DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw. Luke Delaney

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СКАЧАТЬ my groin. I have to calm down and control it. It’s difficult, especially with her sitting so close. In the same carriage, only a few seats away. I think she notices my presence, but she seems unconcerned. You wouldn’t be concerned by my presence either. I read my paper, the Guardian.

      Our stop is next. She stands first and moves to the exit door. I move to a spot a metre or so behind her. I can smell her clearly now. The scent is almost overpoweringly beautiful.

      The train stops and we both step on to the platform. This is an underground station, so there’s CCTV everywhere. I make a point of stopping on the platform. I lift my foot on to one of the wooden benches screwed to the wall and make a show of tying my shoelace. If the police check the tapes at all, they’ll be looking for someone following her closely, not a businessman worrying about his shoes. Eventually I follow her, but I’m a long way back, exactly where I want to be.

      She’s out of my sight as I go through the automatic barrier and into the street. I know the route she should take and pray there are no variables to contend with. If she goes into a shop or meets a friend, I may lose her. I’ll pick her up back at her flat, but the follow is important to me tonight. It is how I’ve seen it happening. It’s the beginning of making my desires reality. If any part of the sequence is changed from the way I need it to be then there would be no point continuing.

      It’s about eight forty-five. There’s still some daylight. I move fast along Bush Green, the traffic heavy even at this hour. The Green resembles some kind of stock-car racing circuit and drivers are treating it accordingly.

      I walk past a group of black youths loitering menacingly outside a betting shop. I feel their eyes fall upon my expensive wristwatch. I give them a hard stare and they look away. Respect.

      Unexpectedly she walks out of a small newsagents. I almost trip over her, swerving to avoid her. She’s seen me. Definitely. And now I’m in front of her. I want to be behind her. Following her. This is not good. I can’t stop and wait for her to pass me. I need to do something and do it right away.

      I do the best thing I can think of. I walk to the first bus stop I see and pretend to be waiting for a bus. There are other people at the stop. I only hope the bus doesn’t come. She walks past me. I feel her quickly look in my direction, but she doesn’t seem panicked. She walks on. I wait a few seconds and follow her again.

      I have to be a lot more careful now. She saw me outside the shop, saw me go to the bus stop. If she turns around and sees me again, she may run. She may go into the nearest shop or café. It won’t cause me a long-term problem, but it’ll destroy tonight’s plans.

      I keep a reasonable distance. Ten metres or so. I’d like to be closer, but can’t risk it. I’m sure she can feel my presence, even at this distance. It’s important to me that she can. The Chinese swear that dog meat tastes all the sweeter if the dog is terrified before being butchered. I would have to agree.

      I try and anticipate when she’ll look behind her and if so, which shoulder she’ll look over. It gives me the best chance of avoiding her field of vision. But she doesn’t turn her head. We’re still walking along Bush Green and there are lots of people about, which makes her feel safe.

      She turns left into a side road. Rockley Road. On either side the road is lined with four- and five-storey terraced houses, Georgian or maybe Victorian. London’s demand for housing and cheap hotels has turned the street into a mess of dirty-looking flats and fleapit boarding houses.

      She turns left into a side street. Minford Gardens. This is where she lives. It’s an altogether more pleasant street. Smaller houses with trees lining the pavement, but the houses are still scruffy and split into flats. It’s much, much quieter.

      I begin to walk faster. The excitement is rising to a point of explosion. I want to rage over this woman. I want to tear her to pieces. Rip her open with my nails and teeth. But I won’t. I will show my strength. My control. I’m not like others. I’ve learnt to control the power I have.

      I close the distance between us. Walking ever faster, but so silently the sound of the breeze drowns out any noise. There’s no sun in the road any more. The houses have blocked its fading light. I’m so close. The street lamps begin to flicker.

      I’m close enough to touch her now. I see the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. She feels me. She spins on her heels and looks into the eyes of my mask. Soon she will meet the real me.

      Linda Kotler was thirty-two years old and single. She’d been in a relationship for eight years, but when she pushed for marriage he, unbelievably, got cold feet and ran away. Christ, they’d been living together for six and a half years, but apparently the mere mention of the word ‘marriage’ suddenly made him feel ‘trapped’. Perhaps it was just the excuse he’d been waiting for.

      She was rapidly learning what it was to be single when all your friends are couples. Eight years is a long time with someone. Her friends were his and his hers. They thought of them as a single entity. One personality. When he left her they had been so nice, to the point of being irritating. Her married girlfriends didn’t look compassionate any more, they looked smug. And suddenly she was single. That made her a threat to their own fragile relationships. True, she’d been guilty of a little flirting with her friends’ men, but she needed to feel desired. Now more than ever. Rejection hurts.

      She’d been working late again tonight. Maybe she’d secretly been hoping someone at the office would invite her for a drink. It was a lovely evening for it, but no invitation came. Time to go home to her much-loved prison.

      She checked herself in the mirror of her compact. Her hair was short enough not to have to worry about it. Her skin was as excellent as ever. Years of living with him hadn’t changed that. She was proud of her skin. She dabbed moisturizer on her fingertips and massaged it into her face. A little lipstick was all she needed. You never know who you might meet on the Tube.

      Holborn station wasn’t too busy. She’d long missed the main rush hour. The platform was only sparsely populated compared to the scene two or three hours before. Rush-hour platforms scared her. She’d been brought up in a small town in Devon and the size and speed of London still intimidated her. How could those people stand so close to the edge as the trains flashed past? Was getting home a few minutes earlier really so important? They must have more to go home to than she did.

      She saw him almost as soon as she slid the heavy briefcase off her shoulder. He was standing a couple of metres to her right and slightly behind her. She noticed him because she’d seen him before, about a week ago, maybe less. It happened more than people think. When you travel the same route day in, day out, eventually you start seeing the same people.

      She had thought he was rather attractive. A little older than she usually went for, probably the wrong side of forty, although only just, but he clearly took care of himself. He dressed well, too. She tried to catch a whiff of his cologne, but she didn’t think he was wearing any.

      He didn’t look at her, but she somehow could feel he had noticed her. She couldn’t see properly, but she was pretty certain he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, just a nice wristwatch. An Omega, she thought. So he had money too. That always helped.

      The train came and they ended up in the same carriage. She read the adverts adorning the carriage and sneaked glances at him. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he sneaked the odd look back. Most of the time he read his paper. The Guardian. So he had liberal views on the world, like her.

      She wondered where he would get off the train. She guessed Notting Hill − no, Holland Park suited him better. But he didn’t.

      The СКАЧАТЬ