‘Boss, we’ve got a problem.’

Nick looked up from his desk as Kelly approached. Morning meeting had only just finished, but Nick had already loosened his tie and undone the top bottom of his shirt. Kelly knew that by lunchtime the tie would be off altogether, tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket, in case the top brass dropped by.

‘The account you opened with the website has been revoked. I just tried to sign in to see what new profiles had been added and it threw me out.’ Kelly couldn’t stop herself from logging on to the site every hour or so, even reaching for her phone when she woke up in the early hours of that morning. She did so with a growing feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, knowing the new profiles added! banner that flashed on to the screen meant more women in danger; more potential victims. The website was moving faster than the investigation could keep up with, and the previous day’s wild goose chase to Amersham hadn’t helped. James Stanford’s credit card had been cloned a year previously; he’d lost his wallet – or had it stolen – and suffered various incidents of identity theft as a result. The mail-forwarding centre on Old Gloucester Road was simply the latest in a string of crimes involving credit card details that had no doubt been sold numerous times, and MIT were no closer to finding out who was responsible for targeting London’s female commuters.

The incident room walls were covered with rows of their photos – some identified, most nameless – with more added to the website since they’d first gained access. Kelly had logged on automatically this morning after briefing, her fingers finding the keys of their own accord.

Kelly had blinked at the screen. Tried again, assuming operator error.

She had checked and double-checked the details for the account Nick had created, using his own credit card and a gmail address, but the mistake wasn’t hers. The account had disappeared.

‘Do you think we’ve been rumbled?’

Nick tapped his pen against the side of his laptop. ‘Maybe. How many profiles did we download?’

‘All of them. Maybe it looked suspicious.’

‘Or the whole thing’s a scam just to get your money. Who’s going to call the Old Bill and complain they were promised unlimited stalking opportunities?’

‘Finance have organised a prepaid credit card,’ Kelly said. She’d seen the email come in while she was trying to log into Nick’s account.

‘Great. Get a new account set up and let’s see how long before that one’s taken down, too. I want you to look for any profiles based in Kent.’

‘They’ve all been London-based so far, boss.’

‘There was an abduction in Maidstone yesterday. A witness reported seeing a man drag a woman into a black Lexus and drive off. An hour later Kent police received a call from a distressed female who had been abducted and sexually assaulted, before being pushed out of the car in an industrial estate on the outskirts of the town.’ He handed several printed sheets to Kelly, who glanced at the details written at the top of the statement.

‘Commuter?’

‘She travels from Pimlico every day to a recruitment firm in Maidstone.’

‘Did she get the index number of the Lexus?’

‘No, but the car triggered a speed camera a few miles from the incident. Local officers are bringing in the driver now.’

It didn’t take Kelly long to set up a new account, and to find Kathryn Whitworth, promoted as newly listed on the first page of the website. She checked the details given in Kathryn’s victim statement against the profile on the screen in front of her.

There was no doubt it was the same woman. On impulse Kelly looked up Maidstone Recruitment. A professional headshot accompanied the short bio beneath Kathryn’s name and job title. Senior Recruitment Consultant. In the photograph on the website Kathryn had her hair tucked behind her ears; she looked – if not stressed, exactly – as though her mind were elsewhere. In her work shot she sat left-shoulder forward against a white background, shiny blonde hair resting on her shoulders in a neat bob. She met the camera with a gleaming smile; professional, trustworthy, confident.

What did Kathryn Whitworth look like now, Kelly wondered? What did she look like when she gave this ten-page statement to a Maidstone detective; when she sat in the rape suite in a borrowed robe, waiting for the Force Medical Examiner to violate her all over again?

The images came all too easily.

She took the profile off the printer and leaned over her desk to pass them to Lucinda.

‘It’s a match.’

Kelly’s mobile rang, ‘number withheld’ flashing on the screen. She picked up.

‘Hi, is that DC Thompson?’

Kelly was on the verge of telling the caller he had the wrong number, when she remembered. ‘Yes, that’s me.’ She glanced at Lucinda, but she had turned back to her computer.

‘It’s DC Angus Green, from Durham CID. I’ve dug out the rape file you were after.’

‘Hang on a sec, I need to take this outside.’

Kelly hoped it wasn’t obvious to anyone else in the office that her heart was racing. She forced herself to walk casually away from her desk, as though the call were of little importance.

‘Thanks for returning my call,’ she said, when she was in the corridor. She stood at the top of the stairwell, where she could see who was coming up the stairs, and keep an eye on the door to MIT at the same time.

‘No problem. Have you got someone in custody?’

‘No, we’re just doing some work on similar jobs around the country, and this one came up. I was calling to see if there had been any developments in the last few years?’ Kelly’s heart was banging so hard now it was hurting her chest. She pressed the flat of her palm squarely over her sternum. If anyone ever found out about this she’d lose her job for sure; there’d be no second chances this time.

‘Nothing, I’m afraid. We’ve got DNA on file, so if he’s ever nicked for something else we’ll get a match, although our chances of a prosecution are slim, even then.’

‘Why’s that?’ An arrest was what Kelly had hoped for, ever since she joined the job, when she realised how many historic crimes were solved not by dogged investigation work, but by sheer chance. An elimination swab submitted after a burglary at work; an evidential sample taken after a positive roadside breath test. That sharp intake of breath, when a simple job turns into so much more, and a crime committed twenty years previously is finally solved. It had happened to Kelly a couple of times, and it was what she wanted now more than anything. Kelly had never seen the man who raped Lexi, but she could almost visualise the arrogance on his face morphing into fear; a relatively innocuous charge paling into insignificance beside the positive DNA match that would prove unequivocally he had stalked her sister; watched her; attacked her.

‘There’s a letter from the victim on file,’ DC Green was saying. ‘A Miss Alexis Swift. The letter says that although the evidence given in her written statement still stands, she does not support a prosecution, and does not wish to be informed of any developments in the case.’

‘But that’s impossible!’ It was out before Kelly could stop it, her voice echoing in the empty corridor. She could hear DC Green’s confusion in the silence that followed. ‘I mean, why would a victim retract her support? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘There’s no explanation, just the signed declaration. Maybe it wasn’t quite as cut-and-dried as she’d put forward in her initial statement? Perhaps it was someone she knew, after all; maybe she consented then changed her mind.’

Kelly fought for control. An image of Lexi flashed into her mind; curled up in an armchair in the police rape suite, too broken even to stand up when Kelly arrived, every speed limit from Brighton to Durham ignored. Lexi dressed in borrowed clothes that didn’t fit, her own in paper bags, neatly labelled and forensically sealed. Lexi on the medical examiner’s bed, tears escaping from beneath closed lids; her hand squeezing Kelly’s so tightly it left a mark. There was nothing consensual about what happened to Lexi.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ she said lightly. ‘Well, thanks for calling back. I don’t think it’s part of our series, but you never know.’ She ended the call and turned around, pressing her forehead against the cool plaster of the wall.

‘If you want to meditate, Kelly, perhaps you could do it in your own time.’

She wheeled round to see Nick in his running gear, his trainers quiet on the stairs behind her. Dark patches circled his armpits and dotted the front of his T-shirt.

‘Sorry, boss, I was just taking five.’ Kelly’s mind was racing. What had Lexi done? And why?

‘You’ve had them. I’m going for a shower. I’ll see you in the briefing room in ten minutes.’

Kelly forced herself to focus on the job in hand. ‘You were right about the Maidstone rape; I’ve given the details to Lucinda.’

‘Okay. Let Kent police know they’re off the hook. We’ll take over from here. First things first, though; I’ve asked Cyber Crime to come and enlighten us as to what the fuck they’ve been doing for the last two days. You can’t move without leaving a digital footprint nowadays; just how hard can it be to ID the person behind this website?’

‘Very hard,’ Andrew Robinson said. ‘He’s covered his tracks too well. The details for the site are registered in the Cayman Islands.’

‘The Cayman Islands? Is that where he’s running the website from?’ Kelly said.

Nick looked at her. ‘Don’t get excited – you’re not going off on some Caribbean jolly.’

‘It doesn’t mean the offender’s there,’ Andrew said, ‘only that his contact details are held there. It won’t surprise you to know there’s no love lost between the British police and the Cayman Islands – the chances of us getting the information we need from them are zero. However, what it did give us was the IP address of where the website is answering from.’ Andrew took in Kelly’s and Nick’s blank faces and started again. ‘Basically, when I look up a domain it sends a signal out to that website. If the website doesn’t exist, we don’t get a response, but if it does – as in this case – the reply tells us not only where the domain details are held, but which device is being used to join that particular network. So, for example’ – he indicated Nick’s phone, which was on the table in front of them – ‘if you were to log on to, say, Internet banking now, that website would record the IP address of your phone, enabling us to track you.’

‘Got it,’ Nick said. ‘So where is the administrator logging on from?’

Andrew laced thin fingers together and cracked his knuckles; first one, then the other. ‘It’s not that simple, sadly.’ He opened his notebook and showed Nick and Kelly a number: 5.43.159.255. ‘This is the IP address – it’s like a postcode for computers. It’s a static IP but it’s hosted on a Russian server, and unfortunately the Russians—’

‘Let me guess.’ Nick cut in. ‘The Russians don’t cooperate with British police. For Christ’s sake!’

Andrew raised both hands. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’

‘Is there any way at all to trace the website?’ Kelly said.

‘Honestly? No. At least, not within the timeframe you need, given the threat level. It’s a virtually undetectable website.’

‘Does this mean we’re looking for someone particularly savvy?’ Kelly asked. ‘Someone with a background in IT, perhaps?’

‘Not necessarily. All this stuff is available online for anyone who wants to find it. Even the DI could do it.’

Kelly hid a smile. Nick let it go. ‘So what do you suggest?’

‘It’s that old adage: you’ve got to follow the money.’

‘What do you mean?’ Kelly said.

‘Have you never seen All the President’s Men?’ Andrew said. ‘You’ve missed out. The offender is taking payment from people registering on his dating site, right? That’s the money we need to follow. Each transaction can be traced from the customer’s credit or debit card to the PayPal account associated with the site, and finally to the offender’s bank account. When you know how the money’s being withdrawn, and by whom, then you’re on to something.’

Kelly felt a glimmer of optimism.

‘What details do you need?’

‘You used your own credit card, right?’

Nick nodded.

‘The date of transaction, the amount, and the credit card you used to pay. Get me those, and I’ll get you our man.’