Eye Contact (36 page)

He slid a final photograph over. It showed the back of the snapshot, with one word written in large capital letters.

‘“Reprieved”,’ Mendel read aloud. ‘So perhaps this Jennings bloke was lined up as the next victim?’

Blake looked at him, his face impassive.

‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘Jennings lives in Silvertown, close to the Royal Victoria Dock.’

Harland sat forward.

‘Where the hotel was,’ he said. ‘That’s why he was there.’

The Superintendent gave a slight nod as he ran a finger along the edge of the folder.

‘The Met are running with this now,’ he explained. ‘They’ve been over the hotel, and they’re working through CCTV footage from Docklands, London Transport, and the area around the café.’

‘What about Jennings?’ Pope asked.

‘He seems to be genuine,’ Blake replied. ‘They’ve done some digging and there’s nothing untoward. Naturally, they’ll keep an eye on him, just in case. That word “Reprieved” is encouraging, but I don’t think they’ll want to take any chances.’

‘If he knew how close he’d come . . .’ Mendel said, looking at the snapshot and shaking his head.

The Superintendent sat back in his chair, looking at each one of them in turn.

‘So there we are,’ he said. ‘While there are things that might have been done differently, it does seem that we may have interrupted the killer . . .’

Harland noted his slight emphasis on the ‘we’.

‘. . . for now at least. Although there were a number of decisions taken that I cannot condone, I think it’s best that we draw a line under the whole thing and move on. The case is now with the Met – we’ve done our part and there is no need for
any
further involvement, from any of you, without my express direction.’

He wasn’t looking at Harland as he finished, but it was a clear, absolute warning.

‘Are the Met close to making an arrest?’ Pope asked.

‘The investigation is ongoing,’ Blake replied. ‘But they know what they’re doing, don’t you worry.’

Harland stared down at the table in silence, keeping his doubts to himself.

‘Pity the DI didn’t get a better look at the suspect,’ Pope murmured. Mendel shot him a withering look.

Seeing there were no further questions, Blake reached across and gathered up the photos, returning them to the folder.

‘Anyway, I thought you should know how things stand. Good communication is the cornerstone of effective policing.’

He closed the folder, then looked up at them.

‘That will be all.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Pope nodded, as they all pushed back their chairs, getting to their feet.

Blake watched them stand, then added, ‘Stay for a moment, Graham.’

Harland stood to one side, letting the others by. Brushing past, his back to the seated Superintendent, Mendel held up two crossed fingers in front of his chest and gave a subtle nod of encouragement.

‘Close the door, would you?’

Harland pushed the door shut and turned back to the table. Blake got to his feet, considered him for a moment, then turned and walked over to the window.

‘A most unusual business, Graham,’ he said as he looked down on the street below. ‘There’s been some highly irregular behaviour, to say the least. I’m still not entirely clear about the chain of events that brought our suspect out into the open, but I feel certain that it wouldn’t do either of us any good if I were to dig any deeper into it.’

He turned round and stared meaningfully at Harland, then moved to the table and put his hand on the folder.

‘My opposite number in Thames Valley rang to congratulate me,’ he smiled to himself. ‘Did you know that?’

‘No, sir.’ Harland frowned.

‘Said we’d “got a result”. Under the circumstances, I think we’ve acquitted ourselves rather well, and we’ve certainly given the Met a tough act to follow.’

The idea seemed to amuse him for a moment. He shook his head and made his way around the table and paused by the door.

‘I want to bring you in from the cold, Graham,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re a good officer; you were lucky this time.’

Harland stared at him, unsure what to say.

‘Just make sure you stay lucky,’ Blake mused.

Then, without turning round, he opened the door and strode out.

Harland stood for several minutes before walking along the corridor to his office. Pushing the door shut behind him, he moved around the desk, dropped into his chair and slowly massaged his temples with his fingertips.

Mendel had called him lucky too.

He looked at the picture of Alice, light catching on the little gold frame, but his thoughts drifted back to the note, the snapshot.

The game was over. Reprieved.

He wondered where Stephen Jennings was right now. A name in a report, a man he’d never met. But whoever he was, he was alive.

Harland smiled. Alice would have been proud.

Naysmith propped himself up on one elbow and watched Kim as she slept. The first night in a new bed always made him eager and he’d taken her twice since they’d arrived that afternoon. Now sated, he gazed down at her slender form, his mind clear, able to think without distraction.

The cottage was ideal – and the perfect place for a romantic getaway. Perched in a remote location on a windswept stretch of coastal cliffs, with no neighbours for miles, and nothing to do except go for long walks or fool around in bed. But he must have known when he booked it. At least on some subconscious level, he
must
have.

Kim had been so pleased when he’d mentioned it. A whole week without work, or email, or mobile phones. Perhaps even a whole week without clothes, she’d suggested naughtily. And of course, that was what he wanted. A whole week with her, just the two of them together, enjoying each other, growing closer as the waves crashed on the rocks far below.

But they
had
been growing closer. Somehow, her life and his had become more entwined than he’d ever anticipated. Or allowed for.

Yes, she was very attractive, but there were plenty of other women out there for him . . . at least there
had
been until he’d found himself comparing them to her.

He pulled the duvet aside to reveal her naked back, smooth skin lit by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. She was just a person, fragile and beautiful and interesting, but still just a person. Why then did his thoughts return to dwell on her so much? He bit his lip. He’d never intended for things to go this far.

For so long, the game had sustained him, driven him forward. In many ways it had defined him, given him both purpose and pleasure. He couldn’t ignore it, or pretend it hadn’t happened. But he also knew the gnawing pain of hiding it, the hollowness that grew inside until it consumed everything else. He remembered how bitterly he’d wanted to tell his mother, and how much it had cost him not to.

And he knew that stifling his desires just made them hungrier.

He looked down at Kim, listening to the gentle sigh of her breathing as she dozed peacefully beside him.

What if it was all just too much for her to take? He dreaded the thought of what he would have to do if she couldn’t accept it. But the time might come when he had no choice – when he could no longer risk telling her because he could no longer bring himself to deal with her if she ran.

He shut his eyes.

Of course he’d known when he booked the cottage. He’d known for some time that this was coming, however much he’d wished otherwise.

He opened his eyes again, studying Kim, fixing the image of her in his mind. So very beautiful, so utterly submissive to his will. She had accepted everything he’d done to her, even seeming to gain pleasure from her surrender. But some things were more difficult to accept than others . . .

And that’s why he’d booked this place. A remote cottage, with lonely clifftop walks, where lovers might stand on the edge of the precipice, gazing down at the breakers below.

Lovers.

He sighed, forcing the hope from his mind. Hope would only cloud his judgement and he couldn’t allow that. Not just now.

Sliding quietly out of bed, he padded through to the living room and found Kim’s bag. Her mobile phone was switched off as he’d requested, but he took it along with the car keys and hid them in the bottom of his case, where she wouldn’t be able to find them in a hurry, though he prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

She stirred slightly as he got back into bed, and he kissed the top of her head, inhaling the soothing smell of her hair. Then, turning off the lamp, he lay back and closed his eyes.

He would tell her in the morning.

I’m deeply grateful to the following people:

Brendan McCusker, whose creative writing class started it all, and Chris Wild for the conversation that ignited the idea; Andrew Oates for his valuable procedural insight, and Sarah Prince for introducing me to him; Sally Spedding, Linda Regan and Lesley Horton for their guidance and encouragement, and Barbara Large for the excellent Winchester Writers’ Conference where I met them all; Julia Painter, Kate Ranger, Martyn Heasman, Helen Lynch, Angie Moysak, and Eveart Boniface for their feedback on early drafts; Nick Day, my literary wingman, for reading and commenting every step of the way; Caroline Johnson, my copy editor, who hid a multitude of my literary sins;

Eve White, my agent, for finding me a wonderful home at Hodder & Stoughton; and my editor Francesca Best, who’s more observant than the finest TV detective, and who helped make the story so much better.