Stalker. Lisa Stone

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      He found a larger plaster and a sterile pad. ‘Give us your finger then, and we’ll use this to stop the bleeding.’

      Derek held out his hand and Paul steadied it as he pressed the sterile pad on the wound. Gentler than he would have imagined, Derek felt the cool tips of Paul’s fingers, the touch of his clammy palm, and the warmth of his body nearby. He was standing close, far too close. Soothed and excited, Derek breathed in the bittersweet seductive mustiness of the teenage boy, a heady mixture of testosterone, perspiration and deodorant. How long since he’d been this close to a young man? He knew exactly, and knew he mustn’t go there again.

      He took a step back. Paul removed the sterile pad from the wound and then expertly peeled the plaster from its packet and pressed it gently into place.

      ‘Very professional,’ Derek said, his voice unsteady.

      ‘Should be; Mum’s a nurse. We’re all up to speed on first aid.’

      ‘Are you?’ Derek asked, feigning ignorance of Paul’s home life. ‘That’s good. Well done. You said “we”?’

      ‘Yes, Mum, Dad, my brother, sister and me,’ Paul clarified, closing the first-aid box. ‘Although they’re my parents’ favourites. I’m the runt of the litter.’ He threw the discarded packets and soiled dressing into the bin and then looked at Derek, waiting for his instructions. ‘What next?’

      ‘Oh, yes. Perhaps you could finish connecting that camera for me? You know what to do.’ His usual instructive manner had gone. The intimacy of a minute ago lingered and Derek was reluctant to let it go. He could identify with not fitting in. Although he didn’t have any siblings he was sure if he had he would have been his mother’s least favourite: the runt.

      ‘So you’re happy with the way your apprenticeship is going?’ he asked awkwardly as Paul climbed the ladder.

      ‘Yes. Why?’ He glanced down at him.

      ‘Well, I haven’t asked you before and it’s important you’re happy. The apprenticeship scheme will ask you for feedback.’

      He shrugged. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

      ‘So no complaints?’

      ‘Apart from the abysmal pay, you mean?’

      ‘You’re on apprenticeship rates.’ He waited until Paul had finished clipping the wire he was working on. ‘And your home life? No worries there?’

      ‘None that you need to be concerned about,’ Paul returned.

      ‘And all’s going well with your girlfriend?’ Derek persisted. He knew Paul had a steady girlfriend because he disappeared most lunchtimes saying he was going to phone her.

      ‘I guess. Although last Saturday was a bit of a bummer after the stabbing at the club the Friday before.’

      ‘You go to U-Beat nightclub?’ Derek asked, taken aback.

      ‘Sometimes. The police were inside asking about the stabbing. It seems there might be a connection with some other crimes.’

      ‘They said that?’ He struggled to hide his shock. Thank goodness Paul was up the ladder and concentrating on wiring the camera.

      ‘Yes. They were trying to find out more about Kev, the bouncer who was stabbed. We didn’t know him.’

      ‘And the person who did it? Do they have any leads?’

      ‘Don’t think so. It seems he might have got away on a motorbike. Hey, you’ve got a bike, haven’t you?’

      ‘Yes, but I only take it out on Sundays,’ Derek said, a little too quickly.

      Paul glanced at him, tightened the last screw, then came down the ladder and waited. ‘What next?’

      Derek shook his head. ‘Nothing. Clear up and go home.’

      ‘You sure? It’s only one-thirty.’

      ‘Yes. I’ll be here a while talking Mr and Mrs Osman through accessing their system online; they don’t appear very computer savvy. Then I’m going home to catch up on some paperwork. I’ll see you at eight-thirty sharp in the morning.’

      ‘OK. Thanks.’ Paul quickly swept up the last of their mess and left.

      Because Mr and Mrs Osman couldn’t leave the shop unattended, they came through to the stockroom separately to learn how to access their CCTV online, so it was three o’clock before Derek arrived home. His mother was exactly where he expected to find her – in the living room, watching television. She wasn’t surprised to hear him come in early, for his wasn’t a nine-to-five job.

      ‘I’ve put your clean laundry on your bed,’ she called. ‘Your room could do with a clean, but that’s your job.’

      ‘I know, I will,’ he said, bristling. She treated him like a little boy.

      In the kitchen Derek put his lunchbox in the sink for washing later, poured himself a glass of water and went upstairs to his room where he would stay until she called him for dinner. It niggled him that she went into his room at all. At his age – forty-one – it should have been his domain, and she could have left his laundry in the airing cupboard, but he didn’t complain. He always turned the monitors off when he was out and even if she switched them on, which he doubted she would, she wouldn’t get any further than the screen savers, as the system was heavily password protected. It was the fact she had entered his territory at all that he bitterly resented, but he felt powerless to say anything.

      With his bedroom door bolted, Derek sat in his office chair at his workstation, took a sip of water and powered up the monitors. As soon as they sprang into life he began searching local newspapers for updates on the stabbing at U-Beat nightclub. What Paul had said was worrying him.

      The police were appealing for witnesses, the articles said, and anyone with any information should contact the number shown below. They were especially interested in talking to a motorbike rider seen leaving the area shortly after the incident, but there were no more details.

      Derek opened the folder where he’d downloaded the footage from the CCTV camera at the front of the nightclub. When he’d watched in real time – as the attack had happened – he’d been concentrating on the actual action; now he scanned it for anything he might have missed. On the very edge of the screen he spotted a figure in black running from the alleyway just after the attack, but there was no motorbike in view.

      He rewound to an hour before the incident and trawled through the footage, again concentrating on what was going on at the edges of the camera. His patience was eventually rewarded and he now saw what the police had presumably seen – what looked like the same figure entering the alley thirty minutes before the attack, but not detailed enough to make an identification, and no sign of a motorbike. He watched the footage for a few minutes more, then satisfied he had the same information as the police, closed the file.

      Moving his chair to the centre of the workstation, Derek made a brief scan of all the live streams on all four screens, making sure nothing untoward was going on that might require his attention in the families he monitored. He zoomed in on a couple of images, then stopped at the Williams’ house, zoomed in and engaged the microphone СКАЧАТЬ