Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
Flytrap
Sneak Preview
Copyright
About the Book
Also includes a sneak preview of Simon Kernick’s blistering new thriller, The Bone Field.
Him
He has an addiction that he cannot quench. His solitary life sailing the Caribbean is the only way he can survive. That is, until, he meets…
Her
A widow with nothing left to lose, she finds herself on his sleek forty-foot yacht. He’s handsome and charming; exactly what she’s been looking for.
But the night doesn’t go exactly as they had planned, and only one of them will get out alive.
About the Author
Simon Kernick is one of Britain’s most exciting thriller writers. He arrived on the crime writing scene with his highly acclaimed debut novel The Business of Dying, the story of a corrupt cop moonlighting as a hitman. Simon’s big breakthrough came with his novel Relentless which was the biggest selling thriller of 2007. His most recent crime thrillers include Siege, Ultimatum, Stay Alive and The Final Minute. He is also the author of the bestselling three-part serial thrillers Dead Man’s Gift and One By One.
Simon talks both on and off the record to members of the Counter Terrorism Command and the Serious and Organised Crime Agency, so he gets to hear first hand what actually happens in the dark and murky underbelly of UK crime.
Flytrap
Simon Kernick
Her
I’m walking along a near-deserted stretch of St Lucian beach when I see him sitting at a table in the sun outside a beach bar. He’s about forty-five, very tanned, with curly black hair and a hairier chest than you usually see on men these days. He looks Mediterranean, and sure of himself too. Confident, without seeming arrogant. He’s wearing dark glasses, and of the handful of people sitting at various tables out the front of the bar, he’s the only one not on his phone. Instead, he’s looking out to sea, but I can tell he’s clocking me as well, and that’s fine. I like to think I’m still a pretty good-looking woman.
I keep walking, splashing my feet in the warm waters of the Caribbean, until I reach the end of the beach, then turn and head back the way I came, enjoying the heat of the mid-afternoon sun on my back.
As I pass the bar again ten minutes later, I see the guy’s still there. This time I don’t keep going but walk past his table, giving him a small smile which he returns, before ordering a virgin pina colada from the cheerful bartender who tries but fails to stop looking at my chest as he pours the drink.
‘Care to join me?’ the man asks as I walk back from the bar.
It’s such a classic, clichéd scene, like something out of a substandard romcom, but you know what? Sometimes it’s nice when real life resembles a Hollywood movie. So I take a seat opposite him and put out a hand. ‘Jane.’
He takes it. Smiles again, showing gleaming white teeth, and perfect dimples. ‘I’m Matt. Pleased to meet you, Jane.’ He’s taken off his sunglasses and I see that his eyes are very blue. ‘Are you down here on vacation?’ he asks me.
I tell him I am and he asks me where I’m from: ‘I detect an accent. Is it Aussie?’
‘South African. But I left there a long time ago. I live in Atlanta now.’
I sip my drink and we talk some more. He’s got a nice, easy manner but it’s one I’ve seen on plenty of bad boys before, and when I tell him I’m single and here on my own, I can see his interest ramping right up. He tells me he’s a retired businessman and I tell him he looks too young for that, which is true, but it’s a compliment he clearly enjoys. He explains that, having sold his company in the States, he’s bought a yacht and now spends his time sailing the Caribbean. He stretches in his seat, rolling his broad shoulders, and looks around. ‘It’s a beautiful life,’ he says.
‘Doesn’t it get lonely?’ I ask, because I figure it would.
‘Occasionally.’ He smiles. ‘Why? Do you fancy joining me?’
Now it’s my turn to smile. ‘I think I need to get to know you a bit more for that.’
‘Well there’s only one cure for that. Why don’t you join me on my boat for dinner tonight?’ He fixes me with those piercing blue eyes as he asks the question, and I can feel the sexual energy coming off him.
I think I take all of about three seconds to say yes, which I know is exactly what he’s expecting.
Men. They’re so much more predictable than they think.
Him
I watch the woman called Jane go, her butt shimmying as she walks, and I know she’s doing it deliberately. She’s hot. A raven-haired milf with a body that would grace a woman half her age, and I want her badly.
I check the other tables. The place is empty. The couple who were sitting a couple of tables away just before she arrived are gone, and the bartender’s sitting with his back to me, staring at his phone. No one’s interested in me. And right now, that’s how I like it. I’m pretty certain that this woman Jane didn’t recognize me. If she did, she’d have said something. I look different to how I looked then. My hair’s longer, I’ve lost weight, and I wear contact lenses that have done a great job of turning my eyes from pale brown to perfect blue, but then I did pay serious money for them.
So now I’m anonymous. Anonymous and free, and if the woman called Jane knew anything about me, she’d run a mile. But then of course they never know anything until it’s too late…
Her
I’ve been single for a while now. My last proper boyfriend was a physically beautiful specimen ten years younger than me called Brad. Conversation was never that good, not because he was stupid (he wasn’t) but because he was such a complete narcissist with zero interest in other people. At first I could handle it because the sex was so good and, since my husband died, I’ve preferred not to get too serious with anybody anyway, but the day I caught him staring longingly at himself in his bedroom mirror while we were humping, I knew it was time to call it a day.
After Brad, I went completely in the opposite direction and took up with Vincent, a tall, awkward professor of psychiatry, who was also intellectually brilliant, and hugely witty. The sex, however, was awful, and although I tried hard to teach him how to please a woman, he was a hopeless case. Still, he’s remained a very good friend – probably the only one I really have – and he looks out for me. He would have hated Matt, the man I’m meeting tonight. He’d have had him down as a predatory personality – a sub-clinical psychopath incapable of empathy, who uses women as sexual playthings.
But then Vincent’s the jealous type.
I arrive at the appointed pick-up place – the beach in front of the bar we met at earlier – at 7 p.m. This being the tropics, it’s already dark and the bar provides the only light. It’s still as quiet as it was earlier, and I wonder how it can make money, what with all the big all-inclusive resorts there are on this side of the island. There’s no sign of a yacht anywhere in the bay, and as I stand there waiting, I wonder, with a twinge of anxiety, if he’s changed his mind.
Then I hear the low buzz of an engine and see Matt coming in to shore on a small rib. He slows a few feet out, does a dainty little turn with the rib, then cuts the engine. I take off my flip-flops, lift my dress a little, and wade out to meet him.
‘You’re looking beautiful, Jane,’ he tells me, helping me into the boat with a big smile.
‘You’re looking pretty good yourself,’ I say. And he is. Better than good. This guy is almost ridiculously elegant, dressed in a linen shirt and chinos, his feet bare, his rich, dark hair tousled in the breeze. His aftershave is obvious but not overpowering and I recognize it as Creed Aventus, one of my favourites.
He turns the rib away from the shor
e and we head back out to sea.
‘So, where’s your boat?’ I ask. ‘Are you keeping it hidden for a reason?’
‘I don’t like to draw attention to myself,’ he answers and, as we pass the headland, I can see why. In front of us, anchored a hundred metres away, is a sleek, black superyacht, a good forty metres long and with three separate decks.
‘Wow,’ I say, looking suitably, almost gullibly, impressed. ‘I’m hoping this is yours.’
He looks genuinely proud. ‘You like it?’
‘I love it.’
Matt stops the rib at the back of the boat, where a huge, heavily muscled bald man is standing on the wet deck waiting for us. As we get closer, the bald man stares at me with a malevolent blankness and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I’ve got a good antenna and, straight away, I can see that this man is trouble.
‘After you,’ says Matt. ‘Frank will help you up.’
I don’t have a lot of choice, so I let Frank take me by the forearm and pull me onto the boat. He nods his head in what I think passes for a greeting, but doesn’t meet my eyes, and I move away from him as quickly as possible.
I wait for Matt, who leads me up a couple of flights of steps onto a spectacular back deck with a large table already set for dinner. I look at the view out to sea, with the first stars already glittering in the night sky, as Matt opens a bottle of champagne and hands me a glass. We’re a long way from people out here, and it strikes me that it would be a perfect location for a murder. There’s a whole black ocean to get rid of a body in.
‘Cheers,’ says Matt, coming in close to me, and we clink glasses.
‘Who was that down there?’ I ask, referring to the big, bald man.
‘Oh, him. He’s just one of the crew.’
‘How many other crew members have you got?’
‘None. It’s just me and Frank.’
‘He doesn’t look like crew. He looks more like a bodyguard.’
Matt frowns, watching me carefully. ‘He acts as both,’ he says eventually.
‘Why do you need a bodyguard?’
He sips his champagne. ‘You ask a lot of questions, Jane.’
‘Because I’m interested.’
‘I guess I’ve made enemies over the years. But that’s all in the past now.’
Now it’s my turn to look at him closely. ‘You know, you look familiar. I’ve seen you before, I’m sure I have.’
‘I very much doubt it,’ he says, but this time his smile looks forced.
‘No, I definitely have.’ I keep staring at him. ‘I’ve seen you on the TV. I can’t remember when but I have.’
‘You haven’t.’ His voice is sharp now.
I turn away and put down my champagne glass. ‘Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea coming on here.’
He sighs. ‘All right, I’ll tell you the truth, but you’ve got to promise me one thing. You’ll at least let me explain myself before you judge me. Is that a deal?’
I nod my head but deliberately keep some distance between us. ‘Okay. Deal.’
‘My name’s not Matt. It’s Greg Fairman.’
‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘I remember you.’ Greg Fairman. The man who was tried and acquitted of the murder of his girlfriend. His case had made the news a few years back, mainly because most people thought he was guilty. Fairman owned a very successful business and was reputed to have Mafia contacts. He’d been accused by the prosecution of getting those contacts to get rid of his girlfriend’s body, which they’d obviously done very effectively because it had never been found. Before the trial, Fairman had sold his business for a lot of money and, after the trial, he’d disappeared from view.
His shoulders sagged as he looked at me. ‘You know, I’ve spent the last seven years trying to escape my past. Not because I’m guilty. But because everyone thinks I am. But I didn’t kill her, Jane. I promise you that.’
‘No offence,’ I tell him, ‘but you’re always going to say that.’
‘I was found not guilty, remember?’
‘So was OJ Simpson. The prosecution also said you’d been violent to her in the past.’
‘You seem to have a very good memory. So good, anyone would think you were a journalist. Is that what you are?’ He takes a step towards me. ‘Was all this a ruse so you could come on here and get a confession out of me? Are you taping this?’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘And I’m not a journalist either. I’m exactly who I say I am. A woman travelling alone on vacation who made the big mistake of getting on this boat. And now I’d like to get off.’
His whole stance softens and he suddenly looks very vulnerable. ‘You know, I don’t usually talk about this. But I’m going to tell you because I actually like you. I know we’ve only just met and we don’t know anything about each other but you seem like the kind of person I could fall for. Yes, I wasn’t perfect, but then neither was she. We had a volatile relationship. We had some pretty crazy arguments. I even hit her once, but it was self-defence. She was trying to beat the shit out of me at the time.’ He pauses. ‘But I loved her too. And I think she loved me. One night we had an almighty argument and she stormed out, telling me it was over, and got in her car. I never saw her again. And that’s the truth.’
‘Do you think she’s dead?’
‘I really don’t know. They never found her. They never found the car either. But it’s a big world, and I hope that she’s alive out there somewhere. But remember this: I had no motive to kill Elizabeth. Sure, our relationship might have been volatile, but it was still a pretty good one. We weren’t married, so I didn’t stand to gain from her death; and if I’m the kind of violent man who’d kill her in a fit of passion, then how can you explain the fact that I’ve never been charged with any kind of crime either before or since? I’m not asking you to believe me, Jane, but that’s the truth.’
‘So. What do you need a bodyguard for?’
‘To help keep away intrusive people.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s it. You know, it’s not easy being infamous, and that’s what I was… Now I’m just an anonymous man living an anonymous life away from any trouble. I just want to be like everyone else. So, look, if you want to leave, I’ll drop you back right now, but otherwise, I’ve prepared dinner for us. So if you’d like to stay, I’d love to have you.’
‘What are you going to do about the bodyguard?’ I ask. ‘I don’t like him being around.’
‘He’s got his own cabin below deck. We’ll have plenty of privacy. We’ll just eat, and see how the evening goes. Does that sound like a plan?’
I look at him and I’m thinking he’s a good liar, but a liar nonetheless. All my instincts tell me this man spells danger, but I figure that just here, only a few hundred metres from shore, he’s not going to do anything stupid. In the end, he’s got too much to lose.
I smile. ‘Okay. I’ll stay for dinner.’
Him
I’ve got to tell you, that was close. Jesus, of course I killed her. We had an argument, I hit her, and kept on going until she’d shut the fuck up. I’ll tell you something else too. It gave me a kick. You get some uppity bitch who wants to take your manhood away, you’ve got to stand up for yourself. A man who doesn’t stand up for himself is only half a man. My dad used to tell me that, when I was a kid. That bitch tried to take me down and I took her down instead. I didn’t panic either. I stayed calm as ice. I had good contacts in those days. One of the major shareholders in my business knew people who could clean a crime scene and get rid of a body so it’s never seen again, so I called in a favour and he sorted it out for me. I talked to the cops, pretended she’d moved out, and it would have been fine except that one of the guys who moved the body ratted me out to the cops. It wasn’t enough to get me sent down because in the end the jury believed me, but it was enough to end my life back home.
But you know what? Right now, as I toast this gorgeous-looking milf with the pneumatic boobs, I’m loving life, and I wonder what pleasures await tonight.
; ‘So if I’m staying for dinner, who’s doing the cooking?’ she asks.
I give her my best megawatt smile, the one that always works on chicks. Confident yet self-deprecating. ‘Would you believe it? Me. I’m a pretty good cook, and I’ve done all the prep work so we can eat whenever you want.’
She smiles back, and it’s obvious she’s relaxed now. ‘And what’s on the menu?’
‘Well, we’re on a tropical island so fish soup, then baked snapper fillets Mediterranean-style.’
She tells me she’s not hungry yet, so we sit there chatting on deck and I’m on top form. I tell her amusing anecdotes about my past, smile a lot, fill her champagne glass, stay careful not to overfill mine because it’s important always to stay in control, and I can see she’s completely falling for the nice-guy schtick. To be honest with you, it’s not hard. You’ve just got to allow yourself to fall naturally into the role, and you’ve got them. Give them decent food and outrageously expensive champagne, show them the trappings of wealth, and bang, the flytrap closes.
She finishes talking about whatever the hell she’s talking about – something about her oldest kid’s baby, and how strange it feels to be a grandmother – and I smile, look deep in her eyes and tell her that there’s no way she looks old enough to be a grandmother –because, let’s be fair, she doesn’t – and I suddenly realize within that moment that I’ve temporarily forgotten her name.
She thanks me for the compliment and I go to fill up her glass again.
This time, though, she stops me. ‘I’m not a particularly big drinker,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to get drunk before we eat.’
‘Ah, it’s a beautiful evening in a beautiful place. We should celebrate.’
‘Celebrate what?’
‘Being alive,’ I say and raise my glass.
We clink glasses and that’s when I make my move. I lean towards her, slowly but not too slowly, my eyes fixed on hers, my hand gently touching her shoulder, and we kiss.
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