The Chosen Ones. G Sanders D

willingness will not be enough. I can be patient. I shall be patient. I will be patient. I shall not take the gift until your desire to give matches my desire for the giving.

       2

      DI Ed Ogborne wasn’t in the best of moods. She faced a day spent tying up loose ends from the team’s last major case, serial abductions which stretched back a decade. It had been Ed’s first case in Canterbury. They’d caught the perpetrator, but his evil deeds continued to haunt her. Revisiting the investigation wasn’t something she relished, but, as the Senior Investigating Officer, she had to do it.

      On her way to work, she picked up a flat white from Deakin’s, hoping it would kick-start the morning. It didn’t. When she arrived at the Police Station, her humour darkened immediately; there was a new addition to the CID Room door. Some jobsworth responsible for signage was clearly out to ruin her day. Above the names of her three colleagues, she was designated Detective Inspector Edina Ogborne.

      For most this would have been a non-issue, but Ed was sensitive when it came to her given name. Edina came from her grandmother, but only Ed’s parents and her grandfather had ever used it. From an early age she’d insisted everybody else call her Ed, or maybe Eddie if it were someone she knew intimately. In her mind, Edina was a homely, wholesome name; for herself she wanted something short, matching her sharply cut, blue-black hair.

      After several phone calls, she eventually tracked down the man responsible for the increase in her ill humour.

      ‘The sign on our door needs to be corrected. I’m DI Ed Ogborne, not Edina.’

      ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, the official records show your name as Edina.’

      ‘That’s as may be, but I’m known as Ed.’

      ‘We’re obliged to use the official form of your name.’

      ‘What do I have to do? Change it by deed poll?’

      ‘If you wish Ed to be your official—’

      ‘Thank you for your time.’

      Ed terminated the call with the feeling she should have been more gracious. Then, with a wry smile, she put aside her increasing annoyance by thinking that the issue of her name was probably already an in-joke among her colleagues.

       3

      Confident but cautious – that’s me to a T. Can you be truly confident if you’re cautious? Let’s not go there. I know what I mean. I’m confident when I’m in control. I’m confident and in control because I plan. Careful planning is where the caution comes in.

      The project has been up and running for three months. I’d chosen Canterbury for the main event. It’s a good-sized town, there’s easy access to the countryside and I could readily lose myself among the tourists. I’d rented a small flat and spent a week or so choosing my women. The first to take the bait wasn’t suitable: married and expecting a baby. How did I miss that? Sloppy work, but no problem. Statistically, it had to happen and, not long after, I got the perfect woman: single, unattached and living alone. She wanted the right things, things that made her vulnerable, and she made the right choice. She offered me access and now the incidentals are all in place; that’s stage 1 completed. Soon, I’ll complete stage 2 and she’ll be mine; we’ll be isolated together in her own home.

      When that happens, we’ll be at the crux of the project, stage 3, conversion; leading my chosen woman from her initial panic and horror to a position from where she’ll recognize my true worth. Obviously, successful conversion will depend on how I handle things once we’re alone together. The problem is, I’d no experience of that. Back in Gravesend, the stuck-up graduates at work had all turned me down. I was reduced to clubbing and copping off with the thin girl’s friend. Unfortunately, they were easy, did anything, anytime, anything to please. With them it was open access and willing isolation: no conversion required. The women I want are not like that.

      I’d known from the start that I’d need practice, the right experience; gaining that experience became a parallel part of the project. Confident but cautious, I took time to plan and prepare: a cheap phone, a couple of pay-as-you-go SIM cards and a dating app for which I created two fake profiles. To find the right practice woman, I’d need to meet several and check out promising candidates more than once. When it was over, if any of them complained to the police, I didn’t want to be tracked down. Public places have security cameras and my bleached hair is eye-catching. I bought several simple disguises, as many as possible from charity shops. Faded baseball caps and worn beanies were good; lightweight reversible hoodies and a reversible cotton bag were essential.

      My plan was to pick less attractive women from the dating app, reckoning that would maximize my hit rate. Location wasn’t important; any small town in Kent, apart from Canterbury, would do. By day, I worked on the main event – my chosen women. The evenings I put aside for my practice runs – nothing fancy, just well planned. I’d let the women choose where and when we met, as long as it was a large bar, in the centre of town, and at a busy time of day.

      Using my first fake profile, I went for Jackie from Rainham. She was immediately up for it. I asked where she’d like to meet and we settled on a pub near the station at six-thirty; a time when I knew there’d be plenty of commuters dropping in for a drink after work. I arrived a little late, bought a pint, checked where she was sitting and positioned myself to observe without being seen. After a few minutes I changed my hat and jacket in the Gents and returned to my pint. It was quite touching watching her angular face, expectant, then concerned, checking her phone for messages, and finally crestfallen.

      Eventually, she left the pub and I followed her home, taking great care to hang well back and to walk on the opposite pavement. She turned into a street lined with semi-detached bungalows and my heart sank. Sure enough, she lived with a couple of wrinklies, probably her parents. There was no way I’d have time to get rid of neighbours, let alone people in the same house. My practice woman had to live alone and in a spot with nobody close by.

       4

      The day was coming to an end and the young Detective Constables Jenny Eastham and Nat Borrowdale were the first to leave the CID Room, but not together. Jenny let Nat get well clear of the building before she locked files in her desk drawer and said she was off for an early night. Ed had noticed the atmosphere between Jenny and Nat had changed dramatically. They’d always been competitive but now there was a new edge to their exchanges. At team meetings Nat had stopped trying to catch Jenny’s eye; in fact, he noticeably avoided doing so.

      It wasn’t her concern but, from soon after her arrival in Canterbury, Ed had wondered if Nat was the right man for Jenny. Physically, they were a strikingly attractive couple. Nat’s dark hair and sharp features contrasted markedly with Jenny’s fresh face and honey-blonde head. Ed’s doubt came from her perception of them as people. Jenny was bright, open and honest. Nat was more closed, with a suggestion of potential danger behind his eyes.

      Ed watched the door close behind Jenny before turning back to the document on her screen. A few minutes later, her second-in-command, Detective Sergeant Mike Potts, stretched, yawned loudly and pushed back his chair before levering his somewhat overweight frame to its feet.

      ‘D’you fancy a drink before calling it a night?’

      At that moment Ed could think of nothing better than a cold glass of white wine, but she was determined to finish the job she’d set herself.

      ‘Sorry, Mike, I must finish this. I can’t face one more day with these abductions.’

      ‘Another time then. I’m off, see you tomorrow.’

      Ed