And then, as he stared at his brother, he withdrew his hand a little.
‘Say sorry, Gary.’
‘What?!’
‘Say sorry.’
‘Okay, I’m sorry, whatever you bloody want,’ Gary yelled, arching his body to keep his face out of the water. ‘Now give me your fucking hand.’
He didn’t mean it.
Rob looked down on his tormentor thrashing around in the water, both legs now snared below the tangle of reeds.
He would never mean it.
Rob leaned back to the safety of the large clump of reeds and closed his eyes.
‘Please! I can’t get my legs out!’ Gary was begging now, but he’d be nasty again soon enough. ‘You’ve got to help me, Rob!’
He could get himself out.
Turning away, Rob pulled himself up and edged his way back towards the firmer ground. Behind him, he could hear Gary swearing and yelling, but with every carefully placed footstep, the noise grew a little less. He bit his lip, concentrated on where he was walking, trying to push everything else out of his mind.
He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t doing anything at all.
And then the noise behind him changed to a strange half-screaming, half-sobbing sound. It pierced him, making him pause and look over his shoulder, but the reeds hid Gary from view.
And then it stopped.
An eerie peace fell across the valley, and the only sound was the mournful sigh of the wind. For several long minutes he stood alone, listening, until a cold trembling gripped his body, forcing him to move. Turning away from the marsh, he started back towards the village.
52
Wednesday, 19 September
Stephen Jennings looked up from his monitor and watched the clock hands as they traced the last long minutes to lunchtime. It had been a dull morning, but even from his cubicle – tucked away at the very back of the office – he could see that the weather had changed and the sun had come out. Yawning, he pushed a hand through his short, sandy hair and got slowly to his feet. Reaching for the blue anorak draped over the back of his chair, he hesitated, then changed his mind. He wouldn’t need it today.
Downstairs, the reassuring rumble of the city greeted him as he pushed aside the heavy glass door and wandered down the steps onto Throgmorton Street. It was already getting busy with other office workers breaking for an early lunch, and he quickened his pace. He saw so little sunlight at his desk that he was determined to get a place by the window today.
Casa Mia was quite full, but in the end he was lucky. Finding a table where he could sit in the sun, he reserved it by folding his jacket over the chair and went to the counter to order his usual sandwich and drink.
When he returned to the table, there was a padded brown envelope sitting on it.
Frowning, he looked around, trying to identify who might have left it there, but he couldn’t see anyone. Taking his seat, he felt a flush of annoyance – this was his table, and he didn’t want to share it with anyone else.
Several minutes passed and people bustled all around, but still nobody came, nobody joined him. Curious now, he took another bite of his sandwich and casually lifted the envelope, feeling its weight in his hand. There was something inside – not too heavy, but he suddenly thought about all the terrorism warnings – what if it was a bomb?
Growing alarmed, he scraped his chair backwards, ready to stand up and move away from the sinister package, when he noticed the photograph.
It had been under the envelope, lying on the table, and when his eyes fell on it his worried expression turned to one of puzzlement.
The photograph was of him.
It was small and blurry, like one of those Polaroid snaps that developed instantly inside the camera, but it was definitely him. There he was, walking along the road, wearing his blue anorak and his new grey trousers . . .
. . . exactly what he was wearing today. Had it been taken on his way into work this morning?
He looked around, half expecting to find one of his colleagues playing a joke, or to see someone filming him for something, but there was nothing. Nobody was paying him any attention. He looked down at the photograph again, wondering who might have taken it, and why?
As he turned it over in his hands, he saw a single word, handwritten in block capitals on the reverse.
REPRIEVED
Reprieved? Reprieved from what? What was this all about?
He turned his attention back to the brown padded envelope. Glancing around once more, he slid a cautious finger under the sealed flap and opened it. Inside he found a second envelope with a neatly printed label:
FOR DETECTIVE HARLAND
AVON AND SOMERSET CONSTABULARY
WITH COMPLIMENTS
Standing up slowly from his table, Stephen gathered up the two envelopes and the photograph, hesitated, then took them over to the man at the counter.
‘Excuse me,’ he asked, ‘but can you tell me where the nearest police station is?’
53
Monday, 24 September
Harland was late but it didn’t matter. He’d been on compulsory leave ever since he got out of hospital. Now, they’d finally decided to call him in – an eleven o’clock appointment with Superintendent Blake – but he was in so much trouble that there seemed little point in hurrying. The bollocking would keep.
He walked calmly up the steps and into the station, smiling at Firth as he made his way through to the back offices.
‘Good to see you, sir,’ she said, her face bright, interested. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Fine thanks,’ he nodded, lifting a hand to the tender spot at the back of his head. ‘Just a concussion and some bruised ribs.’
‘Well, it’s good to see you back.’
Back, yes. But maybe not for long.
He went upstairs and made his way along the corridor. Should he go and make himself a coffee first? No, might as well get it over with. It was already ten past – he’d kept Blake waiting long enough.
Walking along to the meeting room, he opened the door and went in. The Superintendent was there, but he was surprised to see Mendel and Pope sitting on opposite sides of the table. Had he got the time wrong?
Pope’s expression was aloof, but Blake looked up pleasantly.
‘Ah, there you are, Graham,’ he said, removing his glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief. ‘Fully recovered, I trust?’
‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ Harland replied.
‘Good.’ The Superintendent beckoned him into the room. ‘We may as well begin then.’
Harland pulled out a chair next to Mendel, catching the big man’s eye as he sat down, but it was clear that his friend was in the dark too. What was going on?
‘There have been some . . . developments,’ Blake began, ‘and I thought it would be appropriate to share them with you all.’
He put his glasses back on and, opening the folder in front of him, drew out several large photographs.
‘Last week, a man called Stephen Jennings walked into a police station in London with an envelope.’ He slid the first photograph across the table. Pope had to rise from his seat to see the picture of a plain brown envelope. ‘It was left on the table of a café near Bank, at lunchtime last Wednesday. Inside, there was a second envelope . . .’ He paused, then glanced up at Harland. ‘And that one was addressed to you.’
‘Sir?’ Harland frowned.
Blake slid a second photograph across the table. This one showed the front of an envelope, with a printed label. They leaned forward, reading the words on it.
‘I don’t understand.’ Harland shook his head as he stared at his own name. ‘What’s this all about, sir?’
‘What indeed?’ The Superintendent gazed at him for a moment, sharp eyes peering over the top of his glasses, studying, evaluating. ‘You weren’t here at the time, so we took a look at the contents in your absence . . .’
No, I wasn’t here, was I? I was on ‘leave’ again, pending your bloody revi
ew.
‘. . . and we found something rather interesting.’
Blake pushed another photograph towards them, showing a black mobile phone.
‘This phone was inside. It used to belong to a certain Morris Eddings.’
‘Eddings?’ Pope looked up. ‘Isn’t that the name of the guy in Hampshire?’
‘The victim in the West Meon killing,’ Blake nodded. ‘This is the phone we put a watch on, if you remember.’
‘So the envelope came from our killer.’ Mendel whistled. He turned to Harland, then frowned. ‘But it’s addressed to you.’
Harland sat back heavily in his chair.
‘Was there anything else in the envelope?’ he asked, quietly.
A faint smile passed over Blake’s face.
‘As a matter of fact there was,’ he said, sliding another photograph across the table. ‘This short note was with the phone, presumably intended for you.’
Harland stared at the image – a small square of white paper with two lines of text printed in the centre:
THE GAME IS OVER
WE’LL CALL THIS ONE A DRAW
Pope read the message, then looked over at the Superintendent.
‘What does it mean?’ he asked. ‘He thinks of all this as some kind of game?’
‘Perhaps,’ Blake mused. He paused for a moment, his hand resting inside the folder, before pulling out a fifth photograph, toying with it as he looked at them. ‘Stephen Jennings brought us something else that was quite significant.’
He pushed the photograph into the middle of the table, waiting for them all to crowd in and look. It was a photo of a photo – a small Polaroid snapshot by the look of it. It showed a sandy haired man in a blue anorak – unposed, as though the man didn’t realise that his picture was being taken.
‘That is a snapshot of Mr Jennings,’ Blake said. ‘He found it with the envelope on the café table.’
They sat for a moment, taking this in.
‘That’d give you the creeps,’ Pope muttered to himself.
‘I think it probably got his attention,’ Blake shrugged. ‘Perhaps that was the idea. However, there is one thing further . . .’
He slid a final photograph over. It showed the back of the snapshot, with one word written in large capital letters.
‘“Reprieved”,’ Mendel read aloud. ‘So perhaps this Jennings bloke was lined up as the next victim?’
Blake looked at him, his face impassive.
‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘Jennings lives in Silvertown, close to the Royal Victoria Dock.’
Harland sat forward.
‘Where the hotel was,’ he said. ‘That’s why he was there.’
The Superintendent gave a slight nod as he ran a finger along the edge of the folder.
‘The Met are running with this now,’ he explained. ‘They’ve been over the hotel, and they’re working through CCTV footage from Docklands, London Transport, and the area around the café.’
‘What about Jennings?’ Pope asked.
‘He seems to be genuine,’ Blake replied. ‘They’ve done some digging and there’s nothing untoward. Naturally, they’ll keep an eye on him, just in case. That word “Reprieved” is encouraging, but I don’t think they’ll want to take any chances.’
‘If he knew how close he’d come . . .’ Mendel said, looking at the snapshot and shaking his head.
The Superintendent sat back in his chair, looking at each one of them in turn.
‘So there we are,’ he said. ‘While there are things that might have been done differently, it does seem that we may have interrupted the killer . . .’
Harland noted his slight emphasis on the ‘we’.
‘. . . for now at least. Although there were a number of decisions taken that I cannot condone, I think it’s best that we draw a line under the whole thing and move on. The case is now with the Met – we’ve done our part and there is no need for any further involvement, from any of you, without my express direction.’
He wasn’t looking at Harland as he finished, but it was a clear, absolute warning.
‘Are the Met close to making an arrest?’ Pope asked.
‘The investigation is ongoing,’ Blake replied. ‘But they know what they’re doing, don’t you worry.’
Harland stared down at the table in silence, keeping his doubts to himself.
‘Pity the DI didn’t get a better look at the suspect,’ Pope murmured. Mendel shot him a withering look.
Seeing there were no further questions, Blake reached across and gathered up the photos, returning them to the folder.
‘Anyway, I thought you should know how things stand. Good communication is the cornerstone of effective policing.’
He closed the folder, then looked up at them.
‘That will be all.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Pope nodded, as they all pushed back their chairs, getting to their feet.
Blake watched them stand, then added, ‘Stay for a moment, Graham.’
Harland stood to one side, letting the others by. Brushing past, his back to the seated Superintendent, Mendel held up two crossed fingers in front of his chest and gave a subtle nod of encouragement.
‘Close the door, would you?’
Harland pushed the door shut and turned back to the table. Blake got to his feet, considered him for a moment, then turned and walked over to the window.
‘A most unusual business, Graham,’ he said as he looked down on the street below. ‘There’s been some highly irregular behaviour, to say the least. I’m still not entirely clear about the chain of events that brought our suspect out into the open, but I feel certain that it wouldn’t do either of us any good if I were to dig any deeper into it.’
He turned round and stared meaningfully at Harland, then moved to the table and put his hand on the folder.
‘My opposite number in Thames Valley rang to congratulate me,’ he smiled to himself. ‘Did you know that?’
‘No, sir.’ Harland frowned.
‘Said we’d “got a result”. Under the circumstances, I think we’ve acquitted ourselves rather well, and we’ve certainly given the Met a tough act to follow.’
The idea seemed to amuse him for a moment. He shook his head and made his way around the table and paused by the door.
‘I want to bring you in from the cold, Graham,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re a good officer; you were lucky this time.’
Harland stared at him, unsure what to say.
‘Just make sure you stay lucky,’ Blake mused.
Then, without turning round, he opened the door and strode out.
Harland stood for several minutes before walking along the corridor to his office. Pushing the door shut behind him, he moved around the desk, dropped into his chair and slowly massaged his temples with his fingertips.
Mendel had called him lucky too.
He looked at the picture of Alice, light catching on the little gold frame, but his thoughts drifted back to the note, the snapshot.
The game was over. Reprieved.
He wondered where Stephen Jennings was right now. A name in a report, a man he’d never met. But whoever he was, he was alive.
Harland smiled. Alice would have been proud.
EPILOGUE
Naysmith propped himself up on one elbow and watched Kim as she slept. The first night in a new bed always made him eager and he’d taken her twice since they’d arrived that afternoon. Now sated, he gazed down at her slender form, his mind clear, able to think without distraction.
The cottage was ideal – and the perfect place for a romantic getaway. Perched in a remote location on a windswept stretch of coastal cliffs, with no neighbours for miles, and nothing to do except go for long walks or fool around in bed. But he must have known when he booked it. At least on some subconscious level, he must have.
Kim had been so pleased when he’d mentioned it. A whole week without work, or email, or mobile phones. Perhaps even a whole week without clothes, she�
��d suggested naughtily. And of course, that was what he wanted. A whole week with her, just the two of them together, enjoying each other, growing closer as the waves crashed on the rocks far below.
But they had been growing closer. Somehow, her life and his had become more entwined than he’d ever anticipated. Or allowed for.
Yes, she was very attractive, but there were plenty of other women out there for him . . . at least there had been until he’d found himself comparing them to her.
He pulled the duvet aside to reveal her naked back, smooth skin lit by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. She was just a person, fragile and beautiful and interesting, but still just a person. Why then did his thoughts return to dwell on her so much? He bit his lip. He’d never intended for things to go this far.
For so long, the game had sustained him, driven him forward. In many ways it had defined him, given him both purpose and pleasure. He couldn’t ignore it, or pretend it hadn’t happened. But he also knew the gnawing pain of hiding it, the hollowness that grew inside until it consumed everything else. He remembered how bitterly he’d wanted to tell his mother, and how much it had cost him not to.
And he knew that stifling his desires just made them hungrier.
He looked down at Kim, listening to the gentle sigh of her breathing as she dozed peacefully beside him.
What if it was all just too much for her to take? He dreaded the thought of what he would have to do if she couldn’t accept it. But the time might come when he had no choice – when he could no longer risk telling her because he could no longer bring himself to deal with her if she ran.
He shut his eyes.
Of course he’d known when he booked the cottage. He’d known for some time that this was coming, however much he’d wished otherwise.
He opened his eyes again, studying Kim, fixing the image of her in his mind. So very beautiful, so utterly submissive to his will. She had accepted everything he’d done to her, even seeming to gain pleasure from her surrender. But some things were more difficult to accept than others . . .
And that’s why he’d booked this place. A remote cottage, with lonely clifftop walks, where lovers might stand on the edge of the precipice, gazing down at the breakers below.
Eye Contact Page 28
