Читать книгу Thin Ice - Nick Wilkshire - Страница 4

He hadn’t run a step but was already sweating in the cool morning air, his heart racing as he stood on the Somerset footbridge and scanned the jogging path on the other side of the canal. To the north, the bridge was barely visible through the mist that obscured the copper rooftops of the Château Laurier beyond. To the south, he could make out the deserted path to where it snaked right, following the bend in the canal. The chirping of the birds and the distant sound of traffic were all that punctuated the silence.

Maybe he’s not coming….

He fought the creeping desperation as he leaned on the railing and watched a dislodged pebble fall into the water below, momentarily absorbed by the echo of the splash and the simple perfection of the circles floating outward from the entry point. Looking up toward the dogleg in the path, he spotted a form rounding the corner, five hundred metres off and heading toward him. He set off over the bridge, and as he reached the other side, the figure came into focus. It was definitely a man, of average height, wearing a running jacket and baseball cap.

It’s him!

His heart rate kicked up a notch as he hurried down to the lower path and headed south, glancing across the water at the empty walking path on the other side of the canal and the deserted roadway above. Looking back down the path in front of him, he noted the other jogger was closing fast. The sound of the approaching footfalls were muffled by the shroud of mist, but he felt each one shudder through his spine as they grew closer and he reached into the pouch of his hoodie for the knife. When he looked back at the oncoming runner, he knew something was wrong — the gait and the proportions were all off. He released the knife and slid his hand back out as he passed within a few feet of a man in his forties who flipped him a wave. He lowered his head and kept going until the next bench, looking back over the ground he had just covered, and the other runner’s progress past the pedestrian bridge. Glancing at his watch again, he noted the time — six fifteen. Pretty soon, the path would begin to fill with the morning crowd.

If he’s not here in the next five minutes …

He headed back toward the bridge at a trot, with the occasional glance over his shoulder to scan the deserted trail. He had only seen two cars on Colonel By Drive in the past ten minutes, but he knew that would soon change. He could feel the air growing warmer as the sun threatened to burn off the morning haze and light the still-murky path.

He was crossing back over the bridge when he spotted another runner at the curve down by Waverly Street. Even from this distance it was clear the guy was moving, and would cover the half-kilometre to the bridge in seconds. He turned and set back off down to the path. As he began to jog, he adjusted his hood over the peak of his hat and glanced toward the oncoming form, noticing the purposeful, athletic stride and the wraparound sunglasses, despite the morning mist. He increased his pace as they neared each other, and at about fifty feet he made out the training camp logo that removed any doubt as to the other man’s identity. He took a firm grip on the concealed knife and edged closer to the centre of the path as they both entered a shadow cast by one of the larger overhanging maples. As the other jogger wiped some sweat from his brow, he lunged.

The knife plunged deep between the ribs over the upper left chest, the force of the collision thrusting the blade sideways as it tore through flesh and cartilage until it stuck fast in solid bone. Apart from the sickening tearing sound, there was only a muffled groan as the victim reeled off balance and clutched at his chest, disoriented by the sudden attack and unable to counter the powerful momentum that propelled him backwards until the top rung of the iron railing hit the small of his back, gravity suspending him for an instant before toppling him over. Leaning over the rail, the breathless attacker watched the futile attempt to dislodge the knife as the slap of water shattered the silence on the deserted path. He watched with relief as the brownish-green waters of the canal enveloped his wide-eyed victim, with only a succession of ugly, irregular ripples to disturb the calm of the surface and suggest that he had ever existed.