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Hunting him down had been one hell of a journey.
Following the revelations in Flamborough and Scarborough, it had taken her another two years to put a system in place for capturing him. It was pointless going to a private investigator. Everything they could do, she could do – they strung people along to con as much money out of them as possible.
The hardest bit about tracing someone who changed their ID constantly was trying to work out who they were in the present, which is why she had to think very carefully.
She had to start somewhere; the first point being, how does he pick his ID? That much she didn’t know and it would be a massive undertaking. He could use a completely random system like walking round a graveyard, or checking the newspapers for deaths, or, worse still, simply pick a name out of a hat. Or make one up.
The next question to work out was what made him drop off the radar every few years? Did he go inside? Unlikely. If he went inside they would never let him out, fucking lunatic.
Living in Harrogate and working as a legal secretary had been perfect, so she had run with the names she had – which had yielded nothing: neither Raymond Culver nor Richard Clayton had ever done time.
She also knew that past performance is the best predictor of future behaviour.
Did he travel abroad? If he did, once back home, does he change his image?
If she could work out how he arrived at his identity, then she might be able to figure out what was coming next. She knew her target was a predictable creature of habit, so she made a list of patterns to help her identify him: his taste in food, music, TV, and films, amongst other things.
Eventually, she made her first breakthrough. She remembered her mother claimed to have met Raymond on a dating website, but couldn’t remember which one. If he was using social media websites, the chances were he would let himself down.
She googled something called The Way Back Machine, a site that scanned and recorded the content of all indexed webpages online. It would prove useful if she knew one of the last identities he’d used, and roughly when it was used. It was next to impossible these days for someone not to leave a digital footprint.
She’d made name checks on eBay and Amazon, and followed up by running the sellers’ usernames through The Way Back Machine to check it against other sites to see where else it turned up. Her biggest single hit had been the dating website Findadate.com.
The shock, however, had been that the site had led her to two different places, with two more victims lying in wait.
Grace picked up her empty cup and skipped through into the kitchen where she made fresh tea.
She ran back into the living room, picking up the newspaper from the previous evening, remembering something she had seen on the entertainment page.
Flicking through she found the advert. A new nightclub at the back of the Corn Exchange in Leeds, called Silhouettes, was having a singles’ night with a seventies theme.
Perfect, thought Grace.
Skipping back into the bedroom she put the cup on the desk next to the mouse and took a very deep breath, closing her eyes, trying to concentrate on how best to proceed with the trap.
She opened her eyes and read through his latest email. He’d even had the audacity to use the word “pleasuredome” in it.
How crass. “You sad, sad man.”
She constructed her reply carefully, arranging a blind date for the following evening in Leeds, hitting the send button.
“It would be a pleasure, Mr Critchley. But not for you,” she said under her breath.
Chapter Twenty-five
Malton was a market town located on the Derwent. A famous connection to the town was the author Charles Dickens, who it is believed wrote A Christmas Carol whilst visiting. Malton was known locally as Yorkshire’s food capital.
At a little after two o’clock, Robbie was taking a late lunch on the outskirts of the town in a pub called The Royal Inn, a traditional establishment with wooden tables and chairs, a jukebox, a dartboard, and a pool table. Though clean, Robbie placed it only slightly higher up the ladder from a spit and sawdust saloon.
It was under new management and they were keen to impress, so the first thing they had done to attract custom was hire a damn good chef and create a winning menu. Robbie had ordered the rump steak and chips with all the trimmings, asking them to lose the salad.
He’d taken a glass of red wine to a table outside in the courtyard and was enjoying what had to have been the hottest day in winter he had ever known. The sky was blue and cloudless with no breeze to diminish the heat. Inside, someone had cranked up the jukebox and he could quite clearly hear The Rubettes singing Sugar Baby Love. Great song but well out of Robbie’s vocal range.
He had the area to himself but hopefully that wouldn’t be for long. Robbie checked his phone – there were no text messages or missed phone calls.
The barmaid appeared with cutlery and napkins. She asked if he would like another glass of wine when his food came. He nodded.
Two minutes later she brought both and told him to enjoy. The mound on the plate was so large that he didn’t know whether to eat it or climb it. The steak was done to a turn and bigger than the advertised weight, accompanied by chips, peas, mushrooms and onion rings. The barmaid dropped a basket of condiments on the table and Robbie applied salt, pepper, and French mustard.
