Jayne had almost missed him.
She’d been distracted by a young mother grappling with bags of shopping, a pram, and two small children, when she spotted movement at the edge of her vision.
When he came outside, he didn’t look around or give any sign that he’d noticed her. Instead, he headed towards the bus station, his hands jammed in his pockets, his pace quick. Provided she hung back, all she had to do was get on the same bus.
He trudged across the bus station forecourt, green and blue buses lined up in front of stands highlighted by large red numbers.
Jayne kept the same pace but always with a few people between them, so that it looked like she was just another weary passenger. She’d have to ask for a ticket to wherever the end stop was and then come back to collect her car, but at least it would get her somewhere.
But he wasn’t getting on a bus. Instead, he turned towards a stairwell dominated by the stainless-steel doors of a lift. He was heading to the car park above.
For a moment, she panicked. Her car wasn’t parked too far away but he’d be on the road before she had a chance to catch up. Still, she might be able to get his registration number and work out who he was from that.
He pressed the lift button and looked around as he waited.
She fought the urge to duck into a hiding spot, because it would make her more conspicuous. Instead, she stared straight ahead, past the lift entrance, as if she were merely looking for a bus somewhere further along.
She could feel him watching her, but he must have been satisfied as she walked on past, her gaze never switching back to him, because she heard the doors open, followed by the echo of his feet as he went inside. She knew she couldn’t get into the lift with him; it would make her too memorable. She stopped to check out a bus timetable, running a finger down a column of numbers, until she heard the lift doors close and the whirr of the mechanism taking him upwards. She bolted back into the tiled entrance and watched the numbers light up.
The numbers stopped rising at four.
Her footsteps rang loud as she raced up the concrete stairwell. She tried not to breathe in the acrid stench, but by the time she reached the fourth floor, she was panting hard, bending over to regain her breath before she pushed open the door to the car park.
Although they weren’t on the roof, the walls of the car park were open, and the light and steady breeze from the outside world blinded her for a moment after the dark stillness of the stairwell. A stream of cars was leaving, the engine noises loud as their tyres squealed down the ramps. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she looked along the row of cars and saw him.
He was by the edge, looking out over the bus station below and talking to someone. A woman with dark skin and a close-cropped afro.
Jayne skipped up the nearest ramp to the mezzanine level. She crept between the cars closest to the pair and peered down at them through the gap between the floors.
The woman was much younger than he was, late twenties at the most, smartly dressed in a dark trouser suit and white blouse, but looked as if she was trying to keep herself hidden. He leaned in as he spoke to her, his eyes darting around, whereas she was looking over the wall towards an ugly office block, so that it was hard to get a full view of her face.
Jayne took her camera from her pocket and snapped a few pictures as they got into separate cars. The man was driving a silver Fiesta, average and forgettable, so she made sure she got a shot of his registration number.
As the squeal of their tyres was lost in the general noise of the car park, Jayne checked the pictures on her camera. She had them.
She ran for the stairwell, bolted down the stairs and rushed through the bus station towards her own car, parked a few hundred metres away in an outdoor car park. She looked over her shoulder as she ran and saw the silver Fiesta pull out of the multi-storey and take the road towards the motorway. Her chest was pounding as she reached her car, her hair sticking to her forehead with perspiration. The Fiat started on the second turn of the key and then, with the exhaust rattling as if it was barely attached, she swung it out into the rush-hour traffic.
She peered ahead, trying to see the Fiesta in one of the queues making stop-start progress towards the motorway and a couple of miles of traffic lights and out-of-town shopping parks. She was despairing of seeing his car again when she thought she spotted him on the long climb to the motorway, driving below the speed limit, steady and careful in the left lane.
Jayne took up a position behind him, far enough back so as not to raise suspicion.
The miles passed and not even the faster motorway traffic made the Fiesta speed up. The grey city blight gave way to open fields grazed by cattle, stone villages dotting the distant hilltops.
They drove fifteen miles before he turned off the motorway and headed towards Whitton, one of the small places that lie along the canal but were now connected to the rest of the county by the motorway, another valley town dominated by lines of old grey terraces and a high brick viaduct. Jayne was able to keep the car in sight but dropped back behind another commuter until the Fiesta turned into a small estate of new-build houses, all open lawns and curved cul-de-sacs.
He turned into a driveway, but Jayne drove on to a turning point. She turned round in time to see the man unlock the door and disappear inside.
She pulled out her notepad and started to jot down all that she’d seen. The car. The address.
She checked the photographs on the back of her camera and scribbled in her notebook.
The knock on the window made her yelp.
The man was glaring through the glass. She thought about driving off but realised that would look worse. Her heart was pounding as she lowered the window.
‘I think you need to come inside.’ His voice was quiet, filled with the tiredness of a long day.
‘Do I?’
He nodded and opened her door. ‘You do.’