by Mark Roberts
Cole walked back towards his desk.
‘Thank God for Mrs Hobson. Hopefully, like the last of the little piggies, I’ll be able to follow the white van all the way home.’
32
10.14 am
Clay sat next to Poppy Waters and looked at Annie Boyd’s two open laptops and two mobile phones.
‘The mobile phones are relatively old. As I said when Gina Riley brought the haul in, she must have taken her current mobile out with her when she went on the date. There’s nothing on the phones of any note.’
Poppy indicated the older of the laptops, a Lenovo.
‘This one’s a school laptop. All it contains relates to school work and nothing else.’
‘What about this one?’ asked Clay.
‘This is the one. This is the good news,’ said Poppy. ‘And this is where we get a lucky break. This laptop is synced to her current iPhone, so anything she’d been doing on her missing iPhone’s been mirrored on this. Internet searches, YouTube.’
‘What’s she been looking up on the internet, Poppy?’
‘In the week before she went missing, she’s been buying underwear from Victoria’s Secret. On YouTube, she’s been watching and listening to videos for all manner of love songs.’
Poppy brought up the Pebbles On The Beach website, typed in Annie Boyd’s username and password.
‘She didn’t use the site prolifically. There were two men she entered into a dialogue with.’
‘What about the two men she talked to?’
‘The language they used is similar. It could be one and the same man. This is the first guy she communicated with. He calls himself Danny Guest.’
Hi Annie, I’d be grateful if you could allow me to have an initial dialogue with you with a view to us getting to know each other a little better. If you don’t feel comfortable with this, I can understand absolutely and wish you all the best in finding a man who will one day no doubt, I’m assuming and quite rightly, worship the ground you walk upon. Wishing you all the best, Danny.
Dear Danny, Of course I’m happy to talk to you over the website. Maybe you’d like to tell me a little bit about yourself? On your profile you don’t say anything about what you do for a living? What are your interests other than watching football and soul-searching?
Poppy scrolled and scrolled through thousands of words sent back and forth.
‘She communicated with him up to four and five times a day and as time passed the messages got longer and more detailed. Then they decided to talk over the phone and that’s where the trail went cold.’
‘Who was the other man?’ asked Clay.
‘Richard Ezra. She communicated with him first.’
Dear Richard, I am new to internet dating and am not sure of the way to do this properly. Please let me know what you think of my profile? I am really interested in your profile. Like you I love to drink a glass of wine in front of an open fire. xxxxx Annie
Dear Annie, Like yourself, I am new to internet dating and a little nervous around the whole process. However, I kept coming back to your picture and profile and found myself hoping that we could enter into a dialogue. If you’re comfortable with this please reply to me, Annie. If you decide you can’t, or don’t want to, there will be absolutely no hard feelings. I’m assuming you won’t reply to me, so I’d like to take this opportunity to wish you well in your search for Mr Right. I confess, I’m a little jealous of this stranger to me but if he gives you the happiness you deserve, I take my hat off to him.
‘It’s the same man, same message, same language,’ said Clay. ‘Have you printed these off for me, Poppy?’
Poppy opened her drawer and pulled out two card files bulging with papers, and handed them to Clay.
‘How didn’t she see it?’ said Poppy. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘Because she didn’t want to.’ Clay felt dismay for Annie Boyd, for a lack of intuition that went some way towards sealing her sorry fate. ‘He’s using the same language to filter out clever women, women who aren’t that needy. He wants a woman who is so needy that she’s suspended her disbelief system. It’s the same principle as the Nigerian phishing emails with all their bad writing and spelling howlers. They’re aimed at people who think the emails are real, the same people who are stupid enough to hand over money to the scammers. What was the outcome with Danny Boy?’
‘It came to the point where Annie was about to speak with him over the phone and – bam! – he completely stopped communicating with her online.
Dear Annie, Something’s cropped up. Got to go. Bye, Danny.
‘No indicators as to why?’ asked Clay.
‘None. So, when Danny jumped ship, she started leaning on Richard. All I want is lasting happiness and to make you happy. If you don’t want to have a relationship with me, tell me now and I’ll walk away. These were phrases she bedded into messages to Richard and worded in a dozen different ways nine days into the daily exchange.’
‘How did Richard react?’
‘It ignited an information storm from his end. He didn’t want to get hurt again because death had stolen his wife. The last thing he would ever do was hurt another human being because he had been through so much. He had previously claimed he was single. Annie wanted to know why he hadn’t told her he was a widower. He didn’t want to make emotional capital out of his misfortune. He wasn’t playing the sympathy card. She gave him her number and he called her back.’
‘We’ve got his number?’ asked Clay.
‘Sorry, Eve, no, we haven’t. We haven’t got an IP address and we haven’t got a phone number. She gave him her mobile number. The plan was for him to call her.’
‘Did he give any reason why he couldn’t leave his number with her?’
‘The gentlemanly thing to do is for me to call you. Which translated into: It was his suggestion that they speak one to one, it was his responsibility as a gentleman to call her.’
‘The sly bastard. He must’ve planned well in advance for this day coming. Whose was the parting shot? Him or her?’
‘Him. After the practical arrangements, Annie asked him if he minded her asking a question about the death of his wife and his grief.’
‘What did she ask, Poppy?’
‘Is it possible to die of a broken heart?’
‘What was his reply?’
‘It is better to have loved and lived and to learn to love again.’
‘Screenshot everything Annie had with these two characters and send it to me and everyone else in the investigation. Liaise with Barney Cole. We need to get on to Pebbles On The Beach. We need everything they’ve got on Danny Guest and Richard Ezra. It’s one man playing as a tag team. Danny does the dirty on Annie and Richard comes in on a white charger.’
‘No problem, Eve. Do you want me to unlock the rest of Annie’s internet history?’
‘You’ve just saved me from issuing an instruction. Thank you, Poppy. I know what I’m looking for now if this man gets in touch with one of us. We’ll all know what we’re dealing with.’
33
10.33 am
Detective Sergeant Barney Cole looked at the image that the killer had sent to Annie Boyd, the one forwarded to him by Clay.
Mr Handsome.
He pulled up Google Reverse Image Search and clicked on Copy Image URL.
When Google Images filled the screen of his laptop, he clicked on the camera icon.
Richard Ezra. The name the killer hid behind as he lured Annie Boyd to her death.
He clicked Post to URL and Search by Image.
Rain fell down in sheets on the windows that surrounded the incident room in Trinity Road police station, flattening the world outside the building.
Blue letters appeared at the top of the screen.
Best guess for this image: Richard Ezra.
‘You’re shitting me,’ he said to himself.
Underneath this writing a cluster of websites appeared and beneath this dozens of images of physically similar
handsome men.
Cole scrolled down slowly through the bank of images until he came to the exact one the killer had sent to his victim. He clicked on the image and visited the website that hosted it.
The picture Cole had run through Google Reverse Image Search had linked up with the Facebook profile picture of a man called Richard Ezra. On the Facebook profile, Richard Ezra was not smiling into a void; he was looking at an incredibly beautiful blonde woman.
Cole skimmed and scanned the home page and saw that Richard Ezra was a partner with Doherty Estates and Properties on Allerton Road, a fifteen-minute ride from Trinity Road police station. There were images of Richard Ezra in a less casual setting, sitting with a group of formally dressed older men. There were pictures of Richard with the same blonde woman who had been edited out of the picture that The Ghoul had so far circulated to his victims.
He recognised the glass front of the office that Richard worked in, situated on the commercial end of Allerton Road, in the cluster of estate agents, legal firms and financial operators.
Cole clicked on the Bio tab and, reading the information, made mental notes.
Richard Ezra wrote about being excited to go on his holidays to Florence, and that was the last post he’d made.
He clicked on the Contacts tab and saw the address and landline telephone number for Doherty Estates and Properties.
He dialled the seven digits and listened to the ringtone. The answer machine kicked in.
‘You have reached Doherty…’
At the other end the receiver was snatched up, and Cole got in quickly.
‘My name’s Detective Sergeant Barney Cole. I’ll send you a picture of my warrant card. I’m based at Trinity Road police station a few miles from your office.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ She was well-spoken and, by the sound of her voice, Cole pictured her as mid twenties and with a cold-fish manner that could have been a front for the workplace or just the way she was. ‘How can we help you, Detective Sergeant Cole?’
‘I was wondering if I could speak with Mr Richard Ezra?’
She asked, ‘Is this a sick joke?’
In moments, the temperature in her icy voice plummeted to arctic depths.
‘Absolutely not,’ said Cole.
‘Excuse me… Mr Doherty?’ she called.
He heard her hand smothering the receiver and the phone being passed to the boss.
‘If this is a Trojan horse to try and wrong foot us over our client Dale McGee …’
Dale McGee, thought Cole, one of the city’s most notorious gangsters, currently on remand in Walton Prison.
‘Mr Doherty …’
‘We are a well-established and respectable firm of estate agents.’
But you take the greenbacks from violent criminals, he thought, trying to suppress the grin spreading on his face and leaking into his voice.
‘If you want to talk to me or any of our estate agents or administrative staff …’
He stopped to cough, and Cole wondered if it was his pomposity or self-righteousness that he was choking on.
‘Mr Doherty, I need to come and speak to you about Richard Ezra.’
‘What’s this in relation to?’
‘It’s a murder enquiry.’
‘Then you’d better come in, DS Cole.’
‘Richard…?’
‘I’m not prepared to discuss Mr Ezra with you on the telephone,’ said Mr Doherty through a tightened throat.
Cole wrote down the details of time and place for the appointment. As soon as he’d finished speaking, the estate agent hung up.
Cole dialled Clay’s number and was pleased to hear the contrast in tone to Mr Doherty.
‘Barney? What’s happening?’
‘Don’t get excited, Eve, but I’ve got a match for the man in the image the killer sent to Annie Boyd, and an appointment at his place of work, Doherty Estates and Properties. I’d bet three figures it won’t be our savage, but it’s a way in, a connection.’
‘How were they about him?’
‘Prickly’s not the word. Paranoid isn’t quite either but it’s closer to the truth.’
‘Send me the details and good luck with the appointment. I’ll join you in that wager but if this is identity theft, we could be on to something. Barney, I like it. I like this a lot.’
34
10.45 am
Two minutes after connecting with a technical advisor on the Pebbles On The Beach website, Detective Sergeant Bill Hendricks sat back in his seat and sighed from a deep grey inner space.
I understand that you’re an IT-based business, he typed into the small box at the bottom of the laptop screen on his desk in the incident room at Trinity Road police station. And that you do your communication through the internet. But I’d like to cut through this form of us talking, Jayne.
He pressed send and his message flew across the ether with a breathy note that rose and faded in less than a second.
Ping! His attention was drawn back to his screen by a message sent from Jayne, his contact at Pebbles On The Beach.
How do you want to communicate, DS Hendricks?
I suggest we talk on the phone, Jayne.
How do I know you are who you say you are?
I’ve sent you a picture of my warrant card through Messenger, confirming that I am who I say I am.
I’ve seen it. It could be a fake.
Then call Merseyside Constabulary switchboard and ask for my landline number in Trinity Road police station. Call me on that number. You’ll hear my voice on my answer machine, my name asking you to leave a message. Surely that’s enough, Jayne.
As he gave her the switchboard’s number, he completely understood the suspicions of a woman whose working life was spent working on an internet dating site where lies, deceit and misrepresentation largely ruled over truth.
I’m going to talk to my boss. Please hang on.
Hendricks’ attention drifted back in time in the direction of the rain-drenched footpath and he pictured Mand-E’s scalped and faceless body floating in a muddy pothole.
The phone rang and Jayne came on the line. ‘OK, DS Hendricks, we believe you. How can I help you?’
‘First up, I need the home addresses for two men who’ve been using your site.’
‘That could be tricky,’ said Jayne. ‘Data protection…’
‘Jayne, this is in connection with a murder enquiry.’
‘A murder enquiry?’
An older woman’s voice came into the mix and Hendricks realised he was on speakerphone.
‘Who is this?’ asked Hendricks.
‘Emily Jones. I’m the founder and owner of Pebbles On The Beach. I feel like I’m having déjà vu. I’ve had this conversation with Warrington Police. What’s this murder enquiry got to do with me, DS Hendricks?’
‘Three women have been murdered. We’re almost one hundred per cent certain that the killer connected with them on your dating site.’
The silence was long and toxic.
‘Is this going to get out into the media?’
‘If we’re right about the women being selected on your site and we catch the killer, yes, it will. Most certainly, it will come out when it gets to court.’
Across the line, Hendricks felt the weight of Emily Jones’ naked disappointment at the impact this information would have on her business.
‘I need those addresses, Emily. If the killer carries on and the body count mounts up higher, I’d be very worried if it was my website.’
‘What are the names of the men you’re interested in, DS Hendricks?’
‘Richard Ezra and Danny Guest. We believe they’re both from the Liverpool area.’
‘OK. I’ll provide that information for you. Jayne, speak to Ros. Richard Ezra and Danny Guest. Addresses to begin with, ASAP. Is there anything else I can do to help you, DS Hendricks?’
‘The third victim, we’re still trying to identify her. I’m going to email Jayne information about her to hel
p you with the search at your end.’
Hendricks looked at the name on the latest victim’s left forearm in the photograph on his desk. Mand-E.
‘It’s possible that her first name is either Mandy, Amanda abbreviated with a y on the end, or Mandie, with an ie ending. She has a tattoo. She spells her name MAND hyphen E, all capitals. If you could look for any woman on your site using this name, I’d be very, very grateful, Emily.’
‘My staff and I will do our best. We’ll drop everything and concentrate on what you’ve asked us to do.’
There was a pause as she made her way past a bank of animated voices. The door to her office closed and there was a bleak silence behind her.
‘I built this company up from nothing,’ she said. ‘I’ve given people work and brought happiness to thousands of lonely hearts. There are plenty of internet dating sites out there. Why mine? Why me?’
‘You’ve been unlucky, Emily. We are looking into other sites as well, to see if the killer’s been operating from them.’
He heard the sound of her inhaler and imagined the vice gripping her chest and weighing down on her lungs.
‘When this comes out…’ She made a noise that was at once loaded with contempt and self-pity. ‘Let’s just say an expression with the words rats and sinking ship comes to mind.’
There was a knock on her door.
‘Come in. What have you got for me, Jayne?’
‘Liverpool-based addresses for Richard Ezra and Danny Guest.’
Hendricks smiled as he picked up his pen.
‘Jayne, we’re looking for a Liverpool-based woman called Mandy. I’ll give you the detail in a minute. What are the men’s addresses?’
‘Danny Guest’s based at 134 Addingham Road. Richard Ezra’s at 66 Springwood Avenue.’
Hendricks listened and wrote with thunder rumbling in the distance and the sky above him sagging under the weight of darkening clouds.
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
