It was McGrath’s turn to look embarrassed. ‘No, I didn’t mean – look, I’m sure you’ll be perfect in the job. When can you start?’
She blinked, as if the offer had taken her by surprise. ‘You mean I’ve got the job? Well, thank you. Really. I won’t let you down. I can start more or less immediately if you’d like.’
McGrath rose from his chair, holding out his hand. ‘Well, pleased to have you on board,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to … lick us into shape.’ The innuendo had returned, she noticed, now she’d accepted the job. She was beginning to suspect that this was going to be a long few months.
She took McGrath’s hand. He shook her hand firmly, in the manner of one who’d seen fictional businessmen doing this kind of thing in films, then, almost inevitably, held on for just a few seconds too long. ‘Yes, good to have you on board,’ he repeated. ‘One of the family and all that.’ He paused, his smile broadening. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve made too many friends up here yet,’ he added. ‘Perhaps we should celebrate your arrival? Over dinner, maybe?’
Oh yes, she thought. It was going to be a bloody long few months.
He’d almost lost her. He’d had to look twice, maybe even three times, to be sure it was her. That surprised him. Usually one photograph was enough, if the likeness was a decent one. He had a superstition about that, always approaching it in the same way. He’d stare at the photograph for minutes on end, and then he’d hold the picture to his forehead, as if somehow absorbing its essence.
He knew that the last gesture was little more than superstition. But somehow it had developed as a habit, and now he felt it helped him memorise the face. He knew, though, that it was important to analyse what he was looking at. Not just the superficial trappings – the style or the colour of the hair, whether or not the person was wearing glasses, facial hair or the use of make-up. Those things could be changed.
Instead, he concentrated on the detail of the face itself – the shape of the chin, the nose, the ears, the mouth. Above all, the eyes – not so much the colour or the shape, but their look, their expression. It was harder with a poor photograph, but if the image was a good one, the eyes were the most revealing part of all. If he could look into their eyes, he would recognise them every time.
And he was good at this. They came to him because they knew he’d get it right. He’d identify the targets, no matter what they did. And many of them – most of them, maybe – were keen not to be spotted. They did their best to change themselves, and he had to laugh sometimes at the feebleness of their attempts. The ones who took to wearing sunglasses, or who dyed their hair or grew a beard. Even if he hadn’t studied their features so closely, most wouldn’t have fooled him. They were still essentially the same people – walking and speaking and behaving the same as before.
And once he’d identified them, he would be there, watching and waiting, for as long as it took. He knew what made him good at this, and it was a rare combination of qualities. First, it was all the slow things – patience, attention to detail, willingness to give as much time as it all needed. He would stick with them, wait for the ideal moment. That was when the other qualities kicked in. The fast things. Quick decisions, sudden action. Do what needed doing and get away. Slow and then fast. It was why they came to him. Why he was the best.
But, just for a moment, he’d felt wrong-footed. This should have been one of the easier jobs; maybe that was the problem. It had been a difficult few months. One tricky job after another. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but all with additional complications. And now people were getting jittery. Looking out for him, or for someone like him. He couldn’t depend on the usual element of surprise.
But this one should have been easy. He knew exactly what she looked like, who she was. He’d allowed himself to become complacent. He hadn’t given it enough time. He thought he’d known what he was looking for.
Except that, as it turned out, he’d hadn’t quite. He’d seen her come out of that surprisingly anonymous house and climb into that unfamiliar family car. And he’d thought: shit, I’ve got the wrong place. It was as if the ground had shifted under him. He’d memorised the house number and the road. Of course he had. But perhaps he’d got it wrong – round here, it was all Such-and-such Close and This-and-that Avenue, all variations on the same dull themes. Perhaps this was an Avenue when it should have been a Close, or maybe he’d transposed the numbers.
It had taken him a moment or two, concealed in his discreetly parked car, to realise that he’d been correct all along. It was her. Everything about her looked different – the hair, the clothes, the whole style – but she hadn’t been able to hide who she really was. The way she walked, the way she moved her body. Even the way she’d climbed into the bloody car. He’d known all along. But, somehow, in those first few seconds she’d thrown him.
He swore loudly and started the car engine. The last thing he wanted was to have to chase after her down these lifeless streets. This kind of estate was a tough environment for surveillance. Too quiet, too anonymous. Too rigidly fucking conformist. People didn’t park down here without a good reason, not in the street, anyway. Every driveway was spacious enough to accommodate at least two family cars. People like him stood out like dogshit in a goldfish bowl.
He’d found a way, though. He always did. Having observed the roads on foot for a day or so, he’d found a suitably ambiguous place to leave his unremarkable car. A wider stretch of street where most of the houses seemed to have three or even more cars – teenage children and their friends coming and going. He reasoned that, for a day or two, no one would twig that his small saloon didn’t belong to one of the neighbours’ houses. It worked well enough, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
He caught up with her car as it reached the junction with the main road. He drew into the roadside for a moment, leaving sufficient distance between them. He had a good idea of where she was going. That information had been included in the brief file they’d sent.
As it was, he caught up with her easily enough. The mid-morning traffic had helped, preventing her from getting too far ahead, though he had to take care not to lose her in the endless sequence of traffic lights heading towards the city centre. It didn’t help that her car – a black saloon nearly as anonymous as his own – blended inconspicuously with the countless others streaming through the suburbs. But he kept her in sight until she turned off the main road into the maze of streets that comprised the industrial estate. He felt more comfortable then, confident of where she was heading. He continued along the main road then, a few hundred yards further along, turned into the rear of the estate. He could park up, check where she’d left her car, and keep a discreet watch until she emerged.
He had no need to reproach himself. Even now, he couldn’t quite believe how different she’d looked. Superficial stuff really, of course. Different clothes, different hair. A whole different style. A new image. She was good, that was the truth. She wasn’t an amateur, like most of them were.
He reached across to the glove box and pulled out a Mars bar and the flask of coffee he’d prepared before setting out that morning. Creature comforts – part of the secret. Make life easy for yourself. Save the hard stuff for when it matters.
He took a first bite of the chocolate and sat back to wait.
As Marie climbed back into her car, she involuntarily glanced behind her. Instinct, or maybe just experience. Sure enough, McGrath was standing
