Stalkers

struggles, he didn’t think he’d necessarily have wanted them to take a different course of action. He hadn’t known the girl well enough to like her, much less care about her, but he wouldn’t have wished such a fate upon her — that was never his intention, and he needed to keep reassuring himself of that; it had never been his plan to … murder (yes, like it or not, that was the word). And yet, loath to admit it though he was, it suited his purpose. Now there was absolutely no danger she would talk — you could never say that about someone you’d paid off or simply threatened.

Oh, it was hideous; there was no denying it — her eyes frozen in a lovely face turned purple and disfigured; her body, once young and supple, now cold, broken, stiffening, being wrapped in soulless plastic, bound with fishing twine like some demonic Christmas package — but it was for the best. Louise Jennings was now gone. It was over for her. But for him, life must go on.

Somewhere inside a distant voice berated him for attempting to rationalise it in this way, but he wanted to shout the voice down as if it wasn’t his own (good Christ, was he going mad?). He hadn’t sought this outcome, he reiterated to himself, but in all honesty how else could his freedom be guaranteed? Alright, there was no doubt it hadn’t been too clever getting himself into this mess in the first place, but you couldn’t roll back time … and Jesus you didn’t want to do or say anything that might antagonise men like this. No Sir, not in any shape or form. You had to approve of men like this. He almost cackled, he was so frightened, and again he wondered if shock had driven him mad.

The car now slowed to another halt, disrupting his thoughts.

A door opened and one of the men — by the sounds of it, the driver — climbed out. Blenkinsop knew what this meant, and at that moment it seemed like the greatest relief in his life. When they’d picked him up previously, black tape had been used to mask the vehicle’s registration mark. No doubt, once they’d blindfolded him and put him in the car, they’d stripped it away again. Now they were probably re-applying it. When the driver returned, Blenkinsop was told to climb out.

The two other men went first, one of them lending him a hand.

Initially, his legs were shaking so much that he could hardly stand up — but he’d manage it, because nothing was going to keep him here. It was over and he was out of this, and at last he could get away from these people and the terrible thing he’d done. Slowly, they removed his blindfold. It was now dark, there wasn’t even a streetlamp nearby, but he still had to blink until his eyes adjusted.

To one side, he spotted the vehicle he’d just driven in; it was the same white Range Rover with tinted windows that they’d collected him with earlier. But he pointedly didn’t look at it — that was the last thing he wanted; to know any more about these guys than he knew already. In any case, his own car, a new model Audi, was sitting alone in the lay-by. It was in a slightly different position from where he’d left it earlier, but that didn’t surprise him. He’d had to surrender his keys so that they could move it; a car like that left for half the day in a place like this would attract attention. Beyond the Audi, the fields were hidden by the night. The narrow country lane curved off into opaque shadow.

Two of the men now faced him. Despite everything he knew and had already seen, he drew a sharp breath. The hair on his scalp prickled like wildfire.

They were masked again. He hadn’t seen their faces once, which was exactly how he wanted it, but those masks themselves had become a thing of horror — made from orange and purple wool respectively — yet fearfully implicit of violent crime. It wasn’t just the masks: their bodies were solid, bulky, powerfully built, and clad in overalls. Their hands were gloved, their feet no doubt booted, perhaps with steel toecaps; the final perfect touch for the modern-day hoodlum’s killing outfit. How often he’d seen figures like these on television or in the newspapers: serial murderers, gangsters, terrorists — and, of course, rapists, a heinous club of which he was now a paid-up member.

At least, he assumed he was paid up.

When the man in the orange mask next spoke, he confirmed that this was the case.

‘Apparently we’re in full receipt of the cash, Mr Blenkinsop,’ he said, slipping a mobile phone back into his overalls pocket. ‘It’s all cleared. So as far as we’re concerned, our transaction is complete. You’ll never hear from us again, except in the occasional discreet mail drop, which is the only way you’ll be able to request our services a second time.’

Blenkinsop nodded. The mere thought of getting involved with these characters again was enough to make him faint. Just having them in such close proximity to him, and knowing what they were capable of, made him want to turn and run for his life.

‘You can drive home from here, yeah?’

Again, Blenkinsop nodded. ‘Yes …’ he whispered. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’

‘And your wife won’t ask any questions?’

Good Lord, Yvonne! Blenkinsop hadn’t thought about her once during today’s activities. Even now that it was all over, it was agony to do so.

‘She’s … er, she’s abroad with my daughter,’ he said.

‘Course, it doesn’t really matter whether she does or doesn’t,’ the one in the purple mask added. ‘It doesn’t matter if anyone asks you any questions. You know the answers you need to give.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re a client of ours, Mr Blenkinsop,’ Orange added. ‘And we respect you for that. Not many men would have the bottle to do what you’ve done. But we’re not in the liking or trusting business. Bear this in mind — you don’t know anything about us, but we know an awful lot about you. Where you live, where you work, where you socialise. And it’s going to stay that way. From now on, we’ll be keeping you under covert surveillance. Not all the time obviously, but you’ll never know when we’re there and when we’re not. This is another of those insurance things, I’m sure you understand.’

Blenkinsop couldn’t speak; he simply nodded again.

‘If there’s any indication that you … shall we say, even feel tempted to discuss things that you shouldn’t be discussing — with anyone at all — then be prepared to suffer a very severe repercussion.’

Blenkinsop would have swallowed, but he had no spittle left in his mouth.

‘That’s not a threat, by the way. It’s just the way things are. So don’t go off disliking us. After all, you’re a man after our own heart.’

Blenkinsop smiled weakly, then lurched around and marched to his Audi. Climbing in, he found the keys in the ignition, switched the engine on and drove away. It was only ten miles from here to London. At this late hour, it should be plain sailing. Yet he already knew it would be the darkest, loneliest road he’d ever taken.

Chapter 11

When Heck woke that morning, the first thing he thought was that he was being hit over the head with a plank. The next thing, he was bewildered to hear the sound of someone clattering around in his kitchen. He squinted with pain-fuzzed vision at the bedside clock; it wasn’t yet eight, but there was no doubt there was somebody else here. He got up shakily — slightly nauseous, his mouth lined with fur — and stumbled down the hall, which was filled with the scent of grilled bacon.

‘Morning,’ Gemma said from in front of the range, where she was juggling pots and pans.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘I, er …’ Slowly and sluggishly, his memories of the previous night began to return. ‘Oh, yeah … ouch.’ He touched his forehead delicately.

‘How’s your head?’ she asked, opening and closing the cutlery drawer seemingly as loudly as she could.

‘This is one of those occasions when I think I could live without it.’

‘You smell like a camel.’

He glanced down and saw that he was still wearing his jeans, t-shirt and socks from the night before, all rumpled and sweat soaked. ‘You put me to bed?’

‘Who else?’

‘Didn’t bother getting me undressed then, eh?’