Eye Contact

by Fergus McNeill

  ‘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 lik
e 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.

  21

  Thursday, 12 July

  Naysmith put down the phone and stared out of the small window, taking in the bright expanse of sunlit grass and the village beyond. His biggest client was on holiday and, having chased up all the current leads in his diary, he was at a loose end. Closing his laptop, he turned slowly in his chair, got to his feet and took his empty mug down to the kitchen.

  A restless energy coursed through him as he waited for the kettle to heat up, and the quiet stillness of the house became oppressive. He looked at the clock above the stove – 11.45. Not even lunchtime yet.

  His eyes fell on Kim’s fur-trimmed gilet, hanging over the back of a chair. After staring at it for a moment, he turned, switched off the kettle and went to find his car keys.

  Half an hour later, walking along a narrow street in Salisbury, he dialled Kim’s number.

  ‘It’s me. I’m in town . . . yeah, right now. Can you take an early lunch?’

  He paused, then smiled and nodded.

  ‘Good. See you at the pub by the river in a few minutes.’