Requiem Mass (3 page)

There had been a chance that she did not fit the normal mould but during his surveillance of her it had become clear that she was pathetically of a type: part of the school run; exercise classes twice a week; helping out at the old people’s home once a week; shopping and visiting friends too frequently for her husband’s comfort. There would not be one day in her self-styled empty life when she would not be missed too quickly for his purposes.

Even more problematic, there were very few occasions when she could be picked up from home without the risk of someone seeing him, as her house was overlooked by not one but two neighbours of the curtain-twitching variety.

The first glimmer of a solution came to him during one of his surveillance trips, when he had followed her with a group of friends into a restaurant where they had coffee. They had been complaining of their hollow lives, how unfulfilled they were, how much untapped potential they had which was rapidly going to waste. He had automatically filed this away for future reference.

Later on they had been poring over a mail-order catalogue. Mixed with various derogatory comments about the clothes had been remarks about the artificiality of the models themselves; one of the women had remarked that they simply did not look like ‘real people’.

He had been sifting through the facts he had gleaned when the two separate conversations fused into an idea in his mind. Like all good ideas it was surprisingly simple: do not abduct her in her home environment, take her in one of your own making. She would have to become one of the dozens of people
who went missing every week. She would simply have to disappear in London where it was commonplace, not in leafy Sussex where it might still be remarked upon. Even better, if she is bored, give her an excuse to do something different, legitimise it and reinforce it with an idea or prejudice she already has. Real-life models for a mail-order catalogue pulled all the threads together.

Of course, the execution of the idea was rather more complex – ‘overworked’ his old CO would have said. It was his one failing, a tendency to make the execution of his plans too intricate. It grew out of his love for, obsession with, detail and the desire to prove himself more clever than his opponents. But no part of his plot was irrelevant. Planning the advertisement was easy: a letter and cheque to the local newspaper enclosing copy but allowing them to set the advertisement for a fee meant that he had no need of a design studio. The chequing account had been opened by post from his ‘business’ address – a serviced one-room office in a run-down part of North London, paid for with cash and no questions asked by the seedy landlord.

He had researched the clothing and catalogue industries quickly: the relevant trade magazines and a few personal investment weeklies had provided him with a list of clothing manufacturers and retailers based in the UK. He chose the most appropriate one, bought a few shares and was rewarded with copies of their report and accounts and interim statement. It had proved just as well that he had them as they served to reassure Leslie Smith’s husband at the right time.

Thus prepared he had placed the advertisement to run fortnightly for eight weeks and had used printed stationery from a local print shop with the same business address to add weight and legitimacy to the ad. He had been concerned that perhaps the newspaper would try to check the firm placing the advertisement, but he need not have worried; his cheque was taken as a matter of routine.

The advertisement had been drafted to appeal to her personally. He knew that she received that local paper and he had seen her pause over the classified ads. She had some social
pretensions and the copy was written to pander to these. She obviously thought she was attractive and probably felt she could have been a model when younger, and he suspected she had reached that time of life when opportunities to prove her attractiveness would be particularly seductive. Of course, he had also heard her join in the criticism of professional models.

Finally, the advertisement would allow a team response – suggesting that this was something the girls could all do together. There was always the risk that she would not reply, in fact he viewed this first attempt as something of an experiment to test her reactions to some obvious bait. When he’d developed the plan, he had deliberately not placed great hope on it; if it failed he would lose a little money, but he had plenty of that, and he would waste some time. So what? Time was on his side; he had waited nearly twenty years already.

He had been slightly surprised when the woman had replied to the first advertisement, but relieved that the group of them had written in together. What had followed had been a simple process of elimination, done convincingly with style and reassurance at each stage, just as the marked sheep is extracted from the flock and isolated with minimal alarm.

Thinking back over the detail of the elimination process he allowed himself some pride in the simple ways he had built in double-checks to encourage her to continue to the next stage. The hotel was typical of the type in London that did as much business by day as by night; large enough for his single booking to be unremarkable and smart enough to appeal to his target.

Finding an attractive interviewer had been easy. He had called a staff agency with explicit requirements as to the physical impact, keyboard skills and style of the person he wished to hire for three weeks. He had then arranged to interview the candidates at the agency’s offices, selecting the one who was looking for money from one last assignment before she set off on a round-the-world trip. He briefed her, gave her the laptop, details of applicants and a small supply of brochures, printed by a different high street firm from the one that had produced his stationery. He paid in advance, and had given his
accommodation address to which to send a daily print-out of interview notes and any commentary on the candidates. The temp had been delighted with an interesting job in a smart hotel for generous pay. He promised her a success bonus if they found good-quality candidates quickly. She had asked no questions and seemed incurious about this latest job in a long and varied stream of engagements.

He handled all the correspondence himself, picking up replies from the North London address and typing the appointment letters. He had worried that the temp he used might notify the police of her involvement if she recognised the name when it eventually appeared in the press. With this candidate, though, the risk was minimal. She should be long gone before the police ever became involved.

He sent her more than a dozen interviewees and then telephoned shortly after contact with the target and her friends to say that the search was over and her success fee was on its way. He asked her to return all the materials and the laptop to the agency where it was collected by one of the less reputable mini-cab firms. A week later, he left the PC, erased of all data, in a builder’s skip at a site near Aldgate.

The laptop hadn’t been strictly necessary but he had found in the past that putting information in a computer conveyed authority and respectability. It was unlikely the police would ever be able to trace the purchase of the laptop – supposing that they ever made the connection with it in the first place. He had bought it from a PC warehouse on a busy Saturday, for cash; it was one of their most popular models.

Thinking of detail his lips compressed into a rare smile as he considered the two beautiful, high-class escorts he had arranged to turn up at the hotel to coincide with his target’s interview. He had insisted over the telephone when finalising the arrangements that they make a great show of asking for the suite – emphasising that there would be a number of people he wanted to impress in the lobby. The escorts, professional women, had agreed – used to humouring their customers’ whims – and had arrived promptly. Unfortunately, the interviews had run over
time despite his precise instructions, and from his observation post in the lounge by the reception desk, he had watched with frustration as the two escort girls went through their extended enquiries, only to finish as the other women left the lifts. He couldn’t be sure that they had caught the show, in fact he was almost sure that they must have missed it, which caused him some annoyance. He had been relying on beautiful competition to make the women feel envious and nervous about their ability to be selected. He knew that one of the most effective ways to overcome any lingering reservations would be to make them really want the job, to make it an aspiration they would be reluctant to abandon.

Despite this small setback, he felt that step two had gone well. Step three, the photographic session, which he had anticipated would be the most difficult part of his plan, had been the easiest to arrange. He had found an addled junkie with the remnants of a good speaking voice to make the appointment phone calls. The addict had been so surprised at the money that she had asked no questions and performed her part with a pathetic desire to please. Then the studio. He had not realised just how many studios there were in London. He had hired one not too far from the centre of town with a good address, through the simple expedient of looking up telephone numbers in Yellow Pages and confirming with the lucky photographer that it would be a legitimate deal. He had sent the money and brief round by courier, explaining at the last minute that he found himself abroad and would be unable to supervise the shoot himself. The studio performed perfectly, he knew, having listened to the whole thing with the assistance of routine surveillance equipment – a transmitter concealed in a double socket.

The final stage required delicate manoeuvring. Like a collie circling and separating the marked sheep he finally needed her alone. He wanted her away from the other woman whose only purpose had been to make the whole enterprise feel safe. He had to make her confident enough to come along finally on her own, without giving her the opportunity to get cold feet. By allowing her to believe right up to the last minute that this
experience was still going to be a shared one, he felt he could lull her into a sense of security.

He was aware that the whole plot could fall apart at this stage – the phoney call from the headmaster might have been ineffectual; she might have decided to wait for her friend. He would know soon enough. He waited calmly, immune to any concerns about future disappointments, schooled to keep his eagerness to the minimum. Now totally controlled in his emotions and betraying no anxiety, he gently moved the hired car to a halt alongside the kerb by a side entrance to Victoria Station.

CHAPTER THREE

The train drew into Victoria Station virtually on time. Deborah roused herself from a happy daydream in which she had taken Derek on a romantic holiday for two, thanks to the proceeds of her modelling assignment. She handed the outward part of her ticket to the collector at the gate, giving him a radiant smile that made his day and could later have given him the role of vital police witness if only there had been a police investigation. Walking purposefully, she left by a side exit as instructed, to make her way to the promised chauffeured car. By now, Deborah could feel the butterflies in her stomach again and she had to take several deep breaths to calm herself.

As she stepped out into the heat of the unseasonably warm April day, the dust and noise of the busy London street did little to aid her composure. She squinted against the bright sunlight, fighting a growing sense of disorientation, and looked around almost desperately for the driver they had said would be there to meet her. It had sounded so simple on the phone, but here, in the press of people and traffic, she realised that she could conceivably miss the car altogether.

Increasingly panicked she started violently as a dark, garlic-breathing man came up to her and touched her elbow lightly.

‘Are you lost, madam? You look a little dazed.’ He spoke with a heavy accent.

‘No, no, I’m all right, thank you. Just a little bit dazzled by all this sunshine. Thank you, really I’m OK.’

‘But, forgive me for saying so, delightful madam, you do not
seem
OK – and I should never forgive myself if I left you looking lost like this.’

His attentions were vaguely threatening and Deborah was desperate to shake him off.

‘No, really I am all right. I’m meeting someone here. They’ll be along in a minute,’ Deborah answered abruptly, belatedly softening her tone with a half-smile that did not reach her eyes.

‘But it is wrong to leave you here unescorted, lady. And I have a nice restaurant just over the road there, where you could sit comfortably and watch for the person you await.’

The man was now insistent and his touch on her elbow changed to a firm grip. He started to move her to the kerb as if to cross the road.

‘It’s all right, the lady’s with me,’ said a voice from above and behind the man.

Deborah and her unwelcome guardian turned together. They could make out little of the man’s features for his back was towards the sun, casting his face into half-shadow. He was tall, well muscled without being brawny. Something about his bearing immediately made Deborah think of the police, but she dismissed this almost at once and put the impression down to the effect created by his peaked chauffeur’s cap.

‘Mrs Fearnside? I’m your chauffeur from Happy Families, the catalogue people.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s me.’ Deborah responded quickly, keen now to have the pestering restaurateur removed, and then in a manner she felt more becoming, ‘How kind of you to escort me.’

‘Not at all, madam, it’s my job. But we must go at once. I’m on a yellow line and I don’t want us clamped.’

The restaurateur had not relinquished ownership of her elbow and seemed reluctant to let her go but then something in the driver’s eyes and his manner made him back down quickly. He sketched a faint bow to Deborah before leaving to cross the road.

‘
Au revoir, madame
. I hope our paths may cross again.’

Deborah ignored his retreating back. ‘Thanks again. He was becoming a nuisance.’

The driver said nothing but smiled at her, and in one fluid movement, took her small overnight bag in which she had brought her make-up things. He gently placed his palm under her elbow and almost lifted her across the road to the waiting car, avoiding the busy traffic. Unlocking the doors he placed her bag and jacket on the rear seat and opened the front passenger door for her. Deborah hesitated slightly.