Eye Contact (12 page)

A road sign indicated ‘Winchester’, next junction.

Winchester.

He felt a sudden calm, as though something inevitable had slotted into place. Smiling, he moved into the left-hand lane and turned off the motorway.

Winchester was somewhere he’d rarely visited, but as he approached the city centre he found himself warming to the place. Old buildings and narrow streets, trees and stone, not yet wholly overcome by the wretched creep of bland town planning.

He drove for some time without purpose through a knot of unfamiliar one-way streets. After a while, the road began to climb and he found himself breaking free of the city centre. Crossing a bridge, he instinctively turned right up a steep hill lined with a terrace of elegant town houses on one side and tall trees on the other. It was quieter here, away from the traffic, and he slowed down. Cresting the rise, a small swathe of green park opened up on his left – a tranquil oasis above the shops and offices. He drove on until he found a place to leave the car, then parked and walked back along the leafy road.

Tall trees cast long shadows in the afternoon sun and he strolled thoughtfully across the grass towards an old wooden bench. He sat down, running his fingers along the rough grey planks of the seat. A faint breeze stirred the dust around his feet and he leaned back, enjoying the cool air on his face as he gazed up at the cloudless blue sky.

It was perfect.

He shut his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun through his clothes. The rustle of wind in the trees mingled with snatches of birdsong, but there were also voices in the distance.

People.

The familiar wave of excitement washed over him as he prepared himself for the start of a new game. In a moment, he would open his eyes and walk back to the road, then on down the hill. As ever, the first person to make eye contact would be the one.

He smiled, listening to the distant voices for a moment longer, then opened his eyes, squinting for a moment under the sudden glare of the afternoon sunlight . . .

A child stared back at him.

Naysmith blinked. A little boy, clutching a brightly coloured ball, was standing there, some twenty yards across the grass, staring quietly at him. For a long, dreadful moment, everything stopped, the child’s unwavering gaze holding them together in frozen fascination.

No!

Three years old. Blond curls framed a round face. Large eyes and a small mouth. He wore a blue top with a picture of a hippo on it, jeans and tiny trainers.

‘Jack?’

Naysmith glanced round. Nearby, a woman with a pushchair had stopped and was calling to the child. Early thirties, five foot six, with a natural figure. She had straight brown hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, and a sleepy smile as she called to her son.

‘Come on, Jack.’

The little boy turned and scurried away across the sunlit grass, his mother already moving on along the path at an easy pace, unaware and unconcerned.

Naysmith watched them dwindle into the distance, unable to look away. Somewhere, beyond the trees, a clock struck four.

He sat there for some time. Nothing like this had happened before – it was something he’d never even considered. And yet, there were rules to his game, and they could not be taken lightly. The choice
had
to be random, which meant he
had
to accept the targets he was given. His fingers gripped the wood of the bench beneath him, nails digging into the rough underside of the plank as he struggled silently, alone in the quiet of the park.

No!

Suddenly getting to his feet, he strode away over the grass, his face contorting in an involuntary snarl.

Beyond the park, the road fell away sharply. On the right, a line of three-storey houses stood on a raised pavement reached via worn stone steps, looking out across the city in grand permanence. Naysmith walked quickly in the shadow of the trees on the other side of the street, a steep drop to a railway cutting visible through the bushes on his left. At the foot of the slope, a busy main road halted him and he stood for a moment, glancing around, looking up at the buildings on the corner as he waited for a lull in the traffic. His restless eye caught a road sign – Clifton Terrace. He thought back to where he’d found his last victim . . .

Clifton.

The coincidence set his teeth on edge. Everything he did was artfully random, without pattern or repetition. He played a serious game, controlling the situation, seeking out coincidence and eliminating it.

And yet, here it was. Fate was mocking him.

No!

His breath came faster now, and he found that he was clenching his fists so hard that it hurt his palms.

Fight back!

He looked around hurriedly for a moment, taking in the street, the bridge, the steep slope down to the railway line below . . .

Do something. Don’t cower like a startled animal – embrace the fear. Rush out and meet it head-on. Do something. Now!

He was staring down at the railway tracks. And then, placing a hand on the wall, he sprang up and over the rough brickwork. Muscles taut and pulse racing, he scrambled down the embankment, through the sickly aroma of nettles and ivy, turning his body sideways so that he could lean back into the slope and steady himself with his hand. The descent was surprisingly easy and he ran the last few yards to stop, panting, at the base of the cutting.

Do it.

Forcing himself to walk slowly, calmly, he made his way back under the shadow of the bridge, stepped up onto the oily bed of stones and over the first heavy rail. The rusted sides contrasted with the gleaming top surface, the corrosion ground away by the wheels of the speeding trains. Standing on a huge concrete sleeper between the two rails, Naysmith crouched down and bowed his head. Holding his watch, he waited for the second hand to sweep up to the top of the dial.

Five minutes. He would not move, for five minutes, no matter what. Come on . . .

He stared at the watch face as the second hand crawled past the twelve. It moved so slowly, taking an eternity to reach the one.

Five seconds gone. Six . . . seven . . . eight . . .

He wondered how many trains passed through here in an hour. How many minutes apart were they? He had heard none as he walked down from the park.

Ten seconds . . .

It was no good thinking about it. A train would come or it wouldn’t. But he would not move until it was time. He continued to stare at the watch.

Fifteen seconds . . .

A car horn sounded on the bridge above, the noise echoing oddly along the cutting. He closed his eyes, tapping out the seconds with his fingers on the ground. He pictured the watch face in his mind, tracking the progress of the thin second hand as it laboured on.

Thirty seconds?

What if he was counting too quickly? Or too slowly? He promised himself he would look when he got to that first minute. The count shouldn’t be too far out by then. He focused on the rhythm he was tapping out, forcing himself not to speed up, whispering each number in his head, keeping a smooth and regular pace.

Fifty-seven . . . fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . . sixty! Sixty-one . . .

He opened his eyes briefly and focused on the watch. He was counting in perfect time. Satisfied, he shut them again and began the long journey to the next sixty.

Steady rhythm, fingers on the ground, just keep it going . . .

In the past he’d vaguely wondered what would happen if he found a target he couldn’t pursue. Not one that eluded him – that had happened before and would probably happen again – but one that just shouldn’t be part of the game. For some reason he’d never considered the possibility that it might be a child. Now, as he stared into the abyss, he suddenly began to remember why.

Don’t think about that now!

A sudden breeze passed through the bushes along the embankment, rustling the leaves, but he didn’t look up.

Concentrate. Finish the forfeit.

He continued to tap out the seconds, rocking slightly as he counted.

Fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . . Two minutes.

His eyes flickered open, checking his watch once more. His counting was slightly behind – already the second hand was pointing downwards and he stared at it as it inched round towards the bottom of the dial.

Nearly halfway . . .

He willed it past the six, closing his eyes as he picked up the count for this, the third minute.

Thirty-one . . . thirty-two . . . thirty-three . . .

Softly, very softly, the rails began to sing.

At first it was vague – a distant ringing sound that he felt as much as heard. His count faltered and he strained to listen, but now there could be no doubt. Something was coming.

Shit.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, staring down at his watch, refusing the terrible urge to look up.

Fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . . Three minutes!

He would not move. His heart rate had spiked and he suddenly felt cold, but he would not move. If fate wanted to play, he would play.

Come on!

The two-tone blare of a train horn echoed along the cutting and reverberated under the bridge. All around him now the noise from the rails was growing, the vibration flowing up through his feet and into the pit of his stomach.

Come the fuck on!

He could hear the train itself now, feel its approach. The horn blared out again, closer this time, much closer. But he wouldn’t look up. He wouldn’t move.

The second hand seemed almost stationary. It crawled agonisingly towards the four-minute mark but somehow Naysmith knew he didn’t have enough time.

Fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . . Last minute.

He was counting down now. The oncoming rumble was getting louder and louder, and the horn blared out a third time, deafeningly close. His hand was clammy, shaking so hard that he could hardly read the watch. There was a sudden piercing screech as the train applied its brakes, but it was too late.

Naysmith stopped counting and bowed his head.

A gale swept up and over him, the noise surging to a terrifying crescendo as the train roared through the bridge arch, passing only a few feet away from him on the adjacent track.

Buffeted by the wind, Naysmith braced himself to avoid being sucked under, eyes screwed shut against the dust and debris that swirled in its wake. The sound, deafening for a moment, suddenly relented as the last coach clattered by.

He hadn’t moved.

He opened his eyes, struggling to make out the watch face, smiling as he saw the second hand slide up and past the twelve.

Five minutes.

The forfeit was done. Shaking, he got to his feet and looked round, seeing the train for the first time as it slowed a little way further along the track.

He was alive. Perhaps more alive than he’d ever felt before. It was like that first time – the power of absolute control, surging through him. He let out a howl of triumph as he stepped across the rail and down to the side of the cutting, his body strangely light and agile. The hex was broken, fate defeated. Eagerly, he began to pick his way up the slope, climbing back to the top of the high embankment, leaving the last of his fear on the track below.

Light flickered in between the trees as the train cut across country. Harland spread his hands on the small table, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin. He gazed out at the fields and villages slipping by, and frowned.

Linking the Severn Beach murder with this killing in Oxford had shifted everyone’s view of the case – even Pope had gone quiet with his idiotic theories. Urged on by Blake, there had been an enthusiastic burst of activity, with a wave of checks done to try and turn up anything that would link the two deaths.

‘We’re going to find something,’ the Superintendent had insisted. ‘
We’re
going to put it together and get a conviction.’

It could be quite the feather in Blake’s cap, especially as Thames Valley seemed to be no further along than they were, and Harland suddenly found himself being pushed into a lead role. He wondered how long it would last.

Diagonally opposite him, a smartly dressed woman in her thirties was tapping out a message on her phone. Fine light-brown hair framed a delicate face, and her lips parted slightly as she concentrated. He smiled to himself and turned his head towards the window, ignoring the blur of passing greenery to study her reflection in the glass. Her left hand toyed with a simple gold pendant that glinted as she turned it, and below it her smooth skin glowed in the sunlight. He wondered where she was going, how long she’d be sitting opposite him, what he might say. It couldn’t hurt just to speak to her.

In her hand, the phone began to ring, a thin little tune that was abruptly silenced as she quickly answered the call.

‘Hello?’

In the glass, Harland saw her face melt into a smile, watched her head tilt to one side and her fingers touch her chest.

‘Yeah, I was just thinking about you . . .’ The bashful expression, the inviting tone of voice. She was already taken, and he suddenly hated himself for looking.

He slumped back in his seat and sighed to himself, allowing his eyes to focus on the distant horizon. It was less than an hour to Oxford but the journey seemed to be taking a long time.

Detective Inspector King was an athletic-looking man in his forties. Tall, with dark cropped hair and a quick smile, he’d been waiting to meet Harland off the train. They’d shaken hands warily, but King’s easy manner seemed to cut through all the awkward formalities.

‘It seems we have a common problem,’ he noted as they walked out of the station. ‘Months of dead ends and all the fun associated with turning up nothing. And now the whole thing’s kicking off again.’

‘There’s certainly a lot of interest in it.’

‘Such is life,’ King observed. ‘I just hope I can spare you some of the grief that we’ve been getting.’