On Tuesday lunchtime, the Canalside Café is busy when I arrive just before 1pm. I hesitate in the doorway, scanning the faces at each table, trying to match one of them to the profile photo of Yiannis Pappas I found on his company website. The sun is streaming in through tall windows while outside, the light glistens on the calm water of the Grand Union Canal, which links London to the Midlands. Then I see him, at a table for two on the far side, looking directly at me with a questioning look on his face, and I smile.
Here we go.
I make my way towards him, my stomach twisting with nerves.
Do not screw this up, Heather.
There are so many things that could go wrong. Will he believe the story I’ve concocted? And what if he goes to the police and tells them about me? What if he tells them he’s been asked to get involved in something dodgy?
‘If he is the one who helped Jack hack those email accounts, I doubt it will have been the only dodgy thing he’s ever done, but who knows?’ Nathan said. ‘He might have done the job for Jack and then realised the dreadful consequences when Rose died, or when Amber went to prison. He’s an ethical hacker now, so he might be a reformed character. But we just don’t know; he may still take illegal jobs on the side. We just need to be very careful.’
My other fear is a big one. Is there any way he can find out about my connection with Jack? I don’t think so, certainly not from my end. I know he’s looked me up on social media, but I never talk about relationships or my social life on Instagram or anywhere else, and I’ve never posted a photo of me and Jack together – not back then or now. It’s just that if he and Jack are still in touch, and Jack’s mentioned my name…
I think it’s unlikely, as Jack certainly likes his privacy and doesn’t shout about his relationships either, especially one as new as ours. It’s a chance I have to take, and to complicate matters I don’t have much time. Brentford is only ten minutes or so in an Uber from the shop, but I didn’t like to ask for an extended lunchbreak, so I need to be out of here again in about half an hour if I’m going to be back by 1.45.
How much, if any, useful information can I wheedle out of this complete stranger in just thirty minutes?
‘Yiannis? Hi, I’m Heather. It’s so good of you to agree to meet me.’
‘Hi. No problem.’
He stands up quickly, in a strangely old-fashioned, chivalrous way, gesturing at the chair opposite, then sits down again. I take a seat and thank him, trying not to let my edginess show. He’s slim and dark, and he’s looking at me a little warily through small round silver-framed glasses.
‘So, where did you get my name?’ he asks.
I’ve prepared for this question, obviously. I discussed it with Felicity and Nathan, and we decided vagueness would be the best approach.
‘Well, it’s a bit random, but a friend of mine, Chloe, who went to Middlesex Uni, knew someone who knew someone who knew you – I’m sorry, I can’t actually remember any of their names,’ I say, with a sheepish shrug. ‘And when I told her what I want to do, she said maybe you could help. She remembers her friends talking about what a computer genius you were back then. My crowd’s all more artsy, you know? I honestly don’t know anyone who’s any good with technology. I knew it was a longshot, but I thought I’d look you up online and there you were. I know it’s very cheeky, but if you can help, I’ll pay you well. If you don’t ask, you don’t get, right?’
He’s listening intently, eyes boring into mine. As I finish my spiel my throat tightens. Does he believe me? Then I feel a flood of relief as his face relaxes and he leans back in his chair.
‘Oh. Well, I don’t know about genius, but I’ll take it,’ he says. ‘So, what’s this mysterious project you need help with? Hang on – do you want a drink or something?’
A waitress has just appeared at our table, brandishing a notebook, and we order two flat whites. As she walks away, I say quietly: ‘Well, it’s a bit sensitive…’
I look around quickly, but there’s music playing and everyone else in the place is either chatting to companions or into mobile phones. Even so, I lean across the table towards Yiannis, and he mirrors my action, resting his chin on his hand, a flash of interest in his cocoa-brown eyes. He’s cute, I think, then mentally rap my own knuckles. For goodness’ sake. What’s wrong with me? If he did help to frame both Rose and Amber, he’s just as bad as Jack.
I can feel my muscles tightening. I have to get this right.
‘OK, so I have an ex-boyfriend who treated me badly. I mean, really badly,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to go into detail – it’s too painful, to be honest. But there were times I thought he was actually going to kill me. I went to the police, but he’s clever, you know? He talked himself out of it, and no charges were ever brought, and now I don’t know what to do. I can’t bear to let him get away with it, and I can’t stand the thought of him doing it to someone else…’
There’s a truthfulness about this story that’s making it easier to tell than an outright lie, and suddenly I feel less jumpy. I’ve been looking at Yiannis while I’ve been talking, but now I drop my gaze to the table, running a hand across my forehead, as if I’m getting upset.
‘The problem is, I don’t have any physical evidence against him,’ I continue. ‘He’s too smart for that. He never put anything in writing – his threats were all verbal – but he made my life a misery. I was so, so scared for such a long time. And so… well, I was wondering if there was any way I could sort of… you know, get into his emails, and send myself copies of some of the horrible things he said to me? Maybe even backdate some of them? Is that possible? So I’d have something to use against him… It wouldn’t be making things up, not really. It would all be real stuff he said to me. But just, you know, written down, so I could prove it.’
I stop, feeling a little nauseated. Is he falling for it? I look up, and to my surprise he’s looking at me with sympathy in his eyes.
‘Yes, that’s possible,’ he says slowly. ‘Also illegal, though.’
I nod as the waitress reappears with our coffees. She deposits them on the table with a cheery: ‘There you go! Pay at the counter on your way out. Thanks guys!’ and heads off again.
I watch her go then whisper, ‘I know it’s illegal. But… have you ever done anything like that before? Could you help me? I’d pay you really well, as I said, and it would be for such a good cause. He’s… he’s a monster, Yiannis.’
Again, not untrue, I think as I bury my face in my hands and let out a little sob, then wonder if I’ve gone too far. I’m a decent enough actor – I was a member of the drama society back in uni – but it’s been a while, and maybe I’m laying it on too thick. Or maybe not, because suddenly I feel a gentle touch on my forearm, and look up again to see Yiannis’s hand. He holds it there for a moment longer, his fingers warm on my skin, then withdraws it, looking a little awkward.
‘Please don’t cry,’ he says. ‘Look… OK, yes, technically I could help you. I have… I have some experience with that sort of thing. I’m an ethical hacker, as I think you know, so I have the skillset, obviously. But… I need to think about it. I have a good job, and I don’t want to risk my career. But maybe you were sent to me for a reason. Can you give me a day or so? Let me sleep on it?’
I feel a little frisson of excitement.
‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘Sent to you for a reason?’
It’s his turn to stare at the table.
‘I got involved… with something a bit similar to what you’re asking about a while back. I needed money at the time, and… I’m sorry, I can’t say any more. I regret it, that’s all. And maybe if I help you, it’d be like giving something back. Making amends. Doing some good. But I still don’t know. It’s risky. And I need to go now. But I promise I will seriously think about it, and I’ll message you tomorrow, OK?’
Oh my God. He must be talking about Jack, surely? It’s too much of a coincidence.
My excitement grows, but I try to keep my expression neutral, my tone passive.
‘OK, I totally understand, and thank you. I really, really appreciate it. And let me pay for these. You go,’ I reply, gesturing at our mugs. He nods and holds out a hand. We shake, and then he turns and walks briskly out of the café.
In the cab on the way back to work, I think about how much I’ll have to tell Amber when we speak. I send Nathan and Felicity a quick update from my burner phone; my normal phone with its new tracker app is sitting safely in the staff kitchen back at the bookshop.
Felicity messages back within seconds.
We’re already at Chiswick roundabout, and the shop’s just a minute away now, so my response is brief.