I kept my head down and my hood high as I trundled through the Norwich Market, the smell of fresh flowers and homemade organic soaps filling my senses. The market-sellers preached about their fresh vegetables and high-quality fish, but my mind was crowded with Dr Chakrovati’s words. I think you’ve had PTSD for a very long time. What did that mean? Had I been mentally unstable for all these years, finally cracking under the pressure? I glanced at the clock on City Hall. Three o’clock. I needed to focus on the task at hand. I shook my head curtly at the man selling the Big Issue on the corner by Jarrolds. Normally, I would have bought a copy, but today wasn’t the day for kind gestures. Today was the day for fraternising with the enemy.
I hurried down the cobbled street into Waterstones, allowing my hood to fall down as I walked up the stairs to the café. I’d insisted we meet here, knowing it was by far the quietest coffee shop in the city, especially on a random Thursday afternoon. I ordered myself a chai latte and found a table in the corner. She arrived just as I sat down, her hair tied in a high bun on her head, wearing an emerald blazer and a tight-fitting black dress. She reminded me of the witch from Wizard of Oz.
“So,” Nancy pulled up a chair. “Before we get into this, let’s just clarify something. This is my scoop, I’ve done the research, and the story is completely mine, but of course it’s going to benefit you by nailing this dude. So, we’re both happy. Clear?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, the niggling feeling that I was about to strike a deal with the devil. I nodded, knowing I had no other choice.
“Good.” She pulled her iPad from her bag. It was in a Ted Baker cover, the pastel pink and flower pattern jarring against Nancy’s personality. “So, after your phone call this morning, I got straight down to business. He’s generally kept a low profile, but there are always ways.” She scrolled through something on her iPad, then passed it to me. “He used to live here, right opposite a primary school. Only for a couple of months, though, and then his tenancy contract was broken early.” She raised a sceptical, well-defined eyebrow.
“Right …” I frowned. “Does that actually prove anything?”
“It’s not about proving anything … it’s about suggesting it.”
I sighed. Of course it was. This was Nancy Thompson I was dealing with.
“Then — look at this, this is golden — I found these pictures. He doesn’t have Facebook or Twitter, but he does have LinkedIn, and some of his friends through LinkedIn have Facebook, and he’s in some questionable pictures.” She passed the iPad back to me, her face beaming with pride. In ordinary circumstances, no one would think twice about the pictures. The first was of Monty at a BBQ, with a three-year-old girl sitting on his lap. He was smiling down at her and stroking her hair. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was her father or an uncle. But knowing Monty’s secret gave the picture a sinister angle. His eyes burning through her pretty little dress, his fingers stroking her hair, the way she sat on his lap — I shuddered. The second, presumably taken at the same BBQ, showed the little girl in her bathing suit in the paddling pool, splashing happily with another little girl around five years old. The five-year-old was in a bikini, purple with polka dots. In the background of the picture, a group of adults were drinking beers, but one is looking at the girls in the paddling pool. Monty Shepherd.
“Golden, am I right?” Nancy smirked as she tucked the iPad back in her bag. “I’ll be writing it up and circulating this through my blog this evening. I have a lot of avid readers, so it’ll be trending on Twitter by this time tomorrow afternoon, I reckon.”
Unsure whether or not I should thank her, I fiddled nervously with my hair. What if Monty had nothing to do with Teigan?
“You need to let go of this naïve idea about paedophiles being victims of their own desires. One of them has your daughter, for God’s sake.” She spoke harshly, bits of spit shooting from her lips and landing on the table.
I sat up a little straighter, the irritation accelerating through me. “Trust me,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ve learnt the hard way. It’s just that we can’t be sure, can we?”
She rolled her eyes, her face highlighting her exasperation. “No, we can’t be 100% sure, but do you or do you not want to do everything you can to flush out this guy and get your daughter back?”
“I do. Of course, I do.”
“Well, then. I think we’re done here?” She held out her hand to shake mine.
I hesitated for a moment before taking Nancy’s hand and nodding. “Yes, we’re done.”