The only thing that could have put Alastair in a better mood that night was if Tina Boyd had also been killed in the shootout back in London, which he’d now found out had resulted in the death of that psychotic hitwoman The Wraith, thereby saving Alastair both money and grief. Even so, Boyd alone was no real problem and he’d definitely find a way to deal with her later. Subtly, of course. But he’d get her.
He got everyone in the end.
It had been a wonderful evening with the Buxton-Smythes, sitting out on the veranda overlooking the wine-dark Adriatic Sea dotted with tiny islands, so characteristic of this end of the Croatian coast, while the nannies dealt with the offspring. The food had been sublime, which is usually the way when money is no object, and Ginny Buxton-Smythe had looked especially ravishing in a simple but elegant white dress that showed off her tan, and four-inch black heels. More than once Alastair had caught her giving him sneaky glances out of the corner of her eye. Naughty bitch. Clearly Piers wasn’t giving her enough of the right attention.
But of course, Ginny was totally out of bounds. Alastair had a public reputation to keep up, and fucking his friend’s wife wasn’t going to do much to help it; and anyway, there was no way he’d be able to control himself with someone like Ginny. He would just have to be brutal. She needed a good, solid beating. She deserved it.
It had now been almost a year since he’d last given full vent to his urges. That had been in Bosnia when he and Cem had tortured, raped and killed a young hiker they’d bought to order from a local crime gang over the course of an entertaining three days. He felt a pang then when he thought of Cem. They’d had some fun together.
But life always has to move on, and move on Alastair already had. He’d been corresponding via email with a representative of the same gang they’d got the hiker from last year, about the possibility of procuring him another girl. Unlike Cem, who’d been able to take the edge off his urges simply through having rough sex with prostitutes, this had never worked for Alastair (although he’d obviously tried). He needed more. He needed, in truth, to kill. Because for him it was always about the power.
It was gone midnight now and he stood alone, hands resting on the veranda balustrade, looking out to sea. The Buxton-Smythes had left, and his wife and child were in bed, as was the nanny, a large Polish woman who was older than Alastair, whom Katherine had doubtless hired to make sure he avoided temptation. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warm breeze on his face, then felt the buzz of his unofficial phone – the one he religiously kept away from his wife – in the pocket of his Givenchy shorts.
Taking it out, he saw he had a WhatsApp message from an unidentified number. He knew exactly who it would be from though, and he was right.
We have something ready for you Friday. It does not need to be returned.
He smiled. Perfect.
The hunt was back on, and it would be held in honour of Cem Kalaman. It seemed a fitting tribute.