In the end, they’d stayed for one more drink. She’d seemed up for it, and he’d decided that the more she’d had, the easier it would be. He’d not had a lot to say, but she’d talked enough for both of them, blethering on about her dead-end call centre job as if telling him something he might want to hear.
He’d been happy enough just to let her talk, occasionally nodding politely or responding if she asked him something. Normally, he preferred to impose himself on the conversation, let them know who they were dealing with. But that didn’t matter now. He knew how tonight was going to pan out, and he no longer really had to make an effort.
In any case, it didn’t take long for her to finish the fourth glass. That was more than a full bottle she’d consumed, and she was showing the effects. She wasn’t drunk, exactly. She clearly knew how to hold her drink. But she was getting increasingly giggly and flirty, and she was beginning to stumble over her words. Perfect, he thought.
‘Do you fancy moving on somewhere else, then?’ he said.
‘What have you got in mind?’ she said. ‘As if I didn’t know…’ She collapsed into another fit of giggles.
It was definitely time to get them out of there, he thought. If she had any more, she’d start drawing attention to herself. And that would mean drawing attention to him.
‘Maybe a bite to eat?’ He was assuming that, by now, she’d probably forgotten about his promise to repay her for the previous meal. If she remembered when they got outside, he could still withdraw the money and hand it over to her, just to keep her sweet. He shouldn’t have any difficulty retrieving it later.
‘Aye, why not?’ She leaned forward and peered at his face, as if trying to recall who he was. ‘Long as you don’t leave me to bloody pay again.’
‘I won’t. And I’ll give you the money for the last time.’ So she hadn’t forgotten, though whether she’d remember to ask him for the money was another matter.
He stood up and helped her to her feet, conscious she was swaying slightly. He assisted her with her coat, and then encouraged her to hold onto his arm as they left the bar.
‘Where do you want to go then?’ she asked once they were outside. She seemed slightly sobered by the chill air, although her gait was still unsteady. The weather had begun to close in, and the first flakes of fresh snow were falling.
‘I was thinking,’ he said, his tone suggesting that the idea had just come to him. ‘There’s a little place I know just outside the centre. It’s a bit upmarket but I feel I owe you something decent after last time.’
‘Sounds good. Is it far?’
He glanced up at the sky. ‘Not that far. But my car’s parked nearby, and given this weather…’
He wasn’t sure whether she’d resist coming in the car, but she was obviously at least partly aware of her own drunkenness so seemed relieved by the suggestion. ‘That’s good. Don’t want to have to walk too far in these heels.’
His car was parked in an allocated space at the rear of his office. She even seemed impressed by that. ‘Blimey. You’ve got your own parking place here. Mr Big Shot.’
‘I’m an important man,’ he said, going along with the joke.
He helped her into the passenger seat of the car. Her brief moment of sobriety seemed to have passed, and now she appeared more drunk than ever.
He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
‘Nice car,’ she said.
It wasn’t all that nice, he thought. It was like all his possessions, bought for convenience and ease of disposal rather than for its intrinsic qualities. The car was a prestige make, moderately large and new enough to impress those with limited knowledge. He’d bought it for cash and it was registered under the name of Elliott.
The truth was, of course, that Elliott wasn’t his real name. It was probably the most well-developed of his fake identities, with sufficient history and pedigree to ensure that it would pass muster even under most official scrutiny. But he could slough it off tomorrow and either return to his real identity or take up one of the other aliases he had prepared. It would be a pity, given how well established Elliott’s history now was, but he would have no hesitation in doing it. The car would be sold on, and someone new would purchase its replacement.
‘It gets me from A to B,’ he responded to Maggie Clennan.
‘I bet it does,’ she said, in a tone that implied some kind of innuendo.
He pulled back out into the street, then headed out of town back onto the A82 heading south. After a short distance he turned left, and then wound his way among the network of residential streets.
His house was a sizeable Edwardian detached villa, set back from the road. It was really too large for him, but the rental price had been very reasonable. The owners were a youngish couple with two children, who’d been taken overseas for a year by the husband’s work. They’d discovered that there wasn’t currently much of a letting market in the city for properties of this size and quality, so Elliott had been able to drive a relatively hard bargain. The place suited him perfectly. It was comfortable and convenient for his travel to the office and the other sites. Most of all, tucked away in this quiet backstreet with its own gardens and parking area, it was discreet. He had a gardener and a cleaner who each came in once a week to help keep the place tidy, but otherwise he was undisturbed. The neighbouring houses had largely been converted into either guest houses or flats.
He’d almost thought that Maggie Clennan had dozed off in the seat beside him, but as they turned into the driveway she stirred and sat up. ‘Is this the place? It doesn’t look much like a restaurant.’
‘It isn’t exactly.’
She frowned and looked around her. ‘So what is it?’
‘It’s where I live.’
She looked at him. ‘Oh, you’re a bad man, aren’t you?’ He’d expected her to be angry, but instead she giggled. ‘So, you going to cook me dinner here?’
He shrugged, happy to continue the game. ‘I told you it was upmarket.’
‘Can you cook then?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
She giggled again. ‘A man of many talents.’
‘Are you prepared to come in, then? I can fix you a drink while I cook something.’
She looked as if she was about to refuse, then grinned at him. ‘Aye, why not? Always happy to accept free booze. Just don’t go thinking you can try it on, eh?’
He held up his hands in mock horror. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. A few drinks, a decent meal. Then I’ll drive you home.’
‘Fair enough. And don’t forget you still owe me for that last meal.’
Drunk as she was, she clearly wasn’t going to forget, he thought. Not that it mattered now. It was all proving much easier than he’d expected. But maybe, with a few glasses inside her, that was just the kind of girl she was.
He helped her out of the car and then across the gravelled drive to the house. It was snowing harder now, the thickening flakes swirling around them. She looked up. ‘Jesus, it’s fucking cold,’ she said.
‘Let’s get inside.’
She was pressing herself against him, seeking shelter from the biting wind. He had no objection to that, though frankly it didn’t matter much anymore. It would be better if she was willing, but he didn’t really care. He certainly wasn’t prepared to waste any more time and energy wining and dining her. Once they were inside and he’d got the front door shut firmly behind them, he could do what he wanted.
The only question was how far he was prepared to go. In some ways, now, there was no point in half measures. If he let her go, she’d presumably head to the police. But then again, he supposed she might decide against reporting it, particularly if he scared her sufficiently.
But that was all a risk. If he went further, if he left her in a state where she couldn’t report him, then he’d have time to deal with things in comparative leisure. He’d have to dispose of her, but there were plenty of places he could do that. But he’d give himself the time he needed to cover his tracks and vanish.
That was part of his thinking. A large part. But not the whole of it. There was something more.
If he did that, if he went all the way with her, he might finally satisfy his anger. He might finally put a woman in her place. He might finally give a woman what she really deserved. He might finally quench that cold fire of fury that had always burned inside him.
She stumbled against him and he pulled her impatiently towards his front door. It took him a moment to find his keys and get the door open, and then finally they were inside and he was able to slam it shut behind them.
She moved away from him, and looked around at the spacious hallway. ‘Nice place. You must have a bob or two. So where do we go now?’
‘Upstairs,’ he said.
She blinked. ‘What?’
‘Upstairs. My bedroom.’
She took a step back. ‘If you think–’
‘God, you’re a stupid little bitch, aren’t you? You really bought all that crap about drinks and dinner.’
‘I don’t–’
Her face was ashen. He could see that she was trying to work out whether she could somehow get past him, get back out into the open air, where she’d no doubt scream her lungs out.
He walked forward and grabbed her by the arm. ‘Come on. I’m not prepared to waste any more time on you.’
She tried to struggle, but he knew she would be too weak. He’d thought she might try to shout but she was clearly too terrified even to do that. It didn’t matter either way. This was a solidly built old place. None of the neighbours would hear anything no matter how much noise she made.
He dragged her forcibly up the stairs. Maybe he should have just kept it simple and dealt with her downstairs. It would have been quicker and easier, but he wanted to do this properly. He didn’t want it quick or easy, certainly not for her. He wanted to do it properly, in the proper place. She owed him that. They all owed him that.
In any case, he had little difficulty handling her. She kept trying to kick out at him but he found it easy to avoid her flailing feet. His only worry was that she might send them both tumbling down the stairs, but in a moment they were on the upper landing and he was thrusting her into his bedroom.
He was a tidy man and the bed was neatly made, the white duvet cover stretched pristine across the mattress. It was a pity she would make such a mess of it, he thought, one way or another. But that couldn’t be helped.
She was trying to reach for his face, clawing at his eyes, but he had no difficulty fending her off. He grasped her by the shoulders and, lifting her from the ground, he threw her bodily onto the bed.
She was wearing a smart black skirt with a pale cream blouse. He hadn’t particularly registered her clothing earlier in the evening, and it struck him now that it was an unexpectedly demure look. Presumably, it was what she was expected to wear at the call centre, though he couldn’t imagine why it would matter.
She looked gratifyingly terrified, he thought. The way it ought to be.
He began to fumble with his trousers, preparing for the moment when he would throw himself on top of her. The moment when he would finally give her what he needed, and what she deserved.
A moment later he was on her, his hand at her throat, his face inches from hers.
He was about to start tearing at her clothing when he suddenly realised that her expression had changed. The terror that had been etched into her features only moments before had been replaced by something that looked almost like amusement.
At the same moment, he felt something cold and sharp pressing against the side of his stomach, through his shirt.
Before he knew what was happening, she had wriggled out from beneath him and had moved the pocket knife up so that its point was resting against his Adam’s apple. She grabbed his shoulder and thrust him firmly onto the bed, so that he was lying on his back. She was kneeling beside him, and the sharp blade of the knife was resting across his throat, pressing so hard that he thought it must have already drawn blood. There was a knowing smile playing across her face, and her previous drunkenness had evaporated.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘that’s really not appropriate behaviour, is it? Not at any time or in any circumstances.’ She paused and the smile broadened. ‘But especially not when your boss’s daughter’s involved.’
He had only a moment to register bafflement and then the first glimmer of understanding before her hand pressed firmly down on the knife.