notes; a list of bank accounts in names matching the passports with the accompanying pin numbers; several credit cards; a set of utility bills for a house on the outskirts of Leeds; and four pay-as-you-go mobile phones. Tucked into a pocket were sets of car keys and house keys. ‘Everything else you need is at the house,’ Terry said. ‘Laptop, landline, satellite TV … ’
‘Brilliant,’ Vance said, finishing the last forkful of salad with tuna and edamame beans. ‘Half of this food, I’ve no idea what it is. But it tastes bloody good.’
‘I stocked the fridge at the house yesterday,’ Terry said eagerly. ‘I hope you like what I got.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ Vance wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, then scooped the detritus of their picnic into a bin. ‘It’s time we made a move,’ he said. He stood up, then turned back to the bed where Terry had been sitting. He pulled down the covers and punched the pillow to create an indentation. ‘Now it looks like someone slept here. When the maid comes in, there won’t be anything untoward for her to remember if the police come asking questions.’
Vance let Terry lead the way to the car, saying simply, ‘You drive,’ when they reached the Mercedes. He didn’t doubt his ability to drive; Terry had done as he was told and bought an automatic with cruise control. And something called satnav; that was an innovation since he’d last driven a car. Nevertheless, he’d rather make his first attempt away from potential witnesses, just in case.
As Terry pulled out of the parking space, Vance relaxed into his seat, letting his head lean on the contoured rest. His eyelids flickered. The adrenaline had finally died down, leaving him tired and depleted. There would be no harm in sleeping while Terry drove him to his new home. Because there were still plenty of things to deal with before he could properly rest.
The jolt of driving over a speed-control bump in the road roused Vance. He woke with a jerk, momentarily disorientated. ‘What the—? Where are we?’ he gasped as he came to, looking wildly around. They were passing what looked like a security gatehouse, but it appeared to be empty. Just beyond the gatehouse was a pair of brick pillars. Gateposts without gates or walls, Vance thought irrelevantly.
‘Welcome to Vinton Woods,’ Terry said proudly. ‘Just what you asked for. A private estate set out on its own; detached houses with a bit of garden to separate you from the houses next door. The kind of place where nobody knows their neighbours and everybody minds their own business. You’re eight miles from the motorway, six miles from the centre of Leeds, seventeen miles from Bradfield.’ He followed a curving road lined with substantial houses with brick and half-timbered facades. ‘This is the Queen Anne section,’ Terry said. At a junction, he turned left. ‘If you go right, you come to the Georgian bit, but we’re in the Victorian part of the estate.’ These houses had stone facades and twice-mocked Gothic turrets. They were scaled-down versions of the mansions mill owners built in salubrious suburbs after the coming of the railways meant they didn’t have to live on top of their factories. Vance thought these modern replicas were ugly and pitiful. But one of these fakeries would be perfect for now.
Terry turned off the main drag into a cul-de-sac of six substantial houses set back from the street. He drove towards one of the pair at the head of the street, slowing and steering towards the triple garage that extended out on one side. He took a remote control from the door pocket and pointed it at the garage. One door rose before them and he drove in, making sure the door was closed before he turned off the engine and got out.
Vance stepped out of the car and looked around. Terry’s van occupied the third bay of the garage. The signwriting advertised his market stall, where he sold a mind-boggling range of tools, both new and second-hand. He’d clearly used it to deliver his personal gift to Vance.
The garage had a workbench running down one wall. Above it, tools hung in a gleaming array. Two sturdy vices were fitted at opposite ends of the bench. If anyone other than Terry had been responsible, Vance would have been enraged. But he knew there was no hidden meaning here. After all, Terry didn’t believe the prosecution’s story of the terrible things Vance had done to young girls with the last vice he’d owned. He took a step towards the workbench, imagining the feel of firm flesh in his hands. ‘I took the liberty of kitting out your workshop,’ Terry said. ‘I know how you like to work in wood.’
‘Thank you,’ Vance said. Later, he told himself. Much later. He reached for his most charming smile and said, ‘You’ve thought of everything. This is perfect.’
‘You haven’t seen the house yet. I think you’ll like it.’
All Vance wanted to see right now was the kitchen. He followed Terry through a side door into a utility room furnished with a washing machine and a tumble drier and onwards into a kitchen that was a gleaming monument to modernity. Granite, chrome and tiles were all buffed to a mirror sheen. It took Vance a moment or two to pick out what he was looking for. But there it was, exactly what he needed. A wooden knife block, set to one side of the granite-topped island in the middle of the room.
Vance drifted over to the island, exclaiming all the while at the very perfection of his magnificent new kitchen. ‘Is that one of those American fridges that dispense ice and chilled water?’ he asked, knowing Terry would be impelled to demonstrate its powers. As soon as Terry’s back was turned, Vance slid a medium-sized knife from the block, slipping the handle inside his shirt cuff, holding his arm loosely at his side.
As Terry turned back with a brimming glass of water, ice cubes bumping against the sides, Vance raised his prosthetic arm and appeared to draw him into an embrace of delighted gratitude. Then his other hand came up and plunged the knife into Terry’s chest. Up and under, avoiding the ribs, making for the heart.
The glass of water tumbled to the floor, soaking Vance’s shirt. He flinched as the cold water hit his skin, but didn’t stop what he was doing. Terry made a terrible strangled grunting sound, his face a shocked accusation. Vance pulled the knife back and stabbed again. Now there was blood between them, spreading its tell-tale stain across the front of their clothes. It raced across Vance’s shirt, following the path the water had already made. Its progress over Terry’s sweatshirt was slower, the colour more intense.
Vance pulled the knife free and stepped back, letting Terry fall to the floor. His top lip curled in disgust as Terry twitched and moaned, hands clutching his chest, eyes rolling back in his head. Vance took no pleasure in the killing itself; he never had. It had always been secondary to the pleasures of inflicting pain and terror. Death was the unfortunate by-product of the things he really enjoyed. He wished Terry would hurry up and get it over with.
All at once exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. He staggered slightly and had to grip on to the granite worktop. He had been running on adrenaline for hours and now he’d run out of fuel. His legs felt shaky and weak, his mouth dry and sour. But he couldn’t stop now.
Vance crossed to the kitchen sink and opened the cupboard underneath. As he’d expected, Terry had supplied him with a full battery of cleaning equipment. Right at the front was a roll of extra-strong rubbish bags. On the shelf beside them, a bag of plastic ties. Just what he needed. As soon as Terry was done with dying, he could bag him up, truss the bag and dump him in the back of his own van. He’d work out what to do with the van and its owner at some later stage. Right now, he was too tired to think straight.
All he wanted was to clean up then crawl into bed and sleep for twelve hours or so. His anticipated celebration
