When You Are Mine(94)

The computer makes a pinging sound. ‘OK, that looks all right. Let’s see what apps you’re using.’

He scrolls through my phone. ‘You don’t have any obvious tracking apps. A lot of parents use them to keep tabs on their children. Some are pretty sophisticated. They send out alerts if a handset hasn’t been used for a period of time. It stops kids leaving their phones at a mate’s place and going to a party.’

Still talking, he plugs the phone into a different computer and runs another program. This time a screed of script appears, looking like a foreign alphabet.

‘Fuck!’ he yells, quickly unplugging the phone.

‘What is it?’

‘Malware. I must have triggered it when I went looking for the app.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Your phone has a virus. And whoever wrote the coding doesn’t want me interfering.’

‘Can you get rid of it?’

‘Not without doing a factory reset. Do you have it backed up anywhere? The cloud? A computer at home?’

‘I don’t know.’ Henry does that for me.

Symon plugs my phone into a new computer and holds down the volume key, opening a recovery mode screen. ‘You sure you want me to do this? You’ll lose everything. Passwords. Emails. Contacts. Photographs.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘You should also wipe any computers and tablets you have at home, which share the same network.’

‘OK. Make it safe. What does the malware do?’

‘Hard to say without seeing the coding, but it could give someone access to your data and location. Some can also control your phone – turning on the camera and microphone without you knowing.’

‘Eavesdropping.’

‘Yeah.’

‘How did I get infected?’

‘You could have opened an attachment, or someone had access to your phone.’

My mind is skipping ahead. Tempe is always sending me photographs and attachments, information about the wedding. And when she visits, my phone is always lying around.

Symon returns the handset. My contact list is purged. My emails, my messages, my photographs. I want to call Henry, but I only remember a few digits of his number.

I’m outside on the pavement, being jostled by passing pedestrians because I’m unsure of where I’m going and what I should do. What Tempe did is illegal – phone hacking, reading my messages … She could be watching me now. She could have followed me to the bookshop and the computer store. I scan the street and the churchyard over the road, looking into the shadows beneath the trees.

What does Tempe want from me? I befriended her. I found her accommodation when she was homeless. I introduced her to my friends. I treated her like a sister. But it was never enough. I don’t care if she has a history of mental health issues, or thinks I need rescuing. This has to stop.

At the bridal shop, I wait outside, still deciding what to do. The owner spies me through the window and joins me on the footpath.

‘Is everything OK? You can come inside. I’ll put the kettle on.’

Martina is in her mid-forties, dressed in a smart skirt and jacket that matches her eye colour. She is one of those women who gushes over every bride-to-be and makes each of us feel like her most important customer.

‘What have you done to yourself?’ she asks, concerned. ‘You have bags under your eyes. That won’t do. You need cold teabags. Hydration.’

‘I didn’t sleep well.’

She takes me into the fitting room, which has a lounge set up for viewing and mirrors on three walls. Tea is poured. Chocolate biscuits arranged on a plate. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. The chocolate gives me a momentary sugar hit, but I know it won’t last.

A sing-song chime announces Tempe’s arrival. She’s in jeans and a light cashmere cardigan over a white T-shirt. My cardigan. My style. She smiles and leans towards me, expecting a kiss on the cheek, but at the last moment, I pull away.

‘I have a sore throat. I don’t want to give you anything.’

Martina lets out a squeak of alarm. ‘You can’t be getting a cold. Not this close to the wedding. I know just the thing – you need a saltwater gargle and honey in your tea.’

While Martina prattles on about how she hasn’t had a head-cold in seven years, I am watching Tempe.

‘How did you know where I was?’ I ask.

‘What?’

‘When you called, I was around the corner at Carmen’s bookshop.’

‘That was handy,’ she says, oblivious to the subtext.

‘Have the police been to see you?’

‘Why?’

‘Darren Goodall was killed last night.’

Tempe doesn’t feign surprise, or concern. The news barely causes a ripple on her serene, unflustered face.

‘In the line of duty?’ she asks, picking up a bridal magazine.

‘No. He was at home.’

‘Did someone … ?’

‘He was set on fire. Early hours. It was horrible.’

‘You saw him?’

‘I saw the crime scene.’

She is casually turning the pages, pausing to look at the photographs. ‘Do they know who did it?’

‘No, but the police will want to speak to you.’