Turning back to the window, he caught sight of the rueful smile on his reflection, but his eye was drawn to an indistinct female form passing just behind him. He watched her slow, then move to sit down on a seat nearby. He could see her better now – a businesswoman in her forties, maybe five foot seven, though two inches of that must have been in her heels. She wore a charcoal blazer suit that suggested a pleasing figure, rectangular glasses and blonde hair in a bob that framed a patient face.

He subtly turned his body, angling himself more towards her while watching her reflection. Then, as she glanced in his direction, he casually leaned forward to put his glass down, accidentally catching her eye and allowing an instinctive smile to flicker across his face.

She smiled back.

‘It’s a beautiful view.’ Her tone was relaxed and she spoke with a soft, low voice.

Naysmith let his eyes dwell on hers for a moment.

‘It is.’ He turned his gaze out to the city lights. ‘You get a different perspective on things up here.’

‘We’re looking west?’ she asked, leaning forward to peer down through the glass.

‘Yes,’ Naysmith nodded. ‘That’s Knightsbridge over there.’

He glanced at her as she stared out across the glittering vista. No wedding ring. On another person, he might have equated that with less challenge, but there was something about her – an air of sadness perhaps, or insecurity – that he found interesting.

‘London looks so peaceful from up here,’ she murmured, settling back into her chair.

‘It’s an illusion,’ he said softly, ‘but a pleasant one.’

She studied him for a moment, then nodded to herself and looked down.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she sighed.

Loneliness.

It was the loneliness in her voice that fired his senses. Blood in the water, to the seasoned sexual predator.

‘Tough day?’ An open question, to let her talk.

‘Does it show?’ she asked.

He smiled and shrugged slightly.

‘Let’s just say it makes two of us.’

She gazed at him over her drink.

‘You too, huh?’

He sat back in his seat, choosing his words carefully.

‘Sometimes, no matter how hard you try . . .’ He hesitated, pressing his palms together, tapping his fingertips against his chin as he pictured Lennox standing inches away from him in the lift. ‘. . . things don’t go the way you want them to.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She seemed so genuine in that moment that Naysmith was suddenly struck by her concern, however misplaced it might be. He looked down and shook his head.

‘Don’t be,’ he told her quietly. ‘Really.’

He knew how it was meant to unfold from here; the gentle fencing, the coy responses, another drink.

But he suddenly knew that his heart just wasn’t in it.

‘Actually, I’m sorry.’ He straightened and got slowly to his feet. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’

She looked up at him, the light glinting on her glasses, her expression confused. She really was quite attractive, and he didn’t want her to misunderstand.

‘I wish we’d met on a different evening,’ he whispered truthfully. ‘But tonight . . . I’m just not good company.’

He gave her a last smile, then turned away and walked down the steps to the lift.

36

Thursday, 30 August

He was awake, the last tendrils of sleep still curling around him as he felt the comfort of the pillow against his face. Sighing softly, Harland lay for a moment, eyes closed, enjoying that blissful uncertainty on the edge of wakefulness, relaxing as though about to drift back into nothing.

Somehow, this was different. Through his eyelids, he became vaguely aware of something that bothered him. It seemed bright, much brighter than usual . . .

His eyes flickered open, and just as suddenly snapped shut, his mind recoiling from the sunlight that glared in at him. Mind rushing, he fumbled blindly for his watch, then screwed up his eyes as he tried to make out the figures.

Ten past eight! Shit!

He had slept in, badly! Jerking up into a sitting position, he swung his legs over the edge of the sofa bed, his heels thudding down onto the carpet. Bracing himself, standing up, swaying unsteadily. How could he have slept so late? Everything was wrong . . .

And then he remembered, understood, and crumpled down to sit, hunched over, his eyes closed against the morning light as he waited for his pulse to slow down again.

There would be no work for him this morning. Blake’s suggestion that he take some time off had been non-negotiable, and with nothing to get out of bed for in the past few days, he’d found himself staying up later and later into the night, hiding from the painful descent into sleep. It was those transitions that he feared the most, when he felt most vulnerable: that point in the darkness when he had to surrender all distraction and wait for oblivion to find him, and the other evil moment, when the peace of sleep was torn away and bad memories were rubbed in the wound.

Swearing softly, he cupped his face in his hands for a moment, then slowly sat up straight. He daren’t lie down again now. Eyes red, he shakily got to his feet and stumbled through to the kitchen in search of coffee. Pausing at the doorway, listening to the overpowering silence of the house, he knew that he had to get out today – no more excuses.

He drove without purpose, just letting the flow of traffic take him where it would. Passing through Bedminster, he gazed out at the colourless buildings, everything dull despite the sunlight. People with bleak expressions stared at him from the pavements, and nobody cared.

He hadn’t been suspended – not yet anyway – but things were going badly. The Superintendent had wanted him to deliver a quick win, but the Severn Beach case had unravelled into a serial murder investigation that would taint everyone associated with it. And then, on top of it all, there was his encounter with Pope. It was difficult to say just how bad things were, but they would certainly get worse. Blake disliked a fuss, so he wouldn’t be obvious or hasty. But he would remember, and sooner or later he would respond with vengeful subtlety. And when it came, Harland would know that he had brought it all on himself.

Pope. If only he hadn’t lost it with fucking Pope.

He sighed.

The city slid away behind him but the road stretched on, winding between the reservoirs and out into the undulating countryside beyond. The white sun glared off the tarmac as he coasted up another hill, the gentle rise and fall of the road strangely hypnotic.

He found himself skirting the edge of Bristol Airport, the endless perimeter fence following the road as it swept round in a long arc. A plane passed low overhead, very close against the bright blue sky, seeming to move slowly despite the roar of its engines. He leaned forward, staring up at it through the windscreen, wishing that he could be up there, flying somewhere far away . . . anywhere but here.

And then, suddenly, he knew where he was going.

As he followed the road down through Redhill, he could feel the cold knot in his stomach, that sense of grim inevitability chilling him despite the warmth of the sunlight through the windows. It had looked very different, that night all those months ago. He hadn’t passed this way since.

The houses gave way to open countryside as the road levelled out and he drove on, forcing himself to concentrate on the landmarks – the hotel, the bend at the bottom of the hill, the little bridge, the lone dead tree – familiar images that he’d buried deep but could never forget. It wasn’t far now, along here somewhere . . . The road was climbing again, cutting across the fields towards the crest of a long hill. There was a little lane on the right . . .

. . . and then the blind summit, where the road swept round to the right, with a junction on the left. This was the place, the turning signposted to Burrington. The very name chilled him, though he’d never been there, had no idea what it was like.