Dead Like You

He pulled the solid-feeling driver’s door open and climbed in, noticing the rich smell of the car’s leather upholstery and traces of her perfume, Armani Code.

Glancing through the windscreen to ensure that all was clear, he checked the buttons for the interior lights, until he found the one that kept them switched off, and pressed it.

All set.

So much to think about. In particular all those CCTV cameras everywhere. It wasn’t enough just to put fake number plates on the van. Many police cars drove around with onboard ANPR. These could read a number plate and in a split second get all the details of the vehicle from the licensing department in Swansea. If the registration did not match the vehicle, they would know instantly. So the registration plates he had on this van were a copy of those on an identical van to this – one he’d seen parked in a street in Shoreham.

Just to make sure that the van in Shoreham didn’t go anywhere for a day or two, in case by chance they should both be spotted by the same police patrol, he’d emptied a couple of bags of sugar into its petrol tank. He liked to think he had covered every eventuality. That was how you stayed free. Always cover your tracks. Always have an explanation for everything.

He climbed across on to the back seat, then pulled the black hood over his head, adjusting it until the slits were aligned with his eyes and mouth. Then he squeezed himself down on to the floor, between the front and rear seats, out of sight to anyone peering in the window – not that they would see much through the tinted privacy glass anyway. He took a deep breath and pressed the button on the key fob to lock the doors.

Soon now.

81

Thursday 15 January

Dee Burchmore had a golden rule, never to drink before she gave a talk. But afterwards, boy, did she need one! It didn’t matter how many times she had done it before, standing up and speaking in public always made her nervous; and today for some reason, she didn’t know why – perhaps because this was a particularly big and prestigious event – she had been even more nervous than usual giving her fund-raising speech for the Martlets hospice.

So afterwards, although she had been anxious to get home in good time to greet her guests for her 4 p.m. meeting, she’d stayed chatting to friends. Before she knew it, she’d drunk three large glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. Not smart, as she’d barely eaten one mouthful of her food.

Now, entering the car park, she felt decidedly unsteady on her legs and was having trouble focusing. She should leave the car, she realized, and take a taxi, or walk – it wasn’t that far. But it had just started to rain and she did not want to get her brand-new Manolos sodden.

Even so, it was not a good idea to drive. Quite apart from the danger, she was thinking about the embarrassment it would cause to her husband if she was stopped for it. She stepped up to the pay machine, then fumbled in her bag for the ticket. As she pulled it out, it fell from her fingers.

Cursing, she knelt down, then had problems picking it up.

I’m smashed!

She tried to remember if she had an umbrella in the car. She was sure she did. And of course her flat driving shoes were in there too! Brilliant! She would put them on and walk home – and that would be the best way to sober up.

She put the ticket back in her bag, then staggered on up to Level 2.

82

Thursday 15 January

He heard the echoing clack-clack-clack of her heels on the concrete floor. Getting closer. Walking fast.

He liked the sound of heels getting closer. He’d always liked that sound. So much better than the sound of them receding into the distance. Yet, at the same time, they had frightened him as a child. The sound of heels fading meant his mother was going out. The sound getting louder meant she was returning.

Which meant she was probably going to punish him. Or make him do things to her.

His heart thudded. He could feel the adrenalin rush, like the hit of a drug. He held his breath. She was coming nearer.

This had to be her. Please be wearing the blue satin Manolos.

CLUNK.

The noise startled him. It was like five simultaneous gunshots all around him, as all five door locks of the car released together. He nearly cried out.

Then another sound.

Clack-clack-clack.

Footsteps walking to the rear of the car. Followed by the hiss of the gas struts of the tailgate rising. What was she putting in there? Shopping? More shoes?

Almost silently, with a practised hand, he popped off the lid of the plastic travelling soap dish in his pocket and eased the chloroform pad out with his gloved hand. Then braced himself. In a moment she would get into the car, close the door and put her seat belt on. That was the moment he would strike.

To his total surprise, instead of the driver’s door, she pulled the rear door open. He stared up at her startled face. Then she backed away in shock as she saw him.

An instant later, she screamed.

He levered himself up, made a lunge at her face with the pad, but misjudged the height of the car above the ground, stumbled and fell on his face. As he scrambled to his feet, she stepped back, screaming again, then again, then turned, ru

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

He watched her, crouched in the space between the Touareg and his van for some moments, debating whether to run after her. She would be in full view of the cameras now. Someone was going to hear her screams.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

He was trying to think clearly but he couldn’t. His brain was a muzz of stuff.

Got to get out, away from here.

He ran around the rear of the van, climbed in through the doors and pulled them shut, then stumbled forward, climbed over the seat-back, eased himself behind the steering wheel and started the engine. Then he shot forward out of the bay and turned left, accelerating hard, following the arrows to the down ramp and the exit.

As he turned left, he saw her halfway down the ramp, stumbling on her heels, waving her arms hysterically. All he needed to do was to accelerate and he’d wipe her out. The idea flashed through his mind. But that would bring more complications than it would solve.

She turned at the sound of his engine and waved her arms even more frantically.

‘Help me! Please help me!’ she screamed, stepping into his path.

He had to brake sharply to avoid hitting her.

Then, as she peered through the windscreen, her eyes widened in terror.

It was his hood, he realized. He’d forgotten he still had it on.

She backed away almost in slow motion, then turned and ran, as fast as she could again, tripping, stumbling, screaming, her shoes falling off, first the left one, then the right one.

Suddenly a fire exit door to his right opened and a uniformed police officer came ru

He floored the accelerator, screeching the van around and down the next ramp, then raced towards the twin exit barriers.

And suddenly realized he hadn’t paid his ticket.

There was no one in the booth, but in any case he didn’t have time. He kept on accelerating, bracing himself for the impact. But there was no impact. The barrier flew off as if it was made of cardboard and he sped on, up into the street, and kept going, dog-legging left, then right around the rear of the hotel, until he reached the traffic lights at the seafront.

Then he remembered his hood. Hastily he tugged it off and shoved it in his pocket. Someone behind him hooted angrily. The light had turned green.

‘OK, OK, OK!’

He accelerated and stalled the van. The vehicle behind hooted again.