by Adam Croft
I open the email, which takes a second or two to load. I quickly realise this is because it’s got a photo embedded in it. The picture loads slowly, from top to bottom, gradually revealing its subject matter like an ancient theatre curtain.
It’s another picture of me, but this one was taken very recently. Yesterday, in fact. I recognise the clothes I was wearing when I went to see Maisie, and in the picture I’m on the phone, looking particularly upset and angry. I realise that this is when I was speaking to Kieran, having the argument about him telling Maisie he thought I was going mad.
When I see this picture I’m not shocked. I’m angry and confused. How the hell did he manage to take another photo of me? Where was he? I look more closely at the picture, and it looks as though there’s a slight glint of reflection on it, as if it’s been taken through a pane of glass. He was waiting in his car, I realise. But it can’t have been his car, because I would have recognised it. I’ve suspiciously eyed every single Volkswagen Golf I’ve seen since that day Kieran and I followed him home from work. There’s no way I wouldn’t have spotted his exact same car parked outside my house, is there? The photo’s a bit grainy and out of focus, so I guess he could have been parked quite a way down the street when he took it. But still, I’m sure I would have seen it. Unless I was too wrapped up in getting angry at Kieran and brooding on what Maisie said...
I lock my phone and put it back on the kitchen table, face down. And in that moment I realise something that I had been hoping I wouldn’t have to think about. Far from having left me alone, far from being scared off by seeing me in the police station that day, Toby Sheridan is still following me. He’s still taking pictures of me. And he’s still after me.
But it’s what else this means that frightens me. It raises the chances that it was him who tried breaking into Mum and Dad’s house the other night. It raises the chances that it was him who broke into my house and tidied up the mess I made after being out with Kieran. Despite knowing I’ve been to the police, despite knowing I know who is he, despite knowing that I’ve tried following him to his home, he’s still not relenting. He’s still out there, closer than ever, more determined than ever.
And I don’t know what I can do about it.
64
There’s only one person I can call. There’s only one person who has more information than I do, who has ways and means of getting things done. And I don’t want to get him into trouble or cause issues for him at work, but I really don’t have any choice. As far as I’m concerned, my life could be in danger. The police don’t think so — there’s been no threat to my life — but I know when I feel intimidated, and that word doesn’t even cover it right now.
I’m shaking as I call Darryl, two of my fingers bleeding from how far back I’ve bitten the nails. But I don’t care. The blood and the physical pain is actually a nice release from the mental anguish and distress I’m feeling.
I don’t even let Darryl speak when he answers the phone, instead leaping straight into trying desperately to let him know what’s happened.
‘I received another email. From Toby Sheridan. Another picture of me, outside my house. It was taken yesterday. He’s back, he’s still doing it, he’s not going away.’
‘Can you forward the picture to me?’ he asks, going straight into analytical problem-solving mode. No interrogation, no asking questions. Just plain action.
‘I can try, but I don’t think there’ll be anything you can use. He’s been really careful before.’
‘All criminals slip up at some point,’ he says. ‘If there’s nothing, there’s nothing. But it’s worth a try. I’m at home today, so I can take a look on my personal laptop. You’ll need to forward it to me with the full header information, though.’
He explains to me step by step how to do this. Apparently just forwarding an email wouldn’t send him all the original sender’s information, but if I forward it with the full header information, Darryl can view the digital footprint of the original message. I don’t really understand what this means, but if it’s going to help me to prove a case against Toby Sheridan, I’ll do it.
Darryl keeps me on the line as he looks through the forwarded email.
‘Yeah, doesn’t look like there’s anything usable here. Sent through a proxy in Taiwan.’
‘What does that mean?’ I ask.
‘Well, unless he’s nipped over there for a holiday, which I know for a fact he hasn’t, he’ll have used a VPN or something to trick the email server into thinking he’s in Taiwan. Truth be told, he’s probably hiding behind multiple layers like that, so getting the original source of the email is going to be nigh-on impossible. At least one of those layers will be heavily encrypted, or the server will be owned by an offshore VPN provider who won’t release the logs. They don’t legally have to, many of them. Some don’t even keep logs, for that very reason.’
‘So, again, there’s nothing we can do?’
Darryl sighs. ‘Not really, to be honest. By which I mean no, nothing at all. Like I say, it’s a case of waiting for him to slip up. Everyone does eventually. And when he does, they’ll be able to pin the lot on him.’
‘But what if he doesn’t slip up?’ I ask, hearing my voice rising in pitch as I start to feel more and more desperate. ‘What if next time he does something worse? What if it’s physical? I’m scared, Darryl.’
‘I know you are. Listen, you need to report it to the police. They can deal with it.’
‘How? You just said yourself that the email isn’t traceable. What are they going to be able to do?’
‘Well, nothing straight away. But they can log it as evidence. If they get to the point where they find evidence they can use to charge him, the email will count towards it. Or they might be able to link it to other crimes, maybe other emails being sent to other people. It’ll all go onto HOLMES — the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. It’s designed to spot patterns and things, and for forces to collaborate and share information. Without information, the police can’t do anything.’
‘They’re not doing anything anyway!’
‘I’m sure they’re trying,’ he says, clearly trying to placate me but also sounding slightly defensive. That tells me he’s probably got the same concerns that I have, only he doesn’t want to voice them.
‘Darryl, if there have been previous cases involving this guy, he’s obviously dangerous.’
‘We don’t know for a fact it’s the same guy,’ he says, unconvincingly. ‘Besides, no-one’s ever been interviewed, arrested or charged. He can’t be that dangerous. There were no reports of violence or even threats of violence in the other case.’
‘And how do we know that was the only other case? What’s to say there weren’t more? You and I both know the odds are that there were more. What percentage of crimes actually get reported? I mean, what’s to say he didn’t stalk another woman — maybe more than one — who didn’t report it to the police, but ended up getting kidnapped? Or worse, killed.’ As I say the word, it shoots through me like a bolt of ice. ‘What if they just went down as a missing person? Or if he’s been doing stuff out of the area?’
‘HOLMES would link it all up. It’s nationwide.’
‘You’re missing the point, Darryl. Any computer system is only as good as the information that’s fed into it.’
‘Which is exactly why you need to report all this and ensure it’s on the system,’ he says.
As far as I see things, I’ve only got two rolls of the dice left. I go for the kinder option first, trying to appeal to his human sensibilities and emotions.
‘Do you agree that this guy could potentially be dangerous?’ I ask him. ‘That he could pose a physical danger to me or other women?’
I hear Darryl sigh. ‘It’s possible, but from a legal point of view there’s no—’
‘Sod the legal point of view, Darryl. I’m asking for common sense here. Could you live with yourself if something happened to me — or to another woman — and you knew you
could have done something to stop it?’
‘Alice, I really don’t think that’s fair. You’re asking a lot of me here. And most of it is based on a hunch.’
‘You’ve seen the evidence,’ I tell him, before realising I’m going to have to play my last card. ‘I understand you could potentially lose your job, but I could lose my life. And in any case, I’m pretty sure the information you’ve already given me would land you in a lot of hot water as it is.’
I leave that hanging in the air for a moment.
‘Are you trying to blackmail me, Alice?’
‘I’m asking you for help. And pointing out that you’re already in over your head, whether you like it or not. You can either finish the job properly or bail out and risk the consequences for both of us. But either way, I need Toby Sheridan’s address.’
My heart’s hammering in my chest. I never start a confrontation like this, nor have I ever issued anyone with a threat. It makes me feel slightly sick, but I’m acutely aware that I need to do it. I have no other option.
Darryl is silent for a few moments before he finally speaks.
‘Whatever happens, Alice, if anyone asks, you didn’t hear this from me. Alright?’
65
I didn’t need to write down the address that Darryl told me. I know it’ll be indelibly printed on my memory forever. It’s not the sort of thing I’m likely to forget.
142 Runsmere Avenue.
I’m shaking as I put the phone down. I have everything I need. I have his name. I have his address. I just don’t know what to do with it.
I know exactly what I want to do with it, but the thought scares me. I want to go over there, confront him and show him who’s in charge. I want to let him know that he won’t win, that I’m stronger than he thinks I am and that he’s not going to go free after what he’s done to me.
I’m not going to lie — I want him gone. He’s made my life an absolute living hell, and the adrenaline coursing through my body and the blood pulsing at my temples has me thinking only one thing: I want him dead. I don’t want him escaping justice, wriggling and crawling his way out of it just because he knows the system. Just because he thinks he can stay one step ahead. Maybe he can. But can anyone stay one step ahead of death?
I don’t know how much I mean these words. What would happen if I killed Toby Sheridan? And why am I even considering it? It’s far too drastic a response for me. I’m not a violent person in the slightest. But I’m running out of options. I’m desperate. I just want him gone.
I’d be arrested, of course. Charged. Probably found guilty. Would there be mitigating circumstances? I presume his reign of torment would be taken into account on some level. I’d still go to jail. I’ve no doubt about that. But how is that any different from my position now? If Toby Sheridan is still walking this earth, I’ll be living in my own private prison for the rest of my life. At least this way I’ll come out eventually, and when I do he won’t be there. I’ll be free again.
Even if we were able to get enough evidence against him to get a conviction, the maximum sentence for stalking is five to ten years, according to my research on the internet. Even if he got the maximum sentence, which is unlikely, he could be out within five years if he managed to play the system well and had a record of good behaviour. Every single one of those days over that five-year period would get increasingly more depressing, knowing that it was getting closer and closer to his release every single day. I don’t think I could bear that. I don’t think I’d ever really feel like I’d got my life back — only that I was borrowing it for the best part of five years.
But there’s still a huge stumbling block, something that’s stopping me from driving over there in the middle of the night and setting fire to his house. It just isn’t me. And in all this, despite what he’s been doing to me, I can’t let him change who I am inside. I can’t let him win. If he affects me to the point where I become a shell of my former self, a violent person, then he’ll have won. I can’t let all this evil have consequences. I can’t allow him to have been a success and to change my core values and beliefs.
Which is why I need to have hope, even in the face of utter despair. Easier said than done. With some sort of evidence — something — we might be able to ensure that he feels the full force of the law. The police would have to throw the book at him, wouldn’t they? Anything less would make them look complicit, especially as he’s one of them. And there’s always the chance that having the spotlight thrown on him would encourage others to come forward. And I know there have been others. At least one, anyway. If we could somehow manage to stack up four or five charges against him, he could be put away for a long time. He’s probably in his forties now, so — what — another forty or fifty years inside, just to make sure he’s too old and frail to do anything when he gets out? That’s going to mean ten guilty verdicts, plus the judge ordering that they’re not served concurrently.
It’s when I have these realisations that I feel complete and utter despair that the system is so heavily stacked against the female victim. He can make my life absolute hell, yet either avoid justice completely or have his life back inside five years. Yet if I were to retaliate in any way or try to ensure that I could live a normal life — despite having done nothing wrong — I’d be the one arrested and charged. I’ve never seen myself as a radical feminist or champion of social justice, but I’m starting to wonder if this whole episode might have changed me irrevocably, whether I like it or not.
But for now I have to play things by the book as much as possible. Kieran’s right. I need to find something that we can use against him. And there must be something. Maybe the business card will be at his house, or his camera equipment. Perhaps there’ll be copies of the photos he took. Surely, if TV and films are anything to go by, he’ll have all this stored somewhere. He’s probably got some sort of warped shrine to the women he stalks. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
I put my shoes and coat on, wrap my scarf around my neck and go to leave the house. As I do so, I pause, my feet planted to the ground as I look at the knife block. Without further thought, I pull the largest carving knife from the block and slide it into my inside coat pocket. Just in case.
66
I don’t know what I imagined Toby Sheridan’s house would look like. I suppose I thought it’d be some grubby little bedsit, like a crazed serial killer’s damp old dungeon. But, in reality, it’s a very nice-looking house in a leafy suburb, hidden by tall hedges at the front, as are many of the houses along this stretch. They’re all detached, and I reckon they must be four- or five-bedroom affairs.
What are policemen paid? Thirty grand, maybe? Nowhere near enough to be able to buy a place like this on their own. Which raises the odds that he lives with someone else. A wife, girlfriend perhaps. Someone completely oblivious to the real personality of the man she lives with. Someone else who’s going to get irreparably hurt when they find out what Toby Sheridan is really like. I just hope there are no kids involved. To find out your husband or partner is a stalker is one thing, but your own father? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
I feel an electric jolt in my temples, which shocks me for a moment, even though I know exactly what it is. The withdrawal symptoms from my medication do this occasionally. I had something similar about fifteen minutes ago when I was at the taxi rank a few streets away from my house. It happens when I mix medication with alcohol, too. And now it appears to be happening when I mix no medication with alcohol. I can’t win.
As I get to Toby Sheridan’s house, I walk a little slower. I don’t have many choices here. I can either carry on and keep walking, and come back again once I’ve had a chance to case the scene, or I can head straight down his driveway. Either way, I can’t just stand here looking at the place. That’ll look far too suspicious.
The journey here has calmed me down somewhat. At one point, shortly after leaving my house and thinking about the hell he’s put me through, I was completely ready to turn up
here and shove the knife through his neck, but having to walk to the taxi rank and get a cab over here has taken the edge off my anger a little. Not too much, though. Besides which, I’m here now. And I need to put an end to all this. One way or the other. Because otherwise I’m going to go insane.
I take a deep breath and walk between the tall hedges, before heading to the right and walking down the inside of the hedge line. There are no cars on the driveway, and certainly no sign of Sheridan’s VW Golf, so I can only assume that he’s out. At work, perhaps.
There are no security cameras on the front of his house, that I can see. There’s an alarm box on the front of the house, but the ‘armed’ lights aren’t flashing. From what I remember Dad telling me when he came round to install mine, that means it’s not switched on. I think. I’m not certain enough to want to test that theory, though.
As I get to the house, I look behind me. From here, all that’s visible through the front of the hedge line is some trees across the road. So far as I can see, no-one in any other houses will be able to see me from here.
My heart’s hammering in my chest as I peer in through the front window on the right-hand side of the house. There are vertical blinds — slightly open — and the sun’s directly behind me, but I can just about make out that it’s a study of some sort. There are a couple of bookcases, and a desk up against the window. I can’t see a laptop or computer of any sort — I imagine being a policeman he’ll know not to leave anything like that on show near a window.
