Читать книгу: «The Victim», страница 2
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.
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