Their relationship, she reasoned from a position of hindsight, had been on rocky ground all along. First with the lies he had told her about his estranged family, and then later, even as they had tried to make it work, the truths she couldn’t tell him. When she had informed him, soon after realising she was pregnant, that the baby might not be his, it had opened a wound. And she had let it fester, refusing for her own reasons to have any sort of paternity test. It didn’t matter to her who the father was, Lucas or her former colleague Jack Pryce. Or rather, she simply didn’t want to know. Lucas couldn’t comprehend that at all.
Within a couple of months of sporadic contact, she’d realised he was back on the booze. She, and everyone close, especially his ex-wife, had tried to stop him, but the compulsion seemed too great, and soon she felt vindicated in cutting him out of her life and that of her unborn child. With her maternal hormones raging, she had found it easy to be brutally selfish, conscious that her capacity for compassion had shrunk. He needed support greater than anything she could provide. She’d suspected Paul and Amelia hadn’t fully understood, and once or twice they’d made tentative queries to uncover what was going on. Harry had been the opposite. Non-judgmental, dependable, wise. A rock, whenever she needed to talk.
But when he had come to her, she hadn’t been there.
Jo drank a glass of water on the couch, then leant across and listened to his voicemail again.
‘Hello, Jo. It’s been a while. Listen, there’s something I need to talk with you about. I know you’ve got a lot on, but … it’s delicate. Maybe you could give me a call back when you’ve got a minute. Oh, it’s Harry, by the way.’
It was impossible not to interpret it differently now, and the guilt that had gnawed at her that morning came close to consuming her completely as she sat in the darkness. Whatever the ‘delicate’ matter was, it likely had something to do with the fate her old friend had met a few hours earlier. And if she had just picked up the phone to speak with him, who could say the route the day would have taken? He might have been sitting opposite her now, his big body sinking into the cushions of her couch, his gentle laughter filling the room as she filled him in on her first day back.
She pressed play again, torturing herself, searching for any hint in between the lines, any inflection in his voice that might be a clue. But there was nothing in his tone – no great anxiety or strain – that suggested he knew the fate that awaited him. He sounded pensive, a little confused and out of his depth, perhaps. Like he didn’t want to cause trouble for her. Whoever this girl was who was staying in his upstairs room, eating cereal at his table and leaving hairs on his sofa, he’d had little inkling that she was going to do him harm.
JAMES
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
His watch read 07.33. He stamped his feet against the cold, and watched his breath spill out into the pre-dawn.
Where the fuck is he?
The stagnant water beneath James’ feet reeked, blackly reflecting the arch of Victorian brickwork above. The underside of the bridge had grown a skin of moss over fading graffiti. This place hadn’t been well frequented for a long time.
James was beginning to doubt himself.
Not that he could go through with it – there was never anything less than complete certainty on that count; the tools were ready in the holdall at his feet. But he was beginning to worry that Christopher Putman might not come at all. Perhaps tonight he hadn’t felt like his regular Tuesday jog. Or maybe he’d decided to vary the route for the first time in eight weeks. Worse still, what if Putman had somehow spotted him over the course of his surveillance? Maybe he’d even recognised him and gone to the police …
No, that wasn’t possible. For a start, there was no way Putman would remember him. James been a boy back then, a skinny thing who’d barely been able to look Putman in the eye. Nothing like the man he was now.
And James had been careful. So careful. Military precision was a cliché, but in his case, it was fairly applied. For the last two months, Putman had been his assigned target, and luckily that target was a man of routine. Every movement had been jotted down in James’ little book. There was a fifteen-minute window during which Putman left his apartment building, walking the four hundred yards to the nearest tram stop, boarding the blue line, which took him on a nineteen-minute ride to Piccadilly Gardens in the middle of Manchester. From there it was a short stroll to his offices, via a coffee shop on Jewry Street, where he purchased a double espresso. Occasionally he dipped out between 12.30 and one, but more often it looked like a young female assistant or intern did a run to a nearby café on behalf of several employees. The office itself was accessed by a code at street level – 808080. James had thought about striking there, as Putman was normally last to leave the building. The problem was the cameras. Two across the street, each linked to different premises. If his plan had any hope of working, this first part had to go off without a hitch. There could be nothing linking him to what happened next.
Most nights, Putman went straight home, occasionally detouring via a supermarket to buy a few items he’d pack into a collapsible rucksack. He appeared, from the purchases James had seen, to be a vegetarian. One Thursday evening, he’d gone for a drink with colleagues, though he was first to leave after just a couple, heading out to meet his partner – a man he called Matt, and whose surname Putman hadn’t been able to find out. There was no need. Matt was not important in the scheme of things. The two of them seemed to be married – at least they both wore rings – and from time to time James felt distantly sorry for the happiness he was going to shatter. But there was a debt to be paid, and Putman was the only one who could pay it.
At the weekends, the couple spent most of their time together – the exception was the running club on Sunday mornings, when Putman met a small group of Lycra-clad friends for a conversational hour around the Quays. He ran two other nights in the week as well. Friday’s route was straight home from the office, through built-up urban areas that offered no opportunities for ambush. Tuesday morning was more promising: an early circuit from his apartment, along some of the more deserted and abandoned waterways of the old canal network. The run took forty minutes, give or take.
07.37.
But not today, it seemed. James took a deep breath, extinguishing his disappointment and frustration. It was no good guessing at a reason for the change of routine, and it didn’t matter. His time would come.
He picked up the bag to leave, to head back to the hostel in the city centre, when the distant sound of slapping feet echoed along the path. Suddenly, it was back on. He moved briskly to the end of the tunnel, climbing the bank to a spot where he wouldn’t be seen. He could hear Putman’s heavy breathing, and slid out the crowbar.
Now came the glow of Putman’s head-torch, rocking from side to side in time with his stride. James’ hand tightened on the cold metal, and he jumped down into the path.
The light from the torch was too much, and James had to turn away dazzled.
‘Sorry!’ said Putman. He’d skidded to a halt, and as he hurriedly switched the beam off, James saw he had both arms raised in a gesture of apology. For a moment they stared at one another, then Putman caught sight of the crowbar. ‘What do you …’