Asante leans over and presses a key. The comments under the last entry are now visible on the screen.
`Shit,' says Gislingham under his breath. `Shit.'
* * *
At the allotments, it's starting to rain again. Nina Mukerjee parks the forensics van on the far side of the car park and sits there a moment taking in the location. The line of compost heaps, the noticeboard with posters offering surplus plants and second-hand tools, the skips loaded with broken bits of pot and slate. She's been doing the job so long she sees everything as a crime scene. Fingerprints, smears, flakes of skin, tumbleweeds of dust. It makes eating at other people's houses especially trying: the only kitchen that ever looks really clean is her own.
She pushes open the door and pulls her kit across from the passenger seat. A few yards away she can see Clive Conway standing by a shed behind a line of blue-and-white crime scene tape. The tape is whipping in the wind and Clive has his hand to his head, keeping his hood in place. She pulls on her protective suit then moves as quickly as its bulk will allow to where Clive is waiting for her. There's no sign of CID, just a couple of uniforms milling about and stamping their feet to keep warm. She wonders who's been put on the case `“ whether it might be Tony Asante. They discovered a while back that they have a couple of friends in common at the Met and he's bought her a coffee once or twice since. She can't decide if it was just out of politeness or whether he's actually interested. Or what she'd do if he was. She's seen the mess made by relationships at work and she likes that aspect of her life clean too.
Clive doesn't bother saying anything when she reaches him, just pushes open the door, letting her see inside. Her uncle had a shed about this size when she was a child `“ she remembers the windows thick with cobwebs and sticky with snail trails, the shelves haphazard with rusting implements, the musty, dead-insect smell. But this is different. It's neat enough to live in `“ well, almost. There are watering cans and plastic flowerpots stacked in lines on the shelves, spades and forks hanging on their own individual hooks, and on the work surface two bags of seed potatoes and a neat line of earth-filled seed trays with small white plastic labels and tiny spikes of green just visible here and there. The floor has been swept, even in the corners, but the dark stain spread across it tells a different story. As does the smell.
`I don't think there's any doubt that's urine.' He crouches down and points. `I also found some shreds of hair. But no roots as far as I can see. In fact, I'm pretty sure they're going to turn out to be extensions.'
* * *
Adam Fawley
2 April 2018
14.43
No kidding `“ my mate grabbed a hot cunt only to find she was packing a dick 
submitted 9 hours ago by YeltobYob
6 comments share hide reportSerously? That really happened? submitted 9 hours ago by downwiththegynocracyshare hide reportNo shit. He said no way u cdve known. Well hot. Tits, arse, the lot. Until he gets her fucking pants down submitted 8 hours ago by YeltobYobshare hide reportFuck me `“ those chicks with dicks theyr the fucking worst. All come and fuck me + dont even have a fucking hole submitted 8 hours ago by letscutthecrappeople7755share hide reportToo fucking right mate. He said he shd have realized something was wrong when her fucking hair came away in his hand It was only fucking EXTENSIONS wasn't it submitted 8 hours ago by YeltobYobshare hide report 
were the tits fake too? submitted 7 hours ago by KHHVandsowhat88share hide reportWhat a cunt. Hope he made her suck him off submitted 7 hours ago by supremegentlemen89share hide reportNever got the fucking chance. Anyway, who wants beard burn on your fucking dick. These tashhags are the worst slags of the lot submitted 6 hours ago by YeltobYobshare hide reportSomeone at the back mutters, `Sick bastards'; Baxter is shaking his head, Gislingham's face has hardened. There isn't much they haven't seen, in this job, but it doesn't make vileness like this any easier to confront.
`He's right about the extensions,' says Somer into the silence. `We only just found out about that ourselves.'
`But taking a step back, it doesn't actually prove anything, does it?' says Gislingham. `Like Quinn says, he could just be making stuff up to impress all the other shits, and it's an easy guess to make. I mean, there must be quite a few trans girls who have extensions.'
But even if he's right, it's still a coincidence. And you know how I feel about coincidences.
Asante looks around. `You can see how it could have played out `“ if this bloke abducts her off the street, not knowing what she really is `“'
Somer stares at him. ```What she really is`ќ? Please tell me you didn't just say that.'
Asante looks uncomfortable. Now there's a first. `I'm sorry. I was only referring to her pre-operative status, that's all. If you're an Incel it's the ultimate betrayal `“ sex flaunted but then denied.'
`Faith doesn't `њflaunt`ќ herself,' says Somer coolly. `She goes out of her way not to do that.'
I cut in. `Did Faith say whether she'd seen anyone hanging around recently, Somer? Anyone acting suspiciously?'
She glances at me and shakes her head. `We did ask, but she said not. Not that she'd noticed, anyway.'
But just because she didn't see him doesn't mean he wasn't there. He could have been stalking her for days, and picked that precise moment, and that precise place, because he knew by then that she always passed that spot around that time. On the other hand, he might simply have been parked up in those garages having a fag when she happened to go by.
Gislingham turns to Asante. `Can we track him down through the website or is that asking too much?'
Asante hesitates a moment. `The ISP for the discussion board will have a record of the IP address that logged those posts `“ we'll just have to hope they're based in the UK `“'
`Right, so `“'
``“ but as I explained to the DI, most of these boards don't even ask for names let alone emails. And he'll probably be on public Wi-Fi rather than his own account. These people use stations, libraries, coffee shops `“'
`Not people,' interrupts Everett. `Shits. Total and utter shits.'
Gislingham frowns. `So you're saying we won't be able to identify him even if we get the IP address?'
Asante makes a face. `If he's in a public place it'll all depend on whether there's CCTV, and even if there is `“'
`Right,' says Gislingham. `So we'd better get a bloody move on, and organize a warrant.'
`DC Asante's also been monitoring the board,' I say, `and YeltobYob hasn't been online since he posted these comments.'
Asante looks around the room. `He doesn't post that often but I'm going back through his past activity to see if we can find anything about him that way. Something that might indicate which Botley he's talking about, for a start. But so far, it's all the same poisonous misogynist venting.'
`What about registered sex offenders?' asks Baxter. `Shouldn't we be checking all these Botley places in case anything pops?'