‘Carluccio’s,’ she said, darting between the cars. Walking up the broad steps past the gaudy marble fountain. ‘Soph definitely said he’d be in Carluccio’s. Think positive, Angie.’
Standing in the gift shop area full of epicurean Italian eats, Angie hid behind some large bags of colourful speciality pasta, peeking through to the main restaurant. It was busier than usual – unsurprising, given there was a big match on down the road in an hour’s time. I need to make it look like a casual coincidence, but Sophie will know I was lying. Damn it. Why am I here? Why couldn’t I have just waited?
‘Can I help you, madam?’ A voice by her ear.
Angie spun around to see a shiny-faced and enthusiastic assistant.
‘No, I’m looking for a friend.’
But Tim was nowhere to be seen. She was on a fool’s errand. Might he be eating somewhere else in the vast food court? It was a two-storey space where restaurants from all corners of the world occupied ethnically appropriate stage set after stage set – New Orleans, Chinatown, a French backstreet, downtown Italy. What were the odds of him walking away in one direction as she approached from another? And if she happened upon him, would he mention to his wife and Jerry that he’d seen her?
Ascending the grand, marble staircase, that seemingly couldn’t decide if it was deco or neo-classical, passing beneath the giant brass and glass bauble of a Moroccan chandelier, she peered below, scanning the eateries within sight. No Tim at the Tex-Mex or the burger joint. Making her way to the upper storey of the food court, which schizophrenically transformed into the upper deck of a cruise liner, she could spy him neither below, in the seating around the fake pool, nor at her level, which swarmed with Manchester’s hungry and irritable.
The longer she searched, the more doubt dogged her steps. I’ll be rousing suspicion if I do find Tim. I can’t just blurt out, ‘Oh and by the way, do you and Jerry still have that flat and if so, where exactly is it?’ And he’ll tell Jerry, and it might be the tipping point. Jerry will put me in hospital again and this time, he’ll take the children and kick me out of the house and I’ll lose everything. And, and, and . . .
She could barely breathe. The colours swirled around her in a dizzying vortex. The need to pee was suddenly pressing.
Turning to leave, she was just about to mount the escalator down when she spotted her quarry. There Tim was. He’d arrived at Carluccio’s while she’d been seeking him elsewhere. Or had he been there all along and she’d simply been looking but not seeing?
From her elevated vantage point, she observed him, wearing a Manchester United top beneath a leather jacket. Sitting at a table, eating pasta. As Sophie had indicated, he was indeed in company. Except he was with not one, but two other men, similarly attired and ready for the match. And Angie recognised them immediately. One from her trips to the medical centre where she attended therapy for her anorexia and the other from some months ago in Sophie’s front garden, when the new female lodger who’d moved into the basement flat had been having a stand-up argument with a man. Tim’s companions were Mo, the psychiatrist and a man she’d most recently seen in Aldi – Bev’s ex, Rob.
CHAPTER 20
The Wolf
‘Can I get you anything else, Sir?’ the waitress asks, smiling. She is slender and looks far younger than her probable years. Firm flesh beneath her black uniform.
He smiles. ‘Maybe later. Thanks.’ Raises an eyebrow. Winks. Tips her a ten. ‘For you.’
She stashes the money in the breast pocket of her blouse. Pats her chest. Her outpouring of gratitude is effusive. The evening ahead looks promising. But for now, he is busy with other matters.
It has been the best of days, with the welcome smell of victory in The Wolf’s nostrils. He sits at the bar, sipping his fine brandy and demolishing his bowl of nuts, preferring to scroll through the bounty that his phone offers than to admire the views of the glittering urban sprawl many, many storeys below.
He is looking at several PDFs that he has managed to get hold of, showing column inches from old editions of a local newspaper. There are two sorry sob stories, both paired with photographs that feature that perfect bitch, Beverley Saunders. He reads the reports again, savouring the scandal and the pain those catastrophic life events had inevitably caused her. There is no way she can know he has dredged this up. Not yet. But soon, she will.
Breaking into her home has been child’s play. Little does the object of his vengeful intentions realise how easy it is to gain access to that squalid little basement flat. He wonders if she’s noticed how he has moved her things, just enough to make her doubt her own sanity.
He flicks to another tab where he is researching the logistics of installing internal CCTV without her knowledge. It would be so easy to tamper with her BT landline, sending in a bogus workman who could slip a fibre-optic camera in amongst the books that line the walls. He is The Wolf. He can make this happen. How quickly would she spot anything behind the hundreds of origami models that clutter every surface? How easy would it be to insert a tracking device on the phone that she so stupidly leaves unattended on a regular basis. Watching her over time has revealed much of her weakness and behavioural tics.
The Wolf sips his drink, flicking to the legal documents he also has stored on the phone. Here lies the real dirt. Beverley Saunders is so busy digging into other people’s business, he muses. She has no inkling as to who might be compiling a dossier on her to use at a date in the very near future, with dire consequences. ‘Know thine enemy and know thyself.’ – so said Sun Tzu in The Art of War. Well, he knows Beverley Saunders, better than she could ever imagine. And he will have no compunction in spilling her blood, as he spilled the Russian whore’s.
‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything else, Sir?’ the waitress asks. ‘Only I’m going off shift, now.’ Her smile is pleasing and open. It is suggestive of more than just alcohol and bar snacks.
‘What are you doing now?’ he asks. ‘Have you got plans?’ He pointedly puts his wallet on the bar.
She seems to be assessing him, rubbing her glossy lips together. Her gaze wanders down to the wallet and clearly, she grasps what’s on offer. Her expression alters subtly. Those reddening cheeks are almost certainly flushed with desire. She laughs coquettishly. ‘Oh, yeah. No. Sorry. I’m meeting someone.’
He laughs. Wolfishly, of course. ‘Yes. Me.’ He reaches out to touch her in the same way he’s done so many times with girls like her. They always succumb.
But she whips her hand swiftly away, and the smile is gone. Sounding flustered now, she stumbles over her words. ‘I’m sorry. You’re getting . . . You’ve got the, er, wrong end of the stick.’
He sips his brandy. Savours the sting at the back of his throat. ‘Oh, don’t be shy. I don’t bite. Let’s get out of here. We can party really hard.’
She has taken a step back. Holding a bottle opener in her hand like a threat. ‘Sir. I’m flattered but I’m not interested. OK? I have a partner.’ She pushes the wallet back towards him. ‘And even if I didn’t, I’m certainly not for sale just because I’m this side of the bar.’
The Wolf holds his hands up, barely able to disguise his mounting annoyance. ‘My bad. Enjoy your evening.’
It feels as though flames of wrath are scorching the backs of his eyes. The scent in his nostrils is no longer that of victory but of his prey’s fear. Abandoning his drink, he takes the lift down to the foyer and waits in the shadows of the concrete columns and leather sofas, pretending to take a call. The Wolf blends in in this sort of place. It was built to accommodate men of the world, just like him. Life’s winners ; the leaders of the pack.
Within fifteen minutes, the waitress appears, wearing an ugly anorak and carrying a rucksack. Her jaunty ponytail nods up and down, as if she’s tacitly agreeing to what is about to befall her. She exits the skyscraper through the main doors, exchanging pleasantries with the security guards.
‘Night!’ They hold the door open for him too and he slips outside.
He has anticipated that the waitress’s onward journey will involve public transport or a bicycle, given her age and level of income. Silently, as he stalks in her wake, he hopes it will be a cycle, tethered to a lamp post in a deserted back street. Successfully being The Wolf is predicated on knowing how his prey behaves.
He is so focused on the hunt that he trips over something. Looks down to find a homeless man, sitting at the foot of this glorious glass and steel monolith, his legs stuck out at an inconvenient angle.
‘Spare change?’ the hobo asks, holding his empty disposable coffee cup aloft. His rancid breath steams on the night air. The blanket that covers his legs is filthy and threadbare. At his side, a well-fed Staffordshire Bull Terrier is curled up on the piss-splattered paving slabs. Docile, showing no interest in defending its owner. It too knows The Wolf is top of the food chain.
Annoyed that this loser has slowed his progress, he mutters beneath his breath, ‘Get a fucking job.’ Circumnavigates the obstacle.
Happily, some way ahead, the waitress hangs a right into a narrow, cobbled side street. This must surely only contain the under-utilised service entrances for grand Victorian office blocks which are empty at this time of night. Perfect. Those places are littered with industrial sized wheelie bins and trash. Easy for The Wolf to hide his kills in.
She disappears from view but he can hear the jangle of keys. He was right. She’s unlocking a bike. The distinctive dull rattle of a U-lock being taken apart in the dark.
As he turns the corner, there is only one sputtering street light at the end of the alley. The place where the waitress is bent over, fumbling with her locks, is enshrouded almost entirely in the black of night.
‘What do you want?’ She has turned her head in his direction, now, perhaps sensing that a predator is in her midst. Her lithe body straightens. She is poised to challenge him.
Good. He likes it this way. He knows Saunders will do the same when it is her turn.
He approaches. Holding the bent portion of the U-lock above her, the waitress strikes him, metal connecting with his jaw. He grabs her with a strong, practised right arm that is used to pinioning and restricting. With his left, he covers her mouth, undeterred by her attempts to bite him.
It is easy to drag her behind a large bin. Her muffled screams abate, giving way to pleas that are impossible to hear through his large, fleshy palms. He can almost taste her tears on the air.
The waitress is frightened and yielding, now. Not even trying to turn around to see his face.
‘Do as I say, or I’ll squeeze the life out of you. Would you like that?’ Though the endorphins and adrenaline have really kicked in now, he keeps his voice even and hushed.
She tries one more time to kick out behind her, but he holds her tight against his body, seeking out her curves with his erect penis.
‘If you make a sound, you’ll be found in the morning by the cleaners, once the starving pigeons and rats have picked at your eyes. Now, are you going to be a good girl?’
Under cover of such impenetrable darkness – the sort that hides the city’s grubbiest secrets – he knows she would never be able to ID him, though she might suspect he is the man from the bar. In this knowledge, with the young girl subdued in his grip, he savagely rips her jeans and pants from her and steals her happiness, her confidence, her plans for the future and her trust in men. It feels as though, in forcing himself upon her, he is absorbing all of her goodness, leaving but a terrorised husk.
This is a perk of being The Wolf.
But the greatest rush comes in knowing that it will be like this with Beverley Saunders. She will be next. And she won’t even anticipate from which direction her nemesis is coming.
CHAPTER 21
Bev
‘Who’s Tatjana?’ the woman sitting beside her asked.
Bev turned to her, shrugging off the fog of her reverie. ‘Eh?’
They swayed together momentarily as the train traversed a set of points. The woman’s ample bottom was encroaching on Bev’s allotted space, in a carriage that was still stuffed with sweaty, bored commuters, though their end destination of Beaconsfield was not far now. Unusual for a London worker to make conversation with a stranger during a rush-hour journey.
‘You said the name out loud four times,’ the woman said, peering at her expectantly. Clutching her shopping bag close against her kagoule-clad bosom.
‘Did I?’ Bev chuckled nervously. Considered ways to shut her nosy travel companion down. ‘Lyrics to a song I had in my head,’ she said, pointedly turning to stare out of the window. The train rattled past the suburban Buckinghamshire idyll of Gerrards Cross, made up of outsized family homes and their perfectly manicured gardens. Like Hale, but without the northern honesty of the nouveau-chav footballing set.
As they chugged through the rolling green quilt of the Chilterns, Bev considered her situation. She had a day of exhausting marketing meetings under her belt, briefing designers for the charity’s annual report artwork and interviewing social workers for case studies of their educational endeavours with vulnerable children to be included in the report. At least she’d got away fairly early. Now she needed to make her trip down to the South East count. She still had to get proof of Jerry’s inclination to commit adultery – enough to make Angie’s divorce solicitor clap her hands in glee and, in turn, make it rain cash for her and her satisfied client. But first she needed to make contact with Doc, whom she hadn’t heard from in a worryingly long time.
As the train slowed for the Beaconsfield approach, she messaged Jerry Fitzwilliam yet again.
Hi J!
I’m in London til 2morrow. Wanna hook up?
Maybe I want to get my claws into you!;)
Cat xx
Angie had already told her he was working in London, though she still hadn’t found proof of any property he might stay at other than his barge. Getting off the train, all Bev could do now was wait . . . and catch the bus to Chalfont St Giles.
‘Pick up, damn it!’ she muttered, trying yet again to call Doc. But dialling his old phone number yielded a flatlining out-of-order tone. If he was contactable, he was almost certainly using a burner, as though the Badlands of Baltimore had somehow set up camp in that leafy commuter-belt parish.
‘Can you give us a shout when we get to Chalfont St Giles, please?’ she asked the driver as she boarded the 580 towards Uxbridge.
The handful of elderly passengers and commuters on board stared at her with glum faces, sitting with their feet together as the bus lurched over potholes. This was no friendly Mancunian free-for-all on the Metrolink tram from town – sharing your life story inside twenty-five minutes with some garrulous drunk from Stretford, who reeked of budget booze and decades spent propping up the bar in Yates’s.
With no idea where she was going, she peered out as the bus trundled down the winding road, past hedgerows that hid nothing more than cultivated green fields beyond, wildlife and the odd grand house. The soft South. Memories of her life with Rob, living in Kent, came flooding back : their semi-detached in West Wickham. A functional family home where dysfunction reigned supreme behind closed UPVC doors. No real grasp of who their po-faced neighbours were on either side, though Rob had blamed Bev for their taciturn demeanour towards them.
She missed belonging with all her heart.
She didn’t miss being pushed to the brink of mental ill health one iota.
Finally, her end destination came into view. A picture-postcard English village, where the flint church was presumably still well-attended, and where Morris Dancing on the village green during the Month of Maying replaced the rest of Britain’s Bank Holiday addiction to Sky Sports and a 24-pack of lager.
Bev alighted, not having a clue where to start in her search. She felt tired, grubby and stupid, mindful of the fact that she didn’t actually have anywhere to stay that night – a lack of planning and show of irresponsibility that Mo would question in the next therapy session.
The pub was her
first port of call.
‘Shufflebotham,’ she said, bringing up a photo of Doc on her phone that had been lifted from an old Manchester Evening News article from some years ago. Doc in his police mugshot, which had accompanied an article about the Computer Science nerd turned scamming-scoundrel who had been busted for his phishing endeavours and weed farm. ‘James Shufflebotham. His folks live round here,’ she told the barman that presided over this eclectic mix of ye-olde wooden charm and semi-industrial gastropub style. ‘Seen him in here?’
The barman nodded. Ran a hand through his carefully waxed hair. ‘Yeah. He’s been in here a couple of times with some guys. All look like heavy rock throwbacks. White socks and black trainers. They’re hysterical.’
‘That’s the one,’ Bev said, smiling, feeling the tension in her shoulders loosen for the first time in days. ‘Know where he lives?’
‘Who’s asking?’ The barman raised an eyebrow. ‘Girlfriend?’
‘No way!’ Bev said, wrinkling her nose. Feeling suddenly like she was standing in the middle of a school playground, playing truth or dare.
The barman wasn’t able to tell her where Doc’s family home was. But it hadn’t taken long to find an elderly local in the know, who was willing to part with the information in return for some help wheeling her laden shopping wagon to her own front door. Bev had admitted that the old lady’s bunions looked painful and had absolved her of all guilt for giving the Shufflebotham family up so easily.
Now, she stood before a sprawling 1930s detached, part-timbered home that was as far away from Doc’s squalid south-Manchester flat as it was possible to get. She looked down at the scrap of paper the old lady had handed to her. 73, Oak Avenue, written in a shaky leaning hand.
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