My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  ‘Come on, BC.’

  The cat looks at him disapprovingly before closing its eyes again.

  Shaking his head, Dom inches the door wider until the pressure forces the cat to move. Ignores its furious glare.

  Outside, with his head still pounding, the crisp morning air makes him feel even worse. He knows from experience a migraine at a crime scene is never fun. Pulling a blister pack of codeine from his wallet, he swallows a couple of tablets.

  His phone beeps once. A text: Abbott. Dom reads the address, and heads towards the tube. Guilt vibrates through him with every step.

  Not another dead body.

  3

  CLEMENTINE

  This morning things got interesting.

  I’m one coffee and two cigarettes into my day when the news hits Twitter. It’s 5.42. Streetlights reveal the cluttered pavement of St John Street on bin day, but not the sprawling extent of its filth. From my attic room four floors above I watch the meat lorries trundle past on their way to Smithfield Market, then turn back to my laptop and reread the tweet.

  @DeathStalker The Lover strikes again. Woman’s body found near Angel. Blue lights on scene.

  Taking a long drag on my cigarette, I watch the retweets continue to rise: four, nine, thirteen, twenty-one. True-crime fans never sleep. They’re always waiting for a new case, another body; a fresh hit of adrenaline. Fantasists, most of them. Most, but I don’t think all.

  I stub the cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray and reach for the keyboard. I click the shortcut to CrimeStop, the specialist social networking site for true-crime fans. The homepage loads. Its logo, a blood-splattered microscope, is as familiar to me as the people who inhabit this virtual space.

  The icon in the corner of my screen shows twenty-three notifications. I click to read the alerts:

  Death Stalker posted in True Crime London

  Mysteries Solved, Blood City and twenty others commented on a post in True Crime London

  I click the first alert and it takes me to the private area for London-based crime fans. Death Stalker’s post tops the feed:

  Breaking News: ‘The Lover’ strikes a third time? My inside source says dead woman’s appearance was totally changed. Rose petals found around the body. Has London’s ‘Lover’ struck again? My images attached.

  There are three photos. The quality isn’t great, but they’re geotagged. The first is the outside of a building; terraced red-brick flats above a takeaway. Crime scene tape has been strung along the pavement outside.

  The others are exterior shots too. One is the doorway; three stone steps leading to a black door, the number forty-three above the brass doorknob. The other shows the first floor window. I double-click the image, enlarging it, but curtains block any glimpse of the interior. There’s no caption, but that doesn’t matter, it’s easy enough to guess what these photos mean. Death Stalker, the unofficial leader of the True Crime London group, is at the scene of the crime.

  I reread the post and wonder who the inside source is. Glancing at the avatar beside Death Stalker’s username – the outline of a face, the photo too dark to make out any features or even their gender – I wonder who they are; young or old, male or female? Online you can be anyone you want.

  Flicking back to the first photo, I zoom in, focusing on the reflection in the window of the takeaway. Behind the light-flare from the flash, just visible, is the outline of a person. My heart rate quickens. The picture is too dark to make out much detail but, from their silhouette, I can be sure of two things: first, the photographer is wearing a hoodie, and secondly, Death Stalker is a man.

  I see you.

  Reaching over last night’s Thai takeaway carton for my journal, I jot down the wording of Death Stalker’s post and the points of interest from the photographs. I note the details of the figure reflected in the window and beside it I write: gender reveal – intentional or accident?

  If it’s an error then it’s the first I’ve seen him make, and I’ve been watching for a while. It’s nineteen months since I first gathered data for my doctoral study. Back then CrimeStop was one of many websites on my list, and true-crime fans were just people I used in order to explore my hypothesis – that no matter what gossip might be spread across the internet, in reality crowd-sourced crime solving would never be achievable.

  True Crime London made me rethink all that. Specifically, Death Stalker caused my rethink – he knows things the public shouldn’t, with access to protected data from contacts close to the investigations. He has the case information gathered by the police, but without the bureaucracy and protocols that hamper them. It gives him, and anyone working with him, the chance to solve a crime faster than the police.

  Now a new question inhabits my mind: could this group of true-crime fans solve a live murder case?

  I think they have the potential to, and I think some of them believe that too. In the months I’ve been watching, several members of the group have talked about taking on the challenge of a live case. Every time another incidence of police incompetence or corruption hits the media the debate is had again. Each time the Lover has killed, the conversations have turned more serious.

  The likes are increasing on Death Stalker’s original post. Interest is rising. I copy the geotag into Google Maps and it zooms in on a side road near the back end of Islington High Street. It’s a more daring choice of kill site – an area busy with foot traffic and cars most times of the day and night. The Lover is getting bolder.

  There have been two murders in the last four weeks – one in Camden, the other in Crouch End. Two women are dead, both found in their bedrooms with the lights dimmed, candles burning and rose petals scattered around their naked bodies. Now, six days after the second murder, it seems there’s been a third; the kills are increasing in frequency.

  An alert pings at the top of my screen:

  Death Stalker posted in True Crime London

  Question: Can we find the murderer before another victim is taken? Funding to public services is at an all-time low. Police budgets have been slashed. We can’t rely on the Met to bring this ‘Lover’ serial killer to justice – they simply don’t have the resources to cope. It’s time for us to step up. Who’s with me?

  The comments are stacking up beneath the question:

  Bloodhound I agree. This government doesn’t seem to have any kind of plan for how to tackle policing. I blame Brexit. Something needs to be done. Perhaps this is how we show the folks in Whitehall just how bad things are. I’m with you.

  Crime Queen Great idea @DeathStalker – I’m so up for this. @Witness_Zero might be interested too, I know he’s been following the case.

  Justice League I don’t think he’s a serial killer yet. Isn’t it four kills before they’re called that?

  Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson @JusticeLeague Serial killer 101 – they get serial status when kills tally three or more with a cool-off period in between ergo the Lover is a serial killer.

  Justice League @Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson I stand corrected. @DeathStalker I agree the MET don’t seem to be directing enough resources towards this case. This man needs to be stopped; the devastation he’s leaving in his wake is horrific. I want to help

  Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson it’s a dreadful business. @DeathStalker I am, of course, with you

  Witness_Zero agreed. I’m in

  Ghost Avenger It’s shocking the Met can’t divert more officers to this case. The Lover’s signature is so specific. How the fuck haven’t they got leads on him? I don’t like the idea of going all Lord of the Flies, but what other choices are there? This killer can’t be allowed to murder again. I’m with you – let’s find the sick fucker.

  Death Stalker By my count that’s seven of us ready to take an investigation live. I’m going to cap the team at eight. So this is the final call for the last spot. Any takers?

  Glancing out through the grimy window, I watch the sunlight peeping over the rooftops of the terrace opposite and know the rest o
f London will soon be waking. The story will hit the mainstream media in time for the breakfast news bulletins. If I want to be part of this, I need to decide now.

  Death Stalker has invited you to a secret group: Case Files: The Lover

  Click here to accept this invitation

  This is crazy. I study this stuff, I don’t take part in it. My studies are in psychology and human – computer interaction. My doctoral thesis explores the relationship between theoretical concepts of self-identity and how individuals construct, maintain or adapt their identities when interacting online.

  Everyone lies. With some it’s an airbrushed photo and a few pounds knocked off their weight, or an adopted happy-go-lucky persona to conceal the sadness inside. Others hide their weakness behind spite and hate, spewing poisonous bile to deflect from their own inadequacies. I’m fascinated by how and why they lie, and watching how it shapes their relationships. But the members of True Crime London are fascinating for a different reason; they concentrate on the lies and failings of the police, the corruption within the system that lets killers stay free. I have a vested interest in that type of lie.

  As I click to accept the invitation I can’t deny the fizz of anticipation. It takes me to a new page. Unlike the main pages, this is open only to Death Stalker, Crime Queen, Ghost Avenger, Bloodhound, Justice League, Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson, Witness Zero and me.

  Death Stalker posted in secret group Case Files: The Lover

  Initiation: Our goal is to reveal the Lover’s true identity before the police. So, listen up, here are the rules of engagement. I’m the team leader. To be part of the team you must (i) live in London (ii) contribute actively to our investigation (iii) share all the intel you gather (iv) wait for my say before making information or suspects public – either online, to the police or the media.

  I read the rules twice. They’re simple enough, but there’s something missing; how will they know for certain if they’ve identified the killer? Does this investigation end when they’ve agreed who they think the killer is? That can’t be right; it’s not resolution. I need to know their planned end-game.

  I click in the comments box and start typing my question. Beside my online handle – The Watcher – my avatar appears. It’s a close-up image of my left eye, the aquamarine of my iris vivid against the black of my lashes. I press return and my comment appears beneath Death Stalker’s message.

  The Watcher @DeathStalker What do we do once we know the killer’s identity, do we inform the police?

  I wait for a response. There’s nothing at first. Then the replies start to rack up, but none from Death Stalker.

  Ghost Avenger Good point @TheWatcher we need to share our findings with them asap so he’s caught, yes?

  Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson I’d say so. The whole point is to get him off the street.

  They want a wolf hunt, to run the murderer to ground and get their justice. By running with them I put myself in danger; a wolf in women’s clothing, hiding among them as they call for blood.

  A new message appears:

  Death Stalker @TheWatcher Aren’t you confident? Excellent. Once we agree on the killer we can decide the specifics of how we reveal them. It’ll be important to maximise media coverage if we’re going to show Whitehall the error of their ways. This isn’t just about one killer, it’s about restoring order to society. Don’t lose sight of that.

  First I’m worried. Then I’m irritated by his condescending tone. The irritation wins. Death Stalker talks of ‘we’, but so far he’s been very clear about this being his investigation. I’d bet money he’s already decided what happens if and when we identify the killer but, for now, I’ll play along. The literature says a key ingredient for group bonding is trust. If I collude with him it should help me lay the foundations for trust. Then I’ll be able to influence the direction of this hunt.

  The Watcher @DeathStalker Of course. Thanks for clarifying.

  Death Stalker posted in Case Files: The Lover To succeed in our investigation we must be organised, focused and fast. To get us off to a good start I’ve compiled a list of tasks. Each person will be allocated a task and must complete it and report back within twenty-four hours to show they are serious and remain part of the team. To help me assign tasks, I need you to enable the location finder on your profile so I can see where you’re based. Please do it now.

  I don’t disagree that we need to be organised and fast, but once I’ve enabled the location finder I’m exposed – all those in the group will know where I live.

  One by one a location appears beside each person’s name. I hug my arms around myself, pulling my tatty woollen jumper tight. I’m alone, but it feels like everyone is staring at me.

  I glance towards the door. Four bolts, a deadlock and a security chain divide me from the outside world. That’s how it’s had to be for me to survive. Caged by the fear that just by looking into my eyes people will know who I am, what I am.

  For the past twelve years I’ve been almost invisible from the world. Even the university doesn’t have my real address; only my PhD supervisor – Professor Wade – does. I feel safe in my cyber bubble, watching others but not being watched. Hiding behind my own careful lies. Trying to understand those of others.

  But something is shifting; this little group within True Crime London has enticed me to break cover because we share a common belief that the police are at best ineffective, and at worst inherently corrupt. Their goal to catch The Lover fits with one I’ve been coveting for a very long time – to expose the police for what they really are; to prove the system is broken. To show people that no one is safe.

  I’m bored with hiding. Twelve years of exile is long enough; I do not want to make it thirteen. What I want is to move among people in real life, undetected. To feel alive, and prove I’m more than just words on a page; that I can have a life outside of my research, like my PhD supervisor Professor Wade tells me I should.

  Maybe if I do this, if I help this group catch the Lover and beat the police, and I succeed in hiding my true nature from them, I’ll feel something more than the nothingness I’ve lived with for every second of the past twelve years.

  It’s a risk, though. What if they discover the truth?

  They shoot wolves; don’t they?

  4

  DOM

  The rain starts as soon as Dom reaches the crime scene. It’s in a side road off the end of the High Street. The uniforms have moved fast: the outer perimeter has been taped off, blocking the road. Fifteen yards inside, a second cordon surrounds the part of the terrace housing a chicken takeaway and the entrance for the flats above.

  He spots Abbott hovering in the area between the outer and inner cordons, his lanky frame swamped by an oversized navy parka. Seeing Dom, he raises his hand in an awkward wave.

  Bowing his head into the rain, Dom strides across the road to meet his DS. Either side of the cordon people are watching. The press have commandeered the side of the barrier closest to the residential entrance. Dom recognises that ratty-looking bloke from the Mail, and a chain-smoking woman from Sky. In a group of older guys stands a youngish chap with a pudding-basin haircut and an SLR in a waterproof casing. It won’t be long before more arrive, and they start yelling for details. He fucking hates that.

  Reaching the tape, Dom ducks underneath and stops next to Abbott. ‘See we’ve got company.’

  ‘They showed up about ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Better let Jackson know.’

  ‘Already done.’

  Dom glances back at the twenty or so people gathered at the other barrier. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Public, not media.’

  Dom does a quick scan of their faces and reckons Abbott’s right. Some he recognises; regulars brought out by the sniff of blood and the hope of getting a photo of the body onto Instagram. A woman at the back is clutching a coffee. Dom wishes he’d got one. It’s too late now. ‘How the hell are they here already?’

  Abbott shrugs. ‘Wor
d gets around fast these days, guv.’

  Dom glances towards the building. A female uniform is standing beside the black front door. ‘You been inside?’

  Abbott grimaces. ‘Yeah.’

  Dom studies his sergeant’s expression. It takes a lot to get Abbott riled, but this case is making him increasingly twitchy. ‘So it’s our man?’

  ‘I think so. There’s no sign of forced entry.’

  ‘She let him in?’

  ‘Looks that way, same as the others. The building’s split into four flats, all rentals. Ours is on the first floor. Her name’s Kate Adams.’

  Dom nods, grateful Abbott keeps the information brief. He’s glad his DS humours his idiosyncrasies; his need to not hear any personal information about the victim until after he’s had the chance to observe the scene. Details come later; first he needs to get a feel for the crime scene, observe the victim without making a prior judgement.

  Dom glances towards the reporters. More have arrived in the few minutes since he’s been here. He knows what they’re thinking – that this is his fault – another dead woman, one who’d still be alive if he’d already caught this bastard.

  An old boy in a flat cap notices Dom looking. He waves. ‘DI Bell, can you confirm this is another Lover victim?’

  A blonde in a cream mac rushes to the barrier, thrusting a voice recorder towards him. ‘A third victim in four weeks, have you got a suspect yet?’

  Fuck. The press are going to roast him and, even though he loathes them, a part of him knows he deserves it.

  Ignoring the questions, Dom turns to Abbott. ‘Come on, let’s get on with it.’

  Abbott ushers him to the inner cordon. He flashes his warrant card to the uniform on duty, tells her their names for the scene log and heads inside.

  Dom follows. The familiar cocktail of adrenaline pulses through his blood – apprehension mixed with anticipation. He’s used to it, but this time there’s something else. It sits like ballast in the pit of his stomach. Guilt.

  With a final glance towards the gathering crowd, he goes up the stone steps and enters the building.