the Chief Executive sit in on routine IT meetings?’
Ashford dropped his hand. ‘Good point. Very well, I admit it: I was curious. I wanted to meet you.’
The lift pinged and the doors opened. Harry stepped in and jabbed at the button for the ground floor.
‘I’ve known your father for over thirty years,’ Ashford said. ‘Salvador’s a great personal friend and a fine man.’ He smiled. ‘You’re very like him.’
The lift doors started to close. Harry glared at him through the shrinking gap.
‘I’ve known my father all my life,’ she said. ‘And I can assure you, I’m nothing like him at all.’
Cameron knew he didn’t blend in well with his surroundings. It was the colour of his hair that did it. Half a shade short of albino, a girl had once called it, as he’d rammed himself into her scrawny body. Afterwards he’d tightened his fingers round her throat and squeezed till she’d stopped moving.
He pulled the black woolly hat further down over his eyebrows and looked at his watch. He needed to get going before someone noticed him, but his instructions had been to wait for another hour.
He’d never been to the International Financial Services Centre before. As far as he was concerned, it was a place where rich people came to get richer. He could remember this part of the city before it had been redeveloped, when it was still the old Custom House docks. He’d preferred it then; vast faceless warehouses spread across bleak tracts of land. Now it was a landscaped city within a city, playing host to banks from all over the world.
Cameron stared up at the multi-storey office buildings, all made from the same green glass blocks that sparkled in the sunlight. Like the fucking Emerald City of Oz.
He leaned against the steel barrier near the edge of George’s Dock. It used to be a real dock that smelled of tar and dead fish. Now they’d transformed it into an ornamental lake. Jets of water crashed down on its surface from five spurting fountains. The noise was deafening, but it was the perfect position for observing the building opposite.
Cameron straightened up as a young woman stumbled through the revolving doors. He checked her out against the description of the Martinez girl. Five foot three, slim, with dark curly hair. Face kind of heart-shaped. She was clutching a black satchel with some kind of silver logo on it. It was her all right. She reminded him of the Spanish waitress he’d had in Madrid last year. He felt himself harden.
Cameron fell into step behind her. It was late on Friday afternoon and the city was clogged with people. He stared at her without blinking, fixing her in his sights.
He’d received his instructions by phone, his bowels clenching as he’d listened to the familiar voice. It was a voice he’d taken orders from many times before. He told himself he did it for the money, but he knew it was more than that. The blood had pounded through his body as he’d listened to the voice on the phone, anticipating the hunt.
The girl moved as if she was on the dodgems, slamming shoulders with other pedestrians, but she seemed not to notice. She walked out of the IFSC grounds and back on to the city streets. The crowd pressed in closer and he burrowed through, closing the gap between them.
‘Will I do it like last time?’ he’d asked on the phone. He’d savoured the memory of last time; the squeal of brakes, the smell of scorched rubber, the sickening crunch of metal and shattered bone. But the voice had cut into his thoughts.
‘Not yet. I need her terrified, but I need her alive.’ As if sensing Cameron’s disappointment, he’d continued, ‘But don’t worry. Next time, you can kill her.’
Next time. Cameron swallowed hard as he gained on the dark-haired girl. Why did he always have to obey orders? He risked a lot to carry out his instructions. He needed gratification, and he needed it now.
The girl picked up the pace, and he lengthened his stride to keep up with her. His first chance would come at the busy intersection marked by the Eternal Flame sculpture, where the cars wheeled past the Custom House at top speed, heedless of pedestrians. It was less than twenty yards away, and she was headed straight for it.
Suddenly, she stopped and swung around. She stared straight at him, and then retraced her steps back towards him. What the fuck was she doing? She couldn’t have seen him. He kept on walking.
She was face to face with him. Her breasts brushed against his arm, and he could feel her warmth.
‘Sorry,’ she said, without looking up, and swept on past.
He ran his tongue over his lips as he watched her walk away.
Cameron waited till she had put ten yards between them and then set off after her again. She headed back towards the river and crossed over the bridge. He followed her as she turned left along the cobbled quays. He could smell the rotting seaweed that hung like a fringe of oily hair along the river walls.
The girl turned down a narrow street lined with poky cottages and grimy blocks of flats. Cameron dropped back. There were fewer people here, less cover. He kept his distance until he heard the familiar whine of speeding traffic. They had reached the intersection with Pearse Street, where cars thundered in and out of the city centre.
The girl joined the knot of pedestrians by the kerb and he slipped in close behind her.
An old woman in a raincoat swayed in front of him. She was carrying a plastic bag full of old tennis shoes, and smelled like a urinal. He elbowed her out of his way and edged into position behind the girl. He could see the logo on her satchel more clearly now. The word DefCon was engraved in silver, the letter ‘O’ framing a black skull and crossbones.
It meant nothing to him, nor did he care.
He shot a glance at the lights and then back at the whirling traffic. Cars and motorbikes sped along Pearse Street. The lights changed from green to amber. A red truck barrelled on through. Behind it, a black BMW gunned its engine and prepared to make a run for it.
Cameron’s scalp prickled. He raised his hand.
Now.
An elbow jabbed at his arm and threw him off balance.
‘Look at that speed. Should be locked up.’ The old woman shoved her face into his. He could smell the stale wine on her breath.
The BMW roared past. The pedestrian lights bip-bip-bipped as the crowd spilled out on to the road.
Cameron glared at the stinking bag lady who had robbed him of his climax. The old woman widened her watery eyes and took a step back from him. He jerked away and strode across the street, squinting through the crowds.
There was no sign of the dark-haired girl anywhere.
He weaved his way through the bodies, straining for a glimpse of her. Then he stood still and dug his nails into his palms, ignoring the crush as he watched the flow of commuters, looking for patterns. They were scurrying past like rats, flooding from different directions. But they surged as one into the cavernous entrance on the left.
Cameron smiled and relaxed his fingers. Of course:
