Eye Contact

by Fergus McNeill

  Where the fuck was Lennox?

  He rammed a pound coin into the slot and dialled the number for the hotel, breathing deeply, forcing his voice to be calm as he heard the receptionist answer.

  ‘Hotel Park Lane. How may I help you?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he smiled. People could hear when you were smiling on the phone. ‘I need to speak to one of your guests, please. Mr Lennox in room 408?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but Mr Lennox left earlier this morning.’

  Damn.

  ‘I see.’ Naysmith thought quickly, formulating an appropriate lie. ‘Will he be returning? I just realised I have his laptop charger and I wanted to get it back to him.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ The voice sounded genuinely dismayed. ‘I’m afraid not. I was on the desk when he asked for a taxi back to the airport.’

  Shit.

  ‘Thank you,’ he sighed. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  Replacing the handset carefully, Naysmith paused for a moment, then lifted the receiver and smashed it hard against the metal wall of the booth, beating it again and again until the plastic cracked and shattered.

  The target had escaped him.

  There was something soothing about looking out across London late at night. Lights scattered like twinkling jewels across the silhouette of the city, blurring into an orange glow on the horizon. The ebb and flow of tiny cars, the warm yellow of illuminated old buildings, and the cool white glare from office-block windows.

  Naysmith sat on a cream leather sofa beside the full-length windows, gazing down on Hyde Park Corner, condensation pooling around the untouched drink on the low glass table in front of him. The twenty-eighth-floor bar was winding down now, with slow jazz filling the gaps in quiet conversations. Stretching his legs out in front of him, he checked his watch. It was five to midnight – ‘almost tomorrow’, as Kim would say. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

  The day had been a blur of dreary speakers and awkward conference delegates, and he’d stumbled through his appointments like a sleepwalker. This evening there had been an industry social event at Bar Dokidogo – the sort of networking opportunity he usually worked so well – but tonight his mood had been too unsettled and he’d found himself leaving early, staring out of a taxi as it drove him back to the hotel.

  He sighed and leaned closer to the glass, propping his chin in his hand as his eyes followed a tiny figure hurrying across the road below to disappear behind a building.

  He’d lost targets before – it was an inevitable part of the game – but for some reason this one gnawed at him. Turning to the table, he reached out to take his glass, tracing a clear line through the mist of condensation with his finger.

  Where was Lennox right now?

  He sipped his drink, wondering what the man was doing, wondering how his life would unfold from here, a life that should have ended this morning. Would he ever have any inclination, some subconscious sense, that he’d been given a second chance?

  Turning back to the window, he caught sight of the rueful smile on his reflection, but his eye was drawn to an indistinct female form passing just behind him. He watched her slow, then move to sit down on a seat nearby. He could see her better now – a businesswoman in her forties, maybe five foot seven, though two inches of that must have been in her heels. She wore a charcoal blazer suit that suggested a pleasing figure, rectangular glasses and blonde hair in a bob that framed a patient face.

  He subtly turned his body, angling himself more towards her while watching her reflection. Then, as she glanced in his direction, he casually leaned forward to put his glass down, accidentally catching her eye and allowing an instinctive smile to flicker across his face.

  She smiled back.

  ‘It’s a beautiful view.’ Her tone was relaxed and she spoke with a soft, low voice.

  Naysmith let his eyes dwell on hers for a moment.

  ‘It is.’ He turned his gaze out to the city lights. ‘You get a different perspective on things up here.’

  ‘We’re looking west?’ she asked, leaning forward to peer down through the glass.

  ‘Yes,’ Naysmith nodded. ‘That’s Knightsbridge over there.’

  He glanced at her as she stared out across the glittering vista. No wedding ring. On another person, he might have equated that with less challenge, but there was something about her – an air of sadness perhaps, or insecurity – that he found interesting.

  ‘London looks so peaceful from up here,’ she murmured, settling back into her chair.

  ‘It’s an illusion,’ he said softly, ‘but a pleasant one.’

  She studied him for a moment, then nodded to herself and looked down.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she sighed.

  Loneliness.

  It was the loneliness in her voice that fired his senses. Blood in the water, to the seasoned sexual predator.

  ‘Tough day?’ An open question, to let her talk.

  ‘Does it show?’ she asked.

  He smiled and shrugged slightly.

  ‘Let’s just say it makes two of us.’

  She gazed at him over her drink.

  ‘You too, huh?’

  He sat back in his seat, choosing his words carefully.

  ‘Sometimes, no matter how hard you try . . .’ He hesitated, pressing his palms together, tapping his fingertips against his chin as he pictured Lennox standing inches away from him in the lift. ‘. . . things don’t go the way you want them to.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She seemed so genuine in that moment that Naysmith was suddenly struck by her concern, however misplaced it might be. He looked down and shook his head.

  ‘Don’t be,’ he told her quietly. ‘Really.’

  He knew how it was meant to unfold from here; the gentle fencing, the coy responses, another drink.

  But he suddenly knew that his heart just wasn’t in it.

  ‘Actually, I’m sorry.’ He straightened and got slowly to his feet. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’

  She looked up at him, the light glinting on her glasses, her expression confused. She really was quite attractive, and he didn’t want her to misunderstand.

  ‘I wish we’d met on a different evening,’ he whispered truthfully. ‘But tonight . . . I’m just not good company.’

  He gave her a last smile, then turned away and walked down the steps to the lift.

  36

  Thursday, 30 August

  He was awake, the last tendrils of sleep still curling around him as he felt the comfort of the pillow against his face. Sighing softly, Harland lay for a moment, eyes closed, enjoying that blissful uncertainty on the edge of wakefulness, relaxing as though about to drift back into nothing.

  Somehow, this was different. Through his eyelids, he became vaguely aware of something that bothered him. It seemed bright, much brighter than usual . . .

  His eyes flickered open, and just as suddenly snapped shut, his mind recoiling from the sunlight that glared in at him. Mind rushing, he fumbled blindly for his watch, then screwed up his eyes as he tried to make out the figures.

  Ten past eight! Shit!

  He had slept in, badly! Jerking up into a sitting position, he swung his legs over the edge of the sofa bed, his heels thudding down onto the carpet. Bracing himself, standing up, swaying unsteadily. How could he have slept so late? Everything was wrong . . .

  And then he remembered, understood, and crumpled down to sit, hunched over, his eyes closed against the morning light as he waited for his pulse to slow down again.

  There would be no work for him this morning. Blake’s suggestion that he take some time off had been non-negotiable, and with nothing to get out of bed for in the past few days, he’d found himself staying up later and later into the night, hiding from the painful descent into sleep. It was those transitions that he feared the most, when he felt most vulnerable: that point in the darkness when he had to surrender all distraction and wait for oblivion to find him, and the other evil moment, when the peace of
sleep was torn away and bad memories were rubbed in the wound.

  Swearing softly, he cupped his face in his hands for a moment, then slowly sat up straight. He daren’t lie down again now. Eyes red, he shakily got to his feet and stumbled through to the kitchen in search of coffee. Pausing at the doorway, listening to the overpowering silence of the house, he knew that he had to get out today – no more excuses.

  He drove without purpose, just letting the flow of traffic take him where it would. Passing through Bedminster, he gazed out at the colourless buildings, everything dull despite the sunlight. People with bleak expressions stared at him from the pavements, and nobody cared.

  He hadn’t been suspended – not yet anyway – but things were going badly. The Superintendent had wanted him to deliver a quick win, but the Severn Beach case had unravelled into a serial murder investigation that would taint everyone associated with it. And then, on top of it all, there was his encounter with Pope. It was difficult to say just how bad things were, but they would certainly get worse. Blake disliked a fuss, so he wouldn’t be obvious or hasty. But he would remember, and sooner or later he would respond with vengeful subtlety. And when it came, Harland would know that he had brought it all on himself.

  Pope. If only he hadn’t lost it with fucking Pope.

  He sighed.

  The city slid away behind him but the road stretched on, winding between the reservoirs and out into the undulating countryside beyond. The white sun glared off the tarmac as he coasted up another hill, the gentle rise and fall of the road strangely hypnotic.

  He found himself skirting the edge of Bristol Airport, the endless perimeter fence following the road as it swept round in a long arc. A plane passed low overhead, very close against the bright blue sky, seeming to move slowly despite the roar of its engines. He leaned forward, staring up at it through the windscreen, wishing that he could be up there, flying somewhere far away . . . anywhere but here.

  And then, suddenly, he knew where he was going.

  As he followed the road down through Redhill, he could feel the cold knot in his stomach, that sense of grim inevitability chilling him despite the warmth of the sunlight through the windows. It had looked very different, that night all those months ago. He hadn’t passed this way since.

  The houses gave way to open countryside as the road levelled out and he drove on, forcing himself to concentrate on the landmarks – the hotel, the bend at the bottom of the hill, the little bridge, the lone dead tree – familiar images that he’d buried deep but could never forget. It wasn’t far now, along here somewhere . . . The road was climbing again, cutting across the fields towards the crest of a long hill. There was a little lane on the right . . .

  . . . and then the blind summit, where the road swept round to the right, with a junction on the left. This was the place, the turning signposted to Burrington. The very name chilled him, though he’d never been there, had no idea what it was like.

  He pulled off the main road and drove a short distance down the lane, slowing to a stop beside a narrow grass verge. What the hell was he doing here? He sat for a moment, rocking gently back and forth in his seat, wrestling with the urge to drive away, but he knew that he couldn’t. Taking a deep breath, he switched off the engine and felt the dreadful silence flood in around him. A reluctant figure, he got out of the car and began to walk slowly back towards the junction.

  It had been very different that night. The cold glow of blue lights, normally so familiar to him as a police officer, suddenly took on an ominous aspect. Was that how they looked to normal people?

  He wasn’t sure where he’d parked – probably up on the main road somewhere – and he hadn’t been walking, he’d been running.

  But he’d been too late.

  Another officer had seen him running through the glare of the headlights, had rushed forward to intercept him, strong arms folding round him in a dreadful embrace from which he couldn’t break free. Together with a paramedic, they’d managed to keep him back from the tangle of metal, illuminated under the harsh glare of the fire-engine lights. Their restraint had eased when he’d identified himself as a fellow police officer, then tightened as he told them why he was here. He couldn’t make out the words they said to him then – too many voices speaking at the same time – but he remembered their faces, the first time he saw that painful sympathy that would become so familiar in the days to follow.

  He struggled, but there were too many of them, and he was suddenly so very tired.

  ‘That’s my wife’s car,’ he’d howled, arms outstretched as they pulled him backwards into the gloom. ‘Alice!’

  37

  Monday, 3 September

  Naysmith woke and slowly opened his eyes. The sheets felt stiff as he turned over and focused on the bright blue digits of the hotel alarm clock glowing in the darkness beside him: 6.07 a.m. He let his head sink back into the pillow, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep again now. Rolling onto his back, he yawned and gazed up at the ceiling. What had woken him so early?

  The bed wasn’t particularly comfortable, but he savoured the warmth for a moment more before propping himself up and slipping a foot out from under the covers. Hotel carpets all felt the same. He yawned again as he sat on the edge of the mattress and wearily stood up, shivering a little as the cool air touched his naked skin. Wandering over to the window, he pulled the heavy curtains aside and reached out to put his hand on the cold glass. The foredawn sky was still quite dark, tinged with a faint glow on the horizon. Before him, the long, thin basin of Heron Quays stretched away towards the distant Millennium Dome and its illuminated pylons. To his left, the towering skyscrapers of Canary Wharf stood like a line of sheer glass cliffs, looming high above him, the reflection of their lights glittering in the water below. An expanse of buildings divided by narrow waterways, like some futuristic Venetian landscape overtaken by steel and mirrored windows. It was strangely beautiful and he stood for some time, watching the still-quiet city as it slowly began to stir and the glow on the horizon grew almost imperceptibly brighter.

  The lobby was still quiet when he came downstairs, and the vacant-eyed staff didn’t acknowledge his presence. He’d tasted the hotel coffee last night and wasn’t about to repeat the mistake, but he remembered there was a Starbucks in the mall under Canary Wharf – it wasn’t too far and the walk would clear his head. As he went down the broad carpeted steps and out onto the street, the air felt cold, but a few minutes later he was warming up as he turned off the road and took a short cut through a private car park. A train rumbled slowly overhead as he passed under the elevated track and on to the footpath that ran along the edge of the water. It was peaceful here, with nobody around save for a lone fisherman perched on one of the old steel moorings beside a ‘Fishing Prohibited’ sign. Naysmith smiled, but his eyes were drawn by habit to the CCTV camera overlooking the path. It was the third one he’d seen since leaving the hotel. That familiar restlessness was growing inside him once again, but he didn’t want to think about it yet.

  Not now, not so soon.

  His shoes echoed with a soft metallic ring as he made his way over the suspended steel footbridge that arced across to the far side of the quay, where the first commuters were making their way to work, dwarfed by the towering office blocks. Little people, inconsequential people, hurrying along unaware of who was walking beside them. He smiled for a moment, despite himself, then shook his head.

  Coffee. He was just going for some coffee.

  Walking into Canada Square, he gazed up at the skyscraper before him, its pinnacle nearly scratching the cloud cover, red lights on each corner blinking against the dull grey sky. A steady stream of people poured out of the tube station entrance on his right – so many tailored suits and big watches, so much macho posturing . . . and yet he could almost smell the fear on some of them. This was no place for the weak.

  There was already a queue in Starbucks when he arrived. Waiting in line behind a middle-aged woman with a sour f
ace and an expensive coat he gazed out at the concourse, watching people pass by. So many powerless lives, drifting blindly until chance brought them into his path. It could be any one of them . . .

  ‘Let me have a large hazelnut latte.’ The woman in front of him had a scornful tone, and lacked the courtesy to say ‘please’. He stared at the back of her head, at her dry, bleached hair, with slight regret. It was tempting, but he knew he couldn’t choose his targets – to do so would be to break the rules of the game.

  When it was his turn, he thanked the attractive Asian girl who served him and was rewarded with a friendly smile. Taking his drink, he made his way through into the brightly lit mall and wandered along between the still-closed shops.

  Sometimes he resented the thoughts that rose, unbidden, in his mind. So compelling, so dominant that they drove out everything else. Sometimes he almost wished things had been different, all those long years ago, and that his life might have followed a less turbulent path, an easier path. So many victims, their lives suddenly able to play out, uninterrupted. Altered fates and different histories, all because of him. And he might have been one of them, one of the little people, free to drift through their insignificant little lives.

  But that wouldn’t have been his life. He wouldn’t be the person he was now, without those experiences. This life, this extraordinary existence, was his and he could not – would not – hide from it.

  He took the escalator up to the DLR station platform, emerging into thin daylight under the high glass-canopied roof. The conference he was attending ran for the whole week at the ExCeL Centre, but there were no direct trains from here – he would have to change at Poplar.

  As he stood there, gazing out along the tracks, he could feel the anticipation growing, but he pushed the thought away once more.

  Not yet . . .

  He watched the train as it crept into the station, got on board and found a seat by the window, then stared out through his own reflection as they emerged from the forest of skyscrapers to trundle out above the water and building sites beyond. Canary Wharf was surrounded by an expanding swathe of redevelopment, like a smouldering fire slowly consuming everything around it.