The Victim Page 7

  Gem picked her cell phone off the bedside table and checked the time. She needed to get a move on if she wanted to avoid being late on her first day back.

  She had reached the bottom of the stairs when her cell rang. It was her manager. “Hi, Melanie. I’m on my way.”

  “Ah, Gem. How’s the arm? Better, I hope? Have you left the house yet?”

  Gem wondered why her boss, someone who was usually brisk and articulate over the phone, sounded so flustered. “I’m leaving right now. Should be with you by nine if the traffic isn’t too bad.”

  “Well, er, the thing is, there’s been a change of plan. We’ve decided that it’d be better if you took a bit more time off. We don’t want you to rush back when it’s not necessary.”

  Gem grabbed the banister with one hand and lowered herself into a sitting position on the stairs. “Why? What do you mean better? What’s happened? I really don’t want more time off. I’m looking forward to getting back to work.”

  “Nothing’s happened. I’m not saying this as your boss, Gem. I’m saying it as your friend. The last thing I want is for you to come back too soon. You’ve had a terrible experience. Maybe wait a few weeks, at least until your cast is taken off.”

  Gem frowned. That didn’t sound like the Melanie she knew, the woman who regularly insisted that holidays were for wimps and that only losers worried about work-life balance.

  “What about the wine bar launch I’ve been working on? It’s opening next week, and the client will expect me to be there.”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ve got someone in to help on a temporary basis.”

  Gem stood up, felt dizzy, and sat straight down again. “You’ve brought someone in to take over my clients? Who is it?”

  Her manager laughed, the sound shrill and unnatural. “You don’t know her, a friend of a friend. Loads of experience in hospitality. Anyway, she’s not taking over your clients. Don’t be silly. She’s helping out until you return.”

  Gem closed her eyes as panic fluttered in her chest. She didn’t simply want to go back to work; she needed to. Sitting at home all day wasn’t doing her any good.

  That night, in the darkness, she’d bowed to the carjacker’s will. Maybe that decision had saved her; she had no way of knowing. What she did know was that she wasn’t going to let that moment of threat, fear, and submission cast a shadow over the rest of her life. That would be her way of fighting back.

  “I’m ready to return today,” she said. “One hundred percent ready. In fact, I’ve already ordered a taxi. I might as well pop into the office, even for only a couple of hours. I could ease my way back in, help the new girl out with the wine bar project. The truth is, I need to keep occupied right now.”

  Melanie didn’t respond.

  Gem filled the silence. “I promise to take it easy initially, but I really do feel that, psychologically at least, getting back to work as soon as possible is the best thing I can do.”

  Gem listened to more silence and sensed her boss was wavering. “I’ll be there in about forty minutes,” she said and ended the call.

  She stood up and grabbed the banister to steady herself, her stomach churning with an unfamiliar queasiness. Nothing was going to stop her going back to work. She couldn’t change what had happened in that parking lot, but she could choose to move on with her life.

  The Mastermind

  Norton slouched in the doorway of a men’s clothes store at the northern end of Chancery Lane, his right shoulder resting against the inside edge of the shop window. He’d been watching and waiting for close to an hour and was prepared to stay there all evening if necessary.

  As a child, he’d always been someone who got bored easily, and boredom had often led him into trouble. Over the years, he’d learned to be more patient, to concentrate on the task he’d set himself. He no longer regarded watching and waiting as tedious. It was preparation, and he knew that preparation was vital if he wanted to succeed.

  There was no question that Bentley was as sharp as a razor, and he’d always been quick to let other people know it. But sometimes he could be too clever for his own good. Norton allowed himself a smile. That arrogance will be his downfall, he thought.

  Gem Golding had no idea what her precious boyfriend was really like, how twisted and controlling he could be. Bentley was a master at hiding his lies, his deceitfulness, his disloyalty.

  She definitely deserved someone better. She needed to be rescued; she just didn’t know it. Yet. Norton would bring her around to his way of thinking. He’d learned a long time ago that you can convince anyone of anything if you are determined enough, if you are prepared to do whatever is necessary.

  He zipped up his jacket and slipped his hands into the pockets. The sun was dropping fast, dragging the temperature down with it. He was weighing up whether to risk fetching a coffee to keep himself alert when a familiar figure emerged from the red terracotta Victorian building opposite.

  He slipped back into the recess as Bentley strode north toward Chancery Lane Tube station. Norton waited a few seconds before following at a safe distance, confident that he could stay anonymous among the hundreds of commuters streaming into the station. It was easy to hide your face on a jam-packed Tube train, and Norton was looking forward to the task of following Bentley to the home he shared with Gem.

  The mere thought stirred his blood, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He loved the thrill of the hunt. Almost as much as the kill.

  17

  Fight

  The Reporter

  The fluttering in Matt Revell’s stomach surprised him. During his five years as a national newspaper reporter, he’d developed thick skin and a nerveless disposition, but he’d never been summoned to a private audience with his news editor before.

  Tania Duffield didn’t stand or even turn her head when Revell entered the room. A stick-thin woman in her forties with dark hair tied back in a severe ponytail, she carried on staring out the window at the spectacular view over Canary Wharf and across the Thames to Greenwich.

  Revell couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her away from her desk. She seemed to always be hunched in front of her computer monitor, fingers jabbing at the keyboard, or on the telephone bawling out a reporter, usually for committing the ultimate sin of not getting the story.

  “What’s this about?” Revell said, determined not to give his news editor the satisfaction of seeing that he was nervous.

  Clasping her small hands, Duffield turned to face him. “Are you going to stand there all day?”

  Revell pulled back a chair and sat down. He had no idea what he’d done wrong, but he was prepared to deny everything. Never admit to making a mistake and never say sorry. He’d learned that much. It crossed his mind briefly that he was about to get the sack, be told to clear his desk and leave the building immediately, but he knew that task would normally be the privilege of the paper’s managing editor.

  “What’s this all about? What is it exactly that you think I’ve done?” Revell stared across the table.

  His boss’s green eyes shone with a mixture of contempt and amusement. Duffield held up a hand. “Calm yourself down. What are you getting so worked up about?”

  Revell shrugged. She looked pretty harmless, but every one of the paper’s journalists was wary of Duffield’s infamously sharp tongue, even sharper mind, and ruthless nature. As a young reporter, she had garnered a reputation for being prepared to do anything in pursuit of a story, and now she expected her news gathering team to show the same level of dedication.

  “I’m calm. Don’t worry,” Revell said. “I’m just curious why we’re here, why we’ve had to sneak out of the newsroom for this meeting.”

  Duffield raised a hand to her forehead and smoothed it over her hair until she reached the base of her ponytail. Revell wondered whether it had been scraped back so tightly because someone ha
d told her it worked like a nonsurgical face-lift.

  “I’ve brought you here because I want to congratulate you on the Gem Golding story. It’s a great read. To be honest, I can’t remember when we had a better one. We’ve had a fantastic response from readers, especially online.”

  Revell raised his eyebrows a fraction. This was the last thing he’d expected. He’d been pleased with the interview, and a few of his colleagues had even made the effort to mutter their appreciation as they passed his desk, but Duffield didn’t do praise. Usually, if you avoided being summoned to her desk and accused of writing like an amateur, then you could pat yourself on the back and assume you’d done a decent job.

  “Oh right. That’s good,” he said, shifting in his seat. “Thanks for that. Nice of you to say so.”

  Duffield smiled. That surprised Revell even more than the praise. He’d never seen so many of her teeth. They were small, white, and pointed.

  “You’re not very good at accepting compliments, are you?” she said.

  “I think the problem is I’m out of practice.”

  Duffield twisted in her seat and looked out the window. Revell did the same. The spring sky was the color of faded denim. Below, the glinting Thames looped around the cityscape. While they admired the view, Revell was still trying to work out why the conversation needed to take place in private. Perhaps Duffield didn’t want people to know that she was capable of handing out plaudits? She had a reputation to protect.

  The silence stretched, and Revell assumed the meeting was over. He slid his chair back and rose to his feet. Without turning, Duffield pointed a manicured fingernail at him. “Sit,” she said.

  Revell thought about barking, sticking his tongue out, and panting but decided against it. Instead, he sat and waited.

  Duffield faced him. “Surely you don’t think I summoned you here simply to tell you what a good boy you’ve been?”

  Revell widened his eyes, feigning surprise. “Let me guess. I’m getting a pay raise? No? Maybe a promotion? Or both?”

  Duffield didn’t even blink. “I want you to follow up the Gem Golding story. The public can’t get enough of it. We sold an extra thirty thousand copies of the paper and have a record number of hits online.”

  Revell had thought long and hard about a follow-up, of course, but he’d reached the conclusion that he’d squeezed every last drop out of the story. “I wish I could come up with something, but it’s run out of steam. The police investigation isn’t going anywhere. Until they identify the attacker, there’s nothing new for us.”

  Duffield smiled again.

  Shit, Revell thought. That’s twice in two years, and both of them have come in the last ten minutes.

  “What if we set the agenda on this story? Imagine if the Daily News beats the police to it. We track down the attacker and reveal his identity. That would be the scoop of the year, wouldn’t it? A sure-fire award winner.”

  Revell leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and sniffed the air, searching for a whiff of alcohol on her breath. The news editor had a stool permanently reserved at the nearest bar and without fail would be sipping from a large glass of white wine within minutes of the first edition going to press, but he’d never known her to drink this early in the day.

  “That sounds great,” he said. “But I’ve told you I’m in the same situation as the police. That Warrior for Women angle was fantastic for us, but the story has hit a dead end.”

  Duffield shook her head, and Revell could tell she was fighting back the urge to smile for a third time. “Far from it,” she said. “This is confidential information, and you are not to discuss it with anyone but me. We’ve had a call from someone who claims to know the name and address of the man who attacked Gem Golding.”

  Revell’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me? You think this caller is genuine?”

  “I’ve spoken to him, and I think there’s a chance that he’s telling the truth. He claims he knows the man well and recognized him from the e-fit the police put out.”

  “Who is he? Is he in London? Why hasn’t he gone to the police with this?”

  Duffield held up a hand. “Calm down,” she said. “Sit back and listen and I’ll explain.”

  Revell took a deep breath and nodded. His heart was racing. If this was true, he wanted the story. He wanted it badly.

  “We don’t have the caller’s name yet, but we have his cell phone number. He wants money for the information. I’ve told him we will pay him, but not the ten thousand pounds he’s demanding. He claims he deserves danger money because the suspect is, in his words, ‘a real evil bastard’ who wouldn’t hesitate to cut his tongue out if he discovered he was being sold out.”

  Revell nodded, his mind working overtime, trying to figure out where the operation could go wrong. If he could pull this off, it would make his name. He’d be able to demand a promotion and a pay raise, and if the Daily News didn’t make it worthwhile for him to stay, he’d have his pick of the paper’s rivals, maybe even a move into television news.

  “As you did such a good job on the initial story, I want you on this one, but like I said before, I don’t want anyone else knowing. That includes our colleagues. The last thing I want is for this to be leaked.”

  “Where do we stand legally? Shouldn’t we be telling the police all about this call? We definitely should give them the cell number, shouldn’t we? They’ll be able to track him down.”

  Duffield shook her head. “Come on now. You’re not going soft on me, I hope. Don’t make me reconsider picking you for the job. When we have all the facts, including the identity of the suspect, they will be presented to the police. Fortunately for us, that will happen just before we go to press to reveal how we tracked down the man who attacked the avenging angel and handed him on a plate to the police.”

  Revell unbuttoned his shirt collar and loosened his tie. “What happens next?”

  “You set up a meeting with the contact and do what you’re good at. Keep him sweet and get him talking. Are you in?”

  “Shit yes I’m in.”

  18

  Surrender

  The Boyfriend

  Drew Bentley strode briskly across Spital Square. To his left, a gap in the skyline gave him a partial view of the bulbous Gherkin tower. His morning commute always started with the fifteen-minute walk from home to Liverpool Street station, as long as it wasn’t raining.

  He crossed the road, dodging through the rush-hour traffic, and walked along Primrose Street. Up ahead, the distinctive crisscross steel beams of the Broadgate Tower glinted in the weak sunlight.

  The energy on the streets of London always gave him a buzz, setting him up for another day advising disgruntled executives how best to screw as much money as possible out of their former employers.

  Drew’s thoughts wandered back to breakfast. He’d bitten his tongue and kept his thoughts about Gem’s new look to himself. What the hell was that “new hair, new woman” crap all about anyway? Still, he was confident that if he was subtle about it, he’d eventually get her to see sense.

  She had been excited and more than a little nervous about returning to work. He’d offered her words of encouragement, and she’d been grateful to receive them. He thought it wise not to tell her he’d been hoping that after the attack, she’d come around to his way of thinking, ditch the job, and think about having a baby.

  Drew had always disliked her working unsocial hours. In fact, he wasn’t convinced that work was the right word to describe a never-ending round of parties marking the launch of new products.

  He stepped on the escalator and descended into Liverpool Street station. The concourse teemed with commuters, the murmur of voices growing louder like the hum of a swarm of angry bees. At the bottom, he headed straight for the Underground station. Three uniformed police officers, two men and one woman, all wearing stab vests, stood near th
e entrance.

  As Drew approached, he caught the eye of a man leaning casually against a ticket machine, paused, and did a double take. The man looked straight at him, eyes like slits beneath a baseball cap. Behind the dark beard lurked something familiar, something unsettling. Drew moved on, feeling the weight of the man’s stare on his back. He hurried to the electronic gate, swiped his transit card, and walked through with a furtive glance over his shoulder.

  As always, at that time in the morning, commuters crowded onto the westbound Central line platform, shuffling their way to the front to await the next train. Drew shuffled forward in the crush of warm bodies.

  A deep rumbling signaled the approach of a train, and the people at the front moved a fraction closer to the edge of the platform. The train rattled out of the tunnel and ground to a halt. The carriages were already crammed with passengers, but when the doors slid open, the front row of commuters expertly squeezed themselves in.

  The train departed, and Drew found enough space to step up to the front. More bodies pushed in behind him, shoving him past the yellow safety zone and uncomfortably close to the platform’s edge.

  A distant vibration prompted him to peer into the mouth of the tunnel, but there was no sign of headlights in the blackness. The bodies behind Drew swayed forward, forcing him to brace his legs and steady himself.

  He turned his head, straining to see the cause of the swaying. The bearded man with the baseball cap he’d seen outside the station entrance was elbowing his way through the crowd toward him. The man stopped two rows behind Drew and bared his teeth in something resembling a smile. Drew looked into his eyes, and his legs turned to jelly.

  A train emerged from the tunnel, and Drew twisted his torso in a desperate attempt to back away from the edge, but the line of commuters behind him stood their ground, making it impossible for him to move.

  He watched the juddering lights of the driver’s cab hurtling along the platform toward him. Beads of sweat ran down his face, and his heart jackhammered in time with the rattle of the train. As he opened his mouth to shout for help, the bodies directly behind him surged forward, and the knuckles of a clenched fist pressed the small of his back. The movement was swift and subtle, the impact just enough to shift his weight.