Eye Contact (31 page)

The train rattled through the noise and darkness of the tunnel and out into the evening gloom. Rising steadily, the rails climbed to an elevated track that swept along, carrying them eastwards between the grim-looking neighbourhoods that sprawled out below. Grey tarmac streets and endless parked cars slid by, all bathed in the tainted glow of street lamps and garish shop signs.

Stations came and went – islands of harsh white light in the darkening evening – and gradually the passengers around him began to thin out. He found a seat where he could see the target in the next carriage, head bowed, reading a book.

Outside, the towering heights of Canary Wharf obscured the horizon. There was a lonely beauty about this part of Docklands as the glittering buildings bloomed with lights, and shadows hid the wasteland around them. Naysmith smiled to himself and turned away from the window. They had just passed through Poplar – from here on, he would need to be ready. The train was bound for Woolwich Arsenal, so at least he now knew which line the target travelled on, but that wasn’t enough. He had to find out where the man lived.

Outside, everything was growing darker as they sped onwards, leaving the vast glow of Canary Wharf behind. After a while, a faint sense of unease began to gnaw at him. The Dome lay a long way behind them now, and several stations had slipped by – how far out of the city were they going? The train rattled across a junction and sloped off to the right. An unfriendly landscape of high fences and dark industrial buildings finally gave way as the track curved up beside a long expanse of water. Apartments looked out between the old dockyard cranes and there, in the distance, he could make out the ExCeL Centre where the conference was being held.

And now, finally, the man was putting his book away. Naysmith watched until he was sure, then quietly got to his feet and moved to the doors at the opposite end of the carriage as the train began to slow down.

There was a delicious coolness to the air as he stepped out onto the bare concrete platform. After the smothering humidity at the start of his journey, the slight chill was very welcome. They had alighted at West Silverton, an elevated station with two short platforms that hugged the tracks, each side enclosed by a curved metal roof.

Naysmith walked slowly, letting the man get slightly ahead of him as they moved to the exit – only two other passengers had got off here and he didn’t want to spook his prey.

As he descended the flights of steps that led down to street level, the train rumbled away somewhere above, the noise fading as it crept off into the darkness. Suddenly, this station seemed a very lonely place, and he felt a shuddering thrill of anticipation. The man had no idea what was behind him, following him out onto the pavement that ran beneath the elevated tracks. His irrelevant life, ebbing away with each step as he led his killer home.

Naysmith measured his pace, but his muscles were taut and eager from the adrenalin. He suppressed an urge to howl with excitement as they crossed the road and headed north into a warren of newly developed apartment blocks. It couldn’t be far now.

He slowed down, allowing the distance between them to stretch out a little as the sandy-haired man turned to cut across a grassy open space surrounded by houses. A forlorn figure, brightly lit, then silhouetted, then brightly lit again as he walked between the street lamps that lit the curving path. Naysmith glanced around – a lot of windows overlooked this little area. When the time came, he would have to find somewhere more secluded than this.

Ahead of him, the target had reached a line of houses. Naysmith strolled slowly out onto the grass, shunning the well-lit path. There was no need to rush in – he could see everything from here.

The man had turned and was walking along the pavement, bag under one arm, reaching for his keys . . .

Which house would it be?

His eyes followed the target as he slowed and turned onto a brick-paved driveway. There were lights on in the house – the man clearly didn’t live alone. A moment to fumble with the lock, then light spilled out across the drive as the door opened and he disappeared inside.

Naysmith smiled and made his way calmly across the grass and onto the pavement. He gazed across at the street sign – Evelyn Road – then strolled slowly past the house, noting the number, and walking on.

He had everything he needed.

Harland opened the cupboard and pulled out a handful of DVDs, all still sealed in their cellophane wrappers. These days he seemed to buy more films than he watched. Idly shuffling through them, he tried to judge which would suit his mood, or which might best improve it. Eventually he chose one and settled down in front of the TV to escape.

When his phone rang, he couldn’t quite remember where he’d left it. Pausing the movie, he followed the sound through into the kitchen. The ringtone grew louder as he drew the phone from the pocket of his jacket, still draped over a chair, and quickly answered it.

‘Hello?’

‘Graham?’ It was Mendel’s voice.

‘Evening,’ Harland smiled. ‘How’s life in the police force?’

Mendel chuckled.

‘Consistent,’ he replied. ‘Are you at home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay if I swing by?’

‘Sure, if you want.’ Harland was puzzled. This was unlike his colleague. ‘You remember the address?’

‘I’m parked outside,’ Mendel replied. ‘Stick the kettle on.’

They sat down in the living room. Mendel leaned forward, placing his mug on the coffee table and picking up a DVD case.

‘I really enjoyed this one,’ he nodded. ‘Great twist at the end when you find out that the crippled guy is actually the villain.’

‘Thanks for that,’ Harland sighed. ‘Saves me the trouble of enjoying it myself.’

‘You’re welcome.’ His colleague smiled. He eased himself back into the armchair and looked around the room, automatically cataloguing, noting things – a bad police officer’s habit that they both shared.

‘So what brings you to this part of town?’ Harland asked. ‘Consorting with a known troublemaker like me could be bad for your career.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Mendel rebuked him. ‘Things have pretty well calmed down now. In fact, a little bird told me you’ll be back in scenic Portishead next week.’

‘Are you sure?’

The big man spread his palms wide.

‘It makes sense,’ he said. ‘Leighton’s being transferred, so Pope and Jackson are picking up his work on that Shirehampton thing. And that leaves us short-staffed . . .’ He paused, then added, ‘Not that Pope’s a great loss, mind you.’

Harland leaned back, his fingers steepled in front of his face.

‘So they just need me back to make up the numbers,’ he mused.

Mendel shot him a disapproving look.

‘If I’d known you were going to get all enthusiastic about it, I’d have come round sooner,’ he said pointedly.

‘Sorry, you’re right.’ Harland held up a hand. ‘It’ll be good to get back to work. That’s all that matters.’

Mendel nodded.

‘You’ll probably get the call tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Try and sound surprised, okay?’

‘Okay.’ Harland laughed. He reached out for the remote control and switched the TV off, then looked across at his colleague. ‘You came round just to tell me that?’

‘Well, I’m not here for your tea.’ Mendel made a face and put down the mug. ‘No wonder you drink coffee.’

Harland looked at his friend and nodded slowly.

‘I appreciate it,’ he said. ‘You’ve not been round here for ages . . .’

There was an awkward silence, as they both recalled that last time, shortly after Alice had died. Mendel finally spoke.

‘So, what’ve you been up to?’

Harland started to say something, to answer without thinking, but the words wouldn’t come. He floundered for a moment, then looked away.

‘You all right, Graham?’ Mendel leaned forward in sudden concern.

‘Yeah.’ He had been caught off guard, thinking about her, but he gathered himself now, speaking tentatively, testing each sentence before trusting his weight to it. ‘I’m just not used to so much free time . . . so much time at home. This is the first proper leave I’ve taken since . . . Alice.’

Managed to say her name. Good.

Mendel nodded at him.

‘It must be tough,’ he said. ‘But you’re keeping yourself busy?’

‘Yeah, just catching up on a few things, you know . . .’ Harland trailed off, bowing his head. ‘Went to the cemetery – first time in a long time. Did some thinking . . .’

Again, words failed him, but once again Mendel didn’t.

‘I still don’t know how you scored someone like Alice,’ he said, lifting his mug and studying it.

Harland, jolted out of silence, looked up at him.

‘What?’

‘Well,’ Mendel reflected, ‘she was way too good for the likes of you. Thought that the first time I met her.’

A wry smile spread across Harland’s face.

‘Thanks for that,’ he said.

Mendel glanced up from his mug.

‘Be honest, though,’ he said. ‘You were lucky there.’

Harland nodded for a moment but his smile had become hollow.

‘Not so lucky now though,’ he said, looking down.

Mendel frowned at him.

‘How can you say that?’ he asked. ‘How can you
possibly
say something like that?’

Harland’s head snapped up sharply. Wasn’t it obvious how much he was suffering? How much her loss hurt him?

‘Would you rather you’d never met?’ Mendel pressed him. ‘Would that have been better?’

Harland stared at him for a moment, then gently shook his head.

‘No,’ he said softly.

‘I should think not,’ Mendel sighed. ‘Tell you what, Graham – for a clever bloke, you do say some stupid things.’

They ordered a pizza and watched the rest of the movie. Afterwards, Mendel agreed to one more cup of tea before he left, but insisted on making it himself.

‘You need to give it a chance to infuse properly,’ he explained, mashing the tea bag against the side of the mug with a spoon. ‘Otherwise there’s no flavour.’

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Harland watched him doubtfully.

‘I’ll stick to coffee,’ he said. ‘Anything that strong would probably keep me awake.’

‘Your loss,’ Mendel shrugged.

Opening the back door, Harland moved outside and stood on the step while he lit a final cigarette.

‘So what about the Severn Beach thing?’ he asked. ‘I guess by the fact you haven’t mentioned it that there’s not been much progress.’

Mendel came over to stand beside him, his large silhouette framed in the light of the doorway.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Shame about that one.’

‘Shame?’

‘Well . . .’ Mendel lifted his mug, inhaling the steam. ‘It’s all over, isn’t it?’

Harland looked at him, then nodded slowly.

‘I suppose so,’ he said. There was nothing more they could do unless they got a hit on that mobile phone. ‘At least until he kills another one.’

Painting the little soldiers was difficult. He dipped the thin brush – just a few fine hairs in a tight point – into the small pot of black gloss, then carefully applied the glistening paint to the infantryman’s tiny rifle. He held his breath as he worked, not blinking, not moving, except for his brush hand. When it was done, he exhaled, and held up the soldier to survey the finished figure.

Perfect.

He set the soldier down on the window sill, beside the others, then crouched in close to see them at eye level. A whole box of them, twenty-four German infantrymen, all painted. He wished they didn’t take quite so long to dry, but his father said it was good for him – that it would teach him patience.

Reaching down, he retrieved a jam jar filled with paint thinner and placed it on the old newspaper that protected the top of his bedside cabinet. Carefully, he lowered the tip of the brush into it, watching as little swirls of black bloomed out like upside-down smoke in the clear liquid. Then, checking his hands to make sure they were free from paint, he lay back on his bed and stared up at the patterned plaster ceiling, inhaling the delicious smell of the gloss and the thinners.

It was his room now. There were still two beds, but he didn’t have to share any more. He could do whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted, which was brilliant. Nobody moaned about the fumes from his paints, nobody told him to move his things back to his own side of the floor. In fact, he could even use Gary’s things, as long as he was careful with them and put them back before his mother noticed.

He sat up and glanced across at the empty bed opposite him, frowning for a moment. Sometimes, when he was pretending to be asleep, she would come in and sit there, just running her hand across the cold bedspread or gently stroking the unused pillow in the dark. He reached out, his fingertips brushing across his own pillow. She wouldn’t pack away any of his brother’s stuff, even after all this time. He wished she wasn’t so sad. If only he could tell her . . .

But it really wasn’t so bad. And he had discovered another, even greater advantage. He didn’t have to share
her
any more either. She held him for longer now; she loved him more than she had before. He smiled and got to his feet. Things were better now, he was sure of it.

Naysmith woke with a start. Glancing around the bedroom, it took him a few seconds to get his bearings before he sank back into the soft pillows and exhaled slowly. He stretched out his arm, caressing the bulging duvet, but it crumpled under his hand. Kim must be downstairs. Fumbling on the bedside table for his watch, he focused on the time – 9.37 a.m. He frowned for a moment then remembered it was Saturday.

Yawning, he stretched and kicked off the duvet, letting his feet drop to the floor and sitting for a weary moment. The light coming from between the curtains was dull and without warmth. He shook his head – another overcast Saturday. Rubbing his eyes, he got slowly to his feet and padded through to the bathroom.

The kitchen smelled of coffee and toast when he came down. Kim was sitting at the large wooden table reading a book.

‘Morning, sleepyhead.’ She smiled up at him as he wandered over to the fridge. ‘I did make you some toast . . . but then I ate it.’