Текст книги "Eye Contact"

Автор книги: Fergus McNeill

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

5

Saturday, 26 May

She appeared at roughly 6.45 a.m. – slightly earlier than he had expected – a solitary figure, running at an easy pace out of her street and turning to follow the coastal path that led along the top of the beach. From his vantage point, Naysmith studied her, taking in the white T-shirt, the blue shorts. Her hair was tied back, bouncing in time with her stride. Absently, he wondered how fast she could run.

Standing up, he shook his arms and legs to loosen them, then set off at a leisurely pace after the receding figure. There was no need to hurry. Let her enjoy her run . . . he would meet her on her way back.

The early-morning light was breaking through the furthest clouds, dappling the distant reaches of the coastline and spinning thin strips of glistening silver across the water of the estuary. He gazed out at the towering wind turbines, visible even though they must be some five miles away, their immense blades gently turning in the seemingly permanent gale that blew along this part of the Severn. Walking on, his eye was drawn to the industrial buildings that punctuated the gently curving coastline towards Avonmouth, the tall chimneys pouring out long, slow streams of smoke. It was a bleak place, but there was an odd sort of beauty in it as well . . .

Fifteen minutes later, he caught sight of her again, a still distant figure, jogging steadily back towards him. She would be fatigued now, breathing fast to get the oxygen to her weary muscles. He knew how it felt to be tired after exercise, the body working in an almost automatic way, the mind already thinking of home and a relaxing bath.

He carefully checked his walk, making all his movements deliberately slow and lazy, despite being wound tight with readiness. Everything about him must be ordinary, unthreatening, irrelevant to the approaching runner. He glanced over his shoulder but there was no one else around.

Green light.

His gloved right hand slipped gently into the anorak pocket and drew out the heavy, round stone, concealing it by letting his arm hang close to his side. He began to adjust his course so that she would be on his right – the side nearest the water – when they met.

She was less than a hundred yards away now and he allowed himself the brief, intoxicating thought of choice. He could change things, right now, at the last moment. He could allow her to live. He felt the authority in that choice, the ultimate level of control. In this instant, he wielded the power of life and death and the thought electrified him.

Fifty yards to go. He noticed that she was wearing earphones, the thin wire dancing loosely as it ran down to her pocket . . .

Twenty yards. Satisfied that she would pass on his right, he lowered his head, muscles taut, as she drew level . . .

. . . and he exploded, swinging the stone fiercely up into her stomach, lending all his might to the blow that smashed the air from her lungs and bent her over, staggering to her knees.

She had no breath to shout.

Immediately, he was there, bundling her off the path, down a grassy slope towards the beach, moving her as fast and as far as he could before she understood what was happening, before she fought, before she became deadweight.

And then, as she began to panic, he tried to swing the stone round, to connect with the side of her head, to end it quickly, but his gloved fingers lost their purchase and he felt his weapon slip away, thudding into the shingle nearby.

Damnation!

It was too late to stop – he was committed now. As she desperately tried to get air, he allowed his weight to knock her to the ground, dropping onto her to deflate her lungs still further as his hands took hold of her throat.

She made terrible little choking sounds, the worst he had ever heard, and he flinched as her struggling became desperate, turning his head away to avoid her flailing arms.

And to avoid seeing her.

It became unbearable, and he started to feel nausea rising through his adrenalin. Ten seconds . . . fifteen . . . for fuck’s sake! And then, mercifully, she began to fail, the movements becoming intermittent, weaker, until finally she sagged beneath him and was still.

He realised he was shaking.

Taking a deep breath, he forced his fingers to relax, releasing their grip on her. Straightening up, he anxiously glanced back over his shoulder towards the path and the houses beyond, but he was alone. Utterly alone.

And now he began to sense the onset of exhilaration, the terrible rush building inside, but he pushed it away, closed his mind to it.

Not yet.

He scrambled quickly to his feet and looked around, his thoughts racing through the mental checklist that he had prepared for this moment. Gloves and clothing were intact, keys still in his pocket . . . He’d dropped the stone coming down the slope but he’d left nothing else behind.

Move . . .

She was lying in a crumpled heap, terribly exposed on the open beach, but the tall reeds were just a short distance away. Grunting with determination, he grabbed her ankles and started to drag her towards the water. Moving down across the swathe of small stones was quite easy, but it became harder as he went from shingle to mud. He battled on, straining to pull her as his new trainers sank into the grey ooze, but after a final burst of effort he was able to drop to his knees, the body safely nestled between two large clumps of reeds.

After taking a moment to calm his breathing, he rolled her over onto her back, finding her eyes thankfully closed.

He squatted down again, noting that her T-shirt had ridden up as he’d dragged her, exposing her pale stomach and the base of her bra. Gently, he tugged the edge of her T-shirt down to cover her again, to allow her a little dignity. Then he rocked back on his heels, studying her, looking for something small, something that wouldn’t be missed. His eyes settled on her earphones, now a tangled mess after being trailed through the mud. He followed the wire back to her pocket and pulled. Carefully, he revealed the music player she’d been listening to. Deeper in her pocket, he discovered her keys.

Taking them in his hand, he considered for a moment, then reached into his jacket and fished out the white envelope. Opening it, he withdrew a small key, which he placed on her stomach. Disconnecting the earphones, he slid her MP3 player into the envelope, which he stuffed back into his jacket, zipping the pocket shut. Then, hindered by his gloves, he picked up the key and carefully started working it onto her key chain. It took a moment, but finally it was done, and he carefully returned the keys to their place in the pocket of her shorts.

He glanced back up the beach, then lifted her wrist to look at the sports watch that was still clocking up the seconds since she’d started her run: 37 minutes and counting . . . There was no reason to give the police any help with the time of death, so he removed the watch and deliberately smashed it against a nearby rock, repeatedly hitting it until it was in pieces.

For a moment, he gazed down at her, checking to make sure she wasn’t still breathing. Frowning, he crouched beside the body and rolled it over, pressing her face down into the wet mud.

Better to be sure.

When he was satisfied, he reached over to lift the tangled earphones, balling them into a muddy mass and standing up to throw them out into the water. Then, with one final glance down at the body, he picked his way back onto the shingle before turning and walking away along the shore.

The excitement he’d been fighting suddenly welled up inside and now, as he gazed out at the broad, bleak horizon, with its low clouds and distant smokestacks, he finally let it wash over him – a rapture of such sickening intensity that he almost wanted to cry out. The power, the utterly addictive thrill of power, so profound he could scarcely comprehend it. He shook with the cold, dark joy of his own supremacy. There was nothing he couldn’t do.

He saw nobody as he walked back, but the houses were far behind him and the weather was closing in again – it wasn’t a morning for the beach. He found the plastic bag just where he’d left it and, screened by the bushes, he began to strip off his clothes. Everything, from his shoes to his watch, was removed and placed in a second refuse sack before he retrieved his own clothes and started to dress.

Ten minutes later, he was back at the car. From habit, he had double-bagged everything he’d worn on the beach, but in the event he needn’t have worried. There had been no blood, and he hadn’t needed to clean himself up. He placed the bulging refuse sack in the boot and climbed into the car as the first spots of rain began to appear on the windscreen.

Perfect.

He drove cautiously under the railway bridge. Nobody saw him turn left and join the main road, keeping his speed just under the 50 mph limit. He came to the junction – a signpost pointed left to Severn Beach – but he went straight on, following the road inland, passing over the motorway and accelerating as he came to the dual carriageway. In minutes, he had reached the roundabout where he joined the M48, one anonymous car disappearing into the relentless flow of traffic from the Severn Bridge.

It was a little after ten when he arrived back at home. He’d changed the number plates as soon as he left the motorway – emerging from a quiet country lane with his own registration again – but he was tired and in no mood to rush the rest of the clean-up. He had the whole day to dispose of the clothes in one of the charity recycling bins outside the local supermarket, to drop the wristwatch into the river and to stuff the refuse sacks into a lay-by rubbish bin. Right now he wanted sleep.

His eyes had grown heavy, and the mood of elation that normally carried him for days and weeks was already starting to ebb away. He’d started to wonder about it as he’d driven back through Devizes and on along the winding road that led back to Salisbury. Somehow, everything had been just a little too straightforward, had happened just a little too quickly for him. So much of the reward came from the scale of the challenge, but this time? This had been one of the simplest yet. He felt a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction that began to trouble him, but he didn’t want to think about it now.

Get some sleep . . .

Perhaps it was just lack of sleep – he knew he could be irritable when he was tired. Better that than the alternative – that it had been too easy. Damn, what a waste that would have been . . .

Feeling unsettled, he went upstairs and checked his phone. Kim hadn’t called yet, which was good. He lay down on the bed, staring up with unseeing eyes before drifting into a troubled sleep.

6

Sunday, 27 May

Derek eased the front door shut behind him, not wanting to wake anyone. He felt the soft click of the lock and wearily turned to face the still-sleeping street. Toby was wagging his tail and pulling at the lead, eager as always. Derek yawned.

He felt the warmth evaporating from his anorak as he stepped out of the porch. Hunching his shoulders against the grey morning, he let the excited Labrador drag him down the path. They walked as they did most Sundays, down to the end of the street, bearing right onto Station Road. It was getting light when he climbed the steep tarmac slope to the footpath.

The wind battered him as soon as he reached the top, whipping his hood against the side of his face, finding a way up the back of his anorak while he stooped to let the dog off its lead, struggling with the catch.

He stood up stiffly and watched as Toby bounded away, down onto the beach, then turned his face into the wind to gaze out at the Second Severn Crossing, a snaking ribbon of lights cast across the cold grey water. Tiny vehicles crawled along it, high above the dark waves, their noise lost in the gale.

Eyes watering from the cold, he dug his hands deep into his pockets, turning away from the bridge to make his way along the promenade to the beach. The wind was less violent in the shadow of the sea wall, and Derek could now hear the crunch of his shoes on the shingle. In the distance Toby started barking.

Sheltered beneath the wall, Derek took out a cigarette. It took him a moment to light it, but he relished the first drag of smoke, his small compensation for these early walks.

Toby was still barking.

Frowning, Derek started to pick his way carefully down the beach, skirting the dark patches of mud and debris as he followed the sound towards a broad bank of reeds.

‘Toby?’ he called out, irritated. ‘Toby!’ But a sudden gust stole his voice away from him.

What had got the stupid dog in such a state this morning?

He paused for a moment, reluctant to get his shoes too muddy.

‘Toby! Come here!’

But it was no good. Bracing himself against the relentless wind, he moved closer. The wet stones became more treacherous as he approached the water’s edge and he had to watch where he was putting his feet.

Only when he was a few yards away did he look up to see what Toby had found.

She was dead – had to be, lying face down in the mud. The white T-shirt was soaked through, and water glistened on the back of her legs below her blue shorts. He hesitated, uncertain whether to run for help or to check her pulse and make sure. Taking a step forward, he wavered for a moment, then gingerly reached down, nervous fingers hovering over her pale wrist. A flutter of panic rose in him as he touched her cold, stiff flesh, and he jerked his hand back violently, almost losing his footing as he retreated from the body. She was definitely dead.

He stood for a moment, trying to gather himself, trying to tear his eyes away from the sprawling limbs, the bedraggled ponytail, the sodden running shoes . . .

Why the hell had he touched her? He cursed his stupidity. Mustn’t touch anything – everybody knew that! And he’d been walking all around, leaving footprints in the mud!

Breathing fast, he turned and stumbled back up the beach. He was halfway to the sea wall before he remembered the mobile phone in his pocket and, hands shaking, dialled 999.

He didn’t know how long he’d been waiting there before the first police car appeared, a sleek BMW that raced down Station Road. It pulled over beside him at the approach to the beach, the flashing lights throwing shivers of blue across the walls of the nearby houses. Two officers – a serious-looking woman and a tall man – got out.

‘Mr Wells?’ the female officer asked him.

‘Yes.’ Derek went over to them. ‘It was me who called you . . .’

‘I’m PC Firth and this is PC Gregg. Could you show us what you found, please?’

They made their way up over the promenade. Derek tied Toby’s lead to the railings at the base of the slope, then led the others down to the beach. The wind was dropping now but Firth still had to raise her voice to be heard as they neared the water.

‘I need you to stay here with my colleague,’ she explained, then picked her way carefully over towards the bedraggled figure in the mud.

‘My dog found her,’ Derek said, half to himself. He found it difficult, but managed to pull his eyes away from what the female officer was doing. ‘I didn’t touch anything, except to check if she was . . .’

He paused, remembering how wrong her skin had felt. That horrible lifeless cold that he could still sense in his fingertips. He shuddered.

‘It’s okay, sir.’ PC Gregg looked past him towards the water where his colleague was coming back over to them. She shook her head grimly as she approached, then turned to Derek.

‘Mr Wells, I’m going to ask you to go back to the car with PC Gregg . . .’ She caught his expression of panic and quickly added, ‘It’s very cold out here and we don’t want you freezing. I think it’s best that we get you off this beach, then once the other officers arrive we can see about getting you a cup of tea and having a chat. All right?’

Derek nodded numbly, and took one last look in the direction of the body before allowing himself to be led back up the beach. As he trudged over the shingle slope he wondered who she was.

‘Okay.’ Firth pressed the phone to her ear, turning to shield it from the wind. ‘How long do we have?’

She beckoned to the other figures making their way down the beach.

‘Okay, thanks for that.’ She finished her call and walked over to meet the three approaching officers.

‘What’s it look like, Sue?’ one of the younger constables asked.

‘Like a dead woman, Josh.’ She sighed, then addressed them all. ‘Body seems to have been here for a while – maybe a day – but I’ve just spoken to Control and they reckon the tide is on its way out. That probably gives us six hours so we’ll need to get a move on.’

She gestured towards the body behind her. ‘Let’s get the immediate area taped off for starters. There’s been enough people through the scene already – we don’t need any more.’

She turned and indicated the sea wall, and the line of houses beyond.

‘And we’ll want someone up there to keep people off the beach.’

Her phone started ringing and she turned away to answer it.

‘PC Firth?’ She listened for a moment and nodded. ‘Okay, sir . . . yes. See you when you get here.’

She stared at the handset, her expression softening for a moment, then turned back to the others.

‘One of you tell Gregg to keep the dog walker here. The DI’s on his way.’

Plumes of steam billowed up from the steel chimneys, pale against the dark sky, to drift out across the Severn. Detective Inspector Graham Harland scowled at the blighted landscape as he drove; the towering chemical works, the wretched structures choked with pollution and rust. Everything along this road was as bleak and joyless as he was.

He indicated left at the sign for Severn Beach and threaded his way through the village, past the miserable caravan park and on to the end of Station Road, where the other cars were waiting. There was a space beside the wire-mesh fence of a small utility building and he nosed into it, parking in front of the padlocked gates.

Serious eyes stared back at him as he caught an unwelcome sight of his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Physically it was the same, good-looking face – high cheekbones, angular jaw – but overshadowed by experience. Lines around the straight mouth that had once been laughter lines, dark hair with a chipped-in fringe, cropped short at the sides to hide the first traces of grey. The same face, just a different person staring out from behind it.

He switched off the engine and leaned slowly back in his seat, listening to the bluster of the wind outside. His thumb gently turned the plain gold wedding ring that he still wore – that he would always wear – as he sat gazing out at the road.

Such a godforsaken place. The only silver lining was that Sergeant Pope wouldn’t be here. Taking comfort in that thought, he got out, grabbed a heavy overcoat from the back seat and made his way towards the promenade, a tall, gaunt figure, shoulders hunched against the cold.

The wind hit him as he reached the top of the slope. He gazed out at the broad, flat expanse of the beach, the yellow jackets of the officers working further down where an area had been cordoned off, and the restless grey water beyond. How he hated this place.

Turning left along the sea wall, he approached the young PC who stood shivering at the end of the path.

‘Morning, Josh.’

‘Morning, sir.’

‘Is Firth still down there?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the witness?’

‘PC Gregg has him in the area car.’

‘Okay.’ Harland yawned. ‘Thanks.’

He trudged down onto the beach and walked slowly across the rough grass, his eyes routinely scanning the ground for anything significant, but there were only bleached crisp packets and old plastic bottles. What a dismal place for anyone to finish up. A ragged line of seaweed and other debris marked the upper reach of recent tides and he stepped over it carefully, leaving the grass behind as his shoes crunched across the shingle. The breeze was getting stronger again as he approached the fluttering tape line and he waved to PC Firth as she hurried over to meet him. Her round face was tense, and the wind had teased strands of her dark hair out from under her hat.

‘Morning, sir.’

‘Morning,’ he nodded. ‘Been here long, have you?’

‘Not long, no, sir,’ she replied. ‘You were quick.’

‘Got the call on my way in.’ He shrugged. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘We haven’t touched the body yet.’ Firth indicated the area behind her. ‘Control says the tide’ll be in again by midday so we’ve just tried to contain things until the SOCOs get here.’

‘But it looks like a strangulation?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Firth agreed. ‘Can’t see much more without moving her, but there’s definitely some nasty-looking bruising around the neck.’

‘No sign of a rope or anything?’ Harland asked.

‘Not yet,’ Firth frowned, ‘but I actually thought it looked more like—’

She raised her hands to her own throat in a choking motion.

‘Okay,’ Harland nodded thoughtfully. ‘Any idea how long the body’s been on the beach?’

‘Hard to say, but she seems to be totally stiff. That makes it twelve to eighteen hours or more?’

‘Something like that.’

Harland turned and studied the high-water line behind him, then gestured to the taped-off area.

‘If it’s eighteen hours that means we’ve had two full tides – more if she’s been dead longer . . .’

He looked out at the distant waves that swept along the side of the estuary, waves that could easily move a body or wash a crime scene clean.

‘So, did you want to come and have a look?’ Firth asked.

She lifted the tape and Harland stooped under it, treading carefully as the ground became more slippery. They made their way down towards the water until they could see the body, lying between several large clumps of reeds.

Harland stepped slowly, studying the ground, then paused.

‘These are your footprints?’ he asked, indicating the tracks that led over to the dead woman.

‘Yes, just mine and the dog walker’s as far as I could see.’ PC Firth indicated the prints in the mud. ‘I tried to follow alongside his tracks when I went to check the body – did my best not to disturb the ground.’

Harland nodded thoughtfully, then picked his way over to the corpse, carefully stepping in Firth’s footprints. He quickly noted the runner’s clothing and the ugly marks on the side of the neck, but his eye was drawn to the smooth pattern of the mud that had swirled around the head and feet, partly submerging them. The pose of the limbs looked odd too – not quite the same as other bodies he remembered seeing washed up on beaches.

‘Firth?’ he called.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Look at the way the mud’s banked up smoothly against the side of her head, and here around her shoes.’ He crouched down and studied the undisturbed silt. ‘There’s a chance this is where it happened.’

‘What about the tides?’ Firth asked. ‘Wouldn’t they have moved the body?’

Harland got to his feet and pointed at the reeds.

‘These clumps may have done enough to keep her in one place,’ he mused, ‘and we’re far enough up the beach to avoid the worst of the waves.’

‘But not far enough to have preserved much evidence.’

‘True,’ Harland admitted. He took one last look, then turned to find Firth watching him, her expression unreadable before she quickly looked away. He stared at her for a moment, then dismissed the thought and began stepping awkwardly across the mud. ‘Let’s see what the SOCOs find when they lift her.’

He walked back onto the shingle and tried to scuff his shoes clean.

‘Now, tell me about this dog walker . . .’