Chapter 50
We have a lot of time to kill. It’s lunchtime before I’m examined and sent in for a scan, and two hours after that before the wound is cleaned again, stitched up, and I’m sent on my way with a prescription for strong painkillers and a thin cotton sling for my wrist. On the way back, we make a detour to B A she glances at it, touches the screen, smiles briefly before it goes dark again.
Something from a conversation with her brother returns to me, a question he’d asked while we both scrolled mindlessly through Twitter and Facebook as the hours waiting at QMC took their toll.
“I was talking to Dom at the hospital,” I say. “Random question, but—is your Facebook profile public?”
She shrugs. “How do you mean?”
“Is it just friends that can see your profile and your posts, or can anyone see them?”
“Just friends. I think.” She picks up the phone and taps the screen, her face darkening. “Oh. No, it’s… I opened it up for a school thing, that Easter fete Callum’s year group did, so we could sell tickets and promote to parents. I was on the fund-raising committee, remember?”
“So it’s public?”
“It was.” She taps the screen again, selecting and swiping until she finds what she wants. “Not anymore. Why?”
I take a sip of my tea, keeping my voice neutral. “When you left the message using the number from that old phone, Daisy and Callum were in the room. They were arguing and I told them to stop, pretty sure I mentioned both their names while you were leaving the message.”
“So?”
“So… what if they used Callum and Daisy’s names as search terms? Plus you left your first name and somehow that’s led them to find your Facebook page, maybe to that picture you posted last weekend? Or it could be any recent post that mentions their names.”
“But that doesn’t tell them where we are. I’d never post anything about our location, our address.”
She’s frowning hard now, two vertical lines between her eyebrows that normally mean she’s about to shift from defense to attack.
Maybe it’s the low, angry throb at the back of my head, the bite of the new stitches, the lack of sleep, the vending-machine food at the hospital, but I keep going anyway.
“I know, I know. Just trying to figure things out.” I stare at the ceiling, trying to drag my thoughts into some kind of order.
“What if… they’d found your Facebook profile and really dug into it, checked every post you liked?
Cross-referenced with any internal shots of the house you’ve posted on your feed?
Then done some on-the-ground work to identify this specific address. ”
My wife is shaking her head.
“The camera in the birdbox, the cameras in the house, they were already here when we moved in. Somebody already knew something about this house.”
I rub my temples, at the throbbing headache that has been a constant jagged hum since last night.
“Of course,” I say. “Sorry. You’re right. Feels like my head is full of cement today.”
“You need paracetamol and rest, Adam.” She puts her hands on my shoulders, her expression softening again. “You need to sleep. You had a lucky escape last night and you need to recover. Why don’t you go up now? I’ll sort the kids out.”
I nod, my eyes sagging with fatigue.
“Just got something else I need to do.”
“Don’t be long.”
She kisses me on the cheek and goes back into the lounge.
I unlock my phone and open the online shopping page I’d found before, checking that next-day delivery was still available. Double-checking all the details I could remember to make sure they tallied with the watch I’d found upstairs.
Rolex Explorer
Genuine replica wristwatch
A perfect copy of the real thing for only ￡99—bespoke engraving available too!
I study the image one last time and click “Buy Now.”