© 2008

When his girlfriend greeted him at the door dressed only in a T-shirt and thong, then kissed him hard on the mouth without a word before pulling him into her ground-floor bedroom, she was so worked up she didn't even notice that he was wearing gloves. They'd talked on the phone five minutes earlier and in that conversation he'd explained in intimate detail what he planned to do with her when he got to her place. So it was with a hint of regret that, as her hands headed southwards, he kicked shut the bedroom door, slipped the knife from the concealed sheath beneath his cheap suit jacket, and drove it silently between her ribs and directly into her heart. In the short time he'd known her, the girl had proved to be adept and enthusiastic in bed, and it would have been a pleasant distraction to have had sex with her one last time. But that would have meant leaving behind incriminating evidence, and he was a professional who didn't let the desire for cheap gratification get in the way of business.

He clasped her close to him while she died. The single blow had been enough, as he knew it would be, having used this method of killing on several occasions in the past. The girl made barely a sound. There was the surprised, pained gasp as the blade went in, of course, which was accompanied by a single juddering spasm, not unlike an orgasm, as her muscles tensed for a final time and her fingernails dug into the material of his suit jacket, but it didn't last long and was quickly followed by the long, slow release of breath as she relaxed in his arms.

He counted to ten in his head, then, still holding on to her, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket with his knife hand and produced a handkerchief. The blade made a strange hissing sound as it was slowly withdrawn, and he used a well-practised combination of both hands to wipe it clean, before replacing it in its sheath. When this was done, he placed the body on the carpet next to the unmade bed and briefly admired his handiwork. Because she'd died so quickly, there was very little blood, and she looked remarkably peaceful lying there with her eyes closed. It was the quietest he'd seen her. In life, she'd been quite a talker.

Leaning down, he tried to push her under the bed, but there wasn't enough of a gap between the bottom of the frame and the floor, so he squeezed her in as far as she would go, then covered the rest of the body with one end of the duvet cover. It was only a tidying-up gesture. Concealing the body would do nothing to mask the smell that would soon be coming from it, but he wasn't overly concerned about that. He doubted if she'd be discovered for a while. She lived alone in her tiny ground-floor flat, and had few friends in the city, which had always been one of her complaints about it. He knew she spoke to her mother back home once a week but that was always on a Sunday, so it would be another six days before the mother had a reason to worry about her daughter, and several days more, at least, before anyone did anything about it.

No one had ever seen him with her. Their few clandestine meetings had always been in this flat. As far as he knew, she hadn't told anyone about him either, although even if she had it would make no difference. He'd given her a false name and background, one of four different identities he periodically used in order always to keep one step ahead of the authorities. His DNA would be in this room, of course, but then so would the DNA of those few friends the girl had, and since they were mainly illegals, it would be difficult to trace them.

He saw the girl's pink Nokia mobile phone on the bedside table. He picked it up and put it in his pocket to be disposed of later, then took a last look round. Seeing nothing else that might incriminate him, he left the bedroom, shutting the door behind him, leaving the girl in her makeshift tomb.

As he stepped out of the front door and into the bright sunlight, he looked at his watch.

It was time.

The first thing Andrea Devern noticed when she stepped out of her Mercedes C-Class Cabriolet was that there were no lights on in the house. It was 8.45 p.m. on a breezy Tuesday night in mid-September, and she had only a minute of normality left in her life.

Clicking on the Mercedes' central locking, she walked the five yards to her front gate, glancing both ways along the quiet residential street because as a Londoner born and bred Andrea was never complacent about the potential for street crime, even in an area as upmarket as Hampstead. Criminals moved around these days. They no longer kept to their own patches. They gravitated towards the money, and on Andrea's tree-lined avenue of grand three-storey townhouses, barely spitting distance from the Heath, there was plenty of that.

But there was nothing out of place tonight, unless you counted the fact that her house was in darkness. Andrea tried to remember if Pat had told her that he had arrangements, or whether he'd taken Emma off somewhere. She'd had a stressful day dealing with the management team of one of the five health spas she and her business partner owned. They'd taken it over a year ago and it had underperformed ever since. Now they were going to have to make redundancies, something that Andrea never liked doing, and it was up to her to decide who was for the push. She'd been mulling over who was going to have to go all the way back from Bedfordshire, and still she couldn't decide. By rights, it should be the manager. He was paid well over the odds, and since he was the one who'd presided over the mess the spa was now in, it appealed to Andrea's sense of justice to give him the boot; but with no one to replace him, that was looking less and less viable. Better the devil you know, and all that.

Andrea decided to worry about it tomorrow. For now, she needed a long, slow glass of Sancerre and a relaxing cigarette. Not the healthiest of options, but a woman needs some pleasures in life, especially when she worked as hard as she did.

She pressed the card key against the pressure pad on the security system and stepped through the gap as the gate slid open smoothly. As always when she entered her front garden and left the outside world behind her, she experienced a familiar sense of relief and pleasure. Sheltered by a high brick wall, the garden was a riot of colour, courtesy of the eight hundred quid a month she paid to the gardening company responsible for making it look like something from the front cover of a magazine.

She breathed in the thick, heady smell of jasmine and honeysuckle, relaxing already as she opened the front door and deactivated the alarm.

Then the phone rang.

It was her mobile. She reached into her limited edition Fendi Spy Bag and fished it out. The ringtone was 'I Will Survive', Gloria Gaynor's classic anthem of feminine defiance. It was only later that she realized how much grim irony there was in this.

The screen said 'Anonymous Call', and though she never liked answering her phone to anyone she couldn't identify, she also knew that it was possible it was business, even at this hour, and Andrea never said no to business, particularly when the market was as tough as it was at the moment. As she stepped into her empty hallway she put the phone to her ear and said, 'Hello, Andrea Devern.'