Ruby orders a sandwich in a café at Paddington station, but soon pushes it away. She’s running on adrenaline after walking from Soho last night, avoiding street cameras and staying in the shadows. She hid in a doorway nearby with her baseball cap pulled over her face but got little sleep. People march past the window as she sips her Coke. They come from all walks of life: commuters, students, and pensioners. Each one has tasks to complete, just like her, although theirs look innocent. She sees a teenage couple arm in arm, laughing at some joke. The sight makes her feel lonely. She’s only had a few meaningless flings, and now a real relationship is out of reach, but her dad taught her that regrets are a waste of time.
Ruby takes her notebook from her backpack and gazes down at an address scribbled in biro. She’s visited the area many times. The house is in Royal Oak, only a short distance away. Suddenly the muscles in her chest feel too tight to breathe. The weight of her dad’s expectations rest heavily on her shoulders; it’s taken years to organise every stage. She’s determined to get it right.
She leaves a tip beside her plate, smiling at the waitress like any well-mannered tourist, and replaces her cap before returning to the concourse. Ruby keeps her face averted to cheat the security cameras gazing down from every corner. It’s easier to breathe once she’s left the station, even though the streets are full of sightseers. She knows the area well, from visiting her father in Wormwood Scrubs, before the prison’s shrink insisted he was a menace to other inmates. That led to her dad’s transfer to Crowthorne, where his life grew harder. She used to wander the streets close by, wishing they could be together. It feels good that they’re united in purpose now, even though he’s dying. If she can deliver his plan to the letter, they’ll share her success, no matter what happens next.
Ruby follows the Westway for ten minutes. The wheels of juggernauts grind overhead, the air reeking of petrol fumes, until she turns left down Porchester Road, into a neighbourhood she’s visited by day and at night. It’s full of Victorian houses, the streets sprinkled with modern buildings that sprouted from old bombsites decades ago.
Number 7 Sutherland Place looks well maintained, the front door shiny with new paint. Detective Inspector Steve Pullen must be house-proud, with money to spare on window boxes full of miniature roses. She could wait on the street corner for the next man on her list, but he might not return for days, and it’s too risky – residents could be watching from behind net curtains – so she walks straight to the house opposite. There’s a bed-and-breakfast sign displayed in the window. It’s another property she’s been monitoring, so she feels confident when the landlady answers the doorbell. The old woman studies her through watery blue eyes.
‘I’m Chloe Moore, Mrs Caston. I called yesterday to book a room.’
‘Call me Iris, dear, I’ve been expecting you,’ the landlady says. ‘I’ve got two vacancies; you can take your pick.’
‘Could I have one facing the street, if possible? I’m an art student. I love Victorian buildings; I want to sketch the local architecture while I’m in London,’ Ruby says, as the woman leads her upstairs.
‘Does this one suit you? It’s south-facing, so it gets plenty of light.’
‘Perfect. Shall I pay now for the first night?’
‘Let’s settle up when you leave. Breakfast is from seven to nine.’
‘Thanks so much, I feel at home already.’
Ruby’s fake smile vanishes once she’s alone in the genteel room, with a direct view of her target’s house. She perches on the window seat with a sketchbook on her lap, but she’s too distracted to draw. Her attention is fixed on the property opposite, watching to see who enters or leaves.