He continued on to the top of the street, then paused and thought for a moment. It was just after nine. There was little reason to wait around for her lunch hour – as long as he was back before five.
The Internet Café, like so many others he had visited, was a seedy place. A bank of computers sat on trestle tables facing the wall, each with its designated number and a plastic chair. They were all vacant save one, where a studious-looking Indian youth was quietly touch-typing to a distant friend. A sign, printed on sheets of A4 paper taped together, advertised web access for £5 per hour, £5 minimum.
Naysmith approached the swarthy man behind the cash desk and wordlessly held out a five-pound note. The man roused himself from his magazine and took the money, placing it quickly into a small cash tin. He then leaned over to his own terminal, tapped a couple of keys and pointed towards the trestle tables.
‘Number four,’ he rasped, then cleared his throat. ‘Any drinks? Tea? Coffee?’
Naysmith looked at the stack of white polystyrene cups and the jar of instant granules. A sheet of paper on the wall behind it read Hot Drinx – £1. He shook his head and silently declined the offer.
Sitting at screen number 4, he brought up a web browser and typed ‘goldmund hopkins interior’ into Google. When he hit Search, a page of entries appeared, but he didn’t need to look beyond the top listing:
Homepage – Goldmund & Hopkins Interior Design Ltd.
He followed the link to their website and was greeted by an impressive page displaying stylish, modern spaces filled with glass and light, but his eye was immediately drawn to the ‘Who We Are’ tab at the top of the screen. Clicking it, he found a section listing the principal members of staff, each with a small photo.
And there she was. Staring out at him from the web page, that same unmistakable face he’d watched in the coffee shop earlier that day, the same face he’d seen in the park a week ago.
Beside the smiling picture, he read her name – Vicky Sutherland.
Naysmith leaned back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the screen. He didn’t usually know their names until afterwards.
At ten past five, the blue door opened and Vicky Sutherland appeared, briefly checking her bag before hurrying down the steps to the pavement. She turned onto Whiteladies Road and set off down the hill, buttoning her dark green coat as she walked. On the other side of the street, Naysmith matched her pace.
He’d spent an uplifting afternoon browsing among the dusty shelves of the second-hand bookshop he’d seen the week before. The proprietor, a small man with a shock of white hair and a threadbare grey cardigan, seemed content to sit and read until closing time, and Naysmith had enjoyed searching through the stacks of unwanted hardbacks. In the end, he’d settled on a slim volume of short stories by Somerset Maugham that he remembered reading years ago.
He didn’t look over too often, just enough to make sure he wasn’t getting ahead of that dark green coat. She walked quite quickly, as though she was eager to be away from the office, eager to be home. He wondered where her home was, and what it would be like.
They came to a pedestrian crossing just as the traffic lights were changing to red, halting the long line of cars. Naysmith was about to cross the road when he saw her change direction, stepping off the pavement to come over to his side. He slowed and turned away, pretending to study a shop window. In his mind, he visualised her walking across the road; he counted the steps and the seconds, not turning his head until he was sure she had passed.
The back of her green coat was just a few yards in front of him as they approached the station entrance. It would be easy to lose sight of someone here, but he was careful to stay close and allowed himself a little smile of satisfaction when he saw her turn abruptly off the main road and hurry down the tarmac slope. It seemed they had a train to catch.
A covered footbridge was the only access to the far platform and Naysmith paused, waiting until she was all the way across, before walking onto it and looking out on the station below. There she was, making her way down the long ramp that led to the curved platform, already lined with a number of early-evening commuters.
He checked his wallet for cash – he knew better than to risk using a credit card on a journey like this – when the rattle of an arriving train made him look up.
Mustn’t lose her now.
He hurried across the bridge and down the ramp towards the platform as the other passengers were boarding. It was a short train – only two small coaches – and he just had time to read the destination Severn Beach before leaping aboard through the last open doors. She was sitting with her back to him, at the opposite end of the carriage, so he slid quietly into a seat near the door and calmed his breathing as the train began to move. He gazed out of the window as Clifton Down station slipped away and they crept into the darkness of a long tunnel.
The guard appeared through the connecting door from the other carriage and began to make his way along the narrow aisle, checking tickets. In the fluorescent gloom, Naysmith frowned. He didn’t know which station she was going to. Taking out his wallet, he fished out a ten-pound note and held it ready for the approaching guard. He remembered the destination he’d read as he ran along the platform.
‘Return to Severn Beach, please.’
He could always get off sooner if she was going to an earlier stop.
The guard took his money, tapped a few buttons on a shoulder-slung machine, and printed out two tickets. After counting out the correct change, he walked back towards the other carriage, swaying slightly as the train emerged from the tunnel, daylight bursting in through the windows.
Naysmith blinked and looked out at the bright green foliage whipping by as they joined the river winding its way along the tree-lined Avon Gorge. When they slowed for the first station, he positioned himself so that he could see the back of her head between the seats but she made no move to get up. He settled back into his corner and stared out at the expressionless faces of the people on the platform, then closed his eyes. It had been a long day.
He found himself thinking of all those other faces, still so clear in his memory, each one a challenge, each one a reward. He understood the game now, knew why he played it, what it had given him. Casting his mind back, it was difficult to remember how he’d felt before it all began. He was different now. The game had changed him, altering something deep inside so that he couldn’t empathise with his former self. But there was no regret in that.
He felt the train begin to move. There was a change in tone as they rumbled over a bridge and he opened his eyes again. To the left, the Avon was broader, its sloping banks silted with grey mud. He wondered how far they had to go.
Nobody got off at the next station, but as the train pulled into Avonmouth most of the passengers began to get to their feet and collect their bags. From his vantage point, Naysmith watched intently, but she stayed in her seat, gazing out at the sheltered platform, its back wall decorated by a huge children’s mural.
The doors closed and they began to move once more, clattering slowly over a level crossing and following the single track as it curved steeply round to the right. The train passed in the shadow of an imposing old flour mill that towered like a derelict monument above the other industrial buildings lining the side of the track. There were no more houses now, but vast wind turbines could be glimpsed in the distance, along with cranes and mountainous piles of coal.
‘Any passengers for St Andrews Road?’ the guard called from the connecting door. ‘Request stop only, St Andrews Road.’
A request stop? Naysmith craned his head to peer between the seats. He hoped she wasn’t getting off here. Any station that operated by request didn’t sound as though it saw many passengers, and it would complicate things if he was the only other person to alight there.
He peered between the seats again but she sat still and quiet as the train coasted through a bleak area of warehouses and railway sidings. They rolled through the deserted station without stoppi
ng. Sinister-looking chimney towers belched pale fumes into the sky, but eventually even the industrial buildings became less frequent, and Naysmith felt slightly surprised as he realised he was gazing out at one of the Severn Bridges and, across the dark water, the Welsh coastline. Where did this girl live?
And then he felt the train slowing. The remaining passengers began to move, gathering their bags and getting to their feet as the guard called, ‘Severn Beach. Last stop.’
She was standing by the doors at the far end of the carriage, staring out of the window with the unseeing eyes of a tired commuter. Naysmith waited until the doors opened, letting her disembark before he got to his feet and followed.
A chill breeze greeted him as he stepped off the train and he thought he could smell the sea, a faint tang of salt on the air. Severn Beach station was little more than a single long platform between two tracks, one side almost lost in a tangle of overgrown weeds. He walked slowly by the solitary metal shelter and passed the corroded buffers that marked the end of the track, the idling hum of the train dwindling behind him. Ahead, he saw her walking down to the road and turning left. He quickened his pace a little. The platform opened out onto a quiet residential street – old and new houses huddled close to the pavement – a bleak little village on the edge of nowhere.
He turned left and walked along thoughtfully, some fifty yards behind her. It felt like somewhere that old people would come to – a quaint little tea room on one side of the street, bungalows with immaculate gardens, Neighbourhood Watch signs in windows. Ahead, he could see a steep tarmac slope that climbed to what looked like a seaside promenade, but his attention was on the figure in the dark green coat as she followed the road round to the left and disappeared from view.
When he reached the end of the road, he caught sight of her again, but elected to walk up the slope rather than follow her along the pavement. He quickly climbed the few steps up onto the top of the sea wall, and was suddenly buffeted by the wind. Before him, the vast grey expanse of the Severn rippled out towards the horizon, the bridge stretching away into the distance on his right. He turned away from it, pulling his jacket close around him against the cold as he walked along the promenade, his eyes following the figure on the street below as she made her way along the line of waterfront houses and turned down a small cul-de-sac. He watched as she unlocked her front door and went inside. It was a nice house – small, like most modern houses, but with its own driveway and a little patch of lawn. Smiling to himself, Naysmith walked on and followed the path down onto the beach.
The train back to Clifton Down was almost empty. He hadn’t realised how dark it was getting until he stepped aboard, the harsh interior lighting making it almost impossible to see anything outside. His eyelids were suddenly heavy, and he yawned before settling back into the seat. There was still a long drive ahead of him, but it had been a rewarding day.
He’d walked past her house on his way back to the station. There was a light on upstairs, and the hallway was illuminated, but otherwise the place was in darkness. He’d noted the small car on the driveway, the cheerful lace curtains, the plaster animals arranged on the doorstep . . .
. . . but nothing to indicate she lived with a man – good.
He had been about to move on when he’d noticed a pair of muddy women’s running shoes, neatly placed on the mat in the small front porch. And that had given him the beginnings of an idea.
He’d done enough for one day though. Satisfied, he pulled the Somerset Maugham book from his jacket pocket, and began leafing through the familiar pages as the train rumbled out of the station.
4
Friday, 25 May
Naysmith stared down into Kim’s deep brown eyes, enjoying the way she lowered her gaze demurely. Those long lashes looked dark against her pale skin. He carefully swept an errant curl of hair away from her face onto the pillow, then placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
‘Come on,’ he grinned, rolling off her onto his back and looking up at the ceiling, ‘you’ll be late.’
‘I would have been ready hours ago if you hadn’t been here,’ she smiled, sitting up and tentatively lowering her small, bare feet onto the polished wooden floor.
‘Maybe, but you’re glad I decided to work at home this morning.’
He stretched his arms out across the bed as she looked back over her shoulder at him.
‘Of course I am.’ She stuck her tongue out playfully, then squealed as he tried to grab her. Jumping up, she put her hands on her hips and adopted a mock-serious expression. ‘Not again. I’ll be late.’
He watched her scamper naked into the bathroom, then sank back into the pillows for a moment. His hand found the watch on the bedside table and he held it up, squinting as sunlight from the window glinted on the bezel: 12.49 p.m. It was time to get ready.
Naysmith put the suitcase down on the tarmac and closed the car boot.
‘Say hi to your sister for me.’ He smiled.
‘I will.’ She checked her bag, then turned to him. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind me going?’
‘It was my idea,’ he reminded her.
‘You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you?’
‘For goodness’ sake . . .’
He rolled his eyes, and she flinched. Very slightly, but he saw it – one of those nervous little tells that drew him to her, like a flame to a moth.
‘It’s only till Sunday,’ he said in a gentler voice. ‘Now go on, before you miss your train.’
She extended the handle from the case, then turned and stood on tiptoes to kiss him.
‘Call me tonight?’
‘I’ll call you tonight.’
He waved to her, watching her bump the wheeled suitcase through the doors and disappear into the station building. Then, sighing to himself, he got back into the car and leaned forward to rest his head on the steering wheel for a moment. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.
Time to focus.
He filled the car with petrol on his way out of Salisbury. Every forecourt had CCTV – that was unavoidable – but he deliberately paid in cash. Credit cards left permanent records that were simple to collate. Patterns and coincidences stood out too easily, and at this stage in the game he always disciplined himself to leave as little trace as possible. Tomorrow, he would refill the car somewhere else.
He didn’t take the turning for the village but drove on along the main road for a mile and a half before pulling off onto a narrow lane that led along the edge of a small copse. Leaving the car in the overgrown gateway to an empty field, he walked the short distance to the trees, pausing now and again to admire the rolling Wiltshire landscape, and to ensure there was nobody else around. Pushing on into the wood, he left the faint path and picked his way up a gentle incline, stopping when he came to a heap of rubble covered in ivy. He looked around, then stood very still, holding his breath and listening intently for a moment, but there was no sound other than the gentle rustle of the leaves above. Satisfied that he was alone, he crouched down and carefully pulled the undergrowth away from a small section of collapsed brick wall. Leaning forward, he reached into the gap underneath, searching with his fingers. It was further back than he remembered, but it was there, and he felt a tiny spark of excitement as he gained a grip on the plastic. Carefully, he drew out the long, flat parcel, wrapped in layer upon layer of black refuse sacks. He stood up, brushing the dirt and insects from it, and pushed the ivy back into place with his foot. Resisting the temptation to open it, he took his prize and started back down the slope towards the car.
It was almost five o’clock when he got home. Getting out of the car, he went straight into the garage, closing the door quietly behind him before turning on the light. It was a cramped space, cluttered with old packing cases and tools, and he had to step round the two bicycles to reach the cardboard boxes stacked along the back wall. One of them lacked the film of dust that covered the others. Opening it, he drew out two plastic bags and checked the contents.
>
Dark hooded top, anorak, jogging bottoms, black trainers, plain T-shirt, socks, gloves, cheap wristwatch . . .
To these he added a bottle of thin bleach, a roll of refuse sacks and a travel pack of hand-wipes. Every eventuality prepared for. Everything bought from the local supermarket, paid for with cash – anonymous items that could have come from any town.
He transferred the bags into a single refuse sack, which he carried out to the car, then went into the house.
A little before midnight, he called Kim, smiling as she struggled to hear him over the background noise of the bar she was in.
‘What was that?’
‘I said, tell your sister I can hear that screeching laugh from here.’
‘Rob, don’t be so mean.’
‘You’re right. She has a lovely screech.’
‘Stop it!’ Kim laughed. ‘So have you had a nice evening? You haven’t been too bored, have you?’
‘I’ve got a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and I’m watching The Godfather DVDs you got me,’ Naysmith lied. ‘I decided I was due a lazy night in.’
‘That’s good,’ Kim shouted. ‘Look, I can hardly hear you. I’ll call you tomorrow, OK?’
‘Not too early.’
‘All right. Miss you.’
‘’Night.’
He stood up and walked into the living room. Pulling the box of The Godfather from the shelf, he took one of the discs and put it into the DVD player, then moved through to the kitchen. Opening the cupboard, he took out the large blue bottle and poured three-quarters of the Bombay Sapphire down the sink.
Details mattered.
The warm water felt good on his skin as he leaned back under the shower nozzle, energising him. It was part of the ritual that he went through every time, helping him to prepare physically and mentally for the challenge. He wrapped a towel around himself and padded through to the bedroom, where he clipped his fingernails short. All jewellery, along with his watch, his wallet and his mobile phone were left neatly on the bedside table – personal items were an unacceptable risk. He needed nothing but his keys and some cash.
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