“I’m sorry Alice, but I suggest you move somewhere safe for a few days.”
“But we’ve changed the locks and the alarm code.”
“Good. However, you're selling the house, so move out earlier.”
“We’ve nowhere to go yet.”
“Go to a hotel. Give us some time.”
“And if you don't catch him?”
“He’ll make a mistake. They always do.”
“Yeah?”
Kapoor yawned. “I’ll call you tomorrow with an update. In the meantime, keep a low profile. No social media and go to a hotel.”
When the call ended, Alice turned to Ian. “Can you believe that? They say we should move out. Go to a hotel. Like, tonight.”
Ian scratched his head. “How would he get in? We changed the locks. Maybe he’ll give up on you, go after someone else?”
“For pokker, Ian. Give up? This guy is obsessed with me.” She gestured to her chest. “Me. He won't stop until he’s caught.”
“Jeez. How long will we have to stay in the hotel?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“He won't bash the door in. Not while I’m here.”
“Yeah. I bet he’s terrified of you.”
Ian winced and took a deep breath. “Regardless of that, he won't try anything if he thinks you're not alone. He put a lot of effort into his plan. The viewing, copying the keys, the camera, the break in. If you think about it, he had a onetime shot and he must have known it. That’s gone now. Maybe it’s over.”
Alice pointed a finger to her head and raised her voice. “Think, Ian. Think. The camera. He will have videos of me in the bedroom. What’s he going to do with them, huh?”
“He mightn’t do anything.”
“Pfft. He went to a lot of trouble to get them. No. He will use them. Probably on Twitter.” She held out her hand. “Give me your phone.”
“Huh? Why?”
“I don’t have Twitter on mine anymore.”
Ian tapped on his phone and handed it to her with the Twitter app open. She held her breath and searched for #AliceMadsen. Her head dropped as she read. One tweet stood out.
From the bedroom of #AliceMadsen #Champagneterrorist @StalkingAlice brings you #MarkFlanagan and #HairyHannah. Enjoy.
Alice clicked on the link and the video played. She held it so Ian could see it too. “That’s my bed. They’re having sex on my bed. It’s on the internet.”
“Jeez,” Ian said. “At least we know who broke in now. The guy who sent this. And he’s honest enough to call himself Stalking Alice.”
Alice’s pulse rose as she followed the Twitter thread. She groaned as she read requests from anonymous people for videos of #AliceMadsen #doingit.
Patience friends. @StalkingAlice will bring u HOT NAKED #AliceMadsen doing it 2 herself!!! #champagneterrorist #wanking #soon
“Oh my God,” Ian said. “Did you really?”
Alice felt her face flush. “No. No. I did not.” Tears filled her eyes. “How could he do this to me?”
“We should leave the house. At least for a few days.”
Alice shook with sobs. “Everybody will see it. What will they think of me? They’ll laugh at me.”
“Let’s pack and go. It will be all right.” He went to hold her, but she pushed him away.
“Don't you see? It doesn't matter where I am. He can get to me anywhere. All the hotels in the world don't matter. He... he already controls me.”
82
Mark Flanagan hesitated before he opened the door to Beauchamps Estates on Notting Hill Gate, but there was no point in stalling. Inside, Michelle and Ed avoiding eye contact and busied themselves with their computers. The area manager, Gary Fitzgerald beckoned through his open door, and Flanagan shuffled into the office.
“Shut the door,” Fitzgerald said and waved to a chair. “We’ve got a problem, Mark. The police were here asking questions about you and a viewing on the Portobello property. It seems the viewer,” Fitzgerald looked at a sheet of paper, “Brian Hailsham, copied the keys and obtained the alarm code. Hailsham, not his real name, subsequently accessed the property where he installed a video camera disguised as an alarm motion sensor in the main bedroom. Days later, he entered again and attempted to rape the client.” Fitzgerald stared at him. “Well? Have you anything to say?”
Flanagan developed an itch in his eye and rubbed at it while he thought of a suitable response. The only positive he could think of was that Fitzgerald hadn’t mentioned the video of Hannah and himself on the bed. But that still left a whole lot of negatives.
“I’m sorry. But like, it wasn't my fault.”
“How did he copy the keys?”
“I don't know.”
“Were they in your possession at all times?”
Flanagan grimaced and shook his head. “No.”
“What does our security process say?”
“Yeah. I know. Look, it was an accident. A mistake. I didn't think he could copy them. How could he? It’s not like he had a machine in his pocket.”
“The police think he made impressions with putty or plasticine. And the alarm? You’re supposed to keep it discrete, like your ATM pin.”
“He told me he was on a call. He must have videoed it.”
Fitzgerald put his head in his hands. “Mark, this is a PR fucking disaster. Head office are going mental. I have to let you go.”
“What? You mean like, fired?”
“Er, hello? What the fuck did you expect?”
83
Cole staggered into his flat and put his hand on the wall to stop the place spinning. He stayed in the hall for several minutes, then made his way to the lounge. The TV remote slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. When he bent over to retrieve it, his stomach heaved, and he pushed himself to his feet. He stumbled in the vague direction of the bathroom, but bashed into the
