Could it be a shooting range?
He tried to force some sense into the chaos that was his brain. The gunfire was definitely contained behind that wall.
He risked another look above deck. There was still no one in sight, aboard the boat or along the path.
Safe to move? He thought so. Over the rail he climbed and stood stiff-legged for a moment before crossing the deck and lowering himself to the landing stage.
Still alive.
The Finisher must have given up the chase and returned to the van. With the immediate danger past, Spiro could get his thoughts together. The shots from behind the wall continued, but he was no longer concerned. They sounded less menacing now, and he was sure he could hear voices coming from the same place, good-humoured, relaxed voices.
He moved a short distance up the path to where he could look over. Then he understood. Across a freshly mown playing field was a white building emblazoned with the words bath cricket club.
Bath Klub Kriket in Albanian. Spiro understood.
Bat on ball.
He knew little about cricket except that it was a summer game, but he could see for himself the source of the “gunfire.” In the foreground just below the wall were a number of tall, open-ended cages of netting attached to steel frames. Inside the nearest was a man standing on matting, holding a bat and swinging it at a hard, red ball bowled with force by another man. The crack of bat striking ball would have fooled anyone nervous of being shot.
The relief that surged through Spiro was a liberation. For the first time in months, he smiled. He could start getting his life back, making decisions for himself. His mistake had been laughable but was excusable. Plus, he’d learned where he was. Even with his narrow schooling under the former communist regime in Albania, he’d heard of Bath, the spa city in England developed by the Romans and rebuilt by the British into one of the architectural marvels of Europe. Here, surely, would be civilised people who would help him survive.
He watched several balls being struck hard into the netting. The sight of young men out early practising a summer game on a cold morning in winter was itself inspiring. He had no identity here, no passport, no funds, but he would find work for a fair wage, the means to exist and fit in and maybe — one day — join in their sport.
Then a hand clasped his shoulder from behind.
“Te gjeta, Spiro,” said the voice in Albanian.
I found you.
6
The body was unlikely ever to be found. No one had any reason to go down there. The Finisher had no conscience about what he’d done. He didn’t allow morbid thoughts to burden him. The act of murder had become necessary. End of story.
Now is now and then was then.
The final stage in getting away with murder is that you do nothing different. You carry on living at the same address, rise at the same hour, eat the same food, use the same shops, meet the same people and give the impression you’re no different from any of them.
Normal life resumed. He lived at a good address and had a reasonable income, enough to indulge himself when he wished and others when he chose. The others he indulged were always women and Bath was the ideal place to meet them. He loved their company and they responded to him, his good looks, his sense of humour and infectious laugh, his delight in everything they said and his interest in their stories. He never forced the pace. They relaxed with him over tea and cake, coffee and biscuits or gin and lime — whichever they preferred. Carrot juice and a high-calorie protein bar for one fit lady.
He didn’t need to go far. Gorgeous women were everywhere in this enchanting city: students too deep in loan debt to enjoy the best time of their life; tourists on short visits wanting to pack as much pleasure as possible into a few hours; over-thirties starting to lose confidence in their pulling power; fitness fanatics desperate to be told they glowed with health; bored housewives thinking there must be someone better out there; and trophy wives of the ultra-rich, only too willing to be unfaithful with someone more their own age.
And so to bed, as the diarist said.
But it isn’t as straightforward as that.
Where to meet them? This city was stiff with coffee shops, tea rooms, restaurants, pubs, parks, galleries, museums, gyms, thermal spas, nightclubs and a bewildering choice of tourist attractions from the Roman Baths to the Jane Austen Centre. He would join a guided walk, hop on a tour bus, take a river trip or simply stroll up Milsom Street, where they did their window shopping. If you can’t make out in Bath, you must be Godzilla.
He wasn’t short of experience, and that helped. He could read the signs, so he didn’t waste time and money on unresponsive dates. He knew the chatlines that worked and he used them. Relationships weren’t for him. He was a one-night-stand man (in fact, a one-afternoon man, because he had other things to attend to at nights). Always on neutral ground, hotel rooms he paid for. No strings. He would say, “That was sensational.” But never, “When can we meet again?”
He wasn’t deceitful. He told them they were amazing, sexy, irresistible, like no one else he’d ever met, and he believed it at that moment, and they could tell and they lapped it up. He said nothing about future plans. You don’t, before you’ve got to know each other. After sex, he was generous enough to confirm that they’d been amazing, sexy, irresistible and like no one else he’d ever met, and that was it. They couldn’t possibly top such a high, so the best thing was to leave it there. No exchange of phone numbers. In the nicest way he knew, he would let her know that the experience had been a one-off.
Finish.
The majority understood. A few had to be told he didn’t do second dates. Some got emotional, which was a pity. You can’t predict how everyone will react.
After that, there was a small risk of being recognised by one of them when he was with somebody else. It had to be factored in and it had happened more than once. His way of dealing with it was a quick, faint smile of recognition and then back to full-on charm with his new companion. It worked.
Now is now and then was then.
7
The year had turned and the days were lengthening. You wouldn’t notice, but they were. Maeve was still training in darkness, thankful for the reflective patches on her leggings. She’d got over the feeling that if she hadn’t broken that sodding Toby jug she could be sitting at home with a glass of wine going through a favourite box set on TV. Running had become a mission. Not only was she helping heart patients, she was doing her own heart a power of good and her skin felt and looked positively peachy.
She was in danger of turning into Little Miss Perfect.
She’d given up the canal runs altogether. Bath’s streets had plenty of variety and were well lit. She’d mapped out routes that would stretch her ability as the weeks went by, for she’d found a pace that suited her and she could keep going for up to half an hour. Trevor’s advice about weighing herself regularly had been helpful. She was shedding pounds. Already it amounted to more than two kilos, hugely encouraging when she thought how liberating it was not to be carrying the equivalent of two bags of sugar around all day.
This wasn’t to say that the runs were easy. Her body still told her many times over she wasn’t meant for this and reminded her of her mother’s advice about curvy girls. Then there were nights when it was really cold and gloves and a bobble hat made no difference. The temptation to take a break was overwhelming, but she wasn’t going to give Mother the chance to say, “I told you so, dear. You’ll never be an athlete.”
On the positive side, the friendship with Olga was a definite support. In her own way, her new Russian friend was as committed to self-improvement as she was.