57
There is a fantasy that sustains you when you’re on active service. It’s the dream that sustains every soldier when he’s stuck in some godforsaken dust bowl being shot at and shouted at. It’s the fantasy that there’s something better waiting for you at home. In this fantasy, your girl is keeping the home fires burning, hankering for your return. She will welcome you back with open arms, fill you with good food, take you to bed and be the doting, angelic wife. This is the very least you deserve for the months of fear, loneliness and anger. But it seldom works out that way.
Simon Booker was an ordinary citizen now. His best mate had been blown up two days before they were due to ship out. On the plane home, Simon had told his superior officer he was quitting. He used to love the army, but he wanted out now. It had brought him nothing but disillusionment and despair.
He was convinced that Ellie had been seeing other men while he was away. He didn’t have any evidence; it was just a feeling. Still, it gnawed away at him and he wondered which of his so-called mates were laughing behind their hands now, exchanging stories of what his Mrs. was like in the sack. He avoided them, just like he now avoided Ellie. He couldn’t talk to her about what life had been like over there, about what it felt like to see Andy split in fifty pieces, and he certainly didn’t want to talk about what she got up to while he was away. So he went to the Doncaster and the White Hart. And when he came home, struggling to fit the key into the lock as his hand shook and his brain swam in cheap lager, he would trudge up to the box room where the computer was, walking past the open bedroom door.
He always locked the door. Despite his anger toward Ellie, he still didn’t want her to catch him at it. Was that out of shame or from some buried desire not to hurt her? He wasn’t sure, but he locked the door nevertheless.
The porn had been good to start with, but recently he’d grown tired of it. Now his site of choice was Bitchfest. It was a whole new world for him. This was the new frontier of sex and he found in the forum a camaraderie he’d thought he’d lost forever. Here men could talk frankly about what they wanted. And advise one another on how to go about getting it.
For a long time he’d held off acting on his impulses, but “HappyGoLucky” had given “Angel” such rave reviews that he’d decided he couldn’t resist. A lot of men had cried off prostitutes in the wake of stuff in the newspapers and in other forums. Stories of blokes getting killed while on the job. And he wasn’t stupid—he knew you had to watch your back. The world was full of killers, liars and thieves. So he was taking precautions. He’d told Ellie he was seeing old army pals, but the contents of his holdall suggested otherwise. Inside was a pack of condoms and a change of clothes. And nestling underneath, unseen, was an iron bar.
58
“So what do we know about him?”
Helen and Charlie were in a pool car heading for Woolston.
“Real name—Jason Robins,” Charlie replied, flicking through her notes. “But his alias in the Bitchfest forum was ‘Hammer.’ He wasn’t the most regular contributor—I think that prize goes to ‘PussyKing’—but he posted every couple of days and when he did he went to town. A lot of bragging about what ‘Angel’ had done to him, how he’d actually made her come, the usual crap.”
“How did you find him?”
“Most of the users are pretty discreet—they obviously use aliases and post on work computers or at Internet cafés. They are hard to track down even if you have the IP address. Jason’s not so bright. He uses the ‘Hammer’ alias on other sites as well, one of which was a pay-per-view porn site. He used his credit card to pay for some material—”
“And you got his home address from that.”
“Exactly.”
Right on cue they pulled up outside a block of flats on Critchard Street. It was a bit shabby, a bit unloved, the small flats rented by people who were making do until something better came along. Helen and Charlie climbed out of the car, looking up and down the street. Night was falling and apart from the odd worker hurrying home, everything was quiet. A light burned in the living room window of the house in front of them—“Hammer” was at home.
•••
They sat at the IKEA table—a stilted threesome with untouched cups of tea sitting in front of them. Jason Robins had assumed the worst when he’d opened the door to two police officers, asking stutteringly if Samantha and Emily had been involved in some kind of accident. When Helen had assured him that this was nothing to do with his family, he’d calmed down, suspicion slowly replacing his fear.
“You may have read about a series of murders in Southampton recently,” Helen began. “Murders linked to the sex trade.”
Jason nodded but said nothing.
“A couple of the victims used an online prostitute rating forum.”
Helen let her words hang in the air, pretending to consult her notebook before continuing:
“It’s called Bitchfest.”
She looked up as she said it, keen to see how Jason would react. He didn’t react at all—not a nod, not a smile, nothing. In Helen’s eyes this was as damning as an admission. Jason was sitting stock-still, clearly worried that the slightest reaction might give him away. Helen eyed him.
“Are you aware of that forum, Jason?”
“No.”
“Have you ever visited it?”
“Not my kind of thing.”
Helen nodded and feigned writing something in her notebook.
“Do you ever use the alias ‘Hammer’ while online?” Charlie asked.
