He puts the paper down again. `My guess is he's holding down a job, though probably not one he considers `њgood enough`ќ for him. A female boss is a possibility `“ someone who doesn't promote or `њappreciate`ќ him. He's likely to live alone and almost certainly struggles to maintain any sort of meaningful long-term relationship with women.'
Classic loner misfit. Just what I bloody needed.
Gow is eyeing me now. `Using `њyob`ќ in his username is very revealing. On the face of it, just your typical `њMen Behaving Badly`ќ casual thuggishness, but I suspect it springs from a deep albeit unacknowledged self-loathing.'
`Age?'
`Despite the `њboy`ќ reference, I suspect he's more like thirties or forties.' He gestures at the book. `Read that. I'm sure you'll find it fascinating.'
`And the fact that the assault was frustrated `“ what difference will that make?'
Gow raises an eyebrow. `Frustrated as in interrupted, or frustrated as in thwarted?'
I shrug. `Either. Both.'
He sighs. His face has darkened. `I'm afraid that may well exacerbate matters. To have been so close to getting what he wanted, only to have it snatched from him at the last minute. Things will be a lot more urgent now. And he will be a lot angrier.'
I get to my feet. I already knew we were up against it, but there's a cold, sick feeling in my gut now that wasn't there before.
As I get to the door, Gow calls me back. `One more thing, as Columbo would say. I'd get the ever-dependable Baxter to do a search on your man's MO. It wouldn't surprise me at all to find he's done something like this before.'
* * *
Graeme Scott turns the lights out in the art room and starts to fumble in his pocket for the keys, then remembers he's forgotten to turn off his sodding PC and has to go back in again. When he finally locks up five minutes later the neon strip in the corridor is still flickering on and off above his head. It's been doing it for at least a month and the caretaker hasn't even bothered to come and look at it. Scott doesn't need reminding that Art comes very much lower down the pecking order than Information Technology or Media Studies but no one likes their inferiority thrust so blatantly in their face.
He rams the jangle of keys back into his pocket then heads out towards the car park. Most of the students have already left, just a few still lingering by the gates waiting for lifts. There are a couple of stringy lads hovering near a group of girls that Scott only now realizes includes some of Sasha Blake's friends.
Scott feels the colour coming to his face and is thankful they're too far away to notice. He reaches the car, opens the doors at the back and starts stowing away his materials as fast as he can manage. He can hear laughing now, a sudden gust of guffaws. It might be nothing to do with him `“ just an accident of timing `“ but paranoia has become a habit. The piss-taking about his clothes and his car, the nasty hurtful nickname. Just his luck that Scott rhymes with spot; though most of the acnefied little shits who call him that are pots calling the kettle black as far as he's concerned. And as for the car, if they don't have the basic intelligence to realize this is a classic, well, that's their problem, not his. Only it isn't, of course, because they're at it again, right now. He can see the two lads out of the corner of his eye `“ one is pretending to crank a starter handle as the other makes farting noises. The girls are hysterical with laughter. Leah Waddell with her high heels and Isabel Parker with that ridiculous hair dye she's done to herself. He's amazed the head is letting her get away with it. And as for Patsie Webb with her fuckwit stupidly spelt name. Too clever for her own good, the nasty, vindictive little cow. He doesn't like the idea of Sasha Blake hanging out with the likes of her. She's worth better than that `“ she actually has some talent, some potential `“
He shoves a can of paint aside to make way for the rolls of card, then yanks the doors shut and goes round to the driver's side and gets in. He sits there a moment, gripping his keys, willing the damn thing to start first time.
* * *
`My name's Jed Miller, I'm calling from Achernar Internet Services `“ can I speak to DC Anthony Asante?'
Asante sits up in his chair `“ this is it, this is what they've been waiting for.
`My boss said you were after some metadata from us, right? For yesterday?'
`That's right.'
`I've got what you need right here `“ though I'm not sure how much help it's going to be `“'
`Just send it over, Mr Miller `“ the rest is down to us.'
* * *
Adam Fawley
2 April 2018
19.10
It's gone 7.00 when Gislingham puts his head round my door.
`Just heard back from the team at the allotments, boss. Basically, nada.'
Quinn used to say that a lot when he was DS; I hope Gislingham grows out of it before I have to beat his head against a brick wall.
`Only thing they do seem to be managing is pissing off a lot of old chaps who've no longer got a good excuse to get out of the washing-up, by the sound of it.' He grins. `I think we should prepare ourselves for some irate compensation claims for parsnips trampled in the line of duty.'
`What about the shed Faith was taken to `“ who owns that?'
Gis whips out his notebook. `A lady called Cheng Zhen Li.' He stumbles over the pronunciation then spells it out for me. `No prizes for guessing she's Chinese. Apparently she's lived in Marston for about thirty years and has had the allotment for at least ten. Quite a fixture, by all accounts. Used to be there regular as clockwork every morning and evening with her little trug for a bit of pricking out and potting on.'
I'm starting to wonder if Gis might be angling to get an allotment of his own; he's certainly up on all the lingo. Though from what I know of his wife, I can't see her having much trug with that idea.
`What do you mean, `њused to`ќ?'
He makes a face. `That's just it. She's been in hospital. Broken hip. She's back at home now but she hasn't been to the allotment for the last two weeks.'
`And the shed `“ was it locked?'
He shakes his head. `Seems not. It was just on a latch. She doesn't keep anything of value in it, and in any case, she said the allotment owners share each other's stuff. It's the done thing, apparently. In allotment circles.'
So that's not going to get us anywhere either. Marvellous. Absolutely bloody marvellous.
`What about the Incel board?'
`Ah, good news and bad news on that one. Turned out the Yeltob bloke was using a public Wi-Fi, just like Asante said. He's logged in at the same place every time he's posted in the last few weeks.'
`Is that the good news or the bad news?'
He makes a face. `Sorry, boss. It was a Starbucks on the outskirts of Southampton.'
So it's not our man.
I take a deep breath. `Have we passed it on to Hants Police?'
Because this piece of shit needs apprehending, even if not by us.
He nods. `Somer's going to call that bloke of hers `“ he'll know who to send it to. If that Starbucks has CCTV there's a good chance they can narrow down who it was.'
* * *
Alex Fawley takes another quick look down the road, then pulls the curtain back in place. Still no sign of Adam. She moves over to the sofa and sits down carefully, feeling the baby move, then settle. She's trying not to worry, trying to carry on as normally as possible, but some days the temptation to crawl under the duvet and stay there becomes almost overwhelming. She's negotiated to work from home for the final few months but now even her own house feels like a minefield `“ an assault course of inanimate objects out to cause her harm. Rugs she could slip on, steps she could trip over. She keeps telling Adam that she's fine, joking with him in that easy repartee they've developed over the years. But the minute he leaves the house the fear comes down and she spends most of the day too paralysed to move.