Eye Contact

by Fergus McNeill

  ‘Ah, but we know what we want.’ Jakob laughed.

  Naysmith smiled at Michaela.

  ‘So do I.’

  By 7 p.m. it was clear that nobody was in a hurry to go home, so Naysmith suggested they all eat at a nearby hotel. He remembered the restaurant there as being rather good, and there was a comfortable lounge as well. He could get a room – that would save him the misery of the slow evening train home, and it would afford him a legitimate excuse to spend the night and be in Bristol the next day.

  Dinner was surprisingly enjoyable. Naysmith had known some very dreary Scandinavians, but Jakob was well travelled and Michaela added some welcome chemistry to their talk. At first, he had wondered if Jakob was fucking her – there did seem to be a faint spark between them – but as the meal progressed he had revised his opinion. The big Norwegian was keen on her, and she enjoyed the attention, but that was as far as they had gone, or seemed able to go.

  Conversation drifted easily from business to pleasure as they ate.

  ‘Oh, I wish I’d known.’ Michaela brightened as they discussed music. ‘There’s a place on King Street that has great live jazz most evenings.’

  Naysmith shrugged. ‘Next time I have an evening in Bristol . . .’

  ‘Absolutely.’ She smiled.

  It was perfect. He’d never have risked a deal like this over a woman – if she and Jakob had been an item, he’d have kept his distance. As it was, though, he had a pleasing evening, asking her lots of open questions, carefully empathising, and verbally fencing with Jakob over her, letting everyone enjoy the agreeable tingle of flirtation in their talk.

  It was almost ten when Jakob went to retrieve his jacket from the cloakroom. Sitting with Michaela, Naysmith casually reached into his pocket and stole a glance at her business card. There were three telephone numbers on it. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them.

  ‘This is your mobile number?’ he asked her, indicating the card.

  ‘Yes.’ She answered quietly, without looking at it, allowing him to hold her gaze far too long.

  It was so tempting, to put his hand over hers, to ask her back for a drink in his room, but he reluctantly decided against it. She had something special about her, something that he didn’t want to rush. He could imagine slow summer afternoons with her, seeing her shy smile when she woke next to him, someone he might actually enjoy listening to.

  ‘I’ll hold you to that promise . . .’ he pointedly placed her card in his pocket, then smiled, ‘. . . next time I have an evening here.’

  And then Jakob had returned and the moment passed, with just a hint of regret in her eyes to assure him that he was right.

  She was something to look forward to when he had more time . . .

  He savoured that thought as his breakfast arrived.

  2

  Thursday, 3 May

  Naysmith called the office later on that morning and caught up on some emails before checking out of the hotel just before eleven. It wouldn’t do to be early, but he was eager to be back up at Clifton Down by noon.

  He told the taxi to drop him at Sion Hill, a little over a mile away from the park – intentionally distant. It was better to be careful even at this early stage, and he had plenty of time. He took a few minutes to walk out onto the Clifton suspension bridge, stopping at the halfway point, alone, far above the Avon Gorge with its ribbon of silvery water and its tiny cars hurrying along below. He looked south across the city, out to the pale horizon beyond, then closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze, the tremendous sensation of height, like standing in the sky.

  There was nothing he couldn’t do.

  A narrow footpath wound its way up to an open expanse of grass, scattered with benches where people could sit and take in the view of the bridge. An enthusiastic young Labrador came bounding towards him as he crested the hilltop and he stooped to make a fuss over it as its owner, a large woman in her forties, hurried forward, vainly calling, ‘Sammy. Sammy!’

  ‘I don’t think he heard you.’ Naysmith grinned, rubbing the dog behind its ears.

  The woman shook her head, catching her breath. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be, it’s fine,’ he laughed. ‘Are you all right, though? Looks like he’s been giving you quite a workout.’

  ‘I never thought having a dog could be so exhausting.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘It’s worse than going to the gym.’

  ‘Better company though.’ He gave the dog a friendly pat and stood up. ‘You wouldn’t have the right time, would you?’

  The woman quickly frowned at her watch. ‘Twenty to twelve.’

  ‘I’d better get along.’ Naysmith smiled. ‘There’s someone I have to catch up with.’

  The footpath led down through a stand of overhanging trees, then out to the main road. He crossed over and walked up a long hill, admiring the tall houses that looked out over the park.

  Somewhere, a bell chimed noon. Seven minutes to go and her twenty-four hours would be up. He gave them all this grace period, a head start, so they had the chance to disappear before he came looking. She could be anywhere now, but that just made the challenge more interesting. And of course, she didn’t know he was coming.

  At the top of the hill, the road bent round to the right and he followed it, measuring his pace, resisting the temptation to hurry.

  A buzzing in his pocket slowed him and he cursed under his breath. Taking his phone from his jacket, he looked at the name on the screen, sighed, and diverted the call. Not now.

  Switching off his phone, he cleared his mind of everything but her, summoning her face from his memory, recalling her eyes, the small nose and straight, shoulder-length hair. A sense of calm spread through him as he focused on her image.

  He was just a couple of hundred yards from the corner of Stoke Road. It was 12.06, but he waited, willing the second hand on his watch to crawl right round to the top before he looked up.

  12.07 – and the game was on!

  Quickly, his eyes swept the park, studying the various distant figures for anyone that might possibly be her. He crossed the road but ignored the path, cutting straight across the grass in the direction of the bench where she’d been twenty-four hours before.

  Picture her now, slim figure, about five foot six, mousy blonde . . .

  He moved purposefully towards the middle of the park, his gaze flickering left and right – it was vital that he saw her before she saw him – but there was no sign of her as he drew near the bench and found it deserted. He paused for a moment, then sat down where she had sat, placing his palms flat on the rough grey wood of the seat and leaning back.

  It would have been her lunch hour. He turned his head, looking out over the park stretching away into the distance, then considered the buildings to his left, the shops and offices he’d passed on his walk yesterday.

  Thoughtfully, he stood up and started back along the tarmac path, retracing his route from the day before. Still alert, he scrutinised every approaching figure, but the sky was overcast now and it was colder – the park was quiet today.

  He reached the road and waited at the busy junction until he could cross over, his eyes drawn to the crescent of four-storey buildings that curved down to Whiteladies Road ahead of him. A bridal store, sports shop, Indian restaurant . . .

  Picture her now. Smart grey trouser suit.

  His eyes drifted up to the second- and third-storey windows. Some had net curtains – obviously flats – but as he walked down the hill he began to see more with vertical blinds, sterile fluorescent lights and stencilled business names.

  She worked in an office.

  He drifted slowly down the road, relaxed but watchful, stopping now and then to peer through the windows of cafés and sandwich shops – anywhere that workers might visit on an overcast lunchtime. His gaze flitted around the people on the street, resting longer on anyone slim, anyone about five foot six, anyone with mousy hair . . .

  By 1 p.m., he began to sense that he’d missed his
chance. Her lunch hour would be over and she’d be back at work. He looked up and down the road, lined on both sides with offices. There was no way of knowing which one she was in, or even if this was the right place to search. It was a daunting challenge, but he found the prospect pleasing.

  Tired of walking up and down past the same shops, he turned his back on the park and followed the road as it sloped down in the general direction of the city centre. He decided to look in on the second-hand bookshop he’d passed the day before and see if it was open. Crossing the street, he continued to watch the people around him, just in case . . .

  Two young women were walking up the hill towards him, deep in conversation. Both were casually dressed – one with short blonde hair, faded jeans and a tight green sweater, the other looked Asian with a tan suede jacket and dark trousers. He knew immediately that neither of them was his target, but the Asian girl was rather attractive and held his attention as she came closer, long dark hair swaying as she walked. As they drew level, she placed her hand on her friend’s arm and whispered something, almost spilling her companion’s coffee as they both giggled. She had a nice smile, but as they passed Naysmith stopped short.

  Sitting on that bench in the park, average height, slim athletic figure . . .

  He frowned, concentrating on the image in his mind.

  . . . grey trouser suit, no ring . . .

  The two women passed by, oblivious.

  . . . and what was she holding?

  ‘Excuse me?’ Naysmith called after the two women, who turned and regarded him with puzzlement.

  ‘Sorry to bother you.’ He offered a wry grin, then pointed at the coffee cup in the blonde’s hand. ‘Just wondering if you could tell me where Starbucks is?’

  The Asian girl pointed back down the hill. ‘Just keep going down there and you’ll see it on the right.’

  ‘Next to the station,’ her friend added.

  The entrance to Clifton Down station was only a couple of minutes’ walk down Whiteladies Road, and just beyond it Naysmith found Starbucks. He went in and ordered a coffee. Standing at the counter, he casually glanced around the tables, but he knew she wouldn’t be there. Not now. Not today.

  And yet she had bought a coffee from here, then walked up to the park with it – walked that same road he’d just been on.

  He was getting warmer.

  He folded his newspaper and looked out of the window as the train pulled into Salisbury. Getting to his feet, he stretched, then joined the other passengers already huddled around the door, waiting for it to open.

  He walked quickly, deftly negotiating the obstacle course of people and luggage to ensure he got a taxi. Instructing the driver in a tone that didn’t invite further conversation, he slammed the door and sank back into his seat. The traffic was still slow with the tail end of the rush hour, but they soon broke free of the town. Gazing out at the familiar trees and hedgerows, he distracted himself by calculating his commission on the Merentha deal, and planning what he might do with the money. In the window, his reflection smiled back at him.

  He watched the taxi turn and head off back through the village, then made his way to the white front door and, taking a key from his pocket, let himself in.

  ‘Rob?’ a woman’s voice called down from upstairs as the door slammed. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘It’s me,’ he replied, putting his phone and keys on the table. ‘Kim, come down for a minute.’

  Kim appeared at the corner of the stairwell, looking at him with a slight frown. Five foot six, with a youthful grace that belied her twenty-eight years . . . and there was something very arousing about her when she was cross.

  ‘I called you today, just before lunch,’ she began, toying with her shoulder-length dark hair, ‘and you “busied” me.’

  ‘I was with a client,’ he sighed. ‘Come on, you know how it is.’

  ‘You never called me back.’ Her large hazel eyes studied him accusingly from across the room. She was wearing a simple white top and jeans that accentuated her narrow waist and small, slender frame.

  ‘Ah.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘That’s because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.’

  She walked slowly over to him, more intrigued than suspicious now. ‘What surprise?’

  ‘Well, I had some good luck in Bristol,’ he smiled. Taking her hand, he pulled her close, enjoying the feel of her against him. She didn’t resist.

  ‘Your meetings went well?’

  ‘Very well,’ he murmured, leaning forward to smell her hair.

  ‘Don’t tease,’ she scolded him. ‘What surprise?’

  ‘All right,’ he laughed. ‘I got the deal – the whole thing – and it’s going to mean a really good bonus. I thought we might have a long weekend in Rome—’

  ‘Oh Rob, that’s perfect!’ She hugged him excitedly, then left her arms around his neck as she gazed up at him. ‘Sorry . . . you know, if I was a bit moody . . .’

  ‘Forget it.’ He smiled. ‘Now, run upstairs and put something else on – I’m taking you out to dinner.’

  ‘OK,’ she laughed. ‘Do you want to come and help me choose what to wear?’

  He looked at her for a long, lingering moment.

  ‘Tempting,’ he said slowly. ‘But if I have to watch you getting dressed, you know what’ll happen.’

  She turned and gave him a coy look. ‘I don’t mind . . .’

  ‘I know,’ he nodded, ‘but first I’m taking you for a meal at Mirabelle’s.’

  He watched her obediently skipping up the stairs, and sighed quietly. At moments like this, he was genuinely fond of her.

  3

  Wednesday, 9 May

  He had prepared for it as he would for any other appointment. An entry in his work calendar read Alan Peterson, 9 a.m., Bristol, and the rest of the day was blocked out. The meeting was to discuss a potential lead for what could be a lucrative software contract – he had the brochures and sales sheets in his bag – but a week after landing the Merentha deal, nobody at the office was particularly concerned about how he spent his time.

  Which was just as well, Naysmith thought, as there was no Alan Peterson.

  Kim was still asleep as he dressed. She looked so innocent, her dark hair tousled from the night before. He gently pulled the duvet up to cover her exposed shoulder and quietly closed the bedroom door behind him.

  Time to go to work.

  It was a bright, cold morning and he shivered as he carefully hung his jacket in the back of the car to save it from creasing on the journey. He turned on the radio just as the 6 a.m. news started, and listened for the traffic report as he drove out of the slumbering village and made for the main road. Golden sunlight dappled the lane through the overhanging trees, and he found the A36 still quiet enough for him to put his foot down and enjoy the drive. Everything boded well for a productive day.

  He made excellent time as far as Bath, then started to run into some early-morning commuter traffic, but he was still in Bristol well before 8 a.m. Threading his way through the city centre as quickly as possible, it wasn’t long before he was driving up the hill into Clifton.

  It fascinated him to think about his quarry. Where was she at this moment? What was she doing? Perhaps getting ready for work, maybe already on her way. Certainly she had no understanding of her significance, her part in the game. He wondered how far away she was from him, and imagined the distance closing . . .

  There were a couple of empty spaces in the station car park. Getting out of the car, he stretched, then grabbed his jacket and hurried up the tarmac slope, past the station entrance on Whiteladies Road. Moments later, he was settled at a table in Starbucks that commanded a good view of the door, savouring his first coffee of the day, and recalling her image in his mind.

  Early thirties, average height, slim figure, straight, mousy hair.

  He checked his watch, then sent Kim a short text explaining that his meeting had been delayed, before settling himself into his chair.
>
  From experience, he knew that the key to waiting lay in pacing himself. He had never been a particularly patient man, but he had learned – it was part of the game, like everything else. At first he’d struggled with boredom, frustration and all the other unwanted feelings that crept in to fill the vacuum of inactivity. He’d been too eager to progress and it had almost been his undoing in the early days.

  Not now though. Now he knew how to sit so that his body was without tension. He knew how to slow his thoughts and allow his mind the freedom to wander, without ever losing sight of the target.

  He had a newspaper in front of him – the Telegraph, which he’d picked up from the counter – but today that was just for show. It was something to put on the table in front of him, a prop he could fiddle with from time to time. It was what people would see when they looked at him – just an ordinary person reading the paper. And yet his eyes, though never too eager, kept glancing back at the door.

  He didn’t react when she came in. Her mousy hair was tied back and she was wearing a dark green coat and black boots, but it was definitely her. She looked a little hurried – it was almost nine – but there were only two people in the queue at the counter and she was soon ordering her coffee. Naysmith finished his drink as she collected hers and calmly followed her out onto the street.

  She walked with a quick, determined stride as she made her way up the hill, but it wasn’t difficult to stay with her. He allowed her to lead him along the row of shops and through the tempting aroma of fresh bread that drifted from the bakery. He was just a few paces behind her as she crossed the road by the church, but he let the distance between them open up again as they drew nearer to the park. She was some twenty yards ahead of him when she turned off at a terrace of Georgian town houses and hurried up a set of stone steps to a tall, blue door. There she halted to fumble with her handbag, then seemed to think better of it and buzzed the intercom.

  Naysmith watched as the door opened and she let herself inside. He was close enough to hear the buzzer click off as he strolled along the pavement, glancing at a small glass plaque by the doorway as he passed: Goldmund & Hopkins Interior Design.