Killing Cupid Read Online Free PDF

that nobody was watching, I went into what we call the ‘back office’, the part of the computer system that the public can’t see. It’s the database where we keep all our customers’ details. We need to be able to access it in order to answer their queries: we can see their address and all the books and CDs they’ve ordered. But we’re only allowed to look up the details of customers we speak to, and only if we need the information to deal with their enquiry, to prevent you looking up the details of your friends and enemies. To deter us, the system generates random reports, which mean that you have to be able to show the supervisor that you spoke to the customer you were looking up. These reports only capture one in fifty of the customers we look up, but it’s not usually worth taking that chance.
    Today, it was worth that chance.
    I was quietly confident that Siobhan would be a customer of ours. After all, we are the biggest of our kind, and anyone who reads a lot, like Siobhan must, was more than likely to have ordered a book from us.
    I typed her name.
    There were 13 Siobhan McGowans on the database. Most were in Ireland, but three were in London, one more than on Facebook. Two of them had North London postcodes. I wasn’t sure which one it would be so I looked at them both. I felt jumpy and sweaty as I hurried to look up the details. The first Siobhan McGowan had bought a few CDs (Norah Jones, Gareth Gates – Jesus wept) and one Delia Smith cookbook. Surely that wasn’t my Siobhan? I’d be very disappointed if it was. I clicked on the second Siobhan and looked at her list of purchases. It was huge. I quickly scanned the list: Ryan Adams, The Cure, Belle and Sebastian, Sting…well, nobody’s perfect. And among the many books was one about teaching creative writing – and Tara Lies Awake by Siobhan McGowan! In fact, she’d ordered her own book several times. I clicked another icon and there were her personal details. Her home and mobile numbers and email address. I copied them, pasted them into an email, then sent it to myself at home, deleting the message from my sent items folder.
    I couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the day.
    All I could think was, I know where she lives.
     
    Victoria Gardens was a pleasant little street: nice and quiet, curving off the main road, a small Victorian terrace, aptly enough. Close enough to Camden to be hip, and close enough to Hampstead to be respectable and safe. Siobhan lived at number 54. I walked down the odd-numbered side of the street, trying to act casual, trying not to look like I was reading the numbers on the doors. I was having a job in the dim light anyway, but luckily number 54 had a big brass sign on the front door. Siobhan’s house. Just a few feet away.
    Close enough to sense her.
    After this initial recce, I came home to check there were no phone messages. There weren’t. Then I went on to Google Maps and found the location of her house. It was only a thirty minute walk from my place, if I took the short cuts I carefully worked out.
    I couldn’t phone her because she’d want to know where I’d got her number from. Oh, I was snooping on the computers at work, breaking the Data Protection Act, Siobhan. No. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t email her either, for the same reason. But I could walk by her house again, and maybe, just maybe, I’d get lucky. She’d come outside and look surprised and I’d say, ‘How strange, I’ve got a friend who lives down here. I’ve just been to see him. Yes, I’d love a cup of coffee. You lost the card with my number in? No, don’t worry, I knew it would be something like that. And I do have a mobile, by the way, it’s just been nicked. Ha ha.’
    I had a bath and downed a couple of glasses of Absolut. Not enough to get me pissed; just a bit of Dutch courage. Or Swedish courage, I should say.
    It was nearly nine by the time I had enough Swedish courage to return to Siobhan’s house. It was dark, the sodium