She plugged her headphones into her PC and opened Spotify, streaming the latest OnT album. She stared at photos of the band, trying to convince herself that they were not just fanciable but godlike. It crossed her mind that maybe she should pretend Shawn looked like DI Lennon, instantly chiding herself. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and entered the zone. She was an OnTarget fan now. She loved them more than she loved her parents, her dog, her friends. They were her Everything.

It was time to join the fray.

She soon noticed that there were half a dozen ‘super users’ on the forum, girls – she assumed they were female, anyway – whose threads got the most views and comments, and who responded to nearly every thread started by another user. It was ridiculously cliquey. These half-dozen fans dominated discussions and opinion, with a second, larger group of acolytes who agreed with their opinions and acted as cheerleaders. Anyone who dared voice a different opinion, who wrote anything deemed to be in any way negative or stupid or ‘sad’, was instantly shot down. Sometimes arguments broke out between new users and the forum elite, page after page of passionate back and forth, which went on until the new user surrendered or a moderator stepped in. It was an intimidating place.

Wendy realised that her best bet was to ingratiate herself with these super users. If, as it seemed, they spent their entire waking lives on here, they would surely know Jess and Rose, if not in real life – or ‘meatspace’ as it was called – then online.

The most fanatical user of all, the queen of this microcosmic world, called herself, quite simply, Jade. Her real name, or a reference to the gemstone? There was a line in one of OnT’s songs, Wendy remembered – something about a girl with jade-green eyes. This was the kind of fact she needed to know, so she looked it up. Yes, it was from ‘Green, Green Eyes’, their song about a jealous girlfriend.

Anyway, this Jade had the most powerful voice on the forum and anyone who dared question her or voice an opinion that deviated from hers in the slightest was throwing themselves into a pit of flame. Jade had just started a thread headed ‘WHY SHAWN MAKES ME FEEL LIKE CHOCOLATE!!!’

Just watched the ‘You’re So Amazing’ video for like the billionth time and decided that Shawn makes me feel like chocolate on a hot day. I MELT!!!!

This was followed by numerous posts full of OMGs and multicoloured dancing smileys, all the girls agreeing and discussing what chocolate bar they would be.

Wendy’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She needed to get this first response right. Inside, she was that thirteen-year-old girl, desperate to be liked, to be part of the gang.

She typed: Shawn makes me feel like a Haribo on a hot day – all sticky ☺ !!!

She hit enter and waited for the response. Would the girls find it too gross? Unfunny? Would they ignore her or, worse, attack her?

She hit refresh. To her enormous relief, two users had already posted responses full of rolling, laughing smileys. The first of these called herself F-U-Cancer – another of the site’s super users – and then the rest were off, discussing what confectionery Shawn made them feel like, and why. Wendy waited, but Jade didn’t post in this thread again. Instead, she started a new one, and soon all the girls were chatting about how long they had been OnT fans, as if it was a competition, and then they were all laughing about ‘noobs’ who thought they had the right to call themselves proper fans. Jade was the most scathing about noobs, as if anyone who hadn’t got into OnT from the moment they formed was an inferior being. Wendy contemplated joining in with this thread, either defending new fans or claiming she’d been into them since day one. She decided to leave it. She didn’t want to rile this Jade person further.

Wendy was going to have to work hard to show Lennon the progress he demanded. She got up and went to the coffee machine in the corridor. She had a feeling she was going to be pulling an all-nighter.

Chapter 17

Day 5 – Patrick

Patrick’s teenage self had endlessly fantasised about the thing he was doing at this very moment: pushing his way through glass revolving doors into the cavernous atrium of a multinational music corporation. He quashed the thought immediately, castigating himself for such shallow egotistical whimsy when two teenage girls had so recently lost their lives. Besides, in his fantasy he was there because his Cure-rip-off band had just been signed for a six-figure sum and was being paraded around the offices as the Next Big Thing. That was never going to happen.

‘Posh, innit?’ said Carmella under her breath, looking around the mirrored foyer. Global Sounds Music – GSM – had, over recent years, taken over several other major record labels and was now the biggest multinational player in the market. Ten-foot-high glossy photos of the various labels’ most successful artists interspersed the mirrored panels, and the vast expanses of perfectly toned flesh, male and female, made Patrick subconsciously suck in his stomach and push back his shoulders. The music industry was meant to be in trouble, battered by free downloads and streaming, but there was little sign of a tightening of belts here.

‘I don’t recognise any of these artists,’ he commented in reply. ‘Do you?’

Carmella inspected the pictures. ‘Hmm. That’s – thingy, you know, that R&B guy who got done for doing 150 mph on the A3 in his Aston Martin last week. And that’s Selina Whatsername. Married to the Liverpool footballer.’

‘Helpful, Carmella.’

Patrick felt quite disgruntled at his lack of current pop knowledge. How had he got so old? He had always prided himself on his musical trivia skills, but now he realised he’d be stuck in any pop quiz question post about 1990. Still, it wasn’t the same these days. Whenever he heard snippets of chart music, he turned into his father – the words ‘tuneless racket’ sprang immediately into his head.

‘Well, you must recognise these boys,’ Carmella said, jerking her head towards the larger-than-life photograph of OnTarget. The four members were dressed in matching but different coloured suits, standing with their arms folded and self-important scowls on their faces. Patrick thought they looked like junior school kids – if junior school kids had tattoos, thousand-pound suits and artfully sculpted facial hair.

‘Ridiculous,’ he muttered, and Carmella poked him in the ribs.

‘Come on, you old fart,’ she said. ‘I mean, you old fart, boss.’

They approached a smiley young receptionist in a crop top with a bird’s nest of fake blonde and pink dreadlocks piled in a massive bundle on top of her head. Through her glass desk, Patrick could see a diamond belly bar winking at him, drawing attention to her flat midriff.

‘Morning,’ he said, holding out his badge. ‘I’m DI Lennon and this is DS Masiello. We need to talk to someone connected to the band OnTarget, the A&R director or a publicity director perhaps.’

The receptionist gaped at him, then snapped into action, swivelling on her chair to a computer monitor on the desk’s return, scrolling busily down a list of names and extension numbers, muttering as she did so, an expression of intense concentration on her round, babyish face. Patrick wasn’t sure whether she was talking to herself or to him. It was kind of sweet how seriously she clearly took her job, though. He felt foolish for requesting someone in A&R because of course in no way had OnTarget been ‘nurtured’ or ‘discovered’. They were as manufactured as a tin of biscuits, selected from the most addictive ingredients of competitors on a TV talent show.