thanks to mates like Warren, hopefully they’d never have to find out.
Daniel Morrison slumped in front of his computer, his blue eyes sulky and his wide, full mouth turned down in a scowl. His life was so fucking boring. His parents were, like, dinosaurs. His dad acted like they were living in the Stone Age, when there was nothing to do except go to football matches and listen to records. Records, for fuck’s sake! OK, so some vinyl was retro and cool, but not the stuff his dad liked to spin on his turntable. And the way he talked about girls . . . Daniel rolled his eyes back in his head and let his head loll. Like they were innocent little dolls or something. He wondered if his dad had the faintest idea what went on with girls in the twenty-first century. It would blow his stupid little mind if he knew.
Daniel would’ve bet that every single one of the girls he hung out with had forgotten more about sex than his dumbfuck father had ever known. He could never decide whether to laugh or groan when his father tried to talk to him about ‘respect’ and ‘responsibility’ when it came to girls. Maybe he hadn’t actually done it yet, but he’d come close, and he had a full range of coloured and flavoured condoms ready and waiting. He wasn’t going to be lumbered with some screaming kid, no thank you. God. He’d tried telling his father that he knew what he was doing, but the old man wasn’t hearing what he had to say. He still wouldn’t let him go out clubbing or to gigs with his mates. Said he could only go if they went together. Like he was going to show up at some event with his sad dad in tow. Yeah, right. That would happen.
Usually, his mother let him do pretty much what he wanted. But lately she’d been sounding more and more like a clone of his dad. Talking about homework and focus and shit like that. Daniel had never given a toss about homework. He’d always been smart enough to get by without trying. Even if it wasn’t as easy to bullshit his way through some subjects now he was heading towards GCSEs, he could still get by better than pretty much anybody else without doing all the grunt work they had to put in.
It wasn’t like you needed exams for what he wanted to do. Daniel knew his destiny already. He was going to be the stellar comedian of his generation. He’d be sharper, darker and funnier than
With a world-weary sigh, he pushed his heavy fringe out of his eyes and logged on to RigMarole. This was usually the best time of day to connect with KK. They’d been online buddies for a couple of months now. KK was cool. He thought Daniel was awesomely funny. And even though he was just a kid like the rest of them, he knew a couple of dudes on the comedy circuit. He’d told Daniel that he could help him meet up with people who could set him on the road to celebrity comedy. Daniel had been smart enough not to push him, and sure enough, KK had come through. They were going to meet up soon, and then Daniel’s life would start to change, big time. He’d been hibernating in the darkness but soon he was going to burst into the spotlight.
It would be worth putting up with KK’s occasional creepiness. Like lately, he’d been talking about secrets. When they’d been in a private chat space, he’d been going on about knowing Daniel’s secrets. Knowing who he really was. im t only 1 who nos who u realy r, he’d said. More than once. Like Daniel didn’t even know himself. Like KK had access all areas inside Daniel’s life. It kind of weirded Daniel out. So what if he’d told KK a lot about himself, about his dreams, about his fantasies of making it mega? That didn’t mean the guy knew all his secrets.
Still, if KK was going to be his route to the big time, Daniel reckoned the guy could say pretty much what he wanted. Like it would matter when Daniel was all over the TV and the internet.
It never crossed his mind that he might end up famous for a very different reason.
CHAPTER 8
Even though he was going through them for the third time, Alvin Ambrose was still totally absorbed by the witness interviews in the Jennifer Maidment case. School friends, teachers, other kids she’d communicated with via RigMarole. Officers from as far afield as Dorset, Skye, Galway and a small town in Massachusetts had talked to teenagers whose reactions ranged from freaked out to completely freaked out by what had happened to their correspondent. Ambrose had already sifted the information twice, his instincts on full alert for something that struck a bum note, oblivious to the buzz and hum of the squad room. So far, nothing had given him a moment’s pause.
The interviewing officers had been briefed to ask about the elusive ZZ, but nothing had come of that either. ZZ only showed up on Rig; there was no reaction of familiarity from teachers or family or friends who didn’t use the social networking site. Those who had encountered ZZ online knew nothing more than the police had already established from Jennifer’s conversations. ZZ had managed to worm his way into her network but in the process had given away nothing that would help identify him. It was frustrating beyond words.
A shadow fell across his desk and he looked up to see Shami Patel pretending to rap her knuckles on a non- existent door. ‘Knock, knock,’ she said, her smile awkward.
If she’d made the effort to seek him out, the chances were she had something to say worth listening to. Besides, with her generous curves and hair waved in a long bob, she was easy on the eye. That wasn’t something you could say about most of the human scenery in the CID office. Ambrose responded with an expansive gesture towards the flimsy folding chair that sat at the end of his desk. ‘Have a seat,’ he said. ‘How’s it going with the Maidments?’ When it had become clear that the Maidments might be one of the few sources of leads in their daughter’s murder, he’d checked her out with mates in the West Midlands, where she’d come from. He needed to be sure she wasn’t going to miss anything crucial. But his sources soon set him straight on that score. They said Patel was probably the best family liaison officer they had. ‘Too fucking sharp for holding hands, if you ask me,’ one of them had said. ‘Don’t know what she’s doing, leaving us for you turnips.’
Patel sat down and crossed one well-shaped leg over the other. There was nothing coquettish in the gesture, Ambrose noted, almost with regret. He was generally content in his marriage, but still, a man liked to know he was worth flirting with. ‘They’re exhausted,’ she said. ‘It’s like they’ve gone into hibernate mode to conserve what they’ve got left.’ She stared at her hands. ‘I’ve seen it before. When they come out of it, chances are it’ll be with all guns blazing at us. They’ve got nobody else to blame, so we’ll be the ones who take the flak unless we find the person who killed Jennifer.’
‘And that’s not happening,’ Ambrose said.
‘So I gathered. What about forensics? Nothing there?’
Ambrose shrugged his massive shoulders, the seams of his shirt straining at the movement. ‘We’ve got some evidential stuff. Not the sort that produces leads, the sort that you can build a case with once you’ve got a suspect. We’re still waiting for the forensic computer specialist, but he’s less and less hopeful with every day that goes by.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Patel bit her lip, frowning a little.
