Eye Contact (5 page)

Crouching down, with a torch gripped between his knees, he worked quickly to tape the plates securely over his own, ensuring a perfect fit. Once he was satisfied, he stowed the torch and took the white envelope in his hand, feeling the contents between his fingers before carefully slipping it into his pocket.

Moments later, his car rejoined the main road and he accelerated away, the route now very familiar to him. This would be his fourth visit to Severn Beach – he’d made two preparatory trips in the weeks since he’d tracked her there – and it would be his last.

He cruised past Warminster and drove on into the night, enjoying the long, clear road as it snaked towards him out of the darkness. Bath was asleep, a succession of empty streets and glaring traffic lights, soon left behind as he pressed on towards the orange glow of Bristol on the horizon. There was a little more traffic here, but it was quiet enough as he swept down towards the city centre and round to Hotwells. The Clifton Bridge hung like a strip of fairy lights above the gorge, and he found himself leaning forward to gaze up as he passed beneath it.

Not far now . . .

Avonmouth was a ghost town, and he was suddenly conscious of being alone – conspicuously alone – on the silent roads. This close to his destination, a local police car would present too great a risk. He would have no choice but to postpone and drive on. The thought irked him as he came to the roundabout by the towering old mill and turned off onto the broad, straight length of St Andrews Road. He was watchful now, checking each side turning as it slipped by, glancing up at the mirror to see anyone behind him, but there was nobody else. He was alone.

A little before Severn Beach, there was a turning for a single-track access road that led down towards the water – he’d found it on his second visit and it seemed the ideal place. He drove a short distance along it, then switched off the headlights and looked behind him for other cars.

Nothing.

He waited a few moments, allowing his eyes to grow used to the darkness, then cautiously eased the car forward along the narrow tarmac. It was difficult without lights, especially negotiating the low bridge where the road passed under the railway line. The shore side of the tracks was a dead end, hidden from the main road by the embankment – probably the local lovers’ lane but now, just after 3 a.m., it was empty. He turned the car so that it was facing out, ready to leave, then switched off the engine and got out.

A chill wind whipped along the shoreline, rippling the tall reeds like waves. Naysmith stretched and yawned, savouring the bite of the cold after the soporific warmth of the car journey. The Second Severn Crossing dominated the night horizon, a ribbon of motorway lights cast out across the miles of dark water, its reflection glittering on the river below. He shivered and went back to the car, opening the boot and drawing out the refuse sack containing his new clothes. After one last check to ensure he had everything, he locked the car and set off into the wind, trudging along the swathe of rough grass that divided the railway from the beach.

He made his way on into the darkness until he came to a solitary tree and the large group of bushes gathered about it. Pausing for a moment, he looked around, then carried the plastic sack into the midst of the bushes and laid it carefully on the ground. Beside it, he placed the white envelope – an incongruous pale square in the gloom. Removing the keys and cash from his pocket, he took a new refuse sack and began methodically undressing, placing each item of clothing into the sack. It was cold, but it would be folly to rush – he had to make sure that everything was accounted for. At last, naked, he gathered the top of the sack and twisted it shut, before opening the other bag and taking out his anonymous new clothes.

A few minutes later, shivering but dressed, he pulled his gloves on before pushing the black sack deep into the bushes. Shoving his keys and cash into empty pockets, he stared down at the envelope for a moment, then scooped it up and made his way out onto the beach.

The grass gave way to small stones that crunched underfoot as he drew closer to the shore, an endless strip of shingle and debris that marked the uncertain boundary between the land and the estuary. The first houses were visible now, less than a mile ahead, the outermost arm of the village stretching out towards him.

He walked on as the sky began to brighten, the pre-dawn light giving form to dark, heavy clouds. He hoped it might rain, but not until later. Not until afterwards. Water washed away a multitude of sins.

There was one more thing to attend to. Picking his way along the beach, he began to study the larger stones that lay here and there among the pebbles.

Something round and heavy that would fit well in the hand . . .

He stooped to examine several river-smoothed rocks before he found what he was looking for. It felt right as he picked it up, testing the weight and swinging it experimentally. It also had the beauty of coming from this shoreline – he could drop it anywhere and even if it was discovered, it would only reinforce the idea that the whole thing was opportunistic rather than planned. Nodding to himself, he slipped the stone into one of his large anorak pockets and walked on towards the Severn bridges.

As the ground fell away before him, he came to the start of the sea wall that protected the low-lying houses beyond. He walked along the beach below it, keeping close to shield himself from the worst of the wind, and to stay out of sight. Finding a sheltered spot, he sat down on the stepped concrete at the base of the wall and checked his cheap watch. All he had to do now was wait.

She appeared at roughly 6.45 a.m. – slightly earlier than he had expected – a solitary figure, running at an easy pace out of her street and turning to follow the coastal path that led along the top of the beach. From his vantage point, Naysmith studied her, taking in the white T-shirt, the blue shorts. Her hair was tied back, bouncing in time with her stride. Absently, he wondered how fast she could run.

Standing up, he shook his arms and legs to loosen them, then set off at a leisurely pace after the receding figure. There was no need to hurry. Let her enjoy her run . . . he would meet her on her way back.

The early-morning light was breaking through the furthest clouds, dappling the distant reaches of the coastline and spinning thin strips of glistening silver across the water of the estuary. He gazed out at the towering wind turbines, visible even though they must be some five miles away, their immense blades gently turning in the seemingly permanent gale that blew along this part of the Severn. Walking on, his eye was drawn to the industrial buildings that punctuated the gently curving coastline towards Avonmouth, the tall chimneys pouring out long, slow streams of smoke. It was a bleak place, but there was an odd sort of beauty in it as well . . .

Fifteen minutes later, he caught sight of her again, a still distant figure, jogging steadily back towards him. She would be fatigued now, breathing fast to get the oxygen to her weary muscles. He knew how it felt to be tired after exercise, the body working in an almost automatic way, the mind already thinking of home and a relaxing bath.

He carefully checked his walk, making all his movements deliberately slow and lazy, despite being wound tight with readiness. Everything about him must be ordinary, unthreatening, irrelevant to the approaching runner. He glanced over his shoulder but there was no one else around.

Green light.

His gloved right hand slipped gently into the anorak pocket and drew out the heavy, round stone, concealing it by letting his arm hang close to his side. He began to adjust his course so that she would be on his right – the side nearest the water – when they met.

She was less than a hundred yards away now and he allowed himself the brief, intoxicating thought of choice. He could change things, right now, at the last moment. He could allow her to live. He felt the authority in that choice, the ultimate level of control. In this instant, he wielded the power of life and death and the thought electrified him.

Fifty yards to go. He noticed that she was wearing earphones, the thin wire dancing loosely as it ran down to her pocket . . .

Twenty yards. Satisfied that she would pass on his right, he lowered his head, muscles taut, as she drew level . . .

. . . and he exploded, swinging the stone fiercely up into her stomach, lending all his might to the blow that smashed the air from her lungs and bent her over, staggering to her knees.

She had no breath to shout.

Immediately, he was there, bundling her off the path, down a grassy slope towards the beach, moving her as fast and as far as he could before she understood what was happening, before she fought, before she became deadweight.

And then, as she began to panic, he tried to swing the stone round, to connect with the side of her head, to end it quickly, but his gloved fingers lost their purchase and he felt his weapon slip away, thudding into the shingle nearby.

Damnation!

It was too late to stop – he was committed now. As she desperately tried to get air, he allowed his weight to knock her to the ground, dropping onto her to deflate her lungs still further as his hands took hold of her throat.

She made terrible little choking sounds, the worst he had ever heard, and he flinched as her struggling became desperate, turning his head away to avoid her flailing arms.

And to avoid seeing her.

It became unbearable, and he started to feel nausea rising through his adrenalin. Ten seconds . . . fifteen . . .
for fuck’s sake!
And then, mercifully, she began to fail, the movements becoming intermittent, weaker, until finally she sagged beneath him and was still.

He realised he was shaking.

Taking a deep breath, he forced his fingers to relax, releasing their grip on her. Straightening up, he anxiously glanced back over his shoulder towards the path and the houses beyond, but he was alone. Utterly alone.

And now he began to sense the onset of exhilaration, the terrible rush building inside, but he pushed it away, closed his mind to it.

Not yet.

He scrambled quickly to his feet and looked around, his thoughts racing through the mental checklist that he had prepared for this moment. Gloves and clothing were intact, keys still in his pocket . . . He’d dropped the stone coming down the slope but he’d left nothing else behind.

Move . . .

She was lying in a crumpled heap, terribly exposed on the open beach, but the tall reeds were just a short distance away. Grunting with determination, he grabbed her ankles and started to drag her towards the water. Moving down across the swathe of small stones was quite easy, but it became harder as he went from shingle to mud. He battled on, straining to pull her as his new trainers sank into the grey ooze, but after a final burst of effort he was able to drop to his knees, the body safely nestled between two large clumps of reeds.

After taking a moment to calm his breathing, he rolled her over onto her back, finding her eyes thankfully closed.

He squatted down again, noting that her T-shirt had ridden up as he’d dragged her, exposing her pale stomach and the base of her bra. Gently, he tugged the edge of her T-shirt down to cover her again, to allow her a little dignity. Then he rocked back on his heels, studying her, looking for something small, something that wouldn’t be missed. His eyes settled on her earphones, now a tangled mess after being trailed through the mud. He followed the wire back to her pocket and pulled. Carefully, he revealed the music player she’d been listening to. Deeper in her pocket, he discovered her keys.

Taking them in his hand, he considered for a moment, then reached into his jacket and fished out the white envelope. Opening it, he withdrew a small key, which he placed on her stomach. Disconnecting the earphones, he slid her MP3 player into the envelope, which he stuffed back into his jacket, zipping the pocket shut. Then, hindered by his gloves, he picked up the key and carefully started working it onto her key chain. It took a moment, but finally it was done, and he carefully returned the keys to their place in the pocket of her shorts.

He glanced back up the beach, then lifted her wrist to look at the sports watch that was still clocking up the seconds since she’d started her run:
37 minutes and counting . . .
There was no reason to give the police any help with the time of death, so he removed the watch and deliberately smashed it against a nearby rock, repeatedly hitting it until it was in pieces.

For a moment, he gazed down at her, checking to make sure she wasn’t still breathing. Frowning, he crouched beside the body and rolled it over, pressing her face down into the wet mud.

Better to be sure.

When he was satisfied, he reached over to lift the tangled earphones, balling them into a muddy mass and standing up to throw them out into the water. Then, with one final glance down at the body, he picked his way back onto the shingle before turning and walking away along the shore.

The excitement he’d been fighting suddenly welled up inside and now, as he gazed out at the broad, bleak horizon, with its low clouds and distant smokestacks, he finally let it wash over him – a rapture of such sickening intensity that he almost wanted to cry out. The power, the utterly addictive thrill of power, so profound he could scarcely comprehend it. He shook with the cold, dark joy of his own supremacy. There was
nothing
he couldn’t do.

He saw nobody as he walked back, but the houses were far behind him and the weather was closing in again – it wasn’t a morning for the beach. He found the plastic bag just where he’d left it and, screened by the bushes, he began to strip off his clothes. Everything, from his shoes to his watch, was removed and placed in a second refuse sack before he retrieved his own clothes and started to dress.

Ten minutes later, he was back at the car. From habit, he had double-bagged everything he’d worn on the beach, but in the event he needn’t have worried. There had been no blood, and he hadn’t needed to clean himself up. He placed the bulging refuse sack in the boot and climbed into the car as the first spots of rain began to appear on the windscreen.