Scowling, he took one last look around the room – not rushing, forcing himself to take the time and double-check everything.

‘Do you think we could do that?’

Enough. Naysmith pressed the 1 key and listened. He waited until the voice started to speak again, then immediately hung up.

‘Fuck you,’ he muttered, switching off the handset and slipping it into his bag. Moving to the door, he reached for the handle, but hesitated. There was no point making it easy for them. He put down the holdall and stalked into the bathroom. Crouching, he pushed the plugs into the bath and the basin, blocked the overflows with toilet tissue and turned both sets of taps fully on. A flooded room would make the forensics job that much tougher.

Retrieving the bag, he checked the spyhole once more, then took a deep breath and opened the door. Outside, the corridor was empty. Pulling his door so it shut quietly behind him, Naysmith turned away from the lifts and made his way quickly towards the illuminated fire exit sign at the opposite end of the corridor. Pushing through the double set of doors, he emerged into a windowless stairwell and paused, listening for any movement below.

Nothing.

He took the stairs several steps at a time, dropping swiftly down the short flights. Four floors to go . . . now three . . . two . . . his movements fluid as he twisted on each landing to leap down the next set of stairs.

He bent his knees to deaden the sound as his feet hit the ground floor, then straightened up slowly, straining to hear if anyone was nearby. In front of him was a wooden door with a small window set into it. Tensing himself in readiness, he slid up against the wall and slowly leaned over to peer through the glass.

The foyer was partially visible – a collection of brightly upholstered easy chairs and leaflet-strewn coffee tables – but he couldn’t see anyone through there.

Taking a deep breath, he placed his hands carefully on the door and gently pushed, ready to stop if it made any sound. As it opened, he leaned across, eyes alert, and eased himself partly round it.

There was nobody at the front desk, and his eyes swept urgently across the space.

There!

The receptionist was standing with his back to him, over by the full-height windows at the front, watching something happening in the street outside.

A rhythmic flicker of blue light touched the building across the road.

Shit! They were here!

His breathing quickened. He had to find another way out, right now.

Eyes fixed on the receptionist, he edged round the door, easing it quietly closed behind him. Then, moving silently, he slipped along the wall and round the corner into the restaurant. The room was dimly lit, rows of tables and chairs arranged ready for breakfast. He moved swiftly, weaving between them as he made for the opposite end of the room, the thicker carpet muffling his careful footsteps. Tall smoked-glass windows looked out onto a paved walkway that ran along the side of the building and there, at the far end, a green fire exit sign shone out brightly.

He reached the door and paused. It would be alarmed, but his chances would be better outside, and at least he’d be away from the front of the building. There was no other way.

Breathing quickly, he put his gloves on the release bar and pushed the door open. Somewhere in the building behind him a distant buzzer sound went off, but he ignored it and stepped out into the night. Cold air enveloped him as he paused for a moment, alone in the alley, listening for any sound of pursuit. Then, lugging the holdall, he walked along the pavement towards the back of the hotel.

Don’t rush, just walk, nice and easy.

He was between two tall buildings, with the street behind him and the water in front. As he approached the corner, a glow of red flared in the shadows. Someone was standing there, smoking.

He couldn’t turn around now – it would look odd, guilty. Besides, the front of the hotel could be crawling with police by now. He had to keep calm, keep walking.

The distance between them closed and he could see the silhouette of a man in a long coat, pale smoke drifting out into the light of the street lamps.

Don’t make eye contact. Just look straight ahead, look at the lights across the water . . .

There was nowhere to go but forward. He just had to hold his nerve – walk straight past and he’d be out of there, free. Just the briefest glance across as he drew level with the figure . . .

A lean man, features wreathed in shadow, but the head had turned, following his steps.

It didn’t mean anything.

All he had to do was keep on walking. The corner was only a few yards away.

As he passed by, he sensed movement behind him and a voice spoke out.

‘Excuse me . . .’

It was like a physical blow. That voice – that same voice – from the phone moments earlier. Everything inside him cried out, but he fought it down, mastered it. He wouldn’t run. Just ignore the howling storm of adrenalin and keep walking, calmly, slowly. He mustn’t run. Almost at the corner now . . .

‘Hey, you!’ It was a shout this time.

Naysmith ran.

50

Monday, 17 September

It had seemed like such a promising lead. He’d not been able to round up much manpower – he would never have got it authorised anyway – but he’d subconsciously built up his hopes on the long drive down. They were going to find something, he knew it. A solid lead now could bump the case back onto the radar again, give them a fighting chance.

And then, when he’d arrived on the scene, it had all started to come apart. He saw straight away that the online map was wrong, or at least out of date. There were two hotels on the site, not one. With only a few uniformed officers, no clear indication on where to begin searching and no suspect, he suddenly found himself wondering if he’d made a fatal mistake. Unless he turned up something good, like the missing mobile phone, he was just making it easy for Blake to get rid of him. He thought of the Superintendent’s humourless smile – ‘So sorry, Graham, but you’ve left me no other option . . .’ – and imagined Pope’s smug satisfaction when the word got out . . . it was infuriating. But there was nothing he could do about it – things had taken on a momentum of their own now and, win or lose, there was no option but to play it through to the end.

And so, standing there in the cold glow of the street lights, he’d decided to try one last, desperate gamble.

There had been no voice at the other end of the line, but he wasn’t really expecting the killer to talk back to him. Someone so clever, and so careful, wasn’t likely to reveal himself that easily. And yet, as Harland heard that first numeric tone in response to his own words, he felt sure that he was speaking to the murderer. If it was just someone who’d picked up a stolen mobile, they’d probably try to bluff their way through the conversation, or hang up immediately. But there was a dreadful curiosity in the silence at the other end – and surely that could only come from the killer.

Straining to hear better, he pressed the phone hard against his ear as he walked into a narrow alleyway at the side of the buildings, away from the distracting chatter of the other officers.

Don’t rush things . . . try to empathise with the subject . . .

All the things they’d told him about speaking to unstable people came back to him now, and he tried to infuse his voice with a steady, reasonable tone as he undertook his one-sided conversation.

Whatever happens, just don’t let him hang up . . .

‘Still there?’

Another numeric tone. Harland breathed a sigh of relief.

‘That’s good,’ he said, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘I know that the circumstances are difficult, but I really would like to understand more about what you do . . .’