Paula’s spirits were sinking by the minute. She could see how it had played out. Seth had been lured into giving away his own secret and the killer had turned that back on the boy to create a dream Seth would buy into. ‘And he said he could get Seth a deal?’
Lucie tutted. ‘Nobody would be that thick, to believe a scam like that,’ she said. ‘He said he could introduce Seth to a couple of bands that are on the way up, bands who’ve got stuff online but don’t have a record deal yet. Bands that might like to work with him on their way to making it big. He said he was going to fix something up for Seth.’
‘And that’s who Seth was meeting last night?’
She looked away. ‘Maybe. He was supposed to tell me, but he didn’t. He just said he was going to Will’s but not to call me because they might have stuff going down.’
Paula let that settle for a minute, then said, ‘What can you tell me about this guy?’
‘He uses JJ as his Rig username. He totally knows his stuff. He’s a real expert on the whole grunge scene, which is Seth’s big thing too. He said JJ knew stuff only a real insider would know.’
Except, how would you know what that is? He could have made it all up and you sweet babes would have fallen for it. ‘Is there anything else you know about him? Where he lives? Where he works?’
For the first time, Lucie looked distressed. ‘No, all I know is his screen name. He never talked about himself. He came on to talk about music, not to do the personal stuff.’
‘Did you ever check out his page on Rig?’
Lucie frowned. ‘I never did, no, but Seth checked it out. He said it was full of great music stuff.’ Her face cleared. ‘Of course. That’s the way to find him. JJ, like letters, not spelled out.’
‘Bear with me a second,’ Paula said, holding up one finger. She took out her phone and called Stacey. ‘Paula here,’ she said.
‘I know,’ Stacey said. ‘It’s what caller ID is for.’
God save me from geek humour. ‘Seth Viner was in communication with somebody on RigMarole about music. The guy used the name JJ, letters only. It’s possible JJ lured him into a meeting. Can you take a look?’
‘I’m looking right now . . .’ A pause. ‘Nothing here. Leave it with me. I’m going to have to back-door it.’
‘Do I want to know what that means?’ Paula asked.
‘No.’
The line went dead. ‘Thanks, Lucie,’ Paula said. ‘I think this might be a big help to us.’ And I wish you’d told someone as soon as you knew he was missing. ‘Is there anything else you think I should know about?’
Lucie shook her head. ‘He’s one of the good guys, Seth. You need to find him and bring him home. This is not a good place to be right now. I’m scared something bad is happening to him.’
‘I understand that. And it’s OK to show you’re scared. Your mum, she seems like she’d be there for you, you know?’
Lucie snorted. ‘She works for the BBC. For radio. I mean, stuff like You and Yours. How embarrassing is that? It’s like, the definition of straight.’
‘Give her a chance,’ Paula said, getting to her feet. ‘I know you won’t believe me, but she was once like you are now.’
Lucie nodded. Her eyes were wet. She had the look of someone who would wail if she tried speaking. Paula knew exactly how that felt. It wasn’t so long ago that she’d had to deal with losing one of her closest friends. There had been plenty of times when grief and fear had threatened to overwhelm her too. She fished out a card. ‘Call me if you think of anything. Or if you just want to talk about Seth. OK?’
Minutes later, she was in her car, heading back to the office to pass the watches of the night with Stacey. She had a horrible feeling that whatever lay ahead of Lucie Jacobson, a joyful reunion with her boyfriend wasn’t going to be on the agenda.
CHAPTER 21
Birds were singing. Singing their heads off. One sounded like a squeaky wheel, another like it had something grievous stuck in its throat. Tony slowly surfaced from a thick blanket of sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept straight through the night, undisturbed by dreams, unaffected by anxieties. He’d struggled with sleep for years. Since he started investigating the contents of truly messy heads, if he was honest.
At first, he luxuriated in the unfamiliar feeling of being rested. Then he had a moment of bewilderment as he opened his eyes and couldn’t think where he was. Not home, not a hotel, not the on-call room at Bradfield Moor . . . Then memory kicked in. He was lying in the bed of Edmund Arthur Blythe, the man who had contributed half of his DNA, in the master suite of a substantial Edwardian villa by a park in Worcester. A bit like Goldilocks, he thought.
Tony glanced at his watch, then shook his wrist in disbelief. Almost nine o’clock? He couldn’t believe it. He’d been asleep for ten hours. He hadn’t slept that long since he’d been an undergraduate and stayed up all night to finish an essay. Other people partied, Tony studied. He propped himself up on one elbow and shook his head. This was insane. Alvin Armstrong was due to pick him up at his hotel in just over half an hour. He’d never make it. He’d better call him and rearrange the pick-up. Thirty-three minutes to come up with the sort of story that wouldn’t make him sound like one of the lunatics who’ve taken over the asylum.
He was about to reach for his phone when it startled him by springing into life. Tony juggled it off the bedside table and to his ear. ‘Yes? Hello? Hello?’ he gabbled.
‘Did I wake you?’
It took him a moment, then he was orientated. ‘Fiona,’ he said. ‘No, I’m wide awake. I was just picking my phone up to call someone else. You startled me, that’s all.’
‘Sorry. I just thought I’d let you know, I ran those locations you gave me through my programs.’
‘Fantastic. That’s really quick work.’
Fiona chuckled. ‘We have moved on since the age of the abacus, Tony. They make the calculations pretty quickly these days. Even on a laptop in a hotel room.’
‘I know, I know. But humour me. It still feels like magic to me.’
‘Well, I don’t feel entirely magical about this. I don’t think these results are definitive, because we’re looking at a different choice mechanism from the criminal committing an offence. The locations of actual crimes are conditioned by the availability of victims. As we both know, some criminals have very restricted criteria for their crimes. A rapist likes a certain type of women. A burglar only does first-floor entries . . .’
‘I’m with you, yes,’ Tony said. He knew she didn’t mean to teach him to suck eggs but he wished she’d get to the point. He didn’t need a seminar, only a result.
‘So his choice of locations is limited much more than someone who’s just looking for a public-access computer. Because they’re everywhere. I expect even you’ve noticed that.’
‘I’ve even used them, Fiona.’
‘My, we’ll get you into the twentieth century yet, Tony. So, with the proviso that these results are not backed up with the kind of solid research that underpins the criminal geographic profiling, I’m prepared to say that I think the person using these internet nodes lives in South Manchester, near to the M60. I’ve got a map with a red zone that I’m about to email over to you. It’s apparently where Didsbury, Withington and Chorlton come together. Whatever that means demographically.’
‘They read the Guardian and listen to Radio 4. Shop locally and feel wistful about John Lewis.’
Fiona laughed delightedly. ‘Not your usual sexual homicide territory, then?’