Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [93]
And it was the following pause that made Victoria hesitate. In that three-second silence there was a shift, a mutation in the mood between them that told her finding the correct answer had just become imperative. But she couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say.
She felt a hand grab at her sleeve and, in bewilderment, she pulled her arm away, but not enough to break free. The fingers gripped too tightly.
She looked from left to right, hoping for even one pedestrian to come by. In one direction there were rows of chained-up, riderless bikes, and in the other, windowless walls and a solitary glowing lamp in the shape of a barber’s pole. But no people, now that she needed them.
Her eyes widened, she still wanted to be mistaken. ‘No, I didn’t, and I don’t know why you’re getting angry with me . . .’
‘I’m angry with myself because I didn’t see it sooner. You took something from my father.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You took something from my father,’ the voice repeated.
‘It wasn’t about you.’ Victoria gasped as her back slammed against the damp stone wall, her body feeling weightless, swimming nowhere against the sudden pain.
The hands released her, and she staggered forwards, trying to regain her balance. She stumbled four or five steps, hoping she was free to go.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and shrugged it away, but it wasn’t there to spin her round, just to loop something around her neck. She was then hauled back in, like a toy mouse on the end of a string.
Her shoulders hunched and she threw herself from side to side, snapping her nails on the webbing belt savaging her skin. Her bag hit the footpath, spilling its contents in all directions. Her feet flailed, fighting for purchase. Her left foot landed on a spiralling lipstick and her ankle rolled, pitching her weight against the ligature.
And in response to her struggle, it merely tightened. She felt her mouth gaping and her tongue arching as it gagged her tonsils. No one came running to save her, and the last thing she did was piss herself.
The final thing she felt was it overtaking the semen already trickling down her cold bare thighs.
Victoria slumped to the ground and, after a couple of seconds, her leg kicked once, like a dreaming dog’s. But that was all.
There was no attempt to retrieve either her handbag or its contents, but the phone was slipped into a pocket.
Above her body, a square bay window protruded from the corner of the building. Under the windowsill a man’s head was carved, about ten feet above the ground. He was black with pollution, except for the dome of his bare head, where the untarnished cream stone looked like his skull.
Victoria’s features were distorted, but her face was still intact. It didn’t look right. So she was rolled on to her front. Fingers twisted into her hair and held tightly. Then her head was lifted and her face slammed against the ground. Again and again. Pummelled against the stone pavement until it grated tracks into her skin.
The killer walked away towards the river, still carrying Victoria’s phone. It was time for Bryn to receive another text.
THIRTY-FIVE
Bryn glared at the message. ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’ He threw the phone on to the passenger seat. He knew one thing: there was no point waiting for her.
The drive was big enough to turn the Zodiac without reversing, but even so he backed up closer to her door before flooring the accelerator. The car seemed to crouch there before leaping forward, its fat tyres spitting flint chips at her windows.
He shot out through the gateway on to the deserted road beyond, leaving just the growl of the engine and quickly dispersed vapour trails billowing in the disturbed air. He felt satisfied that he would at least have annoyed someone.
Instead of heading directly home, he took the road out of town. Normally, he needed thinking time and the best way to achieve that was to drive. He rested his right hand on the top of the steering