Across the road, the paved footpath climbed steadily, following the trees and bushes that lined the top of the railway cutting. Passing under the shadow of the foliage, Naysmith walked along slowly, admiring the white painted town houses with their brightly coloured doors and their beautiful little gardens. Everything neat, everything pleasing. There was a sense of peace here that touched him, infusing him with calm, clear purpose.

He was in control. He was ready.

On his right, the town houses gave way to an endless flint wall, eight foot high and topped with old ivy and trailing branches. Sunlight dappled the footpath here and there through the leafy canopy above, but still there was nobody to be seen. On his left, a train clattered along the cutting somewhere below, leaving a still deeper silence in its wake. Ahead of him there was a heavy gate set deep into the wall, and he could see that the path beyond it started to drop away.

The sense of anticipation was palpable now. It was a powerful feeling, moving quietly through the world, so deadly but so anonymous.

And then there was movement.

Coming up into view over the rise, a figure was walking briskly towards him. It was an older man, perhaps in his fifties, wearing a beige shirt and one of the worst jackets that Naysmith had ever seen. He walked with a determined gait, head up and staring straight ahead. For a moment, it seemed as though he would pass without a glance but then, just a few yards before they drew level, the man shot him a brief, disapproving look and their eyes met.

He would be the one.

And now, as the gap between them closed, Naysmith studied the man, taking in each detail of his appearance and locking it into his memory.

He was about five foot ten, a little overweight, but not too much for his age, with a sparse covering of light brown hair above a slightly puffy face. The awful jacket was brown, and he wore dark trousers over the sort of shoes that are bought for comfort rather than style.

Another step and they would be past each other . . .

Large, prominent ears, downturned mouth, and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses framing small, hooded eyes . . .

And then, with a final look of disdain, the man had passed on his way, his pace never slowing.

Naysmith walked steadily on, listening to the footsteps receding behind him, picturing the man in his mind, until the sounds faded away. After a few moments, he slowed, then halted to check his watch. It was a couple of minutes before three and his target’s twenty-four hours’ grace had begun.

He closed his eyes and smiled to himself – it was exhilarating to be in the game again.

It was an eerily familiar image. The long, curving beach, the swathe of coarse grass, the shingle strip and the glistening grey mud. He remembered that same bleak sky and the dark water of the Severn whipped along by the relentless wind.

But the woman on the screen was different. Similar – mousy hair, white T-shirt, blue shorts – but not the same. As she jogged towards the camera, it was clear that her build was a little too athletic, her face a little too broad. Naysmith smiled as he noticed they’d given the actress no earphones – no MP3 player. But of course – they didn’t know she’d worn one.

‘Vicky went running along this path most mornings.’

A gaunt man in his forties, presumably the investigating officer, was pictured by the sea wall. He wore a dark coat, and spoke in quiet, measured tones, but there was something about his eyes . . .

‘We believe she may have been attacked up here and then dragged down onto the beach where her body was later found.’

The camera panned across to the beach, and Naysmith felt another shiver of recognition as he remembered those difficult last moments as she’d struggled against him before finally lying still.

The reconstruction ended with a view of the Second Severn Crossing, curving away against a dark sky. The police officer appeared once more.

‘Were you near Severn Beach on Friday the twenty-fifth or Saturday the twenty-sixth of May? Did you see anyone acting suspiciously? Or did you notice any unfamiliar people or cars in the area?’

Naysmith stared intently at the face on the screen, taking in the slightly greying hair, the lean frame, the angular features. And those haunted eyes.

‘Rob?’ Kim called through from the kitchen, disturbing his thoughts. ‘I’m making coffee. Do you want one?’

‘Please,’ he replied, turning back to the TV.

The detective was now seated in a studio. A caption below him read: DI Harland. Avon and Somerset Constabulary.

‘A tragic and brutal murder,’ the presenter was saying. ‘Do the police think that Vicky was killed by someone who lived locally? Maybe even someone she knew?’

‘We’re pursuing several different lines of enquiry.’ Harland remained impassive. ‘But we believe her killer may also have had ties to the Oxford area.’

Oxford.

Naysmith sank back into his chair as the significance of the remark hit him. He pictured that single house key, his gloved fingers carefully removing it from one key fob and later adding it to another. The little ripples, drifting out across the water below the bridge . . .

And now the police had finally connected two of the killings. It had taken a long time – he’d almost begun to think that his work would never be recognised – but now that was changing, and the game would surely be more interesting as a result.

He picked up the remote control and switched the channel as Kim came through with his coffee. This DI Harland had been smart enough to find the link. As he reached over to take his cup, Naysmith found himself wondering what the man was like, what he knew, and what lay behind that haunted expression.

18

Thursday, 28 June

Harland awoke. There was an indistinct voice talking nearby. Raising his head slowly from the warm pillow, he sat up blearily, rubbed his eyes open and looked across the darkened living room. On the TV, a woman continued to read the news. He had fallen asleep without setting the timer again.

Sighing, he sank back into the sofa bed, but he was awake now. After a long moment, he pushed himself up and rolled his feet down onto the cold floor. Stooping to pick up his wristwatch, he checked the time: 5.40 a.m. Damn. Yawning, he got unsteadily to his feet and trudged upstairs to the bathroom.

When the kettle finally boiled, he poured water into the filter and inhaled the aroma of the coffee, letting it stir his senses. Leaning forward, the sleeves of his bathrobe on the kitchen counter, he closed his eyes and yawned again. So fucking tired – no matter how much sleep he got, it didn’t seem to touch the weariness inside him, the bottomless pit that sucked the strength from him. Sometimes he felt as though the only energy he had was when he got angry . . .

He picked up his cup and carried it over to the other side of the kitchen. A firm wrench slid the top bolt back and he opened the door to the chill of the small garden. Shivering, his bare feet flinching from the cold step, he fumbled a cigarette into his mouth and carefully lit it. There was a light touch of rain, so he stood inside the doorway, gazing out at the grey morning light on the ivy that covered next door’s wall. There suddenly seemed so much of it, as though it was slowly consuming the brickwork of both houses. Alice used to cut it back, keep it in check – now it would engulf everything.

He frowned and took a last drag, exhaling slowly. He didn’t want those thoughts, not just now. Stubbing the cigarette out into a butt-filled flowerpot, he turned and went inside, shutting the door behind him against the cold. Thankfully, he had work to do.

Mendel was mashing a tea bag against the side of his mug. He looked up and smiled as Harland walked into the station kitchen.