By nine thirty, he was yawning. He put the book down on the kitchen table, and opened the back door. Standing in the garden, he lit a final cigarette and exhaled smoke that drifted up into the evening sky, his eyes following the wisps as they spiralled and faded.

He thought back to the dead vagrant, a man not much older than himself, skin leathered by the sun and years of drinking. The matted black hair, shot through with grey, eye sockets deep and dark, Salvation Army clothing stained and wrinkled. He wondered if anyone else was thinking of the man, if anyone wanted to know about him, if anyone cared. He wondered if the man himself even cared – had he lost his grip on life, or had he deliberately let go?

He stubbed out his cigarette against the brick wall, tiny orange sparks cascading to the ground, then went inside. Bolting the kitchen door behind him, he yawned and made his way through to the living room. Out of habit, he moved towards the sofa bed, then paused, remembering. Straightening up, he turned and walked back to the doorway, where he stood for a while, thinking. Then, head bowed, he switched off the light and closed the door.

In the kitchen, he retrieved the book from the table and took it to the foot of the stairs. Everything down here was in darkness now – the only illumination came from the upper landing, yellow light spilling down from above to pool around his feet. He placed his free hand on the banister and sighed. Then, yawning and weary, he went upstairs to bed.

47

Sunday, 16 September

It wasn’t the sort of hotel he usually stayed in. Places like this catered for the basic business traveller – tables for one in the nondescript restaurant, a cheerless bar with intermittent Wi-Fi, and a discreetly billed porn channel in the room if you were lucky. Bland and sterile accommodation for bland and sterile people; an experience that was utterly impersonal . . .

. . . and that was what made it so suitable. The few staff that were there took no interest in him – he was just another lonely figure walking along the featureless, carpeted corridors, and tomorrow he’d be forgotten. Just as he wanted to be.

At least the room would be clean. Naysmith put his shoulder against the door to keep it open as he lifted the holdall in from the hallway, then found the light switch. He turned to fasten the security chain behind him, pausing as he went to slide it home, staring thoughtfully at the shiny metal chain in his hand. He stooped to the holdall, unzipping it and drawing out a pair of black gloves, which he pulled on. Opening the door slightly, he carefully rubbed clean the outer and inner handles with the edge of his sleeve, then repeated the process on the light switch. Replacing the chain, he turned to look at the room, with its many smooth and polished surfaces. He would keep his gloves on.

A vague sense of unease had followed him all day – perhaps just frustration that his previous game had ended in failure – but he’d been cautious from the moment he checked in. The reservation had been made using a real name and address, but neither was his. Feigning an embarrassing but unspecified problem with his credit card, he’d managed to pay for the room in cash, and even had the presence of mind to use his own pen when signing the registration form. The hardest part was avoiding the CCTV cameras, but he’d noted their positions on a previous visit and moved carefully to avoid his face being recorded. The weary-looking youth at the reception desk had barely looked up at him throughout the exchange.

He lugged the holdall onto the bed, then walked over to the window and pulled the long net curtain aside to peer into the evening gloom. The room looked out across the mile-long rectangle of water that was once the tidal basin for the Royal Victoria Dock. Heavy iron cranes, embalmed in weatherproof grey paint, lined the quayside – giant pieces of engineering, now little more than period decor for the waterfront apartment blocks. Leaning forward, he could see the angular suspension bridge, slung between two box-like elevator towers, that took pedestrians from one side of the water to the other.

Over there somewhere, beyond those waterfront apartments, was the quiet little street where his victim lived. He was probably no more than a mile away right now. Naysmith idly wondered what he was doing, then dismissed the thought.

The victim was not important. His preparation was.

He turned and surveyed the small room. A narrow double bed, a long desk with a TV at one end and a kettle at the other, and a single armchair. It was unlikely that he would sleep and he resolved not to use the bed. With so many different people passing through them, hotels were littered with DNA, making it easier for him to avoid discovery. He wasn’t about to let his guard down, though. One bit of carelessness – one mistake – might be all it took to finish things.

Unzipping the holdall, he began checking through the contents. As usual, everything was new and unremarkable. He was already wearing anonymous, supermarket clothing, and had a second spare set in the bag. Underneath it, nestled on top of the black refuse sacks, was a white envelope that rattled as he moved it. He frowned and drew it out of the bag. Opening the flap, he tipped the mobile phone and its disconnected battery out into his hand. Absently, he snapped the battery into place so that it would make no noise, then put it down on the bed with the envelope. Lastly, beneath a packet of clean-up wipes, his gloved fingers touched a thin, towel-wrapped bundle. He slipped the towel aside to reveal the gleaming tip of a long kitchen knife.

It wasn’t his first choice – he knew from experience that knives could be messy to use – but this challenge was being played out in a big city, where stabbings were commonplace.

When in Rome . . .

Smiling, he covered the blade with the towel. Everything was ready.

He glanced at his disposable watch. It was just after 7 p.m. Tomorrow morning the target would leave home just before eight in order to catch the 8.19 train from West Silverton. Naysmith had initially considered going to the man’s house, but the fact that he clearly lived with someone made that approach problematic. In the end, he’d decided to wait for his victim near the station. It was a better location than Evelyn Road – somewhat isolated, without shops or houses in the immediate vicinity, and there were plenty of ways out of the area when he was done. It wasn’t that far away, but he would set off before 7 a.m. to ensure he was positioned in good time. He picked up the mobile phone, toying with it, turning it in his gloved fingers. Absently, he pushed the power button, but the screen did not light up.

A bang from just outside the room jerked him to his feet. He stuffed the phone back inside the envelope and dropped both into the holdall as he moved silently round the bed and over towards the door. Drunken laughter echoed along the corridor as he peered out through the spyhole, his shoulders relaxing a little when he saw the distorted shape of a balding, middle-aged man fumbling with the door opposite.

Nothing to worry about.

He waited until the man disappeared, then turned away from the door and sighed. It would all be worth it in that instant when he held the target’s life in his hands. When he burned away the failure of the last game.

He looked at his watch again – just under twelve hours to kill. Yawning, he eased himself down into the chair and reached out a gloved hand for the TV remote control.

48

Monday, 17 September

Something was wrong. Harland stirred and buried his face in the pillow, sinking into the welcoming softness of the bed. But something was wrong. Slowly the sound filtered through to him, a smouldering ember in his consciousness that suddenly took flame.