Eye Contact

by Fergus McNeill

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part 1. Severn Beach

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part 2. South Downs

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part 3. London

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Fergus McNeill has been creating computer games since the early eighties, writing his first interactive fiction titles while still at school. Over the years he has designed, directed and illustrated games for all sorts of systems, including the BBC Micro, the Apple iPad, and almost everything in between. Now running an app development studio, Fergus lives in Hampshire with his wife and teenage son. Eye Contact is his first novel.

  EYE CONTACT

  Fergus McNeill

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Fergus McNeill 2012

  The right of Fergus McNeill to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 73963 3

  Hardback ISBN 978 1 444 73961 9

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Anna & Cameron

  Always & Completely

  He realised very early on that he’d have to set rules. Otherwise, there would be no structure, no real challenge . . . and what would be the point if there was no challenge? He wondered how many others might have walked this road before him, moving unseen through society, their actions sending out little ripples over the surface of the news, while they remained quietly anonymous, hidden in plain sight.

  Little ripples.

  He smiled at the thought. It was certainly harder to do now, so much more challenging than it would have been even twenty years ago – tougher surveillance, tougher forensics – but in many ways that was the appeal of it.

  Little ripples.

  He watched them spreading away into the twilight, glittering with reflected street lamps from across the otherwise calm water. He watched them fading as they expanded outwards, silent rings around the face-down figure, now so still after moments of such struggle. And then, like the last of the ripples, he was gone.

  part 1

  SEVERN BEACH

  1

  Wednesday, 2 May

  Robert Naysmith peered thoughtfully at the typewritten menu in the window, then pushed open the door with his forearm, the sleeve of his jacket preventing any direct contact with the glass.

  Old habits.

  A little bell clinked above the doorway as he stepped inside, his polished shoes tapping quietly across the scrubbed wooden floor. Eight tables, neatly squeezed in, with linen tablecloths and flowers in slender vases, artistic photographs on the walls. But only one customer – an owlish old man lost in his newspaper, a half-empty mug at his elbow.

  Naysmith walked over to the counter, his eyes on the woman with her back to him, studying the shape of her – those narrow shoulders, the straight brown hair – then calmly switched his gaze to the menu board as she started to turn round.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  She had a soft voice, warm, with a slight West Country lilt. He allowed his eyes to drift back from the menu, as though he hadn’t been watching her before, his smile mirroring hers.

  ‘Are you still serving breakfast?’ he asked.

  She glanced up at the wall clock, then looked back to him with a slight shake of her head.

  ‘We’re only supposed to do that till ten thirty . . .’

  ‘I understand,’ Naysmith sympathised. ‘I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble . . .’

  He held her gaze, a hint of mischief in his unblinking eyes, until she smiled again and looked away.

  ‘Well,’ she admitted, pushing an errant strand of hair away from her face, ‘it’s not as though we’re busy. What was it you wanted?’

  Naysmith turned to the menu board.

  ‘Eggs Benedict?’

  ‘I think we can do that for you.’ She called the order through to the kitchen.

  ‘Anything to drink?’

  ‘Black coffee, thanks.’

  She turned and picked up an empty mug, while Naysmith reached for his wallet. She was wearing a blue sweater – plain, but just tight enough to show that she had a pleasing figure. Very little make-up, but that sort of sleepy beauty he’d always found rather appealing.

  ‘So is this your place?’ he asked. ‘Or are you a rebel employee who serves breakfast whenever the mood takes you?’

  The woman laughed as she placed the mug under the coffee machine.

  ‘A bit of both,’ she replied. ‘I run it with my sister, so I suppose I can do whatever I like.’

  ‘Must be nice to be your own boss.’

  She placed his coffee on the counter and took the money he offered.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she nodded as she turned to the till. ‘You get to meet some nice people.’

  Naysmith smiled at her as she handed him his change.

  ‘Thanks.’ He remained at the counter, inhaling the steam rising from his coffee.

  ‘And you?’ the woman asked him after a moment. She had a wonderfully shy expression.

  ‘I’m just one of those nice people,’ he lied.

  Naysmith had always liked Clifton. It was quite beautiful in parts, especially up near the suspension bridge. Leafy streets with grand old houses, narrow lanes that fell away down steep inclines, boutiques and cafés and the well-dressed people who frequented them. So different from the rest of Bristol – a little island of calm, looking out across the hazy u
rban sea below.

  He stopped by a second-hand bookshop, smiling as he studied the sign taped to the door: Back in 10 mins. The ink was faded and some of the tape looked older – the shopkeeper was obviously out a lot – but somehow that made the place even more charming. Yellowing paperbacks were stacked high in the window, larger volumes propped up against them in a precariously balanced display. He thought about coming back to browse and checked his watch – quarter to twelve. The Merentha Group meeting wasn’t until three. Plenty of time if he did decide to return this way.

  The smell of warm bread came to him from a bakery across the road but he continued up the hill, enjoying the sunshine and shop windows, happy to see where his feet would take him.

  At first, it was just a flicker of an idea, a nagging feeling that he couldn’t quite recognise, but it grew stronger in his mind as he walked.

  It had been months since his work had taken him to Bristol, and even longer since he’d been up here. There was something about this part of the city that drew him, and some good memories from a couple of summers back when he’d chanced to meet a particularly interesting woman in a tiny private gallery. They’d discovered a shared dislike for modernist sculpture – she’d joked that even bad art could bring people together. Absently, he wondered if she still lived in that same flat, the bedroom windows overlooking the Downs, but then quickly dismissed the idea.

  That wasn’t the sort of encounter he was thinking about.

  It had certainly been a while. And coming here today on business might be the perfect opportunity to find a new challenge. To find someone new.

  He stopped outside an antiques shop, his gaze wandering across the tarnished medals, dusty uniforms and other militaria that would normally fascinate him. But not today. Instead he found himself staring at the reflection of the street behind him. The people walking by, unaware of his presence in their midst, or his scrutiny. It could be any one of them . . .

  His own reflection smiled back at him – late thirties, tall and slim, well groomed, with short dark hair that showed no sign of thinning. Searching dark eyes surveyed his jacket and shirt, stylishly casual as befitted a successful sales director, but smart.

  He realised now that he had been trying to distract himself all morning, but the restless excitement was growing, the sense of inevitability.

  Wandering on in the direction of Clifton Down, he savoured that curious mix of anticipation and regret that always seemed to stir in him at this moment. A familiar feeling now.

  He checked his watch again. Five to twelve. There was really no sense putting it off any longer. He’d already made the decision – had made it years ago – and he felt the cold thrill stirring in his stomach as he prepared himself to begin.

  Okay.

  The park lay in front of him. He would walk across it; all the way across. The first person to make eye contact after twelve o’clock would be the one.

  He bowed his head for a moment, took a breath to calm himself and clear his thoughts, then set off.

  It was a bright day, and the high, open parkland of Clifton Down stretched out around him, a swathe of green beneath a vast blue sky. Newly cut grass filled the air with a wonderful, fresh smell. The edges of the straight tarmac path were dotted with benches, all occupied, and the warm weather had even tempted people to sit out beneath the trees, though it was still quite early for lunch. He smiled again. What a glorious day for it.

  A dour little man on one of the benches glanced up at him as he passed, a mean-spirited face scowling behind a tightly held sandwich, clearly unhappy at the thought of sharing anything, especially his seat. Naysmith checked his watch – 11.58. A pity, but it encouraged him to think that he might find someone suitable, someone deserving. He walked on.

  This was always such an exciting part of the game. So much of it was down to skill and strategy, but here, at the outset, he would give up the control and surrender himself to fate. It could be anyone, and therein lay the real challenge.

  Anyone.

  This was the random factor that made the game real, that made the skill and the strategy meaningful. There were rules, of course – the twenty-four-hour head start, only pursuing one target at a time, and so on – all carefully considered to make the whole thing more interesting. But without a genuine element of chance what would be the point in playing?

  Somewhere in the distance, a church bell was chiming.

  Noon.

  Though it might be tempting to loop back round and find the man with the sandwich, he knew that would be cheating. He had to do it properly – continue walking all the way across the park before he could turn back.

  There were people on the path ahead of him. A young man came first, Chinese by the look of him, a little under six foot tall, spiked hair, slight build, listening to his iPod. Clean, white trainers. His clothes seemed too good for a student but he couldn’t have been older than early twenties. They drew closer, until Naysmith could hear the tinny beat from his earphones . . . but he passed by without ever looking up.

  A moment later, a heavy-set woman in her fifties – somebody’s aunt. Greying hair, floral-print top, expensive bag. She had an aura of disapproval about her, steering herself towards the edge of the path as they came near each other and carefully avoiding his eye – her type often did. On another day, he might have felt a slight twinge of offence at this deliberate evasion, so determinedly keeping herself to herself – after all, there was nothing about him or his manner that anyone should find threatening. And yet, today, she was quite right.

  Next were two younger women sitting on a bench – late twenties or early thirties, one fair-haired, the other a redhead. Both were smartly dressed, midday fugitives from an office perhaps. They were talking as he approached, catching up on gossip before they had to return to work. The redhead had her back to him as he approached, but her friend looked up as he passed, her eyes flickering to his for just a second before she continued her conversation.

  She would be the one.

  And now his pace faltered just a little as he bent his whole attention to her, taking in each detail, remembering, fixing her in his mind.

  She looked to be of average height – hard to say while she was seated – with a relatively slim, athletic figure. Her grey trouser suit was presentable, if not flattering, and there was no ring on the hand that held her Starbucks cup.

  He took another step . . .

  Shoulder-length hair, straight, with cheap plastic clips to keep it out of her face, mousy with fading blonde highlights.

  . . . another step . . .

  Pale skin, delicate chin, high cheekbones, small nose, not too much make-up, pierced ears with small lobes. He burned her mouth shape into his mind, the slightly too pronounced pout of her lips, then gave the last seconds over to her eyes – pale grey-green with nice lashes.

  And then he was past her. A fleeting moment, but that was all it took.

  He never forgot a face.

  One more glance at the watch – it was 12.07. She had twenty-four hours’ grace, and he had a meeting at three. Grinning cheerfully, he turned off the path and headed back towards the city centre.

  Naysmith slept late next morning, and the hotel reception was busy with guests checking out when he came downstairs to catch the end of the breakfast sitting. He chose a table near the window and a nod summoned the attentive young waiter, who was immediately sent for coffee. The breakfast menu held no surprises, and Naysmith was already checking emails on his phone when the coffee pot was placed before him.

  He ordered without looking up and finished tapping out a short reply to one of his subordinates. The dining room was almost empty now, just him and a few other late-risers – an overweight businessman tackling bacon and eggs, and an older couple looking around the room as they quietly ate their toast.

  He poured himself some coffee and raised the cup to his nose, savouring the aroma before taking a sip. Heaven.

  The place looked different this morning, sunlight fro
m the windows infusing everything with a golden glow. He’d done his entertaining on the other side of the room last night.

  The Merentha Group meeting had gone even better than expected. Jakob Nilsson, their dealmaker, was a large, friendly Norwegian with a vigorous handshake and a booming laugh – heftier and a little older than he’d sounded on the phone. He’d been refreshingly sensible about the numbers and they’d managed to agree terms there and then in his office. He wore a very good suit and Naysmith had taken to him almost at once.

  Jakob’s colleague, Michaela, had turned out to be both intelligent and attractive in an understated way, with shoulder-length auburn hair, a guarded smile and dark, lingering eyes. She dressed with a classical elegance – black jacket, nicely tailored, with a simple cream blouse, and the confidence to wear a skirt. There was a quiet calm about the way she discussed their delivery requirements that he found oddly appealing, and he’d invited them both out for a drink. They’d started at a nearby bar on the waterfront.

  ‘So tell me,’ Jakob gestured towards him with his glass, ‘how did you come to be with Winterhill?’

  Naysmith leaned back in his chair.

  ‘I like a challenge,’ he replied, allowing his eyes to engage Michaela’s for a moment, then returning to Jakob. ‘Winterhill gave me the opportunity to build my own department from the ground up, to run things the way I want.’

  ‘They are good to work for?’

  ‘Very.’ Naysmith smiled. ‘I usually do one day a week in the Woking office, but the rest of my time is flexible. I work the hours I need to and, so long as I keep delivering the numbers, the directors are happy.’

  ‘I read that you recently expanded into Germany?’ Michaela had the faintest hint of a Welsh accent when she spoke. ‘Business must be good.’

  ‘You’ve done your homework,’ he nodded. ‘Germany’s our second-largest market and one of our resellers was based in Hamburg. It made sense to acquire them, bring their expertise in-house. It also eases the workload for my UK team, who were getting quite stretched. I just wish more of our clients were like you – it usually takes a lot more than one meeting to get a deal memo.’