I See You(83)

At Whitechapel I don’t hang around. I wait by the door as the train slows to a halt, impatiently jabbing the release button long before it has lit up. I run as though I might miss my connection, weaving between people who couldn’t care less as long as I don’t make them late too. I listen for the sound of running feet, but there are only mine, hitting the ground in time with each jagged breath.

I make the platform just as my Overground train pulls in, and I jump on with seconds to spare. My breathing slows. Only a handful of people are on this carriage, and nothing about them makes me feel uncomfortable. Two girls with armfuls of shopping; a man lugging a television in an old Ikea bag; a woman in her twenties, plugged in to her iPhone. By the time we reach Crystal Palace I release my grip on the key in my pocket, and the tense feeling in my chest begins to dissipate.

It reappears as my foot hits the platform, and this time there’s no mistaking it. Someone is watching me. Following me. As I walk towards the exit I know – I just know – that someone has stepped off the carriage next to mine, and is walking behind me. I don’t turn round. I can’t. I find the key in my pocket and twist it between my fingers. I walk faster, and then I abandon all pretence at nonchalance and I run as though my life depended on it. Because right now, I think that it might. My breath is shallow, each inhalation prompting a sharp pain in my chest. I hear footsteps behind me; they’re running too. Leather on concrete. Hard and fast.

I push between a couple about to say goodbye, leaving outraged cries in my wake. I can see the way out now; a darkening sky framed by the square of the Tube exit. I run faster and I wonder why no one is shouting – no one is doing anything – and I realise they don’t even know anything is wrong.

In front of me, I see Megan. She looks at me and her smile freezes on her face. I keep running, my head down and my arms pumping by my side. She stops playing. Says something to me, but I don’t hear it. I don’t stop. I just keep running, and as I do I tear open the flap of my handbag, shoving in my hand and stirring the contents in search of my police alarm. I curse myself for not keeping it in my pocket, or clipped to my clothing, as Kelly Swift suggested. I find it and press the two indentations on either side. If it’s worked, the alarm has already communicated with my phone, which is even now dialling 999.

There’s shouting behind me. A bang and a cry, and a commotion that makes me turn round, still poised to run if I have to. More confident, now that I know – I hope – police operators are listening; that the GPS on the device means a patrol car is already on its way.

What I see stops me dead in my tracks.

Megan is standing above a man in an overcoat and a hat. Her guitar case, normally beside her by the railings, is beneath him, its coins spewed out on to the tarmac.

‘You tripped me up deliberately!’ the man is saying, and I start to walk back towards the station.

‘Are you okay?’ Megan calls to me, but I can’t take my eyes off the man on the ground, who is now sitting up and dusting off his knees.

‘You,’ I say. ‘What on earth are you doing down there?’





There’s a certain demand for the older woman, it seems. They have just as many page views as the younger ones; their profiles are downloaded just as often. Like any business, it’s important to respond to trends; to ensure I’m offering the right products for my customers.

I quickly became obsessed with analytics; staring at figures on a screen to understand how many people have looked at the website, how many have clicked on a link, how many have gone on to download a profile. I consider the popularity of each woman on the site, and am ruthless about deleting any who attract no interest. Each one carries a cost, after all; it takes time to keep their profiles updated, to make sure their descriptions are accurate, that their route hasn’t changed. Time is money, they say, and my girls need to earn their place online.

Most do. There’s no accounting for tastes, and it is – after all – a seller’s market. They won’t find this particular brand of entertainment anywhere else, which means they can’t afford to be picky.

Good news for you, don’t you think? No need to feel left out. Young or old; fat or thin; blonde or brunette… there’ll be someone who wants you.

Who knows? There could be someone downloading your profile right now.





27


‘Right, chaps, listen in. This is a briefing for Operation FURNISS, on Tuesday 1 December.’

It was like Groundhog Day, Kelly thought. Every morning and every evening, the same group of people gathered in the same room. A lot of the team were looking tired, but Nick’s energy never wavered. It had been precisely two weeks since Tania Beckett’s body was found, and in that time he had been the first one in the office each morning; the last one to leave at night. Two weeks in which Operation FURNISS had gathered three murders, six sexual assaults, and more than a dozen reports of stalkings, attempted assaults and suspicious incidents, all relating to findtheone.com.

‘Those of you who worked on the Maidstone rape – well done. Tillman’s a nasty piece of work and your efforts have taken him off the streets.’ Nick looked for Kelly. ‘What’s the latest on his computer activity?’

‘Cyber Crime say he made no attempt to cover his tracks,’ Kelly said, looking at the notes she’d made from her earlier conversation with Andrew Robinson. ‘He downloaded the victim’s details and emailed them to himself; presumably so he could have them on his phone, which is where we found them.’