The Night They Vanished, page 6
PC Barker shakes his head. “If you two only met last night and Mr. Webster is correct that someone has hacked his website, then what we have here is, at the very least, a malicious prank that’s targeted at you. As you are essentially strangers, if Mr. Webster wants to find out who has hacked his website and why they’ve targeted you, he needs to look at the people who knew you two were meeting last night—beginning with your friends.” He pauses. “If it turns out to be something more than a prank, then that is also where any official investigation will start: finding the connection.”
The words malicious prank spark in my head. “Wait—someone slashed my car tire the other night. I assumed that was just a prank. But it’s not the first time my car’s been damaged… And there was a card from my family. I hadn’t opened it, but when I got home that same night, the envelope was on the floor…” I let my voice trail off. I don’t mention the sympathy card because then I’d have to explain why it was sent.
“Do you have any idea who might have slashed your tire?” The PC ignores my rambling about the envelope.
“I thought at first it might have been my ex…”
“His name?”
“Liam Harrison.”
“And does this ex know his way around computers?”
“What—can he hack into websites? Not as far as I know.” I pause. “But I don’t think it’ll be him. He’s got a new girlfriend, he’s hardly still interested in me or who I’m dating. I don’t think he was that interested when he was with me, to be honest.” I can feel myself blushing as I say it, the burn of humiliation as I admit the truth—that Liam was bored of me within weeks of us meeting, that I would buy all the drinks, the dinners, pay for all the nights out, and that was why he stuck around.
“But you thought it might have been him damaging your car?”
“I… I think I was mistaken. I was angry. I’m still angry at him. I rang him and I think when he answered that for a second he didn’t have a clue who I was. He’s forgotten about me.”
I refuse to look at Adam as I say this.
“Did he know your family? Did you ever talk to him about where they lived? Did he know your friends—the ones that set you two up?”
“No. No to all of it. It was never that kind of relationship—it was surface, superficial. He met Dee and Seb a few times, we hung out at the same places where everyone vaguely knows everyone else, but they all blatantly disliked each other. Like I said—he’s forgotten about me. And even if he hadn’t, he’s way too lazy to go to this much trouble. Slashing a car tire is a bit different from hacking into a website. This is not him.”
“Can you think of anyone else who might target you or your family?”
I shake my head. “I left home when I was sixteen; I don’t even see my family anymore. I—”
He interrupts me to move on to Adam. “And you, Mr. Webster? Any ideas who might have hacked your site?”
Adam shakes his head. “No idea—but like you said, this is too specific to be a random hacker. This is targeted at Hanna.”
“Adam knew where I grew up. He even knows all the crimes that have happened in my home town. He knew where my family lives.” I blurt this out and feel Adam stiffen next to me. “I told him last night—it would have been easy to google my family, wouldn’t it? I’m from a very small village…” Maybe I had started to believe Adam’s complete innocence in all this—but talking about Liam has made me realize how blind I usually am when it comes to spotting trouble.
PC Barker looks puzzled. “I thought you came in together to report this? Are you changing the nature of your complaint? Do we need to speak to the two of you separately?”
“No, that’s not… It just seems far-fetched, that’s all. That for some reason, I’ve been targeted by a hacker who somehow found Adam’s site on the same night I was having a blind date with him and decided to put my family up there? And the information—who would know my dad’s a failed academic? He doesn’t work in an academic field—he manages a holiday park. They’d really have to dig to find out his background. But that doesn’t make sense either because the rest is rubbish. Why go to the trouble of finding out my dad’s academic history and then just make up a load of nonsense about the others: Jen isn’t lonely, and Sasha doesn’t have dark secrets. She’s an open book, the perfect child.”
There’s a pause. “Yes, the whole thing seems pretty farfetched, if I’m honest.” PC Barker sighs and leans back. “I can check out your family—I’ll speak to someone at their local station, get someone to swing by the house and do a welfare check. And the website—are there any other hacked listings?”
Adam scrolls through to check and freezes. “Christ, there’s another one—this one.” He points to his screen and PC Barker nods.
“Okay. I’ll print these listings out and show them to one of my colleagues in CID. I’ll also ask our Digital Investigations Unit to take a look at the site. I’m sure it’s nothing—some hacker’s idea of a joke—but we’ll check it out.”
“But how can it be a random joke?” I burst out. “I only met Adam last night—how would they have found my family? And why?”
The police officer’s sideways look at Adam and his flushed-face response give me my answer. He doesn’t think the site’s been hacked at all. For whatever reason, he believes Adam put my home on the site. I’m reminded again of my earlier frisson of fear. Adam is a stranger—a stranger who gets his kicks exploring abandoned buildings and investigating murder sites.
There’s an awkward silence as we stand outside the police station, sent on our way with reassurances that we’d hear from PC Barker soon.
“It wasn’t me,” Adam says again as I pause on the cusp of walking away. “I didn’t put your house up, I swear. Why would I do that? Christ, Hanna—I had a great time last night. I liked you. A lot. I thought you… Why would I do that?”
“Why would anyone do that? If not you, it has to be someone who knows you—or me. Someone who knows we were together last night.” I shake my head. “Dee only set this up three days ago.”
He frowns. “Actually… she’s been trying to set it up since New Year.”
“What?”
He shrugs. “She knew I was interested and said—through Seb—that she wanted to set us up as soon as you and your ex split.”
“So, what—you’ve been hovering and watching and waiting for two months?”
“Jesus—no. I made a passing comment about you that Dee latched on to. She’s the one who’s been hovering and hinting ever since.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. I can see the frustration on his face. “I’ll speak to Seb. And I’ll see if I can trace anything back to whoever hacked the site. I’ll close it down. But it’ll be okay. It’s like the officer said, a prank—horrible but just some malicious hacker. They’ll speak to your family and I’ll take the site down and this will be over.”
God, I want that to be true. I want the next call I get to be some irritated one from my dad in response to my frantic messages. And it has to be true, doesn’t it? It’s a sick joke, that’s all.
But who hates me that much—to do such a horrible thing?
“I need to go,” I say, edging away.
“Hanna, please. We were going to go out again. Can I—”
“Mr. Webster!”
We’re interrupted by PC Barker calling after us, jogging down the steps. He reaches us and grabs Adam’s arm. “Mr. Webster, can you come back inside, please? You too,” he adds to me, tugging on Adam’s arm.
“What’s this about?” Adam says, not moving.
“Can you just come inside, please? CID need a word.”
I can hear sirens as PC Barker leads Adam back into the police station and I shiver as I hurry after them, throat tightening in sudden panic. Have they found my family?
Chapter 7
SASHA—November, three months earlier
School next day is a particular kind of torture. I’m convinced every whisper, every giggle, is aimed at me. I didn’t sleep at all last night, even though I was careful not to look at Facebook again after I plugged the computer back in. I just shut everything down and went to bed. But it was like my eyes were wired open. Every time I tried to close them, they’d snap back open. Consequently, today, everything is coated in a layer of fuzz and my eyelids droop in every lesson. I literally have to keep pinching myself to stay awake in Religious Studies, which is quite amusing as Miss is talking about self-flagellation in religion. Maybe it was nothing to do with atonement or punishment, maybe they used to whip themselves to stay awake in really boring religious services.
I’m not hungry when lunchtime finally rolls around. In fact, I feel sick and have to hold my breath against the cooking smells wafting from the canteen as I walk past, head down, jostled by idiots desperate to stuff themselves with pizza and chips.
The computer room beckons me, the door enticingly ajar, blinds half down to reduce glare on the screens. It’s empty, as usual. Mr. Harris pokes his head out of his office as I walk past, but he smiles and waves me on when he sees it’s me.
“Mr. Harris?” I call, before he disappears. “Has anyone else been using the computers at lunchtime?”
He shakes his head. “Not recently. As you know, we only let students in at lunchtime under exceptional circumstances.” He pauses. “Most pupils have computers at home.”
Jeez, it’s worse than I thought. I smile and walk on into the computer room. I thought they were letting me in because I’m such a good student, but it’s actually because they feel sorry for me. Dad, at parents’ evenings, is always quite upfront about letting teachers know I have no access to computers, a mobile phone, or the internet. At the last one he even tried to argue technology wasn’t needed for my education in front of the IT teacher.
I decided, around four in the morning, as I was lying awake, staring at the ceiling, to just go ahead and delete my Facebook account. I’ll miss the fake me but it’s the best thing. Delete it, pretend it never existed. I can always rejoin someday.
But when I log in on the school computer, after first making sure the door is closed and there’s no one hiding in the big cupboards (yes, I really did check), there’s another private message.
Don’t think about deleting the account Sasha
I’ll tell your dad if you do
I’ll tell him you sneak downstairs in your flowery pajamas and use his computer
The end-of-lunch buzzer breaks my paralysis. I close down the computer and leave the room, bouncing off other kids as I head blindly for math. I know it’s paranoia, but it seems like every one of them is staring at me, like every single one of them is in on the joke and knows about the Facebook messages. I know it’s paranoia because in reality I bet three-quarters of my own year, let alone the rest of the school, would be hard pressed to pick me out of a lineup if you asked them. Wasn’t that part of the reason for my fake Facebook account in the first place: to be visible for once, even if it was all a lie?
Is it my imagination, then, the hush as I walk into the classroom and take my seat? I sit near the front—I always take a seat near the front—and for the first time I regret it. I can’t see without turning if any of them are really looking at me, or talking about me. Mrs. Roberts comes in and I try to pay attention to the questions she puts up on the white-board, staring down at a blank page in my book.
I can hear them whispering behind me, punctuated by the odd snort of laughter or high-pitched giggle from one of the girls. I’m so tense my hunched shoulders are aching and I’ve barely taken in a word Mrs. Roberts has said all lesson. The whispering started as soon as I sat down, and I know they’re talking about me. It must have been Seren or one of the other girls who found my fake account on Facebook and sent that message. How did I give myself away? I know I used Hanna’s photo, but it’s a fifteen-year-old photograph. There’s some similarity in the shape of our faces, our smiles, but her eyes are blue, her hair dark and wavy. I’m… bleh. Straight mousy hair, boring sludgy eyes. You’d really have to look close to see any of me in that old photo of Hanna. Maybe I forgot to log off one lunchtime, or I logged out but left Facebook up with my timeline.
The temptation, as soon as I saw the new message, was to just do as I’d planned and delete the account. Well, the temptation was to delete the account and then throw the computer out the window, but I managed to resist that panicked urge. I was going to delete it, I was, but then I thought, What if that makes whoever sent the message so angry they really do tell my dad? What if they’ve taken screenshots of some of the stuff I’ve posted? God, I’d be totally screwed if Dad saw any of it. It’s not like I’ve been sending nudes or anything stupid, but caught up in the high of doing something so verboten, I might have said some stuff to my “friends”—particularly those fake shirtless American GI Joes…
I switch between going hot and cold as I think of the flirty messages I received as “Jules,” the smutty innuendos and outright dirty messages I got in response to the profile photo. I didn’t say anything rude back, but I clicked like on those messages because I did like—I liked being Jules for those few minutes, even if it was all fake. Oh God, oh God, it seemed like silly fun at the time, but the thought of Dad reading them? I feel sick.
I glance up at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes of the lesson to go. There’s a knock at the classroom door and someone calls Mrs. Roberts out into the corridor. The moment the door closes behind her, the noise level in the classroom rises, more laughter, thirty teenagers no longer bothering to whisper. Some of the boys start chucking screwed-up balls of paper at each other. I keep my head down, trying to ignore them and finish the questions on the board. But then a ball of paper hits the back of my head and it seems like the whole class erupts into laughter as I jump and then spin round to see who threw it.
Half the boys are in hysterics and Seren’s holding up her phone, facing me. Is she filming me? Anger fuels my imagination—I can so imagine Seren sending those messages, egged on by her moronic gang of minions. I reach over and snatch the phone out of her hand, jumping up, sending my chair clattering to the floor. I’m about to chuck the phone down to join it when Seren lurches over and grabs my arm. The boys start up a chant of fight fight fight, even though we’re just struggling for possession of an iPhone, and then the classroom door slams and Mrs. Roberts’ outraged voice shuts everyone up.
“Seren! Sasha! What on earth is going on? Both of you—the office. Now.”
I’m hot with shame and mortification as I sit outside the Head of Year’s office. I’ve never been sent to the office, never been sent out of class, never had a detention or anything. I can hear Seren’s raised voice inside the office, telling her side of the story, all outraged anger. She’s spent plenty of time here, so I’m not surprised Miss Jennings assumed she started it.
Oh, Christ almighty, if they call Dad over this, it would be worse than him finding out about the Facebook account. Then I think of all the stuff I’ve posted on there. Maybe it wouldn’t.
Seren stalks out of the office, pausing to scowl at me and mouth you’re dead before marching off down the corridor. Ah, great. Absolutely wonderful. Miss Jennings pokes her head round the door of her office. “Come on in, Sasha.”
Chapter 8
HANNA—Saturday 1 p.m.
I’m taken back to the same room and offered a cup of tea. This time, the wait is longer and this time, Adam isn’t with me. He was escorted down the corridor to a different room. My hands are shaking as I sip the weak tea they bring me. I can’t even call Dee or keep trying my family as they asked if they could check my phone—for what, I don’t know. Should I have said no? I don’t know my rights; I don’t even know why I’m back in here. I feel sick at the thought that something’s happened to my family, that’s why they’ve dragged us back in. But they’d tell me, wouldn’t they?
Every word of that website listing keeps replaying in my mind over and over—gruesome triple murder, two adults, one child, brutally killed. That can’t be it, though; they’d have people in, grave faces as they broke the news… and they wouldn’t have found anything so quickly, would they?
Unless… unless… How long has that listing been on Adam’s site? He was saying to the officer before that he hasn’t checked it in a while—I’d assumed it was recent, because we only met last night, and there was no connection between us before then. Well, that was what I thought. I was going to have to have a word with Dee about that… But the date—the date on the website: today’s date.
Dee must have been planning this for a while. Must have agreed with Adam when they were going to set it up… Did they do that planning in a public place? Somewhere someone was listening, so they’d know when and where we were going to go for our date?
And that stuff on the website about the family—Sasha’s secrets and Jen being lonely—that has to just be clickbait, the kind of tabloid sub-heading that would have you clicking through to rummage through someone’s dirty laundry. Sasha’s fourteen—what dark secrets could a fourteen-year-old have? My mind leaps to the secrets I had at fourteen and I feel a little sick. No. Not Sasha. You couldn’t find anyone more different to the girl I once was.
Without my phone, I have no idea what the time is, no idea how much more of today is left. But it’s not real, not real, I tell myself. It’s ridiculous—my family is fine. This is some weird, sick joke that the police will get to the bottom of. They’ll let me go with reassurances my family is fine, I’ll call Dee and find out from Seb what the hell is up with Adam and—
The door opens and I jump, spilling lukewarm tea all over the table.
It’s not PC Barker, it’s a plainclothes officer ten years older, carrying a folder and his own cup of tea.
“Miss Carter? DC Norton, sorry it’s taken so long to get to you.”
“It’s Ashton. Sorry, legally I’m Carter, but I prefer to go by my mother’s maiden name. Ashton. Hanna Ashton, but you can just call me Hanna. And I don’t understand… Is this about my family?” I can hear my voice wobble and I hate it.
