BY THE TIME THE EVENING news rolls around, the Miller story is a juggernaut.
Every channel on TV and radio is running it. Most are leading with it, including several of the more serious news programs, which frame it in the context of the latest crime statistics and peer at it through the lens of the loftier issue of whether this case proves that knife crime is becoming a broader problem everyone should now worry about. By “everyone” they really mean white, middle-class people, not just the poor and brown people living on public assistance who are traditionally the ones who experience knife crime. Thirty-eight young men and boys—all poor, black, or Asian—have died already this year at the edge of a blade, and yet this is the first knife murder that has led the news. An ex–Home Secretary and a retired Chief Constable are wheeled out to frown and give their thoughts, which are: yes, knife crime is a real and growing problem; yes, something urgent needs to be done about it; and yes, the current police commissioner has some serious questions to answer about how much crime in general and knife crime in particular has increased on his watch. The ex–Home Secretary goes slightly further by saying that maybe Rees is no longer up to the job and, after several years at the top, perhaps it’s time for him to consider his position and make way for fresh blood.
For the more tabloidy, online news channels and newspapers, there is no such pretense to higher ideals or attempts at a state-of-the-nation debate. For them it’s just the usual, straight-up battle for eyeballs and circulation figures, with the trifecta of Murder, Mystery, and Money providing the perfect clickbait.
Slade has already written three follow-up stories to feed the beast: one on the mystery of the victim and her missing husband, with a tip line for information and rewards offered; the second featuring the macabre objects left around the victim’s body, with a sidebar of famous historical serial killers who also left or collected “trophies”; the third, written for the evening print editions, is exclusively about the book and the fact that Commissioner John Rees’s daughter wrote it, and how it appears from anonymous police sources that it may have helped the killer to leave no evidence behind. This story also has a sidebar retelling Laughton’s tragic past, detailing the whole Masked Monster/Adrian McVey saga, the murder of her mother, and the troubled relationship with her father that followed.
Commissioner John Rees, the article ends, the most senior policeman in the country who couldn’t, in the end, even protect his own wife and daughter from a psychopathic killer.
In Victoria train station a man wearing a long coat and a black baseball cap stands in the WHSmith. He picks up a copy of The Daily and skim-reads the article, his breath quickening when he sees the Masked Monster is mentioned. He picks up one copy of each of the newspapers, then heads over to the self-service station to buy them along with a large carrying bag to keep them all in before heading into the station concourse and disappearing in the crowd.
But it’s online that the story really explodes and goes international. #MurderMansion starts to trend as hundreds, then thousands, then millions of people share the story. By far the biggest draw is the Virtual Tour of Murder Mansion, Slade’s idea made manifest after his assistant Shakila managed to track down the architectural firm that originally built the Miller house, which had produced a high-end video tour as part of a submission for a modern architecture prize. The Daily paid the firm five figures for an exclusive license, and the backroom, techy boys and girls—not one of them older than twelve, as far as Slade can tell—have repackaged and reedited it, adding a creepy music track that turns the slow, steady glide of the camera through the rooms into something altogether more sinister. They’ve added other captions and images too, info bites that fade up and down, revealing things like how much the house was worth, how it was built on the edge of Highgate Cemetery, then the names and smiling photographs of Mike and Kate Miller, her name with the caption “Victim,” his with “Wanted for questioning.” Finally, as the camera drifts into the living room and the creepy music reaches maximum tension, the crime scene photos flash up along with Psycho-style violin stabs. It has been live barely two hours and has already racked up over four million views, the number ticking up exponentially as it spreads like a virus across the superconnected globe.
The ladies of the Highgate book club all see it, are mostly appalled by it, then share it on the WhatsApp group and their Facebook pages so everyone they know can be as appalled as they are. Celia Barnes sees it too after a friend shares the link on her Facebook page. She watches numbly as it autoplays, reliving her own journey through the house that morning and raising her eyebrows when a caption fades up answering a question she had almost forgotten asking. Six point eight million, that’s how much the house is worth, about three million more than she’d estimated—so much for her career as an estate agent. The camera drifts on, down the hall, through the door, into the living room, and she quickly closes the app, too raw to see that room again or relive that part of her morning.
Somewhere over India, the finance director of an Australian sportswear company watches it on his phone using the free Wi-Fi in business class, then shares it with his teenage son in Sydney, who binge-watches true crime series.
In a Seoul semi-basement apartment that smells of mold and garbage, a family of night cleaners crowd round a phone before heading off to work, marveling at the expensive-looking house, then shrieking in horror and delight at the jump-scare ending.
And in a thatched rattan hut, tucked in a beachside coconut grove in Goa, a sinewy, tanned woman slides beneath thin cotton sheets, rearranges the mosquito net to cover any gaps, then scrolls through her emails and messages, frowning at the continued lack of contact from the one person she wants to hear from most.
Shonagh O’Brien stretches as she scrolls through her Twitter feed, feeling the pleasant ache of days of doing nothing but yoga as she looks at what’s trending and listens to the shush of the nearby ocean and the chirp of frogs in the palms overhead, outside in the tropical night.
She clicks on the top result and glances at the text accompanying the video clip but is too tired and distracted to take it in. The clip autoplays and she lies back on the white cotton, watching a camera glide through a beautiful house, still not really sure what she’s watching. Then Mike’s photograph fades up and Shonagh sits bolt upright, eyes wide, instantly awake.
“Wanted for questioning,” the caption beneath his photograph reads.
Her eyes flit across to the other photograph and the stark, one word caption “Victim.”
Shonagh stares at the screen, the sound of frogs and cicadas mingling with the creepy music leaking from her phone’s tiny speakers. The video clip plays on and Shonagh unconsciously draws the phone closer to her face, her stunned mind scrambling to make sense of what she’s seeing. Then the camera enters the living room and the sudden stab of violins makes her drop her phone. She stares down at it, frozen and shocked, like it has turned into a snake and any movement might make it strike.
“Mike!” she mouths, but no sound comes out. “Oh my God!”
The clip ends and her phone is just a phone again. She snatches it off the bed, fumbles her way to her contacts, and calls the number listed under “Mmmmmm,” trying to remember what time it is in the UK. It must be around six thirty in the evening, a time she’s not supposed to call. But this is different. There’s something wrong. Very wrong. Mike’s number rings and rings then voice mail kicks in.
“Mike?” she says. “I saw the news. What happened, are you OK? Call me, please. I need to know you’re all right.”
She hangs up and stares at her phone, wondering if she should try again. She feels guilty now for being pissed at him ever since she got the message on her way to Heathrow saying:
—Something’s come up. You go on ahead I’ll join you when I can. Don’t try calling me I need to fix something here. I’ll explain when I see you. M x
The bloody images flash into her brain again, the woman lying in the middle of that room. All that blood.
Is this what he needed to fix?
She remembers the photos too. Kate Miller—victim. And Mike—wanted for questioning.
It didn’t say suspect.
She calls him again but again it goes straight to voice mail.
Maybe he is in trouble. Maybe he needs her, like really needs her.
She hangs up, opens the Cathay Pacific website, and looks to see how soon she can catch a flight back to London.