then to the website. Their technicians would have eventually bypassed the security on the website and found what was beyond. But they still hadn't found Megan. Maybe it meant there was nothing beyond the security box — or at least nothing that led to Megan's whereabouts. So why would someone go to the trouble of creating the website and the email if there was nothing worth finding?
I looked at the random numbers at the bottom of the webpage: 21112303666859910012512612713213313414214414803206. It wasn't an error message — or, at least if it was, it was unlike any error message I'd ever seen. Grabbing a pen, I rewrote all fifty numbers on to my pad, and then circled an area in the middle that immediately stood out: 125126127 and 132133134. One hundred and twenty- five through to one hundred and twenty-seven, and one hundred and thirty-two through to one hundred and thirty- four.
They were both sequential.
I went back to the start and worked through from the beginning, applying the same logic throughout. If I assumed the list was one long, gradually increasing series of numbers, fifty suddenly became eighteen: 2 11 12 3036 66 85 99 100 125 126 127 132 133 134 142 144 148. Except I'd cheated, because right at the end was 03206, and I didn't know how they fitted in so had left them out. Even taking each number on its own, or every two, there was no obvious pattern.
Tabbing back to Megan's inbox, I read over the newsletter again.
There were no numbers in the message. Nothing to tie the sequence to the site. Not one scrap of evidence to suggest the numbers even meant anything.
I looked down at the numbers written on the pad again, then back to the email in Megan's inbox, then back to the numbers.
Then I saw it.
Copying and pasting the contents of the email into a Word document, I started going through the message again. The first number in the sequence was two. I capitalized and emboldened the second word in the email. The second number was eleven. I capitalized and emboldened the eleventh word. Then I did the same with the twelfth, thirtieth, thirty-sixth, sixty-sixth and the rest.
Two minutes later, everything had changed.
Chapter Twenty-six
I leaned in towards the monitor and took in each line of the email, every bold word suddenly coming alive. Three minutes before it had just been a charity newsletter. Now it was the reason Megan had disappeared.
Dear MEGAN,
Thank you for your donation of ?10. We WANT TO protect the city's parkland and make a genuine difference - and that means we don't just want to IMAGINE a world where animals are RUNNING free in their natural habitat, we want to see it in action!
At the time of writing, we are engaged in ten different campaigns, and every pound you send OFF to us helps maintain parks and parklands in our capital, and in turn brings flora, animals and people TOGETHER.
If you want to be on the frontline, join our march to Parliament NEXT MONDAY where we will be trying to persuade government ministers to make the protection of local wildlife more of a priority in the coming year. SEE THE WEBSITE for more details or ENTER YOUR EMAIL to sign up to our weekly newsletter AND get THE most up-to-DATE info delivered straight to your inbox!
Yours sincerely,
G. A. James
A feeling of dread flared in my chest
I tabbed back to the LCT website, clicked on DONATE, and put Megan's full email address in as the username.
You're stumbling around in the dark here.
The date. The date. The
Sykes.
The last five digits of the numbered sequence. 03206. I hadn't been able to see where they fitted in before. But now I did.
03 2 06. 3 February 1906.
I flipped back a couple of pages on my pad, to where I'd made the notes about Sykes. 03 02 06. 3 February 1906.
The day he was hanged.
I entered Megan's email as the username, and 03206 as the password. And I hit Return. The security box disappeared and the website began to load a new page. It took a couple of seconds. When it was done, a small map appeared in the centre, about five square inches in size. It had been drawn by hand with black marker pen and scanned, and looked like an approximation of a car park, vehicles — as if viewed from above — on one side, a long thin line opposite them. On the other side of the line was an X and a typewritten message:
It was the Sixth Form car park at Newcross Secondary.
He knew what he was doing. He knew there was no CCTV coverage in that part of the school and he knew what time her lesson finished. He picked her up and he took her away, and no one even noticed.
The ultimate disappearing act.
Except he'd left a trail. Because while the woodland he described could have been anywhere as far as the police were concerned, I'd spotted him in Tiko's, I'd found out who he looked like, and I knew the significance of the website password.
I knew his next move that day.
He'd taken her to Hark's Hill Woods.
Chapter Twenty-seven
There was a coffee shop that doubled up as a deli a couple of doors along from the office. I headed downstairs and ordered a steak sandwich. While I was waiting, my phone started buzzing. It was Ewan Tasker calling about Jill's husband. I was tempted not to answer, not because I didn't want to speak to him, but because I didn't want another case to add to my workload minutes after a major break in the Carver one. But if I didn't answer, Tasker would just assume I wasn't around - and then keep on calling.
I hit Accept. 'Help the Aged.'
A laugh crackled down the line. 'Raker.'
'How you doing, Task?'
'Good. How are you?'
