by Simon Hall
Claire stopped typing, sat back, hit the send button. The chatroom had become real.
It was decorated in aggressive red paint, but apart from that it was bare. The floor was cold concrete. A hard, white light hung from the red ceiling, no shade to soften its swinging bulb. Their voices echoed from the stone walls. The three of them were each slumped in the corners furthest from the grey, iron door, fearful of what would enter. One was groaning from her wounds, one huddled in a ball, the other shaking, continually eyeing the door, flinching with every sound that might be the precursor to another kicking.
She’d almost forgotten the long, freezing day on Dartmoor, the frustration, anger and despair at the failure to find Nicola. They’d been stood down and sent home, despite their protests. Come back tomorrow when you’re fresh and ready to try again, the sergeant had said. We won’t find anything tonight. Whiting had resisted the most, she’d noticed. He sounded as though he would have been happy to spend the night scouring the moor.
She’d got to know the two women in the chatroom over the last couple of hours. It was strange how the faceless computer link and shared suffering allowed you to free your demons in a way that would be impossible over a coffee with a close friend. Both the women told depressingly familiar stories, not so different from the one she’d invented.
Lynn’s husband was a professional man, although she wouldn’t say what he did. His job was high-powered, his pay breathtaking, certainly compared to what Claire earned as a Detective Sergeant. They had a young son who was a delight, a beautiful modern home near Tavistock on the western edge of Dartmoor.
She spent her days looking after the house, doing the shopping, meeting with friends for lunch, a few hours voluntary work at a charity shop. Much of the time he was a good husband, caring, understanding and attentive. But when he’d had a bad day, a row with a colleague or a competitor, when the little boy was safely in bed, that’s when it would start.
At first it was a slap, then it grew to a punch, then a kick. Now his favourite was the cane. It was a thin stick, the kind used by gardeners for twining tomato plants. But it cut the air with a wicked, fearful whip. He’d hit her on her back where the thin wood bit into the tender skin, but the weals wouldn’t show. She’d thought about leaving him, but what could she do? There was the boy to think of, the beautiful home too and she had no money of her own, no job, no one to help her, nowhere to go. She was trapped.
Jackie sounded younger. She had two children, but wouldn’t say where she was from. She worked part-time in a supermarket, wasn’t married, but she and her partner had been together since they left school. He’d beaten her from the start, a punch and a kick after a few beers was his favourite. And he liked his beer too, not quite an alcoholic, but four nights a week at the local was his average. She would lay awake and dread his return. But he was a decent man really, she said. She loved him, so she stayed with him. He only did it when he was drunk. He didn’t mean it.
A couple of months ago the assaults had grown worse. He’d got in from the pub one night and called her downstairs. She’d been bad that week he’d said, spending too much money on the housekeeping. He’d taken a carving knife from the drawer. She stood still, frozen, terrified. He made her lift up her nightdress and cut her thigh. And that had become his favourite attack, a thin but bloody cut on the tops of her legs. She stayed with him, had nowhere else to go of course, but she loved him. She was sure he was a good man really, that he would change.
Zac whistled under his breath as he watched Claire’s typing, exchanging messages with the two women. It was just after nine and they’d been online for almost two hours. He was trying to concentrate on the screen, but he couldn’t help casting sly glances around her flat. He’d imagined being here a few times before, but in very different circumstances. Through the door into her bedroom he could see an inviting looking bed. It wasn’t helping that some of Claire’s small and lacy white knickers were hanging up on a drying rack in the corner of the bathroom.
‘Claire,’ he whispered as she waited for a message from Lynn to finish. ‘What exactly are you hoping to find?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, sipping at a glass of white wine. She’d offered Zac some but discovered he didn’t drink. ‘I’m just following a hunch. About the only possible link I can see between Crouch and the shootings is a computer. They’ve all got them and Crouch had a password hidden in his house. Apart from that, I don’t know. I was wondering whether – maybe – he could get into these chat rooms and find some desperate woman who he could set up a conspiracy with.’
As spoke, she wondered at how thin it sounded. ‘Well, something like that.’
Zac paused, then said, ‘So you’re playing a part that you hope …’
‘He might intrude on, like some kind of guardian angel and offer me a way of getting rid of the man. I’m trying to sound as if I’m at the end of my tether and desperate enough to do anything.’
‘Isn’t that entrapment?’
She’d worry about that later. ‘It might be if it works. For now, think of it as … fishing.’
He nodded, checked the array of electronics he’d linked to the side of her computer, watched her type out Zoë’s next message.
“I don’t know what to do either. But I suppose I’m lucky compared to you two. I don’t have kids to worry about. It’s a horrible thing to say, but I just dream about him being killed in a car crash, or some accident at work. I fantasise about the phone ringing and this voice saying “Prepare yourself for some bad news”, then telling me he’s dead. And instead of being shocked, I’m overjoyed. I just want to be free. I was only half joking with that message about wanting to murder him. I haven’t told anyone this, but I’ve started planning how to kill myself. I just can’t take much more.”
‘Whew,’ Zac whistled. ‘If that doesn’t prompt your guardian angel to come calling, nothing will.’
If he’s there, thought Claire. A big if. Her theory was feeling hollow.
They sat back to watch the response. Lynn and Jackie were both very kind thought Claire, the sort of women I’d like to meet. Both sent instant messages telling her never to think like that, not to give up, that something would happen to make life better. She wondered what they looked like, what their children were like, if any of their friends knew or suspected what they were going through. Why had life turned out this way for them?
She began typing a reply, thanking them, telling them they were keeping her going, giving her strength. ‘If we don’t get anything in the next hour or so, Zac, we’ll call it a day,’ she said. ‘It’s only a hunch and I’ve wasted enough of your time.’
He watched her fingers fly over the keyboard. “…you’ve made me feel so much better, thank you both. It’s good to know I’m not alone. Maybe I will have the strength to plunge that knife into him, then stand up in court and tell the jury why I did it. I wonder if they could really convict me after all that I’ve been through.”
‘You sure you don’t want a glass of wine, Zac?’ she asked, leaning back from the laptop. ‘It’s the least I can offer you for helping me out.’
‘No thanks. I gave up drinking at university.’
‘Bad hangover?’
‘No, I did something very silly.’
Claire turned to him with that lovely smile of hers, all white teeth and unspoken promise, he thought. ‘Oh yes? Tell me more?’
She was interrupted by an electronic bleep from Zac’s computer. ‘What’s that?’ Claire asked.
‘That,’ he said, leaning forwards to see the screen, ‘is the equivalent of a fish’s nibble on your float. Look.’
There was a message, but in different type from the two women, bold, red letters.
“Hello Zoë. Don’t be alarmed, this is one of the site managers. Just a question. How desperate are you?”
‘It’s someone who has superuser powers,’ said Zac. ‘The others can’t see that message. It’s just to you. Answer it in the same character you’ve bee
n playing and I’ll see if I can trace where it’s coming from.’
Zac began fiddling with the keyboard he’d attached to hers via a tangle of wires and a black box. How do I answer, thought Claire? She could feel a surge of excitement. Not too keen, stay in character, don’t frighten them off. Zoë would be wary, wouldn’t she?
“Who is this?” she typed. “I thought I was talking to Lynn and Jackie. I didn’t know anyone else was there.”
The reply was swift. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I’m someone who’s helped other women before.”
“What do you mean? How? Why? Who are you?”
“ Don’t worry about who I am, just that I might be able to help you. Someone very close to me suffered in the way you are, and I want to try to save anyone else from going through the same .”
Claire felt another shot of excitement. “How? How can you help me?”
“ Don’t worry about that for now. First, I need to know how desperate you are. You must answer me honestly or I won’t be able to help .”
What would Zoë do now, she thought? She might pause, mightn’t she? Be suspicious but also interested? Wait a minute to think. Claire forced herself not to type a reply, not yet.
‘I’ve got it,’ exclaimed Zac, his head bobbing up from behind the computer. ‘I’ve got the number it’s coming from. But it’s a mobile. It’ll take a while to trace where exactly it is.’
‘What?’ said Claire.
‘It’s a mobile. This person’s a site superuser. They’ve used their special privileges to interrupt and talk to you directly. But they’re using a mobile phone and a laptop computer to link to the server.’
‘Can you find out where it’s being done from?’
‘Yep, if you keep them talking for a few more minutes.’
Why would someone use a mobile and a laptop, Claire thought? It must only be so they could hide … because what they were planning was illegal? It could only be that, couldn’t it? Crouch? Or was her imagination getting the better of her?
Claire turned back to the computer, began typing her next message. Stay in character, she warned herself. Don’t get too keen, over-excited. Zoë would be heartened to find a sympathetic stranger, but still wary.
“I’m really desperate,” she typed. “I don’t know what to do. I’m thinking about ending it all. I never thought life would be this dreadful. I wake up every morning crying and I cry myself to sleep again at night.”
Claire waited, tapped away at the table with a finger, staring at the screen. She reached for the wine bottle, but it was empty.
“I may be able to help you.”
She stared at the bold, red words. “How?”
“I can’t tell you that yet. We would have to meet.”
“How do I know you’re genuine? You could be anyone.”
“I’m genuine. I’ve helped women like you before.”
“How do I know?”
“You’ll have to trust me. And I would have to trust you. We would both have a great deal to lose if we couldn’t trust each other .”
She stared at the screen. Could it be Crouch? It sounded like him. He typed messages in a similar way to how he spoke. Or was it just some pervert with a new way to prey on vulnerable women? She knew she couldn’t stop now, had to find out.
“What would we have to do?” Claire typed clumsily.
“We must meet. Not now, and not at night, but in a few days, in some place safe for us both.”
Claire was about to reply when her radio crackled with a tinny voice. ‘Emergency. All available officers to Dartmoor to join hunt for missing girl. Most urgent.’
They both stared at it, then Zac whispered, ‘What do we do?’
‘Shit,’ Claire hissed. ‘We could be on the trail of a double murderer cop …’
‘But it could be entirely innocent.’
‘Or we might be able to help find Nicola …’
Zac nodded. ‘Nice dilemma. Well, I’m glad I do backroom work and it’s not the sort of thing I have …’
‘Shhh!’ Claire interrupted.
She stood up, stared at her reflection in the mirror. Behind her taut face she could see Nicola, crying, her hands reaching out, begging for help, Whiting, his mouth set in that strange, sinister smile, and Crouch, a gun in his hand, calmly aiming it right between her eyes.
What was going on? The search was supposed to have been suspended for the night. She radioed in.
‘Male shot dead, girl still missing,’ the harassed operator replied.
A man shot dead. Dan?
‘Who?’ she gasped. ‘Was it … a cop?’ Claire hesitated. ‘Or someone with the cops?’
‘No. Suspect shot dead. Girl still missing.’
She couldn’t hide the relief, leaned heavily back against the wall. What state would Dan be in if he was part of the shooting? Did he need her there? Or would he put on one of his typical macho shows and pretend he was better off facing the danger alone?
Where was Nicola? Should she go now and help in the search? She’d found the Scout Hut … maybe she could find the girl. But what about Crouch? If it was him online, this could be their only chance to catch him. She’d love to see Whiting’s face if she did …
There was another electronic bleep from the black box next to the computer. ‘Got him!’ whispered Zac. He clicked at his keyboard. ‘The superuser … he’s close. He’s in … hell, he’s just up the road. In the middle of a field, according to this map.’
‘What? A field?’
‘No, it’s not a field, sorry. It just came up green on my screen. It’s an allotment. In Lipson. Right in the middle of Plymouth. Just five mins up the road.’
Claire closed her eyes, massaged her forehead with her fingertips. Zac took a couple of steps towards her, stopped. ‘What do we do?’
She didn’t have the luxury of time to think. ‘We go hunting. If we don’t get him in twenty minutes we go after Nicola.’
‘We? We?’
She grabbed her coat and car keys, then remembered the wine. ‘You’ll have to drive,’ she said.
‘Me?’ said Zac. ‘Where are we going? To the allotment? But I’m a boffin. I don’t do field work. I wouldn’t know how. It might be dangerous. I’ve never been on a stake-out. I don’t like …’
‘Then it’s time you learned. It’ll help you understand CID better. But how am I going to keep him on line so we can get there?’
‘How about … telling him you want to hear more, but you’ve got to pop away for ten minutes to splash some water on your face and take this in,’ said Zac breathlessly.
Claire began typing fast.
Dan had lost his sense of time. All he could feel was a vague, blank hopelessness. He stared up at the half moon, serene in the night sky, the silent, silver moorland around him. He looked longingly down to the south, towards Plymouth, the safety of his flat and beloved dog, the home that would mark the end of these six days of madness. The moon’s gentle light was making the sea glitter.
The thundering roar of a hovering helicopter forced him back to the moor, its pure white beam of searchlight sweeping over him. The marksmen had spread out across Evil Coombe and around Higher Hartor Tor, but they’d found no trace of Nicola. Dan could see the swinging flashes of torchlight as more search teams jogged up the mine track, heard the odd crackle of a radio. Adam’s scramble call for every available officer to join them had had instant effect.
An ambulance crew arrived to take Gibson’s body away and forensics officers were marking the area around the tent, lighting it with staccato flares of camera flashes. The moonlight faded, softened by some trails of wispy cloud that had gathered in the starry sky. It was growing colder still and his ankle was throbbing with new vigour. He couldn’t stop fantasising about the safety and warmth of his bed.
Gibson’s last note had been dictated to Eleanor and Michael. Dan too had looked through it, time and again, tried to focus his thoughts but seen nothing. His brain felt numb, sluggish, unable to find the
strength to concentrate. He kept reliving the moment Gibson had been shot. It was the first time he’d seen someone die, and so close, right in front of him. The thought made him shudder.
Why him? Why pick on him? Why did Gibson have to invite Dan into his deranged world? And why had he left this final riddle, the last chance to save Nicola, laying the pressure of cracking it so heavily on him? He tried to look again, work through the note, stare at it until he came up with a solution, but the cold and fatigue were weighing him down.
Eleanor had broken the part of the code that was no longer any use to them. Band of Gold and its constituent elements, she’d explained quickly, meant the atomic symbols and numbers of the words. Ba was barium, atomic number 56, Nd was neodymium, number 60, gold was atomic number 79. Combine them and you had 605 679, the exact grid reference of Evil Coombe. She’d worked it out as they were closing in on Gibson, just too late.
Adam stalked up and down by the tent, his eyes wide and wild. The tent had been thoroughly searched, but nothing found that might give them a clue where Nicola was. The helicopter’s thermal imaging camera had found no trace of anything that might be a young girl. She must be inside somewhere, Adam had said, shielded from the camera. She had to be …
No one dared to mention the other possibility. That she was lying cold and dead on the lonely moor, her body waiting to be discovered in the morning light.
‘We’re running out of time,’ Adam croaked again to the police officers and volunteers circled around him. ‘Every second we waste there’s less chance we’ll find Nicola alive. Remember that. Be relentless in your searching. The helicopter hasn’t seen anything obvious, so check in any buildings or trees that might shield her from the camera. The dogs haven’t found a scent either. But she can’t be far from here. She can’t be.’ Adam’s voice almost cracked. He sounded pleading.
‘He didn’t have the time to take her far. So we’ll use the tent as the centre of our search and work outwards in square kilometres. And we will continue doing that until we find her. And we will find her alive. Understand?’
