Mark opened the snap pack and gently shook out a line along the black granite kitchen surface.
When he’d bought the flat six months before, the estate agent had waxed lyrical about the excellent kitchen and its incredible view over the park to the distant crags of Arthur’s Seat. Mark had never cooked in the kitchen, but the granite surface had been well used, and he’d enjoyed the view on numerous occasions, including tonight, until the latest news bulletin had hit the giant TV screen and spoiled it all for him.
The bottle of cold beer, which he’d also been enjoying, had met its end on the tiled floor as the grainy video of himself exiting the pub with that girl had filled the screen. Jumping up, he’d listened open-mouthed to the description of himself and a request for Jeff and him to come forward and help the police with their enquiries.
Like fuck he would.
Then the killer ending with the photo-fit picture, and the mention of his bloody Gucci watch. That had brought the beer climbing back up swifter than it had gone down. He’d made the sink just in time, spewing it out like poison. After that, alcohol just didn’t offer what he required for his sanity, hence the hit.
Mark gripped the edge of the sink and waited for the panic to be replaced by something more pleasurable. Gradually, it was. With a sigh of relief tinged with excitement, he loosened his hold and turned on the cold tap, rinsing away the evidence of his fear. Then he studied the now famous Gucci watch.
The other girl, the blonde, must have noticed it.
Mark removed the offending item and laid it on the surface.
How many people know I have a watch like this? Jeff. Emilie. And all my co-workers at the bank. After all, I’ve flashed it often enough.
But then again, he reminded himself, the watch wasn’t unique. You could buy it at House of Fraser if you were willing to spend a grand and more. So he wouldn’t be the only male in Edinburgh wearing one. Or in Glasgow either.
But he had been in that pub on Friday night wearing it. And he had left with that girl, whose name he now knew was Leila Hardy.
The memory of him asking her name came surging back. You’re not here to ask questions, had been her reply.
Fuck, that had been a turn-on. That and her ordering him to strip.
Snorting the coke, he realized, had made him high and aroused. He thought back to the mad coupling, the crazy cat smothering him, the mix of pain and ecstasy.
One thing’s for certain. I didn’t kill her.
He was sure of that. Or was he? The flashbacks had become more frequent and more varied. Once or twice, he thought he recalled another man in the room with them, taking part in the action. Doing other things that involved the red cord round her neck.
Could that be true?
Mark pushed the offending watch off the kitchen surface to the floor. Resilient, it bounced a little then lay unhurt, staring back up at him accusingly. He lifted his foot and stamped on it, grinding his heel into its face, hearing the glass shatter, putting all his energy, frustration and fear into its destruction.
If anyone asked, he would say it had been stolen.
He poured himself a large whisky and settled on the couch. He needed to think. Destroying the watch wouldn’t be enough to cover his tracks. Emilie knew he’d been in Glasgow on Friday evening. If she saw the CCTV footage, would she recognize him from those images? The thought horrified him.
And what about Jeff? What would he do when he saw the police appeal?
They’d agreed to say nothing about that night, whatever happened. But would Jeff keep his word once he heard the girl was dead? Jeff had more to lose than a girlfriend if it got out that he’d been there that night.
They both had more to lose than a girlfriend.