by Sam Blake
Then he’d work hard, focused on the screen, apparently hardly noticing them as he whizzed around the Web, the screen dark, showing rows and rows of scrolling code. But he noticed everything. The colours of the nail polishes lined up on the windowsill, the photos pinned to the noticeboard above their desks. The smell of the room: layers of body lotion, deodorant, perfume, hairspray. He took the top Post-it note off the pad so later he could hold it up to the light and see what it said. From the moment he had identified them as a possible target he’d been building a picture, checking their social media sites for information. By the time he arrived he knew the names of everyone in her family, their brother’s best friend, where they had been to school, what their home address was. He knew they’d worn the purple nail polish to the college ball, but their favourite was the black. Getting into their rooms or apartments – being inside their space – was the next part of the challenge, one of the bits he enjoyed most.
It would always take a while to solve their problem, but he’d tell them just to ignore him – if they needed to go out or study, that was no problem, he’d just keep going. They trusted him. He wasn’t the type to go through their underwear drawers, their laundry basket, to hold their lacy knickers to his face and breathe in their scent. He was quiet and safe and trustworthy.
And he’d secure their systems, assuring them he’d be back to check, that it should all be OK but he just needed to be sure. And then they’d throw their arms around him, so relieved that he could help, or they’d collapse sobbing and he’d be there to put his arm around them, to kiss the top of their heads, to assure them that nobody need ever know. If he passed them in the street there would be a silent exchange of looks, never acknowledging that he knew them, that they had a shared secret.
Then he’d come again to check if everything was working – it took up to thirty-six hours for something to propagate across the Web, he’d explain. And as he ran his checks, he’d slip a tablet into their tea, one that made their gratitude overwhelm them, that relaxed them and made them happy.
And then he fucked them.
He knew he didn’t need the pills; he knew they wanted him at that stage, that he’d become a god in their eyes, but there was no point in taking risks. The pills made the exact series of events a bit blurry, made them more compliant. Made them forget that their laptops were open on the desk. That the webcam was picking up all the action. He didn’t broadcast that footage, though; that was for his private use. And it was his guarantee if anything went wrong that everything was entirely consensual; he made quite sure it appeared that way.
He just wished he was able to film the special ones. There weren’t too many of those. Couldn’t be. The circumstances had to be perfect, there were so many variables that needed to fall into place to ensure that he was totally safe. That he could get what he wanted and vanish. He could feel himself hardening at the thought.
Memories swirled in his head as he walked swiftly down the road, his head down against the rain. The others were almost as good as the special ones. Part of the joy was in the chase, in choosing the subjects, finding out everything about them, then hooking them and reeling them in. It was all about control. He thought of them now, each one of them, as a slow smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.
His glasses steamed up as he pushed open the cafe door, the warmth spilling out and surrounding him like a caress. He smiled at the waitress, ordered a double espresso and, seeing his table in the corner was free, headed over.
Pulling his laptop from his bag, he fired it up and checked his email. The anonymous account he’d set up was untraceable, his emails arriving in carefully chosen inboxes. He smiled to himself; his targets had no idea that as soon as they opened a particular email, or clicked to visit a site, a worm was unleashed that burrowed its way into their hard drive and gave him complete access to their webcam and microphone. He loved the tingle of anticipation when he first activated a new camera – what would he see? What would he hear? Would any of them be right for him to choose to keep for himself? If they were a day or so later he’d send another email with some stills, this one explaining what he wanted, what would happen if they didn’t comply. He had it all worked out now: the wording; how to escalate revealing the images; how to increase the pressure until his target was terrified.
It was foolproof. Everything was hidden in the depths of the Dark Web.
But for the special ones, the conditions had to be just right.
The first one hadn’t been planned at all, but it had shown him the possibilities, and then he’d known he needed more, needed that utterly intoxicating high again. He’d only been sixteen then, but sensible enough to know it couldn’t happen like that too often. It was too dangerous to take risks. After that first one in Paris he’d learned so much and, despite the furore, everything had worked out in the end. And in that one moment he and Karim had become connected for life.
The bracelet had been Karim’s idea – a true masterstroke. It was a shame it hadn’t gone quite the way they had expected, but the evidence was still there, waiting like a sleeper. He smiled – a sleeper that was about to be woken up.
Karim hadn’t been there for the next one, the American, Serena del Guardo. He liked the sound of her name. Rolling it around his head brought back all sorts of pleasant memories.
It felt like a long time ago now – it had been the summer he’d left school. The Youth Study programme in Long Island had been the perfect opportunity for him to test his hacking skills away from home, and when he’d sent the second photograph she’d walked right into his arms.
Her email address had been easy to get, her laptop almost permanently open on her desk in her bedroom. He’d spent the evenings watching her, felt like he was part of her world. As she stood at the edge of their crowd in her skintight jeans and white hoody, her dark wavy hair pulled back off her face in a ponytail, he knew that she was wearing a lacy lilac bra and thong, that she had a birthmark on her back just below her shoulder blade.
From the moment he’d sent the first email, she’d become more attentive, listening to the others talking about him building gaming sites, showing off that they knew someone who could hack into the White House. And he’d seen her looking at him, wondering if he could help.
He’d kept it low-key as always, not confirming or denying, just keeping quiet. He knew she wanted to ask him, but she must have been too shy, and, if he was honest, he’d got a bit impatient. She was beautiful, Latina, with those small firm rounded tits he liked and a narrow waist, thick dark hair. And she liked to walk around her bedroom naked.
Almost as soon as he’d sent the second image she had come to him, waiting for him on the way back from the chess championships at the school one evening, waiting in the shadows at the edge of the woods that butted onto the quiet suburban street. He’d been heading back to his host’s family home. She’d taken him by surprise.
It had been a sticky, sultry night and she’d been wearing a low-cut T-shirt. She had been so desperate not to let anyone see her, so desperate that nobody knew about the emails, that she’d taken him into the dense woodland to talk. And then she’d started to explain, haltingly, the tears beginning to fall. She’d held his arm tightly, imploring him to keep her secret, terrified that someone would find out, begging him to help, how he was the only one who could. How her father would go mad, how they’d think she was doing it for money.
And then she’d begun to really sob so he’d put his arm around her, his hand brushing her nipple, erect in the chill of the shadows, and it had set off that feeling he just couldn’t control. It had been her fault. He’d sought her lips in the darkness and she’d kissed him back, but as he’d rolled on top of her, his erection painful in his jeans, she’d started to struggle and he knew he couldn’t risk anyone finding out. If they connected him to the email, it could lead them to the site and then he’d be in even bigger trouble.
And he couldn’t fuck her now she knew that’s what he wanted. Couldn’t fuck
her in case she said it was rape and his DNA was all over the place.
That’s what had made him angry.
He’d been patiently working to bring her to him, dreaming about the moment he would push her back on her soft patchwork eiderdown and get his cock in deep between her legs. But it was all ruined. He hadn’t had any choice.
As they lay there, the dry leaves and twigs cracking beneath them, the scent of loam strong, she’d tried to scream. He’d pulled up her T-shirt, shoving it in her mouth, holding his hand over her face until her eyes looked like they were going to pop out of their sockets.
And her fear had been intoxicating, just like the first time in France. He’d been so high on the power, on her terror, on the need to fuck her, he’d felt like he was going to explode. It had taken longer than he’d expected for her to lie quiet, but eventually she’d passed out and the pulse in her beautiful honey-coloured neck had subsided. He’d waited a moment to be sure, then he’d jumped off her and, running as far into the woods as he could bear, he’d fallen against the nearest tree and undone his jeans. Closing his eyes, he’d imagined ejaculating over her tits, over her lifeless face, and he’d finally come.
When the cops had come to question everyone the next morning he’d explained he’d been playing chess, had walked home through the woods. He’d heard sounds like animals, like maybe someone having sex, but he’d had no idea that’s what it was.
He’d got away with it, but only just. He was blessed no one had seen them, that the woods were so close to the school’s back entrance and not overlooked. The road didn’t even have street lights. They’d found the anonymous emails with the images, but everyone had reckoned that she’d been meeting someone that night whom she’d met online, that she’d asked for it.
He’d learned two things that night. The first: to be more careful. The second: how fucking amazing it felt to be in total control.
Sitting down at the back of the cafe, the rich aroma of coffee rising above the sound of gentle Sunday morning chatter and clattering china, he smiled to himself. He needed control – control of his life and total control of the sites. Being here in Dublin had confirmed that more than ever. But everything was working out – he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. Everything had gone to plan from the beginning. The blonde had texted him to meet her at her room last Thursday afternoon, said that she needed help with her computer. She’d been nervy and upset, kept checking her phone constantly, but he’d only got inside the door and one of her friends had arrived and she hadn’t been able to explain. She’d gone out of the room to try and get rid of the girl, which had given him his chance to look around, and he’d had just enough time, before someone else had arrived, to take the next step in the master plan that Karim had set in motion back in Paris, to lay the next part of the trail that would lead the authorities to a multiple inter-national killer. There wasn’t room for two of them. It was time to take over running everything and to be his own boss, and to do that, he needed to remove the one person who was blocking his progress. It was long overdue. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t hated being told what to do. It was hilarious really, how easily someone else could be convicted for his crimes – a win-win in every possible way.
He almost laughed out loud.
It was such a perfect plan. Like all his plans.
And it was all falling into place.
Chapter 20
Sunday, noon
It was raining again. Even with the windscreen wipers going full tilt, Cathy couldn’t see out. A motorbike crossed in front of her and nipped up the inside of a bus. She often wondered how more of them weren’t killed.
It was her turn to drive. Fanning was sitting beside her on his mobile, sorting out some fiasco from last night that wasn’t a relationship overlap at all apparently, despite circumstances that suggested the exact opposite. She ignored his frantic texting, concentrating instead on the road, her mind alternately wandering to the case, then pulling her back to her next fight. She’d had a tough session this morning, sparring with the two lads, but she’d landed some incredible punches, had even sent one of them across the ring with an awesome back kick. Sarah Jane and McIntyre were a demon combination. Between them they pushed her hard, but it was worth all the aches. It had been good to catch up with Sarah Jane; there was so much news and Cathy missed seeing her in the DCU canteen. Between sharing lifts to college and training together when Cathy was off work recovering from the explosion, they’d seen each other almost every day. Now that Cathy was back at work full time and only had a couple more assignments to finish her course, the only time they were sure to meet was at their sparring sessions in the gym, and those got a bit messed up if Cathy was involved in a big case.
She flicked on the indicator, shifting in her seat, her abs still sore. With the National Kick-Boxing Championships in April – only about twelve weeks away, as McIntyre kept reminding her – from next week she was going to be in the gym pretty much every minute she wasn’t in work. It was a good place to be, though; she did her best thinking when she was bashing a punchbag.
And this case was baffling her. Cathy was really hoping that Lauren’s room in Trinity’s halls of residence might give them some clues.
Lauren’s parents had understood that they needed to search her room, but had asked that one of her friends and her tutor Anna Lockharte be present. Cathy didn’t need them, had thought twice about agreeing, but having them there could save her time if the room threw up any questions they might be able to help with.
The halls of residence where Lauren had been living were on Pearse Street beside the DART station. Someone had once told Cathy that if she was ever buying a house not to buy it next to a train line, and she was quite sure every student came out with that same thought. A 1970s style building, all glass and concrete, the residence had a large open-plan cafe on the ground floor, lifts and stairs leading up several floors to the maze of small single rooms that had shared bathrooms and kitchens on each landing.
Cathy met Anna and Lauren’s friend Paula Garcia at the porter’s desk; Jamie Fanning trailed in behind her, still on the phone. He put it away quickly the moment he saw Anna Lockharte. She was wearing wide-legged black pants and a starched white shirt with bell-shaped cuffs. Cathy smirked to herself, she was sure he didn’t have a hope with Anna Lockharte. Not that that would stop him from trying, of course. He meant well but he could be a right dope – although, as O’Rourke often said, if everyone was busy being Einstein there’d be no one to open the post.
Lauren’s friend Paula was a quiet girl. She had a slight Spanish accent but her English had obviously been learned in Dublin, probably at one of the many language schools in the city. She looked pale and drawn and, despite long dark hair she could almost sit on, looked like every other student in the building in sneakers, jeans and an oversized dark sweatshirt, friendship bracelets plaited around her wrists.
She looked to Anna for reassurance as the porter accompanied them upstairs, jangling his master keys.
Outside Lauren’s door Paula stood back, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘I can’t go in there, all her things . . .’
‘Don’t worry, you don’t need to.’ Cathy smiled at her reassuringly. ‘Please wait outside. We won’t be long. Then we can have a chat downstairs if that’s OK?’
Fanning for once had the sense to keep quiet, smiling at Paula sympathetically as she leaned against the corridor wall opposite the door, her arms tightly crossed in front of her, her mobile phone in one hand. It pipped, distracting her, and a moment later she was absorbed in the screen.
The porter, his navy uniform sweater straining over a generous stomach, unlocked the door and for a second he looked poised to come into the room with them. Cathy smiled at him.
‘Thanks so much, we can take it from here.’
He stood back. ‘If you need anything, give me a shout, I’ll just be downstairs.’ He hovered as if reluctant to go.
Cathy pulled a pair of latex gloves out of the
pocket of her combats and pulled them on. The porter took the hint and headed back down the corridor.
‘Will I wait out here too? It’s very small.’ Anna’s voice was steady but Cathy could tell from the frown on her face that she wasn’t relishing being involved in this part of the process. Searching a deceased person’s personal space wasn’t easy no matter how long you were in the job, but it was essential to get over the sense of violation and invasion and to focus on finding out the facts if justice was to be served.
‘That would be great, thanks.’ Cathy pushed the door open.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn. Even with the lack of light Cathy could see there was hardly space to get a cat in, let alone swing it. She reached for the light switch.
Whoever had decorated the Arts building with its interesting colour scheme had been at work here too, although at least the red corded carpet was cheerful, even if it clashed with the green cushions on the desk chair and an easy chair positioned under the window. A door led into a compact bathroom and beyond it a narrow single bed was crowded with cuddly toys and bright satin cushions. Fitted cupboards and a wide modern desk dominated the room. The desk was piled with textbooks, a heart-emblazoned mug beside them. It was certainly a compact space but Lauren had made it her own with a fluffy fur throw over the end of the bed, the cream block walls covered in posters of kittens. Beside the bed a pair of fluffy purple slippers lay where they had been kicked off.
On the desk Lauren’s laptop was open, its screen asleep.
Cathy stepped carefully into the room, checking the floor in case anything had been dropped. It looked clean. In fact, the whole room looked clean and tidy, as if Lauren could come back at any minute.
