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Chapter 24
Monday 22nd February
I’m sitting at my desk at The Hub, trying to do some research into a romance scammer case that’s caught my eye, but finding it hard to concentrate. The case is an interesting one; the scammer is a fifty-five-year-old Edinburgh man called Tommy MacKenzie, who created dozens of fake profiles on dating apps and struck up relationships with eleven different women, then managed to persuade them to part with a total of more than a hundred thousand pounds by pretending to need urgent medical treatment abroad. I’ve managed to make contact with three of the women MacKenzie scammed, the others having asked to remain anonymous when he was finally tracked down and taken to court, and one of them has agreed to an in-depth, sit-down interview with me. But it’s him I’m really interested in. He’s currently serving three years in prison, and no journalist has so far got anywhere near him. I’m hoping to be the first, but my heart isn’t in it today, my eyes constantly flitting around the office. A couple of times I notice Edward looking my way and quickly avert my gaze; once, I meet Satish’s eye, and he looks uncomfortable for a moment then smiles. I give him a brief smile back, but I still feel a bit tense around both of them. This jittery feeling was compounded earlier this morning when, desperately needing caffeine, I walked down to the staff kitchen to make a coffee and found Satish there, fishing a teabag out of a mug.
‘Oh, Mary,’ he said. He glanced at me, a little nervously I thought, and then turned his attention back to his drink, balancing the teabag on a spoon and tipping it into the food caddy by the sink.
‘Hi,’ I said, inwardly cursing my timing. I walked to the coffee machine and picked up a mug, aware that he was still hovering behind me and hoping he’d just leave.
But instead he cleared his throat and said, ‘Sorry … I was just … erm … I was just wondering if you’re going to be around on the evening of the 31st of March? It’s a Wednesday? It’s just that, well, Edward said you might be going away and I was wondering …’
I whirled around, feeling a little surge of panic.
‘Edward said what?’
His eyes widened.
‘He said, well, erm, he said he’d seen you looking into flights abroad and that you might be going on holiday? Are you?’
I stared at him, my heart thumping.
Why is he asking me about the night of the 31st of March? That date … it’s the day before the 1st of April, which is the day …
‘I don’t know yet,’ I said quickly, my mouth suddenly dry, my throat tight. ‘It’s just something I’m thinking about. I haven’t decided when I’m going away yet. And sorry, I need to get back to my desk, I’m expecting a call.’
I picked up my coffee and scuttled past him on wobbly legs, and as soon as I reached my desk I called Jess, telling her about the encounter in an urgent whisper.
‘I think you’re being paranoid, Mary,’ she said. ‘And I totally understand why, and I’m glad you’re keeping us informed, but honestly, try not to read too much into it. As I’ve told you, we have absolutely no evidence to suggest either of your colleagues were involved in what happened in Oxford, or in the threat against you. Mr Cooper did see you googling flights, didn’t he? Maybe Mr Patel was just asking for some sort of social reason – maybe he’s organising an office night out or something? Try not to worry, OK?’
It’s becoming annoying, the numbers of times people have said ‘try not to worry’ to me in the past few weeks, but I knew Jess meant well so I thanked her and tried to get on with my day. But now as I sit here reading about Tommy MacKenzie, I’m struggling to focus, the kitchen incident with Satish still niggling me.
Saturday night and what happened – or didn’t happen – with Pete, is still niggling me too, although in a much more pleasant, if rather confusing, way. Yesterday morning, when hunger finally forced me out of bed and downstairs, I found him acting perfectly normally and offering to make me scrambled eggs. The night before wasn’t even mentioned, and yet it’s still preying on my mind now as I sit at my desk trying to work.
Stop it, just stop it, I think.You have far, far more important things to worry about than a strange new desire to climb into bed with Pete bloody Chong. And he’s dating Megan, remember? Girl code, and all that …
I vow to forget about it. It’s only a week until the Cardiff murder now, if it’s actually going to happen. And then the countdown begins. After my meeting with Stella Clayforth in Birmingham, which simply proved yet again that there’s no obvious link between me and the other victims other than the parent thing, I’ve suddenly decided that I need to stop obsessing about it. I’m on my own here, aren’t I? I have to forget aboutthem, and about the killer’s reasons for targeting them, and concentrate onme. On gettingmyselfout of this, somehow. I can’t even rely on the police to do that, not entirely. What if Idolet them secrete me away somewhere, and the fears Jess let slip actually come to fruition, and he blows up a building or something just to get to me? What if other people die too? I can’t let that happen, Iwon’t.
There’s been enough killing. It’s time to stop it.
