Bloody Valentine - James Patterson [1]
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-099-55675-6
ADVICE: contains violent scenes
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter One
‘Killing isn’t murder when it’s necessary.’
The figure, dressed in black, lying on the bed, believed it. The killing that had taken so much planning would benefit more people than it would hurt. So it wouldn’t be murder.
The killer listened to the faint roar of London traffic that the triple-glazed windows failed to mute, and watched the figures change on the digital clock. 2.00 a.m., 2.01 a.m., 2.03 a.m., 2.04 a.m. …
The click of the clock and a distant steady breathing were the only sounds apart from the traffic. The sleeping pills in the bedtime drink had worked. No one else was awake.
At 2.10 a.m. the night porter, Damian Clark, would pocket the intercom receiver. He’d leave the foyer and take his break in his studio flat in the basement. His routine hadn’t varied in the six weeks that the killer had watched him.
The cameras would record, but Damian wouldn’t be watching the screens above the porter’s desk. It was the perfect time. With care there’d be nothing to be seen on the tapes, because the killer knew the exact angle of the cameras, where they recorded and where they didn’t.
Damian’s absence was an extra safety measure.
The street doors were locked. No one could enter Barnes Building without summoning Damian on the intercom and who was going to call between two and three in the morning?
No resident could enter one apartment from another unless they had the master key code. The day porter, Ted, had been stupid. When he’d been given the job three months ago, he’d written down the code and left it on a notepad on the desk.
At 2.10 a.m. the figure rose from the bed and glanced in the mirror. All that could be seen was a black shadow in the darkness. The only glimpse of colour was in the eyes shining through the slits in the ski mask. Thin latex gloves were snapped on. The pencil torch was in the trouser pocket. The bag packed.
Time to go.
The layout was the same in all the apartments except the penthouse. The front door opened into a hall. There was a kitchen on the left, a living room that opened on to a balcony straight ahead, bedrooms and bathrooms on the right. Snuffles and heavy breathing came from behind the second bedroom door. The killer listened at the outer door before opening it and creeping out into the corridor.
The kitchen surfaces gleamed, smelling of antiseptic, as a chef’s kitchen should.
The knives were in the block. A chopper to cut through bone. A filleting knife to loosen organs. A carving knife to sever muscle. The two-pronged fork was hanging above the cooker. All were placed in the bag. Back to the hall. Listen at the door. Was it imagination, or was there a sound in the corridor?
Open the door slowly. Deep breath to steady nerves. Back into the corridor, crawling low to avoid the lens of the CCTV camera.
The building hummed with night noises. The heating whirred. The low-wattage light bulbs buzzed. Water ran in the communal utility room as a night load washed.
No one slept in the artists’ studio. The plumbing under the sink was plastic, push fit. A stab with a sharp penknife split the joint. Water began to drip, enough to make a small pool by morning. It would claim the day porter’s attention for an hour or two.
The stairs behind the fire doors were concrete. They led up to the penthouse roof terrace and down to the cellar car park. There were cameras trained on the outside doors. One was at the cellar car park level, another was on the roof. Nothing between.
It was easy to crawl below the red-eyed beam of the CCTV, reach up,