The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(9)

But there would be no need to worry about anybody witnessing anything unusual. By his reckoning, she was going to invite him in of her own accord and nobody would be any the wiser.

Swiftly, he crossed the street to intercept her.

“Hey, Nicola!”

She spun around, a smile already lighting up her face.

“Oh, hello!”

“I thought it was you,” he said. “Heading home?”

She gave a light shrug.

“Yeah, I’m off on holiday for a week and I need to finish packing.”

“Sounds great. Well, I won’t hold you up. Nice to run into you.” He began to step away and affected a self-conscious air she found endearing.

“Are you heading my way?”

He was so close now, so terribly close.

“Ah, I don’t know. I’m heading along Claremont Road, a friend of mine’s having a barbecue,” he improvised.

“Sounds nice,” she said as she fell into step beside him. “I live along that way, so we can keep each other company.”

She was so trusting, so ready to think the best of him, he almost regretted what was about to happen.

That was a lie.

He could hardly wait.

He kept her chatting all the way. He made her smile, made her believe she was safe. That was the most important part of all, he had learned. They must never suspect what was coming. He must never alert them to the danger and risk a scene. He’d learned that lesson before and didn’t care to exert himself unnecessarily.

“This is me,” she said.

They stopped outside a three-storey converted terrace that had been painted white at one stage or another but was now a dirty grey. Somebody had planted a few perennials in the tiny garden at the front to cheer it up a bit and a fat ginger cat sat staring unblinkingly out of the ground floor window. A stone stairwell led down to a separate entrance on the basement level, out of view.

“Alright, well, nice chatting to you and I hope you have a lovely holiday,” he said, flashing a quick smile. “Don’t forget to take your sun cream.”

She nodded and cast around for something intelligent to say to prolong their farewell.

“Enjoy the barbecue,” she said. “Might see you after I’m back?”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” he said, and gave her a lingering look.

When she turned away and skipped downstairs, Nicola was smiling. Wasn’t it funny how the world worked? She’d been wondering whether she’d done the right thing in getting rid of Stuart and had almost cracked the other night when he’d called by to pick up his stuff. Then, when she least expected it, somebody else came along. She could hardly believe it, but she was sure he’d been flirting with her…

With the key already in the lock, she heard a slight noise and almost jumped in shock.

He was standing less than a metre behind her.

“I forgot something.”

Even as the tiger opened its jaw, she failed to recognise the danger.

“What’s that?” she said, dreaming of holding hands along the riverbank. All the things she hoped for, longed for.

All the things he would never be able to give.

He moved like lightning, one strong hand clamping across her mouth while the other stabbed the pressure syringe into her neck. Her eyes flew wide with shock as she felt the sharp stab of a needle but there was no time to struggle, no time to scream before the drug took effect. Her body began to sway, and she buckled, rapidly losing feeling in her arms and legs. He propped her against the door with one strong arm while the other turned the key in the lock, freezing as he heard footsteps passing by on the pavement above.

A moment later, they were gone.

“Come on, sleepy-head,” he said. “Let’s get you inside.”

He shut the door softly behind him.





CHAPTER 5


Tom Faulkner watched the sun begin to disappear behind the rooftops from the driver’s seat of his van, where he sat quietly sipping a bottle of lukewarm Irn-Bru. The Senior Crime Scene Investigator was a mild-mannered man of around forty whose face wore a constant hangdog expression of anxiety that belied his passion and flair for forensic science. Polypropylene overalls hung at his waist to reveal a faded X-Files t-shirt that had seen better days and his mousy brown hair was matted with sweat.

“Got a minute?”

Ryan poked his head through the half-open window and Faulkner scrubbed a tired hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he looked back to see the tented entranceway and thought of what had lain beyond the innocuous front door. “Let’s walk and talk. I need to shake it off.”

“Bad business in there,” Phillips sympathised, as they ambled down the street towards the village.

“Yeah. About as bad as it gets.”

It came to something when a CSI laid claim to that.

“What can you tell us?” Ryan asked, never a man to beat around the bush. “Did they leave anything behind?”

“They always leave something.” Faulkner took another sip of his drink and replaced the cap, swilling the sugary liquid around his mouth as if to rinse out the taste of death. “But it’ll be a miracle if we have any clean samples after wading through everything. It’ll take days before I know.”

Ryan watched a woman cross the street clutching the hand of a boy of three or four and felt his stomach twist.