Текст книги "Eye Contact"

Автор книги: Fergus McNeill

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

17

Wednesday, 27 June

The meeting had been a complete waste of time and Naysmith was in a filthy mood. He pulled the car door hard, slamming it to shut out the sounds of the people and the traffic, then gazed out through the windscreen with unseeing eyes.

He could respect companies who wanted to negotiate hard, or who had no choice because their budgets weren’t enough, but this lot just didn’t have a clue. Two directors who couldn’t agree what they were doing and ended up arguing in front of him.

Fucking amateurs.

He sighed and unclenched his hands from the steering wheel. Closing his eyes, he stretched out his fingers and placed the palms flat on his thighs, allowing his shoulders to drop. A slow breath in, then out, willing his muscles to relax . . .

It wasn’t important. It was irrelevant.

He opened his eyes . . .

. . . and smiled as a thought came to him. He’d been putting it off, dwelling on other things, but no more. Perhaps it was because of what had happened last time, but there was no reason for him to wait any longer – in fact, today would be the perfect day to begin a new game.

As he drove out of Farnham, he already knew where he was going. He’d seen the road signs for Winchester on the way up here, silently calling to him, luring him back, and now he responded, ignoring the motorway and cutting directly across country. It would be a pleasant detour and he sensed that the city was drawing him back for a reason.

It was another bright afternoon in Winchester, and he could feel the touch of the sun on his back, warming the skin through his shirt. He walked over to the wall beside the bridge, pausing to run his fingers lightly across the rough bricks before leaning against it and gazing down the ivy-covered embankment to the railway tracks below. How small he must have looked down there, kneeling between the rails, head bowed . . .

For several minutes he stood there, lost in thought, until the noise of a train roused him. Smiling to himself, he turned away. He was free of the curse, free to start a new game, with a new target. Right here.

He considered the road in front of him, and the footpath leading away on the other side of it. It would do nicely. The first person to make eye contact once he crossed over would be the one. He waited for a lull in the traffic, then stepped off the kerb.

Across the road, the paved footpath climbed steadily, following the trees and bushes that lined the top of the railway cutting. Passing under the shadow of the foliage, Naysmith walked along slowly, admiring the white painted town houses with their brightly coloured doors and their beautiful little gardens. Everything neat, everything pleasing. There was a sense of peace here that touched him, infusing him with calm, clear purpose.

He was in control. He was ready.

On his right, the town houses gave way to an endless flint wall, eight foot high and topped with old ivy and trailing branches. Sunlight dappled the footpath here and there through the leafy canopy above, but still there was nobody to be seen. On his left, a train clattered along the cutting somewhere below, leaving a still deeper silence in its wake. Ahead of him there was a heavy gate set deep into the wall, and he could see that the path beyond it started to drop away.

The sense of anticipation was palpable now. It was a powerful feeling, moving quietly through the world, so deadly but so anonymous.

And then there was movement.

Coming up into view over the rise, a figure was walking briskly towards him. It was an older man, perhaps in his fifties, wearing a beige shirt and one of the worst jackets that Naysmith had ever seen. He walked with a determined gait, head up and staring straight ahead. For a moment, it seemed as though he would pass without a glance but then, just a few yards before they drew level, the man shot him a brief, disapproving look and their eyes met.

He would be the one.

And now, as the gap between them closed, Naysmith studied the man, taking in each detail of his appearance and locking it into his memory.

He was about five foot ten, a little overweight, but not too much for his age, with a sparse covering of light brown hair above a slightly puffy face. The awful jacket was brown, and he wore dark trousers over the sort of shoes that are bought for comfort rather than style.

Another step and they would be past each other . . .

Large, prominent ears, downturned mouth, and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses framing small, hooded eyes . . .

And then, with a final look of disdain, the man had passed on his way, his pace never slowing.

Naysmith walked steadily on, listening to the footsteps receding behind him, picturing the man in his mind, until the sounds faded away. After a few moments, he slowed, then halted to check his watch. It was a couple of minutes before three and his target’s twenty-four hours’ grace had begun.

He closed his eyes and smiled to himself – it was exhilarating to be in the game again.

It was an eerily familiar image. The long, curving beach, the swathe of coarse grass, the shingle strip and the glistening grey mud. He remembered that same bleak sky and the dark water of the Severn whipped along by the relentless wind.

But the woman on the screen was different. Similar – mousy hair, white T-shirt, blue shorts – but not the same. As she jogged towards the camera, it was clear that her build was a little too athletic, her face a little too broad. Naysmith smiled as he noticed they’d given the actress no earphones – no MP3 player. But of course – they didn’t know she’d worn one.

‘Vicky went running along this path most mornings.’

A gaunt man in his forties, presumably the investigating officer, was pictured by the sea wall. He wore a dark coat, and spoke in quiet, measured tones, but there was something about his eyes . . .

‘We believe she may have been attacked up here and then dragged down onto the beach where her body was later found.’

The camera panned across to the beach, and Naysmith felt another shiver of recognition as he remembered those difficult last moments as she’d struggled against him before finally lying still.

The reconstruction ended with a view of the Second Severn Crossing, curving away against a dark sky. The police officer appeared once more.

‘Were you near Severn Beach on Friday the twenty-fifth or Saturday the twenty-sixth of May? Did you see anyone acting suspiciously? Or did you notice any unfamiliar people or cars in the area?’

Naysmith stared intently at the face on the screen, taking in the slightly greying hair, the lean frame, the angular features. And those haunted eyes.

‘Rob?’ Kim called through from the kitchen, disturbing his thoughts. ‘I’m making coffee. Do you want one?’

‘Please,’ he replied, turning back to the TV.

The detective was now seated in a studio. A caption below him read: DI Harland. Avon and Somerset Constabulary.

‘A tragic and brutal murder,’ the presenter was saying. ‘Do the police think that Vicky was killed by someone who lived locally? Maybe even someone she knew?’

‘We’re pursuing several different lines of enquiry.’ Harland remained impassive. ‘But we believe her killer may also have had ties to the Oxford area.’

Oxford.

Naysmith sank back into his chair as the significance of the remark hit him. He pictured that single house key, his gloved fingers carefully removing it from one key fob and later adding it to another. The little ripples, drifting out across the water below the bridge . . .

And now the police had finally connected two of the killings. It had taken a long time – he’d almost begun to think that his work would never be recognised – but now that was changing, and the game would surely be more interesting as a result.

He picked up the remote control and switched the channel as Kim came through with his coffee. This DI Harland had been smart enough to find the link. As he reached over to take his cup, Naysmith found himself wondering what the man was like, what he knew, and what lay behind that haunted expression.

18

Thursday, 28 June

Harland awoke. There was an indistinct voice talking nearby. Raising his head slowly from the warm pillow, he sat up blearily, rubbed his eyes open and looked across the darkened living room. On the TV, a woman continued to read the news. He had fallen asleep without setting the timer again.

Sighing, he sank back into the sofa bed, but he was awake now. After a long moment, he pushed himself up and rolled his feet down onto the cold floor. Stooping to pick up his wristwatch, he checked the time: 5.40 a.m. Damn. Yawning, he got unsteadily to his feet and trudged upstairs to the bathroom.

When the kettle finally boiled, he poured water into the filter and inhaled the aroma of the coffee, letting it stir his senses. Leaning forward, the sleeves of his bathrobe on the kitchen counter, he closed his eyes and yawned again. So fucking tired – no matter how much sleep he got, it didn’t seem to touch the weariness inside him, the bottomless pit that sucked the strength from him. Sometimes he felt as though the only energy he had was when he got angry . . .

He picked up his cup and carried it over to the other side of the kitchen. A firm wrench slid the top bolt back and he opened the door to the chill of the small garden. Shivering, his bare feet flinching from the cold step, he fumbled a cigarette into his mouth and carefully lit it. There was a light touch of rain, so he stood inside the doorway, gazing out at the grey morning light on the ivy that covered next door’s wall. There suddenly seemed so much of it, as though it was slowly consuming the brickwork of both houses. Alice used to cut it back, keep it in check – now it would engulf everything.

He frowned and took a last drag, exhaling slowly. He didn’t want those thoughts, not just now. Stubbing the cigarette out into a butt-filled flowerpot, he turned and went inside, shutting the door behind him against the cold. Thankfully, he had work to do.

Mendel was mashing a tea bag against the side of his mug. He looked up and smiled as Harland walked into the station kitchen.

‘Can I have your autograph?’ he asked, opening the fridge and taking out a pint of milk.

‘What?’ Harland stared before realising: ‘They showed the reconstruction on TV last night . . .’

‘And you didn’t fluff your lines or anything,’ Mendel commended him. ‘Mind you, don’t let the stardom go to your head.’

‘No risk of that.’ Harland took a mug from the cupboard and reached for the coffee. ‘The whole business leaves me cold.’

‘There are some silver linings, though.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, Pope’s been spitting feathers this morning,’ Mendel said quietly. ‘I reckon he’s gutted that Blake had you do the big TV thing. You know how much he likes the sound of his own voice.’

Harland smiled and took a sip of coffee.

‘Did you get anywhere with that list of Vicky Sutherland’s effects?’

‘I’ve got it on my desk. Want to run through it?’

‘Give me five minutes,’ Harland said, turning towards his office. ‘I’ve got to call somebody back.’

The phone rang five times, six, seven, then there was a rattle as it was picked up.

‘DI King speaking.’ He sounded out of breath.

‘It’s Harland.’

‘Ah yes, the famous detective. Saw you on TV last night.’

‘Don’t you start,’ Harland warned him. ‘Apparently it’s already a hot topic around here.’

‘Jealousy makes people say terrible things,’ King laughed. ‘Any responses to the show yet?’

‘Nobody’s mentioned anything, so I assume not.’

‘Can’t say I’m surprised. That beach looked a miserable place from what they showed of it.’

‘You have no idea,’ Harland sighed, lifting his coffee.

‘Anyway,’ King continued, ‘I’ve got something that I thought might interest you.’

‘Go on . . .’

‘Remember you asked about Erskine’s personal effects?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, we went back over the list, checking everything out, just to make sure that everything was legit, nothing was out of place.’

‘And?’

‘As far as we could tell, nothing else was missing. We went through all the usual personal items, wallet, cash, credit cards, and nothing seems to have been taken.’

He paused.

‘But something seems to have been added.’

‘I knew it.’ Harland put his cup down on the desk and leaned forward. ‘What did you find?’

‘There was a video library card,’ King replied. ‘No name on it, but we checked the number and it turns out it doesn’t belong to our Mr Erskine.’

‘Whose is it?’

‘It belonged to a Khalid Ashfar. Thirty-seven-year-old Asian man from Brighton.’

Belonged.

Harland sat back in his chair. It was just as they’d thought.

‘I’m guessing that Mr Ashfar is no longer with us?’ he asked quietly.

‘His body washed up on a beach six months ago – multiple stab wounds. At first, the Sussex boys thought it might have been racially motivated, but they never turned up anything specific in that direction.’

Harland turned his chair, gazing out through the rain-streaked window. Dark clouds were rolling in along the skyline.

‘Well, that’s three,’ he said after a moment. ‘Three that we know of.’

‘It looks that way.’

Harland reached across his desk for a pen and flipped open his notebook.

‘What was the victim’s name again?’ he asked.

‘Ashfar. Khalid Ashfar.’

Harland scribbled it down, frowning to himself.

‘And who are you speaking to in Sussex?’

‘Investigating officer was DI Charlotte Bensk. Want her number?’

‘Please.’

His mind was racing as he copied the number down. How far back would this series of killings go? And how far forward?

19

Wednesday, 4 July

Naysmith walked out of the car park, crossed the road and cut down an alley to the High Street. Shoppers drifted lazily across his path as he made his way up the slope, past the carved-stone Buttercross monument, admiring the white plaster and black beams of the Tudor buildings above the storefronts. There was a lot to like about Winchester.

Things had been unusually busy in the week since his initial encounter, affording the target several days’ grace beyond the minimum twenty-four hours that his rules demanded. The opportunity to pitch some major new clients had meant a lot of unexpected work, with an endless series of presentations and conference calls. On top of that, Kim had been upset after falling out with one of her friends and he’d decided to make a fuss of her yesterday – a romantic meal and some quality time in her favourite shops – to stop her dwelling on things.

But today was clear. The clients had everything they required, Kim was working in London, and he had the whole afternoon to himself. It was warm again, and he sipped an iced coffee drink as he climbed the hill towards the railway station, his thoughts fixed on the man he was searching for.

Who was he? And, more importantly, where was he?

So many people were victims of habit – living lives of dull repetition, doing the same things at the same times every day or every week. When he first started to play the game, he’d been amazed how many of his targets he’d found by simply returning to the same spot a day or a week later. Such dreary lives to end – they were practically mercy killings – but there was little challenge in those cases, and little satisfaction. And yet it was the logical place to begin and, as he had the opportunity, he resolved to retrace his steps and start with the narrow lane where he’d first spotted his target.

Beyond the pedestrian precinct, the hill became steeper, with narrow pavements edging their way up past bars and small shops. He continued his ascent to the wonderful old stone buildings of the Castle, where he crossed over to bear left up Romsey Road.

Now he could see the railway bridge before him and, coming into view, the familiar town houses of Clifton Terrace. Alert, his eyes studied every passer-by, looking for that particular brisk stride, that portly frame . . .

Once over the bridge, he stopped to check his watch – it was almost three o’clock, the same time he’d been here seven days earlier. He paused for a moment, his gaze following the footpath as it curved up under the trees. A young couple were strolling down the slope towards him, talking and laughing together. Naysmith waited for them to pass before he set off up the path. The girl had short hair that highlighted a slender and elegant neck; her boyfriend was broad and blond, with an easy manner. Absently, Naysmith wondered where they had come from and where they were heading . . .

When they were gone, he began to make his way slowly up the incline, taking his time to think as he went. A quiet little footpath like this wasn’t an obvious thoroughfare – it was a route for people who were familiar with the area, who lived or worked locally.

A smoky-grey cat with white boots and bib sat beside a small wrought-iron gate. Naysmith stooped to stroke it, looking through the half-open gate to the town house beyond it. Did his target live in this terrace? He paused and considered the welcoming facades with their doors painted red, blue or green, their gardens full of character. He looked at the rambling hedges, the romantic little pergolas woven with wild flowers. The cat rubbed itself happily against his hand. No, these places had a joyous charm that he had not sensed in those disdainful glances. He stood and continued up the hill.

Near its highest point, the footpath crossed the end of a quiet residential street. Naysmith paused there for a moment, standing quietly, trying to hear those receding footsteps from days before. It was possible that the man had been going that way, but once again something made him doubt it. His eyes lingered on the houses for a moment longer, then he turned and continued along the path. There seemed to be no CCTV cameras around here.

Now, the trees on his left cast out their branches to brush the high wall on the right, closing over him like a shimmering tunnel in the sunlight. He slowed as he approached the point where he’d made eye contact, stretching out his hand to caress the rough surface of the wall, his fingers sliding across the exposed pieces of flint, then dragging on rough mortar. It was pleasing to the touch, old and solid.

He glanced back over his shoulder. A silver-haired old woman was walking along the path, some way behind him. No sign of his target.

The path began to drop more steeply now, the wall arcing down with it. Above the weathered stones, he could see the tops of fruit trees and the upper storeys of a grand old house, faded red brick against the bright sky. He pondered it for a moment, then shook his head. Too expensive for his target.

At the bottom of the path, Naysmith walked out from the shade of the trees and stood, shielding his eyes from the bright sun. He had emerged on a quiet road that swept down a long, straight slope before a narrow bridge carried it over the railway line below. On the other side of the road, an old cemetery stretched out along the side of the hill, tall iron gates set into a towering stone archway at its entrance.

He crossed over, gazing between the railings with their flaking black paint, smiling at the single cobweb strands catching the light, staring at the forgotten headstones in the grass beyond.

Which way had his target come from?

He turned and looked at the road, trying to visualise the man approaching from each direction. That rounded figure, the brisk stride and the dreadful jacket . . .

Naysmith looked one way, then the other. His eye settled on a small signpost, pointing up the hill, bearing a single word.

University.

He gazed thoughtfully at it for a moment, then set off up the road.

20

Tuesday, 10 July

Naysmith stepped down onto the platform and adjusted his jacket before allowing himself to be carried along in the current of passengers that streamed towards the ticket barriers. Indistinct station announcements echoed high above in the glass canopies, train motors idled noisily, and all around him came the insistent murmur of voices as people hurried along, ready for the grey London morning.

He glanced down at his watch and considered for a moment. Time enough. He could walk rather than suffer the tube.

Threading his way across the busy Waterloo concourse, he looked at the unseeing faces that slipped past on either side. Serious or smiling, bored or confused – so many people, all unaware of his passing. They had no idea who was in their midst; here in the crowd he was truly invisible.

Veering right, he passed under the arched entrance and emerged into the daylight, trotting briskly down the broad stone steps towards the steady growl of traffic on York Road. A walk would give him time to clear his head.

The last couple of weeks had certainly been challenging. This latest game was becoming a real test of his instinct and, to some extent, his determination. He’d now spent a good deal of time in Winchester and clocked up several hours walking the streets around the university. The cemetery, which lay adjacent to it, provided a useful focal point for his journeys. He’d identified a suitable grave to visit – one that commanded a good view of the main university entrance across the road – and chose different places to park on each trip so that he could walk down different streets. As he’d come to know the area, he occasionally thought about the large hospital that stood a little way further up the hill, but something told him that he was looking for an academic and he’d decided to play his hunch for a while longer . . .

‘Standard, sir?’

Naysmith blinked, then realised that a street vendor was offering him a free newspaper. Shaking his head, he ascended the flight of steps by Mandela’s statue on the South Bank, smiling as he noted the traffic cone perched on the great carved head. Sidestepping an erratic group of schoolchildren, he walked along the side of the Festival Hall and up to the Jubilee footbridge.

Music wafted down to him as he climbed, and he found a weather-beaten old man playing a clarinet at the top of the steps, a thin but uplifting melody cast out over the Thames against the dull rumble of the city. Pausing to drop a coin into the upturned hat at his feet, Naysmith strolled slowly onto the bridge.

There was no wind today, but the water below was a sullen grey to match the overcast sky. Here and there, knots of tourists took photos of each other leaning against the handrail, or pointed at St Paul’s. On the adjacent railway bridge, a train crept slowly towards him, the metallic groan and squeal of its wheels against the rails drowning out the music as it passed.

At first, he’d imagined that his target might have been going for a train. The footpath where they’d made eye contact wasn’t far from Winchester station, and the man had been walking in that direction.

He’d studied the timetables, and sat watching the station entrance from his car. He’d tried an hour earlier, and an hour later. Once, he’d actually come by train so that he could wait in the station itself – there were only two platforms and it was possible to wait on one and see passengers on both sides of the tracks.

But his target hadn’t appeared.

Sitting there, searching the faces of the commuters without success, he’d resigned himself to the idea that the target either lived locally or had travelled by car. Perhaps it was the way the man had been dressed, with that dreadful jacket. There was a certain stuffy formality in his clothes – however poorly chosen they were – that didn’t seem consistent with someone popping out for a walk.

Of course, this raised a new problem. Parking was scarce in that part of the city. Sticking with his academic theory just a little longer, he decided to focus on the university car parks.

Once across the Thames, Naysmith wandered slowly past the leafy entrance to the Embankment Gardens and up the narrow chasm of Villiers Street as it climbed between the looming buildings. There was a quiet bustle here, amid the cafés and the aromatic coffee shops. Restaurants and bars were having their tables set out on the pavement, ready for lunchtime, while a delivery van unloaded crates of bottled water for a local gym.

At the top of the incline, he checked his watch once more before turning right onto the Strand. It was busier here, with a steady stream of people weaving through each other as they hurried along. Seeing a break in the traffic, he stepped out from the broad pavement and made his way across the road to the quieter north side. A tailor’s shop window caught his attention for a moment before he turned left and made his way up towards Covent Garden.

Winchester University had a number of car parks spread over a large campus, so he had decided to play the odds and watch the main entrance on Sparkford Road. He had considered watching from his car, but in the end he’d been annoyed by his own timidity and elected to take a much bolder approach. It was a warm day, so he’d taken his laptop and sat on a bench near the main entrance. Nobody questioned someone typing on a laptop.

At first, he’d felt optimistic, but after an hour, the doubts had begun to creep in. How much did he really know about his target? Everything thus far had been guesswork – intelligent and considered, but guesswork nonetheless. The man might just as easily have come from the nearby hospital, or even the cemetery. Sitting here could be a complete waste of time.

And yet he had stayed there. Something stubborn inside had kept him in place, looking out over the screen of his laptop even as the traffic slowed and a silver car coming down the hill stopped to let a delivery truck pull out of the campus entrance.

It was him.

He was wearing a different jacket, but it was unmistakably him, impatiently waving at the truck driver to get out of his way.

Naysmith calmly typed out the car’s registration, then closed his laptop.

That had been yesterday. Now he stood on a narrow street just off Covent Garden and paused to check the address before pushing on a heavy glass door that swung open onto a bright, airy foyer. Walking across the polished marble floor to the broad reception desk, he put his bag down and smiled.

‘Robert Naysmith, here to see Christina Valdares.’

The receptionist, a thin, effeminate man with immaculately spiked hair, glanced up at him, then tapped a number into a console and spoke quietly into his headset.

Naysmith checked his watch. He was a few minutes early.

‘Please take a seat over there.’ The receptionist pointed with a slender hand. ‘Someone will be right down for you.’

‘Thanks.’

He wandered slowly over to a group of burgundy leather sofas and sat down. Artfully scattered on a low glass table were a couple of broadsheets and a selection of dreary trade magazines – nothing he cared to read. He sat back and gazed out at the street.

It was a Silver Honda Accord, registration number K347 GMX. Now that he knew what he was looking for, it wouldn’t be hard to find where his target parked. Smiling, Naysmith opened his diary and checked when he would be free to return to Winchester.