Kitabı oku: «The Victim»
The Victim
G.D. SANDERS
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © G.D. Sanders 2019
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Cover photographs © Shutterstock
G.D. Sanders asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008313227
Version: 2019-04-10
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part One: Junk Mail
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Part Two:: Fighting Back
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Part Three: The Trials
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Part Four: Seeking Revenge
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
You’re careful?
You’re streetwise?
You’re safe?
Are you sure?
Listen …
You’re all vulnerable.
Part One:
1
Did I choose you today? At the ATM as you checked your balance? Was I behind you in the supermarket? If it was you at the checkout, I liked your skirt. If it wasn’t you, was it your friend, a colleague, or maybe somebody you’ve never met? If it wasn’t you, who was it? I certainly chose someone in town today.
If it is you, I shall know before you realize what’s happened. Does that seem complicated? Don’t be deceived. My plan is simple and elegant. I’ve done my research, completed my planning and made my choices. Now all I have to do is wait. Whoever you are, I’m here, waiting for a response.
Will you be the one? Why do I ask? I ask because I don’t know which of my chosen women it will be. I won’t know her until she makes a choice, until she chooses herself. How will she do that? One simple everyday decision is all that’s required. Take that decision, make that choice and you will have offered yourself. Follow it through and you will have let me into your life. You will be blind to the implications of your action, but be in no doubt, I know exactly what I’m doing.
Did I choose you? If I chose you today you wouldn’t be aware of it. If I didn’t choose you today maybe I’ll choose you tomorrow, or the day after, or next week. I choose and I wait. I’m patient. Patience is easy when I’m in control. One day soon, one of my chosen women will return the favour. Perhaps it will be you. I’m out here waiting. Waiting is easy because the outcome is inevitable. One of you will choose me; it’s only a matter of time.
Perhaps it has happened already. Perhaps you’ve chosen me. Is your door locked? Are the windows secured? Don’t bother checking. If you’ve chosen me, I have your key. You haven’t given your key to a stranger? Are you sure? If you’ve chosen me you will have given me a key, invited me into your home – and into your life. You will have made the choice, but I will be in control.
I may bide my time, but don’t be fooled, I’m here waiting. Delaying the moment will prolong my anticipation and bring added pleasure. When the time is right, it will happen. Even then I’ll be patient, enjoying your slow realization that you no longer have a choice, that you must accept your fate. Eventually, you’ll give me everything. You’ll give me the act I desire – you’ll show you want me by giving yourself.
Why am I doing this? It’s not as bad as you might think. All I want is for you to want me. I need to see, hear and feel you giving yourself to me. I want the moment of giving more than the gift itself. But it’s not that simple. There’s more to it than that. To be sure of the giving I must take the gift. Although the moment of giving will be the epitome of my pleasure I shall enjoy the entire dance from comprehension to panic, from panic to horror, then submission and sacrifice. No, not submission, not sacrifice. Your willingness will not be enough. I can be patient. I shall be patient. I will be patient. I shall not take the gift until your desire to give matches my desire for the giving.
2
DI Ed Ogborne wasn’t in the best of moods. She faced a day spent tying up loose ends from the team’s last major case, serial abductions which stretched back a decade. It had been Ed’s first case in Canterbury. They’d caught the perpetrator, but his evil deeds continued to haunt her. Revisiting the investigation wasn’t something she relished, but, as the Senior Investigating Officer, she had to do it.
On her way to work, she picked up a flat white from Deakin’s, hoping it would kick-start the morning. It didn’t. When she arrived at the Police Station, her humour darkened immediately; there was a new addition to the CID Room door. Some jobsworth responsible for signage was clearly out to ruin her day. Above the names of her three colleagues, she was designated Detective Inspector Edina Ogborne.
For most this would have been a non-issue, but Ed was sensitive when it came to her given name. Edina came from her grandmother, but only Ed’s parents and her grandfather had ever used it. From an early age she’d insisted everybody else call her Ed, or maybe Eddie if it were someone she knew intimately. In her mind, Edina was a homely, wholesome name; for herself she wanted something short, matching her sharply cut, blue-black hair.
After several phone calls, she eventually tracked down the man responsible for the increase in her ill humour.
‘The sign on our door needs to be corrected. I’m DI Ed Ogborne, not Edina.’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, the official records show your name as Edina.’
‘That’s as may be, but I’m known as Ed.’
‘We’re obliged to use the official form of your name.’
‘What do I have to do? Change it by deed poll?’
‘If you wish Ed to be your official—’
‘Thank you for your time.’
Ed terminated the call with the feeling she should have been more gracious. Then, with a wry smile, she put aside her increasing annoyance by thinking that the issue of her name was probably already an in-joke among her colleagues.
3
Confident but cautious – that’s me to a T. Can you be truly confident if you’re cautious? Let’s not go there. I know what I mean. I’m confident when I’m in control. I’m confident and in control because I plan. Careful planning is where the caution comes in.
The project has been up and running for three months. I’d chosen Canterbury for the main event. It’s a good-sized town, there’s easy access to the countryside and I could readily lose myself among the tourists. I’d rented a small flat and spent a week or so choosing my women. The first to take the bait wasn’t suitable: married and expecting a baby. How did I miss that? Sloppy work, but no problem. Statistically, it had to happen and, not long after, I got the perfect woman: single, unattached and living alone. She wanted the right things, things that made her vulnerable, and she made the right choice. She offered me access and now the incidentals are all in place; that’s stage 1 completed. Soon, I’ll complete stage 2 and she’ll be mine; we’ll be isolated together in her own home.
When that happens, we’ll be at the crux of the project, stage 3, conversion; leading my chosen woman from her initial panic and horror to a position from where she’ll recognize my true worth. Obviously, successful conversion will depend on how I handle things once we’re alone together. The problem is, I’d no experience of that. Back in Gravesend, the stuck-up graduates at work had all turned me down. I was reduced to clubbing and copping off with the thin girl’s friend. Unfortunately, they were easy, did anything, anytime, anything to please. With them it was open access and willing isolation: no conversion required. The women I want are not like that.
I’d known from the start that I’d need practice, the right experience; gaining that experience became a parallel part of the project. Confident but cautious, I took time to plan and prepare: a cheap phone, a couple of pay-as-you-go SIM cards and a dating app for which I created two fake profiles. To find the right practice woman, I’d need to meet several and check out promising candidates more than once. When it was over, if any of them complained to the police, I didn’t want to be tracked down. Public places have security cameras and my bleached hair is eye-catching. I bought several simple disguises, as many as possible from charity shops. Faded baseball caps and worn beanies were good; lightweight reversible hoodies and a reversible cotton bag were essential.
My plan was to pick less attractive women from the dating app, reckoning that would maximize my hit rate. Location wasn’t important; any small town in Kent, apart from Canterbury, would do. By day, I worked on the main event – my chosen women. The evenings I put aside for my practice runs – nothing fancy, just well planned. I’d let the women choose where and when we met, as long as it was a large bar, in the centre of town, and at a busy time of day.
Using my first fake profile, I went for Jackie from Rainham. She was immediately up for it. I asked where she’d like to meet and we settled on a pub near the station at six-thirty; a time when I knew there’d be plenty of commuters dropping in for a drink after work. I arrived a little late, bought a pint, checked where she was sitting and positioned myself to observe without being seen. After a few minutes I changed my hat and jacket in the Gents and returned to my pint. It was quite touching watching her angular face, expectant, then concerned, checking her phone for messages, and finally crestfallen.
Eventually, she left the pub and I followed her home, taking great care to hang well back and to walk on the opposite pavement. She turned into a street lined with semi-detached bungalows and my heart sank. Sure enough, she lived with a couple of wrinklies, probably her parents. There was no way I’d have time to get rid of neighbours, let alone people in the same house. My practice woman had to live alone and in a spot with nobody close by.
4
The day was coming to an end and the young Detective Constables Jenny Eastham and Nat Borrowdale were the first to leave the CID Room, but not together. Jenny let Nat get well clear of the building before she locked files in her desk drawer and said she was off for an early night. Ed had noticed the atmosphere between Jenny and Nat had changed dramatically. They’d always been competitive but now there was a new edge to their exchanges. At team meetings Nat had stopped trying to catch Jenny’s eye; in fact, he noticeably avoided doing so.
It wasn’t her concern but, from soon after her arrival in Canterbury, Ed had wondered if Nat was the right man for Jenny. Physically, they were a strikingly attractive couple. Nat’s dark hair and sharp features contrasted markedly with Jenny’s fresh face and honey-blonde head. Ed’s doubt came from her perception of them as people. Jenny was bright, open and honest. Nat was more closed, with a suggestion of potential danger behind his eyes.
Ed watched the door close behind Jenny before turning back to the document on her screen. A few minutes later, her second-in-command, Detective Sergeant Mike Potts, stretched, yawned loudly and pushed back his chair before levering his somewhat overweight frame to its feet.
‘D’you fancy a drink before calling it a night?’
At that moment Ed could think of nothing better than a cold glass of white wine, but she was determined to finish the job she’d set herself.
‘Sorry, Mike, I must finish this. I can’t face one more day with these abductions.’
‘Another time then. I’m off, see you tomorrow.’
Ed had just re-gathered her thoughts when the telephone rang. It was DI Saunders, calling from Maidstone.
‘Hi, Brian, what can I do for you?’
‘I’m calling to ask a favour.’
‘Hit me.’
‘We’ve just appointed a new DS.’
‘And?’
‘He’s sharp, but still a bit police school. I want him to start thinking laterally, outside the box. I was wondering if—’
‘Surely you can handle that?’
‘Yes … but I think you’d do a better job.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘If you could spend an hour with him, talk through the way you handled the serial abductions investigation.’
Ed thought for a moment and then decided to reward herself with a trip to Maidstone.
‘Okay … how about tomorrow? I could get over to you by nine.’
‘Give me five minutes. I’ll call you back.’
Twelve minutes later Ed’s phone rang. It was Brian.
‘First thing tomorrow’s not good for him. Is there any chance you could make it after eleven?’
‘Tell him I’ll be there at half past.’
‘Thanks, Ed, I’ll make sure he’s here waiting.’
‘By the way, what’s his name?’
‘It’s Dan, DS Daniel Wheadon. As I said, he’s not been with us long. It will be good for him to have a chat with you.’
‘No problem, but you owe me.’ Ed paused as her memories of previous visits to Maidstone came flooding back. ‘Remember those coffees you used to greet me with? It would be good if Dan did the same.’
‘Consider it done.’
5
DS Daniel Wheadon looked younger than his 26 years. Short sandy hair, tight and wiry against his head, enhanced his boyish features. His clothes hung easily on a slim, lithe body which, as Ed would discover, was more muscular than it first appeared. He’d greeted her with a coffee in each hand and led her to an Interview Room where they sat in chairs arranged at right angles across the corner of the table.
‘Right. Brian said you’d like to hear about our recent case of serial abduction.’
Dan looked a little embarrassed. ‘He said I’d learn a lot from the methods you used to solve the case. It would be a privilege to hear it from the Senior Officer.’
‘It was a team effort. I’ve got a good bunch of colleagues in Canterbury. As for DI Saunders, we didn’t overlap much, but from what I saw of Brian, you’re lucky to be working with him.’
‘We’ve got on well so far.’
‘Keep it that way.’ Ed paused. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ She took a sip and then began. ‘Right, I’ll take you through the investigation from the beginning. Stop me at any time if you have a question.’
Fifty minutes later, coffees drained, they’d finished their chat. Daniel picked up the empty cups. ‘I’ll just get rid of these.’
Ed smiled. ‘I’ll go to the loo and meet you back here.’
As Ed re-entered the corridor, she saw DS Wheadon standing by the Interview Room door. At the sound of her footsteps, he turned and smiled.
‘It’s a bit early, but, if you’re not in a hurry, I thought we might grab some lunch. There’s a pub round the corner.’
‘I was thinking the same thing.’ Ed didn’t add she’d been thinking the same thing ever since Daniel had introduced himself earlier that morning.
The pub was literally around the corner.
‘I’ll go to the bar. What’ll you have?’
‘A sandwich would be good, anything but tuna.’
‘Drink?’
‘Tonic, ice and lemon,’ said Ed, ‘I’m driving back to Canterbury this afternoon.’
Familiar as she was with the drinking habits of old colleagues at the Met, Ed didn’t remind him they were technically on duty, so she was pleased to see Daniel return with her tonic and a mineral water for himself.
‘Cheers.’ Daniel touched his glass against Ed’s. ‘Thanks for making time to talk me through the investigation. I’d already heard about the neat way you narrowed your search for the abductor’s hideout. It’s entered local folklore.’
Ed smiled inwardly, but she wasn’t about to bask in perceived glory. ‘As I said, I’ve got a good team at Canterbury.’ She took a mouthful of tonic. ‘How about you?’
‘I came here from Medway, Chatham actually, to get my promotion to Sergeant. Still settling in, but I’m getting on well with the team – as you said, Brian Saunders is a good boss.’
‘And apart from work?’
‘Rugby. I used to play for Medway, now I’ve transferred to Maidstone. You?’
‘Nothing so energetic. I work out at the gym, but since I outgrew self-defence classes, I prefer to spend my free time in a wine bar or restaurant.’
Daniel’s phone rang, but he ignored it. ‘Favourite food?’
‘I’m open to anything, but if pushed, I’d say Italian. We’re well served in Canterbury. There’s a good family-run trattoria near the County Courts.’
With her eyes on Daniel, Ed stirred her drink, waiting for him to reply.
‘We’re playing a summer friendly at Canterbury next Saturday. If you’re free, and fancy meeting for a meal, I’ll forgo the post-match beers.’
‘I’d like that. Are you sure you’ll be up for it?’
‘Friendlies aren’t particularly gentle, but I’ll make sure I’m intact.’
‘Excellent. I’ll book Gino’s, the Italian, for seven-thirty if that suits.’
‘Sounds good to me. The match will finish late afternoon. I could meet you earlier.’
‘Okay. Here’s my mobile number. Call me when you’re free. Perhaps we could meet for a drink before eating.’
6
By now, counting Jackie from Rainham, I’d worked my way through seventeen lonely women in flat-shares, bedsits or still living at home. Frankly, I was getting anxious. Everything was in place for the main event. In less than a fortnight, I’d have to move in on my chosen woman in Canterbury. Then, just when I thought the practice run would be a nonstarter, I struck lucky; Kay from Dover, the eighteenth woman from the dating app, was up for it.
Kay was great, no need to nudge her at all. When I asked where we should meet, she opted for a pub in the town centre at seven-thirty, but then insisted we swap numbers, in case something came up. I set up a WhatsApp account because it’s encrypted, but she didn’t use it. I was on the train to meet her in Dover, when she texted, asking if we were still on. I replied, sure, see you there, which was exactly what I intended to do. After a drink near the railway station, I arrived at our rendezvous ten minutes late. On my way to the bar, I caught sight of Kay from the corner of my eye. Keeping my back to her, I bought a pint and moved away to a stool from where I could see her, but there was little chance she’d notice me. Anyway, if she did look in my direction, she’d be searching for the guy in my fake profile; she’d not give me a second glance.
Kay from Dover was sitting alone, at a table by the wall. To my surprise, she looked exactly like her photo; face a little chubby with too much make-up. Her clothes, a loose top and knee-length skirt, did nothing to disguise the fact that she was more than a little overweight. Definitely not my type, but what the hell, she was only a practice run. I went to the Gents, reversed my hoodie, turned my cotton bag inside out, swapped my beanie for a baseball cap and went back to my pint.
Fifty minutes after we were due to meet, Kay was looking thoroughly miserable and she showed signs of being about to leave. I drained my glass, slipped out ahead of her and lingered across the road, checking my phone. When Kay left, she walked along the Folkestone Road towards the outskirts of Dover. I hung back and followed on the opposite pavement. When she turned into a side street, I pretended to look at my phone and saw her go into a small block of flats with a For Sale sign by the door. I watched the dark windows of the building until a light went on in a second-floor window, to the right of the entrance. Pocketing my phone, I walked further along the Folkestone Road and then circled back, to stroll past the building and check the agent’s board.
Maxton House
AVAILABLE SOON
SIX ONE-BED FLATS
NEWLY RENOVATED
The next day, I rang the estate agency and – bingo. Renovation was scheduled to start in a month, when the last remaining tenant would have moved out. She might not be my ideal woman, but for this stage of my project, Kay from Dover was perfect. She lived alone and the other flats in her block were empty.
I’ve now been watching Kay carefully for a week, whenever I could get away from Canterbury. She works in a corner shop on the main Folkestone Road. For lunch she takes a sandwich and a bottle of water to a small park, where she sits by herself on a bench facing the gate. Outside the shop, Kay doesn’t speak to anyone. It’s almost too good to be true; her home is isolated and she’s a loner. As soon as I’m sure, I switch to my other pay-as-you-go SIM, get on the dating app and hit her with my second fake profile. Once more, Kay from Dover is up for it and we arrange to meet next Thursday. She’s chosen the same time and the same pub. I could get there early and wait for her to arrive, but, just for the buzz, I’ll follow her into town.
On Thursday, I took the train from Canterbury. As we entered Dover Priory station, my phone buzzed with a text from Kay. I replied, reassuring her our date was still on. It’s early evening as I walk along the Folkestone Road with plenty of time to pass Maxton House and wait, further down the side street, for Kay to leave. I know where she’s going, The Three Horseshoes, so I don’t need to be close as I follow her to the pub. When she goes inside, I walk straight on, to kill ten to fifteen minutes looking in shop windows before returning to our rendezvous.
Kay’s at the same table. I buy a pint and take a stool close to where I sat the last time we were here. Watching her face, I almost feel sorry for her as expectation becomes concern and then the inevitable disappointment. What do the military call it – collateral damage?
I swap my hoodie and baseball cap for a plaid shirt and a balaclava rolled to look like a beanie. After waiting for an hour, Kay leaves the pub and I follow at a distance on the far side of the road. I follow her into her side street, quicken my pace and close in as she approaches Maxton House. No need for subtlety. I pull the balaclava down over my face, tailgate her through the street door, grab the keys from her hand, bundle her up two flights of stairs, turn to the right, open the door and push her into the flat.
She’s screaming, but no one will hear; there’s no one else in the building. I force her onto the bed and sit on her chest to tie her arms to the headboard. She’s still struggling and crying out at the top of her voice. I turn, sit on her knees, and tie her legs to the foot of the bed. When I get up to check the knots at her wrists and ankles, her screaming has turned to pleading, but she’s still struggling against her bonds. The knots are fine; she won’t be able to escape.
The flat’s not warm, but I’m sweating and the blood’s pounding in my head. I must get out for some fresh air. Before leaving, I need a sample of her writing, her mobile, her real name and the keys to the flat. I also need a pee.
In the bathroom, zipping up, I’m aware there’s no longer any sound from Kay. I flush and dash to the bedroom. Kay’s still on her back but she’s silent and no longer struggling. Her eyes are closed. I rock her head from side to side. She doesn’t respond. The silly bitch has fainted. To make her more comfortable I flip off her shoes and let them fall to the floor. Now for the things I need. I look for something with her writing on. No sweat. There’s a diary on a box by the bed. I put it in my pocket. From her bag, on the floor by the entrance, I take her mobile and a bank card. Ready to go, I let myself out, pulling her keys from the lock as I leave.
Outside, I swap the balaclava for a baseball cap, leave the building and circle the block before heading back to the centre of Dover for a pizza. At a corner table, I check her things. The phone’s switched on. I open the dating app. There’s the meet with me, or rather my second fake profile, but no other dates. The same is true of her texts: nothing since our last meeting except the exchange earlier this evening. No complications there. I open her diary. It’s schoolgirl writing, easy to copy. I get her name and signature from the bank card, noticing she’d used her real name on the dating app. After a few practice attempts, copying the writing from the diary until I’m fluent, I write a short note.
Need a break. Sorry for short notice. Back in two weeks. Kayleigh Robson.
All’s going to plan. I pay the bill with cash and step into the street.
It’s still early and I’m not ready to confront Kayleigh just yet. There’s a pub next to the pizzeria. I drink a couple of pints while leafing through her diary. God, I thought my life was bad but hers – no friends, just occasional guys from the dating app. Some have hung around long enough to cop a shag, but none has lasted beyond a third date. What a life. Well, things have changed, Kayleigh Robson, you’re going to have my company for a week or two. I won’t be able to remove my mask, but I hope you come to see my worth and enjoy my company.
On the way back to Maxton House, I push the note under the door of the corner shop. The flat’s still silent. Kayleigh’s spread-eagled on her back just as I left her. In our struggle, her skirt has bunched around her waist. I don’t want her to be embarrassed when she comes round, so I lean over the bed and ease the skirt down to cover her thighs. My fingers brush her skin. It’s cold.
Panicking, I feel her wrist and neck. No pulse – nothing!
What the fuck!
Kayleigh’s dead.
7
It was late afternoon. Ed had just got back to her apartment when her personal mobile buzzed with a message from Daniel. His rugby friendly had finished and he was waiting for her in the bar of a large hotel on the High Street. The County was the last place Ed wanted to meet him, but she didn’t want to raise questions by suggesting he move somewhere else. Instead, she called him back.
‘Hi, Daniel, I’ve just got home and I’m about to take a shower.’
Ed paused for a response, but he remained silent, waiting for her to continue.
‘If you don’t get ideas, you could come here and we’ll have that drink at my place before going out to eat.’
‘If that works for you. Where are you?’
Ed gave him her address and then added, ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’ She was just stepping into the shower when the phone rang again. With a curse, she dashed into her bedroom to answer it.
‘Hi, Ed, I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if you fancied a drink?’
It was her friend Verity Shaw, who edited the local newspaper. ‘Hi, Verity, a drink sounds good but I’ve got something on this evening. How about next Friday?’
‘Next Friday would be good. I’ll look forward to catching up.’
‘Me too. Sorry, but I’ve got to dash. Bye.’
‘Until next week. Bye.’
Back under the shower, Ed wondered if she’d have time to blow-dry her hair.
Daniel arrived with flowers and a sports bag, which he dropped in the hall. Neither of them mentioned it when it was time to leave for the restaurant. The bag remained where Daniel had left it until late Sunday evening when he returned to Maidstone.
8
‘Are you sure it’s above board?’ asked Rachael.
Ostensibly to say goodbye, her boss had looked into the room at the back of the dental practice where Gina Hamilton was collecting her things. The holiday had been a surprise and Rachael was obviously curious.
‘Of course. It’s organized by Tuscan Sun Tours. I was sent their brochure. They’re an ABTA tour company. I’ve even checked the travel agents in the High Street. They’ve got the same brochure with my holiday in it. A week in Orvieto and then Siena.’
Gina closed her locker, anxious to get home. She was looking forward to an early night before starting her holiday. Rachael, nosey as usual, wouldn’t be deflected.
‘What about your ticket?’
‘I rang the tour company to confirm the flight number and check-in times at Gatwick. They had my name on their list for the tour. We’ll be in Siena when they have that horse race, the Palio, and a seat in the stands was included as a special option. I’ve wanted to go ever since a guy at university described seeing it.’
‘Sounds like you’ll have a great time. Be careful of those Italian men.’ Rachael smiled. ‘We’re going to miss you.’
‘It’s only a fortnight. Sorry I wasn’t able to give you more notice.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve lined up a locum.’
Gina bent to pick up her bag and turned to leave but Rachael stood between her and the door.
‘By the way, you never said – how did you win it?’
‘Last month I got one of those circulars through the door: a competition linked to a new singles club. They organize groups for dinner parties, trips to the theatre, weekends away – that sort of thing. I had to write twenty words saying why I would value membership and send my answer with a request for further details. Actually, that reminds me – not that I’m interested – I won the holiday but I still haven’t received details of the club.’
‘It sounds like a great holiday. Lucky you!’ Rachael stepped aside. ‘I’ll not keep you. I expect you want to pack and get an early night. Have a wonderful time.’
‘Thanks. See you in a fortnight.’
Gina took the stairs down to the front entrance and stepped into the street. At the ATM in the High Street, she introduced her card, tapped in her PIN and selected cash with receipt. Gina was impatient. Every time she entered or left the practice, her eyes were drawn to the much-polished brass plate by the door. It still read Metcalffe and Metcalffe, Dental Practice followed by Morris Metcalffe, Rachael Metcalffe and, on a newer strip of brass, Georgina Hamilton. How long before a new plate read Metcalffe, Metcalffe and Hamilton? Bleeping from the ATM interrupted Gina’s thoughts. She retrieved her card, folded the cash into her purse together with the receipt, and doubled back down Guildhall for the 15-minute walk home.
9
I thought it might take a while to get through but there were only three rings before someone answered.
‘Hello, Tuscan Sun Tours. Clare speaking, how may I help you?’
‘I’m calling on behalf of my sister—’
‘I’m sorry, Sir, perhaps we could start with your name. You are Mr …?’
‘Hamilton, Colin Hamilton. I booked a place on your Tuscan tour, which leaves Gatwick tomorrow morning—’
‘Is that Tour TST247, Sir?’
‘Yes, that’s right. A fortnight in Tuscany, a week in Orvieto followed by a week in—’
‘I’m sorry, Sir, are you sure it’s TST247? I have the passenger list on screen but your name doesn’t appear. There’s a G Hamilton but that’s a woman.’
‘Yes, my sister, Georgina Hamilton. I’m calling on her behalf. I wish to cancel her booking.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir, before making a change to a booking we must speak with the principal traveller.’
‘If I’d got my secretary to call, you’d speak with her and cancel the booking.’
‘No, Sir, as I said, I would need to speak directly with the principal traveller, Ms Georgina Hamilton.’
‘And how would you know the woman you were talking to was or wasn’t Georgina Hamilton?’
‘We have security questions.’
‘And they are?’
‘Personal, Sir, and I cannot discuss a client’s personal details with anybody but the client. I must speak directly with Ms Hamilton.’
‘I’m privy to more of my sister’s personal information than you will ever be. She may be the one travelling, but I booked and paid for the holiday as a surprise.’
‘That may be so, Sir, but the holiday is booked under her name and she is the only traveller. I must speak with her if I am to make changes to the booking.’
‘Clare, if we continue talking in circles I shall have to speak with your superior and we don’t want that, do we? I didn’t want to mention more personal information than is necessary but you are forcing my hand. I’m sorry to say Georgie, my sister Ms Georgina Hamilton, has been taken ill and she will not be able to go on the tour. She has asked me to cancel the holiday on her behalf.’
‘We are very sorry to hear that Ms Hamilton is sick, Sir, but as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, our procedures are in place to protect our clients.’
‘I appreciate your position, Clare, but at present my sister is too poorly to come to the telephone. She has been prescribed complete bed rest and must not be disturbed. Please don’t force me to speak with your supervisor. I know what—’
‘I’m sorry, Sir, but we must follow our procedures.’
‘Clare, please let me finish.’
I paused to ensure her silence and then continued to speak firmly but without emotion.
‘I anticipated this might be problematic so I visited my local travel agent and explained my position. They told me that to cancel the booking I would need to return with Georgina’s passport, all the holiday documents and the original payment details. I could do that, but I didn’t make the booking at the agency; I arranged the holiday directly by telephone with your company. So Clare, am I to read the contents of those documents to you or to your superior?’
‘Just a moment, Sir – may I put you on hold while I speak with my manager?’
‘Please do and stress that we should resolve this matter quickly because I need to return to my sister’s bedside.’
There was a click and cheerful classical music filled the earpiece. I was confident I’d get my way. I could always take the documentation to the High Street travel agent but I wanted to keep my local exposure to a minimum. The music stopped and Clare returned to the line.
‘Thank you for holding, Mr Hamilton. In view of the exceptional circumstances we will accept the cancellation provided you can confirm the booking reference and Ms Georgina Hamilton’s address plus details from her passport.’
I began to relay the information. ‘The booking reference is T, S, T, zero, zero, two, one, three, H, A, M, zero, one.’
‘And Ms Hamilton’s address?’
‘Thirty-two, Great Stour Court, Canterbury.’
‘And the postcode, Sir?’
‘It’s CT2 7US.’
For Gina’s passport details I had to pay close attention to the photograph on my mobile. With that completed I thought Tuscan Sun Tours would be satisfied but no, Clare also wanted details of the original payment.
‘Rather old-fashioned,’ I said in a lighter voice, conveying a smile. ‘It was a surprise for my sister. I paid with a postal order. I have a note of the serial number here somewhere …’
‘Thank you, Sir, that won’t be necessary.’ Clare paused and resumed apologetically, ‘I’m afraid that for such a late cancellation we will not be able to offer you a refund.’
‘The money isn’t important. Georgie just wanted you to know that she will not be joining the tour.’
‘Thank you, Sir. I have made a note.’
‘Will that information be available to everybody in your organization? My sister is very unwell. I don’t want her bothered by telephone enquiries about her failure to show up at Gatwick.’
‘That will not happen, Sir. A note that Ms Hamilton has withdrawn from TST247 is now on our company-wide system. Please give your sister our very best wishes for a speedy recovery. If she returns the confirmation and travel pack we’ll send a voucher for 10 per cent off her next booking.’ There was a brief pause before Clare added, ‘Is there anything else I can help you with today, Sir?’
‘No, thank you. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Sir, and thank you for calling Tuscan Sun Tours.’
10
I am feeling good. It’s gone well. This won’t be like Dover. That was a practice run. This is for real and extensively planned. This woman is perfect – elegant, slim, sexy and with long fair hair of the kind that only models and posh girls manage to have. Back in Gravesend, when I was at Scotts, she’d have been one of the smart set, the graduates who looked down on the likes of me. One of those confident professional women I wanted but couldn’t have – the unobtainable.
Things are different now. I’m in control. There’ll be no put-down this time.
I’ve learnt a lot, come a long way, learnt how to handle people, people like the woman at Sun Tours. She’d been resistant, exercising her power – ‘It’s procedure, Sir.’ I soon put her in her place.
It hasn’t always been like this. I wasn’t born with that confidence. It came when I started spending the money. I soon learnt how to get what I wanted. Not only does money make people want your custom, money also gives you the assurance not to take no for an answer. I guess a good education does the same, but that wasn’t on offer when I was young. I’m bright, but I didn’t pass the 11+ exam. My dad said I was a late developer. My mum, wiping her hands on her apron, and turning away to hide the look in her eyes, said she didn’t know where I got it all from. ‘Not y’ dad – or me, that’s for sure,’ she’d added diplomatically.
They loved me, my parents, and I loved them, but none of us was good at showing emotion.
At school I got into computers and wanted my own. I remember the first time I asked for one.
‘Dad, can I have a computer for my birthday?’
‘We can’t afford one, son.’ His eyes, which had flicked up when I spoke, had already returned to his newspaper.
I was desperate. I pleaded. ‘Birthday and Christmas combined?’
No dice. His eyes remained fixed on the sports page.
‘Maybe when I win the pools, lad, but it’ll have to be a big win.’
Dad never did have that big win, at least not while he was alive. He joined Mum in East Hill cemetery some six years after I’d left the Tech to work in electronics at Scotts. I inherited the house, but Dad’s building society account didn’t even stretch to a new computer. I planned to sell up and move to a new-build apartment, but, in the meantime, I carried on working at Scotts. It must have been three months before I went into Dad’s room to clear out his things. I thought there might be something I could sell. There wasn’t, but I did find his pools coupons. He’d been very tidy. They were piled in date order with the one for the week he died on top. The games had been selected and the form completed, ready to post. The season hadn’t finished. I found the current coupon, marked the same lines and posted it in my name as a last throw of the old man’s dice.
I won. Well … to be fair, he won. Dad’s system finally turned up trumps. It was a big win, a very big win. Although I’d ticked the ‘no publicity’ box they tried to persuade me, but there was no way I was going to be photographed with a cheque the size of a billboard. I carried on working for another 18 months. With the cash to give a girl a good time I asked a few of the women at work for a date. There were no takers. The stuck-up graduates had in your dreams, geek written all over their faces. I had to lower my sights.
I started going to football and buying drinks for the guys I’d known at college. I was generous. I fixed their computers and sometimes they’d take me to a club. I took what was on offer but I wanted more, I wanted better. I wanted a bright woman, a woman who’d been to university, a graduate like those who’d turned me down. It was then I had the idea and started working on my plan. I resigned from my job, stopped going to football and gave up clubbing. I told everyone I’d inherited some money and was going on a long trip to Australia.
In fact, I went to London. I spent one night in a small hotel changing my appearance and then rented a cheap bedsit in a run-down part of town. Immediately, I put my plan into action. First, I had to identify women who took my fancy and try to get their names from their credit cards. I trawled ATMs and supermarket checkouts. It was often easier on the tube, but that wouldn’t be any use because I intended to operate in small towns. I soon discovered it wasn’t as difficult as I’d first thought. There was no need to have an exact name because I was patient. I had all the time in the world. I couldn’t believe how many partial names I could confirm using company websites. A pattern developed. I’d follow a target back to her work and, later, back to where she lived. Some of the women even had their names by their doorbells.
As soon as I’d lined up a target who lived alone, I could have broken in, but that wasn’t my plan. If I forced my way in, they’d shout and scream, the neighbours would hear, call the police and I’d be in serious trouble. Even if no one heard, I didn’t want that, I didn’t want rape.
I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted my chosen woman to have time to get to know me. I wanted her to know my worth, to want me, to give herself to me. She would have to invite me into her home. She would have to trust me with a key. There must be no neighbours around. Once I was inside I knew it would take time. She wasn’t going to come round overnight, so she mustn’t be missed at work. It was a problem. It was a whole string of problems. How could I pull it off?
One day I came back from finding targets and trod on the answer as I came through the door from the street. So simple! So elegant! It just required patience and time. With the old man’s pools win sitting in the bank I had plenty of both.
Actually, that’s not completely true. The money was in the bank because that’s where it went when I won it. Most is still there, but when I began developing my plan I knew I couldn’t use cards, cheques or ATMs. I couldn’t afford to leave traces. I didn’t intend to get caught. Dad’s pools system had given me a really big win. I’d never have to work again so, when it was over, I wanted to walk away and live the good life. I got plastic boxes, a good pair of walking shoes, and a mountaineer’s folding shovel. Every two or three weeks I withdrew cash and buried bundles of notes in isolated spots within easy reach of Canterbury, my chosen town, where I’d already rented a flat. I took my time. Finally, with everything in place, I selected my women.
In Canterbury it’s gone just as I knew it would. One of my chosen women made a choice that offered me access. Now I’ve closed the net. This time it will go right. Not like last time. I’ve got to get Dover out of my head. Kayleigh Robson wasn’t my type, not a top choice, but she wasn’t my ultimate goal; Kayleigh was a practice run. My aim was to get experience of conversion, of winning a woman round. For that, Kay from Dover was a necessary component but she wasn’t meant to die. No one was meant to die. I’m not into killing people. What happened was unfortunate, a freak accident, regrettable, but nothing to do with my planning. One moment Kayleigh was fine – well, she was struggling and screaming – but then she fainted. I made her comfortable before going for a pizza and a couple of pints to settle my head. When I got back, she was dead.
The last thing I wanted was to be linked to her death and caught by the police. For a moment or two I panicked – in that situation anyone would panic – but I quickly gained control and planned what to do: destroy her mobile, mine too with both its SIM cards, and scrupulously clean her flat of all traces of my presence. She had no proper cleaning stuff in the flat so I had to go shopping. In a side street, near the centre of town, I found a late-night store and bought what I needed. Back at the flat, I cleaned scrupulously. Working gently, wearing vinyl gloves, I removed Kayleigh’s bonds, turned her on her side and used enough of her concealer to hide the reddening at her wrists and ankles. It wasn’t perfect, but there’s not been a word on the news or in the papers, so it was good enough to fool some hack of a police doctor.
Now all is calm, I’m back in Canterbury and my chosen one is perfect. I need time alone with her, time for her to see beyond the surface, time for her to get to know the real me. Given time, she’ll come to see my true worth. Later, we’ll look back and laugh about the way we met. She’ll thank me for being so clever. We’ll be happy together.
Earlier today, I got some food and drink; it’s here in her fridge. Everything’s in place. I’m relaxed, sitting quietly, waiting for my chosen one to return home.
Ücretsiz ön izlemeyi tamamladınız.
