I take a look and see what he means.
Name: Ashley Brooks
Date of Birth: 12 March 1989
Occupation: Officially unemployed, ex-stripper, occasional sex worker
Area: Ilford, East London
Reference: Daffodil
‘I’ve never heard of an Ashley Brooks,’ I say. ‘This is … this is very strange.’
‘It gets more detailed as it goes on,’ Stephen says.
I continue to read.
Lifestyle details:
• Ashley is dependent on a variety of legal and illegal substances, including heroin and cocaine. Best knowledge indicates she’s been using since she was eighteen.
• She’s rarely seen out of her flat. When she is, it’s usually to buy alcohol from the independent off-licence near her council flat in Ilford. She has been seen shouting expletives at random passers-by and crying in public.
• She doesn’t own a car, nor has she been observed using public transport within the last six months.
• She lives alone. Occasionally young men are seen delivering packages to her door – believed to be illicit substances. Sometimes they go inside, but usually do the transactions on the doorstep.
Crime:
• She’s been twice observed having sex in public, once in the car park of the Billington Estate where she lives, and on another occasion was issued with a caution by police after being observed performing oral sex on a young man at a bus stop late at night.
• She was arrested and charged with possession of a Class B drug in April 2012. She did not serve prison time.
• She was arrested for drunk and disorderly behaviour near her flat in September 2016. She was released without charge.
I look up from the iPad at Stephen. He’s still looking at the floor.
‘How would anyone know all this if it didn’t come from the police or lawyers or somewhere?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. That’s what makes it so strange.’
I look back down at the screen.
Support network:
• Best knowledge suggests Ms Brooks has not been in contact with her mother or father for many years. Her mother is currently serving time in HMP Bronzefield in Surrey for GBH and the attempted murder of a man she was previously living with. Her daughter has never visited her.
• It is not believed Ms Brooks has any close friends or acquaintances outside the group of men who deliver her drugs.
• She does not have a consistent romantic interest or sexual partner.
• She has no siblings.
Risk:
• Ms Brooks is considered a low-risk potential investment.
• Trial runs, completed by our staff, have been highly successful, embarked upon by men posing as tax officials, social services workers and gas-meter inspectors. These have been undertaken using both single and multiple participants. She has reported none of these incidents and her behaviour has not changed other than a potential increase in drug purchases. We believe it is highly unlikely any reports to police would be made after future appointments of this nature.
• During a trial run, a blood sample was taken. Ms Brooks tested negative for HIV or hepatitis as of August 2019. In spite of this, use of contraception is always strongly advised.
I finish the page and stare back at Stephen. ‘I really don’t know what to say about this,’ I tell him. It’s the truth. I’m completely baffled and appalled. This Ms Brooks seems to have had important information meticulously detailed. Everything gathered together, from her lifestyle and sex life to her criminal record. And all of it points to a very vulnerable, unwell young woman.
‘I don’t know what this is, but I think … I think we best …’
‘Best what?’ asks Stephen, looking up at me, moving his eyes, apparently reluctantly, away from the floor.
‘I don’t know. It just seems so likely this is part of your dad’s work. I know it’s not pretty, but maybe they gather information for the police or some law enforcement agency …’
‘I don’t think he’s allowed to bring it home.’
He’s got me there. But then again, what do I know? Neither of us knows that much about the way James works in his current position at data-gathering company Varvello Analytics. The thing nagging at me, quietly but firmly at the back of my head, is that this is in our personal Dropbox. Not his work account. Not even his own personal account. If they were work documents, surely he would have had to transfer the files and password-protect them?
There’s another thing troubling me. ‘When you said to me that it was something bad … I sort of expected … I don’t know … something involving porn … or maybe … God, this sounds ridiculous … evidence of an affair …’
‘I’m sorry.’
I touch his arm, ‘No, no, it’s okay,’ I say, trying to sound comforting. ‘How many of these have you looked at?’
‘All of them.’
‘And they’re all like this? The same sort of thing?’
He nods.
I don’t know what to say to this at first. Then something falls into my head – a strange sensation, almost like déjà vu. That we’ve been here before. ‘You know a few years back, when you had all that stuff on your computer. All those images of naked women that kept opening every time you clicked on something …’
Stephen looks up sharply and cuts me off, ‘That was a virus.’
‘Yes, I know.’ I hold up a hand to offer reassurance, but he looks offended.
‘Are you saying you think this has something to do with me?’
‘No, I’m just trying to make sense of it. And it reminded me of it, that’s all. Could this be the same thing? A virus your dad has downloaded, maybe when he was buying something or downloading music? And he got a load of someone else’s content by mistake?’
Stephen shakes his head, ‘He downloads music from iTunes. I can’t imagine him buying anything from anywhere … well … dodgy. And anyway, why would the files turn up on our family Dropbox, in his folder?’
‘I … no … it doesn’t make sense. I just don’t understand how …’
I stop talking. Both Stephen and I have heard it. Someone is coming up the stairs. And there’s only one other person in the house. We look at each other, as if we’re two children about to be caught doing something we shouldn’t. I stay very still and hear the sound of my husband going into our shared bedroom, then the noise of a drawer opening and closing. He must just be looking for something or changing his sweater. The noise of him coming back out onto the landing causes Stephen’s eyes to widen in alarm, but I shake my head. It’s okay. The sound of his feet is growing distant and, after a few seconds, the creak of the stairs signals his retreat back down to the hallway.
I let out a breath I only now realise I’ve been holding the whole time, and turn back to the screen. Do I carry on after our close shave? Or give him back his iPad, tell myself it’s going to be fine and just talk to James later,