He was actually lying on the cold metal floor in the rear of a stolen Ford Escort van parked near Henry Christie’s flat. He raised himself an inch at a time so that he could see out of the front windscreen. Fifty metres away from him stood Henry Christie and walking towards him was the prostitute, Jane.
Must be my birthday, he thought, gloating.
He quickly dropped back onto the floor of the van and waited for her to pass. The click-clack of her heels approached, grew louder, drew level with the van and then receded. As her footsteps faded, Hinksman pushed himself back up.
Henry had disappeared to the back entrance of the vet’s surgery.
Hinksman’s mind worked quickly. He was in a quandary. He had been parked there for most of the evening, awaiting Henry’s arrival home. Hinksman had expected him to be alone and it had been his intention to kill him in the back yard of the surgery. He’d been relishing the prospect of getting up close to the bastard and killing him face to face because in the short time he’d been acquainted with Henry he’d come to loathe him. He wanted to be right there at the death, not standing 100 metres away, shooting him. No. He wanted the feel of the knife going in, jarring the ribs, piercing the heart, twisting. That was what he desired.
But now things had changed.
The prostitute. The one who’d stolen from him. The one who’d escaped with all his money. The one who’d escaped with her life.
A surge of excitement coursed through his loins. Killing Henry would be sweet revenge, there was no doubt about that, and it would give great satisfaction. But killing the prostitute would be sheer pleasure — the kind he hadn’t experienced in a long while. It was an opportunity not to be missed.
Quietly, he opened the back doors of the van and slid out. In the distance he could still see Jane. He began to follow.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jane’s flat was a one-room bedsit on the top floor of a seedy block in the back streets of Blackpool’s south shore.
In one corner of the room was the bed — a mattress flung on the floor, covered by grubby sheets that hadn’t seen a washing machine for months. In another corner of the room was a large settee that looked like it had once been very comfortable. Now it sagged badly, and it too was marked with the stains of her profession.
The corner opposite the door was the kitchen area, consisting of a cupboard, grimy sink, a two-ringed electric cooker and a battered fridge. The grotty wardrobe was the only clean thing in the room, clean because it contained the clothes and shoes that were her obsession. It was crammed full of assorted dresses, skirts, blouses, suits and shoes, mostly loud and glitzy ones she used for work. Without exception they were stolen from the major stores in Blackpool.
She came up the steps to the flat with a weary but silent tread. She had taken her shoes off right at the bottom because she’d had numerous accidents before when negotiating the narrow, poorly lit stairs in high heels and with drink taken.
The building was unusually quiet. Her neighbours, mostly unemployed teenagers, single mothers, drug addicts and an old-age pensioner on the ground floor, tended to keep odd hours. But tonight was quiet and dark.
She pushed open her door which was not locked, never had been, never would be, and entered her home. She was glad to see her bed. Not that it was particularly comfortable, but it left that rock-hard cell bed standing. She stripped off and hung her clothes up carefully, discarding the torn blouse and laddered stockings in a waste bin. Then she stood before the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door and surveyed herself uncritically while scratching her bushy black pubic mound and yawning.
Still naked, she padded across the landing to the shared bathroom. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement down the stairs on the landing below, but thought nothing of it. Probably one of her oddball neighbours skulking about. Didn’t bother her. However, she did lock the bathroom door behind her. There were some things she liked to keep private. She emptied her bladder then had a quick, lukewarm shower and dried herself off with someone else’s towel. She slid back to her room shivering, but feeling half-human again.
As she stood in front of the mirror, combing through her damp hair, she saw the door open behind her. She guessed it was that crank from the first floor who visited her at odd times of the day. He was a screwball, but she had no conscience about charging him double for a wank. She sighed. ‘Come on in, Roger, don’t be shy. I’ve just got time before I hit the sack — but it’ll cost you twelve quid.’ She waggled her ample bottom provocatively. Money, after all, was money.
The man came in.
Fast and hard.
Before she knew what had happened, she was on her back on the mattress, held down with a hand clamped over her mouth. Hinksman’s face, glaring mad-eyed down at her, was only inches away from her own.
‘ Hello Jane,’ he said. ‘I’m back.’
She squirmed ineffectually. The hand stayed over her mouth, cupping her chin in its palm so that it was impossible for her to bite. He held her easily.
‘ You stole something of mine,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you?’
He placed the forearm of his free arm across her throat and took hold of her shoulder for extra leverage. Slowly he forced the forearm down onto her Adam’s apple. Just before she passed out, he released the pressure and slightly opened the fingers of his hand over her mouth to let air pass through.
She sucked greedily. Her pallor, which had turned pale like cartridge paper, now turned bright red.
‘ You did steal something of mine, didn’t you?’ he repeated.
This time she managed a nod.
‘ Good. Right… I’m going to take this hand away now and I want you to talk to me in a whisper. You scream out or even talk normally and I’ll put it back and kill you. OK?’
A nod.
He peeled his hand away, one finger at a time. His forearm still rested across her throat.
‘ Where’s my money?’
‘ Spent it,’ she whispered. This was a lie.
‘ On all those dresses?’
‘ Yes.’
‘ Oh you stupid, stupid woman.’ He shook his head sadly and sighed. ‘So, what’ve you been saying to Henry Christie?’
‘ Henry Christie? What you on about?’ Jane’s eyes focused on his face as a whole. ‘Oh God,’ she uttered, ‘you’re the one who killed all those people on the motorway, aren’t you? And all those cops. I didn’t realise until now. Oh God, oh God.’
His hand clamped over her mouth again; his forearm pressed down onto her neck. The airflow was cut off quickly this time. She began to lose consciousness. Her head swam in a surfy sea, a warm, pleasant sea and it felt good to be dying.
Hinksman suddenly changed tactics. He jumped up and took hold of a bottle of Jane’s vodka, just over a quarter full.
‘ Sit up and drink this,’ he said, straddling her and handing it down to her.
She crawled into a sitting position, reached out a shaking hand and took the bottle from him.
‘ Big mouthfuls,’ he insisted.
Jane knew, somehow, that this time there would be no opportunity to escape. He was too quick, strong and determined — and experienced. He oozed death. It leaked from every pore. Yes, Death had returned and was going to complete what it had started.
The only thing that warmed her was that he wouldn’t get his money back, not one penny, not one cent of it.
She smiled and put the vodka to her lips again. If she was going to be murdered she might as well be oblivious to it. With the alcohol content in her body still relatively high, it wasn’t long before she was completely drunk again.
Jane amassed all her faculties with one deep breath. Now she did not care.
‘ YOU’RE A FUCKING BASTARD WHO CAN’T SHAG FOR TOFFEE,’ she screamed.