I See You (37 page)

‘An inside job, then?’

‘All the staff were interviewed in turn this morning by the superintendent, and one of the cleaners broke down. Said she’d been bribed to carry a USB stick in and put it in the main computer. Of course she claims to have had no idea what she was doing.’

‘Bribed
by whom?’

‘She doesn’t know his name, and conveniently doesn’t remember what he looks like. She says she was approached on the way to work one day and offered more than a month’s salary for a few minutes’ work.’

‘What’s the extent of the hacking?’

‘The malware introduces a programme which talks to the hacker’s computer and replicates the entire system. They can’t control the camera direction, but the bottom line is whatever our control room sees; the hacker can see.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Does it fit with what you’re dealing with?’

‘It’s certainly possible.’ Despite her good working relationship with Craig, Kelly was mindful of what Diggers might say, if she were to release any more information than necessary. The last thing she needed was another telling off, although there was no doubt in her mind the two jobs were related.

‘Our offender’s been using London Underground’s own cameras to stalk women,’ Kelly announced, walking into the office and interrupting a conversation Nick was having with Lucinda. She filled them in on the call from Craig. ‘BTP’s Cyber Crime unit are there now, but although they’ve identified the malware, it’s less straightforward to eradicate it.’

‘Couldn’t they switch off the whole system?’ Lucinda asked.

‘They could, but then the entire city would potentially be at risk, instead of—’

‘Instead of a small number of women definitely at risk,’ Nick finished. ‘We’re between a rock and a hard place.’ He stood up, his whole body energised, and Kelly realised how much he thrived on the adrenaline of a fast-moving investigation. ‘Right, we need a statement from your CCTV contact, and I want that cleaner nicked for unauthorised access to computer systems with intent to commit crime.’ He looked
around for the HOLMES loggist, who was already entering the actions into the laptop in front of him. ‘And get Andrew Robinson here. I want to know where that CCTV feed is being copied to, and I want to know it now.’

There’s
no time to do anything but stand there and wait for Simon to come up the stairs.

I reach for Katie’s hand, only to find it already sliding into mine. I squeeze it tightly and she squeezes it back. It’s something we used to do when she was little, walking to school. I’d squeeze once, and she’d do the same: she’d squeeze twice and I’d mirror it. Morse code for mother and child.

‘Three means “I love you”,’ she told me once.

I do it now, not knowing if she’ll remember, listening to the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs. Instantly Katie returns the message, and I feel the hot stab of tears.

There are thirteen steps from the landing.

I count the footsteps as they grow closer. Eleven, ten, nine.

My hand is clammy in Katie’s, my heart beating so fast I can’t distinguish between its beats. She squeezes my fingers so tightly it hurts, but I don’t care – I’m squeezing hers just as hard.

Five, four, three …

‘I used my key; I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Melissa!’

‘Oh my God, you almost gave us a heart attack.’ Relief makes Katie and me laugh hysterically.

Melissa looks at us strangely. ‘What are you two up to? I called you at work and your boss said you were off sick – I just popped round to see if you were okay, and I was worried when you didn’t answer the door.’

‘We
didn’t hear it. We were—’ Katie breaks off and looks at me, unsure how much to share.

‘We were looking for evidence,’ I tell Melissa. Suddenly sober, I sink on to the chair by Simon’s desk. ‘It sounds crazy, but it looks like it was Simon who put all those women’s commutes online – who put
my
commute online.’

‘Simon?’ I see in Melissa’s face the disbelief and confusion I know still registers on my own. ‘Are you sure?’

I explain about the Espress Oh! receipt; the email from PC Kelly Swift. ‘Simon lost his job in August – right before the adverts started. He lied to me about it.’

‘What the hell are you still doing here? Where’s Simon now?’

‘He’s got an interview at Olympia. I’m not sure what time – early afternoon, I think he said.’

Melissa looks at her watch. ‘He could be here any moment. Come to mine; we can call the police from there. Did you have any idea? I mean – God, Simon!’ I feel my heart rate soar again; my ribcage thudding and my pulse singing in my ears. I’m suddenly convinced we won’t make it out; that Simon will come home while we’re all in the attic. What will he do, once he knows he’s been found out? I think of Tania Beckett and Laura Keen, unhappy casualties of his sick online empire. What difference would another three make to him? I stand up and grip Katie’s arm. ‘Melissa’s right, we need to get out of here.’

‘Where’s Justin?’ Fear grips me and I want my family together; I need to know that both my children are safe. Once Simon discovers we know what he’s done, there’s no way of knowing what he’ll do.

‘Relax, he’s at the café,’ Melissa says. ‘I’ve just come from there.’

My relief is momentary. ‘He can’t stay – Simon will know to find him there. Someone will have to take over.’

Melissa has snapped into business mode. She reminds me of
a paramedic at a major disaster, issuing practical help and soothing words. ‘I’ll call him and tell him to shut up shop.’

‘Are you sure? He might—’

Melissa cups my face between her hands. She puts her face close to mine, forcing me to focus on what she’s saying. ‘We need to get out of here, Zoe, do you understand? We don’t know how much time we’ve got.’

The three of us clatter down the stairs on to the carpeted first-floor landing and continue down to the ground floor without stopping. In the hall Katie and I take our coats from where they’ve been slung over the banister. I look around for my bag but Melissa stops me.

‘There’s no time. I’ll come for it once you and Katie are safe next door.’

We slam the front door and run down the path without bothering to lock it behind us, turning immediately in through Melissa’s garden gate. She unlocks the door and ushers us through to the kitchen.

‘We should lock ourselves in,’ Katie says. She looks between Melissa and me, fear written across her face. Her bottom lip trembles.

‘Simon’s not going to try and get in here, love, he doesn’t even know we’re here.’

‘Once he sees we’re not at home he’s bound to try here. Lock the door, please!’ She’s close to tears.

‘I think she’s right,’ Melissa says. She double-locks the front door, and despite what I said to Katie, I’m reassured by the sound of the barrel shooting home.

‘What about the back door?’ Katie says. She’s shaking, and I’m filled with rage. How dare Simon do this to my daughter?

‘It’s always locked. Neil’s paranoid about burglars – he won’t even keep the key where it can be seen from the garden.’ Melissa puts an arm around Katie. ‘I promise you, sweetheart, you’re
safe now. Neil’s working away this week, so you can stay here as long as you want. Why don’t you put the kettle on, and I’ll call this PC Swift and tell her about the receipt you found. Have you got her number?’

I take my phone out of my pocket and unlock it, scrolling through until I find Kelly Swift’s number. I hand Melissa the phone. She peers at it.

‘I’ll get more reception upstairs. Give me two ticks. Do me a favour and make me a coffee, will you? The capsules are next to the machine.’

I switch on the coffee machine; a new-fangled chrome thing that froths milk and mixes cappuccinos and goodness knows what else. Katie crosses the kitchen. She looks through the bi-fold doors to the garden, and rattles the handle.

‘Locked?’

‘Locked. I’m scared, Mum.’

I try to keep my voice calm, belying the turmoil I feel inside. ‘He won’t get us here, love. PC Swift will come and talk to us, and they’ll get officers to arrest Simon. He can’t hurt us.’

I stand in front of the coffee machine and place my hands flat on the worktop; the granite cold and smooth beneath my palms. Now that we’re safely out of the house my fear is turning to anger, and I’m struggling to keep it hidden from Katie, who is already teetering on the edge of hysteria. I think of the lies Simon told me during the months when I thought he was still working; his insistence, when I brought home the
Gazette
all those weeks ago, that it wasn’t me in the photo. How could I have been so stupid?

I think of the debt Simon claimed to have run up. The website must be bringing in far more than he ever earned at the
Telegraph.
No wonder he didn’t get another job – why would he bother? The role he’s been called back for today – I doubt it even exists. I picture Simon sitting in a café, not preparing for his interview but scrolling through photos of women on his phone, copying
details of their commutes from his notebook to upload to the website.

Katie’s restless, pacing between the window and Melissa’s long, white table, picking up artfully arranged objects from the floating shelves. ‘Be careful with that,’ I tell her, ‘it probably cost a fortune.’

From upstairs I hear the strains of Melissa’s voice as she talks to PC Swift. I hear her ask, ‘Are they in danger?’ and I cough loudly, not wanting Katie to dwell on it any more than she already is. She’s replaced the vase and picked up a glass paperweight; she runs her thumb over the smooth surface.

‘Please, love, you’re making me nervous.’

She puts it down and wanders across the kitchen to the opposite side, where Melissa’s desk is.

The green light on the coffee machine blinks, to tell me the water is hot. I press start, watching the dark liquid spew into the waiting cup. The smell is strong, almost overpowering. I don’t usually drink coffee but today I think I need one. I take out a second capsule. ‘Do you want one?’ I ask Katie. She doesn’t answer. I turn to see her looking at something on the desk. ‘Love, please stop fiddling with Melissa’s stuff.’ I’m wondering how long the police will take to arrive and whether they’ll go out and look for Simon, or wait for him to return home.

‘Mum, you need to see this.’

‘What is it?’ I hear the creak of Melissa’s footsteps on the landing, and I put her coffee on the island behind me. I stir a sugar into mine and take a sip, scalding my tongue.

‘Mum!’ Katie is insistent. I walk across to the desk to see what’s got her in a state. It’s a London Underground map – the one I saw when I picked up Melissa’s accounts. Katie has unfolded it, and now it spreads across the entire surface of the desk. The familiar colours and routes of the Underground have been annotated with a spider’s web of arrows, lines and scribbled notes.

I
stare at it. Katie is crying but I make no move to comfort her. I’m searching for a route I know off by heart; Tania Beckett’s commute to work.

The Northern line to Highgate, then the 43 bus to Cranley Gardens.

The route has been marked out with a yellow highlighter, and at the end is a handwritten note.

You
hear a lot of things in coffee shops.

I imagine working in a busy café is much like being a bartender, or a hairdresser. We see the highs and lows of everyday life in our customers’ faces; hear the tail end of conversations between friends. We benefit from your bonuses – a lunch paid for with crisp twenty-pound notes; a pound coin thrown carelessly on the table – and we suffer the consequences of a bad month, when you count out your change for a smaller-than-usual coffee, and pretend not to see the tips jar on the counter.

A café provides the perfect financial detergent when you need to move large amounts of cash around. Who cares what the footfall’s like? Invisible customers can still pay the bills. Money comes in dirty; it goes out clean.

Over time, regulars become loose-lipped. We know your secrets, your ambitions, your bank details. Casual customers share confidences; the Formica counter acting as therapist’s couch. You talk; we listen.

It’s the perfect environment to source more girls, and – just occasionally – more customers. A card, slipped into the jacket pocket of a man who fits the brief. A man who’s already proved his mettle with his smutty comment to the girl on the till; whose pinstripe and braces mark him out as someone with money. A man who will, later, look at the invitation in his pocket, and be flattered enough to take a look.

An exclusive members’ club. The finest girls.

Access to a service he won’t find anywhere else in the city.

Access to you.

Melissa
stands in the doorway between the hall and the kitchen. She registers the horrified look on Katie’s face; the unfolded Underground map in my hand, and slowly the smile disappears from her face. I realise I’m hoping she’ll deny it; that she’ll produce some plausible explanation for the evidence I’m holding.

She doesn’t even try. Instead she gives a deep sigh, as though our actions are tedious in the extreme.

‘It’s very bad manners to rifle through someone’s personal belongings,’ she says, and I have to swallow the automatic apology it prompts. She walks across the kitchen, her heels clicking against the tiled floor, and takes the Underground map from my hand. I realise I’m holding my breath, but when I let it out there isn’t anything there; my chest feels tight, as though someone is pushing against it. I watch her refold the map, tutting when a crease bends the wrong way, but not hurried, not panicked in the slightest. Her coolness disorientates me, and I have to remind myself that the evidence is incontrovertible. Melissa is behind the website; behind the
London Gazette
adverts. It’s Melissa who has been hunting women across London; selling their commutes so that men can hunt them too.

‘Why?’ I ask her. She doesn’t answer.

‘You’d better sit down,’ she says instead, gesturing to the long white table.

‘No.’