Текст книги "Eye Contact"

Автор книги: Fergus McNeill

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

28

Monday, 20 August

It was becoming intolerable. No matter what he did, Harland could feel the sand draining from the hourglass. In the days since the Superintendent’s veiled ultimatum, they’d gone over things again and again, but turning up leads wasn’t something you could hurry. The momentum was slipping away, and it wouldn’t be long before Blake would smoothly pass the buck to Hampshire and quietly reassign everyone.

They needed something tangible, something to keep the investigation alive, but this killer wasn’t stupid. He didn’t seem to have made any mistakes at all – there was nothing but a single souvenir connecting one victim to the next.

Harland considered this as he walked into the station kitchen, mug in hand. He switched on the kettle, then paused.

Those souvenirs weren’t mistakes, they were deliberate. Some killers were compelled to take things from their victims as mementos, or trophies. But this one wasn’t keeping his souvenirs. They were subtle markers – the faint initials of the artist on the back of a painting – just enough to prove whose work it was if you knew what you were looking for, nothing more. Their presence spoke of arrogance, a desire for recognition, but tempered by caution and an absolute determination not to be caught.

Pouring water into his mug, Harland shook his head. Real mistakes, if any ever came, would be few and far between. Unless they were focused – properly focused on the case – they wouldn’t spot them.

He took a spoon from the cutlery drawer and slammed it shut hard.

So frustrating . . .

The worst part was that it didn’t have to be this way. But politics and sheer bloody incompetence would drag them down, no matter how desperately they wanted a result. Blake was certainly a glory hunter, but he was much more interested in avoiding any negative PR. Pope was an idiot who would take the shortest route he could to suck up to the Superintendent, neither of them knowing or caring who he trampled over on the way. Between the two of them, what chance did he have?

Bastards.

He stirred his drink and tossed the spoon, clattering, into the sink.

And it wasn’t just Pope who’d acted incompetently. He shook his head as he remembered his own outburst in the meeting, how he’d taken his chance to reason with Blake and thrown it away.

No, it didn’t have to be this way . . . but it would be. They were just going through the motions until the whole thing was shut down.

He took a breath, then picked up his coffee and turned back towards his office. He needed a moment to think, time to clear his head. Rounding the corner into the corridor, he moved slowly, as though in a daze.

Laughter. Pope was leaning in the meeting-room doorway, smiling broadly, that irritating laugh echoing along the corridor. The smug little toad was sniggering about something as his head tilted round and their eyes met.

Harland hated him.

That pudgy, leering face and that smug grin. What was so bloody funny? The clock was ticking and all he could do was prop up a wall . . .

As they drew level, Pope nodded at him, then turned back to Josh who was coming out of the meeting room.

‘Run out of work, Pope?’ The words were out of Harland’s mouth before he could stop them, but it was a reasonable thing to say, wasn’t it? For some reason, Josh had taken one look at him then anxiously moved away, hurrying down the corridor.

‘Don’t worry—’ Pope started to drone, raising a placatory hand.

‘Don’t fucking tell me what to do!’ Harland spat. He suddenly found that he was standing with his face inches away from Pope’s.

Everything seemed to be moving slowly, and even though he could tell they were very close, it felt as if he was staring out at Pope from somewhere deep inside his head.

‘Now hang on!’ Pope was saying something, his face a blubbery frown. ‘You can’t speak to me like—’

There was a ringing crack as Harland’s mug hit the floor, splashing coffee along the wall and skirting boards. His hands were on Pope’s lapels, knuckles shining pale as he pushed the miserable little creep up against the door frame.

‘I said, don’t tell me what to do!’ Harland snarled again. He could feel Pope’s rapid breaths on his face, his piggy little eyes wide. ‘Understand?’

The adrenalin taste in his mouth, every muscle taut, ready to lash out hard . . .

And then Mendel was there, running down the corridor, his huge arms between them, prying them apart in a moment of quiet confusion. Pope remained pressed up against the wall, spluttering and pointing, as everything cleared and Harland found himself being moved back, recoiling from what had just happened.

He was shaking. Mendel was holding him, concerned eyes searching his face, speaking quiet words that he couldn’t quite latch on to.

‘Are you okay now?’

Harland stared at him for a moment, then nodded mutely.

What the hell had he done?

Pope eased himself away from the wall, drawing himself up and jabbing out an accusing finger.

‘What the fuck was that?’ he gasped, his cheeks flushing red. ‘You’re out of order, Harland, bang out of order!’

Mendel’s hands released their grip and he sagged a little. He was out of order, and he knew it. What had he done? This would mean disciplinary action for sure. Suspension, maybe worse.

‘Did you see?’ Pope’s voice was shrill now. ‘You saw what happened, didn’t you?’

Mendel spun round and raised a warning finger.

‘Nothing happened here,’ he hissed.

‘But—’

‘Nothing happened, Pope.’ His tone was absolutely serious. There would be no argument.

Pope stared at him, about to say something more, then turned his back and stomped away. A door slammed and suddenly it was just the two of them standing there.

Harland was still shaking.

Mendel looked at him carefully for a moment, then glanced down at the spilt coffee.

‘Come on,’ he said calmly. ‘Let’s get this cleaned up.’

29

Tuesday, 21 August

Harland sat back in his chair, closing his eyes for just a moment, after an hour or so of staring at the screen. An uneasy calm had settled over the station since his outburst the day before, and so far nobody had mentioned it.

At least, not to him.

He swivelled his chair a little, stretching his legs out at the side of his desk. Things had got badly out of hand, and he’d spent every hour since then expecting the call from Blake summoning him to the Superintendent’s office for that short, difficult conversation. But the call hadn’t come and now he felt rather at a loss. Pope had him on the ropes – what the hell was the little idiot waiting for?

Yawning, he turned back to his screen and tried to concentrate. Charlotte Bensk, the DI from Sussex, had put him onto the files for the Brighton murder a few weeks ago, but nothing had stood out. Khalid Ashfar’s body had been in open water, exposed to the elements far longer than the others, and was degrading badly when it was found. Personal effects might have been compromised too, and the length of time that had passed since the body was found made new witness information unlikely.

He allowed himself a wry smile. Even if he managed to hold on to his job, nothing was going to be easy on this one.

There was a brisk knock on the door and he looked up.

‘Come in.’

The door swung open and Mendel leaned in, one hand raised in greeting.

‘Morning,’ he smiled, walking over and nodding towards the screen. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘Just going over those Brighton case notes.’

‘Again?’

‘Yeah,’ Harland said, without enthusiasm.

‘Any better second time around?’ Mendel grinned.

‘It’s not exactly a page-turner, but I just want to make sure we’re not missing anything. But what that might be . . .’

‘You won’t know till you see it.’

‘Exactly,’ Harland sighed. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you?’

Mendel smiled.

‘Just stopped in to give you this.’ He placed a supermarket carrier bag on the desk between them. ‘Want to grab lunch later?’

‘Yes, that’d be good.’ Harland looked at the bag as Mendel turned back to the door. ‘One o’clock?’

‘One o’clock.’

He waited until the door closed, then leaned forward and picked up the bag. There was something moderately heavy inside, a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. Tearing away the layers, he exposed the contents and sat back for a moment, a thoughtful smile on his face.

Mendel had bought him a new mug.

Harland pulled his jacket around him as they walked down the road. It was an overcast day and Portishead was colourless and cold in the wind that blew in from the Severn. They spoke about work as they approached the pub, small talk and minor matters, not yet ready to tackle the events of the previous day. Something like that had to wait until they were indoors and free from interruptions.

‘I sometimes wonder what old Blake’s playing at,’ Mendel was saying. ‘First he’s banging on about his high-visibility policing, next thing he’s up in arms about a couple of overtime requests.’

‘It must be the budget review,’ Harland mused. ‘He always gets like that when they start showing him the numbers.’

‘Maybe they shouldn’t show him the numbers.’

‘Rather him than me.’ They paused, waiting for the traffic until they could cross the road. ‘Anyway, let him play with his spreadsheets, so long as it gets us our increase.’

‘And they say crime doesn’t pay,’ Mendel chuckled.

They found a table in the corner and sat down with their drinks.

‘Cheers,’ said Harland, raising his glass. ‘And thanks for the mug by the way.’

Mendel nodded slowly.

‘Cheers,’ he replied, taking a sip of his beer. ‘I thought you might need a new one.’

They sat in silence for an uneasy moment. Harland looked down, his fingers nudging a beer mat back and forth across the tabletop.

‘And thanks for yesterday . . . I appreciate your stepping in when you did.’

‘No problem.’

‘It was pretty bad, wasn’t it?’

‘It wasn’t good.’

Harland toyed with his drink, glancing up to find his friend watching him intently.

‘Everything okay?’ Mendel asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Sure about that?’

Harland sagged a little, then slowly shook his head.

‘It’s just been a tough spell recently,’ he sighed. ‘Sometimes it’s difficult to readjust, you know, since . . .’

Mendel looked at him for a moment and nodded.

‘Anyway,’ Harland slumped back in his chair, ‘I’ve got myself another problem now, haven’t I? It’s only a matter of time until Pope starts telling tales and I get the bullet.’

‘Maybe. But I don’t reckon they’ll do anything. Not really. You know how it works – there’ll be a lot of noise for a week or so then it’ll all be back to normal.’

‘That bloody Pope,’ Harland muttered under his breath. He sat up, shaking his head slowly. ‘You’re assuming that he’ll let it go.’

‘And you’re assuming he won’t,’ Mendel replied. ‘Come on, even an idiot like Pope knows there’s a line you don’t cross.’

‘I think you underestimate him,’ Harland frowned. ‘I think there are very few lines that little shit wouldn’t cross if it suited him.’

He picked up his drink and sipped it slowly, staring at the table thoughtfully.

‘Look at it another way then,’ said Mendel. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it now, so there’s no point in worrying about it.’

He was right of course. Harland gave his friend an ironic smile and raised his glass.

‘You’re a great comfort, Mendel.’

30

Tuesday, 21 August

Naysmith opened his eyes and blinked, slowly focusing on the unfamiliar ceiling. Soft light glowed through the tall net curtain, revealing the sleeping figure beside him, her auburn hair tangled across the pillow. He gazed at her pale shoulders, her long eyelashes, the inviting pout of her open mouth.

There was no denying that it had been a satisfying evening. He’d often thought of Michaela, speaking to her now and again in the course of his business and gently flirting with her on the phone. But now she was leaving the Merentha Group, and when another appointment took him to Bristol he’d called and invited her for dinner.

‘Really?’ She’d sounded surprised, slightly hesitant. Perhaps she was seeing someone . . .

‘Yes, really.’ It didn’t matter to him. Even if she was seeing someone, that just made her a little more challenging. ‘We can celebrate your new job, and I haven’t forgotten your promise about a jazz bar?’

‘Wow, you remembered.’ She laughed, and he knew then that she was interested.

The meal had been relaxed – there was a definite spark between them and he found himself genuinely enjoying their conversation. Her uncharacteristic shyness betrayed her attraction to him and he carefully guided their discussion so that she could talk about herself and feel good.

‘You must be excited about doing something new,’ he smiled at her.

‘Yes, it’s a complete departure for me,’ Michaela agreed. ‘I am looking forward to it, but working in a different industry will be a bit daunting. Jakob says I must be mad.’

‘I think it shows strength.’ He held her gaze, enjoying those large, dark eyes. ‘The best people always seem to rise to a challenge. Too many are afraid to take risks, afraid to try things, afraid to enjoy themselves. But you’re not afraid, are you?’

Michaela stared at him for a long moment.

‘No,’ she said, with a faint twinkle in her eye, ‘I’m not afraid.’

Naysmith smiled, raising a hand to call for the bill.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘What about that jazz place you were telling me about . . .?’

It was a perfect evening, cold and clear. Naysmith knew where they were going but feigned ignorance and let her lead him. He kept the conversation light, joking with her to make her laugh and teasing her until she gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. By the time they arrived at King Street, she was happily leaning on his arm.

The bar wasn’t great, but by this point it didn’t matter. The music was loud enough to keep them pressed close together as they talked, and the mood was relaxed.

When he eventually suggested going for a drink at his hotel, she barely hesitated and they were locked in each other’s arms as they took the lift up to his room. Over the following hours he’d been quite rough with her, but she’d responded eagerly, and it had been very late when he finally allowed her to drift off to sleep.

Now, as she dozed, Naysmith pulled the sheets back and studied her body. Her skin glowed in the morning light, and his eyes traced along the gentle curve of her back to her round bottom. Her breasts were bigger than Kim’s though not as firm . . .

He frowned as he thought of Kim. It was unusual for her to intrude on his thoughts at a moment like this. He looked at the bedside clock and wondered if she was awake yet. But he couldn’t call her just now, not with someone else lying next to him. He sighed. It had never bothered him before.

He gazed down at Michaela again, taking in her naked form, letting his growing arousal force out all other thoughts. She did have a great body, and he was eager to fuck her once more. Rolling over, he gently kissed her neck and slid a hand under the sheets to wake her.

Afterwards, breakfast was strange. He watched her as she slowly tore open a warm croissant, her long lashes beautiful as her eyes looked down at the plate . . . and he tasted the bitter sadness of disappointment. Women often lost their appeal after he’d slept with them – there was nothing unusual about that – but he’d expected more with Michaela. He’d thought about her often, seeing something compelling and interesting in her gaze, in the way she spoke, in her attitude. And yet now, across the hotel breakfast table, he suddenly knew it wouldn’t be enough. It wasn’t what he wanted.

She glanced up at him, mischievous eyes sparkling between strands of long hair. He smiled back at her, but it was an effort now, when last night it had been so natural. There was really no point prolonging things.

‘Remember I said I had an appointment in town this morning?’

She nodded as she ate.

‘Well, believe it or not, that wasn’t just a clever excuse to come and see you. I really do have an appointment this morning.’

‘Oh,’ she shrugged. ‘No problem. Who’s it with?’

The last of his desire for her evaporated. It was tiresome making up stories for Kim; he really didn’t want to have to do it for anyone else. But it wasn’t her fault, and he had no wish to hurt her feelings if he could avoid it.

‘An old friend from university,’ he lied. ‘He’s finance director for a firm of accountants over in Clifton and he wants me to meet his boss, see if there’s anything we can do for them.’

‘That’s great.’

She seemed almost satisfied with this, but he did want to let her down gently if he could.

‘I’m not sure what time I’ll be done. I could try and meet you somewhere after lunch. Maybe.’

Her mouth was still smiling but her eyes looked at him differently. It was such a pity.

‘No, that’s okay,’ she said. ‘You can give me a call later. If you like.’

She raised her coffee cup and held it there, sipping from it thoughtfully. The poor girl understood.

Naysmith wandered aimlessly along the Bristol harbourside, listening to his footsteps, feeling the cobblestones through his shoes. He took out his phone, his finger hovering over the speed dial for Kim, then scowled and put it back in his pocket.

Not now.

Gulls wheeled around the Arnolfini building as he walked over to the edge of the quay, looking out at the grey-painted cranes across the water. The city felt as though it was waiting for him, but he was at a loss. Everything had been arranged so that he could spend the whole day with Michaela – the cover story, the hotel room, everything. With her out of the picture, he suddenly had time on his hands, and he resented it.

A faint breeze touched the tree-lined waterfront, teasing through the branches so that the leaves rustled for a moment, then fell silent once more. Naysmith found an empty bench and sat down. He could make an excuse and go home, but something warned him against seeing Kim while he felt like this.

A couple of women in their sixties strolled by, towed along by an eager West Highland terrier on a long lead. One of them was pointing at something further up the street and he leaned forward to see what it was. There was a white police van there, parked by the main road, and he could just make out a couple of officers talking to a group of kids. He got to his feet and wandered towards them, but as he drew near, the group dispersed and the officers returned to their van. He watched it as it pulled around, noting the insignia as it drove past him.

Avon and Somerset Constabulary.

And suddenly he remembered that haunted face on the TV, the detective on the crime programme with the Severn Beach reconstruction. DI Harland from Avon and Somerset Constabulary. Yes, that was it.

Perhaps fate had brought him to Bristol for a reason after all.

The nearest police station to Severn Beach was at Portishead. Naysmith had looked up the address – it was only ten miles away, and he thought it might be an interesting diversion, or at least give him time to think.

Now he was parked in a quiet residential street, an open newspaper propped up on the steering wheel in front of him, but his eyes focused always on the police station a hundred yards further down at the bottom of the road – two storeys of uninspiring beige plaster and brick, tucked in behind a low wall. The entrance porch, decorated with crime prevention posters and overhung by a couple of broad trees, was clearly visible from his vantage point. Why were so many small-town civic buildings so ugly?

He’d experienced an odd thrill driving out here. The sight of the Second Severn Crossing, delicate and pale in the distance as he’d come over the hill from Bristol, had sent a shiver of excitement through him, dispelling the angst from earlier. The last time he’d seen it had been that early morning on the beach . . .

Portishead was a bleak place on an overcast day like this, its huddle of Victorian architecture and desolate sixties shops besieged by a vast sprawl of new developments. Bland industrial units, a generic retail park, a host of waterfront apartment complexes – everything seemed grey, even the people.

He sat back in his seat and rubbed his eyes for a moment. It had been a late night, but his mind was alert. DI Harland could be in there right now, just a stone’s throw from where he was sitting. The idea pleased him.

He checked his watch again. It was 12.50 p.m., which meant he’d been sitting here for nearly an hour with no activity except one uniformed officer who’d emerged and driven off in a panda car. And yet somehow it didn’t matter. The fact that this detective – this man who was hunting him – might be so close was enough.

Smiling to himself, he leaned forward and switched on the radio for some music. He would give it another hour.

The street was quiet. One or two cars had turned in from the main road, disappearing up the hill behind him, and an elderly man shuffled down from a house further up on the opposite side. Naysmith watched his progress in the mirror, fascinated by the agonisingly slow pace, willing him along. Eventually, though, the stooped pensioner passed out of sight at the bottom of the road, and there was nothing to watch but the rhythmic swaying of the trees above the police station porch.

Patience was part of the game, bargaining with yourself to sit still for sixty seconds, then another sixty, and another . . . until you’d burned away five minutes. Same again, and ten minutes were gone, then quarter of an hour. He turned the radio down and focused on the memory of that gaunt man, recalling the troubled expression he’d seen on the screen.

And then, moments later, it was all he could do not to lean forward. The door had opened and two men emerged, both wearing dark grey suits. One of them was broad, tough-looking, with a square jaw and short hair, but it was the other man who held Naysmith’s attention.

There was no mistaking that gaunt figure, that pale, drawn face. It was Harland. Naysmith exhaled, watching as the men walked out of the porch and turned away from the car park, out onto the pavement. For a heart-stopping moment he thought they might come this way, but they went down towards the main road. Where were they going?

Naysmith considered starting the engine, then decided against it. Moving quickly, he got out of the car and locked it. Folding the newspaper under his arm, he hurried towards the police station.

When he reached the junction, they had already crossed the main road, but that was fine. He preferred following people from the other side of the street, especially when it was quiet like this. They were talking as they went – the broad one was saying something and Harland was nodding – but it was too far away for him to hear what was said.

Naysmith walked carefully, measuring his pace to stay a little behind them, out of their field of vision. They were approaching a busy junction – they’d need to wait if they wanted to cross there. He took a moment to study the menu in the window of an Italian restaurant, watching the reflection in the glass to see when they’d made it over the road. Resuming his walk, he quickened his pace a little to catch up with them, a thoughtful smile on his face. How strange to be stalking someone who was hunting him.

There was a large, whitewashed pub on the corner. Harland and his companion went inside, still locked in conversation. A lunchtime pint for the boys in blue. Naysmith walked on for a short distance, pausing as if to browse in a travel agent’s window.

It was so tempting, and there was really no reason why he shouldn’t. They didn’t know who he was, didn’t know anything about him. And he’d got this close already . . . why shouldn’t he go in for a quick drink himself? He turned around and looked at the pub for a moment, then drew himself up with a deep breath.

There was nothing he couldn’t do.

Spotting a gap in the traffic, he walked briskly across the road and went inside. It was an old pub, with low ceilings and dark wood everywhere. Light from the small windows cut harsh swathes through the gloom, making it difficult to see. He blinked and walked towards the bar, forcing himself to wait, not to look around, not yet. Just an ordinary guy having a drink.

‘Yes, sir?’ The barman was in his twenties, with lank hair and an indifferent manner.

‘A pint of Stella, please.’ He wanted something that would take a moment or two to pour, something that would give him time to see where they were.

Leaning up against the bar, he glanced around idly. He was careful not to react as he spotted Harland and his friend at a table in the corner, instead picking up a lunch menu to read until the barman returned with his drink.

There was an empty table halfway between them and the door. Walking calmly, he made his way over to it, placing his glass on a beer mat before sitting down and opening his newspaper.

And listening.

‘. . . don’t reckon they’ll do anything. Not really. You know how it works – there’ll be a lot of noise for a week or so then it’ll all be back to normal.’

The broad man had a rich voice, and a slight London accent. Another officer, no doubt.

‘You’re assuming that he’ll let it go.’

There it was, that same melancholy tone from the TV. Naysmith closed his eyes and focused all his attention on their conversation.

‘And you’re assuming he won’t,’ the broad man replied. ‘Come on, even an idiot like Pope knows there’s a line you don’t cross.’

‘I think you underestimate him,’ Harland replied. ‘I think there are very few lines that little shit wouldn’t cross if it suited him.’

The conversation ceased for a moment. Naysmith opened his eyes and took a sip of his drink before turning the newspaper to stare blankly at the back page. He was glad he’d brought the paper with him – props like that hid a lot of body language, made it easier not to attract attention.

‘Look at it another way then.’ That resonant London voice again. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it now, so there’s no point in worrying about it.’

A pause, then a soft chuckle from Harland.

‘You’re a great comfort, Mendel.’

Mendel. Naysmith noted the name, wondering who was subordinate to whom, or if they were both of equal rank.

A pair of men in grey overalls came over and sat down at the table between them. Their voices were loud and Naysmith was unable to hear anything further that Harland and Mendel said. But it didn’t matter. He’d sat just feet from his adversary, close enough to hear him speak. It had been a thrilling and unexpected encounter.

He idly flipped through the pages of his paper, skimming the headlines for a moment before casually glancing across towards the corner as a mobile phone rang. Harland was fumbling in his pocket – someone was calling him. Naysmith smiled and returned his gaze to the paper. No rest for the wicked, not even at lunchtime.

He reached out a hand to take his glass when a raised voice caused him to look round.

‘Absolutely not!’ It was Harland, but this was a cold snarl that didn’t seem to fit with the man. ‘I don’t care, you just tell him to wait until . . . oh for fuck’s sake, I’ll do it myself.’

Naysmith watched as he slammed the phone on the table and muttered something to Mendel, who shook his head and put a hand on Harland’s shoulder. But the pale detective pulled away, jerking to his feet and knocking the table. A glass tipped over, spilling a puddle of beer that began to trickle onto the floor. Eyes flashing angrily, Harland wrenched himself away, knocking his chair to one side, and stormed out of the door. Mendel got wearily to his feet and went after him.

Naysmith sat for a moment, taken aback. What had just happened? What had made Harland so angry? Clearly there was an aspect to his adversary that he hadn’t anticipated.

He considered his drink, but decided to leave it. There was no reason to stay any longer and he was suddenly eager to be away from here, away from the police station, away from Portishead. He stood up, put his paper in his pocket, and walked to the door.

And then, as the door swung open before him and the bright daylight streamed through, he recognised the figure coming back in, and froze.

Shit!

Harland held the door open and stared right at him.

An irrational urge to run, to push past him and run, screamed in Naysmith’s head as the hollow eyes bored into him. It had been folly – arrogance and folly – to come here and now he was caught in the glare of the man who hunted him.

But Harland just scowled and tilted his head.

‘After you.’

The voice seemed to come from a long way away, and his legs were suddenly numb, but Naysmith forced himself to move, stepping slowly past through the doorway and almost stumbling out into the cold afternoon air.

Harland went inside, and the door closed behind him.