Eye Contact (24 page)

Harland closed the door and walked over to the chair. Sitting down, he noted an unusual tension in the Superintendent’s posture, the hunch of his shoulders, the right hand resting awkwardly on the edge of the desk. Something wasn’t right.

Damn. Pope must have dropped him in it after all.

‘I believe good communication is key to effective police work,’ Blake began. The words sounded uneasy, as though he’d rehearsed this little speech too many times. ‘So I wanted to have a one-to-one with you, to explain where we are with the Severn Beach case.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Harland nodded. He was wrong. It wasn’t a disciplinary talk – the first in an inexorable series of meetings that would undoubtedly see him suspended. He exhaled silently.
Thank goodness.
But if it wasn’t that, what was it?

‘We’ve invested a lot of time and valuable manpower in this investigation,’ Blake said. ‘I’ve put my faith in you and your team from the beginning, and that faith has been rewarded by some significant breakthroughs. It was our hard work that unearthed the connection to the other killings, and I’m proud of that.’

Harland’s heart sank as he recognised the empty praise that always seemed to precede bad news. Blake was going to pull the plug.

The Superintendent drew a breath and leaned back in his chair, frowning slightly as though considering where to go next.

‘However . . .’ he said carefully. ‘Just as there are times when it’s appropriate for us to lead the investigation, we must recognise that sometimes others are better placed to do so.’

He paused, trying to measure Harland’s reaction, but there was none.

‘I believe that we’ve made a significant contribution to this case, Graham . . . but I think the time has come to let Hampshire have a clear run at it. As far as we know, the most recent murder happened on their patch, so they’re in the driving seat now.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Harland knew it was pointless, but somehow he just had to speak. ‘How can we give this one up to Hampshire? All the bigger-picture stuff – everything – has come from us.’

Blake gazed across the desk at him.

‘Nobody’s disputing that,’ he said, quietly. ‘But we can only take it so far, and things haven’t really moved much in the last couple of weeks.’

‘That’s not true,’ Harland protested. ‘What about the mobile phone?’

‘What mobile phone?’

‘Each body seems to have one thing on them, one thing that doesn’t belong, that was lifted from the previous victim, yes?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘Well . . .’ Harland forced himself to speak slowly, calmly. He couldn’t allow his frustration to get the better of him now. ‘We were talking about that, about how we’re always two steps behind the killer because it’s so hard to spot which murders are linked. About how, if we don’t know what we’re looking for, then we can’t get the other forces to watch for it.’

‘So?’ Blake shrugged.

‘So we’ve been trying to figure out what was taken from the most recent victim, something that we can watch for, something that’s close to the killer
now
.’

He paused, slowing himself down again, taking a breath.

‘Our lecturer had no mobile phone on him when he was found,’ he said. ‘We’ve gone through the reports, checked with his family . . . nobody knows where that phone is.’

Blake rubbed his hand absently across his mouth, his eyes thoughtful for a moment.

‘He definitely had one?’

‘Yes, a basic pay-as-you-go phone,’ Harland nodded. ‘If you’ll authorise it, we can get a watch put on the number, see if it’s used again.’

Surely, even a self-serving bastard like Blake must see the potential in that. If they could track down the phone it might give them a real edge.

Blake leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him.

‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll put a flag on the phone and see if anything comes of it . . .’

Harland felt a brief surge of exultation, but the Superintendent hadn’t finished.

‘In the meantime,’ he continued, ‘I think we need to reassign people. This isn’t our only case, and I have to make the best use of resources.’

And there it was. The neat little manoeuvre that effectively bumped the investigation onto the back burner.

‘With respect, sir,’ Harland argued, ‘things really aren’t that busy just now. By all means take Pope, even Mendel if you have to, but you don’t need to reassign me just yet.’

Blake drew himself up, his mouth showing a faint smile.

‘I agree,’ he said in a quiet, level voice. ‘Perhaps now might be a good opportunity for you to take some time off.’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’ Harland was caught off balance by the suggestion.

‘You heard me.’ Blake stared him down, a flicker of challenge beneath his calm tone. ‘Good communication is the key, and I’ve been listening. Did you really think I was unaware of your little scene with Pope?’

Harland’s head dropped. He’d been played.

‘Take some time off, Graham,’ Blake said calmly. ‘That’s all.’

It was getting dark. He knew he ought to be getting home. His socks were wet and his feet were cold, but it wasn’t too uncomfortable as long as he kept moving. He looked down at his school shoes and scuffed them through some long grass to wipe the mud off them. They weren’t too bad. His mum would put newspaper in them and leave them on the radiator to dry for the morning.

But it wasn’t his shoes that he was worrying about.

He stooped to pick up a broken branch, snapping off a few twigs to make a walking stick. It felt good in his hand as he swished it back and forth, scything it through the grass like a sword. If only he could stay out here for another hour, put it off a little longer. But the street lights were coming on in the village below him, flickering red and faint at first, before settling into a bright orange glow.

It was time.

He sighed and started down the hill.

The dark evening clouds were creeping up over the horizon as he turned into his street, walking with one foot on the pavement and one in the road. He dragged the stick behind him, enjoying the sound as it rattled over the gratings of the gutter drains, then using it to draw a long snaking line in the gravel as he trudged up the driveway. He suddenly felt quite sick.

The back door was open and he went in slowly, trying to scrape the last of the mud from his shoes onto the mat.

‘Out with no coat again, I see.’ His mother breezed into the kitchen and smiled at him as she went over to the sink. He said nothing as she rinsed her hands, then turned to look at him.

‘Are those your school shoes?’ she asked, noticing his muddy feet. ‘Oh Rob, I asked you to wear your old ones . . .’

She knelt in front of him, her thin fingers fumbling with the sodden laces as she loosened the shoes and helped him out of them.

‘How many times have I told you . . .’ She looked up at him, her frown melting away as she caught his expression.

‘Oh, don’t look like that,’ she sighed, a weary smile breaking onto her face. ‘I can always dry them on the radiator. Come here.’

And then she let the shoes drop and gathered him in her arms, holding him close. It felt different now, but it still felt good. She still loved him and he wouldn’t let that change. If he was careful, if he didn’t say anything silly, she would keep loving him. It would be like a really difficult game . . .

‘We’re here, mate.’

Naysmith came to with a start and blinked into uncertain wakefulness. Raising his head from where it had been resting against the rear door, he sat up and nodded to the taxi driver’s deep-set eyes watching him impassively in the rear-view mirror.

‘I must have dropped off,’ he frowned, noting the fare and reaching for his wallet.

‘That’ll be my beautiful smooth driving,’ the cabbie said, without enthusiasm.

Naysmith drew out a couple of notes and passed them through the open hatch in the security glass. Then, stifling a yawn, he gripped his small travel case and opened the cab door. The constant rumble of traffic noise from Park Lane assailed him as soon as he stepped out onto the tarmac, but the early evening air was cool and refreshing after his doze. Straightening his jacket, he glanced up at the soaring tower of the hotel, then extended the handle on his case and trundled it round behind the taxi.

The wide revolving door eased him inside with a whisper and he walked down the three broad steps to the familiar expanse of the foyer, shoes marking out a muted rhythm on the marble flooring. Diffuse lighting bathed the dark, wood-panelled reception desk with a calm aura. Sitting behind it, a raven-haired woman in a smart navy blazer gave him a professional smile as he approached.

‘Robert Naysmith,’ he said, standing his case up on the floor beside him. ‘Three nights. It may have been booked via the CRM conference?’

‘I won’t keep you a moment.’ The receptionist nodded to him, then glanced down at her screen as she tapped in his name. She had a nice voice – soft but confident – and quick, clear eyes that he watched as she studied her computer, enjoying their sparkle as she turned her gaze back to him.

‘Mr Naysmith. It’s good to have you back with us, sir.’

Always that same line.

He was sure it came up on her screen, a prompt for regular visitors with the right sort of privilege card. Other people might have been disappointed by such realisations, but not him. Seeing the wiring under the board – knowing the world for what it really was – filled him with a deep sense of satisfaction.

‘You’re very kind,’ he said.

She handed over the key card.

‘I’ve given you room 1201. The lift is just over there and it will take you to the twelfth floor. If there’s anything we can help you with . . .’

‘I appreciate it, thanks.’

He inclined his head to her slightly, then reached for his case and turned towards the lifts.

The room was quiet and cool – clean lines and carefully chosen colours, all of it framing the generously broad windows. They looked out with an unobstructed view across the treetops of Hyde Park, a swathe of dark green across the grey city. Naysmith sat on the window sill, his forehead resting on the glass as he stared down at the street far below, the silent ebb and flow of the traffic, the tiny figures drifting along the pale pavements.

Little people.

He sighed and eased himself to his feet, turning away from the window, eyes adjusting to the comparative dimness of the room.

First things first.

He lifted his case onto the luggage stand and unzipped it. The edge of the small white envelope protruded from a side pocket, and he stared at it for a moment before pushing it firmly back down.

Out of sight, out of mind.

From the case, he drew out three clean shirts, which he held up and inspected for creases, shaking each one so that the sleeves could move freely. Opening the wardrobe, he retrieved a handful of wooden hangers and made sure to smooth the front of each shirt once it was on the rail. Underwear and socks went on the shelf above, as always. Lastly, his clear plastic ziplock bag of airport-friendly toiletries, which he took through to the large, well-lit bathroom.

Placing his toothbrush in the glass by the sink, he paused to look at himself in the mirror, leaning forward to correct a patch of hair that was sticking up from where his head had been slumped against the inside of the taxi. Restless eyes stared back at him as he studied his own expression, a mask that he alone could see through. Frowning, he walked out of the bathroom and switched off the light.

The sun was sinking below the London skyline now, throwing long shadows across the floor, and he suddenly felt conspicuous, pacing in the stillness, trapped by the silence of the room, which was becoming oppressive. Hesitating for a moment, he checked his watch, then gathered his jacket from where he’d laid it carefully on the bed and opened the door to step out into the quiet, lamplit corridor.

Waiting for the lift, he thought briefly about going to the bar, but it was too early – the unaccompanied women came for their nightcaps and their bar-stool conversations at the end of the evening. There would be time enough for that later if he was so inclined. His hand hovered over the small touch screen, about to tap in 28 – the floor for the restaurant – but he knew that he wasn’t really hungry. He paused, then touched ‘L’ for Lobby. A well-spoken recording murmured ‘Going down . . .’ as he stepped inside for the descent to ground level. A walk, and some air to clear his head, was what he needed now.

The sky seemed darker as he stepped out from under the entrance canopy and passed between the waiting taxis, the idle rattling of their engines hurrying him forward. On a whim he turned right, following the broad pavement along the tree-lined curve of Park Lane towards Marble Arch, but turned into the Mayfair side streets before he had gone far.

Ugly modern architecture quickly gave way to Regency terraces with grand entrance porticos; iron railings freshly glossed and gilded; basement windows that squinted up at the feet of passers-by. Manicured window boxes reflected in the shine of expensive parked cars, while bursts of loud laughter echoed back off the old stone of blue-plaque buildings. He stepped around the cigarette-bound throngs that filled the pavements outside the bars, his thoughts drifting ahead of him like the wisps of their smoke.

Veering off Curzon Street, he cut along a narrow alley, forcing his way through the press of people that shuffled between the pavement cafés. There was a casino round the next corner – he’d visited it a few times, and done well there. Was that where his feet had been taking him? He slowed as he approached it, pausing a few yards away from the entrance to think, allowing the bustle of people to flow around him.

Little people.

Gazing up at the casino sign, he frowned, then started to walk on.

It wouldn’t do. He wanted a real challenge, something to wake him and set his heart racing. A game where the stakes were more than a few digits on a credit card receipt.

At the end of the street, he could see The Ritz – the distinctive arches, the illuminated columns – and the crawl of traffic inching its way along Piccadilly . . .