You don’t want to be my friend? :(
He scowled. He didn’t know how Facebook worked or how she might have known he had ignored her request. He clicked on the message. It took him to a different screen, still within Facebook. It was a messenger screen, like a larger version of text message conversations he had on his phone. Her message was at the top. A cursor blinked in the reply box. Idly, he typed: I don’t really do Facebook.
The reply back was instant: Shame. It has some nice features.
He rubbed at his face. He took a swig of his wine. His second glass, and nearly empty already. He walked back through to the kitchen for a refill. He considered continuing through to the lounge and turning on the television or going upstairs for a shower and a change. It had been a long day and he felt like it was still clinging to him in a layer of grime. He was intrigued, though. He walked back through to his study. The screen had fallen dark but it was only asleep. Another nudge of the mouse and it was instantly bright. There was a new message: I like your yacht.
Made sense. She must have seen his profile picture and decided to make contact. In his experience money was a powerful motivator. This would be someone trying their luck, but he was no one’s fool. He took a deep swig of his fine red wine while considering his reply.
How do you know that’s my yacht? Just like I don’t know that’s your body.
Again the reply was instant: You like the body?
He smiled as he typed. Of course.
The screen changed. There was a beeping sound — a deep tone. The screen announced Video Call from Alexa and there was a trailing line after it. Below this the screen was split in half. The left side was filled with his own face and the right was a dark box. He hesitated. He’d held meetings before on Skype and similar services, but never on something like Facebook. His curiosity was getting the better of him, though. He clicked a button marked Accept but moved the cursor to hover over End. It couldn’t hurt to see where this was going. The tone stopped. The screen to the right suddenly flashed with colour and then movement. Someone stepped back. The focus became clearer. Someone had moved away from the camera. It was a woman and she was standing in the same black underwear he had seen in her profile picture. It was the same body too.
‘You picked up!’ The lips that had spoken the words were half a second behind the sound on the screen. There was an immediate accent. Frank couldn’t pin it down in those few words.
‘I . . . er . . . I was curious.’
‘And now? Are you still curious?’
He gathered himself together. ‘Now I’m more curious.’
‘I don’t like it when people doubt me. This is my body. You can see this, no?’ Eastern European he thought. He still wasn’t sure.
‘I can. I mean as well as you ever can over these things.’
‘You want to see better? Maybe we can arrange this?’
Frank laughed. ‘I don’t meet with strangers. If you think that’s a—’
‘We do not need to meet. I find you attractive man. You find me attractive woman. We are in comfortable homes. Maybe we should enjoy this?’
Frank looked around even though he knew he was home alone. He could feel his heart beating a little faster. The woman moved further back. Now he could see almost all of her. She was in knickers and a bra; she had matching stockings and suspenders. He was a sucker for a full set — always had been. Her hands moved behind her back. She peeled off her bra to reveal her breasts.
‘You see better now?’
Frank didn’t have an immediate response. He took a moment. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times. ‘I can see more, yes. Better, far better.’
She smiled and looked down her own body.
‘You want to see better?’
‘I always like to see better,’ he said.
‘You next then, Mr Frank.’
His eyes flicked to his side of the screen and he realised that he was leaning right forward, that his side of the screen was a cheek and one eye. He sat back. He broke away to look down at his shirt. A tie hung from it; he had undone his top button the second he had got into the back of his car to be driven home. He was in suit trousers and a pair of slippers. He was pretty sure he knew what she meant but he wasn’t the sort to play those games. He took another swig of the wine. The glass was empty. He was starting to feel a bit muzzy. He would have one more. He got up for the kitchen. He needed to steady himself a little. He was drinking too fast. The next one he would take his time over. The bottle was still open on the counter.
When he got back to his screen the woman was stood with her hands on her hips. ‘I thought you were running away! To mummy perhaps?’ She pouted her lips.
He flashed angry. ‘My mummy, yeah, something like that. Thanks for the show, okay, but I think I’m just about done.’
‘A man like you? Done? I joke okay. You do not need permission. You take what you want. No man has yacht, has Ferrari, has big house and smokes big cigars without taking it. That is big turn on. It makes me want to touch myself. I like men who take what they want. Give me something to see and maybe I will.’
Her face was filling the camera now. She pushed a finger into her mouth, her cheeks dimpled around it. The finger slid back out and dropped out of camera shot. She bit down on her bottom lip and her eyes fell closed. He could guess where her hand had gone. He was meant to.
‘Show me your chest,’ she said. ‘This is all I ask.’
Frank felt silly at the suggestion, but a little less silly than it might have seemed a few swigs of wine ago. Now he found himself beyond the point of curious, closer to the point of lust and tinged with a desire to show her that he did indeed get what he wanted. And he wanted to see more of her. He wanted to see what she would do, how turned on she was by him. Yes, it might stem from his money, but he could forget that. She wanted to see his chest. That wasn’t about money.
Now he had made a decision, his fingers stumbled in his haste. He pulled his tie away. He unbuttoned his shirt quickly and pulled it open. His sleeves caught on his watch so he pulled it off and threw it on the desk. The woman’s face had an encouraging grin. She stood back from the camera and turned away, bending to remove her underwear. She took her time. Frank found himself leaning in. The computer monitor held every ounce of his attention. She turned to face the camera. Just the stockings remained. She paced back towards it and leant forward until her face filled her camera.
‘Show me what I make you do. This turns me on. When I am turned on I show you too.’ She dropped into a seat. Her bottom half was now concealed by a table. She moved back smoothly; the chair was obviously on wheels. The underside of black shoes appeared at the bottom of the screen, one after the other, the heels pointed towards him. They were some distance apart. Her hands dropped. She edged further backwards, showing more and more of her legs. She was still biting down on her lip.
Frank was lost in the moment. He stood up and pulled at his belt. His trousers and underwear came down together. He was excited. There would be no hiding it.
‘Grab your cock! Take it firmly and show me!’ she goaded. He did what he was told. He leaned forward to support his weight with his left hand, his wine glass tipped, there was half left and it ran onto the desk. He didn’t care. He leaned forward.
‘That’s it! Let me see!’
He was frenetic. A blur. He had to slow to hear her speak.
‘Now, my turn!’ She stood up — he could see her bare midriff. Her hand covered her up. Then the screen went dark.
He stopped what he was doing. He let go of himself and slid the mouse to wake it back up. Nothing happened. He banged the keyboard — the screen stayed black. He suddenly realised where he was, what he was doing. He reached down for his underwear and his trousers then pulled on his shirt. He could feel his cheeks flushing red — some exertion but mostly embarrassment. He sat back in the seat that he had pushed away behind him. The wine dripping on his deep pile carpet was the only sound.
He exhaled.
‘What the hell am I doing?’ He chuckled nervously and shook his head. He needed a shower. A cold one might be best; it might sober him up a bit. He stood up and felt a little unsteady. His computer made a ‘ping’ sound — an email notification. He scowled — the system had obviously crashed. He shook the mouse again and the screen lit up. It was back on his home screen. He checked along the bottom: Facebook wasn’t open and Alexa would be long gone. It was for the best. Things had gone too far already.
He clicked the email notification. It was from an email address he had never seen before: “[email protected]”.
‘Christ! She’s keen!’ Frank said out loud. But his mind was clearing a little now. He hadn’t given out his email address and it wasn’t visible on his Facebook profile. He still burnt with shame too. He had been lost in the moment, but the moment was well and truly gone. He opened the mail. It had No Subject at the top. The body of the email had no message either, just a file attachment with a downward arrow. He clicked it. His screen fell black again, just for a second, then it flickered white. A video played.
Frank slunk back into his chair. His screen filled with a high-definition video of a minute earlier — of him stood up and masturbating in his study. The video was two minutes long in total. His form filled half the screen. The other half was the woman who had called herself Alexa. The transcript of the conversation between them played along the bottom of the screen at the same time. When the video ended, it closed and his screen showed his email. Another one had appeared. It was from the same address. He clicked on it.
Ten thousand pounds to destroy the video or the next email address I send it to is [email protected]. And then every national newspaper and social media outlet I can find. I will send payment instructions. You have until 10 p.m.
Frank scanned the message. He lingered on his wife’s email address and cursed. This was just what she needed — hell, he wouldn’t put it past her to be the one behind it all. They were heading towards divorce. His solicitor had surprised him with hope of a far leaner settlement than he had dared consider. It hadn’t been presented to her yet. She wasn’t getting much, certainly nothing like she had boasted to their mutual friends. He was going to argue that she had walked out on him, that she had made the decision to end the relationship. He had a trump card, too: infidelity — an affair with some piss-poor builder at her gym. She was also claiming infidelity, but over a long period of time. He knew she had nothing to back that up. Not like he did. This would cause him problems but that wasn’t why he suddenly burned with anger. He could cope with paying more money to his bitch of an ex-wife. He would earn it all back in a year. It was the social media and news outlet reference that he found himself reading a couple of times over and cursing himself again for being so damned stupid. He was close to being elected — so close. This would ruin everything. And that election opportunity was something he might never have again, no matter how much money he threw at it.
His email pinged again. He opened it up. It was the payment instructions. He would need to download something called TOR. There was a link that would take him to it. Then he could transfer the money via the dark web. He had heard of it. He had never contemplated having to use it.
He picked up the wine glass and walked it back through to the kitchen. It was all starting to sink in — how stupid he’d been! It wasn’t like him. He was normally so closed. He got to the sink. It was deep and made of solid porcelain. He brought the glass down into the sink and it smashed into a thousand pieces. He turned to lean on the island, his breathing heavier. He needed that shower more than ever. He had never felt so dirty. He would use it as time to think. Then he would come back and deal with this.
* * *
Grace’s Diary
Tuesday 5 February
Craig hasn’t come home this evening and I don’t know what to do.
He came home at lunchtime. He was so angry. I think it has been building up since last night. I was on the toilet when he came home. He said I was flirting with the police officers when they came here yesterday. I know I wasn’t. I tried to not even look at them. I just wanted them to leave. I tried to tell him that I didn’t do anything wrong but he wasn’t listening. He had already decided that he wanted to hurt me.
He pulled me off the toilet and he beat me badly. He kicked me then he dragged me into the doorway and slammed the door into my back. I don’t know how many times. It took me a long time to get up.
My back hurts now. It aches and earlier today I saw blood in the toilet bowl after I had been to the toilet. It was quite a lot.
It made me remember, it made me think . . . I still can’t even say it.
When he was slamming that door I could see the look on his face. I didn’t think he would stop. He was lost. His eyes glaze over and he just keeps hitting.
I have taken pictures on my phone. I will take some more when the bruising comes out. I hope this back pain goes away.
Today was the day you came to see me. I lied to you. I couldn’t move very well. You came an hour after Craig hit me with the door. I was so scared you would know and you would make me talk. It wasn’t the right time. And I know you will say that I should have told you, I know you will be angry with me. You said before that there’s never a right time.
But there will be. And it is soon.
I’m going to go to bed. I found myself sitting in the chair, waiting for him to come home and tighten it, but it just feels crazy. He used to stay out a lot. I don’t think he’s coming home tonight.
I’m so glad I can write this in here. It still feels like I’m telling you. I know you will wish I had told you earlier, but I know you will understand.
And I know you will help me.
Chapter 9
Wednesday
Maddie Ives still had her moments where she missed her previous life in Manchester, but her early morning run was rarely such an occasion. This morning was among the more spectacular. A sunrise over the English Channel in a sky that was still in flux from a cold, clear night into a crisp winter’s morning. The sea was to her left and Sandgate, the next town from Langthorne, was on her right. It was a thirty-minute drive from her CID office in Canterbury. She could have rented closer, but she liked the drive. It gave her time to organise her thoughts on the way in or clear them on the way home. She was almost used to the routine that the commute to work gave her. Rhiannon had introduced her to the area. She lived there, too, but her flat had a sea view. Maddie couldn’t quite justify the price hike. Rhiannon had hinted that a relative was taking the edge off the sky-high prices by the sea, otherwise Maddie couldn’t see how she would be able to afford it either.
She got back home just before 7 a.m. Her flat was at the end of an alleyway leading from the seafront and between a row of shops. It came out next to a deli and she had to sidestep the man who was opening its doors to set up. Delicious smells followed him out and she made a mental note to grab one of their breakfast bagels on her way back out. Having dragged herself out of bed for a 10k run, she felt she had earned it.
Thirty seconds later and she was changing her plans. She bustled back into her flat and breakfast was already waiting. It wasn’t quite a bagel: it was a round of thick-cut toast with steaming coffee. That would do — particularly as it was served by Adam Yarwood, who smiled in greeting. He was already dressed in a crisp, white shirt, tucked into grey jeans.
‘What’s this? What are you doing out of bed this early?’
‘I don’t like what you are implying, Maddie.’
‘What am I implying?’
‘That I am lazy. That I waste my days rather than embracing them.’
‘Well, you saw right through that. And why aren’t you wasting your day?’
‘I got some work. London. I got a message on my phone.’
‘You plasterers are getting smarter.’ She bit into her toast and eyed him closely.
Adam glanced down his designer shirt. ‘I’m not working on the tools today. It’s mo
re of an assessment; quote stage. First impressions an’ all that.’ He turned away. His phone was on the kitchen bench. He scooped it up to check it. He had a suit jacket over the back of a stool. He put it on and pushed the phone into the inside pocket.
Maddie just assumed he was lying now — whenever he talked about work, at least. And he knew she wasn’t fooled. It was like an arrangement they had. He was a self-employed plasterer by trade, his business was registered and he took on jobs when he could. But that wasn’t very often anymore and his patch was four hundred miles away in Manchester. But Adam was getting work elsewhere with his brother, Leon Yarwood. Leon headed up one of the biggest organised crime groups in the north of England and, in a previous life, Maddie had been tasked with getting close to the gang and their inner workings.
She had been an undercover asset for Greater Manchester Police for ten years before she had messed it all up by saving a man’s life. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. But she blew her own cover doing it, and the very next day she was moved to the other side of the country to start a new life and what felt like a whole new career as a customer-facing detective.
That was just over nine months ago. It already felt like a lifetime. It seemed that everything about her life had moved on — the only element that had followed her down was Adam Yarwood. She knew that one day she would have to face up to it — to them. Her employers couldn’t know about her relationship, if that’s what it was, and nor could his — one would see her dragged through a disciplinary process and the other might just get her killed. Maybe even him too. That was why she didn’t challenge when he lied to her anymore, because that would be the point when they would both have to face up to it: the unavoidable elephant in the room. There was only one solution she could see, and she desperately didn’t want that.
HE WILL KILL YOU an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist Page 9
