‘But don’t go in on Hammond with all guns blazing – he’s the sort who’d set his lawyers on us if you even look at him funny.’
‘Credit me with some sensitivity!’ Patrick pretended to be offended. ‘I’m not a bull in a china shop . . . well, not usually . . .’
There was that smile again.
‘I know you’re not, Pat,’ she said, holding his eyes for just a second too long.
Chapter 21
Day 6 – Wendy
The queue for the signing stretched all the way from the Waterstones bookshop on Piccadilly to the Costa Coffee on the corner of Church Place. Wendy had a friend from back home who was an obscure crime novelist. Wendy had been to one of his book signings once – three people had turned up, including her.
Now here was a boy band who probably hadn’t read their own book, let alone written it, with hundreds of people desperate to get in to see them. Not that this had anything to do with the book itself, of course. It was a chance to actually meet OnTarget, to be a foot away from them, breathing the same air. Even Wendy felt a little excited at that prospect. The allure of celebrity. Wendy’s mum had been almost overcome when she’d bumped into Dave from Slade in the supermarket, forty years after they were properly famous. In this secular society, celebs were the new gods.
She walked along the line, mostly made up of teen girls, and wondered if she was walking past Jade, F-U-Cancer or any of her other contacts – she wouldn’t allow herself to call them friends – on the forum. Over the last couple of days she had spent every spare minute chatting, tweeting and posting on Tumblr, barely sleeping, her eyes scratchy from staring at screens. She had been friendly and bubbly, uncontroversial but witty and, she believed, had made quite an impression. Even the initially stand-offish Jade had responded to some of her posts and retweeted her a couple of times. This was partly because Wendy had written the most over-the-top gushing review of one of Jade’s shipping stories on StoryPad, laughing to herself as she bashed out superlatives to praise what was actually the most appallingly written erotic dream sequence in the history of literature.
After she’d been doing this for a day, DI Lennon had asked Wendy how she was getting on. She had responded with a torrent of enthusiasm and a plea that she should be allowed to continue. And the lovely man had said yes, which had made her want to give him a hug.
Though, to be honest, everything Patrick did made her want to give him a hug. More than that, she wanted him to handcuff her to a bed and . . .
She refused to allow herself to think any further.
As soon as Wendy heard that Jade and a bunch of the other girls were heading to this book signing, Wendy knew she had to come along. This was her chance to observe them in the flesh, maybe chat to one or two of them. She didn’t know what any of these young women looked like, but if she kept her eyes and ears open, maybe she would be able to figure it out.
She also suspected that, maybe, the murderer would be here. If he was targeting girls like this, perhaps he would come along to observe his prey. The idea stoked the flames of anger that burned inside her. The determination to catch him before he struck again. There weren’t many men here. A few teenagers, standing sheepishly beside their star-struck girlfriends, clearly hoping their mates didn’t see them. A number of dads too, accompanying younger girls who bounced up and down in the queue, eager for the doors of the bookshop to open. Apart from that, there were just security staff and, of course, the band and their entourage who would be inside in the warm, doubtless bracing themselves for the snowstorm of female hormones.
Wendy reached the front of the queue and wondered what to do next. There was a small group of teenage girls right at the front, chatting excitedly, clutching their phones and grabbing each other whenever there was a sign of movement behind the doors of the shop. One of the girls, a blonde in a fake fur, leopard-print coat, shivered like a smack addict locked in a freezer; another girl with black hair couldn’t stop thumbing her phone. Just in front of them, at the very start of the queue, was a girl of about fifteen with orange fake tan and big boobs, her forehead already lined from too much frowning. Beside her stood a boy about her age who kept trying to put his arm around her. He was about her height but with ridiculously short legs. As Wendy watched, the girl with the tan said something to him and he trotted off up the road on his little legs, coming back ten minutes later with two cups from Costa.
‘Thanks, babe,’ the girl said, cream bubbling up through the lid in the cup as she slurped at it.
‘Anyfink for you, bae,’ said the boy.
Wendy tried not to smirk. Was one of these girls Jade? She knew from Twitter that Jade had been planning on coming here in the middle of the night, with her boyfriend, whose name Wendy didn’t know. She took her phone out and opened Twitter, to see if Jade had updated recently. Sure enough, she had tweeted a boast about being the first in line.
OMG I’m going to meet Shawn!! #OnT #booksigning
In fact, Wendy remembered now, Jade had an Instagram account that was full of selfies. She navigated to it and found Jade straight away. There she was, pouting at the camera. This was definitely her. There was even a shot of her with her boyfriend.
Wendy hesitated. Should she approach Jade and her friends? She was worried about whether she would actually pass for a fourteen-year-old. She’d been to New Look to buy a new outfit, had applied her make-up in the way she thought her younger self would, and on the way here had gone into a supermarket and attempted to buy cigarettes, though she didn’t smoke. The twenty-something woman behind the counter had asked for ID and Wendy had grinned and immediately walked away. To an adult, she could pass for a mature-looking fourteen-year-old, she was sure – but would she fool Jade and her mates?
As she summoned her inner teenager, trying to think of a good reason for approaching Jade that wouldn’t make her look like a stalker, the doors opened. Jade and her gang squealed, the line surged a little, but then the doors were immediately shut. It was just a few guys coming out, smiling at the sight of the queue. Wendy recognised one of them: Mervyn Hammond. A shifty-looking bloke stood next to him, a Staffordshire terrier in human form, and just behind was a beardy guy in his early thirties with a bland, pleasant look.
‘Amazing turnout,’ Wendy heard Mervyn Hammond say, and the bland man nodded and smiled.
Right, Wendy thought. Time to see if I can fake it as a teenager. She prepared to head over to Jade’s group when someone put their hand on her shoulder.
‘Wendy?’
She turned. It was DS Masiello.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Wendy asked.
Carmella raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s a nice greeting! Thought I’d come down here, take another look at our OnTarget fans. See if there’s anyone hanging around.’ She spoke in a hushed voice. ‘What about you?’
‘I was just passing by, actually.’
She squirmed. DI Lennon hadn’t given her permission to do this. She was supposed to be conducting her investigation solely online, not putting her face out there. She knew if she got a result he would forgive her, would be impressed and pleased, she hoped. But Masiello turning up like this ruined it!
She groped for something else to say and was saved by movement behind her as the doors opened again and a pair of security staff beckoned the crowd forwards, two at a time, while Mervyn Hammond and his companions looked on.
‘Makes you wish you were young again,’ Wendy said, gesturing at the expressions of anticipation on the faces of the girls in the line.
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Well, anyway, I’d better be getting on,’ Wendy said.
Carmella was looking at her suspiciously now. Oh God, she was going to run back to Patrick and tell him.