Tiffany was in London for the rest of that week. While she was busy filming “Dead End Street”, her stalker was busy sending her more death threats. We saw her on the news every day. Notes were popping up everywhere: stuck on the reception desk at the TV studios; nailed to the front door of her flat; taped to the seat of the exercise bike in the exclusive gym she frequented. Each time one of the messages appeared there was a corresponding sighting of a masked figure in a wizard’s hat and cape – a neighbour had seen him driving away, or the security guard had glimpsed him disappearing around a corner. On one occasion he was caught on CCTV. Inspector Humphries showed me and Graham the footage so that we could confirm it was the person we’d seen at the theatre. Not that we could be one hundred per cent certain. I told the policeman, “The outfit looks the same all right, but anyone could be underneath that mask, couldn’t they?”
Inspector Humphries admitted, “Yes. That’s precisely the problem.”
In every interview she gave, Tiffany remained brave and defiant, and refused to be terrorized into giving up the part. I suspected that underneath that fragile-looking exterior lurked an iron will.
By trawling through news sites on the Internet, Graham and I kept an eye on the police investigation. They’d interviewed each and every one of her past boyfriends since the first note had appeared. But the two film stars, three pop singers, seven footballers and the boxer didn’t seem to be very convincing stalker material to me.
“Really,” I complained to Graham when we trawled through a gossipy celebrity site, “when you look at it more closely they hardly count as boyfriends at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look,” I pointed at each of them in turn. “As far as I can see, she went to a party with that singer. She had dinner with that actor and lunch with the other one. That footballer took her to Alton Towers and she went to Wimbledon with that one. She went to a polo match with that singer, the races with that one, and a nightclub with him. She went to different award ceremonies with all the other guys. They were just single dates. She went on holiday with the boxer but it was with a huge group of people and there aren’t any photos of them alone together. As far as I can see, she didn’t have a serious relationship with any of these people. She hasn’t been out with anyone long enough for them to get possessive and obsessed.”
“You’re looking at it too logically,” said Graham earnestly. “The true stalker is a delusional obsessive. Some of them never even meet their victims face-to-face and yet they think they’re married to them or something stupid.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. They end up believing all kinds of peculiar things. It’s called de Clerambault’s syndrome, I think. There was one famous case I read about when a woman became fixated on King George V. She thought he was in love with her and used to hang around outside Buckingham Palace. Every time the servants drew the curtains she was convinced he was sending secret signals to her.”
I was impressed. “Wow! That’s really bonkers.”
“Yes. And there was this mad guy in America who was obsessed with a movie actress. He tried to assassinate the President because he reckoned it would force her to admit she loved him. But she didn’t even know he existed!”
“Weird!” I looked back at the computer screen. “So it could be one of her boyfriends then?”
“Possibly. Or it could be a man she’s never met.”
“It could be a woman too, couldn’t it?” I asked, and Graham nodded. “Maybe it’s someone she sat next to in the hairdresser’s. Or a girl who did her nails.”
“Or it could be any one of a million people who’ve seen her on TV, or passed her in the street,” offered Graham.
“Well, in that case it could be anyone at all,” I sighed. “How on earth will they ever catch them?”