“That fucker,” I snarled, pulling on my dressing gown.
I stomped out into the pouring rain, and when I reached the blue Ford Fiesta, I rapped my knuckles repeatedly on the driver’s window. It took a good thirty seconds before Detective Lyons shook himself awake. When he did, he looked up to see my wet, angry face, partially obscured by a sodden fluffy dressing gown hood. A medley of emotions ran across his face: first confusion, then realization, and finally acceptance. Reluctantly, he wound down the window.
“Uh, Gwen, listen—” he mumbled.
“This your first stakeout, huh?” I asked.
“It’s not a—”
“Don’t even start,” I said. “I’m not an idiot. Are you out here watching me?”
“No, not watching you exactly, I’d say it’s more like watching out for you,” he said.
“Uh-huh, and how exactly does that work with your eyes closed?” I asked.
Lyons ran a hand across his face. “It’s been a long day.”
“Then go home, Dandy,” I said. “Is this even in the rules? Are you allowed to just follow me around? I don’t care if I’m a suspect, this is not okay.”
“You’re not a suspect—” he started.
By now my dressing gown was heavy with cold rain. I leaned against the car door and looked in at Lyons.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m not a suspect, I’m a ‘person of interest.’ Well, I’m telling you, for a so-called person of interest, I’m really not that interesting. Go home to your wife.”
“I’m not married,” he said. “Not anymore.”
“Well, go home and jerk off then,” I said. With that, I turned and walked back to the flat with the utmost dignity, my pink dressing gown dragging in puddles behind me.
“Gwen, wait,” he shouted after me.
I got to my doorstep, walked inside, and slammed the door behind me.
I sat on the sofa, furious, and went to text Sarah, before remembering I didn’t have my damn phone. No phone, no snacks, and now an increasingly damp sofa. I went upstairs and rubbed a towel roughly over my head, as if I could rub out the thoughts in there.
Why are the police watching me? Do they really think I’m capable of any of this? Or do they think I might be in danger?
Just then, there was a knock at the door. I knew who it was and no way was I going to answer it. But after three minutes of banging, I gave in and went down and opened the door to see Lyons on the doorstep, looking wetter than I did.
“Don’t you get issued with a standard police umbrella?” I asked.
“I was ringing the bell for quite a while,” he said, ignoring my question.
“It’s broken,” I said. “A bit like your code of ethics.”
Lyons stared at me, getting damper by the second. “Look, I just came to give your phone back.”
“And?” I asked. “Did you find proof on there that I’m a bloodthirsty serial killer?”
“I know you didn’t send those threatening messages, Gwen, but someone did.”
“It’s Parker, I told you,” I said.
Lyons pinched the bridge of his nose. “Parker,” he sighed. “Whoever this Parker is, there isn’t any indication that he’s got anything to do with these murders, other than reading about them on the news. He’s more than likely just another weirdo on the internet.”
I looked at him standing there, his hair flattened by the downpour and a hangdog expression on his face, and I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. Say what you like, but at least he wasn’t a weirdo on the internet.
“If you really want to make sure I’m not a murderer, why don’t you come inside. Case the joint. That’s what you guys say, right?”
I stepped aside and motioned for him to enter.
“Here,” I said, taking the damp towel from around my shoulders and holding it out to him. He took it, despite looking at it like I’d just handed him a rotting carcass of a ferret, and came inside.
“Thanks,” he said, gingerly rubbing the towel across his head.
“I believe you’re familiar with my lounge,” I said, as Lyons hung his sodden jacket on the coat stand and made his way into the front room.
He eyed his surroundings suspiciously. I noticed his white shirt was slightly damp, and parts of it clung to his body, leaving the skin visible underneath.
“Take a seat,” I said, patting the sofa. “Although your car is probably more comfortable than this piece of junk.”
If this sofa could talk, the tales it could tell. Sure, mostly tales of takeaway pizzas and spilled makeshift cocktails, but some genuinely exciting trysts too. Then I remembered that Richard and Sarah had probably had sex on this sofa on more than one occasion and I grimaced at the thought of it.
“So, are you going to tell me what the hell is going on, Aubrey?” I asked. “I thought I wasn’t a suspect. Do you really think I’m going to hop on a ferry to France and go on the run or something? That Forrester creep really thinks I’m something to do with this, doesn’t he?”
“He thinks there’s something you’re not telling us,” Lyons said.
I looked down at my feet.
“Is there something you’re not telling us, Gwen?”
“Is that why you’re hanging around outside my house watching me? Because you think I’m lying to you?”
“I wasn’t spying on you,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”
“Are you safe, that’s the question.”
Lyons frowned at me, wiped the remaining drops of rain from his forehead, and handed me back the towel.
“I should go back to the car,” he said.
I looked at his sad little face and shook my head. “Nah, you’re good. You should know, me and Grace used to go through your bedroom drawers all the time when you were out. I already know all your secrets. And I could use the company, to be honest.”
I fetched the emergency last bag of Cheetos from the kitchen and splayed the packet open on the coffee table. Lyons looked at them suspiciously before reaching into his pocket and pulling out my phone.
“Nice case, by the way,” he said.
“I keep telling people, it’s ironic. So, um, did you look through all the chats on my Connector?” I asked sheepishly.
“Yes,” Lyons answered plainly. “There were, well, quite a lot on there.”
I felt my cheeks blush.
“The guys on the napkin,” I said, “I met them all on Connector. Can’t you ask the people who made the app to give you their contact details?”
“They’re based in Amsterdam,” Lyons said. “We’ve put in a request but they’re dragging their heels. There’s a lot of data protection red tape to get through.”
I slumped down beside him on the sofa. “Do you really think I’m in danger?”
“Well, if you’re right, whoever is doing this is killing the men you dated in the order you dated them. So it’s Dev who’s in immediate danger.”
“But what happens when he gets to the end of the list?” I asked.
Lyons took a chip and crunched it slowly.
“It won’t get to that. We have a lead on Dev, Forrester is probably with him right now.”
I felt a wave of relief.
“What about Seb?”
“He’s proving a little more tricky to track down,” Lyons said. “It might have been easier if you hadn’t blocked him. Could you try to match with him on Connector again? There can’t be that many profiles on there.”
“Um, no,” I said. “That’s not how it works. Once he’s blocked, he’s blocked. And there are literally thousands of people on there, Aubrey.”
“Really?” he sighed.
“Honestly, you have no idea what it’s like on the dating scene. It’s bloody hard work. You have to put the hours in, talking nonsense to hundreds of bellends in the vain hope that one of them turns out to have vaguely more personality than a baked potato.”
I loaded up Connector and showed him the screen.
“This is what I’m up against here,” I said, scrolling through a few random guys. “Here, check it out.”
Lyons took the phone and began jabbing at the screen, flipping through profiles with his index finger, like he’d only just discovered touch screens.
“Jesus, Aubrey, you really have never been single, have you?”
“I have been single,” Lyons said. “I am single. I’ve just never used these things before. You’re right, there’s too many profiles on here. How do you even choose one?”
“Slow down before you hurt yourself,” I said, taking my phone back. “Here, look, I’ll show you.” I sat up, turned toward him, and pushed my hair down over my face. “Yes or no?”
“What?”
“I’m Jenny. I like going out to pubs and the cinema but equally lazy Sunday mornings with the papers. Swipe yes or no.”
“No,” he said.
I wiped my palm across my face, pulled my hair back, and made a new expression.
“I’m Denise. I like lasagna and dislike Mondays. Yes or no?”
“Isn’t that Garfield?” he said.
“Who’s Garfield?”
“Gwen, you know who Garfield is.” He sighed. “The big orange cat!”
“A big orange cat who likes lasagna?” I said. “Sounds made-up. Okay, last go.”
I wiped my palm across my face again and pouted.
“I am Gwen,” I said. “I like pizza and solving murder mysteries. Yes or no?”
“Hmm, is there a ‘maybe’ option?” Lyons smiled.
“No!” I shoved him in mock indignation.
“All right, I’ll think about it,” he said. “But seriously, is dating really this shameless now?”
“Totally. One guy sent me a dick pic with a sepia filter, like it was from the Victorian era.”
Lyons looked faintly disgusted.
“Hey, it’s not all bad.” I shrugged. “You get to drink, flirt with cute boys, and then never text them again. No commitment, no promises, no jealousy, no arguments, and no visiting in-laws. I get to spend my bank holidays in bed like you’re supposed to. It’s the perfect crime!”
“Don’t you want something serious though, one day?” Lyons asked. “Marriage and all that?”
“Doesn’t seem like that worked out so well for you,” I said.
Lyons suddenly found the packet of Cheetos very interesting. “And Dev,” he asked, changing the subject. “Was he one of the good ones?”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I guess he was, for a bit, anyway.”
“Hey, don’t worry, we’ll find him,” Lyons said, seeing my frown. “What did you guys talk about on the date? Anything you can tell us might help speed up the search.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The usual rubbish: star signs, the weather, public transport.”
Lyons looked at me in disbelief.
“He had really good hair, I remember that,” I said. “And he’s a Taurus. I think.”
“Star signs? That’s what people talk about on dates now?”
I thought hard.
“Okay, okay, wait, be quiet for a second, let me focus,” I said. “I had to drink through most of these dates, to be honest. They all merge into one another. A lot of the time they were explaining the Marvel Cinematic Universe timeline in excruciating detail, or simultaneously patronizing or insulting me while I—”
I stopped, catching myself. I remembered the thick lines bisecting Rob, Freddie, and Josh’s names on my napkin.
“I guess I didn’t really know anything about any of them,” I said, realizing as I said it that it was true. A lot of useless small talk, but nothing real.
Lyons took a deep breath. “Just start from the beginning.”