Текст книги "Eye Contact"

Автор книги: Fergus McNeill

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

23

Wednesday, 25 July

Wednesday had come, and Naysmith sat at his desk, restless. Since that first encounter in Winchester, this had developed into a challenging hunt and the work he’d put into it heightened his anticipation for the inevitable climax. After exercising so much patience it was now somehow galling to wait even a few hours more. But he forced himself, deciding that he would work through until lunchtime, however difficult it was to concentrate. He sat in on a tiresome conference call, oblivious to the distant voices, watching the clock tick round towards noon. Outside his window, grey clouds gathered slowly in a dark sky. The weather was finally turning and the forecast was for rain that evening. In theory this was a good thing – rain could wash away all sorts of evidence – but working in the wet brought its own risks, especially at night, and that meant he would have to take even greater care than usual.

A little after one o’clock he sent his last email and slowly closed the laptop. It was finally time to get started.

He’d replenished the cardboard box in the garage over the last few weeks – quietly picking up items here and there, always going to different shops, always paying in cash. Although seemingly random, everything had been deliberately selected to mask his identity, from the lined gloves that would pick up no fingerprints on their insides, to the shoes that were not quite his size. Every item had been meticulously wiped clean, and he disciplined himself to wear gloves even here. It was this attention to detail that elevated him above the amateurs, ensuring his continued success in the game.

Stooping, he dragged the cardboard box into the middle of the floor and opened it to inspect the contents – something he hadn’t been able to do while Kim was in the house. Carefully, he drew out the bag containing the clothes – all new, all in dark colours, own-brand items bought from the supermarkets. There was a cheap wristwatch – a couple of minutes fast – that he would throw away afterwards and, in light of the weather, a couple of large towels. In a second bag he placed the usual bottle of bleach, travel wipes and spare refuse sacks. Finally, he drew out a large metal wrench, which he hefted thoughtfully in his hand. It was heavy and solid, about eighteen inches long, with a shaped grip that wouldn’t slip through his gloves. He considered it for a moment, tightening it up so that the jaws wouldn’t rattle, then placed it in with the clothes.

Satisfied, he transferred both bags into a thick black refuse sack that he took outside. Opening the boot of his car, he placed the sack inside, next to the flat parcel containing his alternate number plates, and the white envelope from Severn Beach. He’d retrieved them from their hiding place on his way home the day before – now everything was ready.

Back in the house, he went upstairs and shaved. There was an art to deception – the more you behaved as though something was real, the more real it seemed to others. He wasn’t going to a networking event in London, but he was certainly going to get ready as though he was. Rinsing his face, he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, running a hand across his smooth chin. Smart clothes were laid out on the bed next door, including the trousers that Kim had said for him to wear – and he would be wearing them when it was done, when he was on his way home. He studied his smiling reflection for a moment, then turned away.

The shower felt hot when he first stepped in, but after a few minutes he was comfortable with the temperature, closing his eyes and breathing in the steam. He washed slowly, allowing the calming water to cascade over him, rinsing away the loose skin cells and hair follicles. There was a purpose to every part of his preparation.

Back in the bedroom, he dried himself and folded his smart clothes into a bag, along with an appropriate pair of shoes. Placing the bag by the bedroom door, he selected some casual clothes and got dressed – tomorrow, these items would be folded and returned to their drawer without Kim ever noticing they’d been worn. It was strange to think how he’d adapted his routine – a routine he’d meticulously followed for years – just to accommodate her. He pulled on a pair of shoes from the back of his wardrobe, then gathered up the bag of clothes and took it downstairs. Satisfied that everything was ready, he went through to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich.

By four o’clock he was driving through Salisbury, following the dual carriageway that skirted the northern edge of the city centre. The cathedral spire loomed bleak and tall against the dark clouds, a grey finger of warning raised against the approaching storm. Naysmith scowled up at the sky – it wasn’t raining yet, but the weather wouldn’t hold for long. As the A36 climbed out eastward into the Wiltshire countryside, he turned onto a small side road and drove for a mile or so until he found a quiet lane. Stopping the car, he got out and stood on the tarmac, listening.

There was no sound. And he would hear any approaching vehicles before they got close. Satisfied, he retrieved the flat parcel from the boot of the car and crouched down to change his number plates.

The first spots of rain appeared on the windscreen as he joined the motorway. By the time he reached Winchester, it had become torrential. Naysmith pulled over and sat for a moment, listening to the heavy drops drumming on the roof. Hopefully it would ease a little as the evening drew in – he didn’t mind getting wet, but it would be very frustrating if the weather stopped the target from going out. He shook his head. There was no sense in worrying about that now. He took out his phone and sent Kim a text telling her not to wait up, then switched off the handset and stowed it in the glove compartment. Everything was in place. He felt the familiar whisper of excitement ripple over him, a fleeting glimpse of the ecstasy to come.

Strange cars stood out in small villages and he’d spent a lot of time thinking about where to park. Stopping outside someone’s house would raise suspicion and be remembered when the locals discussed the news in the coming days. He’d briefly considered a pub car park in a neighbouring village – hiding the car in plain sight – but it was just too risky. In the end, he’d identified somewhere suitably remote – a grassy field shielded by a thick hedge, some distance from West Meon. It was off a narrow lane, with an old metal gate that looked as though it hadn’t been closed for years. Checking his rear-view mirror to make sure nothing was coming, Naysmith slowed to a crawl and pulled off the road. The ground was slippery but firm. He tucked the car in behind the hedge so that it couldn’t be seen from the lane.

The rain was coming down harder now, stinging his face with cold as he got out into the wind and hurried round to open the boot. Taking the bags, he locked the car and set off at a run, splashing along a farm track that led away from the lane across the field. After a few minutes, he came to a heavy iron gate, which he climbed over, then walked quickly along the edge of a ploughed field. He had just over a mile to go, always keeping to the grass to avoid leaving footprints in the furrows, making for the dark line of the woods that lay ahead of him. He really couldn’t have chosen a more miserable night.

Eventually, he passed under the outlying trees and stopped to catch his breath, shaking off the worst of the rain as he turned to gaze out at the downpour behind him. Hopefully it would ease a little. Running a hand through his dripping hair, he moved on, pressing deeper into the woods until he found a vast old tree – a natural landmark that would be easy to locate again once the night closed in. Here, almost no rain made it through the dense foliage above, and he gratefully put down the bags.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly peeled off his wet clothes, refusing to hurry despite the cold, placing each item in a neat pile beside the gnarled old trunk. Jeans, underwear and finally his top – everything was accounted for. He couldn’t afford to leave anything lying around. Naked, he used one of the towels to dry himself, then placed it into a black bag with his wet clothes. So damn cold. Shivering violently in the chill evening air, he opened the other bag and drew out his anonymous supermarket clothing. It was difficult to dress, pulling the new T-shirt across his cold, damp skin, dragging his socks up. Eventually, he slipped on his gloves and stood up, hugging himself to get warm.

After a moment the feeling began to return to his hands, and he stooped to retrieve the wristwatch from the bag, peering down at it as he fumbled with the strap. Ten past six – slightly ahead of schedule.

He jammed the white envelope deep into his pocket and zipped it shut. Then, drawing out the heavy steel wrench, he twisted the tops of the bags and hid them in a hollow beside the tree. With a final check to make sure everything was concealed, he gripped the wrench and set off through the woods.

This felt like hunting – searching for his prey, alone in the rain-lashed wilds – and a primal thrill coursed through him. The anticipation, the dreadful eagerness, so intense that he couldn’t help but grin as he picked his way through the undergrowth. Suddenly, in that moment, all the preparation made sense, all the effort was justified.

Before long, the ground sloped sharply down and he stepped out onto the flat grass of the trackbed. He was on the walking trail, a little way south of the car park. Although it was getting late, and the weather made it unlikely that anyone else would be out here, he was alert now. It was difficult to hear anything other than rain on the leaves above, so he would periodically crouch down low, his eyes searching for movement below the foliage, but there was nothing other than the steady swaying of the trees.

He walked between the overgrown platforms of the forgotten station and approached the bridge, yawning before him like a cavernous mouth in the gloom. A squall of rain spattered his face as he stepped into the shadow of the arch, and he stood for a moment in the darkness, listening to the rustle of the trees echoing off the brickwork above him. The weather wasn’t easing, but he no longer cared – all that mattered was finding the target. He stepped out into the failing light and walked on, following the embankment as it curved round, steadily rising above the forest floor. The rain, heavy now, echoed among the branches with a dull and constant roar. He smiled – at least nobody would hear him approaching.

When he reached the drop where the viaduct had once stood, he halted and positioned himself in a sheltered spot, free from the worst of the rain, staring out through the glistening leaves towards the target’s house. As he waited, he kept himself moving, stretching and turning, maintaining the heat in his muscles. He hefted the wrench in his gloved hands, making sure of the grip, reminding himself of the feel of it.

The weather had settled a little but rain was still falling steadily. Surely it wouldn’t dissuade his target from coming out . . . although it might mean that he’d be walking faster, hurrying along to get out of the downpour as quickly as possible. Still, even if he was, he’d probably slow down again here, under the relative shelter of the trees. Either way, Naysmith was prepared. And he’d have two opportunities – once on the journey to the pub, and once on the journey home.

He glanced at his watch. It wouldn’t be long now.

His mind went to the man he was hunting. How strange, for someone to be approaching their final moment, and not to realise it. The target’s life, counting down through those last minutes, as it came to a premature climax. It would have been compelling just to observe, but the sense of holding that life in his hands was simply staggering. The power of life and death. And he had the strength to use it, to turn potential into reality. To overcome the barriers and break the most fundamental human law. And to do it all without ever getting caught. The only rules that applied to him were those he set himself to heighten the challenge.

Drops of water trickled down his neck, making him shiver, but he ignored them. All that mattered was staying supple and watching the road. He twisted his upper body left then right, stretching the muscles.

And then he spotted something. There in the distance . . . movement. Was it his target?

He stepped over to the very edge of the precipice, leaning forward, straining to see, but it was impossible to be sure. Should he wait? No, he had to get closer, had to make certain.

Grasping the wrench, he scrambled down the sheltered side of the embankment, moving carefully on the slippery grass and leaves, until he reached the base of the slope. Moving as quickly as he dared, he crept down through the trees and crossed the narrow river at a shallow point, all the time picturing where the target was, visualising his progress towards the trees.

Scrambling up the bank beside the road, Naysmith tucked himself in behind the large brick-faced pilings and took a breath. Nothing could be heard above the splash of rain in the river, so he peered cautiously around the edge of the brickwork.

A dark figure was hurrying along towards him, wrapped in a flapping overcoat, a black umbrella held aloft against the weather. It was the target all right. That portly shape, the slight waddle as he tried to move quickly, the same height. There was no doubt.

Naysmith looked up and down the road. No traffic. No other people in sight. This was the time to do it.

His pulse was racing now. He waited, pressed against the wet bricks, until the man hurried past his hiding place, then slipped out from the shadows and vaulted the fence. The wrench, held in his left hand to confuse the forensics people, glistened in the gloom. The figure was just yards ahead but he had to move fast, do it now before they got out of the trees. Rushing forward, running on tiptoes to deaden any sound, he raised the wrench and, as he reached the target, swung it round, under the umbrella and into the side of the man’s head.

That sound. The dull, grating thud of metal on bone.

The man’s legs buckled under him from the first blow, but Naysmith struck again immediately, bringing the wrench down hard before he fell. The umbrella skittered across the wet tarmac as the figure collapsed to the pavement. The first blow was rarely fatal, usually just fracturing the skull. It was the second or third that killed. He gazed down at the twitching figure on the pavement, then swung the wrench down hard once more. And in that moment, he felt it – felt the terrible give as the side of the head caved in under the impact, felt the life at his feet blink out and cease, felt the unbelievable rush of power surge through him. He controlled life itself.

When he came to himself, he found that he was shaking. The dreadful thrill of ecstasy coursed through him as he straightened up, and looked around. He had to keep to his plan, had to get the body off the road.

Dropping the wrench, he stooped to grab the man’s feet, pulling him across to the edge of the pavement. Euphoric, his pulse thumping in his ears, he lifted the body with surprising ease, tipping it over the fence to fall into the grass. Turning, he went back and gathered up the wrench and the umbrella, eyes sweeping the road for anything else he’d missed. Then, he climbed over the fence and half rolled, half dragged the body down the bank, trying not to look when the misshapen head turned face up.

Hidden behind the brick piling, he knelt beside his victim and carefully went through his pockets. Coins, wallet, house keys . . . there was very little to work with. But then, from the depths of the man’s inside jacket pocket, he drew out a mobile phone.

Naysmith smiled. He pulled the silver MP3 player out of the white envelope. Placing it in the man’s jacket, he took the phone and slipped it into the envelope.

The noise of an approaching car made him freeze, and he flattened himself on the ground beside the corpse. Headlights raked through the trees, lighting up the rain as the vehicle passed, but it didn’t slow. Nobody had seen anything.

Naysmith raised himself up slowly. Jamming the envelope into his pocket, he tipped the body so that it rolled over into the river, mercifully face down in the dark water. He collapsed the umbrella and threw it in too, before retrieving the wrench. With a final check to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind, he leapt across the river and strode up the sloping side of the railway embankment.

And now he allowed himself to feel it, to bask in it – the uncontrollable excitement inside that made him want to scream out and punch the air. He stalked on through the storm, no longer aware of the wind or the rain, laughter echoing as he passed under the arched bridge and disappeared into the darkness.

24

Thursday, 9 August

Harland stepped off the uneven pavement and looked up at the trees. There was no sound except the gentle rustling of the leaves above him as he stood, lost in thought, on the quiet country lane. The scent of grass came to him on the warm air and he closed his eyes, enjoying the moment of peace.

They had been due a bit of luck. Days had stretched into weeks with nothing to show for their efforts, just one dead end after another. But this was more than just luck – this was a proper, old-fashioned hunch that had paid off. It had been Mendel who first asked the question: if Vicky regularly went out running, wasn’t there a chance that she might have had an iPod, or something, to listen to music?

‘Spend a lot of time watching young women jogging?’ Pope had teased, and they’d all laughed, seizing any opportunity to lighten the mood that could otherwise become unbearable. But Mendel’s idea was a good one. They’d gone back through the list of names, spoken to her family and friends and discreetly poked around.

Yes, poor Vicky loved her music, and come to think of it she had got herself one of those new MP3 players, a little silver one. No, nobody knew where it was now.

It hadn’t seemed like much, but it was a new lead to follow. There was a chance that Vicky had been wearing her music player when she met her killer, and a chance that the killer had taken it. But it might just as easily have been swept away by the tides, if it had ever been there at all.

‘It’s a possibility,’ Blake had shrugged when Harland told him. ‘But I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you, Graham. This business is shaping up to be a lot worse than we first imagined. We mustn’t allow ourselves to get distracted from the evidence we already have, and we need to be sure that the other forces are all pulling their weight.’

Harland had been angry when he left the Superintendent’s office. Stalking out into the corridor, he’d stood there, shaking, struggling to shrug off the rage that gripped him. The man was a fool. He’d made his way down the stairs and out of the building to stand in a sheltered corner, his phone already in his hand. Drawing heavily on a cigarette, he’d called Mendel and told him to pull up any mentions of silver MP3 players on the database. Blake could go to hell.

It had taken Mendel some time. Searching for a commonplace item was never easy, and in this case there was still some uncertainty over the exact make and colour of the device. With so many unrelated pieces of evidence obscuring the one they were hoping to find, there was no guarantee that they’d turn up anything.

But Mendel had been smiling when he put his head round Harland’s door.

‘Got a minute?’ he asked.

Harland beckoned him in.

‘You look cheerful,’ he said. ‘What’s brought that on?’

‘I found something I think you’re going to like.’ Mendel eased himself into a chair and gazed across the desk at Harland. ‘Vicky Sutherland’s missing MP3 player – it was a small, silver one, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, there are over a thousand possible matches for that on the database, but I had a bit of a think.’ He leaned forward. ‘We’re looking for something that’s turned up in the weeks since she was killed, and that narrowed it down quite a bit.’

‘What did you find?’ Harland asked.

‘I found a guy called Morris Eddings,’ Mendel said. ‘He’s a sixty-one-year-old university lecturer, killed near his home in some picture-postcard Hampshire village. Guess what he had in his jacket pocket.’

Harland nodded thoughtfully.

‘Can we be sure it wasn’t his own MP3 player?’ he asked.

Mendel shrugged and spread his large hands wide.

‘Too early to say anything for sure – this only just turned up and I thought I’d loop you in right away.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘Seems a bit out of character though – some old duffer in the counties with a slinky little MP3 in his jacket.’

‘It does,’ Harland nodded. ‘If we can get our hands on the device, we should be able to establish the ownership one way or another.’

‘We could just check the tracks.’ Mendel grinned. ‘If it’s all R&B then it probably didn’t belong to our lecturer.’

‘Bad taste isn’t exclusive to the young,’ Harland smiled. ‘When did this one die?’

‘Last month. The Hampshire lot are still pretty warm on it, but they haven’t turned anything up yet. So far there seems to be no obvious motive. Sound familiar?’

‘Too familiar,’ Harland sighed. ‘Where did it happen again?’

‘I’ll send you the reports but it was some little village near Winchester. West Meon I think it was.’

He’d stood up and made his way to the door.

‘Picturesque little place by all accounts. Very Agatha Christie.’

And it was. The main street meandered left and right between rustic houses on a wooded slope in the Meon Valley, a charming muddle of thatched roofs and old flint walls draped with colourful bushes. There were pavements that suddenly disappeared where the road grew narrow, five-bar gates across gravel driveways, and hanging baskets everywhere. Harland had turned down a quiet lane, past the old butcher’s shop with its hand-painted sign and the tiny village Post Office. He’d parked just beyond the victim’s house and walked back along the lane. There was a small ‘For Sale’ board outside the place now – the only visible reminder of what had happened. How long would the house lie empty?

Now he stood on the narrow pavement, further along the lane, looking down at the bend in the stream where Morris Eddings had been dumped. They were still hunting down the missing MP3 player, but just being here convinced him that this was the work of the same killer. Once again, just as he’d felt in Oxford, he was struck by how good a spot this was for an attack.

There was water nearby, and the body had been left partly submerged, greatly compromising any evidence that the forensics team might otherwise have been able to retrieve. The location was secluded – a sheltered dip beside the stream would be ideal for a killer who needed time to go through his victim’s pockets. And there were plenty of different ways in and out of the place. The lane itself was an obvious choice, but Harland had seen signposts for footpaths that struck out through the trees, or the killer could simply have followed the course of the stream.

Thoughtfully, he clambered over the fence and picked his way down towards the bank. This was where it had happened. Just a few yards away – not that far to drag the body but it would have required a bit of physical strength to get the deadweight over the fence. A few moments’ respite – plenty of time to exchange souvenirs – and then just roll the remains into the water.

Harland closed his eyes. He could see the photos in his mind – the same stream that lay in front of him, only now there was a body sprawled in it, the back of a broken head gleaming wetly above the dark water . . .

His mobile was ringing.

Opening his eyes, he took the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. It was Mendel.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me. Can you talk?’

‘Yeah, just taking a walk in the country,’ Harland said. ‘What is it?’

‘We just had a call from Hampshire Police,’ Mendel replied. ‘They managed to track down that MP3 player – it was in a box of stuff they’d sent on to Eddings’ sister.’

Harland nodded to himself.

‘That’s good. Once we have that, we’ll know if Eddings is another link in the chain.’

‘Thought you’d like to know,’ Mendel said. ‘Anyway, sorry to bother you on your day off.’

‘It’s okay – I wasn’t doing anything.’ Harland gazed down at the stream. ‘See you tomorrow.’

He slipped the phone into his pocket again, then turned and made his way back up the slope.