London, 1988
They were watching Layla Carter like cheetahs about to run down an impala.
‘That’s her,’ said the man in the driver’s seat.
The two men stared out of the steamy windows of the car, parked at the edge of the park. Thin sunlight was beginning to penetrate the dull grey clouds. They’d been waiting for over an hour; she was late this morning. They’d started to wonder if she was coming at all, but it was unlike her to break her routine.
Finally, here she was. A dark-haired young woman dressed in navy shorts, white sports bra and trainers was jogging steadily around the perimeter of the park, kicking her way with long easy strides through the dewy grass, her breath pluming out in the cool morning air.
‘She’ll check her watch when she reaches the shrubbery,’ said the one behind the wheel, his eyes on the woman. ‘One, two, that’s it…’ The woman slowed to a walk, looked at her watch. The driver, a big man with pudgy features, the build of a rugby prop forward and a shock of long curly red hair, turned to his companion. ‘See that? A creature of habit.’
‘So shall I do it, Rufus? Can I?’ Dickon was getting excited. The coast was clear, there was no one else about. Perfect timing. She wasn’t, he was disappointed to see, that young – not as young as he liked them – but he was still eager to get on and do it.
‘No.’ Rufus savoured the sight of the woman, the feeling that she was within his grasp. His for the taking, whenever he was ready. Orla would be pleased with him, he knew it.
‘I could do it now,’ said Dickon.
Rufus sent him a cold glare. Dickon was a kiddy-fiddling piece of shit who was bound straight for hell, but in the meantime he had his uses.
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘She’ll run again in a minute. Let her. Then she’ll be too tired to get away.’
Layla bent double, hands on knees, until she got her breath back. She was slow this morning. It irritated her. She could feel her heart pounding, and her head was thumping too. Last night’s company dinner hadn’t gone well, she’d drunk too much and now she felt awful.
Looking back, she was annoyed with herself. She hadn’t even wanted to attend the dinner, but she knew she had to make the effort. After all, Bowdler and Etchingham, Chartered Accountants and Registered Auditors, had given her a chance, hired her despite all the whispers about her family background: the least she could do was turn up at their annual bash. But now, she wished she hadn’t.