Helena, his wife, shifts beside him, and he places a heavy, reassuring hand on her side: no need for her to get up.
Her stirring ceases, her breath slowing once more, as she slips back to sleep.
Something twists in his gut when he spots the email, sent early Sunday evening, with multiple-yellow-triangle “warning” emojis in the subject bar.
It’s an external email, obviously—at work everything’s an emergency, so they don’t tend to use emojis to point that out.
The urgency of the subject bar means only one thing: he’s going to have a busy day dealing with some “loon.” A brief glance at the sender confirms this.
Lee inhales deeply, preparing himself for the incoming annoyance he knows is coming. He taps the email open.
Dear DI Cobham,
URGENT!! Re: ANNA DERWENT—MISSING PERSON
If I have not contacted you again by 6 a.m. Monday, itmeans I am at HIGH RISK and am unable to call the emergency services. I am being held against my will.
The address where Anna Derwent is being held is: 65 Lockheath Road. Or close by this address.
The homeowner, and name of the person holding Anna hostage, is Matt Whitby AKA Simon Hughes.
He is dangerous, and likely responsible for the murder of Anna’s mother, Cynthia Derwent. If you are unable to view the live stream (linked below) for legal reasons, then please immediately dispatch a unit to the address above.
Live stream link:https//petprotectcam/BlueBlueElectricBlue.com
Frankie Green
Lee instantly hates himself for even opening the stupid thing.
He is about to say exactly that to Helena before he remembers she is sleeping.
He looks at the link and wonders if he should just go ahead and arrest the pet camera lady and be done with it—she’s already been cautioned.
Or he could take a quick look and circumvent the hassle and the stress of sending a mandatory team out to check on this.
No one would need to know he’d looked—he could even say he clicked by accident; he was over forty-five, people bought stuff like that.
He remembers the cat lady well: divorcée, work-from-home busybody type no doubt high on true crime podcasts and the belief that any crime can actually be solved from a laptop.
Most crimes can’t be solved, aren’t ever solved. Most court cases don’t even settle things—you still aren’t a hundred percent on the outcome, he thinks to himself. Oh, to have the confidence in the system that a civilian, or a child, does.
The cat lady seemed appalled at how things actually worked, which annoyed him not inconsiderably.
Lee’s Garmin watch beeps, his heart rate moving comfortably into Zone 2, assuming Lee has begun a workout, even though he’s just lying down being pissed off.
He releases his breath, lets his pulse drop. It’s only 7:03 a.m., he’s still in bed, and he’s already stressed out.
Screw it,he decides. If this woman has sent him a link to some peeping-Tom bullshit, he’ll go straight around to her house in person and arrest her himself.
It’ll be cathartic,he concludes, and taps on the link.
He waits for the screen to load, and when it does, he stares at it for a moment, brow creasing deeply, not entirely sure of what he is looking at. Then, all at once, his mind makes sense of it.
Lee scrambles up to sitting, sending his duvet flying, Helena groaning beside him.
“Oh, fuck,” he yells at volume. “Oh, my fuckingfuck.”
On the screen, the limp body of a near-naked woman lies propped up in a full bath, the head and arm cocked at a crazy angle.
