Pop Goes the Weasel - страница 4

He strained to hear, hoping against hope that he was not alone. But there was nothing. They had abandoned him. How long would they leave him here? Until they had emptied all his accounts? Until they had got away? The man shuddered, already dreading the prospect of bargaining for his liberty with some junkie or whore. What would he do when he was liberated? What would he say to his family? To the police? He cursed himself bitterly for being so bloody stup-

A creaking floorboard. So he wasn’t alone. Hope flared through him – perhaps now he could find out what they wanted. He craned round to try and engage his attacker, but they were approaching from behind and remained out of view. It suddenly struck him that the bed he was tied to had been pushed out into the middle of the room, as if centre stage at a show. No one could possibly want to sleep with it like that, so why…?

A falling shadow. Before he could react something was passing over his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Some sort of hood. He could feel the soft fabric on his face, the drawstring being pulled taut. Already the man was struggling to breathe, the thick velvet resting over his protesting nostrils. He shook his head furiously this way and that, fighting to create some tiny pocket of breathing space. Any moment he expected the string to be pulled still tighter, but to his surprise nothing happened.

What now? All was silent again, apart from the man’s laboured breathing. It was getting hot inside the hood. Could oxygen get in here? He forced himself to breathe slowly. If he panicked now, he would hyperventilate and then…

Suddenly he flinched, his nerves pulsing wildly. Something cold had come to rest on his thigh. Something hard. Something metal? A knife? Now it was drifting up his leg, towards… The man bucked furiously, tearing his muscles as he wrenched at the cords that held him. He knew now that this was a fight to the death.

He shrieked for all he was worth. But the tape held firm. His bonds wouldn’t yield. And there was no one to hear his screams.

‘Business or pleasure?’

Helen spun round, her heart thumping. Climbing the darkened stairwell to her flat, she had assumed she was alone. Irritation at being surprised mingled with a brief burst of anxiety… but it was only James, framed in the doorway of his flat. He had moved into the flat below her three months ago and being a senior nurse at South Hants Hospital kept unsociable hours.

‘Business,’ Helen lied. ‘You?’

‘Business that I thought was going to become pleasure. But… she just left in a cab.’

‘Pity.’

James shrugged and smiled his crooked smile. He was late thirties, handsome in his scruffy way with a lazy charm that usually worked on junior nurses.

‘No accounting for taste,’ he continued. ‘I thought she liked me but I’ve always been crap at reading signals.’

‘Is that right?’ Helen responded, not believing a word.

‘Anyway, do you fancy company? I’ve got a bottle of wine that’s… tea, I’ve got tea…’ he said, correcting himself.

Up until that point Helen could have been tempted. But the correction irritated her. James was like all the others – he knew she didn’t drink, knew she preferred tea to coffee, knew that she was a killer. Another voyeur staring at the wreckage of her life.

‘Love to,’ she lied again, ‘but I’ve got an armful of files to go through before my next shift.’

James smiled and bowed his submission, but he knew what was going on. And he knew not to push it. He watched with undisguised curiosity as Helen skipped up the steps to her flat. Her front door shut behind her with an air of finality.

The clock read 5 a.m. Nestling on her sofa, Helen took a big swig of tea and fired up her laptop. The first twinges of fatigue were making themselves felt, but before she could sleep, she had work to do. The security on her laptop was elaborate – an impregnable wall surrounding what remained of her private life – and Helen took her time, enjoying the complex process of entering passwords and unlocking digital padlocks.

She opened her file on Robert Stonehill. The young man she’d been shadowing earlier knew nothing of her existence, but she knew all about his. Helen began typing, fleshing out her growing portrait of him, adding the small details of his character and personality that she’d picked up on her latest bout of surveillance. The boy was smart – you could tell that right away. He had a good sense of humour and, though he swore every second word, had a ready wit and a winning smile. He was very good at getting people to do what he wanted them to do. He never queued for a drink at the bar – always managing to get some sidekick to do that for him, whilst he larked about with Davey – the thick-set one who was obviously the leader of the gang.