‘It’s a murder.’
‘I mean to our investigation.’
‘And have you?’
‘Don’t tell anyone.’
Vicky smiled at her. ‘What have you got?’
Jenny tied up her hair, then jangled the rings in her left ear, usually hidden by the walls of hair. Four of them, presumably one per year since… ‘Well, I’ve been through Dougie McLean’s message history. I’m sure you could get some cops to do this, couldn’t you?’
‘Very good. What has he been saying to Carly?’
‘Usual. Meet up stuff. Stopped a week ago. Looks like they shifted to WhatsApp, but she’s deleted all those messages, hasn’t she? And I can’t access them without his phone.’
‘But?’
Jenny held up the bagged phone. ‘Check this out.’
A woman’s face filled the screen.
Hilary Jameson, 26. Younger looking, though, school age maybe.
Four miles away.
Active 26m ago.
My interests are stamp collecting and train spotting. Not looking for sex. Yeah, right. ;-)
Jenny grabbed the phone back and clicked the big green heart below Rebecca Grieve, 31. Definitely didn’t look even half that age.
‘Is she one of the flipped numbers age thingy girls?’
‘That’s how I got access to the messages. I mean, look under her eyes, Vicks. She’s barely sixteen, if that.’
Vicky frowned. ‘Who are these?’
‘When anyone you’ve liked hearts your profile back, you get to message them.’
‘So Dougie has been hearting a lot of people?’
‘A hundred girls a day, by the looks of things.’ Jenny gave Vicky a wad of papers, just like a load of text messages, and flicked through to halfway. ‘Here’s another one.’
Beth, 28.
I love pizza and craft beer. And big dongles.
She had a babyish quality to her.
Jenny tapped the pile of paper. ‘These are their messages. Notice how quickly they get really, really dirty?’
Vicky read the first two:
I’m wet for you, big boy.
My P in your V. When?
‘Unbelievable.’ Vicky felt sick to the stomach. ‘And this is people they’ve not even met?’
‘Different from our day, Vicks. Don’t need to buy a glass of white wine now.’ Jenny turned to the next page and held it up. ‘And this is the first message after they did meet.’
Vicky squinted at it:
Had fun, but let’s agree no more yeh?
She gave Jenny a shrug. ‘What, she’s letting him down gently?’
‘Problem is, Mr McLean didn’t like that.’ Jenny held up another sheet, the text so small there was no danger Vicky could read any of it. ‘Reading between the lines, because she didn’t have sex with him, he asked for the money for the meal back. And it went downhill from there.’ She flicked through some pages. ‘By the sixth message, he’s threatening to kill her.’
Vicky sighed. ‘Did she report it?’
‘Don’t know. What with it being Christmas Eve, the people at Poggr are playing silly buggers with my friends in the Met. They’re trying to track her down and see if she’s okay.’
Vicky stared at the sheets. Two hundred pages. And they were small type, too. That was a lot of girls. Would take ages going through them, to track the likely victims down.
Jesus. They all looked alike, young, but old enough to know enough. Kirsty in Aberdeen, Deanna in Perth, Alison in Edinburgh, Vicki in Dundee.
And then, right at the bottom, Carly Johnston, definitely not old enough to know better.
‘How many of these hook-ups did he have?’
‘Fifty? Sixty? Trying to figure it out is going to take a long time and a lot of your idiots. If you can spare any skulls, it’d help.’ Jenny raised a finger. ‘Just not Considine.’
‘Damn.’ Vicky tried a smile, but God, it felt hollow. She rifled through the pages again. ‘So, between last February and this week, he’s seen fifty-odd girls on that app?’
‘That’s right. I mean, the lad’s got stamina.’
‘Hasn’t he just.’
‘Have a look at this, though.’ Jenny went to the last page. A set of messages with another user. Catriona, 19. ‘She was supposed to be meeting up with him last night. No account activity since, though. Not even a follow-up message from either of them.’
Vicky felt that nasty twinge deep in her stomach. What if Carly tonight wasn’t his first murder? ‘Have you got an address for her?’
10
Vicky got out of her car and did a three-sixty. A modern primary school behind her, the playground empty for a week now. The address seemed to be the third house on their left, but the house numbering went weird around here. A row of brick boxes blessed with gardens, surrounded by a towering council block in that patch of town that wasn’t Dundee, but wasn’t Broughty Ferry either.
Considine got out of his car and held up his phone. ‘Still no answer. Shall we?’
‘I don’t know. You spoke to her mother?’
‘Lives in Fintry. Said they’re estranged. Her word.’
‘Great.’ Vicky sighed. ‘Any taxi drop-offs from McLean here?’
‘If there were, Alan Kettles hasn’t got them logged.’
‘Try the house number again.’
‘Okay.’ Considine put the phone on speaker and the faintest ringing came from somewhere nearby.
Vicky counted to twenty. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’ She started off across the tarmac, then up the path. The house looked empty. Curtains drawn, lights off. She waved for Considine to lead.
Considine knocked on the door and waited a beat. ‘This is the police! We’re looking for Catriona Gordon!’
So much for subtle.
Considine kept his eyes on Vicky, narrowing as the seconds passed by. Then another thump. ‘Ms Kidd? It’s the police.’
Vicky played it all through. This wasn’t looking good. If McLean met her last night, Catriona Gordon was probably dead. Probably in there. ‘Okay, kick it down.’
Considine was good for one thing, though. He lumbered back a few steps and took his sights. Then lurched forward with a size twelve.
The door crunched open, bouncing off the inside walls.
Considine barged into the hall and stomped across the floorboards.
Vicky followed him in, clutching her baton tight.
The place was dark and smelled of burnt toast and beans.
Vicky followed the scents into a small kitchen. Glossy units and worktops wedged into a tiny space. A navy pot of congealed baked beans sat on the
