The Girl I Used to Be(37)

“It’s not that. He’s using Instagram and withdrawing the messages immediately afterward.”

“So they’re not there now? How’s he doing that?”

I showed her Instagram on my phone. “All you can see now is the names he used and the fact that the message has been withdrawn. And he sent a screenshot of my Facebook page, too. I’ve got rid of Facebook now. I deactivated it as soon as he sent that screenshot. And yesterday I received an e-mail. I know it’s from him.”

“What does it say?”

“Nothing. There’s just a link there to a voyeur website.” I opened his e-mail on my phone. “Look.” I passed it to her and when I saw the expression on her face, I felt my eyes prickle with tears. “I think he’s going to post my photos to the site.”

“Have you opened this link?”

I shook my head. “I was worried in case it contained a virus.”

“You’re right not to open any attachment he sends you,” she said. “Unfortunately, this is a real site. If you do want to look at it, just type in the address manually, though, rather than clicking on the link he gave you.”

I couldn’t imagine wanting to look at it, but agreed that was what I’d do.

“But how is it legal for a website to show photos like that?”

She said patiently, “Well, no one can police the Internet. If they’ve set up a site in another country then they have to abide by their laws, even though the site can be viewed anywhere in the world. You can imagine the problems it’s caused us. But you can usually get a photo pulled down off a site if you make a complaint; most webmasters will do that. They’re not usually after a lot of aggravation, and if you ask, they’ll oblige. You can also ask Google to prevent a page appearing in their search results if you were nude or shown in a sexual act, so anyone searching for images of you online wouldn’t see the images of you naked. They’ll do that as long as the act was intended to be private and you didn’t consent to the photo being publicly available.” It was clear she was used to reciting this. “The most important thing, though, is to ask the webmaster to remove the image from the site as soon as you see it.” She must have noticed the stricken look on my face. “If you see it,” she added hastily.

“But if someone sees it before me,” I said, “the damage is done then, isn’t it?”

She nodded sympathetically. “We’ll do as much damage limitation as we can. Don’t forget to delete all your social media—Twitter, LinkedIn, that sort of thing. Don’t give him a platform for posting images that your friends could see.”

“I’ve done that already. I did it as soon as he sent the screenshot of my Facebook page. But what about Instagram? Should I delete my account?”

“I would. I’d cut off all the ways he can reach you.”

I did it there and then. She asked more questions about David, and I told her how I’d called the numbers he’d given me, and discovered he didn’t work for Barford’s or live at the address he’d given us. I was getting more and more agitated as I told her everything I knew.

“Look, he’s given you a false name,” she said. “When he came to your office, he knew in advance that he was going to do something. Whether he knew exactly what, who can say now? But he created a fake e-mail address to book an appointment before even seeing you. I don’t think he was targeting you at that point. You have a number of staff. Any one of them could have become his victim.”

I shuddered at the thought of the other women in the office being put in this position.

“So you need to increase your precautions,” she said. “And speak to the other estate agents in your area. No house visits with anyone unless they’ve shown photo ID. I’ll get our community police officers onto it, too.” She looked at me sympathetically. “So when you had a meal with him, you didn’t get an inkling anything was wrong with him? No red flags?”

“No, nothing jarred at all. He was really nice. Great company. I drank far too much, though, and had a terrible hangover the next day.” I grimaced. “I don’t usually drink more than a glass or two. I have a three-year-old son and I have to keep my wits about me. But that night I was away from home and I drank more than I usually did.”

“Do you remember going to bed?”

“I remember going down the corridor to my room. I remember stumbling.” I winced. “I’m mortified now, just thinking about it.”

“And was David with you then, do you remember?”

“Yes. Yes, he was. He pulled me upright.”

“And did you invite him into your room?”

“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t do that. I’m married. Happily married.”

All the while I was insisting on this, the thought was there, though. How did he take a photo of me on my bed? Had I really invited him into my room?

“Do you remember brushing your teeth that night? Washing your face? Or did you decide not to bother?”

I stared at her uncertainly. “I can’t remember. I’m sure I did. I always do—it’s automatic, isn’t it?”

“But can you remember doing it?”

No matter how hard I tried to remember, I just couldn’t. I shook my head.