The reception door was sticking as usual, but she gave it a good push and felt it open. Taking a deep breath and sighing out a false smile for her colleagues, she went inside.
5
Monday, 2 June
Naysmith stood with his back to the street, studying the reflection in the window. Across the road, he could see Kim pause, a diminutive figure in navy blue, thrown into sharp contrast against the white-brick exterior of the building. He watched as she pushed back her hair, then stepped up to the reception door and passed inside.
As the door closed, he bowed his head and allowed himself a small smile.
It had been a curious experience, following someone he knew so well – and, more importantly, someone who knew him. A very different feeling from the usual pursuit of strangers, a different kind of challenge. But stimulating nonetheless.
With a final glance up at the building, he turned and strode back down the street, weaving his way between the other pedestrians on the narrow pavements. He wasn’t really surprised she’d gone straight to work, but this would be their first full day apart since he’d told her, and it was reassuring to see that she hadn’t tried anything, hadn’t panicked. It couldn’t have been easy for her – there had been so much for her to take in over the past week – but he was encouraged that his trust in her looked to be well placed.
So far.
His car was tucked away down a side street, but thankfully it hadn’t been there long enough to get a parking ticket. There had been no opportunity to find anywhere better during his pursuit, and he couldn’t have risked Kim seeing him or the car. He got in and settled back into the seat, allowing his body to relax a little as he shut his eyes.
What would he have done if she’d gone somewhere else? If she’d turned left at the end of the lane instead of right? His pulse had certainly quickened as they’d approached the main police station on Wilton Road, but she hadn’t slowed, or pulled over. His brave and beautiful girl had driven straight on. She had overcome her fear and accepted what he’d started to tell her.
He opened his eyes and stared out at the people hurrying along the street, anxious about getting to work, unaware of who was in their midst. They were all blind, unable to see who he was, what he was capable of.
But Kim would see.
Slowly, he would reveal the truth to her, a little at a time, so that she could deal with it. He had to tread carefully of course. He didn’t want to overwhelm her, and it would be easy to do that, as there was so much to tell. But he would give her the time she needed, gently leading her into the light so that she could see him as he truly was, and understand all that he’d accomplished.
He started the engine, and sat for a moment, his hand reaching up absently to toy with the gold chain at his neck, his mind wandering to a different time and place …
It had been a cool Hampshire evening in April, and he’d slowed his steps, turning his face away from the road to gaze across the fields as the car sped past. He’d glanced back over his shoulder, watching it pass under the narrow arch of the bridge and disappear up the road, waiting until the sound of it faded back into the quiet stillness of the rolling countryside. Then, once he was certain that nothing else was coming, he’d turned and walked quickly back to the bridge.
Green moss felt soft against the clamminess of the ancient brickwork as he placed a steadying hand on the wall and squeezed through a gap in the loose wire fencing. Leaves and twigs crunched and crackled under his feet as he slipped into the gloom beneath the canopy of the trees and began scrambling up the steep slope. He paused once to listen, but there were no more passing cars and a moment later he gained the top of the embankment. Straightening up, he brushed aside a tangle of brambles, then stepped out onto the railway line.
A few yards away, a lonely signal stood watch, its baleful red glare reflected on the polished metal of the rails. For a moment, there was no sound – as though the landscape all around were holding its breath – and then a gentle sigh of wind touched the trees, rustling the leaves high above him.
He adjusted the straps of the small backpack he was wearing, then climbed up onto the track bed, picking his way over the loose ballast and making sure not to touch the live third rail. Stepping carefully onto one of the huge concrete sleepers, he crossed over to the far side of the line and started walking. He made his way along the rough ground, staying close to the edge of the track where the weeds were withered and yellow. Absently, he wondered if they sprayed something on the railways to keep the plants down – an endless swathe of death meandering through the green landscape – and found himself smiling at the thought.
It wasn’t far now. His car was safely hidden away down a quiet lane, far enough from where he was going that nobody would give it a second thought. And even if someone did remember it, the number plates he’d put on belonged to someone else.
Ahead of him, a large metal structure stood tall and dark against the evening sky – some sort of cellular phone mast, jutting up above the surrounding trees. There was a small grey building at its base, and the low whir of cooling fans grew louder as he approached. Beyond it was a broad metal gate and a narrow service road – little more than a gravel track lined by bushes – and he made his way over to it. Reaching out, he was about to place his hand on the top bar when he paused, then pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt down and used it to grip the gate as he climbed over.
You could never be too careful.
The gravel track appeared to be seldom used – heavily overgrown in places, and separated from the railway line by a barbed-wire fence – but he was more alert now, moving carefully, watchful. Down on his left, the first houses of the village could be glimpsed through the bushes. He kept to the grass at the edge of the track, stepping quietly, listening for voices, but there was no one.
He could see the station now, with its weathered grey footbridge and its small red-brick buildings. Reaching the end of the gravel track, he stepped out onto the tarmac of the silent station car park – a long line of spaces, half of them empty, that stretched out along the edge of the railway line.
Quickly, his eyes sought out the vehicle he was hoping for – a large black Range Rover – and a shiver of excitement coursed through him as he spotted it. He’d picked the right day.
Moving to his left, he began threading his way between the tall wooden fence and the silent vehicles, avoiding the angle he knew was covered by the single CCTV camera. Coming to the Range Rover, he made his way around to the driver’s side and squatted down by the large front wheel. Reaching over, he carefully unscrewed the black plastic cap from the air valve and put it in his pocket. Then, taking up a small sharp stone from the ground, he used it to press in the valve. The dry rasping sound seemed terribly loud as the air escaped, hissing across his hand as the tyre gently sagged and deflated. He kept the valve pressed in until it was completely flat, then calmly got to his feet and walked on, hugging the fence as he made his way towards the station.
He approached the building from the side, drawing level with it before crossing the car park to stand against the brick wall. The ticket office and waiting room were locked up for the evening, with passenger security trusted to the ever-watchful CCTV.
Which suited him just fine.
Shrugging off his backpack, he unzipped it and drew out two lengths of thin metal tubing. Screwing them together, he tested them in his hands to make sure they were joined properly, then slipped around the corner of the building, keeping close to the wall. Directly above him, the long, angular body of a security camera was mounted on a single steel bracket. It was too high to reach by hand, but it was simple enough to jam the metal pole in under the lens hood and push the whole unit round until it was blindly facing the brickwork. Smiling to himself, he unscrewed the two tube sections and returned them to his backpack. Now he could move more freely. There were other cameras, but he knew exactly where they were and what they could see.
Checking his watch, he strode across to the four concrete steps that le
d up to the deserted platform. This was where the train from London would come in, but he had decided to stand on the opposite side, where the carriages would hide him from the disembarking passengers. The sound of his footsteps resonated in the stillness as he made his way up onto the little bridge that spanned the tracks and he paused at the top, gazing out at the trees lining the route of the railway and at the rolling fields beyond.
He certainly had a beautiful evening for it.
Descending to the other platform, he wandered calmly to the small, stainless-steel shelter and took a seat – just an ordinary person, waiting for a train.
He could sense the anticipation building inside, the growing excitement, but it wasn’t time for that yet. Frowning, he looked around, checking his exits, remembering all the different ways he could get away from the station if anything should go wrong …
But nothing would. He had prepared too carefully.
Glancing up at the clock above him, he noted the time – 19.21 – in illuminated orange digits on the black signboard. It wouldn’t be long now.
Leaning forward, he bowed his head slightly, tensing the muscles in his neck and shoulders, then relaxing them, calming his breathing to counter the terrible eagerness. Impatience was the enemy, but it had no power over him. He was ready, and there was nothing he couldn’t do.
A little way along the track, the red signal winked out and was replaced by a green light. From the buildings opposite, a recorded announcement crackled into life, echoing out under the roof awning.
‘Platform one for the 19.24 South West Trains service to Alton, calling at Alton only.’ The voice had a disjointed quality – sentences and station names, assembled into an announcement by a computer. ‘This train is formed of four coaches.’
And now he could hear it coming, the first faint ringing of the rails as the front of the train came into view – a little smudge of yellow in the distance, with two white lights glaring out, growing steadily larger as it approached.
Movement on the edge of his vision alerted him to a teenage couple who were walking up the steps onto the opposite platform, but they were engrossed in each other. In a moment, they’d be on their way – they wouldn’t remember him. The resonant hum of the train’s motor grew louder as the first carriages slid into the station, blocking the couple from view and swirling up a faint wave of dusty air.
Head down, he sat in the shelter, outwardly showing no interest but listening intently for the familiar chimes and hissing of the doors being released. Just a few yards away, on the other side of the train, a handful people were getting off … but only one of them really mattered to him. Staring at his feet, he waited until he heard the sudden rising whine of the motor, then glanced up to see the train hauling itself forward. The last of the coaches cleared the station to reveal a knot of weary passengers trudging along the platform and down the steps to the car park, among them a tall man in his fifties with wavy grey hair and a smart blue suit, moving with an imperious manner even at the end of the working day.
It was the man he’d first seen in London – a momentary flicker of eye contact between strangers as they passed each other on the Hungerford footbridge. The man he’d gone looking for, twenty-four hours later. The man he’d trailed to Waterloo Station and, eventually, to here.
The pursuit had spanned weeks – he could afford to wait a few minutes more.
As the red lights of the train disappeared into the distance, he sat there listening to the nearby sounds of car engines being started as the evening commuters manoeuvred out of their spaces and drove away. There was no hurry.
To pass the time, he reached across and unzipped the backpack that lay beside him. Feeling around inside, he drew out a thin pair of gloves and began to pull them on slowly, deliberately, working each finger in to ensure a snug fit. Once satisfied, he got to his feet and stretched, loosening up the muscles in his shoulders, then picked up the backpack in one hand to make his way along to the footbridge and up the steps. From the top, he looked out onto the car park, the long line of spaces strung out along the side of the railway – it was emptier now, and he watched as the last of the occupied cars made their way out into the lane.
But the Range Rover was still there.
The adrenalin was flowing now, and he made his way eagerly down to the platform and along the brick wall of the ticket office. Hurrying down the four steps, he turned left and walked quietly towards the big 4 x 4. His view was partly obscured by a neighbouring parked car, but that was all to the good – if he couldn’t see the man, the man couldn’t see him.
He slowed, stepping sideways, to better see between the vehicles … and there, just a few yards in front of him, was his target. Kneeling on the tarmac, the man had removed his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves before cranking the handle of a jack to raise the front of the Range Rover, oblivious to anyone approaching.
This was what it was all about – the power of life and death, the ultimate control.
Reaching into the backpack, he drew out a long metal spanner with quiet care, squeezing it between gloved fingers to ensure a firm grip. He was right-handed, but held the tool in his left – there was no reason to make things easy for the police. Then, with a final glance over his shoulder to make certain there was nobody else around, he took a long last breath …
… and sprang forward, moving on his toes to ensure there was no sound, curving around from the rear so that the other cars would hide his approach until the last moment, swinging the spanner down in a strong, graceful arc. He didn’t flinch from the impact of steel on skull, the dull crunching sound, the feeling as the bone cracked and gave way beneath his first blow. He struck hard, snapping the man’s head sideways, and the body briefly stiffened then slumped against the door panel, before toppling heavily to lie twitching on the tarmac.
The ultimate high.
He shuddered, staring down into the wide eyes of his feebly struggling victim, ignoring the desperate gurgling sounds, his muscles taut as he raised the spanner for a second, fatal strike. An acid taste in his mouth, his pulse thumping in his ears, he swung again, watching intently for the moment – that incredible moment – when the final choking breath sighed away and the last glimmer of life went out. The exultant moment that made him feel so utterly alive …
The clang of the spanner as it hit the ground seemed to ring out across the car park. He was trembling. Clenching his gloved fists, he forced himself to exhale, to get his breathing under control. There would be time to savour this achievement later – right now, he needed to get it together. Frowning, he crouched down beside the body, eyes searching for something small, something personal …
Not the wristwatch – somehow that just felt too obvious. His searching gaze moved on. Signet ring? He hesitated for a moment, then decided against it. Something that was personal, yes, but also something that wouldn’t stand out too much. He began to roll the body over, looking for a pocket that might contain a wallet, when a glint of gold caught his eye. The dead man had loosened his shirt collar when he set about changing his wheel, and a simple gold chain was visible around his neck.
Perfect.
Rolling the body further onto its side to make it easier, he carefully worked the chain around, releasing it from where it was trapped in a fold of skin. Finding the catch, he unfastened it with some difficulty due to his gloves, then pulled it free and dropped it into his open palm. Simple gold links, like the souvenirs that connected his victims …
Standing up, he pushed the chain deep into one of his pockets, then glanced around once more.
Still nobody.
He looked down to the sprawled figure at his feet. It would be getting dark soon, but the next train was due at 19.50 and the body would quickly be discovered by passengers if it was left here in the open – he wanted to be far from the scene when that happened. Dropping to a crouch again, he braced himself against the adjacent car before half rolling, half shoving the corpse under the jacked-up Range Rover. It wa
s difficult work – not least when the victim’s shirtsleeve snagged something under the chassis – but finally the body was hidden, trailing limbs folded in under the shadowy space between the wheels.
All that remained was the jack. At first it seemed as though it wouldn’t move, but he kicked it harder with his heel, again and again until it finally gave way, dropping the weight of the Range Rover to rest on its owner’s body.
Satisfied, he stood up, slid the jack under the vehicle with his foot, and brushed himself down. Stooping to retrieve the spanner, he slipped it into the backpack, then made himself take a moment, checking the ground to ensure he’d left nothing behind, before turning and walking to the far end of the car park. He moved calmly, resisting the growing temptation to break into a run as he retraced his steps along the gravel track. Only now did he allow himself to take in the enormity of what he’d done, to revel in the incredible power that was his to wield. He closed his eyes for a second, drinking in the unique sensation that he felt only in these moments after a kill. It was never personal – the victims were random and their deaths irrelevant – power was the only thing that mattered.
And yet …
He paused as he came to the metal gate, his gloved hand hesitating slightly before he gripped the top bar and clambered over.
… it was galling that nobody knew.
His achievements went largely unrecognised. Yes, there had been that exhilarating period last year when the detective from Portishead had been smart enough to link some of his victims, had perhaps even come close to catching him, but in the end he’d managed to disappear again, leaving the police with nothing.
He shook his head, knowing that ought to have pleased him, knowing that anonymity was crucial …
It was just … nobody understood what he was capable of, what he had accomplished.
And he had accomplished so much.
Frowning he made his way along the railway embankment, the country around him silent once more, save for the soft tread of his footsteps and the sighing of the wind in the leaves. Stepping up onto the concrete sleepers, he halted for a moment to draw out the gold chain, staring at it briefly before fastening it around his neck, feeling the still-warm metal at his throat. Standing between the rails, he gazed along the track for a moment, then picked his way across to the far side of the embankment.
Knife Edge Page 4