The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(8)

Or so they told themselves.

He watched them walk along the park avenue like sheep, bleating about their mundane jobs and banal lives, and wondered what it would be like to be so completely ordinary. There would be a simplicity to life, he supposed. A kind of comfort in being so ignorant, so commonplace. He couldn’t blame them for that. He could be generous and allow them a small concession because they did not ask to be part of the masses; it was the luck of the draw. It was the natural order of the world that some must be predators and others the prey.

Idly, he watched a woman enter the park on a pair of improbable cork wedges that were at least a half-size too small. He watched her glance across at him and flick back her hair, thrusting her chest forward in an age-old dance he recognised and had used many times to his advantage. He gave her a lazy smile, schooling his face into the appropriate lines as he considered her attributes like butcher’s meat.

“Too short and too blonde, for starters,” he mused. He preferred his women to be au naturel. “Chunky thighs, probably doesn’t exercise. Under-developed arms, dry skin.”

She was smiling now, he realised, one of those coy smiles intended to convey innocence and inveigle men.

The thought was nauseating.

Even if he could forgive her various physical imperfections, he could scarcely overlook her abominable taste in clothes. She wore an over-tight denim skirt designed for a much younger woman and a clingy vest top that left little to the imagination. Her breasts swung like udders and he began to think it was almost worth putting her down as a supreme act of kindness.

She mistook his regard and sauntered across to the bench, settling herself beside him before making a great show of crossing her legs. The action drew attention to the mottled cellulite covering her exposed skin and he began to shake, revulsion snaking its way over his skin.

“Anybody sitting here?”

“Just you, beautiful,” he said, with a flirtatious wink.

She giggled, and he checked the time on his watch.

Nearly six-thirty.

“I think I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?”

There was a momentary clutch in his chest, a tightening of the intercostal muscles, before he remembered it was just the kind of inane small-talk that men and women exchanged.

“I’m sure I’d have remembered seeing you,” he replied.

She flushed with pleasure and he began to feel tainted by her presence, the stench of her skin beginning to overpower him.

He must not lose control.

A gaggle of young women passed by the bench where they sat. He studied them critically, watching their animated faces, trying to imagine what their eyes might look like as they died.

It would be so easy.

His hands began to shake, nothing more than a tremor but it was enough to remind him to be careful. The temptation was not worth the risk and it wouldn’t do to become greedy.

Besides, he’d know her when he saw her. She was due any moment now.

He checked the time again and smiled.

“—did you?”

He realised the ugly blonde woman was still sitting there talking to him. His patience was exhausted, and his mind was occupied elsewhere. A game of cat and mouse to pass the time no longer held any appeal.

Time for her to move on.

He turned to look at her, skimming his intense gaze over the planes of her face, noting every crack and flaw. She blossomed beneath such an appraisal and wondered if, this time, she had found a prince.

He leaned forward, confidentially.

“You know, darling, if you lost about half a stone and went to a decent hairdresser, somebody might be interested in you. It wouldn’t hurt to have your teeth looked at, either, but I’m probably being pedantic.” He watched her face fall into lines of confusion and hurt, all the fuel he needed.

“You can’t have thought I’d be interested in you?” he asked, gently. “Did you really imagine I could look at you and feel anything but pity? Really, sweetheart, there’s a pecking order in all things.”

Her eyes filled, and he watched her bear down, willing herself not to cry as she snatched up her bag, almost tripping over her preposterous shoes in her haste to get away.

Once the amusement faded, he turned his attention back to the gates of the park.

“She’s late,” he breathed, tapping an angry forefinger against the side of the bench. “She’s never late.”

The anticipation was exquisite, almost painful, and he began to worry he’d missed her while he was entertaining himself with the blonde. Timing was critical.

If he’d missed his chance…

Just then, he spotted her. A quick flash of long, dark hair bundled in a high ponytail that swung from side to side as walked past the entrance to the park. There was a natural spring in her step, an infectious joie de vivre that had caught his attention weeks ago.

She was alone, just as he expected she would be.

Casually, he stood up. He stretched out his back in an unhurried motion, rolling out his shoulders before strolling towards the gates. He didn’t bother to keep his head down; that would look suspicious. Besides, there was no need.

The cameras hadn’t worked in months.

Once he passed through the gates and onto the pavement lining the road parallel to the park, she had crossed over to the other side. He anticipated that and lengthened his stride a fraction to keep up, whistling beneath his breath. The next part was trickier. She lived on an exposed street, in a garden flat with its own front door, accessible via a short flight of stairs in full view of anyone happening to pass by. Luckily, the street was busy enough to be inconspicuous; the kind of place where people came and went without ever stopping to notice what was happening around them.