M. Arlidge - Eeny Meeny

At least that’s what I thought until that day. When I saw him come into our bedroom and hesitate. Normally he just charged in and took his fill – he liked things to be brief and violent. But that day he paused and, for the first time, his gaze drifted to the top bunk.

I knew what that gaze meant, what evil thoughts were spinning round his head. Strangely, he backed off, walked out. Maybe wasn’t quite ready to go there yet. But I knew it was only a matter of time. And in that moment my mind was made up.

I decided there and then that I was going to kill the fucker.

And what’s more I was going to enjoy doing it.

‘It’s not difficult to do. Do you want me to show you how?’

Simon Ashworth had some colour in his cheeks for the first time in days. Hiding out in Helen’s flat, he’d become a nervous, fidgety creature, eating little and smoking a lot. But now Helen had some work for him – and proper detective work at that – he had perked up. He loved a chance to show off his technical expertise and Helen had just handed him an opportunity on a plate.

He’d been surprised by her sudden arrival. She burst in and started firing questions at him, without asking him how he was or bothering to update him on the Whittaker situation. She seemed agitated, distracted, and as she filled him in on the details of the investigation he could see why. He took it all in, but still it was mind-blowing. Progress had clearly been made, however. DI Grace had worked out why the victims were targeted, now she wanted to know how the killer did it. How did the killer know her victims’ movements so well that she could be on hand at the perfect moment to offer them a lift and then abduct them?

Some of them, such as Ben Holland’s weekly meeting, were easy for any ordinary stalker to work out. And Marie and Anna never left the flat. But what about Amy? Or Martina? Their movements were impulsive and unpredictable. How could you climb inside their minds?

‘Presuming they don’t post their movements in advance on social media sites and so on, the best way to monitor their plans is to hack into their communications,’ Simon began. For once Helen was silent and Simon relished the brief shift in power.

‘Hacking into their phone communications is tricky as it requires you to lay your hands on their phone and insert a chip. Possible but risky. Much easier to hack into their email accounts.’

‘How?’

‘First step is to go to their Facebook site, or anything similar that has personal information on them. Normally you can get their email address from there – gmail, hotmail, whatever – plus loads of info about their family, date of birth, favourite holiday destinations, et cetera. Then you call up their email service provider and tell them that you can’t access your emails any more as you’ve forgotten your password. They will ask you a number of fairly standard security questions – your mum’s maiden name, name of a pet, significant date, favourite place – most of which you should be able to answer if you’ve done your homework properly. They will then tell you the old password and ask you if you want to keep it or change it. You tell them to keep it as is, leaving the actual account holder none the wiser and meaning you can now access all their emails on your own device. Simple.’

‘And would we be able to tell if someone’s account was being accessed by more than one device?’

‘Sure. Their account provider would be able to tell you if you could persuade them. They are a bit funny about that but if you tell them it’s a murder enquiry they’ll probably play ball.’

Helen thanked Simon and headed back to the nick. He had proved to be crucial to this case in ways she could never have predicted. Amy had emailed her mum giving her the exact details of when she’d be hitchhiking home. Had the killer accessed these emails and lain in wait? Similarly Martina had emailed her sister – the one person from her old life that she still kept in contact with – asking if she could pay her a visit, get away from Southampton. Was this how the killer had traced Matty? And was this why ‘Cyn’ abducted them when she did, fearing that if Matty/Martina departed to her sister’s in London the opportunity would be lost?

More questions than answers, but finally Helen felt she was getting closer to the truth.

‘Stay away from me.’

Mickery hissed out the words, but Whittaker ignored her, advancing upon her.

‘You lay one finger on me and I’ll scream this whole place down.’

She’d been put in the station infirmary overnight. There she could rest whilst being protected 24/7. The callow PC on duty for the late, late shift hadn’t picked up anything unusual in being allowed a fag break by the station chief. It was yet another sign of what a good bloke he was. Whittaker knew he had five minutes max and intended to make the most of it.

‘I need to know what you’re going to do.’

‘I mean it. Don’t come any closer.’

‘For God’s sake, Hannah, I’m not going to hurt you. It’s me, Michael.’

He attempted to reach out to her, console her, but she pulled away sharply.

‘This is your fault. This is all your -’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You came to me.’

‘Why didn’t you find me?’

The vulnerability in her voice shocked him.

‘I was in hell, Mike. Why didn’t you find me?’

Suddenly all his anger dissipated and he was filled with pity. He felt a lump in his throat, a sudden welling of sadness. He had first met Hannah in the aftermath of the botched shooting that ended his front-line career. She had counselled him, healed him, and the pair had fallen in love. He’d kept her existence secret because he didn’t want the world to know he had a shrink, but his feelings for her were sincere.

‘We tried, Hannah, my God we tried. We threw everything at it. Every uniform I could spare without arousing -’

Hannah looked up sharply.

‘Without giving yourself away?’

It was said with real bitterness.

‘I tried, believe me. I really, really tried. But there was no trace of you. Or Sandy. You’d vanished off the face of the earth. I don’t know if this killer is human… or a bloody ghost. But we couldn’t pick up her trail. I am so, so sorry. If I could have swapped places with you I would have, believe me…’

‘Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

The question hung in the air. Whittaker knew he only had moments left – everything was telling him to leave.

‘I want you to tell me it never happened. I want to have never met you. I want never to have fallen in love. I want you to have kept your killer to yourself. I want it all to go away. I wish I wasn’t here any more. I wish I didn’t exist.’

Whittaker stared, lost for words in the torrent of her despair.

‘But you needn’t worry. I’m not going to tell them about you. I’m going to keep quiet. I’m going to do as I’m told and then maybe I will live.’

She returned to her bed and faced the wall.

‘Thank you, Hannah.’

It was inadequate, grossly so, but time was pressing, so Whittaker slipped out. Moments later, the young PC reappeared, stinking of cheap cigarettes and Whittaker slapped him on the back and departed. Back in his office, Whittaker exhaled. The original plan had been to retire together with millions in the bank. That was screwed now, but at least he was in the clear. It had all gone horribly, horribly wrong, but he was going to be ok. He’d been up all night and was shattered, but as the sun began to rise, Whittaker felt a surge of energy and optimism.