Текст книги "Eye Contact"

Автор книги: Fergus McNeill

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

50

Monday, 17 September

It had seemed like such a promising lead. He’d not been able to round up much manpower – he would never have got it authorised anyway – but he’d subconsciously built up his hopes on the long drive down. They were going to find something, he knew it. A solid lead now could bump the case back onto the radar again, give them a fighting chance.

And then, when he’d arrived on the scene, it had all started to come apart. He saw straight away that the online map was wrong, or at least out of date. There were two hotels on the site, not one. With only a few uniformed officers, no clear indication on where to begin searching and no suspect, he suddenly found himself wondering if he’d made a fatal mistake. Unless he turned up something good, like the missing mobile phone, he was just making it easy for Blake to get rid of him. He thought of the Superintendent’s humourless smile – ‘So sorry, Graham, but you’ve left me no other option . . .’ – and imagined Pope’s smug satisfaction when the word got out . . . it was infuriating. But there was nothing he could do about it – things had taken on a momentum of their own now and, win or lose, there was no option but to play it through to the end.

And so, standing there in the cold glow of the street lights, he’d decided to try one last, desperate gamble.

There had been no voice at the other end of the line, but he wasn’t really expecting the killer to talk back to him. Someone so clever, and so careful, wasn’t likely to reveal himself that easily. And yet, as Harland heard that first numeric tone in response to his own words, he felt sure that he was speaking to the murderer. If it was just someone who’d picked up a stolen mobile, they’d probably try to bluff their way through the conversation, or hang up immediately. But there was a dreadful curiosity in the silence at the other end – and surely that could only come from the killer.

Straining to hear better, he pressed the phone hard against his ear as he walked into a narrow alleyway at the side of the buildings, away from the distracting chatter of the other officers.

Don’t rush things . . . try to empathise with the subject . . .

All the things they’d told him about speaking to unstable people came back to him now, and he tried to infuse his voice with a steady, reasonable tone as he undertook his one-sided conversation.

Whatever happens, just don’t let him hang up . . .

‘Still there?’

Another numeric tone. Harland breathed a sigh of relief.

‘That’s good,’ he said, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘I know that the circumstances are difficult, but I really would like to understand more about what you do . . .’

I really would like to know where the hell you are . . .

‘Do you think we could do that?’

He listened intently, then clenched his fist in triumph as he heard the answering tone. The bastard wanted to communicate with him.

‘All right then,’ he began. ‘Let’s try to—’

There was a click and the line went dead.

No!

Harland stared at the handset in horror. What had just happened? Had he hung up or was there a problem on the line? He looked around, panicked, but there was nobody else near him. Trembling, he redialled the number and pressed the phone to his ear once more.

Come on, come on, ring . . .

But all he got was a number-unobtainable tone. He tried again, then once more, but it was no use. Something had happened – perhaps the killer had simply run out of battery, or perhaps he’d switched off the phone.

Shit!

As he stood there, alone in the shadows, he was struck by the appalling realisation of what he’d done. He’d ignored procedure and tried to contact the suspect directly. This might have been their best chance to find the killer and he’d rushed it like a bloody amateur. They’d hang him out to dry for this. He was screwed.

Reeling, he stepped back to lean against the wall. It was over, and this time it really was all his own stupid fault. Trembling, his free hand searched his pockets, fingers closing around a box of cigarettes. Fumbling, he jammed one between his lips and sparked his lighter. In the darkness, the flame blinded him, but the tobacco caught and he drew in a desperate wave of smoke. Eyes closed, he held it for a moment before exhaling slowly.

He was still shaking, but it wasn’t as bad now.

Bowing his head, he gripped the cigarette tightly as he wondered what the hell he was going to do.

The distant rumble of the city came to him from far away, mixed with the hum of air-conditioning units on the walls high above him. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, but he’d lit a second cigarette and was rolling it between his fingers when he heard the click. Further back along the alleyway, a door swung open. In the darkness it was hard to see, but he could just make out a figure emerging from the building to his right, carrying a holdall. Soft footsteps reached his ears, echoing off the walls. There was nothing furtive about the figure’s movement, in fact the man was coming towards him – just another weary worker heading for home at the end of a late shift. Harland relaxed, and raised the cigarette to his mouth. The figure walked calmly along the side of the hotel, a silhouette, backlit by the orange glow that filtered in from the street.

He drew on the cigarette, blowing out the smoke as he tried to clear his head, tried to think what he would do now. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the rhythm of the footsteps passing by . . .

. . . and hearing them quicken.

His eyes flickered open. The figure was just beyond him now. Harland watched with a frown, wondering for the first time where this person had come from, where he was going. And his movements seemed somehow different, not so weary now.

He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as he stepped out from the wall and peered after the man. He had to be sure.

‘Excuse me . . .’

The dark shape didn’t stop or show any sign that he’d heard as he walked on up the alley. Harland stepped forward, cold adrenalin rising in him.

‘Hey, you!’ he shouted angrily, and the retreating figure suddenly broke into a run.

A profound sense of fury exploded through Harland as he sprinted after the man. Racing to the end of the alley and around the corner, they emerged onto the broad paved walkway that led along the edge of the dock basin at the back of the two hotels. Lights from the apartment blocks on the opposite side glittered on the dark water below as his feet pounded along the pavement, his quarry no more than fifteen or twenty yards in front of him.

As he ran, Harland glanced around but there were no other officers within shouting distance, and the hotels were soon behind him. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t risk losing the man – he had to stay with him no matter what.

They raced onwards, the figure ahead of him struggling with his bag, which swung around wildly as he powered forward. They ran between the legs of the enormous black cranes that loomed along the quayside, their erect iron arms lost in the darkness above. On the left, a broad plaza stretched away, with uniform rows of ornamental trees slipping by, their thin branches eerily lit by cold blue fairy lights. The man was moving fast, but Harland was holding the distance between them. And still, he saw no one, nobody he could call out to for assistance – it was just the two of them now.

Ahead of them, flights of broad steps led up to the illuminated glass entrance of the exhibition centre, but the man kept right, following the pavement along the water’s edge.

He was making for the bridge.

It dominated the skyline before them – two boxy towers clad in metal, with a slender footbridge slung between them, high above the water. Triangular suspension struts gave the appearance of sails, and a series of red lights glowed in silent warning at the top of each mast. It was the only way across the dock.

Ahead of him, the man turned right, the bag flying out wide from his left hand as he sprinted onto the wooden-floored gangway that led to the nearest of the towers. The rhythmic impact of his footsteps seemed very loud as Harland rounded the corner and pounded onto the gangway after him, the whole structure bouncing under his feet. He was breathing hard now, legs feeling heavy, but a righteous fury carried him on. He wouldn’t let go, not this time.

At the far end of the gangway, his target ducked into the metal-clad tower and disappeared from view. Harland hurried after him, determined not to lose ground.

As he reached the open doorway, he could hear the sound of urgent footsteps echoing down through the tower from the metal steps above him. His breath was failing now, legs burning as he forced himself on, into the cramped stairwell and up the first flight of steps. Head tilted back, he looked up as he climbed, straining for a sight of the hurrying figure above him, but all he could see was a confusing maze of steel stretching up to the deck of the bridge.

At the first landing, he turned and drove himself up another flight, then another. His breathing had become ragged, the metallic echo of his feet reverberating around the enclosed space, drowning out everything else.

Yet another flight of identical steps. Surely this was near the top now. How much further could it go on?

Exhausted, he rounded what must have been the final landing, gasping for air, urging himself to go on. As his eyes flickered up, he saw the movement but by then it was too late.

Dark against the reflected fluorescent lamps, the waiting figure launched himself down from the top of the stairs, blotting out the light behind him. Harland stumbled, desperately trying to dodge to one side, but an outstretched foot caught him in the chest, smashing the last breath out of his lungs. The full weight of his attacker crashed into him, sending him tumbling backwards until his head smacked against a handrail and there was nothing more.

51

‘Ha ha, you got your shoes wet.’ Gary was looking down at him from the riverbank, and laughing. ‘You’ll be in trouble with Mum when we get home.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Shut up yourself, Robbie.’ Gary always called him Robbie, emphasising the second syllable. He hated it.

Scowling, he scrambled up from the slippery stepping stones, drained his shoes as best he could and followed his big brother along the grassy bank. They picked their way slowly along the meandering course of the river, swollen with dark water from several days of rain, before turning aside onto a faint path that led up into a stand of trees. A breath of wind sighed through the leaves overhead, making them shimmer.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘To the waterfall, stupid.’

‘All right, I was only asking.’ Why did his brother have to be so mean all the time? It was no fun with him around; he spoiled everything.

They emerged from the woods and walked down a long, grassy slope. It was quiet here – the village was far behind, and the only sound was the occasional bleating of the sheep on the side of the valley above them.

‘We can cut across here,’ Gary said, pointing towards the broad expanse of reeds and grassy hummocks that stretched out to their left.

Rob hesitated. The ground looked marshy, and he didn’t want to get muddy.

‘Can’t we go round by the path?’ he suggested.

‘What’s the matter?’ Gary sneered at him. ‘Scared? Your shoes are already messed up, and this way’s quicker.’

‘I’m not scared!’

‘Prove it then.’

Gary turned his back and walked down into the reeds. Frowning, Rob followed him. The ground felt soft at the foot of the slope but he hurried on, determined to keep up. He wasn’t scared of anything. Following Gary, he kept his eyes on where he was treading, trying to avoid getting any wetter than he already was. The long tangled grasses were thicker now, hiding the muddy ground completely, and dark water bubbled up between the mounds as his shoes pressed them down.

They were almost halfway across when Gary stumbled and swore. Rob looked up to see his brother, some twenty yards ahead of him, shaking his head in annoyance.

‘Aw, sod it!’ He turned to glance back at Rob. ‘I’ve stepped in a hole or something. The water’s gone right up over my knee.’

‘Ha!’ Rob called over to him. ‘Who’s got wet shoes now?’

‘Shut your face.’

Rob carefully picked his way forward, moving round the side of a large hummock. The ground suddenly felt very strange beneath his feet and as he paused he could feel it moving under him, as though he was walking on a giant trampoline.

‘Rob, come here.’

‘In a minute.’ The moving ground didn’t feel right at all.

‘Come here right now and help pull me out.’

Slowly, he crept forward, placing his feet carefully on the squelching reed bed. He could see Gary clearly now, just a few yards in front of him, bent as though in a crouching position, one leg buried to the thigh in the grass. There was water all around him.

‘Blimey, you’re soaked!’ Rob said, steadying himself on a mossy tuft of reeds.

‘Of course I’m soaked,’ Gary said. ‘You’re such an idiot, Robbie. Now get over here and help me.’

Rob paused.

‘What are you waiting for?’ his brother snapped. ‘Get over here now!’

He looked funny, bent over like that, water swirling up around his leg. He ought to be polite if he wanted help. Maybe even say sorry for being so horrible . . .

‘Rob!’

He looked different now, sort of worried and angry at the same time. And he’d said Rob not Robbie . . .

‘You’re nasty to me, Gary.’ He watched his brother staring up at him uncertainly. ‘Maybe you should say sorry to me . . . if you want me to help you.’

There. He’d said it. His brother might rub his face in the mud later on, but at least he’d said it.

‘Say sorry? To you?!’ Gary’s face went red and he started to say something, then tried to lunge at Rob. There was a loud bubbling as his trapped leg dragged him down and he fell sideways with a dull splash. Water sluiced around him as the ground sagged and he began to struggle, trying to get to his feet.

‘Shit! Oh shit!’ His arms slid into the water as he tried to push himself up and the floating grass gave way under his hands. ‘Help me, Rob, help me!’

And suddenly it wasn’t funny any more. Rob looked around desperately, but there was nothing to hold on to except for the reeds. Grasping a clump tightly, he leaned forward and stretched out his hand towards his floundering brother.

There was a strange sensation in his tummy, like an icy knot of excitement, as he reached out. It was an amazing feeling, to suddenly be so important. Gary was totally dependent on him at this moment, totally in his power. It felt so good . . .

And then, as he stared at his brother, he withdrew his hand a little.

‘Say sorry, Gary.’

‘What?!’

‘Say sorry.’

‘Okay, I’m sorry, whatever you bloody want,’ Gary yelled, arching his body to keep his face out of the water. ‘Now give me your fucking hand.’

He didn’t mean it.

Rob looked down on his tormentor thrashing around in the water, both legs now snared below the tangle of reeds.

He would never mean it.

Rob leaned back to the safety of the large clump of reeds and closed his eyes.

‘Please! I can’t get my legs out!’ Gary was begging now, but he’d be nasty again soon enough. ‘You’ve got to help me, Rob!’

He could get himself out.

Turning away, Rob pulled himself up and edged his way back towards the firmer ground. Behind him, he could hear Gary swearing and yelling, but with every carefully placed footstep, the noise grew a little less. He bit his lip, concentrated on where he was walking, trying to push everything else out of his mind.

He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t doing anything at all.

And then the noise behind him changed to a strange half-screaming, half-sobbing sound. It pierced him, making him pause and look over his shoulder, but the reeds hid Gary from view.

And then it stopped.

An eerie peace fell across the valley, and the only sound was the mournful sigh of the wind. For several long minutes he stood alone, listening, until a cold trembling gripped his body, forcing him to move. Turning away from the marsh, he started back towards the village.

52

Wednesday, 19 September

Stephen Jennings looked up from his monitor and watched the clock hands as they traced the last long minutes to lunchtime. It had been a dull morning, but even from his cubicle – tucked away at the very back of the office – he could see that the weather had changed and the sun had come out. Yawning, he pushed a hand through his short, sandy hair and got slowly to his feet. Reaching for the blue anorak draped over the back of his chair, he hesitated, then changed his mind. He wouldn’t need it today.

Downstairs, the reassuring rumble of the city greeted him as he pushed aside the heavy glass door and wandered down the steps onto Throgmorton Street. It was already getting busy with other office workers breaking for an early lunch, and he quickened his pace. He saw so little sunlight at his desk that he was determined to get a place by the window today.

Casa Mia was quite full, but in the end he was lucky. Finding a table where he could sit in the sun, he reserved it by folding his jacket over the chair and went to the counter to order his usual sandwich and drink.

When he returned to the table, there was a padded brown envelope sitting on it.

Frowning, he looked around, trying to identify who might have left it there, but he couldn’t see anyone. Taking his seat, he felt a flush of annoyance – this was his table, and he didn’t want to share it with anyone else.

Several minutes passed and people bustled all around, but still nobody came, nobody joined him. Curious now, he took another bite of his sandwich and casually lifted the envelope, feeling its weight in his hand. There was something inside – not too heavy, but he suddenly thought about all the terrorism warnings – what if it was a bomb?

Growing alarmed, he scraped his chair backwards, ready to stand up and move away from the sinister package, when he noticed the photograph.

It had been under the envelope, lying on the table, and when his eyes fell on it his worried expression turned to one of puzzlement.

The photograph was of him.

It was small and blurry, like one of those Polaroid snaps that developed instantly inside the camera, but it was definitely him. There he was, walking along the road, wearing his blue anorak and his new grey trousers . . .

. . . exactly what he was wearing today. Had it been taken on his way into work this morning?

He looked around, half expecting to find one of his colleagues playing a joke, or to see someone filming him for something, but there was nothing. Nobody was paying him any attention. He looked down at the photograph again, wondering who might have taken it, and why?

As he turned it over in his hands, he saw a single word, handwritten in block capitals on the reverse.

REPRIEVED

Reprieved? Reprieved from what? What was this all about?

He turned his attention back to the brown padded envelope. Glancing around once more, he slid a cautious finger under the sealed flap and opened it. Inside he found a second envelope with a neatly printed label:

FOR DETECTIVE HARLAND

AVON AND SOMERSET CONSTABULARY

WITH COMPLIMENTS

Standing up slowly from his table, Stephen gathered up the two envelopes and the photograph, hesitated, then took them over to the man at the counter.

‘Excuse me,’ he asked, ‘but can you tell me where the nearest police station is?’

53

Monday, 24 September

Harland was late but it didn’t matter. He’d been on compulsory leave ever since he got out of hospital. Now, they’d finally decided to call him in – an eleven o’clock appointment with Superintendent Blake – but he was in so much trouble that there seemed little point in hurrying. The bollocking would keep.

He walked calmly up the steps and into the station, smiling at Firth as he made his way through to the back offices.

‘Good to see you, sir,’ she said, her face bright, interested. ‘Feeling better?’

‘Fine thanks,’ he nodded, lifting a hand to the tender spot at the back of his head. ‘Just a concussion and some bruised ribs.’

‘Well, it’s good to see you back.’

Back, yes. But maybe not for long.

He went upstairs and made his way along the corridor. Should he go and make himself a coffee first? No, might as well get it over with. It was already ten past – he’d kept Blake waiting long enough.

Walking along to the meeting room, he opened the door and went in. The Superintendent was there, but he was surprised to see Mendel and Pope sitting on opposite sides of the table. Had he got the time wrong?

Pope’s expression was aloof, but Blake looked up pleasantly.

‘Ah, there you are, Graham,’ he said, removing his glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief. ‘Fully recovered, I trust?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ Harland replied.

‘Good.’ The Superintendent beckoned him into the room. ‘We may as well begin then.’

Harland pulled out a chair next to Mendel, catching the big man’s eye as he sat down, but it was clear that his friend was in the dark too. What was going on?

‘There have been some . . . developments,’ Blake began, ‘and I thought it would be appropriate to share them with you all.’

He put his glasses back on and, opening the folder in front of him, drew out several large photographs.

‘Last week, a man called Stephen Jennings walked into a police station in London with an envelope.’ He slid the first photograph across the table. Pope had to rise from his seat to see the picture of a plain brown envelope. ‘It was left on the table of a café near Bank, at lunchtime last Wednesday. Inside, there was a second envelope . . .’ He paused, then glanced up at Harland. ‘And that one was addressed to you.’

‘Sir?’ Harland frowned.

Blake slid a second photograph across the table. This one showed the front of an envelope, with a printed label. They leaned forward, reading the words on it.

‘I don’t understand.’ Harland shook his head as he stared at his own name. ‘What’s this all about, sir?’

‘What indeed?’ The Superintendent gazed at him for a moment, sharp eyes peering over the top of his glasses, studying, evaluating. ‘You weren’t here at the time, so we took a look at the contents in your absence . . .’

No, I wasn’t here, was I? I was on ‘leave’ again, pending your bloody review.

‘. . . and we found something rather interesting.’

Blake pushed another photograph towards them, showing a black mobile phone.

‘This phone was inside. It used to belong to a certain Morris Eddings.’

‘Eddings?’ Pope looked up. ‘Isn’t that the name of the guy in Hampshire?’

‘The victim in the West Meon killing,’ Blake nodded. ‘This is the phone we put a watch on, if you remember.’

‘So the envelope came from our killer.’ Mendel whistled. He turned to Harland, then frowned. ‘But it’s addressed to you.’

Harland sat back heavily in his chair.

‘Was there anything else in the envelope?’ he asked, quietly.

A faint smile passed over Blake’s face.

‘As a matter of fact there was,’ he said, sliding another photograph across the table. ‘This short note was with the phone, presumably intended for you.’

Harland stared at the image – a small square of white paper with two lines of text printed in the centre:

THE GAME IS OVER

WE’LL CALL THIS ONE A DRAW

Pope read the message, then looked over at the Superintendent.

‘What does it mean?’ he asked. ‘He thinks of all this as some kind of game?’

‘Perhaps,’ Blake mused. He paused for a moment, his hand resting inside the folder, before pulling out a fifth photograph, toying with it as he looked at them. ‘Stephen Jennings brought us something else that was quite significant.’

He pushed the photograph into the middle of the table, waiting for them all to crowd in and look. It was a photo of a photo – a small Polaroid snapshot by the look of it. It showed a sandy haired man in a blue anorak – unposed, as though the man didn’t realise that his picture was being taken.

‘That is a snapshot of Mr Jennings,’ Blake said. ‘He found it with the envelope on the café table.’

They sat for a moment, taking this in.

‘That’d give you the creeps,’ Pope muttered to himself.

‘I think it probably got his attention,’ Blake shrugged. ‘Perhaps that was the idea. However, there is one thing further . . .’

He slid a final photograph over. It showed the back of the snapshot, with one word written in large capital letters.

‘“Reprieved”,’ Mendel read aloud. ‘So perhaps this Jennings bloke was lined up as the next victim?’

Blake looked at him, his face impassive.

‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘Jennings lives in Silvertown, close to the Royal Victoria Dock.’

Harland sat forward.

‘Where the hotel was,’ he said. ‘That’s why he was there.’

The Superintendent gave a slight nod as he ran a finger along the edge of the folder.

‘The Met are running with this now,’ he explained. ‘They’ve been over the hotel, and they’re working through CCTV footage from Docklands, London Transport, and the area around the café.’

‘What about Jennings?’ Pope asked.

‘He seems to be genuine,’ Blake replied. ‘They’ve done some digging and there’s nothing untoward. Naturally, they’ll keep an eye on him, just in case. That word “Reprieved” is encouraging, but I don’t think they’ll want to take any chances.’

‘If he knew how close he’d come . . .’ Mendel said, looking at the snapshot and shaking his head.

The Superintendent sat back in his chair, looking at each one of them in turn.

‘So there we are,’ he said. ‘While there are things that might have been done differently, it does seem that we may have interrupted the killer . . .’

Harland noted his slight emphasis on the ‘we’.

‘. . . for now at least. Although there were a number of decisions taken that I cannot condone, I think it’s best that we draw a line under the whole thing and move on. The case is now with the Met – we’ve done our part and there is no need for any further involvement, from any of you, without my express direction.’

He wasn’t looking at Harland as he finished, but it was a clear, absolute warning.

‘Are the Met close to making an arrest?’ Pope asked.

‘The investigation is ongoing,’ Blake replied. ‘But they know what they’re doing, don’t you worry.’

Harland stared down at the table in silence, keeping his doubts to himself.

‘Pity the DI didn’t get a better look at the suspect,’ Pope murmured. Mendel shot him a withering look.

Seeing there were no further questions, Blake reached across and gathered up the photos, returning them to the folder.

‘Anyway, I thought you should know how things stand. Good communication is the cornerstone of effective policing.’

He closed the folder, then looked up at them.

‘That will be all.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Pope nodded, as they all pushed back their chairs, getting to their feet.

Blake watched them stand, then added, ‘Stay for a moment, Graham.’

Harland stood to one side, letting the others by. Brushing past, his back to the seated Superintendent, Mendel held up two crossed fingers in front of his chest and gave a subtle nod of encouragement.

‘Close the door, would you?’

Harland pushed the door shut and turned back to the table. Blake got to his feet, considered him for a moment, then turned and walked over to the window.

‘A most unusual business, Graham,’ he said as he looked down on the street below. ‘There’s been some highly irregular behaviour, to say the least. I’m still not entirely clear about the chain of events that brought our suspect out into the open, but I feel certain that it wouldn’t do either of us any good if I were to dig any deeper into it.’

He turned round and stared meaningfully at Harland, then moved to the table and put his hand on the folder.

‘My opposite number in Thames Valley rang to congratulate me,’ he smiled to himself. ‘Did you know that?’

‘No, sir.’ Harland frowned.

‘Said we’d “got a result”. Under the circumstances, I think we’ve acquitted ourselves rather well, and we’ve certainly given the Met a tough act to follow.’

The idea seemed to amuse him for a moment. He shook his head and made his way around the table and paused by the door.

‘I want to bring you in from the cold, Graham,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re a good officer; you were lucky this time.’

Harland stared at him, unsure what to say.

‘Just make sure you stay lucky,’ Blake mused.

Then, without turning round, he opened the door and strode out.

Harland stood for several minutes before walking along the corridor to his office. Pushing the door shut behind him, he moved around the desk, dropped into his chair and slowly massaged his temples with his fingertips.

Mendel had called him lucky too.

He looked at the picture of Alice, light catching on the little gold frame, but his thoughts drifted back to the note, the snapshot.

The game was over. Reprieved.

He wondered where Stephen Jennings was right now. A name in a report, a man he’d never met. But whoever he was, he was alive.

Harland smiled. Alice would have been proud.