I leaned on the counter, watching as a cold wind blew across the beachfront, knocking over the pots of cutlery on the tables. I’d sent Lyons a location pin and asked him to meet me, and with a complete absence of any more customers, all I had to do was wait.
Eventually a familiar figure appeared in the distance, walking down the promenade toward the van. I watched him slowly make his way through the plastic tables to the van window and noticed that, despite the way he hung his head like he was permanently trying to solve a difficult crossword puzzle, he had a good physique: tall and broad-chested. As he approached, Charlie put his broom down and turned to greet him.
“What can I get you, mate?” he asked.
“I’ll take this one, Charlie,” I said. “This is Dandy, an old friend of mine.”
“Detective Lyons,” he corrected me.
When he said that, Charlie’s eyes widened and he grabbed his baseball cap, pulling it down over his curls.
“Right, ah, well, I’ll leave you two to it then,” he said. “I’ll take my break, boss, see you in twenty.”
With that, he threw off his apron and started down the seafront. Lyons watched him head toward the arcade; when he’d finally disappeared from view, he turned back to me.
“So, this is the famous van, huh?” Lyons said. “The Mystery Machine?”
“The Mystery Machine? From Scooby-Doo? Wow. You really need to update your references,” I said. “This is Alfredo. Me and my ex were going to take him on the road, round every festival in the country. Then maybe Europe next year, then…” I tailed off.
“Then the world?” said Lyons.
“Well, that was Noah’s dream, to sell overpriced hot milky drinks to muddy hipsters around the globe. Guess it’s up to me now though, as soon as I find someone to split the petrol expenses with.”
I jolted myself out of a daydream I didn’t want to wallow in.
“So, what’s this development?” I asked. “Did you find a connection between Rob and Freddie?”
“Yes. They were both making quite large payments in cryptocurrency to the same anonymous account. Our working theory is that these men were mixed up in organized crime, probably drug-related. There’s been an influx of class-A dealing in Eastbourne.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “So it’s nothing to do with me?”
“No, we don’t think you’re connected, Gwen,” he said. “This is a small town. Rob and Freddie probably dated a lot of the same women.”
A wave of relief washed over me. Then I remembered the napkin in my back pocket.
“Hey, why don’t you take a seat and I’ll make you a coffee?” I motioned to the chairs scattered across the promenade.
“I’ve already had one, thanks,” he said.
“Tea then?” I offered. “Hot chocolate? Wait, don’t tell me you’re a Mr. Whippy man, Detective Lyons?”
“Uh, tea’s fine,” he said, taking a seat at one of the tables.
“Good choice,” I said. “Gimme a minute.”
He sat down. I brought over a cardboard cup of tea and a packet of potato chips.
“So,” I said. “You couldn’t have told me that ‘development’ over the phone?”
“Uh, well, these things are always better face-to-face, if you, uh, know what I mean,” he stuttered.
I cocked my head at him and narrowed my eyes.
“Okay, well, if you’re going to be hanging around, I should know your real name. Your first name, I mean, unless you want me to keep calling you Dandy.”
“Aubrey,” he said.
“Aubrey?” I repeated.
“Yep, Aubrey,” he replied.
“Sorry, I thought for a second you said Aubrey.”
“That’s right. Aubrey’s my name.”
“Ahhh, yeah, that’s not gonna work, sorry.”
He looked at me blankly.
“That’s your actual real name?” I said. “Sorry, I thought you were joking. No wonder we gave you a nickname.”
“Homicide detectives don’t really do jokes,” he said.
“I noticed,” I said. “I’m dying on my arse here.”
“No pun intended?” He raised an eyebrow.
“All of my puns are intended,” I told him. “If we’re going to get along, you should know that about me.”
Lyons squinted at me. “Do you ever think all this joking around is just a defense mechanism?” he asked.
“Could be.” I nodded. “Or it could just be that I’m naturally hilarious.”
Lyons didn’t say anything, but he blew on his tea as I sat down opposite him.
“So, what gives?” I said. “At school you were always the sensible older brother, now all of a sudden you’re, what, some sort of seaside Sherlock?”
“It’s been a long time since school,” he said.
“Tell me about it. You look so much…” I tailed off.
“What?” he said.
“Older,” I replied.
“We’re both older, Gwen.”
“Yeah, but you’re, like, a proper grown-up. How did you end up doing”—I waved my hand at him—“all this?”
“I actually moved to London after uni, started teacher training, was all set to be an English teacher. And I was for a bit. But then, uh, I met my wife and, well, things changed.”
The word “wife” seemed to hang in the air for a moment, like an unwelcome seagull.
“I signed on to the National Detective Programme about eighteen months ago,” he went on. “You know, the graduate scheme? When I finished the program, they sent me down here. Once I’ve worked a few cases, I might get a chance with the Met.”
“Happy to hear we’ve got the crack team on the case,” I said. “So this is, like, your first ever murder then?”
“No,” he replied defensively. “Second. They don’t just let us loose straightaway, you know. It’s a lot of hard work and training. The scheme is meant to encourage more graduates to join the force. Not that many people want to be police officers these days.”
“So they just let high school teachers investigate homicides now?” I asked. “I cannot imagine Mr. McHallis hunting down serial killers.”
“Who’s Mr. McHallis?” he asked.
“Our old math teacher!” I said. “Remember? Bad breath, even worse taste in corduroy. I’m not sure he’d be much use to you.”
“Oh yeah, Mr. McHalitosis,” Lyons said, a faint smile crossing his face. “I dunno, maybe he would be a great detective, he seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to us bunking off.”
He reached over to the bag of chips and placed one gingerly on his tongue.
“It’s not laced with ricin, don’t worry,” I said. “Although murder by Kettle Chip would be a great episode of Danger Land.…”
Lyons looked at me and swallowed. I took a chip from the packet and chucked it in my mouth, just to prove they were harmless.
“Listen, are you sure these deaths aren’t related to my, you know, dating history?” I asked.
“I told you, Gwen, it’s just a coincidence, you mustn’t—”
Before he could finish, I pulled the napkin out of my back pocket and slapped it on the table.
“Look at this,” I said. “These are the guys I met on Connector. In this exact order. Rob, Freddie, Josh, Dev, Seb. The first two are dead. Still think it’s just a coincidence?”
Lyons flattened out the crumpled paper on the table until the names were legible.
“You couldn’t have printed this out?” he asked.
“No, because no one’s ‘printed anything out’ since 2007, Detective,” I said, looking at him like he’d suggested I chisel the names into the Beachy Head cliffs. “Besides, I’ve got really neat handwriting. Anyway, forget that—you need to find these guys and make sure they’re safe.”
Lyons picked up the napkin and squinted at it. “And you met all these men in just the last few weeks?”
“Um, yeah, Judgy McJudgerson, I did,” I said. “So what?”
“What happened here?” Lyons asked, pointing to the end of the napkin where I’d torn off a piece.
“Spilled a mocha on it,” I said quickly.
Lyons looked at me quizzically, opened his mouth to say something, but then seemed to change his mind.
“These remaining names here—Josh, Dev, and Seb—do you have their phone numbers?”
“Well… no, I don’t usually swap numbers unless we go on a second date,” I said.
“You went and met random strangers without getting their phone numbers?”
“Hey, I didn’t want them hitting up my WhatsApp with endless eggplant emojis at one a.m.! They weren’t complete random strangers, anyway, I did my due diligence. I stalked them online. And Sarah insists that I text her screenshots of their profiles.”
“All right,” Lyons sighed. “And I’m guessing none of these went well enough to get a second date?”
I shrugged at him. “Nope,” I said. “Full disclosure, I’m pretty picky.”
“Can I see their Connector profiles?”
“Um, I blocked them,” I said apologetically.
“Oh, this just gets better and better.” Lyons put his head in his hands.
“Hey, they were almost exclusively total dicks!” I cried. “I’m so sorry I didn’t have the foresight to see they were going to be stalked by a serial killer.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Lyons sipped his tea. “Do you know how many actual serial killers there have been in England in the past decade?”
He paused for effect.
“One.”
“Doesn’t that mean we’re about due for another?” I asked.
Lyons stopped mid-sip to consider that, as if it wasn’t something he’d thought of before.
“I do know a few things about serial killers, you know, I’ve listened to literally hundreds of hours of Danger Land.”
“What is this Danger Land you keep talking about?” Lyons raised an eyebrow.
“It’s a podcast.” I sighed. “I take it you’ve heard of them? Come on, you’re a thirtysomething-year-old man, right? I’m surprised you don’t have one yourself.”
“I see,” Lyons said. “And you think listening to a podcast qualifies you to play detective, does it?”
“Well, technically you’ve only worked on one more case than I have. Did you even solve that one?”
“That’s not relevant,” Lyons said firmly. “Let’s focus on this case for a moment, shall we?” He picked up the napkin and examined it again. “Have you upset anyone recently, anyone who might want to hurt you?”
“No!” I cried. “I’m almost completely one hundred percent inoffensive. I’m a people pleaser. Don’t have a single enemy. Well, unless you count Kelly Sanchez, but I haven’t seen her since sixth form prom.”
“Kelly Sanchez? I remember her. Isn’t she the one who you punched in the mouth after she kissed your date?”
“Slapped,” I said. “I slapped her. After she threw a wineglass at my head.”
“Wait, she threw a glass at your head?”
“Well, yeah, a plastic one.”
“God, that must be more than ten years ago now,” he said.
“And yet, I myself have only aged five years,” I said.
Lyons shook his head. “Let’s try to keep focused here, Gwen. It sounds like the only people you’ve upset are the spurned men on this napkin. Unless… what about this ex you mentioned?”
A jolt went through me, kind of like that feeling when you realize you’ve left your passport at home when you’re halfway to the airport.
“No way, he’s not part of this,” I said defensively. “I’ve not heard from him since we broke up.”
“Was it amicable?”
“The breakup? Incredibly amicable,” I said.
“Really?” Lyons asked, arching an eyebrow. “I’m getting the impression that maybe there’s some unfinished business there?”
“That detective training is really coming in handy, isn’t it? All right, fine. It wasn’t exactly an absolute classic for all involved,” I said. “But no breakup is, right? Noah is one of the good guys. When I tell you he’s not mixed up in any of this, you can believe me. Right now I’m just trying to forget about him, get some distance, and, you know, move on with my life.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Gwen. I know separations can be hard.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience?” I ventured.
Lyons sipped his tea again.
“This isn’t about me. And I’m still not sure it’s about you either. It’s about Rob and Freddie and making sure nobody else gets hurt.”
I saw his eyes flicker sideways for a split second. I knew enough about body language to know that meant he was recalling a memory. I wondered if it was a good or a bad one. I studied his face for more clues, and noticed he had somehow grown up to bear a passing resemblance to Tom Hardy. He might not have had the bad-boy demeanor and tattoos, but there was definitely some pain behind those eyes.
“Okay, so you’ll do it then? You’ll track down the names on this napkin?” I asked.
“I still think it’s very unlikely that any of these deaths have anything directly to do with you or your boyfriends.”
“They’re not my—”
“Just guys you dated, I know,” Lyons said. “Well, let me reassure you, the fact that you happened to have gone out with two unrelated victims is more than likely just a coincidence.”
“Yeah, and to be fair to me, there are plenty of guys I have been out with who haven’t been murdered.”
Lyons hesitated a moment before taking the cup and pressing it to his lips. When he tipped the cup upward and drained the liquid into his mouth, I could see a well-defined jawline beneath his grainy stubble.
“That’s good to know,” he said.
I didn’t want to tell Lyons, but actually, I didn’t have the greatest track record with guys. When I was a kid, my parents had always seemed so together, so solid, and oh so sensible. Then, during my last year at university, we lost my dad. Sudden heart attack. It came out of nowhere, and it was like someone had swung a demolition ball through our lives. I abandoned everything for a while—uni, boys, sleeping. It was only thanks to Sarah that I got through it. But after that, the whole idea of a serious relationship seemed stupid. If someone you loved could just be taken away in an instant, then what was the point? So while it was true that I didn’t have many dead exes, I didn’t exactly have many alive ones either.
Lyons took a deep breath, threw a gulp of tea down his throat, and pushed his chair back.
“All right, I have to get back to the station,” he said, standing up.
“Wait, so that’s it?” I said. “I just stay here and wait?”
“A few names on a napkin isn’t a lot to go on, but I’ll talk to Forrester and see what we can do, okay? Just sit tight and let us do our job. Good-bye, Gwen.”
He began walking off toward town.
“But how long is that going to take?” I called after him. “I can’t be part of a murder investigation, I’ve got a business to run, a wedding in three days where I am maid of honor…”
Lyons paused for a moment and looked back at me.
“I have to go,” he said. “I’ll call you if there’s any further developments.”
“Wait,” I said, reaching for my phone in my pocket. “I got these—”
I pulled out my phone to show him Parker’s messages when something suddenly stopped me. I felt stupid. What would I say? Sarah was right. All I had was yet another creepy message from a creepy guy. Lyons would just think I’d listened to too many crime podcasts.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just, uh, you didn’t finish your tea.”
“Right.” Lyons took the cardboard cup off the table and lifted his hand to wave good-bye.
I watched him walk away, with his half-drunk cup of tea and my life in his hands, and somehow I wasn’t filled with confidence that an ex–English teacher turned cop and his bushy-faced friend were going to get very far. I sat at the table, watching the spurned napkin dance in the wind. I put my phone on it to stop it blowing off down the beach and, as I scanned the names again, a shiver ran through me. Could they really be in danger? Lyons didn’t seem to think so, but what if he was wrong?
Suddenly my phone lit up with a Connector notification, jolting me from my thoughts. My mouth went dry as I read the message.
Parker: Ready for strike three?
I swallowed hard, the last traces of cold saliva trickling down my throat as I grabbed the napkin and shoved it in my back pocket.
This time I wasn’t going to respond with a jovial emoji. I didn’t know if Parker was just another exhausting Reply Guy or something worse, but I’d had enough of these games. So as much as I never wanted to see Josh ever again in my life, if the police weren’t bothered about tracking him down, maybe I was going to have to do it myself.
There was only one problem: I had absolutely no idea where to find him.