Eye Contact

by Fergus McNeill

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘Nothing yet. But the body in Oxford makes it less likely that the killer is local to this area. We’ve started looking for similar attacks along the M4 corridor.’

  ‘Good.’ Blake nodded slowly for a moment.

  Harland glanced up at him. Good? The second body had done virtually nothing for the investigation other than resetting it to square one. What was the Superintendent thinking?

  Blake stared thoughtfully at his desk for a moment, then sat back in his chair and looked at a point on the wall above Harland’s head.

  ‘I think we need to be seen to pursue every avenue, Graham,’ he began.

  This didn’t sound good . . .

  ‘The media is an essential tool in the fight against crime, and I believe it’s time we used it. We’re going to do a TV reconstruction, see if it turns up any new leads.’

  Harland rubbed his weary eyes, with a sudden dread of where the conversation was going.

  ‘I want you to help with this, present the relevant facts and make sure we’re properly represented on the programme.’

  Not me. Anyone but me.

  He thought back to the media training course he’d been forced to attend – his dread of reporters with their cameras and their microphones ready to ensnare him – and shuddered.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to have someone else do it? I’m not really cut out for this sort of thing—’

  Give it to someone else. Give it to Pope – he’d love the attention.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Blake was already on his feet, moving round the desk to open the door for him. ‘I’ve told the media team to expect you. It’s all arranged.’

  Harland stood up. His mouth suddenly felt dry and he was numb with frustration, but he wouldn’t let it show.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he murmured and stalked out of the room.

  16

  Sunday, 24 June

  Sunday had dawned grey and overcast, and they spent a lazy morning in bed with the papers. By eleven, the sun had begun to peep in, illuminating the pale linen curtains and casting a golden strip of light across the crumpled duvet. Stretching sleepily, Kim got up and disappeared into the shower while Naysmith wandered downstairs.

  They enjoyed a relaxed brunch at the kitchen table, music drifting through from the living room, easing themselves into the day.

  ‘It’s brightened up,’ Kim said, gazing out into the garden. ‘Did you want to go for a walk?’

  Naysmith looked up from his magazine.

  ‘Okay.’ He smiled. ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Kim shrugged. ‘We can just see where the afternoon takes us.’

  They left the house and walked slowly through the village, strolling along the narrow pavements, stopping to listen to the burble of water from the culvert streams that meandered between the old houses. They had planned to stop at the pub, but the weather was fine and they found themselves going further than intended.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want the responsibility,’ Kim was saying, ‘but they can’t keep taking on more and more work, then expect it to get done in the same time. We were short-staffed before Harvey left, and now there are only four of us doing everything.’

  Naysmith considered this as they turned off the lane onto a narrow farm track that climbed up across the fields.

  ‘I thought they were going to replace him,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘They told us they would but that was months ago.’

  A warm breeze ruffled Kim’s hair as she walked beside him. The track led up to a hilltop crowned by a stand of trees and commanded a wonderful view of the rolling countryside beyond it.

  ‘It’s not as though they’re short of money,’ Naysmith reasoned. ‘Has anyone spoken to them about this?’

  ‘Well, Marcus is the most senior so he should really be the one to raise it . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to.’ Kim made a face. ‘I think he’s looking around for another job – probably doesn’t want to upset anyone in case it jeopardises his references.’

  Naysmith shook his head.

  ‘I don’t like them taking you for granted. Perhaps it’s time you looked for something else too.’

  Kim walked beside him, her free hand brushing against the long grass at the edge of the path, lost in thought.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said at last, ‘but there aren’t too many other firms around Salisbury. It’s easier for Marcus; he has no ties . . .’

  Whereas you have me, Naysmith thought, oddly intrigued by the notion.

  It was strange to think of them as ‘tied’ to one another. When had that happened? Over the last two years they had certainly become closer than he’d ever expected, but when had they become a proper couple? There wasn’t a specific moment he could put his finger on. Was it when they’d started living together? No, she’d moved in by instalments; technically she still had her house in Taunton, but really that was her sister’s place now. When had everything changed?

  As they walked on in silence, he caught her glancing shyly up at him and he thought he saw that same realisation in her eyes – that awareness of how entwined their lives had become.

  ‘Rob,’ she said slowly, ‘can I ask you something?’

  She hesitated, and for an uneasy moment he wondered what she was going to say. He stopped and looked at her as the wind teased at her hair.

  ‘Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’ She gazed up at the trees ahead of them, then turned to him, ‘You know . . . what do you want out of life?’

  ‘Five years is a long time,’ he answered carefully. ‘I’m not following a timetable, but you know what I’m like – I just want to feel alive, to be happy, keep challenging myself.’

  She lowered her eyes. They had been talking about work, but suddenly he knew this walk was about something else.

  ‘And what about me?’ she asked.

  Ah. Here it comes . . .

  She looked up at him, searching his face.

  ‘I’m not a challenge,’ she said quietly.

  Unbidden, he found that his hand was outstretched, caressing her face. He stepped forward, gazing into her eyes as the breeze swirled the long grass around them.

  Had he wanted her more back then, before things had changed? When she was still pretending? Still playing hard to get?

  He smiled. Perhaps, but her gradual surrender to him – both physically and emotionally – had been so complete that he’d become drawn to her in a profoundly different way. There was a strange blend of enjoyment and responsibility – holding her on the knife-edge of total submission – that he found intensely compelling.

  She wasn’t stupid. He knew she must sense the hunter in him – the sexual predator at least – and yet she chose not to believe it.

  Because you don’t want to believe it.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, studying her upturned face, ‘I don’t want every part of my life to be . . . competitive. Yes, I need to challenge myself, test myself, but that’s not all I need.’

  His fingers pushed a wisp of hair away from her anxious eyes.

  ‘You’re not a challenge,’ he said softly. ‘You’re the balance in my life; the one person who I’m not trying to get the better of.’

  Because now there was no resistance left, so utterly had she submitted to him.

  Kim held his gaze for a moment, then leaned her head on his shoulder.

  ‘But Rob—’

  ‘Shhh,’ he interrupted her. ‘Trust me. I want you just as you are.’

  And in a way it was actually the truth. Struck by this, he took her hand and, giving it a reassuring squeeze, led her on towards the hilltop.

  ‘Come on,’ he laughed, as she began to smile, ‘let’s go and look down on the world together.’

  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.