The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(55)
He watched her eyes light up as she sang to the audience; a glorious beacon in a barren landscape.
She looked so much like her, the woman he would never, could never kill. The woman he longed to dissect as if she were an insect in a laboratory, an inhuman thing that deserved nothing less.
Hatred flowed like lava through his veins, scalding his skin until the pain was almost unbearable. He cradled himself, rocking slightly at the end of the row, drawing more nervous glances from the woman seated beside him.
When the song ended, he stood up and applauded along with the rest of them.
*
He left just before the end, slipping out of the fire doors and into the side alley that ran perpendicular to the main entrance. It was a wrench to leave so soon without being able to enjoy the remainder of the show, but sacrifices had to be made if he was to create his own finale.
It was risky to stand around, especially as it was still light, but he knew where the cameras were and had already chosen the perfect spot to wait; it was the same one he’d used the previous evening when he’d first begun his preparations.
He was taking far more risks for this woman than with any of the others. He knew he should never return to the same place, he knew that. Just standing here, he doubled the chance that somebody would notice him, especially two nights in a row. Some nosy bitch from one of the restaurants or bars would see him and decide he was worth talking to, then she’d veer towards him and start crawling all over him. It happened all the time.
And how could he blame them, really?
He was quite a catch.
Then, it’d be, Oh, my goodness, Chief Inspector, I remember that man! I was talking to him on the corner of High Bridge Road at eleven o’clock.
His brow furrowed as he thought of the man who was, at this very moment, out there somewhere searching for him. Ryan was close; much too close for comfort. It was remarkable how similar they were, when you stripped away all the trappings of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. Beneath the suits they both wore, they were both hunters. Ryan hunted him with the same intensity as he hunted each of his victims and with the same goal: to make the final kill.
Victims.
That was a joke. ‘Victim’ was a term coined by a society that refused to accept that some people were born to be winners while others were born to be losers. Ryan should be thanking him for his public service, not to mention the restraint he exercised every single day.
How tempting it was, each time they wheeled in a new one. The power was so rich, so potent, he could almost taste it on his tongue. With every drunk vagrant, every drug addict, and every other worthless person who ended up in his hands, he was tempted to put them down. As he felt their wounds, felt the blood run over his hands, he longed to feel it against his skin as he had all those years ago.
But he couldn’t afford the luxury.
This one must be the last, he warned himself, at least for now. The memories and photographs would sustain him for a while, although they lacked the effect they once had. Photographs couldn’t compare with the real thing.
Across the street, crowds spilled out of the theatre. He heard them chattering and gushing about her performance, some of them attempting to sing a few bars. Apparently, an evening spent in the company of greatness had afforded them delusions of grandeur.
He kept his eyes trained on the door. Unblinking, unwavering, unmoved.
Twenty minutes passed before he spotted her. He could hardly miss her; she stood out like a rare, exotic flower amid a garden of weeds, and she was bundled into a light summer coat in a shade of scarlet designed to attract attention.
She succeeded.
He watched her spend long, tedious minutes signing programmes and chatting with the die-hard fans who stood beside the theatre door cap in hand, then one of the male ushers came forward and they headed out into the evening together.
Yesterday, that had given him some cause for concern.
What was she doing going out after work, late at night, when she should be conserving her voice and letting it rest?
But, to his relief, the usher turned out to be her chaperone. Somebody had decided the star of their show would be safe returning to her aparthotel with one of the puny, acne-scarred ushers acting as bodyguard.
What an insult.
If she had an ounce of self-esteem, she’d have demanded a chauffeur or hired security but that was just another thing to like about her, he supposed. It had never occurred to her that anybody would see her and imagine all the wonderful possibilities.
He pushed away from the wall where he had been standing and began to walk at an even pace behind them, keeping his head ducked low.
He was nothing, if not a man of great imagination.
*
He watched her enter the foyer of her apartment building, pleased to note there was no doorman to be seen. The usher waved her off at the door, not even waiting until it had closed behind her before he hurried away, presumably to join his friends at the nearest watering hole.
The building itself was nothing to speak of; the fact they had not housed their star performer in anything other than a run-of-the-mill aparthotel told its own story of how difficult things were in the arts industry.
As far as he was concerned, it was another gift.
He watched her disappear out of sight, the ends of her hair swishing behind her and imagined what she would do next. Perhaps she’d pour herself a cup of camomile tea and have a warm bath to ease her aching body after her exertions on stage. Perhaps she’d call her mother, or a lover she’d left behind in London.