Текст книги "Eye Contact"

Автор книги: Fergus McNeill

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

36

Thursday, 30 August

He was awake, the last tendrils of sleep still curling around him as he felt the comfort of the pillow against his face. Sighing softly, Harland lay for a moment, eyes closed, enjoying that blissful uncertainty on the edge of wakefulness, relaxing as though about to drift back into nothing.

Somehow, this was different. Through his eyelids, he became vaguely aware of something that bothered him. It seemed bright, much brighter than usual . . .

His eyes flickered open, and just as suddenly snapped shut, his mind recoiling from the sunlight that glared in at him. Mind rushing, he fumbled blindly for his watch, then screwed up his eyes as he tried to make out the figures.

Ten past eight! Shit!

He had slept in, badly! Jerking up into a sitting position, he swung his legs over the edge of the sofa bed, his heels thudding down onto the carpet. Bracing himself, standing up, swaying unsteadily. How could he have slept so late? Everything was wrong . . .

And then he remembered, understood, and crumpled down to sit, hunched over, his eyes closed against the morning light as he waited for his pulse to slow down again.

There would be no work for him this morning. Blake’s suggestion that he take some time off had been non-negotiable, and with nothing to get out of bed for in the past few days, he’d found himself staying up later and later into the night, hiding from the painful descent into sleep. It was those transitions that he feared the most, when he felt most vulnerable: that point in the darkness when he had to surrender all distraction and wait for oblivion to find him, and the other evil moment, when the peace of sleep was torn away and bad memories were rubbed in the wound.

Swearing softly, he cupped his face in his hands for a moment, then slowly sat up straight. He daren’t lie down again now. Eyes red, he shakily got to his feet and stumbled through to the kitchen in search of coffee. Pausing at the doorway, listening to the overpowering silence of the house, he knew that he had to get out today – no more excuses.

He drove without purpose, just letting the flow of traffic take him where it would. Passing through Bedminster, he gazed out at the colourless buildings, everything dull despite the sunlight. People with bleak expressions stared at him from the pavements, and nobody cared.

He hadn’t been suspended – not yet anyway – but things were going badly. The Superintendent had wanted him to deliver a quick win, but the Severn Beach case had unravelled into a serial murder investigation that would taint everyone associated with it. And then, on top of it all, there was his encounter with Pope. It was difficult to say just how bad things were, but they would certainly get worse. Blake disliked a fuss, so he wouldn’t be obvious or hasty. But he would remember, and sooner or later he would respond with vengeful subtlety. And when it came, Harland would know that he had brought it all on himself.

Pope. If only he hadn’t lost it with fucking Pope.

He sighed.

The city slid away behind him but the road stretched on, winding between the reservoirs and out into the undulating countryside beyond. The white sun glared off the tarmac as he coasted up another hill, the gentle rise and fall of the road strangely hypnotic.

He found himself skirting the edge of Bristol Airport, the endless perimeter fence following the road as it swept round in a long arc. A plane passed low overhead, very close against the bright blue sky, seeming to move slowly despite the roar of its engines. He leaned forward, staring up at it through the windscreen, wishing that he could be up there, flying somewhere far away . . . anywhere but here.

And then, suddenly, he knew where he was going.

As he followed the road down through Redhill, he could feel the cold knot in his stomach, that sense of grim inevitability chilling him despite the warmth of the sunlight through the windows. It had looked very different, that night all those months ago. He hadn’t passed this way since.

The houses gave way to open countryside as the road levelled out and he drove on, forcing himself to concentrate on the landmarks – the hotel, the bend at the bottom of the hill, the little bridge, the lone dead tree – familiar images that he’d buried deep but could never forget. It wasn’t far now, along here somewhere . . . The road was climbing again, cutting across the fields towards the crest of a long hill. There was a little lane on the right . . .

. . . and then the blind summit, where the road swept round to the right, with a junction on the left. This was the place, the turning signposted to Burrington. The very name chilled him, though he’d never been there, had no idea what it was like.

He pulled off the main road and drove a short distance down the lane, slowing to a stop beside a narrow grass verge. What the hell was he doing here? He sat for a moment, rocking gently back and forth in his seat, wrestling with the urge to drive away, but he knew that he couldn’t. Taking a deep breath, he switched off the engine and felt the dreadful silence flood in around him. A reluctant figure, he got out of the car and began to walk slowly back towards the junction.

It had been very different that night. The cold glow of blue lights, normally so familiar to him as a police officer, suddenly took on an ominous aspect. Was that how they looked to normal people?

He wasn’t sure where he’d parked – probably up on the main road somewhere – and he hadn’t been walking, he’d been running.

But he’d been too late.

Another officer had seen him running through the glare of the headlights, had rushed forward to intercept him, strong arms folding round him in a dreadful embrace from which he couldn’t break free. Together with a paramedic, they’d managed to keep him back from the tangle of metal, illuminated under the harsh glare of the fire-engine lights. Their restraint had eased when he’d identified himself as a fellow police officer, then tightened as he told them why he was here. He couldn’t make out the words they said to him then – too many voices speaking at the same time – but he remembered their faces, the first time he saw that painful sympathy that would become so familiar in the days to follow.

He struggled, but there were too many of them, and he was suddenly so very tired.

‘That’s my wife’s car,’ he’d howled, arms outstretched as they pulled him backwards into the gloom. ‘Alice!’

37

Monday, 3 September

Naysmith woke and slowly opened his eyes. The sheets felt stiff as he turned over and focused on the bright blue digits of the hotel alarm clock glowing in the darkness beside him: 6.07 a.m. He let his head sink back into the pillow, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep again now. Rolling onto his back, he yawned and gazed up at the ceiling. What had woken him so early?

The bed wasn’t particularly comfortable, but he savoured the warmth for a moment more before propping himself up and slipping a foot out from under the covers. Hotel carpets all felt the same. He yawned again as he sat on the edge of the mattress and wearily stood up, shivering a little as the cool air touched his naked skin. Wandering over to the window, he pulled the heavy curtains aside and reached out to put his hand on the cold glass. The foredawn sky was still quite dark, tinged with a faint glow on the horizon. Before him, the long, thin basin of Heron Quays stretched away towards the distant Millennium Dome and its illuminated pylons. To his left, the towering skyscrapers of Canary Wharf stood like a line of sheer glass cliffs, looming high above him, the reflection of their lights glittering in the water below. An expanse of buildings divided by narrow waterways, like some futuristic Venetian landscape overtaken by steel and mirrored windows. It was strangely beautiful and he stood for some time, watching the still-quiet city as it slowly began to stir and the glow on the horizon grew almost imperceptibly brighter.

The lobby was still quiet when he came downstairs, and the vacant-eyed staff didn’t acknowledge his presence. He’d tasted the hotel coffee last night and wasn’t about to repeat the mistake, but he remembered there was a Starbucks in the mall under Canary Wharf – it wasn’t too far and the walk would clear his head. As he went down the broad carpeted steps and out onto the street, the air felt cold, but a few minutes later he was warming up as he turned off the road and took a short cut through a private car park. A train rumbled slowly overhead as he passed under the elevated track and on to the footpath that ran along the edge of the water. It was peaceful here, with nobody around save for a lone fisherman perched on one of the old steel moorings beside a ‘Fishing Prohibited’ sign. Naysmith smiled, but his eyes were drawn by habit to the CCTV camera overlooking the path. It was the third one he’d seen since leaving the hotel. That familiar restlessness was growing inside him once again, but he didn’t want to think about it yet.

Not now, not so soon.

His shoes echoed with a soft metallic ring as he made his way over the suspended steel footbridge that arced across to the far side of the quay, where the first commuters were making their way to work, dwarfed by the towering office blocks. Little people, inconsequential people, hurrying along unaware of who was walking beside them. He smiled for a moment, despite himself, then shook his head.

Coffee. He was just going for some coffee.

Walking into Canada Square, he gazed up at the skyscraper before him, its pinnacle nearly scratching the cloud cover, red lights on each corner blinking against the dull grey sky. A steady stream of people poured out of the tube station entrance on his right – so many tailored suits and big watches, so much macho posturing . . . and yet he could almost smell the fear on some of them. This was no place for the weak.

There was already a queue in Starbucks when he arrived. Waiting in line behind a middle-aged woman with a sour face and an expensive coat he gazed out at the concourse, watching people pass by. So many powerless lives, drifting blindly until chance brought them into his path. It could be any one of them . . .

‘Let me have a large hazelnut latte.’ The woman in front of him had a scornful tone, and lacked the courtesy to say ‘please’. He stared at the back of her head, at her dry, bleached hair, with slight regret. It was tempting, but he knew he couldn’t choose his targets – to do so would be to break the rules of the game.

When it was his turn, he thanked the attractive Asian girl who served him and was rewarded with a friendly smile. Taking his drink, he made his way through into the brightly lit mall and wandered along between the still-closed shops.

Sometimes he resented the thoughts that rose, unbidden, in his mind. So compelling, so dominant that they drove out everything else. Sometimes he almost wished things had been different, all those long years ago, and that his life might have followed a less turbulent path, an easier path. So many victims, their lives suddenly able to play out, uninterrupted. Altered fates and different histories, all because of him. And he might have been one of them, one of the little people, free to drift through their insignificant little lives.

But that wouldn’t have been his life. He wouldn’t be the person he was now, without those experiences. This life, this extraordinary existence, was his and he could not – would not – hide from it.

He took the escalator up to the DLR station platform, emerging into thin daylight under the high glass-canopied roof. The conference he was attending ran for the whole week at the ExCeL Centre, but there were no direct trains from here – he would have to change at Poplar.

As he stood there, gazing out along the tracks, he could feel the anticipation growing, but he pushed the thought away once more.

Not yet . . .

He watched the train as it crept into the station, got on board and found a seat by the window, then stared out through his own reflection as they emerged from the forest of skyscrapers to trundle out above the water and building sites beyond. Canary Wharf was surrounded by an expanding swathe of redevelopment, like a smouldering fire slowly consuming everything around it.

And as he gazed across the changing cityscape, the idea began to take shape. A new challenge, something to make his week in London more meaningful, more exciting.

This time, he wouldn’t find the target – he would let the target find him. He wasn’t exactly in a rush, and there was plenty of time before his first appointment at the conference. Yes, this could work very well. The next station was Poplar, where he had to change trains anyway. He would get off there and wait on the station platform. The first person to make eye contact would be the one. It would be perfectly random, and acquiring a target there could lead to an extremely intriguing game.

The train bumped slowly round a turn in the elevated track before sweeping down into the little station. As it slowed, Naysmith got calmly to his feet and moved towards the doors. He stepped out of the carriage into the cool morning air of the exposed platform, allowing his gaze to be drawn up to the impressive view of Canary Wharf in front of him. Tiny aircraft warning lights blinked on the tops of the buildings, and a ribbon of steam trailed out from the pinnacle of the tallest tower, fading gently into the overcast sky.

Behind him the carriage doors hissed shut, and the train slipped away with a resonant electric hum.

Slowly, he lowered his eyes from the office blocks and turned his head to look along the platform. Several people stood waiting under the long glass roof, morning commuters staring into space while they waited for their trains. One or two had got off here as he had – a red-headed woman in her twenties with a short denim jacket and a leopard-print bag, a black businessman in a nicely cut suit listening to his iPod – others were coming down the steps from the footbridge at the other end of the station.

An older man was walking towards him – a security guard by the look of him, with the standard-issue shirt and tie, a badge stitched onto his jacket and a battered rucksack slung over one shoulder. Would he be the one?

Naysmith watched him intently as he approached but the man passed behind him without ever looking up.

A girl with a tight woollen jumper and skinny jeans made her way hesitantly down the steps, paused to study a poster on the inside of the shelter, then meandered on along the platform. She carried a heavy bag and slowed as she approached – just a few yards between them now. Her long dark hair was gathered up in a large clip, and she wore a lot of costume jewellery. If she would just look up . . .

. . . but she didn’t.

He waited there as another train arrived, passengers got on, new arrivals got off. His searching eyes moved from face to face, but nobody looked up, nobody met his gaze. Taking a sip from his half-empty coffee cup, he found that it was getting cold.

Another train, another set of people, but still nothing.

He frowned as he stood there, rocking from one foot to the other, jamming his hands down into his pockets as a chill breeze gusted along the exposed platform. This was East London. People didn’t make eye contact lightly around here.

He sighed and looked out along the tracks at the distant grey cityscape and the thin morning sun, ghostly behind the clouds. Perhaps this wasn’t going to work out as well as he’d thought. The lights of another city-bound train approached and he turned expectantly, but it swayed and rattled across the points to slide in along the opposite platform. He bowed his head in frustration. How long was he going to have to wait on this miserable strip of concrete?

The passengers were disembarking, but they were stepping out through the doors on the far side of the train. He sighed.

And then, just as he began to think that this whole thing might have been a bad idea, his gaze flitted across one of the carriage windows.

A man was looking at him. From a seat inside the waiting train, a clean-shaven man in his early thirties stared out at him with an expression of boredom. Naysmith peered at him intently. He was slight, with a weak chin and a complexion that looked pasty under the artificial lights of the train. Lank, sandy hair was swept back across his scalp, and his eyes were small and dark. He wore a blue anorak over his shirt and tie, and sat with a brown leather case clutched to his chest. After a moment, the man seemed to become self-conscious and looked away, but the contact had been made.

He would be the one.

There was a change to the noise of the motor, and the pitch of the hum rose as the train began to move. Naysmith felt a strange exhilaration as the man looked up and stared at him again, their eyes locked until the train disappeared under the footbridge and out of the station. Would the man remember him if they saw each other again? He’d certainly been aware that he was being studied . . .

. . . which meant this hunt would have to be undertaken with considerably more care than usual. Good!

Naysmith glanced up at the time on the electronic information board above him: 8.27 a.m. A twenty-four-hour head start, and a week-long conference before he had to go back home to Wiltshire. In every sense, the clock was ticking.

38

Monday, 3 September

‘Can I get you anything else?’ The waitress was a tall woman with long blonde hair that shimmered as she moved. She wore a high-collared white shirt and a satin waistcoat with black trousers.

Naysmith looked up at her.

‘Just the bill, please.’

He watched her as she walked away across the polished wooden floor, admiring the lithe tone of her body that her outfit was unable to conceal, then turned back to the balding man who sat opposite him.

‘You would, though, wouldn’t you?’ said the man, in a light Welsh accent. He adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses and inclined his head towards the receding waitress with an eager grin.

Naysmith smiled. ‘Somehow I don’t think you’re her type, Ken.’

It had been ages since he’d seen Ken. Slightly thinner on top, slightly heavier around the middle, but still good company. They’d worked together for three years at TTC – just long enough to secure their stock options and get out. Naysmith had moved to Winterhill and Ken, after some enforced gardening leave, had joined one of TTC’s largest competitors. Today, they’d met by chance at the conference and spent an enjoyable evening talking shop, and running up a tab on Ken’s corporate credit card.

‘Anyway,’ Naysmith continued, ‘you’re a married man.’

‘Not that married,’ Ken murmured, still gazing after the waitress. ‘Nobody’s that married.’

They laughed, and Ken poured out the last of the wine, then leaned across to hand a glass to Naysmith.

‘And what about you, Rob?’ he asked. ‘Still happily unencumbered?’

‘I’m sort of living with someone now.’

‘Really?’ Ken raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’d put up with a rascal like you?’

‘I don’t know if you ever met her. Her name’s Kim.’

‘Not that little dark-haired one you brought along to the last Christmas party at TTC?’

‘Yes, that’s her.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Ken said slowly, leaning back in his chair. ‘You’ve fallen on your feet there, boy.’

‘Yes,’ Naysmith nodded thoughtfully. ‘I suppose I have.’

The waitress reappeared and placed a small leather bill folder on the table.

‘My treat,’ Ken beamed, sweeping up the folder and handing it with his card to the waitress.

‘If you insist,’ Naysmith shrugged, putting his wallet away. ‘I’ll get the next one.’

Ken nodded as he took the credit-card machine, squinted at it through his glasses, then entered his details.

‘You’re still down in Hampshire or wherever it was?’

‘Wiltshire. A couple of miles from Salisbury.’

‘That’s right, I remember now. Charming place, Salisbury. Stonehenge, druids, that sort of thing . . .’

He handed the machine back to the waitress and grinned at her.

‘Thank you,’ she said with a slight nod, then handed him his card and receipt. ‘Have a good evening, gentlemen.’

Ken folded the receipt as he watched her walk away.

‘Did you see that?’ he sighed. ‘A twenty-quid tip and not so much as a smile from her.’

‘You’ve still got it,’ Naysmith laughed, getting to his feet.

‘I should’ve let you pay,’ Ken muttered.

A squall of wind caught them as they walked down the steps from the restaurant, but an evening of drinking had numbed them to the chill night air.

‘Where are you staying?’ Naysmith asked as he raised his hand to hail a taxi.

‘Nice little boutique place on Threadneedle Street, just round the corner from the Gherkin.’

‘Any good?’

‘A bit quiet,’ Ken shrugged. ‘First-class breakfast, mind you.’

Across the street, a black cab with its light on had slowed. As a gap in the traffic opened, it executed a tight U-turn and pulled in at the kerb beside them. Naysmith reached out and held the door open.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I can drop you on my way – I’m out by Canary Wharf.’

They told the cabbie where they were going, then settled back into the broad rear seat and gazed out at the bright shopfronts as the taxi set off. Crackling snatches of conversation and static drifted through the hatch from the driver’s radio.

‘So are you happy at Winterhill?’ It was an abrupt question, but Ken had always been the master of the surprise attack.

‘Yes.’ Naysmith shot him a quizzical look. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t sound like it’s stretching you,’ the Welshman explained. ‘You were always one for a challenge, that’s all.’

‘There’re plenty of challenges . . . if you know where to look.’

Ken nodded, studying him.

‘So you’re enjoying it there?’

Naysmith thought for a moment.

‘It gives me freedom, and that suits me just now.’ He relaxed into his seat, tilting his head back, then grinned over at his former colleague. ‘Why, are you going to make me an offer I can’t refuse?’

‘Well, what could be better than working with me?’ Ken winked at him. ‘Just like old times, eh? Dream ticket and all that . . .’

Naysmith laughed.

‘I’m flattered,’ he said, ‘but I’m not sure this is the right time for me to move. Ask me again in a few months.’

‘The offer might not be there.’ Ken shook his head in mock seriousness. ‘Hell hath no fury, and so forth . . .’

They drove on into the financial district, where the cars were less frequent but more expensive. A white Ferrari pulled up beside them at a junction, then sped away with a roar when the lights turned green.

‘Tell me that wasn’t what tonight was all about . . .’ Naysmith left the question hanging.

‘Not at all, not at all.’ Ken smiled, then leaned over conspiratorially, making the vinyl seat cover creak. ‘I was really hoping to get some decent client leads off you, but you’ve been a cagey so-and-so even after three bottles of vino collapso.’

They laughed as the taxi pulled up outside the small hotel.

‘You never change, Ken.’

‘Neither do you.’ Hunching over, he struggled out onto the pavement, then straightened up and adjusted his spectacles with a grin. ‘You need a challenge, you do.’

Naysmith smiled back.

‘I’ll try and keep busy,’ he said, softly.

The city slid by, bathed in the lonely orange glow of street lights and illuminated signs. Knots of people drifted like eddies in the current, silhouettes against the glaring shop windows as the taxi paused then sped on again.

Naysmith held up his watch so that it was lit by the headlights of the car behind them: 11.07 p.m. Just over nine hours until he could begin what promised to be an interesting game. The conference meant he’d be in London until the end of the week and he wondered how far he might progress things in that time . . . Crucially, would he be able to find his target again by Friday?

The taxi rattled along a sweeping curve, then finally slowed as it turned in to stop just outside his hotel, the engine idling.

‘Here you are,’ the cabbie called over his shoulder, stopping the meter. Naysmith sat forward in his seat and was just reaching for his wallet when he felt the vibration of his phone in his jacket pocket. Frowning, he took it out, saw Kim’s name on the screen and busied the call. He always felt it rude to answer the phone when you were dealing with someone else.

Once he’d fished out his wallet, he paid the fare, folded the receipt into his pocket and clambered out. The taxi drove noisily away, leaving Naysmith at the foot of the carpeted steps, bathed in light that spilled from the glass doors.

Yawning, he made his way into the foyer, his phone pressed to his ear. Kim sounded odd when she answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi. Sorry about that, I was just getting out of a cab.’

There was a pause.

‘Where are you now?’ she asked, quietly.

‘Back at the hotel. Just heading up to the room now,’ he replied.

What was the matter with her? Was she tired? It wasn’t really that late.

‘Okay.’

Another pause.

‘Are you alone?’ she asked.

Naysmith stopped at the foot of the stairs and leaned back wearily against the wall. Demons of suspicion took his place when he left her by herself.

‘Of course I’m alone,’ he sighed. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean anyway?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Don’t start this, Kim,’ he warned her. ‘I’ve been at the conference all bloody day and catching up with Ken from TTC this evening. Just him and me, in a restaurant, talking about work. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

She sounded as though she was beginning to believe him. And this time, it was actually the truth, for heaven’s sake.

‘And I busied the phone because I was paying the taxi driver. Really, you’re being paranoid.’

She began babbling out an awkward apology. Once they started apologising, you knew that going on the offensive had worked, that you had them where you wanted them.

‘It’s okay,’ he hushed her. This was really the time to press his advantage, to make her feel so foolish that she wouldn’t dare question him again. And yet he found that he didn’t want to do that. Not to her. He imagined her huddled in the corner of the living-room sofa, her feet tucked under her as she cradled the phone, strands of hair falling across her anxious face. No, not to her.

Changing the subject now would let her off the hook completely.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘while we were out Ken offered me a job.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. We worked well together before, so it makes sense for him.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘I told him I’d think about it,’ he lied, patiently.

‘Oh Rob,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sorry about everything. Sometimes I just get worried about things, you know?’

‘All you have to do is trust me,’ he told her. ‘Everything else will work itself out.’

There was a steady drizzle the next morning. Naysmith sat on a cold metal bench and gazed along the station platform, his mood as bleak as the grey sky overhead. It had seemed quite simple in theory, but the reality was different – it was almost impossible to spot someone if you didn’t know which train they were going to be on.

He’d only been at Poplar for twenty minutes or so, but already it was enough to convince him that he wouldn’t find the sandy-haired man today. Naturally, he’d not started looking until 8.27 a.m. – the twenty-four-hour grace period was sacrosanct – and if the target had travelled by an earlier train they would have missed each other.

Nevertheless, it seemed unlikely that he’d locate him this way. The DLR trains were short and reasonably well lit, but it was still difficult to see exactly who was inside each carriage. He’d tried standing towards the end of the platform, so that the length of the train had to move past him as it entered the station, but it was no good. The windows whipped by too quickly, people were moving around inside and, worst of all, he could only really see the passengers sitting on his side of the train. It simply wouldn’t work.

He sat back and rubbed the sleep from his eyes – too much wine with Ken last night. Stifling a yawn, he stretched and gazed out at the overcast city. If he was going to find the target, his best chance would be to spot him while he was on a platform, either before he got on his train, or after he got off.

He stood up and wandered over to study a large route map on the wall behind the seats. His finger traced along the blue-green DLR line until he found Poplar, where they’d first made eye contact. The train had been heading into the city, so the target would have got on somewhere before that. But where? There were two different routes leading in from East London, and an awful lot of stations to cover . . .

Frowning, he looked across to see where the train went after Poplar. There were just five possible stations, and two of them were main terminus points – significantly better odds.

There was really nothing more he could do until tomorrow morning – he might as well head over to the conference and get some breakfast. Yawning, he turned and made his way across to the opposite platform to await his train.