Forward Slash. Mark Edwards
room, filling it with their alien presence, a scene she had watched many times on TV but had never experienced until now. Amy was always astonished when she saw people being rude or confrontational to the police. She had been conditioned as a child to be respectful, even fearful, of the police and, even though she had little respect for them now, her own experiences brutally reversing that conditioning, she couldn’t relax in their presence. She felt awkward, under suspicion. But also desperate for their help. They introduced themselves as PC Jay Sewell and WPC Minnie Whitaker.
‘So,’ said PC Sewell, who must have been six foot four – he had to duck as he came into the flat. ‘You fell asleep in your sister’s flat and woke to find someone opening the door.’
‘That’s right.’
WPC Whitaker, who reminded Amy of the hockey captain from her school, said, ‘Who else has a key? Did she have a cleaner, or a lover who might have had one?’
‘Just me,’ said Gary. Two pairs of eyes lasered in on him, and he hurriedly added, ‘We had copies of each other’s keys in case we ever locked ourselves out. But Amy has my key.’
‘And he was at the pub,’ Amy added.
WPC Whitaker wrote something in her notebook.
‘Maybe you could take fingerprints from the door?’ Amy suggested.
The police officers exchanged a look. She had seen mechanics exchange similar looks when she took her bike in to be serviced and suggested what she thought was wrong with it.
‘The issue we have,’ said Sewell, ‘is that no crime has been committed. We have nothing to make us think that something suspicious has happened to your sister, apart from your feelings and this … fact about Cambodia. And nobody tried to break into the flat. They opened it with a key.’
Amy looked at Gary. I told you so.
‘Don’t you think it’s strange, though?’ Gary said.
‘Whether or not I think it’s strange is irrelevant, sir. We have no evidence of a crime. There’s nothing we can do.’
Amy awoke the next morning in her own flat, with sunlight in a warm shaft across her cheek and the dawn chorus in her ears. She had fallen into bed in a punch-drunk daze, leaving the curtains open, still wearing her clothes. Boris was in his usual position at the foot of the bed and, as he heard her stir, came round to lick the side of her face.
‘Oh, lovely … Thanks, Boris. How—’
Suddenly, all the events of yesterday whooshed into her head and she grabbed her phone to check her texts and emails. Please let there be something from Becky. But there was nothing. Instead, there were dozens more emails from customers and suppliers that had come in overnight, filling her Inbox on top of all the messages she’d failed to respond to yesterday. She felt a lurch of panic. It was only four a.m. but she knew she would never get back to sleep. She stank; her mouth was dry. She needed to do some work. She needed to find Becky. But she needed to catch up with her work, Becky, work …
She remembered what the therapist had taught her about dealing with panic attacks. She swung her legs around and sat on the edge of the bed, put one hand on her abdomen and the other just above her breasts, breathed in slowly through her nose, held it, then exhaled through her mouth. Repeat. She felt her mind emptying. She would deal with what she needed to do calmly, one thing at a time.
After a minute or two, she relaxed, opened her eyes. The dog gazed up at her, his serious expression making her smile.
She went into the kitchen and gave Boris a bowl of Weetabix, let him out into the garden then headed into the shower. The water usually spat torrents of hot water then cold, but this morning it was behaving, and the warm water cascading over her body soothed her, allowed her to compose in her head an ordered list of what she needed to do. The first item on the list was to outsource her customer-service enquiries to a third party – and a quick Google search brought up half a dozen options. She would arrange that later. The second was to concentrate on finding the men Becky had dated.
By five a.m., she was dressed and finally felt fully awake, ready to sit down at her computer. She’d already emailed herself the new CupidsWeb password for Becky’s account, so she checked it and logged in, clicking straight into the message Inbox. There were two new messages from men saying they liked the look of Becky’s profile. There were lots of messages like this received over recent weeks and Becky didn’t appear to have answered any of them. That was odd. Had she stopped using the site?
She found the messages from the three men she knew Becky had arranged dates with: Rosski20, Notthesheep and DannyBoy. Naff usernames or what? she thought, curling her lip.
She clicked onto Notthesheep’s profile, which proclaimed: Cheeky Chappy Seeks fun lady 4 Adventure!
‘Oh, Becks, really? He’s a twat!’ Amy said disgustedly, looking through his profile pictures, many of which featured him taking sharp corners on a large, ugly motorbike or raising a pint with a load of other identical-looking fat bald blokes in a pub. The only close-up was a blurry shot of him looking as though he was strangling a big black Labrador.
Amy thought that she personally wouldn’t touch him with a twenty-foot bargepole, but she could sort of see why Becky was attracted to him. Becks had always had a penchant for ‘fun’ blokes, especially ones with fast bikes. And Shaun Notthesheep had come on pretty strong to Becky in his CupidsWeb emails, raving on and on about her beauty, her hair, her sense of humour. That was the other thing about Becky: she could never resist flattery.
Amy read his About Me section: ‘I love to travel to those far-flung places; equally I enjoy a weekend getaway to places closer to home that I’ve never been to. I often go for long rides on my beloved BMW bike, taking that fork in the road you always wondered where it leads.’
Aah, bless, thought Amy, he fancies himself as a bit of a philosopher. She went to the last message, dated from May, and noted that Becky had helpfully demanded to know his surname as well as his mobile number before they met – undoubtedly, so that she could Facebook-stalk him.
‘Good girl,’ she murmured, noting both down. His full name was Shaun Blackman. Not too common – that should help.
Next, she went to Rosski20’s profile. He was quite nice-looking, in a clean-cut, slightly boring way, dark hair slicked back and a goofy smile. Very boy-next-door, Amy thought.
‘Hi! I’m Ross. I’ve got my own company providing motivational speakers for events – which I also do myself, so if you date me, I’ll always be able to help you think positive! I’m also a Reiki practitioner, and author of the book Help Yourself to a Better Life Experience. I lived abroad for some years and love to travel. I’d love to find someone who would like to explore new places. My last big trip was to Vietnam and Cambodia and I can’t wait to get back there.’
Vietnam and Cambodia! Amy sat up. That was a bit of a coincidence, wasn’t it? Although of course it didn’t mean that they were there together. If Becky had recently read his profile, perhaps that was where she had come up with the idea.
He seemed pleasant, and his private messages to Becky were polite and funny. Amy could see why Becky had picked him. She Googled ‘Ross’ plus ‘book’ and ‘Help Yourself to a Better Life Experience’ and immediately discovered that his last name was Malone. Becky must have done the same, since she hadn’t asked him for his surname in any of their messages.
The last man on the list, DannyBoy, had a short profile in which he said he was a property investor, never married, no kids. He was the most attractive of the trio – or, at least, the one Amy thought was the best looking: he still had a thick head of hair, and oozed Alpha maleness. His About Me section claimed: ‘Me … Just an ordinary guy, looking for a lovely lady, who might be prepared to put up with me and my sometimes difficult ways … I’m not very difficult, just a bit demanding, impractical, romantic and spontaneous! I don’t have a long list of likes and dislikes or wants and needs … I’m prepared to see how things go with the right someone. I want to love and be