Eye Contact

by Fergus McNeill

  A sombre-faced doorman in a grey coat and bowler hat moved smoothly to intercept him, quietly opening the tall wooden door before him.

  ‘Thank you,’ Naysmith nodded as he strode up the stone steps and passed into the small entrance lobby.

  Behind him, the rumble of the city was gently snuffed out as the great door slid shut, and the only sounds that remained were his footsteps on the polished marble floor. The space smelled of old wood and furniture wax, and it was accented with some lovely nineteenth-century pieces. Ornate lamp fittings hung by long chains from the tall ceiling, occasional tables carried vases filled with beautiful sprays of flowers, and carved mahogany chairs sat in every corner. He walked through to the long reception desk where an immaculately dressed man acknowledged him with a deferential nod.

  ‘Good evening, sir. May I help you?’ he enquired.

  ‘My name’s Robert Naysmith. I’m meeting one of your guests – a Mr Vernon Kapphan – but I’m a little early.’

  The receptionist glanced down at his screen for a moment, then smiled politely.

  ‘Very good, Mr Naysmith. Perhaps you’d care to wait in the room across the corridor and I’ll let Mr Kapphan know you’re here.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He walked through the doorway the man had indicated and stepped into a long, bright room decorated in Regency style. Crimson and gold drapes framed the windows, matching the velvet upholstery on the low sofas, and small pedestal tables gleamed with polish. He selected a beautiful wood-framed chair that had its back to the doorway, but which commanded a good view of the foyer in the reflection of a glass-fronted cabinet.

  There was a heavy stillness in the room that seemed to swell and grow as he waited. Through the window, he could see the tops of trucks and red buses as the incessant traffic slid by outside, but no sound reached him here behind the thick cream walls and spotless glazing. The oppressive silence was briefly disturbed by muted voices drifting through from reception before it returned to smother the room.

  He checked his watch again, his face registering a slight flicker of annoyance as he noticed that he was no longer early – they were now late. Leaning back into the chair, he wondered how long they would be. Wealthy clients were often late, but in a way that was understandable. Time-wasters might be apologetically punctual but people who were serious – people who actually had the money to place an order – they naturally thought of themselves as customers, and felt no need to rush around after a salesman.

  In any case, there were worse places to pass the time, and it was certainly better than being at that bloody conference. He’d endured another tiresome afternoon, sitting there listening to lectures given by people with limited public-speaking skills, and a particularly awful keynote speech from an enthusiastic halfwit who would probably be out of business within a year.

  Naysmith sighed and leaned back, stretching out his legs and feeling the deep carpet springing against his heels. It had been another long day, another early start. Once again, he found his thoughts drawn to that sandy-haired man looking back at him from the train – an ordinary person with an ordinary life, unaware that he might be staring death in the face. Had he felt anything as he made eye contact? Did he sense that something profound had happened, even though he couldn’t know what it was? Naysmith hoped so. A moment like that must surely resonate in even the most mundane of people. He wondered where the man worked, where he lived . . . and where he might die.

  Of course, he had to find him first. It had dawned on him that the man’s journey might well take him further into London than the DLR ran, that he might need to change trains. This greatly increased the odds that he would find the target at one of the two main terminal stations where the DLR connected with the Underground. He’d felt a real buzz of anticipation as he lay in wait at Tower Gateway, the ambush predator standing at the foot of the escalator, watching as passengers streamed out onto the pavement, but it had been a washout. The man had not appeared. Tomorrow morning he would try Bank station instead . . .

  His eyes flickered across to the two figures that had appeared, reflected on the glass in front of him. Smiling quietly to himself, he leaned forward and got to his feet without looking round.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, finally turning to face them and extending his hand. ‘It’s good of you to see me . . .’

  40

  Wednesday, 5 September

  Mercifully, the waiting room was empty again. He’d sat there before, angry and self-conscious, while a middle-aged woman had sat opposite him. He’d felt her eyes on him as he’d leafed through an ancient magazine, staring at him, judging him. Just sitting here meant you were tainted, damaged.

  But today, there were no covert glances, no quiet coughs to disturb the breathless silence. Harland leaned forward, sifting through the magazines as noisily as possible, suddenly eager to dispel the dreadful stillness.

  When Jean appeared in the doorway, beckoning him through, it was almost a relief. She was wearing jeans and boots, with the snug-fitting sweater he always seemed to picture her in when he thought of her. It highlighted her figure in a way that distracted him, and he forced himself to think of other things as he followed her into the small room and sat down.

  Jean put her notebook on the table, then opened her spectacle case and pulled out a different pair of glasses to the ones she usually wore. Harland watched her put them on.

  ‘They’re new, aren’t they?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’ She glanced up at him.

  ‘Your glasses,’ he explained. ‘They suit you.’

  Her expression softened and she smiled with a warmth he’d not seen from her before.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said as she retrieved her notebook. She read for a moment, then looked up at him. ‘So, how have you been?’

  He returned her gaze and sighed before answering.

  ‘I’m still on leave,’ he said, half shaking his head. ‘A break from work, whether I want it or not.’

  ‘Okay.’ Jean paused for a moment, then asked, ‘And do you want it? A break from work?’

  ‘No.’ He found that he had answered her too quickly, too urgently. She nodded and wrote something down.

  ‘Why do you think that is, Graham?’ she said, sitting back in her chair and looking at him.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Is there something that you’re missing at work perhaps? Or are you just not in the mood for time off just now?’

  Harland leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, gazing at the carpet.

  ‘A bit of both,’ he shrugged. ‘I certainly don’t like to walk out on a case halfway through. Something might come up that I need to take care of.’

  ‘Can’t one of your colleagues deal with things while you’re away?’

  ‘That all depends on which colleague it is,’ he said grimly. ‘But yes, I suppose so.’

  Jean looked at him for a long moment.

  ‘And do you feel as though you’re walking out on something when you take time off?’ she asked.

  He struggled with this for a moment, then sighed again.

  ‘Not really,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s just that I want to see things through . . .’

  ‘I know you do, Graham,’ she said gently.

  They sat for a moment, the room quiet except for the sound of the pen scribbling in her notebook. He picked at the neutral blue fabric on the seat of his chair, then looked up to find Jean staring at him.

  ‘You said that you might not be in the mood just now,’ she said. ‘Do you usually enjoy your time off or are you maybe happier when you’re at work?’

  Harland frowned.

  ‘Happier at work?’

  He dealt with murder and other violent crimes. Misery and loss. That wasn’t something that should make anyone happy. And yet part of him was desperate to be back on duty.

  Jean leaned forward a little.

  ‘Some people find the regular routine helps them to structure their lives,’ she said. ‘
It’s not uncommon.’

  No. That wasn’t him. Or at least, it didn’t used to be . . .

  ‘I think maybe I just like to keep myself busy.’

  He used to say that he didn’t have enough time to get everything done. Now, he didn’t have enough to fill his time.

  Jean nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me what you usually do when you’re not working. How do you spend your regular days off?’

  Harland considered this.

  ‘Depends what the rotas are like, but usually I catch up with chores, try and keep the house tidy, that sort of thing.’

  He paused, aware that it wasn’t much of an answer, that there must be more.

  ‘I also read a lot. Sometimes I go for a walk . . .’ Damn it, what did he do? ‘Oh, and there’s the swimming of course.’

  Jean noted something, then smiled encouragingly at him.

  ‘And what about this week?’ she asked. ‘What have you been doing with your time while you’re on leave?’

  He sat back, trying to think, but only one thing came to his mind. There seemed no point in trying to hide it.

  ‘I drove out to the place near Redhill,’ he said slowly.

  She waited, sensing how hard he suddenly found it to speak.

  ‘Oh, I see. Is that where . . .’ her eyes flickered down to her notebook ‘. . . Alice had the accident?’

  You had to check her name there, didn’t you?

  A shiver of anger brushed over him, but it somehow lightened the burden, made it easier for him to talk.

  ‘Yes.’ He sat up, forced himself to breathe. ‘I drove out there a few days ago.’

  Jean waited.

  ‘It was strange,’ Harland mused, half to himself. ‘I wasn’t planning to go there. I was just driving around and I somehow ended up on that road. I haven’t been there since . . .’

  Jean nodded.

  ‘How did you feel going back there?’

  ‘Empty,’ he shrugged. ‘At first there was a sort of dread – so many memories stirred up there – but after a while I just felt numb. Empty.’

  ‘That must have been difficult for you.’

  Harland looked up at her.

  ‘I thought it would be,’ he nodded, ‘but I didn’t really feel it properly until afterwards.’

  ‘Afterwards?’

  ‘When I got home.’

  ‘Well, as you said, an experience like that can stir up a lot of memories. Coming to terms with bereavement takes time . . .’

  She made it sound like a legal disagreement, something to be negotiated with, settled with. As if he could ever come to terms with it. As if he could ever change the way he felt about Alice. He shook his head.

  ‘. . . she was your wife and—’

  ‘Alice is my wife,’ Harland spoke abruptly. And in that instant the room seemed different, suddenly less intimidating to him. ‘You weren’t even sure of her name a moment ago. Why am I listening to you on a subject you don’t really understand?’

  His voice was raised now, and he could sense her drawing back from him, concern in her eyes. Why did people always look so worried when he got upset recently? What did they see in his face that hadn’t been there before?

  She began to speak, but he held up a hand for her to wait, turning his head away from her as he spoke, hiding whatever it was that lay behind his eyes.

  ‘Please,’ he scowled, his voice careful now, ‘I don’t mean any offence, but you don’t understand. You can’t understand.’

  They sat there in silence for a long time, until he slowly lowered his hand. Jean waited for a moment, then spoke in a soothing voice.

  ‘I understand that it isn’t easy to rebuild your life when someone important is taken from you.’

  Harland laughed, a desperate, almost sobbing sound.

  ‘How can I rebuild my life?’ he snapped. ‘She was my life. I don’t want to move on, I don’t want to get over her . . . I want her back. I want all of this to just stop, and I want things to go back to the way they were before . . .’

  He looked at her, her expression still guarded, but tinged with a curious sympathy.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he sighed, getting to his feet. ‘I’m not losing it. I know that I can’t go back. But I also know that everything isn’t going to be all right.’

  ‘Graham,’ she began, but he just smiled sadly and shook his head.

  ‘I think our time’s up for now,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Thanks for everything, Jean.’

  41

  Thursday, 6 September

  Naysmith bowed his head as the train swept down into the tunnel and the grey morning light of East London was extinguished. Swaying in his seat as the carriage rattled from side to side, he closed his eyes, quietly preparing himself for another rush-hour vigil, recalling the face of his target and fixing it in his mind.

  Early thirties, clean-shaven, with sandy hair and a pale complexion. Slight build, weak chin and small, dark eyes. Impossible to be sure of his height – the man had been seated when he’d seen him – but the blue anorak and brown leather case might be worth watching out for.

  He opened his eyes and looked around, calmly taking in the dull expressions on the faces of his fellow passengers, already drained from the morning commute before they’d even made it to work. Scrubbed skin, combed hair and newly ironed clothes, but all withdrawn, dead eyes staring away into nothingness. Adopting that same tired expression, Naysmith sat back in his seat. Everything now depended on his ability to blend in, to avoid attention. An underground station wasn’t somewhere he could stay for long without arousing suspicion. He’d mentally allowed himself thirty minutes, but that would be a very long time to stand there in the glare of so many CCTV cameras.

  This train was some fifteen minutes ahead of the one he’d seen his target on at Poplar. As it slowed, and the darkness of the tunnel was replaced by the bright walls of the DLR station sliding into view, he got to his feet, ready to disembark with the other passengers. His face was bored, expressionless, but as the doors opened and he stepped out onto the platform, his eyes swept back along the other carriages, flickering from face to face. A long line of glaring strip lights hung from the curved white ceiling, illuminating the head of each person who got off. There was no sign of that short, sandy hair he was looking for, but he was early . . .

  As the passengers made their way towards the exit, he allowed himself to drift along with them, slowing as they mingled with other groups of commuters who were making for the train. He paused for a moment, making a pretence of checking his phone, then started walking again. Except now he was walking back towards the platform, just another ordinary person on his way to work. He had already identified the best places to stand, not far from the platform exit, where the target would have to pass by as he made his way out.

  The clock was ticking – twenty-three minutes left. Leaning against the glossy white wall, Naysmith unfolded his newspaper and gazed idly at the back page, noting a couple of London Transport staff in their orange vests standing at the far end of the platform. He had already decided that he was waiting for a colleague, if anyone should ask. It was important to get your story straight in advance – any hesitation could give you away if you were challenged. But having that story in mind – almost believing it – infused your actions with a certain credibility, masking your body language and making you less likely to attract attention. In the wake of the bombings, London stations were watchful places, and he knew he was very exposed here.

  There was a change in the air, and a faint vibration before he heard the next train. It emerged from the dark opening at the far end of the platform and swept into the station, its motor dropping in pitch as it slowed and stopped. The doors slid open and Naysmith looked up from his newspaper

  He caught a few tantalising glimpses of people with the right hair colour, tracking each one as they approached him.

  Too heavy . . . female . . . hair too long . . . one with a beard . . . damn, he
wasn’t on this train . . .

  As the last of the passengers made their way towards the exit, Naysmith slipped in among them for a short distance, then casually steered himself back to a slightly different point on the platform. As long as he was moving with the crowd, he was virtually invisible – the less time he stood still the better. And changing position would avoid the obvious give-away of a loitering figure occupying the same spot on a CCTV screen . . .

  He turned to study the London Transport map on the wall beside him, willing the next train to arrive. This one should be the one he’d seen his target on at the start of the week, but was he such a creature of habit that he caught the same time train every day? When they’d made eye contact, the man could have been running late, or going to work earlier than usual. Perhaps his trip wasn’t a regular journey at all – just a one-off visit to a client in another part of the city . . .

  He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten, grinding his teeth together.

  Would this target elude him as well? Would it be two failures in a row?

  No!

  Angry at himself, he shoved those thoughts out of his mind. This was no time for pessimism.

  The thirty minutes were almost up when he spotted him. A fleeting glimpse, between the other figures milling around the carriage doors, but Naysmith was immediately alert. A heartbeat later, he recognised the pale skin and dark eyes as the sandy-haired man walked towards the exit, wearing that same blue anorak.

  He felt a surge of excitement, that dreadful thrill coursing through his veins like a stimulant, quickening his pulse and urging his chest to breathe faster. The sudden, howling lust for that ultimate power of life and death was almost insatiable, but he fought it down, got himself under control. He had to stay focused.

  As the target passed, Naysmith calmly folded his newspaper and melted into the crowd behind him. They shuffled through the exit and turned right into a long, brightly lit corridor signposted to the Central Line. Was he changing trains?

  An escalator rose at the far end of the corridor, creating a bottleneck for the crowd of commuters as they funnelled onto it. Naysmith pushed through the throng, judging his pace carefully and stepping onto the escalator just three people behind the sandy-haired man.