to drift off to sleep with the aid of music. In the end that idea didn’t appeal either.
She wondered what Rob was doing.
Sleeping soundly, she guessed. He never had trouble sleeping alone – or in strange beds.
She reached out a hand towards his side of the bed, longing to feel him there.
For the first time in months, as she thought about him
(
she was filled not just with anger but also with a feeling of incredible sadness. It felt as if she was in mourning.
She wondered how much longer the feeling would last.
Weeks?
Months?
Years?
As the first tears began to flow, she turned her head into the pillow.
CASA CASUARINA, OCEAN DRIVE, MIAMI, FLORIDA
The bullets felt heavy in his hand.
The young man in the white shirt and grey shorts fed the .40-calibre rounds into the magazine, and watched: eyes alert for the one he sought.
He would not be difficult to spot.
The target’s routine was so predictable it was almost robotic.
Every morning around 8.30, the man with the silver-grey hair would exit through the ornate wrought-iron gates of the mansion. He would then walk a few blocks at a leisurely pace, enjoying the magnificent weather, occasionally nodding greetings to those he recognized.
Then he would return, to be swallowed up again by the palatial grandeur of the residence he loved.
So predictable.
The young man studied the huge villa – seeing others walk past its stone steps.
Some would look up towards the Mediterranean-style gates. Others merely passed by.
The young man watched as patiently as a bird-watcher waiting to get a glimpse of some incredibly rare species.
He hefted the pistol in his hand, feeling its weight. The coldness of the steel was a marked contrast to the warmth he felt on his bare flesh.
The sun in Miami that morning was warm, even at such an early hour. It hung in the sky like a burnished talisman, suspended in a cloudless firmament.
The young man took off his dark glasses for a moment, wincing up at the sun.
He didn’t look at his watch. He hardly needed to. The man he waited for seemed to have his own built-in timing device. His morning stroll was like a ritual.
The young man knew: he had watched him perform it enough times.
When he saw the grey-headed figure approaching the gates, his expression didn’t change. He merely watched as the older man mounted the steps, newly purchased magazines gripped in one hand.
He began to pull open the ornate gates.
The young man strode towards him, his heart thudding harder against his ribs.
The time had come.
He pulled the pistol from his shorts and raised it so that the barrel was practically touching the back of the grey-haired man’s head.
In the stillness of the wakening day, the sound of the first shot was thunderous.
The bullet erupted from the muzzle of the pistol and – from point-blank range – drilled its way through bone and brain. A geyser of blood erupted from the wound, some of it spattering the young man himself, who barely blinked.
He fired again.
Another thunderous discharge.
More blood.
The grey-haired man fell forward, crashing face down onto the stone steps. Blood from his head wounds began to cascade down them like a viscous waterfall.
The young man stood there for precious seconds, staring at the body, then he turned and hurried away, aware that someone was already hurtling down the main path from the palazzo, shouting at him.
On the steps themselves, a spreading pool of blood stained the stonework around the bullet-blasted head of Gianni Versace.
14 July 1997
People don’t know me. They think they do, but they don’t.
Andrew Cunanan
People always turn away, from the eyes of a stranger.
Afraid to know what lies behind the stare . . .
Queensryche
12
SHE HAD HEARD the doorbell, but hadn’t yet been able to reach the door in time to open it.
Hailey muttered to herself as she padded across the hall towards the scattered letters lying on the mat. She picked up the correspondence quickly and scanned the addressees, then she opened the door itself.
The postman was already making his way down the street, but once he heard her door open he waved back cheerily to her.
The package in the porch stood almost two feet tall: wrapped in shiny red paper, topped by an enormous silver bow.
There seemed to be no label on it, and for a moment she wondered if it had been delivered to the wrong house. But, as she bent to retrieve it, she spotted a small tag attached to the bottom.
MISS R. GIBSON, it announced. Then their address.
Hailey picked up the parcel, surprised at how light it was.
Becky had already wandered out into the hall to see what was happening. She was dressed in her school uniform, ready for her first day back after half-term.
‘What is it, Mum?’ she said, looking at the large package.
‘You’d better open it and find out,’ Hailey told her. ‘It’s addressed to you.’
Becky’s eyes widened in delight, a huge smile spreading across her face.
They took the package back into the kitchen, Hailey looking on with a combination of curiosity and delight as her daughter pulled open the immaculately wrapped parcel.
She wondered where Rob had ordered it from.
Would flowers for her follow later that morning?
‘Mum, look,’ Becky said delightedly, as she pulled the last of the wrapping paper free.
The teddy bear was about eighteen inches tall with big blue eyes and an inviting stitched-on smile. It wore a school-cap and a little knitted scarf.
‘He’s lovely, darling,’ said Hailey, smiling.
As Becky lifted the bear to cuddle it, Hailey noticed the label hanging around its neck. She reached across and flipped open the small card.
