I pull away from the embrace.
‘I’ll text when I have news.’
It’s 10.35, so I still have a few minutes to play with. I go through the side gate and do a quick check on the back door that was repaired with sheets of plywood yesterday. Through the kitchen window I can see the mess of my house – waiting for a visit from police to dust for fingerprints – but the back door at least seems to be holding. By the time I come back around to the front of the house, Tara’s big Nissan people carrier is gone.
The mid-morning traffic is not too bad but I push it anyway, blowing through a couple of amber lights on the way to Rectory Park. At each junction stop I check my phone for more messages from the unrecognised number. But Max – or whoever it is – has gone quiet for now. I pull into the car park with a couple of minutes to spare, slamming my door shut and scanning the surroundings. The small car park is two-thirds empty. The park itself is a well-kept playing field the size of three or four football pitches. Beech trees lining two sides, a scattering of people, young parents out with pushchairs, older couples walking slow circuits. There is a chilly autumn wind in the air and I belt my raincoat and thrust my hands into the pockets, feeling the comforting smooth shape of Tara’s attack alarm in my right hand, mobile phone in my left.
I walk quickly towards the play area on the far side, a fenced in oval with slides, swings, roundabouts and sandpits, plus benches for weary adults. I feel exposed on the open ground. I suddenly wish I hadn’t persuaded Tara out of coming. But the message had been quite specific.
The playground is busy with people pushing preschool age children on swings, standing next to climbing frames, dusting off toddlers in the sandpit. I study each of them to see if anyone stands out, if any are flying solo without a child in tow. Maybe Mia is here too? But of course she’d be too young for this playground. I quicken my pace anyway, summoning a picture of Max from memory: mid-twenties, tall, muscular, short dark hair and a left arm full of tattoos.
My phone buzzes with a text. Tara.
You OK? What’s happening?
I type a quick reply as I walk, looking up every so often, keeping my eyes peeled for anyone who looks like Max.
Yes. Lots of people here. Can’t see him yet
I open a low gate to get into the playground, find an unoccupied bench and sit down. It’s one minute past eleven. I study each of the adults in turn again. Lots of mums, a few dads, some grandparents too, overseeing a couple of dozen small children. Maybe a hundred and fifty metres to the car park entrance, two smaller entrances off side roads to the left and right. A stand of trees to the left, next to a circuit of outdoor gym equipment: parallel bars, balance beams, monkey bars, all empty. I should be able to see Max coming from a long way off, but there’s no sign of him yet. At least this is a public place and there are witnesses here.
Time slows to a crawl. One of the young mums catches my eye and gives me a strange sideways look, as if to saywhat are you doing here, childless woman? I flash her a smile and pretend to be looking at my phone, checking the time again: 11.06 a.m.
Another text from the unrecognised number drops in.
Stand up so I can get a better look at you
I stand quickly, scanning the car park, the other entrances, the row of trees behind me. Studying the adults in the playground again. No sign of Max: he’s playing with me, observing me from a distance. Checking that I’m alone.
I text back.
I’m here. Where are you?
Three messages, seconds apart.
Hillingdon Road car park. 11.30
Level 9
If you’re late, I’m gone
38
Patience is the hunter’s friend.
Because the true predator is set apart not by brutality or size, nor by stealth or agility or speed. Not even by cunning or appetite. It ispatiencethat separates true-born hunters from all the rest. Not the killing blow but the stalking that precedes it, a willingness to wait for the perfect moment, to let the prey come closer. To do the work for him. It comes from confidence, from experience, from a supreme certainty in his own abilities. From the ability to predict how prey will behave, how a target will move and react in the field.
This is why he holds off, always keeping the prey in sight, always within reach. Savouring the anticipation.
He stalks. He follows. He watches and he waits. But not for much longer.
She is almost ready.
It is almost time.
39
Level nine of Hillingdon Road car park is the top floor, the roof, open to the sky. I speed all the way there, jumping a red light and overtaking against traffic, and by the time I swing the car past the white-paintedLEVEL9 on the concrete pillar I’m sweating. The dashboard clock says 11.32 a.m.Shit. Two minutes late.
