Steel reached over his shoulder and tapped the screen. ‘Take itthat’swho you’re looking for?’
Natasha Agapova, in an elegant black ballgown, sitting at atable with a sign on it proclaiming,‘ABERDEENEXAMINER!’, and a whole slew of empty wine bottles.
She was trapped between that oversized teddy bear of hers and an earnest, rosy-cheeked, shiny-faced middle-aged man.
He had one hand on a nearly full glass of red wine and the other on Natasha’s bare shoulder, leaning in and talking. While she looked like someone trying not to appear as bored as she really was.
Another swipe and there they were again, still sitting at the same table, in the background of another dancing shot. Him telling some sort ofhystericalanecdote with his arms thrown wide – clutching a whisky this time – while Natasha Agapova pretended to smile, and the bear grinned away.
Wonder if her boring dinner companion was Captain Sleazy of the HMS HumpYacht?
Logan zoomed in. ‘We have any idea who the guy is?’
‘Hold on.’ Henry vanished, leaving her laptop behind.
Tufty waved at them from the long table. ‘Sarge? I has a finished.’
Might as well, as they were waiting.
The wee loon had made a neat job of laying all the hate mail out – a mixture of A4 printouts, lined sheets torn from various notepads, and random scraps of paper – some of which now boasted little tabs made of orange Post-it note. Tufty pointed at both ends of the table: ‘Oldest to newest. One bit of sticky for each keyword.’
It wasn’t hard to spot the sheet of A4 with seven bits of bright orange stuck to it. Must’ve come through the website, because the printout came complete with a wodge of metadata at the top, with things like the user’s IP address, time, date, and referring URL.
Username: Anonymous123
Email: kpbookonline.com
Department: Editorial
Subject: Reap the hurricane
Message:
REMEMBER ME, BITCH? YOU BETTER, BECAUSE I AM GOING TO BE THE LAST THING YOU EVER SEE. YOU CANT HIDE FROM KARMA, BITCH, AND IT IS COMING FOR YOU! I WILL BURN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE OF LIES TO THE GROUND WITH YOU IN IT. YOU ARE DEAD, BITCH. I BET YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD BURY ME, BUT YOU CANT. BECAUSE I AM EVERYWHERE. AND YOU WILL BE SCREAMING FOR MERCY AND FORGIVENESS BEFORE I AM DONE. SEE YOU SOON.
Tufty poked the page. ‘I know “see you soon” wasn’t on your keyword list, but I marked it up anyway, cos I has aninitiative.’
Logan checked the ‘DATESUBMITTED’, then scowled at Colin. ‘Two weeks ago! And you didn’ttellus?’
‘What, I’m supposed to know the content of everyone’s Hate Box, now?’
Henry reappeared, holding an issue of theAberdeen Examiner. ‘Got it.’
Colin raised a hand. ‘Hoy, Henry, you got anything exciting in your Hate Box?’
‘Me? Nah.’ She opened her paper and spread it across the desk, displaying a whole heap of those uncomfortable group shots of people in suits and gowns, with a list of names under each photograph. ‘My hate mail’s the usual boring collectionof misogynists, pricks, and people who want to know why I made them look “so fat” in that photo about the thing. Oh, and men who won’t take “Sod off, I’m married!” for an answer. Why?’
‘Plod here think we should be intimately familiar with every piece of hate mail that comes into the building.’
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘All right: that’snotwhat I—’
‘Hell with that. Be here all week!’ She squinted at the laptop. ‘Right, let’s see who Mr Pink-And-Sweaty is...’ Running a finger over the paper, one photo at a time.
‘What Imeantis: why don’t you report the hate mail?’
‘God, you’re right!’ Colin clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Cos if we didthat, you guys would rush round here with all guns blazing and solve the crime! Would you? Really? Course you sodding wouldn’t.’
‘Got him.’ Henry poked a gathering of numpties in their charity-ball finery. ‘Nick Wilson, director at NorrelTech Wellhead Intervention Limited – and before you ask: no. No idea. They donated a fortnight’s timeshare in New Orleans, if that helps?’