Kate watched Sean struggling to stay awake in his chair. A bottle of Stella Artois rested on his chest. She watched it rise and fall gently. If he fell asleep properly he would spill the beer. The cold liquid would wake him up quickly enough. She hoped it would happen. It would make her laugh, and Sean hadn’t made her laugh much lately.
He was losing the battle to keep his eyes open. Hearing the presenter mention a murder in South London, Kate shook Sean by the shoulder. ‘I think you’re on.’
‘Uh?’
‘You’re on,’ she repeated. ‘It’s your case next.’
Sean sat upright. He rubbed his face hard and shook his head. ‘Thanks.’
He watched the presenter outline the case. It was supposed to be informative only, the media helping the police to catch a killer, but the presenter’s background gave him away. He couldn’t help using gutter-press terminology. He tried to look shocked when describing the murder as ‘gruesome’. He dramatically paused as he informed the nation how Daniel had been stabbed ‘seventy-seven times’. The tabloid words flowed from his mouth: ‘Bloody …’ ‘Horrific …’ ‘Mutilated …’ He had them all. In truth, there was only one reason the programme existed. Ratings. The British public liked nothing better than watching other people’s suffering from a safe distance.
The camera switched to Sally. She looked a little nervous, but you couldn’t tell unless you knew her like Sean did. She was as professional as he knew she’d be. Informative, accurate, businesslike, but compassionate too.
She gave the description of Hellier as Sean had asked. He felt satisfaction at the thought of Hellier watching and listening to himself being described on national TV, but he had to remember that Hellier was like a poisonous snake. He was dangerous. It was important to keep a firm grip of his neck or risk being bitten.
The presenter tried to ambush Sally. He asked her if someone had already been arrested. If the police already had a ‘prime suspect’. Sally had been expecting it. Her answer sounded prepared. She told him a number of people had been helping police with the inquiry, but that they were still trying to trace the whereabouts of Steven Paramore and Jonnie Dempsey. The presenter backed off, closing the piece with the usual attempt at a heartfelt appeal for assistance. He read out the two telephone numbers that also appeared at the bottom of the screen. One for the studio and one for the incident room back in Peckham. Then he moved on to the next tragedy of the night.
17
I’ve seen her before. A couple of times. On both occasions I followed her home. She lives in Shepherd’s Bush, in a flat on the first floor of an old mansion block. The building has seen better days, by the look of it, but I suppose it’s not too bad for the area.
She works in a small advertising company in Holborn. She must be thirty or thereabouts. Reasonably attractive, but nothing special. Five foot five and strong, from the look of it, although not very fit. She does have very nice short brown hair though. The cut is unusually short for a woman.
But what really attracted me to her, what really caught my eye, was her skin. She has the most beautiful skin. Very lightly tanned. Faultless. It shone.
Did she know it set her apart? Was that why she kept her hair short, so nothing would distract from her skin? Probably.
But it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. She worked too hard. Always last out of the office. Trying to impress her boss or maybe just trying to impress herself.
I read an article in the Evening Standard the other day. Apparently young London workers are judging success by the lack of free time a person has. The most successful are judged to be those who have no time for themselves.
Pitiful. How could anyone really question my right to do as I please with you? You have no value any more. You know that yourselves. Pointless little animals, living pointless little lives. Only I can make you worth something.
When I’ve watched her in the past, she hasn’t left her office until after eight. Tonight was no different.
I thought about visiting her in the office. Leave a nasty surprise for her boss in the morning. Perhaps cut her breasts off, Jack the Ripper style, and leave them on his desk with a resignation note I’d make her write, just for the fun of it.
No. I couldn’t guarantee the level of control I’d need. I couldn’t risk being interrupted. A cleaner might walk in on me, or a fucking security guard. I would be able to deal with them easily, but the visit would be spoilt. So I decided to follow her home. Again.
She has an easy journey. Nine bearable stops along the Central Line to Shepherd’s Bush. The simple route makes it easier to follow her. I could wait for her to come home − I know where she lives from my previous follows − but I enjoy the thrill of the chase. It helps me build towards my climax. Allows the excitement to grow. It courses through my veins and arteries.
My blood carries the excitement around my body like oxygen. My heart beats so hard and fast I’m sure people can see my chest pounding, hear my heart thumping like a Zulu drum. But at the same time I know they can’t. It seeps into my muscles. Makes them contract and tense. Makes me feel strong. Invincible. I’m becoming alive again. I can see more. Hear more. Smell more.
I feel the twitching in my groin. I have to calm down and control it. It’s difficult, especially with her sitting so close. In the same carriage, only a few seats away. I think she notices my presence, but she seems unconcerned. You wouldn’t be concerned by my presence either. I read my paper, the Guardian.
Our stop is next. She stands first and moves to the exit door. I move to a spot a metre or so behind her. I can smell her clearly now. The scent is almost overpoweringly beautiful.
The train stops and we both step on to the platform. This is an underground station, so there’s CCTV everywhere. I make a point of stopping on the platform. I lift my foot on to one of the wooden benches screwed to the wall and make a show of tying my shoelace. If the police check the tapes at all, they’ll be looking for someone following her closely, not a businessman worrying about his shoes. Eventually I follow her, but I’m a long way back, exactly where I want to be.
She’s out of my sight as I go through the automatic barrier and into the street. I know the route she should take and pray there are no variables to contend with. If she goes into a shop or meets a friend, I may lose her. I’ll pick her up back at her flat, but the follow is important to me tonight. It is how I’ve seen it happening. It’s the beginning of making my desires reality. If any part of the sequence is changed from the way I need it to be then there would be no point continuing.
It’s about eight forty-five. There’s still some daylight. I move fast along Bush Green, the traffic heavy even at this hour. The Green resembles some kind of stock-car racing circuit and drivers are treating it accordingly.
I walk past a group of black youths loitering menacingly outside a betting shop. I feel their eyes fall upon my expensive wristwatch. I give them a hard stare and they look away. Respect.
Unexpectedly she walks out of a small newsagents. I almost trip over her, swerving to avoid her. She’s seen me. Definitely. And now I’m in front of her. I want to be behind her. Following her. This is not good. I can’t stop and wait for her to pass me. I need to do something and do it right away.
I do the best thing I can think of. I walk to the first bus stop I see and pretend to be waiting for a bus. There are other people at the stop. I only hope the bus doesn’t come. She walks past me. I feel her quickly look in my direction, but she doesn’t seem panicked. She walks on. I wait a few seconds and follow her again.
I have to be a lot more careful now. She saw me outside the shop, saw me go to