He would have quite liked to have operated in a Columbo-style world. Maybe, he mused, he should get himself a grubby raincoat like the TV detective.

‘Are you still with us?’ Carmella asked.

‘Just thinking about buying a mac.’

‘I thought you preferred Windows?’

He laughed so loudly that he worried Suzanne would hear him in her office and wonder what he found so amusing. That reminded him he needed to report to her and, as much as he enjoyed seeing her, he suddenly didn’t feel like laughing anymore.

Looking at him curiously, Carmella asked, ‘Are Snapchat pictures actually stored anywhere?’

‘Let’s find out.’

He called Peter Bell on the internal phone and, a few minutes later, the cyber-crime expert joined them in the incident room.

‘Before I start, any progress with our hotel key card?’

The older man smoothed down a wisp of flyaway hair. ‘I emailed a list of potential hackers to Gareth Batey earlier. Apologies. I’ve been under the cosh.’

‘OK. Well, let’s forget that for the moment. What do you know about Snapchat?’

‘Snapchat? Interestingly, I was just talking about this with someone in child protection.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because it’s a new preferred method for paedophiles to exchange images. Harder to trace than email or MMS. Or, at least, a lot of them think it is.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, what Snapchat don’t make clear is that the images are saved into a folder on the user’s phone, and they’re easy to find if you know where to look.’

‘What if you don’t have the phone?’ Patrick asked. ‘Are they stored on a server somewhere?’

Bell cleared his throat. ‘According to Snapchat, they keep a log of the last two hundred images sent, but don’t save the actual images. Unless the image wasn’t viewed by the recipient. In that case, it remains on the company’s servers for thirty days.’

Patrick thought about this. It was most likely that Rose – and Jess, if the murderer had used the same method – had viewed the messages, possibly screenshot them for posterity. And the killer had taken the phones with him.

‘Hang on,’ Carmella said. ‘Could I log in as another user on my phone, if I knew their password, and view the images they’d received?’

‘No.’ Bell smiled patronisingly. ‘Because they disappear within seconds of being viewed.’

‘Shit.’

‘But if and when we arrest someone,’ Patrick said, ‘we’ll be able to look on their phone and, if they sent snaps to the two victims, they’ll still be there. Stored in a hidden folder.’

Bell nodded. ‘That’s right. Unless your murderer is tech savvy.’

‘We’d better hope he isn’t,’ Carmella said.

Patrick thanked Bell and watched him leave the room. He felt frustrated, like he was looking for a trail of breadcrumbs that had already been eaten by birds.

‘We’ll catch him,’ Carmella said. ‘He’s going to slip up at some point.’

Patrick stared into space. ‘Maybe. But how quickly? And who’s next on his list?’

Chapter 31

Day 10 – Kai

Kai slouched over to a corner table next to a massive poster reading ‘Home of the Whopper’, his laptop in one hand, and a plastic tray containing a box of cheeseburger and fries in the other. He dumped the items on the table and pulled back a red slatted chair, which made a loud metallic sound as it scraped across the tiled floor.

Opening the laptop with his right hand, he shovelled fries into his mouth with his left while looking around him to make sure nobody could see the screen. With greasy fingers he tapped in the Burger King Wi-Fi password and brought up the window of the OnTarget forum. He just needed to be sure about one or two things.

The thing that Kai feared more than anything was making Jade angry. She was angry a lot – he could just about deal with that – but the terror of one day making her so mad that she dumped him gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his belly that even half a burger in one big swallow couldn’t obliterate. His mates thought he was a total wuss – ‘pussy-whipped’, according to Ed – but he didn’t care. He loved her. And if this worked out like it should, Jade would be well pleased with him. He grinned to himself through the other half of the burger. He wasn’t going to let anybody upset his boo, no way.

He finished his meal and wiped his sleeve across his mouth before pushing the empty food box to one side. Hunched over the laptop, he laboriously typed a question with two fingers, then sat back and waited.

An answer flashed back in a minute. Kai tensed, read it silently to himself, lips moving, then relaxed and started typing again. It took less than five minutes to make the arrangements. Kai was dying to message Jade to tell her, but then decided not to, not until it was done. Then he reckoned she’d Snapchat him one of her special selfies – the kind that made him go soft and hard at the same time.

Leaving all his litter on the table, he pulled on his jacket and headed out on his mission. Pausing in the doorway under a blast of hot, stale air, he zipped up his laptop inside his jacket and smiled, a slow, smug smile.

Jade was gonna be proper pleased with him.

Chapter 32

Day 10 – Wendy

Wendy stood at the top of the escalators in the Rotunda, music from the PA system outside Frankie and Benny’s wafting over. Frank Sinatra. Her dad’s favourite. He liked that restaurant too, even if it was overpriced in his opinion. As a family they had eaten in places like this many times, before her dad had run off with the woman who was now her stepmother.

Every town had a leisure complex like this, usually on the outskirts, with a big cinema, numerous chain restaurants and a ten-pin bowling centre. Wendy was pretty damn good at bowling, even if she did say so herself, and had smiled when her new contact had sent her the picture of the bowling place at the Rotunda in Kingston.

‘Meet u here at 9.30pm’, the caption of the photograph had read before it vanished. She’d arrived ten minutes early to familiarise herself with the layout of the place. As she headed back down the escalator leading towards the basement bowling alley, she remembered the last time she’d played with her dad and sister. Her dad had taken her aside and told her how proud he was of her.

‘What, because I can beat you at bowling?’ she’d joked.

‘No, you numpty. Because of what you’ve done with your life. I’m dead proud.’

She smiled at the memory and for the umpteenth time in recent weeks felt a pang. She missed her broken-up family. Once this case was over she was planning on taking some leave, going back to Wolves to see them.

But before that, she had a chance to make her dad even prouder. The chance to make a difference to this operation.

Now that she was familiar to most of the users of the forum, Wendy had decided it was safe to mention the murders without arousing suspicion that she was a mole. There were already lots of threads about it, discussions of the vigil that had taken place, and immediately after the deaths of both MissTargetHeart and YOLOSWAG, the site had been filled with intense, borderline-hysterical tributes to the dead girls.

 

MissTargetHeart helped me when I was stressing about my exams . . . She’ll be singing with the Angels in Heaven now.

Me and YOLOSWAG hung out after the Wembley concert last summer. She had Shawn tattooed on her skin and on her soul. R IP SISTER!!

So, earlier that evening at her desk, Wendy had started a thread: I haven’t told anyone about this, not even my mum, but ever since what happened to those poor girls I have been terrified. I keep hoping the fact they were both OnT fans is a coincidence but what if it isn’t? I have a theory about what happened to them but I’m too scared to share it on here.

This post had sparked a flurry of responses, most of the girls demanding to know about her theory.

I can’t say, Wendy wrote. I wish I’d known them like some of you did. Then I might be able to prove my theory is right.

The conversation went on from there, mostly going in circles. Wendy waited for Jade and some of the other regulars to join in, hitting refresh repeatedly, frustrated that no-one was taking the bait.

Then a message popped up in her private inbox, headed ‘YOUR THEORY’.

It was from a user called Mockingjay365, whose profile picture was of Katniss from The Hunger Games, bow and arrow pointed at the camera.

I’d luv to here about ur theory, the message read.

I haven’t seen you on the forum before, Wendy replied.

Don’t post much, usualy just read. Im not very good at riting. Too shy.

I understand, Wendy wrote, unsure if this girl was a time-waster. I wish I’d known Rose and Jess.

I new them.

Really?

Yeah. We used to hang out, talk about OnT. Met them outside BBC last yeer wen OnT were on Graham Norton.

Wendy waited.

I think I no sumething. About an enemy they had. They were talking about it.

Wendy’s pulse increased. Though the chances were Mockingjay365 was talking nonsense. She typed: An enemy? Have you been to the police?

No! My dad hates feds. He sez they are bent. He wd kill me if I talked to cops.

I understand. Who was this enemy?

The answer came back straight away. I’m scared. He knows who I am. And he knows that I know him.

You can tell me. He won’t be able to read this.

There was a long, frustrating pause. Eventually, a response came. I dunno. My dad sez that any1 can spy on u on the internet. Like wen Jennifer Lawrence’s nude pics got hacked.

Wendy supposed it made sense that a Hunger Games fan would be extra paranoid about Internet security after the naked selfies of that film’s star had been stolen and posted online.

We cd meet? Mockingjay365 wrote. I saw you said you was local to me – Kingston?

It was Wendy’s turn to hesitate. Was it worth it? Could this girl really know something? This talk of Jess and Rose having a common enemy was intriguing, but could be a fantasy.

Yeh. Where? she typed, playing for time and looking up from her computer. It had just gone eight. She decided she would find Patrick, ask him what she should do. That was the correct protocol. So she hurried towards his desk, disappointed to find that he wasn’t there.

‘Looking for Lennon?’

She turned. It was Winkler, gym bag in hand, his eyes blatantly roaming up and down her body as he waited for her response.

‘Yes, I—’

‘He’s having a party, so Masiello let slip earlier. A surprise birthday dinner with Masiello and his mad missus and the guv.’ He sniggered. ‘That should be awkward. Pretty disgraceful, though, if you ask me – having a lovely dinner party when proper cops like you and me are hard at it trying to stop a murderer.’

She didn’t point out that he looked like he was heading to the gym.

‘Anything I can help with?’ he asked, taking a step closer so she could smell his aftershave.

‘No . . . It’s fine. Thanks.’

She hurried back to her computer and saw that Mockingjay365 had suggested meeting at the Rotunda. She tapped out a reply: OK. What time? And where exactly?

Do u hav Snapchat? came the response.

She didn’t, but she could download it.

Username same as on here. Add me & Ill message you. Snapchat deleets so no1 can trak it.

And now here she was, standing outside the bowling alley waiting for another message, hopefully with a selfie of her new contact so she would be able to recognise her. At least it was warm in there – it was freezing outside, cold enough to snow, and if Mockingjay365 didn’t message her in the next five minutes, she was going home, back to her flat for a hot bubble bath, a glass of wine and the next episode of The Good Wife. And maybe to indulge her fantasies about a certain detective inspector. She hoped he was enjoying his birthday – Valentine’s Day was such an apt day for someone so sexy to be born – but couldn’t help but wish she was at the dinner party. She imagined herself as Gill there with him, laughing, Patrick squeezing her knee beneath the table, forgetting about the case for a couple of hours and enjoying himself, relaxing, and after their guests were gone he would take her/Gill to bed and gently lay her down and . . .

Her phone beeped, shaking her from her fantasy. Hot shame flooded through her. What was she like, thinking about such a thing? Patrick, DI Lennon, was married and she was on the way to meet someone who might help her find the murderer. She needed to stop thinking about him. The sensible thing would be to ask to transfer to another team, maybe even another station. When this case was over, maybe that’s what she should do, after she’d visited her folks. She would work it out later, but she was glad now she hadn’t left that card on his desk as she’d intended.

She took out her phone and saw, with a mixture of relief and anxiety, that she had a new Snapchat message. It was a photo of the café inside the bowling place, with another caption. ‘I’m here, waiting.’

Wendy had changed into her teenage disguise at the station: skinny jeans and a parka with a furry hood, trainers and the make-up that, she hoped, made her look ten years younger. She pushed through the double doors of the bowlplex and headed towards the café.

The noise in here was incredible. From the back came the clatter of bowling balls, the crash of scattering pins, whoops of delight and groans of disappointment. Above that came the cacophony of noise from the arcade machines that took up a large area – driving games and air hockey, machines that spat out chains of tickets that could be exchanged for cheap prizes. A woman stood feeding coins into one of those machines with a large claw, trying to win an Angry Birds toy. The place was full of teenagers and kids who, Wendy thought, should be at home in bed at this hour. There were even some toddlers running about.

But there was no sign of anyone who might be Mockingjay365. She scanned the tables in the café. Lots more teens and families scoffing burgers and soggy-looking pizzas. The smell of nachos reached her nostrils and her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since she’d had a dry egg and cress sandwich at lunchtime.

Where the hell was Mockingjay?

Right on cue, her phone beeped. She had a new Snapchat message. It was a photo of a car park. The caption read: Im in the car park round back. My ex is in Rotunda. Dont want him to see me!!

Wendy tutted. This was getting ridiculous now. But she walked back up the stairs to the ground floor and pushed through the double doors into the freezing air.

She strode along the pavement by the one-way system, eyeing the cars and buses moving in the same direction, wishing she was cocooned inside a warm vehicle, not out here in the bitter wind. There were plenty of people around, mostly teenagers heading in and out of the Rotunda, but as Wendy turned right towards the back of the bowlplex, the noise from the cars and people dropped away to be replaced by near-silence.

Wendy checked her phone again, then looked around her. She was standing in a residential road around the back of the Rotunda. Across the road was a car park on the ground floor of what looked like private flats. That must be where Mockingjay was waiting for her.

Wendy hesitated. It not only went against her police training but her instincts as a woman: you didn’t go into dark, deserted places like this on your own. She badly wanted to talk to Mockingjay – the girl was her only potential lead – but how did she know she could trust her? She could be anyone.

She sent Mockingjay another message. I’m outside the car park. Come out. There’s no-one else here. No need to be scared.

There was no response. Still holding her phone, Wendy made a decision. She would call DI Lennon, let him know what she was doing. He’d given her his mobile number in case she had anything important to tell him. Well, this qualified.

His phone rang five or six times before he answered.