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Chapter 130

Onemonth later, Chapin-Hag Industries

Predictability killed those people, Frederick Beck thought, as he watched his current target.

Their routines, their passions, theirthirsts. A meticulous man could study a person and know them more intimately than they knew themselves.

It was how he’d known that Kane Hunt, despite being sent a death threat, would continue to guzzle down his sildenafil. His impotence made him predictable.

And Harrison Cummings, warm in the knowledge that regardless how abhorrent his behaviour, the country would protect him the moment he cried foul. His arrogance had made him feel safe.

And Karen Royal-Cross, monotonously unoriginal in the way she viewed the world. He could have sent her a bottle with ‘Deadly Poison’ printed on the side and all she’d have done was tweet, ‘fake news’ before throwing another fat-pill down her flabby gullet.

But people like him saw everything.

The things they wanted everyone to see and the secrets they carried in their deepest pockets. For a meticulous man they were low-hanging fruit. There to be plucked at his pleasure. And yes, he had miscalculated how quickly his method would be uncovered, but that was OK – failure was an essential part of scientific discovery.

So, he would adapt and come back stronger. No warnings this time, just death. Creeping across the country, ruthless, inevitable. The likeness they’d circulated had been a decent representation, but he had planned for exposure. His beard was gone, his eyes now hidden behind coloured contact lenses. His hair was a different colour. Botulinum toxin injections in his forehead and aroundhis eyes made him look ten years younger than the man they hunted.

It had been a month since he had failed to kill Douglas Salt. It was time to start again.

But first someone had to die. A nobody. A piece of life’s flotsam. Bill Hershaw was a victim of happenstance rather than design, but unfortunately he stood between him and his current goal. Tonight was a vanity project, an unnecessary risk, but he knew if he didn’t scratch the itch, whatever followed would bring him little pleasure.

Bill was a security guard, little more than a nightwatchman. Beck had been watching him for two weeks and his routine hadn’t varied. He waspredictable.

He arrived at work exactly five minutes before his shift began and he left twelve hours ten minutes later, exactly five minutes after his shift had ended. He took a cigarette break every two hours and patrolled the facility every thirty minutes. He ate his meal at midnight – always sandwiches and crisps – and did theDaily Expresscrossword up until then. After that he stuck his nose into a trashy novel – he seemed to like American crime writers – and, other than his patrols and the occasional check of the facility’s CCTV monitors, he rarely looked up.

I know everything about you, Bill, Beck thought. I know you were discharged from the army after a back injury and I know you live alone. A sad, flavourless life.

Helived alone, but that was by choice. All great men were alone, really, even when they were married. It was a curse and a blessing. He hadn’t enjoyed being married. He resented the time it stole. He had pitied Melanie for the way she looked at him, searching for a sign she was more than just a means to an end. Did he use her? Of course he did. She wasselected. Not only was she his secret weapon in the cutthroat business of medical research funding, she was also a treasure trove of blood and spinal fluid. No need to get regulatory approval for sample acquisition, not while a living donor slept in his bed.

He never hated her though. She’d had the best life she could have. That’s what that pathologist bitch hadn’t understood. He’dwatched them talking that night. Melanie had known she wasn’t supposed to mingle, but there they were at the bar, gossiping like fish wives. Later, back in the hotel room, she’d sworn blind they hadn’t been talking about him, but he knew a liar when he saw one.

The pathologist couldn’t be allowed to put everything at risk. Couldn’t be allowed to ruin his newfound reputation. If Robin Hood had married Maid Marion just to gain a tactical advantage, there would be a different statue outside Nottingham Castle. In hindsight, he should have just killed the pathologist. He had the skills to make it appear natural. He’d wanted her alive, though, knowing she was being punished for interfering with his marriage. That was a wound that would never heal. She would scream her innocence, of course, but it would be too late. She’d be just another rich girl who had killed her daddy. The thought had pleased him. But now she was free and interfering in his plans.

After tonight he would turn his full attention to Estelle Doyle.