Eye Contact (35 page)

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘To the waterfall, stupid.’

‘All right, I was only asking.’ Why did his brother have to be so mean all the time? It was no fun with him around; he spoiled everything.

They emerged from the woods and walked down a long, grassy slope. It was quiet here – the village was far behind, and the only sound was the occasional bleating of the sheep on the side of the valley above them.

‘We can cut across here,’ Gary said, pointing towards the broad expanse of reeds and grassy hummocks that stretched out to their left.

Rob hesitated. The ground looked marshy, and he didn’t want to get muddy.

‘Can’t we go round by the path?’ he suggested.

‘What’s the matter?’ Gary sneered at him. ‘
Scared
? Your shoes are already messed up, and this way’s quicker.’

‘I’m
not
scared!’

‘Prove it then.’

Gary turned his back and walked down into the reeds. Frowning, Rob followed him. The ground felt soft at the foot of the slope but he hurried on, determined to keep up. He wasn’t scared of
anything
. Following Gary, he kept his eyes on where he was treading, trying to avoid getting any wetter than he already was. The long tangled grasses were thicker now, hiding the muddy ground completely, and dark water bubbled up between the mounds as his shoes pressed them down.

They were almost halfway across when Gary stumbled and swore. Rob looked up to see his brother, some twenty yards ahead of him, shaking his head in annoyance.

‘Aw, sod it!’ He turned to glance back at Rob. ‘I’ve stepped in a hole or something. The water’s gone right up over my knee.’

‘Ha!’ Rob called over to him. ‘Who’s got wet shoes now?’

‘Shut your face.’

Rob carefully picked his way forward, moving round the side of a large hummock. The ground suddenly felt very strange beneath his feet and as he paused he could feel it moving under him, as though he was walking on a giant trampoline.

‘Rob, come here.’

‘In a minute.’ The moving ground didn’t feel right at all.

‘Come here right now and help pull me out.’

Slowly, he crept forward, placing his feet carefully on the squelching reed bed. He could see Gary clearly now, just a few yards in front of him, bent as though in a crouching position, one leg buried to the thigh in the grass. There was water all around him.

‘Blimey, you’re soaked!’ Rob said, steadying himself on a mossy tuft of reeds.

‘Of course I’m soaked,’ Gary said. ‘You’re such an idiot, Robbie. Now get over here and help me.’

Rob paused.

‘What are you waiting for?’ his brother snapped. ‘Get over here now!’

He looked funny, bent over like that, water swirling up around his leg. He ought to be polite if he wanted help. Maybe even say sorry for being so horrible . . .

‘
Rob!
’

He looked different now, sort of worried and angry at the same time. And he’d said Rob not Robbie . . .

‘You’re nasty to me, Gary.’ He watched his brother staring up at him uncertainly. ‘Maybe you should say sorry to me . . . if you want me to help you.’

There.
He’d said it. His brother might rub his face in the mud later on, but at least he’d said it.

‘Say sorry? To you?!’ Gary’s face went red and he started to say something, then tried to lunge at Rob. There was a loud bubbling as his trapped leg dragged him down and he fell sideways with a dull splash. Water sluiced around him as the ground sagged and he began to struggle, trying to get to his feet.

‘Shit! Oh shit!’ His arms slid into the water as he tried to push himself up and the floating grass gave way under his hands. ‘Help me, Rob, help me!’

And suddenly it wasn’t funny any more. Rob looked around desperately, but there was nothing to hold on to except for the reeds. Grasping a clump tightly, he leaned forward and stretched out his hand towards his floundering brother.

There was a strange sensation in his tummy, like an icy knot of excitement, as he reached out. It was an amazing feeling, to suddenly be so important. Gary was totally dependent on him at this moment, totally in his power. It felt so good . . .

And then, as he stared at his brother, he withdrew his hand a little.

‘Say sorry, Gary.’

‘What?!’

‘Say sorry.’

‘Okay, I’m sorry, whatever you bloody want,’ Gary yelled, arching his body to keep his face out of the water. ‘Now give me your fucking hand.’

He didn’t mean it.

Rob looked down on his tormentor thrashing around in the water, both legs now snared below the tangle of reeds.

He would never mean it.

Rob leaned back to the safety of the large clump of reeds and closed his eyes.

‘Please! I can’t get my legs out!’ Gary was begging now, but he’d be nasty again soon enough. ‘You’ve got to help me, Rob!’

He could get himself out.

Turning away, Rob pulled himself up and edged his way back towards the firmer ground. Behind him, he could hear Gary swearing and yelling, but with every carefully placed footstep, the noise grew a little less. He bit his lip, concentrated on where he was walking, trying to push everything else out of his mind.

He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t doing anything at all.

And then the noise behind him changed to a strange half-screaming, half-sobbing sound. It pierced him, making him pause and look over his shoulder, but the reeds hid Gary from view.

And then it stopped.

An eerie peace fell across the valley, and the only sound was the mournful sigh of the wind. For several long minutes he stood alone, listening, until a cold trembling gripped his body, forcing him to move. Turning away from the marsh, he started back towards the village.

Stephen Jennings looked up from his monitor and watched the clock hands as they traced the last long minutes to lunchtime. It had been a dull morning, but even from his cubicle – tucked away at the very back of the office – he could see that the weather had changed and the sun had come out. Yawning, he pushed a hand through his short, sandy hair and got slowly to his feet. Reaching for the blue anorak draped over the back of his chair, he hesitated, then changed his mind. He wouldn’t need it today.

Downstairs, the reassuring rumble of the city greeted him as he pushed aside the heavy glass door and wandered down the steps onto Throgmorton Street. It was already getting busy with other office workers breaking for an early lunch, and he quickened his pace. He saw so little sunlight at his desk that he was determined to get a place by the window today.

Casa Mia was quite full, but in the end he was lucky. Finding a table where he could sit in the sun, he reserved it by folding his jacket over the chair and went to the counter to order his usual sandwich and drink.

When he returned to the table, there was a padded brown envelope sitting on it.

Frowning, he looked around, trying to identify who might have left it there, but he couldn’t see anyone. Taking his seat, he felt a flush of annoyance – this was
his
table, and he didn’t want to share it with anyone else.

Several minutes passed and people bustled all around, but still nobody came, nobody joined him. Curious now, he took another bite of his sandwich and casually lifted the envelope, feeling its weight in his hand. There was something inside – not too heavy, but he suddenly thought about all the terrorism warnings – what if it was a bomb?

Growing alarmed, he scraped his chair backwards, ready to stand up and move away from the sinister package, when he noticed the photograph.

It had been under the envelope, lying on the table, and when his eyes fell on it his worried expression turned to one of puzzlement.

The photograph was of him.

It was small and blurry, like one of those Polaroid snaps that developed instantly inside the camera, but it was definitely him. There he was, walking along the road, wearing his blue anorak and his new grey trousers . . .

. . . exactly what he was wearing today. Had it been taken on his way into work this morning?

He looked around, half expecting to find one of his colleagues playing a joke, or to see someone filming him for something, but there was nothing. Nobody was paying him any attention. He looked down at the photograph again, wondering who might have taken it, and why?

As he turned it over in his hands, he saw a single word, handwritten in block capitals on the reverse.

Reprieved? Reprieved from what? What was this all about?

He turned his attention back to the brown padded envelope. Glancing around once more, he slid a cautious finger under the sealed flap and opened it. Inside he found a second envelope with a neatly printed label:

Standing up slowly from his table, Stephen gathered up the two envelopes and the photograph, hesitated, then took them over to the man at the counter.

‘Excuse me,’ he asked, ‘but can you tell me where the nearest police station is?’

Harland was late but it didn’t matter. He’d been on compulsory leave ever since he got out of hospital. Now, they’d finally decided to call him in – an eleven o’clock appointment with Superintendent Blake – but he was in so much trouble that there seemed little point in hurrying. The bollocking would keep.

He walked calmly up the steps and into the station, smiling at Firth as he made his way through to the back offices.

‘Good to see you, sir,’ she said, her face bright, interested. ‘Feeling better?’

‘Fine thanks,’ he nodded, lifting a hand to the tender spot at the back of his head. ‘Just a concussion and some bruised ribs.’

‘Well, it’s good to see you back.’

Back, yes. But maybe not for long.

He went upstairs and made his way along the corridor. Should he go and make himself a coffee first? No, might as well get it over with. It was already ten past – he’d kept Blake waiting long enough.

Walking along to the meeting room, he opened the door and went in. The Superintendent was there, but he was surprised to see Mendel and Pope sitting on opposite sides of the table. Had he got the time wrong?

Pope’s expression was aloof, but Blake looked up pleasantly.

‘Ah, there you are, Graham,’ he said, removing his glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief. ‘Fully recovered, I trust?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ Harland replied.

‘Good.’ The Superintendent beckoned him into the room. ‘We may as well begin then.’

Harland pulled out a chair next to Mendel, catching the big man’s eye as he sat down, but it was clear that his friend was in the dark too. What was going on?

‘There have been some . . . developments,’ Blake began, ‘and I thought it would be appropriate to share them with you all.’

He put his glasses back on and, opening the folder in front of him, drew out several large photographs.

‘Last week, a man called Stephen Jennings walked into a police station in London with an envelope.’ He slid the first photograph across the table. Pope had to rise from his seat to see the picture of a plain brown envelope. ‘It was left on the table of a café near Bank, at lunchtime last Wednesday. Inside, there was a second envelope . . .’ He paused, then glanced up at Harland. ‘And that one was addressed to you.’

‘Sir?’ Harland frowned.

Blake slid a second photograph across the table. This one showed the front of an envelope, with a printed label. They leaned forward, reading the words on it.

‘I don’t understand.’ Harland shook his head as he stared at his own name. ‘What’s this all about, sir?’

‘What indeed?’ The Superintendent gazed at him for a moment, sharp eyes peering over the top of his glasses, studying, evaluating. ‘You weren’t here at the time, so we took a look at the contents in your absence . . .’

No, I wasn’t here, was I? I was on ‘leave’ again, pending your bloody review.

‘. . . and we found something rather interesting.’

Blake pushed another photograph towards them, showing a black mobile phone.

‘This phone was inside. It used to belong to a certain Morris Eddings.’

‘Eddings?’ Pope looked up. ‘Isn’t that the name of the guy in Hampshire?’

‘The victim in the West Meon killing,’ Blake nodded. ‘This is the phone we put a watch on, if you remember.’

‘So the envelope came from our killer.’ Mendel whistled. He turned to Harland, then frowned. ‘But it’s addressed to you.’

Harland sat back heavily in his chair.

‘Was there anything else in the envelope?’ he asked, quietly.

A faint smile passed over Blake’s face.

‘As a matter of fact there was,’ he said, sliding another photograph across the table. ‘This short note was with the phone, presumably intended for you.’

Harland stared at the image – a small square of white paper with two lines of text printed in the centre:

Pope read the message, then looked over at the Superintendent.

‘What does it mean?’ he asked. ‘He thinks of all this as some kind of game?’

‘Perhaps,’ Blake mused. He paused for a moment, his hand resting inside the folder, before pulling out a fifth photograph, toying with it as he looked at them. ‘Stephen Jennings brought us something else that was quite significant.’

He pushed the photograph into the middle of the table, waiting for them all to crowd in and look. It was a photo of a photo – a small Polaroid snapshot by the look of it. It showed a sandy haired man in a blue anorak – unposed, as though the man didn’t realise that his picture was being taken.

‘That is a snapshot of Mr Jennings,’ Blake said. ‘He found it with the envelope on the café table.’

They sat for a moment, taking this in.

‘That’d give you the creeps,’ Pope muttered to himself.

‘I think it probably got his attention,’ Blake shrugged. ‘Perhaps that was the idea. However, there is one thing further . . .’