It was a novel that he’d started reading once but never finished. It had been at his bedside when he came home to the empty house that first night, one more thing overtaken by his loss. He pulled it from its place on the shelf and looked at it. There was still a till receipt acting as bookmark, only a few chapters in.
By nine thirty, he was yawning. He put the book down on the kitchen table, and opened the back door. Standing in the garden, he lit a final cigarette and exhaled smoke that drifted up into the evening sky, his eyes following the wisps as they spiralled and faded.
He thought back to the dead vagrant, a man not much older than himself, skin leathered by the sun and years of drinking. The matted black hair, shot through with grey, eye sockets deep and dark, Salvation Army clothing stained and wrinkled. He wondered if anyone else was thinking of the man, if anyone wanted to know about him, if anyone cared. He wondered if the man himself even cared – had he lost his grip on life, or had he deliberately let go?
He stubbed out his cigarette against the brick wall, tiny orange sparks cascading to the ground, then went inside. Bolting the kitchen door behind him, he yawned and made his way through to the living room. Out of habit, he moved towards the sofa bed, then paused, remembering. Straightening up, he turned and walked back to the doorway, where he stood for a while, thinking. Then, head bowed, he switched off the light and closed the door.
In the kitchen, he retrieved the book from the table and took it to the foot of the stairs. Everything down here was in darkness now – the only illumination came from the upper landing, yellow light spilling down from above to pool around his feet. He placed his free hand on the banister and sighed. Then, yawning and weary, he went upstairs to bed.
47
Sunday, 16 September
It wasn’t the sort of hotel he usually stayed in. Places like this catered for the basic business traveller – tables for one in the nondescript restaurant, a cheerless bar with intermittent Wi-Fi, and a discreetly billed porn channel in the room if you were lucky. Bland and sterile accommodation for bland and sterile people; an experience that was utterly impersonal . . .
. . . and that was what made it so suitable. The few staff that were there took no interest in him – he was just another lonely figure walking along the featureless, carpeted corridors, and tomorrow he’d be forgotten. Just as he wanted to be.
At least the room would be clean. Naysmith put his shoulder against the door to keep it open as he lifted the holdall in from the hallway, then found the light switch. He turned to fasten the security chain behind him, pausing as he went to slide it home, staring thoughtfully at the shiny metal chain in his hand. He stooped to the holdall, unzipping it and drawing out a pair of black gloves, which he pulled on. Opening the door slightly, he carefully rubbed clean the outer and inner handles with the edge of his sleeve, then repeated the process on the light switch. Replacing the chain, he turned to look at the room, with its many smooth and polished surfaces. He would keep his gloves on.
A vague sense of unease had followed him all day – perhaps just frustration that his previous game had ended in failure – but he’d been cautious from the moment he checked in. The reservation had been made using a real name and address, but neither was his. Feigning an embarrassing but unspecified problem with his credit card, he’d managed to pay for the room in cash, and even had the presence of mind to use his own pen when signing the registration form. The hardest part was avoiding the CCTV cameras, but he’d noted their positions on a previous visit and moved carefully to avoid his face being recorded. The weary-looking youth at the reception desk had barely looked up at him throughout the exchange.
He lugged the holdall onto the bed, then walked over to the window and pulled the long net curtain aside to peer into the evening gloom. The room looked out across the mile-long rectangle of water that was once the tidal basin for the Royal Victoria Dock. Heavy iron cranes, embalmed in weatherproof grey paint, lined the quayside – giant pieces of engineering, now little more than period decor for the waterfront apartment blocks. Leaning forward, he could see the angular suspension bridge, slung between two box-like elevator towers, that took pedestrians from one side of the water to the other.
Over there somewhere, beyond those waterfront apartments, was the quiet little street where his victim lived. He was probably no more than a mile away right now. Naysmith idly wondered what he was doing, then dismissed the thought.
The victim was not important. His preparation was.
He turned and surveyed the small room. A narrow double bed, a long desk with a TV at one end and a kettle at the other, and a single armchair. It was unlikely that he would sleep and he resolved not to use the bed. With so many different people passing through them, hotels were littered with DNA, making it easier for him to avoid discovery. He wasn’t about to let his guard down, though. One bit of carelessness – one mistake – might be all it took to finish things.
Unzipping the holdall, he began checking through the contents. As usual, everything was new and unremarkable. He was already wearing anonymous, supermarket clothing, and had a second spare set in the bag. Underneath it, nestled on top of the black refuse sacks, was a white envelope that rattled as he moved it. He frowned and drew it out of the bag. Opening the flap, he tipped the mobile phone and its disconnected battery out into his hand. Absently, he snapped the battery into place so that it would make no noise, then put it down on the bed with the envelope. Lastly, beneath a packet of clean-up wipes, his gloved fingers touched a thin, towel-wrapped bundle. He slipped the towel aside to reveal the gleaming tip of a long kitchen knife.
It wasn’t his first choice – he knew from experience that knives could be messy to use – but this challenge was being played out in a big city, where stabbings were commonplace.
When in Rome . . .
Smiling, he covered the blade with the towel. Everything was ready.
He glanced at his disposable watch. It was just after 7 p.m. Tomorrow morning the target would leave home just before eight in order to catch the 8.19 train from West Silverton. Naysmith had initially considered going to the man’s house, but the fact that he clearly lived with someone made that approach problematic. In the end, he’d decided to wait for his victim near the station. It was a better location than Evelyn Road – somewhat isolated, without shops or houses in the immediate vicinity, and there were plenty of ways out of the area when he was done. It wasn’t that far away, but he would set off before 7 a.m. to ensure he was positioned in good time. He picked up the mobile phone, toying with it, turning it in his gloved fingers. Absently, he pushed the power button, but the screen did not light up.
A bang from just outside the room jerked him to his feet. He stuffed the phone back inside the envelope and dropped both into the holdall as he moved silently round the bed and over towards the door. Drunken laughter echoed along the corridor as he peered out through the spyhole, his shoulders relaxing a little when he saw the distorted shape of a balding, middle-aged man fumbling with the door opposite.
Nothing to worry about.
He waited until the man disappeared, then turned away from the door and sighed. It would all be worth it in that instant when he held the target’s life in his hands. When he burned away the failure of the last game.
He looked at his watch again – just under twelve hours to kill. Yawning, he eased himself down into the chair and reached out a gloved hand for the TV remote control.
48
Monday, 17 September
Something was wrong. Harland stirred and buried his face in the pillow, sinking into the welcoming softness of the bed. But something was wrong. Slowly the sound filtered through to him, a smouldering ember in his consciousness that suddenly took flame.
His phone was ringing.
Groggily, he rolled over, his hand fumbling for the lamp switch, and he groaned as the sudden light jarred him awake. Blinking, he reached for the phone and answered it.
‘Hello?’
�
�It’s me.’ Mendel’s voice sounded serious.
‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone midnight. You weren’t asleep, were you?’
‘I had an early night,’ Harland yawned.
‘Sorry if I woke you,’ Mendel said. ‘I thought you’d want to know about this, though.’
Harland struggled to sit up, pushing away the duvet and rubbing a hand through his hair.
‘No problem,’ he said, letting his eyes close as he leaned back against the headboard. ‘What is it?’
‘Remember that mobile phone? The one from the Hampshire murder?’
‘Yes.’ Harland’s eyes opened and he leaned forward.
‘Well, we just got a hit on it. Somebody switched it on a couple of hours ago.’
Harland frowned, shaking off the sleep, forcing himself to concentrate.
‘Any calls on it?’ he asked.
‘None, so far as we know. It just popped up on the network.’
‘Okay. Where was this?’
‘London somewhere. Hang on, let me see what they gave us . . .’
Harland swung his legs over and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes. It could be nothing, but on the other hand . . .
‘East London . . .’ Mendel’s voice was distant as he sifted through the information he’d received. ‘Yeah, here we are. It’s over in Docklands somewhere. I’ve got a grid reference, but it’s only approximate.’
‘Get a map and take a look.’ Harland rose wearily to his feet and padded out onto the landing, the phone pressed to his ear. ‘I’m just going to the computer downstairs.’
He hurried down, bare feet sensitive on the carpeted steps, and shielded his eyes as he switched on the light in the study. Then, dropping into his chair, he opened his laptop and powered it up.
‘Okay,’ he said after a moment. ‘Give me the reference and let’s see what’s there.’
Mendel read the details back to him and he entered them in quickly, then clicked on the Search button. On the screen, a large map expanded. There was the Thames, snaking up and around the Dome, with London City Airport on the right. The reference marker was in the middle of the screen, by a long stretch of blue marked ‘Royal Victoria Dock’. He zoomed in closer.
‘Has the phone changed location at all?’ he asked. ‘Since it was switched on, I mean?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Mendel replied. ‘Position was constant. It’s still there as far as I’m concerned.’
Harland nodded as his eyes scanned the more detailed view of the area.
‘Most of this is water,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Lots of open areas, a car park, building developments, nothing residential . . .’
He paused, looking at the small lettering that had just popped up near the centre of the grid.
‘What is it?’ Mendel asked.
‘Get onto the Met,’ Harland said quickly. ‘We need to get some bodies on the ground there. Maybe the phone’s just been dumped, or sold on to someone, but . . .’
He hesitated, staring at the word ‘Hotel’ close to the reference marker at the centre of his screen. There seemed to be little else close by.
‘I’ll call you when I’m in the car,’ he said. ‘Oh, one more thing?’
‘Yes?’
‘The number of that phone – it’s in the file somewhere. Look it up for me.’
49
Monday, 17 September
It was past 4 a.m. now. Naysmith shivered, fighting off the temptation to sleep, and yawned deeply. He looked away from the screen and wearily rubbed his eyes . . .
And stopped.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure where the noise was coming from. Leaning forward, he took the remote control from its place on the desk and aimed it at the TV, tapping the volume down to zero.
There it was. A thin, muffled tone, accompanied by a dull buzzing. He lifted his head, trying to identify what it was, and where it was coming from. Slowly, he got to his feet, moving towards the bed, where the sound seemed to be louder. His hand stretched out to the holdall, carefully sliding open the zip. The ringtone was clear now and he tentatively reached into the bag, feeling the vibration of the white envelope through his gloves.
The phone was ringing.
Turning back the flap of the envelope, he took the handset out and stared at the word on the brightly illuminated screen.
Unknown.
He stood for a moment, frozen. The ringtone filled the room as his mind cried out for him to do something. His thumb, unbidden by him, hovered over the green Answer key, then gently squeezed it.
Silence.
On the screen, a timer began to count up the seconds. Someone was on the other end of the line, and he thought he could hear a faint voice. Holding the phone as though it might burn him, he raised it to his ear.
‘Hello?’ said a man’s voice.
Naysmith stood absolutely still, making no sound.
‘I’m going to assume that you can hear me.’
A long pause.
‘I understand your reluctance to speak,’ the voice continued in quiet, measured tones, ‘but I think it would be good if we could communicate somehow.’
There was something familiar about that voice, but Naysmith was too off balance to place it.
‘Tell you what,’ the voice said, ‘if you can hear me, press the 1 key. Just so I know I’m not talking to myself.’
He lowered the phone a little, unsure of what to do, then lifted it again to listen.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ the voice was saying. ‘Just press 1, or any of the number keys, so I know you can hear me.’
Naysmith lowered the phone and stared at it, unsure what to do. He had planned for everything, but nothing had prepared him for this. His thumb hesitated over the 1 key for a moment, then pressed it, making a quiet tone.
‘Thanks,’ said the voice. ‘It’s good to know that somebody’s there.’
Naysmith closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe normally, willing himself to calm down as he listened.
‘I appreciate,’ the voice said slowly, ‘that you’re a very careful person . . .’
This wasn’t a random wrong number – somebody knew something.
And just as suddenly, he thought he knew where he’d heard a voice like that before. That quiet, impassive speech . . . but it couldn’t be.
‘. . . so I understand you might not want to answer any questions . . .’
With the phone pressed to his ear, Naysmith walked softly over to the window and carefully pulled back the net curtain. Was that the reflection of a flashing blue light on one of the tall cranes, or was he letting his imagination run away with him? It looked quiet down at street level, but he couldn’t see much from here.
‘. . . I was just wondering if you’d ever been to Severn Beach.’
Shit.
Naysmith stepped back from the window. He was sure now.
‘Maybe you could press 1 if you have?’
Slowly, he leaned in close to the door and put his eye to the spyhole. The distorted corridor appeared to be empty. He had to get out.
‘Or perhaps I’m moving a little fast,’ the voice continued. ‘It’s a failing of mine. But it would be good if we were able to communicate. In fact, I rather think you’d like it if we could . . .’
Naysmith closed up the holdall, working quickly, quietly. His mind was racing. Were they about to burst into the room? Surely they would have done so already if they knew where he was. How much did they know?
‘Still there?’
Putting the holdall under one arm, he pressed the 1 key on the phone and listened again.
‘That’s good,’ the voice said. ‘I know that the circumstances are difficult, but I really would like to understand more about what you do . . .’
Appreciate. Know. Understand. Suddenly, the spell was broken. Naysmith shook his head in disgust as he recognised the language – he wasn’t going to fall for a thinly veiled empathy play, allow some halfwit to try and bui
ld a rapport with him.
Scowling, he took one last look around the room – not rushing, forcing himself to take the time and double-check everything.
‘Do you think we could do that?’
Enough. Naysmith pressed the 1 key and listened. He waited until the voice started to speak again, then immediately hung up.
‘Fuck you,’ he muttered, switching off the handset and slipping it into his bag. Moving to the door, he reached for the handle, but hesitated. There was no point making it easy for them. He put down the holdall and stalked into the bathroom. Crouching, he pushed the plugs into the bath and the basin, blocked the overflows with toilet tissue and turned both sets of taps fully on. A flooded room would make the forensics job that much tougher.
Retrieving the bag, he checked the spyhole once more, then took a deep breath and opened the door. Outside, the corridor was empty. Pulling his door so it shut quietly behind him, Naysmith turned away from the lifts and made his way quickly towards the illuminated fire exit sign at the opposite end of the corridor. Pushing through the double set of doors, he emerged into a windowless stairwell and paused, listening for any movement below.
Nothing.
He took the stairs several steps at a time, dropping swiftly down the short flights. Four floors to go . . . now three . . . two . . . his movements fluid as he twisted on each landing to leap down the next set of stairs.
He bent his knees to deaden the sound as his feet hit the ground floor, then straightened up slowly, straining to hear if anyone was nearby. In front of him was a wooden door with a small window set into it. Tensing himself in readiness, he slid up against the wall and slowly leaned over to peer through the glass.
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