The Chosen Ones

For Gina’s passport details I had to pay close attention to the photograph on my mobile. With that completed I thought Tuscan Sun Tours would be satisfied but no, Clare also wanted details of the original payment.

‘Rather old-fashioned,’ I said in a lighter voice, conveying a smile. ‘It was a surprise for my sister. I paid with a postal order. I have a note of the serial number here somewhere …’

‘Thank you, Sir, that won’t be necessary.’ Clare paused and resumed apologetically, ‘I’m afraid that for such a late cancellation we will not be able to offer you a refund.’

‘The money isn’t important. Georgie just wanted you to know that she will not be joining the tour.’

‘Thank you, Sir. I have made a note.’

‘Will that information be available to everybody in your organization? My sister is very unwell. I don’t want her bothered by telephone enquiries about her failure to show up at Gatwick.’

‘That will not happen, Sir. A note that Ms Hamilton has withdrawn from TST247 is now on our company-wide system. Please give your sister our very best wishes for a speedy recovery. If she returns the confirmation and travel pack we’ll send a voucher for 10 per cent off her next booking.’ There was a brief pause before Clare added, ‘Is there anything else I can help you with today, Sir?’

‘No, thank you. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Sir, and thank you for calling Tuscan Sun Tours.’

10 (#ulink_290900b2-0637-5d81-8dbe-62687234dece)

I am feeling good. It’s gone well. This won’t be like Dover. That was a practice run. This is for real and extensively planned. This woman is perfect – elegant, slim, sexy and with long fair hair of the kind that only models and posh girls manage to have. Back in Gravesend, when I was at Scotts, she’d have been one of the smart set, the graduates who looked down on the likes of me. One of those confident professional women I wanted but couldn’t have – the unobtainable.

Things are different now. I’m in control. There’ll be no put-down this time.

I’ve learnt a lot, come a long way, learnt how to handle people, people like the woman at Sun Tours. She’d been resistant, exercising her power – ‘It’s procedure, Sir.’ I soon put her in her place.

It hasn’t always been like this. I wasn’t born with that confidence. It came when I started spending the money. I soon learnt how to get what I wanted. Not only does money make people want your custom, money also gives you the assurance not to take no for an answer. I guess a good education does the same, but that wasn’t on offer when I was young. I’m bright, but I didn’t pass the 11+ exam. My dad said I was a late developer. My mum, wiping her hands on her apron, and turning away to hide the look in her eyes, said she didn’t know where I got it all from. ‘Not y’ dad – or me, that’s for sure,’ she’d added diplomatically.

They loved me, my parents, and I loved them, but none of us was good at showing emotion.

At school I got into computers and wanted my own. I remember the first time I asked for one.

‘Dad, can I have a computer for my birthday?’

‘We can’t afford one, son.’ His eyes, which had flicked up when I spoke, had already returned to his newspaper.

I was desperate. I pleaded. ‘Birthday and Christmas combined?’

No dice. His eyes remained fixed on the sports page.

‘Maybe when I win the pools, lad, but it’ll have to be a big win.’

Dad never did have that big win, at least not while he was alive. He joined Mum in East Hill cemetery some six years after I’d left the Tech to work in electronics at Scotts. I inherited the house, but Dad’s building society account didn’t even stretch to a new computer. I planned to sell up and move to a new-build apartment, but, in the meantime, I carried on working at Scotts. It must have been three months before I went into Dad’s room to clear out his things. I thought there might be something I could sell. There wasn’t, but I did find his pools coupons. He’d been very tidy. They were piled in date order with the one for the week he died on top. The games had been selected and the form completed, ready to post. The season hadn’t finished. I found the current coupon, marked the same lines and posted it in my name as a last throw of the old man’s dice.

I won. Well … to be fair, he won. Dad’s system finally turned up trumps. It was a big win, a very big win. Although I’d ticked the ‘no publicity’ box they tried to persuade me, but there was no way I was going to be photographed with a cheque the size of a billboard. I carried on working for another 18 months. With the cash to give a girl a good time I asked a few of the women at work for a date. There were no takers. The stuck-up graduates had in your dreams, geek written all over their faces. I had to lower my sights.

I started going to football and buying drinks for the guys I’d known at college. I was generous. I fixed their computers and sometimes they’d take me to a club. I took what was on offer but I wanted more, I wanted better. I wanted a bright woman, a woman who’d been to university, a graduate like those who’d turned me down. It was then I had the idea and started working on my plan. I resigned from my job, stopped going to football and gave up clubbing. I told everyone I’d inherited some money and was going on a long trip to Australia.

In fact, I went to London. I spent one night in a small hotel changing my appearance and then rented a cheap bedsit in a run-down part of town. Immediately, I put my plan into action. First, I had to identify women who took my fancy and try to get their names from their credit cards. I trawled ATMs and supermarket checkouts. It was often easier on the tube, but that wouldn’t be any use because I intended to operate in small towns. I soon discovered it wasn’t as difficult as I’d first thought. There was no need to have an exact name because I was patient. I had all the time in the world. I couldn’t believe how many partial names I could confirm using company websites. A pattern developed. I’d follow a target back to her work and, later, back to where she lived. Some of the women even had their names by their doorbells.

As soon as I’d lined up a target who lived alone, I could have broken in, but that wasn’t my plan. If I forced my way in, they’d shout and scream, the neighbours would hear, call the police and I’d be in serious trouble. Even if no one heard, I didn’t want that, I didn’t want rape.

I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted my chosen woman to have time to get to know me. I wanted her to know my worth, to want me, to give herself to me. She would have to invite me into her home. She would have to trust me with a key. There must be no neighbours around. Once I was inside I knew it would take time. She wasn’t going to come round overnight, so she mustn’t be missed at work. It was a problem. It was a whole string of problems. How could I pull it off?

One day I came back from finding targets and trod on the answer as I came through the door from the street. So simple! So elegant! It just required patience and time. With the old man’s pools win sitting in the bank I had plenty of both.

Actually, that’s not completely true. The money was in the bank because that’s where it went when I won it. Most is still there, but when I began developing my plan I knew I couldn’t use cards, cheques or ATMs. I couldn’t afford to leave traces. I didn’t intend to get caught. Dad’s pools system had given me a really big win. I’d never have to work again so, when it was over, I wanted to walk away and live the good life. I got plastic boxes, a good pair of walking shoes, and a mountaineer’s folding shovel. Every two or three weeks I withdrew cash and buried bundles of notes in isolated spots within easy reach of Canterbury, my chosen town, where I’d already rented a flat. I took my time. Finally, with everything in place, I selected my women.

In Canterbury it’s gone just as I knew it would. One of my chosen women made a choice that offered me access. Now I’ve closed the net. This time it will go right. Not like last time. I’ve got to get Dover out of my head. Kayleigh Robson wasn’t my type, not a top choice, but she wasn’t my ultimate goal; Kayleigh was a practice run. My aim was to get experience of conversion, of winning a woman round. For that, Kay from Dover was a necessary component but she wasn’t meant to die. No one was meant to die. I’m not into killing people. What happened was unfortunate, a freak accident, regrettable, but nothing to do with my planning. One moment Kayleigh was fine – well, she was struggling and screaming – but then she fainted. I made her comfortable before going for a pizza and a couple of pints to settle my head. When I got back, she was dead.

The last thing I wanted was to be linked to her death and caught by the police. For a moment or two I panicked – in that situation anyone would panic – but I quickly gained control and planned what to do: destroy her mobile, mine too with both its SIM cards, and scrupulously clean her flat of all traces of my presence. She had no proper cleaning stuff in the flat so I had to go shopping. In a side street, near the centre of town, I found a late-night store and bought what I needed. Back at the flat, I cleaned scrupulously. Working gently, wearing vinyl gloves, I removed Kayleigh’s bonds, turned her on her side and used enough of her concealer to hide the reddening at her wrists and ankles. It wasn’t perfect, but there’s not been a word on the news or in the papers, so it was good enough to fool some hack of a police doctor.

Now all is calm, I’m back in Canterbury and my chosen one is perfect. I need time alone with her, time for her to see beyond the surface, time for her to get to know the real me. Given time, she’ll come to see my true worth. Later, we’ll look back and laugh about the way we met. She’ll thank me for being so clever. We’ll be happy together.

Earlier today, I got some food and drink; it’s here in her fridge. Everything’s in place. I’m relaxed, sitting quietly, waiting for my chosen one to return home.

11 (#ulink_f7318e6e-fc71-5270-a6f9-5abab8141a66)

Alone in the CID Room, Ed glanced at her watch. There was no hurry, but she’d reached a good place to stop. Shutting down the computer, she slipped her mobile into her bag and left the Station on foot. In the city centre, she crossed the Buttermarket to Sun Street and took a window table in Deakin’s where she toyed with a mineral water, wishing Verity Shaw was already there to distract her from her thoughts.

Last June, transferred to Canterbury from the London Met, Ed had been pitched straight into the disappearance of a local schoolgirl. With her new team she’d discovered the case was one of a series of abductions stretching back ten years. The perpetrator was now in jail awaiting trial. However, although the investigation was effectively wound up, Ed still woke at night with an image of the abductor in her head. She had worked on horrendous crimes with the Met, but in London she’d been able to switch off and walk away. With the abductions in Canterbury it had been different. For the first time in her career, the images stayed with her, not because she had led the investigation, but because she couldn’t forget the mothers separated from their daughters. The image of the abductor returned and she shuddered at the evil he had perpetrated.

As she took another sip of water, Ed’s honesty forced her to concede she was troubled by more than recurrent thoughts of the abductions. She would never let her mood influence her work, but for some months she’d felt decidedly below par. Not down, exactly, but until recently things had not been as she would have liked. Ed knew herself well enough to know the reason. There had been a long gap without a man in her life.

Men!

They’d not always treated her well; indeed, a few had treated her badly. Ed could live without them, but on balance, she would rather have a bastard in her bed than no one at all. This time, perhaps, she’d struck lucky. So far there had been no sign that Daniel was a bastard. He was fit and attentive, but he was another cop and that should be warning enough.

12 (#ulink_6ea460b6-243a-508d-9d11-7112a82c0acb)

Gina Hamilton weaved through the meandering tourists on Mercery Lane and Sun Street. Quickening her pace, she left the city centre and headed home via Palace Street. Mechanically following the familiar route, she was still wondering how long it would be before the Metcalffes offered her a partnership in their dental practice.

‘Bhaaarrrr!’

Gina stopped abruptly at the edge of the kerb, jolted from her thoughts by the blare of a car horn. The number of pedestrians had thinned rapidly and the street was narrowing between flint buildings and a high brick wall. From nowhere she felt a twinge of apprehension, a cold tension between her shoulder blades. She’d felt it before, as if someone were watching her, following her, but that had been weeks ago. Approaching the dogleg beside the entrance to The King’s School she glanced back. The pavement behind her appeared deserted but then, before she could be certain, she’d turned into The Borough and Palace Street had disappeared from view.

Why was she feeling so jumpy? The last time it happened, Gina had been unable to fathom what had sparked her apprehension and now she was equally unable to identify the source of her unease. Annoyed that she should feel so unsettled the evening before her holiday, Gina crossed the road to pick up a ready meal and a foil-sealed glass of white wine at the supermarket on Kingsmead.

‘Snap!’ said a guy behind her at the checkout.

Gina jumped at the sound of the male voice and turned to face the speaker. It was some stranger with a beard.

‘Sorry?’

‘Snap! Your items and mine; seems like we’re both facing a lonely meal for one.’

Gina wanted to end this exchange quickly before he suggested they eat their meals together at his or hers.

‘Sorry, I’m in a rush. I have to get back to pack for my holiday.’