‘Any joy with the hotel key card?’ Patrick addressed Gareth, who shook his head apologetically.

‘But I’m talking to Cyber-Crime later, boss. Peter Bell reckons he could have some leads for us.’

‘OK, good.’ Again, Patrick pulled the lid off a marker pen and wrote a heading on the whiteboard beside the map.

SUSPECTS/TARGETS

‘All right. We don’t have any named suspects yet. But let’s think about our line of inquiry. Who is doing this, and why? Until we know more, let’s assume that the strongest things that connect Rose and Jessica are, first, their interest in OnTarget and, second, their consequent use of the band’s social media.’ He wrote these two points on the whiteboard. ‘Martin, can you share what you’ve found out about the girls’ Internet use so far?’

Martin Hale hauled himself to his feet, wincing slightly – Patrick wasn’t sure whether this was from an injury or at the thought of speaking to the assembled group.

Hale didn’t need to refer to his notepad – the details of this case were etched on his mind, Patrick knew. As he spoke, Patrick added notes to the board.

‘I haven’t had much time at all to look into Rose’s Internet history, but here’s what I’ve got so far. Both girls used the official OnTarget forum, which is hosted on the band’s website.’ He shook his head. ‘There are girls on there who write a hundred posts about Shawn every single day . . . Apart from that, they both used Twitter extensively and have unprotected accounts. They had Facebook accounts but barely used them. They were both on StoryPad, which is a site where teenagers write short stories and poems. Um . . . what else? Rose had a Tumblr account where she posted about the band, as well as numerous Pinterest boards where she pinned endless pictures of Shawn and his bandmates.’

Winkler muttered, ‘Give me strength.’

‘I’ve found something that could be useful regarding Rose’s phone,’ Martin said. ‘I’ve been through her phone records and there are no unknown numbers – just lots of calls to her mum and dad, texts between her and her friends. Between leaving her house and going to the hotel, she didn’t make any calls or send any texts. However, she did use a fair amount of 3G bandwidth during the hours before her death.’

‘You mean she was online?’ Patrick asked.

‘Exactly. She might have been on the Internet on her phone or using apps that connect online. Unfortunately, the mobile provider can’t tell us what she was doing. I’ve checked her social media and she didn’t tweet or update any of the other sites she uses regularly.’

‘But perhaps she was communicating with somebody?’

‘That’s what I think. She might have been using one of those messaging apps. From the amount of bandwidth she used, it’s possible she was sending or downloading photos, or even a video.’

‘Good stuff, Martin. See what else you can find out. We need to talk to her friends and her online, er, buddies and see if she shared anything with them.’

‘And I’ll see if there was similar activity on Jess’s phone.’

Patrick popped the lid back onto the marker pen and looked around at the, mostly, eager faces. The one bored face belonged to Winkler, which was hardly a surprise. Winkler’s attachment to Operation Urchin felt like a pebble in Patrick’s shoe.

Catching Patrick watching him, Winkler looked up and raised his eyebrows. ‘What are you staring at?’

It took all Patrick’s inner strength to stop himself from regressing to the primary school playground and saying, ‘I dunno – it hasn’t got a label on it.’

Most of the assembled officers filed out of the room, leaving Patrick gazing at the whiteboard. He sensed a presence behind him.

‘Boss?’

It was Wendy. She fidgeted, knotting her fingers together in front of her, shuffling one foot.

‘I hope you didn’t think I spoke out of turn,’ she said in her lilting Black Country accent.

‘No, not at all. I was impressed, Wendy. It’s refreshing to hear somebody speak up for these girls. To talk about them like they’re real people. You showed empathy. I like that.’

Two bright spots of pink glowed on her cheeks. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said, her eyes focusing on the photos of Rose and Jess.

‘Go on.’

‘You said you want me to find out everything I can about these girls.’

Patrick noticed that she didn’t refer to them as the victims.

‘Well, what if I were to, you know, covertly go on the OnT forums and social media and pose as a fan? Get to know members of that community and try to connect with other people who knew Rose and Jess?’

‘I don’t know. It’s not a bad idea, but it’s a specialist skill. Martin has had the training.’

She stopped fidgeting. ‘But, boss, with all due respect to Martin, he’s . . . well, he doesn’t know how to think like one of these girls.’ Before Patrick could interrupt she said, ‘I understand them. I know that world. I can chat about OnTarget without sounding fake. I really think I’m best placed to do this.’

‘I know what you’re saying, but—’

‘Please. Let me do this. Give me a day or two and if I don’t make any progress, I’ll hold my hands up and hand it over. At least let me set up the profiles, reach out. I’d only have to give Martin a crash course in OnTarget fandom anyway.’

She grinned and Patrick found the smile infectious.

‘I won’t let you down.’

He sighed. ‘All right. But keep me fully informed. And if it doesn’t seem like you’re making swift progress . . .’

‘Thanks, boss. I’ll get on it straight away.’

She strode from the room before he could change his mind. Why, he wondered, as he faced the pictures of Rose and Jess, a wave of tiredness crashing over him, did he feel like he’d just been steamrollered?

Chapter 14

Day 4 – Winkler

DI Adrian Winkler strolled out of the gym with his bag slung over his shoulder, catching sight of his reflection in the glass doors as he emerged into the cool air. His black, shoulder-length hair was still damp and his veins snaked around his freshly pumped biceps. He felt good, calm, the endorphins from his workout blowing away all the negative energy that had been fucking with his flow since the meeting with DCI Laughland and her pet weirdo.

He’d already posted details of his workout on Facebook, which he knew his friends would find fascinating, and he felt proud. He might call Francesca later, ask her if she wanted to come round and worship at the Temple of Winkler. That woman, whom he’d met on a case, had a thing about detectives. She liked being handcuffed to the bed, told she was a bad girl and all that crap. She was a bit of a ming-troll, with a face like a pug with piles, but hey, you don’t look at the mantelpiece, as his dad used to say when asked why he’d married Winkler’s mum. Francesca thought Winkler was the best thing since Idris Elba, and he knew she’d ooh and aah later when he flexed his pecs and let her run her hands over his granite-hard glutes.

Yeah, he was in a good place, his chakras lined up as neatly as the martial art DVDs on his bookcase at home.

But then he felt a gurgle in his stomach and a noxious fart hissed from his body, just as a blonde hottie strolled by, giving him a look of disgust as the smell assaulted her nostrils. He scowled. Why had he glugged that kale and gooseberry smoothie in the gym café? He felt another one brewing and, clenching those rock-like glutes, walked away as naturally as he could, aware of the blonde’s contemptuous glare on his back.

Now his chakras were fucked again.

Two minutes later he got into his car and pressed play on his Rainforest Dawn CD. The sounds of the jungle waking up, the chattering monkeys and squawking parrots, usually made him feel like Tarzan, but it was too late: his good mood was ruined. All he could think about was Patrick motherfucking Lennon and the fact that he was the DCI’s darling, the golden boy of the MIT who got all the juiciest cases, despite being a wet ex-Goth weirdo with a baby-battering fruitcake for a missus. It was unjust, that’s what it was. It went against the laws of nature.