Eye Contact

by Fergus McNeill

  The foyer was partially visible – a collection of brightly upholstered easy chairs and leaflet-strewn coffee tables – but he couldn’t see anyone through there.

  Taking a deep breath, he placed his hands carefully on the door and gently pushed, ready to stop if it made any sound. As it opened, he leaned across, eyes alert, and eased himself partly round it.

  There was nobody at the front desk, and his eyes swept urgently across the space.

  There!

  The receptionist was standing with his back to him, over by the full-height windows at the front, watching something happening in the street outside.

  A rhythmic flicker of blue light touched the building across the road.

  Shit! They were here!

  His breathing quickened. He had to find another way out, right now.

  Eyes fixed on the receptionist, he edged round the door, easing it quietly closed behind him. Then, moving silently, he slipped along the wall and round the corner into the restaurant. The room was dimly lit, rows of tables and chairs arranged ready for breakfast. He moved swiftly, weaving between them as he made for the opposite end of the room, the thicker carpet muffling his careful footsteps. Tall smoked-glass windows looked out onto a paved walkway that ran along the side of the building and there, at the far end, a green fire exit sign shone out brightly.

  He reached the door and paused. It would be alarmed, but his chances would be better outside, and at least he’d be away from the front of the building. There was no other way.

  Breathing quickly, he put his gloves on the release bar and pushed the door open. Somewhere in the building behind him a distant buzzer sound went off, but he ignored it and stepped out into the night. Cold air enveloped him as he paused for a moment, alone in the alley, listening for any sound of pursuit. Then, lugging the holdall, he walked along the pavement towards the back of the hotel.

  Don’t rush, just walk, nice and easy.

  He was between two tall buildings, with the street behind him and the water in front. As he approached the corner, a glow of red flared in the shadows. Someone was standing there, smoking.

  He couldn’t turn around now – it would look odd, guilty. Besides, the front of the hotel could be crawling with police by now. He had to keep calm, keep walking.

  The distance between them closed and he could see the silhouette of a man in a long coat, pale smoke drifting out into the light of the street lamps.

  Don’t make eye contact. Just look straight ahead, look at the lights across the water . . .

  There was nowhere to go but forward. He just had to hold his nerve – walk straight past and he’d be out of there, free. Just the briefest glance across as he drew level with the figure . . .

  A lean man, features wreathed in shadow, but the head had turned, following his steps.

  It didn’t mean anything.

  All he had to do was keep on walking. The corner was only a few yards away.

  As he passed by, he sensed movement behind him and a voice spoke out.

  ‘Excuse me . . .’

  It was like a physical blow. That voice – that same voice – from the phone moments earlier. Everything inside him cried out, but he fought it down, mastered it. He wouldn’t run. Just ignore the howling storm of adrenalin and keep walking, calmly, slowly. He mustn’t run. Almost at the corner now . . .

  ‘Hey, you!’ It was a shout this time.

  Naysmith ran.

  50

  Monday, 17 September

  It had seemed like such a promising lead. He’d not been able to round up much manpower – he would never have got it authorised anyway – but he’d subconsciously built up his hopes on the long drive down. They were going to find something, he knew it. A solid lead now could bump the case back onto the radar again, give them a fighting chance.

  And then, when he’d arrived on the scene, it had all started to come apart. He saw straight away that the online map was wrong, or at least out of date. There were two hotels on the site, not one. With only a few uniformed officers, no clear indication on where to begin searching and no suspect, he suddenly found himself wondering if he’d made a fatal mistake. Unless he turned up something good, like the missing mobile phone, he was just making it easy for Blake to get rid of him. He thought of the Superintendent’s humourless smile – ‘So sorry, Graham, but you’ve left me no other option . . .’ – and imagined Pope’s smug satisfaction when the word got out . . . it was infuriating. But there was nothing he could do about it – things had taken on a momentum of their own now and, win or lose, there was no option but to play it through to the end.

  And so, standing there in the cold glow of the street lights, he’d decided to try one last, desperate gamble.

  There had been no voice at the other end of the line, but he wasn’t really expecting the killer to talk back to him. Someone so clever, and so careful, wasn’t likely to reveal himself that easily. And yet, as Harland heard that first numeric tone in response to his own words, he felt sure that he was speaking to the murderer. If it was just someone who’d picked up a stolen mobile, they’d probably try to bluff their way through the conversation, or hang up immediately. But there was a dreadful curiosity in the silence at the other end – and surely that could only come from the killer.

  Straining to hear better, he pressed the phone hard against his ear as he walked into a narrow alleyway at the side of the buildings, away from the distracting chatter of the other officers.

  Don’t rush things . . . try to empathise with the subject . . .

  All the things they’d told him about speaking to unstable people came back to him now, and he tried to infuse his voice with a steady, reasonable tone as he undertook his one-sided conversation.

  Whatever happens, just don’t let him hang up . . .

  ‘Still there?’

  Another numeric tone. Harland breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘I know that the circumstances are difficult, but I really would like to understand more about what you do . . .’

  I really would like to know where the hell you are . . .

  ‘Do you think we could do that?’

  He listened intently, then clenched his fist in triumph as he heard the answering tone. The bastard wanted to communicate with him.

  ‘All right then,’ he began. ‘Let’s try to—’

  There was a click and the line went dead.

  No!

  Harland stared at the handset in horror. What had just happened? Had he hung up or was there a problem on the line? He looked around, panicked, but there was nobody else near him. Trembling, he redialled the number and pressed the phone to his ear once more.

  Come on, come on, ring . . .

  But all he got was a number-unobtainable tone. He tried again, then once more, but it was no use. Something had happened – perhaps the killer had simply run out of battery, or perhaps he’d switched off the phone.

  Shit!

  As he stood there, alone in the shadows, he was struck by the appalling realisation of what he’d done. He’d ignored procedure and tried to contact the suspect directly. This might have been their best chance to find the killer and he’d rushed it like a bloody amateur. They’d hang him out to dry for this. He was screwed.

  Reeling, he stepped back to lean against the wall. It was over, and this time it really was all his own stupid fault. Trembling, his free hand searched his pockets, fingers closing around a box of cigarettes. Fumbling, he jammed one between his lips and sparked his lighter. In the darkness, the flame blinded him, but the tobacco caught and he drew in a desperate wave of smoke. Eyes closed, he held it for a moment before exhaling slowly.

  He was still shaking, but it wasn’t as bad now.

  Bowing his head, he gripped the cigarette tightly as he wondered what the hell he was going to do.

  The distant rumble of the city came to him from far away, mixed with the hum of air-conditioning units on the walls high
above him. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, but he’d lit a second cigarette and was rolling it between his fingers when he heard the click. Further back along the alleyway, a door swung open. In the darkness it was hard to see, but he could just make out a figure emerging from the building to his right, carrying a holdall. Soft footsteps reached his ears, echoing off the walls. There was nothing furtive about the figure’s movement, in fact the man was coming towards him – just another weary worker heading for home at the end of a late shift. Harland relaxed, and raised the cigarette to his mouth. The figure walked calmly along the side of the hotel, a silhouette, backlit by the orange glow that filtered in from the street.

  He drew on the cigarette, blowing out the smoke as he tried to clear his head, tried to think what he would do now. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the rhythm of the footsteps passing by . . .

  . . . and hearing them quicken.

  His eyes flickered open. The figure was just beyond him now. Harland watched with a frown, wondering for the first time where this person had come from, where he was going. And his movements seemed somehow different, not so weary now.

  He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as he stepped out from the wall and peered after the man. He had to be sure.

  ‘Excuse me . . .’

  The dark shape didn’t stop or show any sign that he’d heard as he walked on up the alley. Harland stepped forward, cold adrenalin rising in him.

  ‘Hey, you!’ he shouted angrily, and the retreating figure suddenly broke into a run.

  A profound sense of fury exploded through Harland as he sprinted after the man. Racing to the end of the alley and around the corner, they emerged onto the broad paved walkway that led along the edge of the dock basin at the back of the two hotels. Lights from the apartment blocks on the opposite side glittered on the dark water below as his feet pounded along the pavement, his quarry no more than fifteen or twenty yards in front of him.

  As he ran, Harland glanced around but there were no other officers within shouting distance, and the hotels were soon behind him. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t risk losing the man – he had to stay with him no matter what.

  They raced onwards, the figure ahead of him struggling with his bag, which swung around wildly as he powered forward. They ran between the legs of the enormous black cranes that loomed along the quayside, their erect iron arms lost in the darkness above. On the left, a broad plaza stretched away, with uniform rows of ornamental trees slipping by, their thin branches eerily lit by cold blue fairy lights. The man was moving fast, but Harland was holding the distance between them. And still, he saw no one, nobody he could call out to for assistance – it was just the two of them now.

  Ahead of them, flights of broad steps led up to the illuminated glass entrance of the exhibition centre, but the man kept right, following the pavement along the water’s edge.

  He was making for the bridge.

  It dominated the skyline before them – two boxy towers clad in metal, with a slender footbridge slung between them, high above the water. Triangular suspension struts gave the appearance of sails, and a series of red lights glowed in silent warning at the top of each mast. It was the only way across the dock.

  Ahead of him, the man turned right, the bag flying out wide from his left hand as he sprinted onto the wooden-floored gangway that led to the nearest of the towers. The rhythmic impact of his footsteps seemed very loud as Harland rounded the corner and pounded onto the gangway after him, the whole structure bouncing under his feet. He was breathing hard now, legs feeling heavy, but a righteous fury carried him on. He wouldn’t let go, not this time.

  At the far end of the gangway, his target ducked into the metal-clad tower and disappeared from view. Harland hurried after him, determined not to lose ground.

  As he reached the open doorway, he could hear the sound of urgent footsteps echoing down through the tower from the metal steps above him. His breath was failing now, legs burning as he forced himself on, into the cramped stairwell and up the first flight of steps. Head tilted back, he looked up as he climbed, straining for a sight of the hurrying figure above him, but all he could see was a confusing maze of steel stretching up to the deck of the bridge.

  At the first landing, he turned and drove himself up another flight, then another. His breathing had become ragged, the metallic echo of his feet reverberating around the enclosed space, drowning out everything else.

  Yet another flight of identical steps. Surely this was near the top now. How much further could it go on?

  Exhausted, he rounded what must have been the final landing, gasping for air, urging himself to go on. As his eyes flickered up, he saw the movement but by then it was too late.

  Dark against the reflected fluorescent lamps, the waiting figure launched himself down from the top of the stairs, blotting out the light behind him. Harland stumbled, desperately trying to dodge to one side, but an outstretched foot caught him in the chest, smashing the last breath out of his lungs. The full weight of his attacker crashed into him, sending him tumbling backwards until his head smacked against a handrail and there was nothing more.

  51

  ‘Ha ha, you got your shoes wet.’ Gary was looking down at him from the riverbank, and laughing. ‘You’ll be in trouble with Mum when we get home.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Shut up yourself, Robbie.’ Gary always called him Robbie, emphasising the second syllable. He hated it.

  Scowling, he scrambled up from the slippery stepping stones, drained his shoes as best he could and followed his big brother along the grassy bank. They picked their way slowly along the meandering course of the river, swollen with dark water from several days of rain, before turning aside onto a faint path that led up into a stand of trees. A breath of wind sighed through the leaves overhead, making them shimmer.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘To the waterfall, stupid.’

  ‘All right, I was only asking.’ Why did his brother have to be so mean all the time? It was no fun with him around; he spoiled everything.

  They emerged from the woods and walked down a long, grassy slope. It was quiet here – the village was far behind, and the only sound was the occasional bleating of the sheep on the side of the valley above them.

  ‘We can cut across here,’ Gary said, pointing towards the broad expanse of reeds and grassy hummocks that stretched out to their left.

  Rob hesitated. The ground looked marshy, and he didn’t want to get muddy.

  ‘Can’t we go round by the path?’ he suggested.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Gary sneered at him. ‘Scared? Your shoes are already messed up, and this way’s quicker.’

  ‘I’m not scared!’

  ‘Prove it then.’

  Gary turned his back and walked down into the reeds. Frowning, Rob followed him. The ground felt soft at the foot of the slope but he hurried on, determined to keep up. He wasn’t scared of anything. Following Gary, he kept his eyes on where he was treading, trying to avoid getting any wetter than he already was. The long tangled grasses were thicker now, hiding the muddy ground completely, and dark water bubbled up between the mounds as his shoes pressed them down.

  They were almost halfway across when Gary stumbled and swore. Rob looked up to see his brother, some twenty yards ahead of him, shaking his head in annoyance.

  ‘Aw, sod it!’ He turned to glance back at Rob. ‘I’ve stepped in a hole or something. The water’s gone right up over my knee.’

  ‘Ha!’ Rob called over to him. ‘Who’s got wet shoes now?’

  ‘Shut your face.’

  Rob carefully picked his way forward, moving round the side of a large hummock. The ground suddenly felt very strange beneath his feet and as he paused he could feel it moving under him, as though he was walking on a giant trampoline.

  ‘Rob, come here.’

  ‘In a minute.’ The moving ground didn’t feel right at all.

 
‘Come here right now and help pull me out.’

  Slowly, he crept forward, placing his feet carefully on the squelching reed bed. He could see Gary clearly now, just a few yards in front of him, bent as though in a crouching position, one leg buried to the thigh in the grass. There was water all around him.

  ‘Blimey, you’re soaked!’ Rob said, steadying himself on a mossy tuft of reeds.

  ‘Of course I’m soaked,’ Gary said. ‘You’re such an idiot, Robbie. Now get over here and help me.’

  Rob paused.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ his brother snapped. ‘Get over here now!’

  He looked funny, bent over like that, water swirling up around his leg. He ought to be polite if he wanted help. Maybe even say sorry for being so horrible . . .

  ‘Rob!’

  He looked different now, sort of worried and angry at the same time. And he’d said Rob not Robbie . . .

  ‘You’re nasty to me, Gary.’ He watched his brother staring up at him uncertainly. ‘Maybe you should say sorry to me . . . if you want me to help you.’

  There. He’d said it. His brother might rub his face in the mud later on, but at least he’d said it.

  ‘Say sorry? To you?!’ Gary’s face went red and he started to say something, then tried to lunge at Rob. There was a loud bubbling as his trapped leg dragged him down and he fell sideways with a dull splash. Water sluiced around him as the ground sagged and he began to struggle, trying to get to his feet.

  ‘Shit! Oh shit!’ His arms slid into the water as he tried to push himself up and the floating grass gave way under his hands. ‘Help me, Rob, help me!’

  And suddenly it wasn’t funny any more. Rob looked around desperately, but there was nothing to hold on to except for the reeds. Grasping a clump tightly, he leaned forward and stretched out his hand towards his floundering brother.

  There was a strange sensation in his tummy, like an icy knot of excitement, as he reached out. It was an amazing feeling, to suddenly be so important. Gary was totally dependent on him at this moment, totally in his power. It felt so good . . .