Читать книгу The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows: A gripping thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat - Marnie Riches, Marnie Riches - Страница 7

Cold jabbed his raw skin where it was exposed. Hands, wrapped in torn, woollen gloves; the filthy threads had come loose, long ago. Blackened nails, blue fingers, toes on the cusp of being devoured by greedy frostbite. Vulnerable. But his discomfort mattered no longer. Only watching these two men, as he crouched behind a Range Rover, out of view. On this grand Belgravia street in London, double yellow lines – hidden beneath thick, shovelled banks of snow, but there nonetheless – ensured a clear line of sight.

Problem was, a man like him stood out, here. An imperfect grey figure, juxtaposed against flawless white stone; perfectly white snow, too deep to clear with grit, even in the city; icicles hanging from every portico and window frame – deadly diamond daggers.

Move along, sir. Sorry, no spare change. Shift, or I’ll call the police.

Always looks of utter disdain, as these wealthy denizens of SW1X picked up the scent of urine and stale alcohol. Especially the women. Clad in real fur, now. Since the Siberian winter of discontent …

Fuck them.

He had eyes only for these two men, standing outside Mosimann’s private restaurant. A picture of establishment respectability, posed in their cashmere outer layers before ecclesiastical built-beauty, where now only millionaires could afford to dine. Worshipping at the altar of fine food and business transactions, sealed over bottles of wine that cost thousands. Scum of the earth, these two. Black hearts so easily hidden beneath bespoke Jermyn Street clothing. Lies. Corruption. Evil.

His heart was pounding, as he rehearsed in his mind what he intended to do. Steeling himself, though a man could have no better motivation. Would he miss his chance?

Across the road, the men laughed. Easy in each other’s company. Moving aside, to let a blonde beauty pass. Some Russian oligarch’s squeeze, walking her lapdog. Trot, trot, trot. Firm buttocks clad in baby-pink Lycra. A show-pony, even in harsh conditions, drawing the men’s gaze. Now, he had a good look at them, as they turned to follow the blonde’s progress.

His quarry was neither tall nor fat. An average man in physical respects. Forty something. Dark-haired. Ordinary looks compensated for with immaculate grooming and a physique that had been created in an expensive gym. He knew this much. He also knew that this man lived in a mansion block with Chelsea views of the river. Too much security round there. So, the backstreets of Knightsbridge would suffice, providing things went according to plan.

The other – Mephistopheles with a paunch – would wait. Somewhat older. Fifty-two, in fact. That his chicanery had gone undiscovered for decades was barely credible. But different rules applied to the super-rich. Not today, though. Not today. A day of reckoning was nigh.

Pushing thoughts of the pain in his joints out of his mind, he crossed the road in haste. Dodged a black cab, skidding along on the ineffectually gritted asphalt. Slush, seeping through the holes in boots lined with newspaper.

The men were on the move. Ambling along. The older man even made a snowball and hurled it against the wall, just beyond the frontage of Waitrose supermarket. Ha ha. Playful and lighthearted. Apologising, like some charming billionaire bastard who fits right in, here, to the elderly woman it had almost taken out, before it had plopped harmlessly onto the brickwork. Chatting amiably, unhurried, like men who had the entire week diarised satisfactorily by their P.A.s. No unwelcome surprises for these masters of the universe.

Well, that was about to change, just as he had changed.

Crippling fear had turned to adrenalin. A rush. A hunger. His bloodlust was rising, fending off the chill of a Wednesday afternoon. -17°C and falling. Light already failing. He had to act fast.

At the head of the junction with the neighbouring Lowndes Street, the considerable bulk of a brown and cream Rolls Royce Phantom was waiting as close to the snow-bound kerb as was possible. A billionaire’s car, heated to perfection, its door held open by a liveried chauffeur for the older of the two men. Designed to ferry him to the next Big Meeting. Mephisto with the paunch bade his companion farewell.

Now, it was time.

His quarry started to walk briskly up through Knightsbridge, towards Harrods. Coat hem spattered with icy mess. Head bent forwards, advancing into the jaws of the Arctic wind.

Take a turn into one of the backstreets, goddamn it!

He had anticipated where this man was going. Had studied his movements well enough. But the idiot was staying on the main drag. Too many people, here. Police, cruising by slowly in a patrol car.

Shit. Turn down an alley! Turn!

Except there were no alleys. The man progressed through Lowdnes Square. A green strip in the middle, covered in thick snow; a picture postcard straight from Narnia. Fringed by cars, covered in forgetful white blankets. Here. Maybe he could do it here. The snow sucked the sound out of everything. Except, this spot was completely overlooked by townhouses and mansion blocks. Every window, a potential set of prying eyes.

Not here.

The man hastened along the pavement at a brisk pace, given conditions underfoot. Already some way ahead. The distance between them widening fast. But then, his belly was full. His body had been warmed by fine wine and brandy. His energy hadn’t been sapped by biting hunger, sucked dry by spending the harshest winter since records began on the streets. Robbed for breakfast. Moved along at lunch. Beaten up for dinner. Pissed on by other homeless, too drunk to realise what they were doing - the only midnight snack on offer.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you piece of shit. Remember why you are here.

He kept going. The moment would present itself. He had faith.

Two women, moving towards him now. Bulked up with Puffa jackets and ridiculous furry hats. Blocking his view. Talking, talking. Espanol. Muy pericoloso. Muy dramatico. Hands beating the freezing air in telenovela-exaggerated movements, breath steaming like two pressure cookers on the boil. Tourists, no doubt.

Get out of the way, you fat Spanish cows.

Heart thudding, as they crowded his vision, snuffing out the sight of his target entirely.

They passed him by. Grimacing at the sight and smell of a vagrant.

The target was out of sight. Gone.

Shit.

His face prickled with anxiety. Panic rendered him almost breathless. Peering ahead. No sign of the rich, gutless fucker. Glancing in the doorways of the surrounding buildings. Not there. Glancing in the park. Not there either. Was this all in vain? He should have planned better. Had a plan B. All was lost. But then …

Harriet Street. A sharp left, leading to Sloane Street. There he was. Pausing beneath the Victorian lamppost by the cast iron railings that fringed a 1930s block. An unwitting child, stumbled through the wardrobe wearing seasonal finery into a hard, white world. Waiting to be lured into the shadows by a ragged, destitute Tumnus.

The man struggled to light a cigarette in the wind. Sputter, sputter, the flame died. He advanced to the doorway of this white stone and brick mansion block. Unobservant, as he finally lit his smoke. Opposite, every window had been obscured behind some kind of green builder’s gauze, stretched tight over scaffolding. Hiding the view below entirely. It was a gift from an otherwise vengeful and unforgiving god.

Heart fluttering. Determination stiffening his aching spine. From the railing, he snapped one of those giant icicles that hung everywhere since the freak cold spell had descended on Europe. Ten inches. Sharpened by nature to a point. Galvanised by weeks of sub-zero temperatures.

Five paces. Four. Three. Clutching the icy shiv in his frostbitten hand.

The man was facing the other way.

Jab, jab, jab in the sweet spot in his neck before the weapon could melt or weaken. The man’s blood gushed, hissing hot on the frozen ground, spattering against the wall. Screams coming out as gurgling. But he was the only human being within earshot.

‘That’s for Amsterdam, you piece of shit,’ he said, as the man bled out, staring glassy-eyed and disbelieving into the abyss.

Running away, now, he tossed the icicle down a storm drain that had been cleared of snow. By the time the police found the body, all traces of the weapon would have been washed away in the dirt-splattered slush of the road. Melted by grit-residue. The only clue left at the scene would be the watery holes in the dead man’s neck: the calling card of Jack Frost.