He glanced back over his shoulder. A silver-haired old woman was walking along the path, some way behind him. No sign of his target.
The path began to drop more steeply now, the wall arcing down with it. Above the weathered stones, he could see the tops of fruit trees and the upper storeys of a grand old house, faded red brick against the bright sky. He pondered it for a moment, then shook his head. Too expensive for his target.
At the bottom of the path, Naysmith walked out from the shade of the trees and stood, shielding his eyes from the bright sun. He had emerged on a quiet road that swept down a long, straight slope before a narrow bridge carried it over the railway line below. On the other side of the road, an old cemetery stretched out along the side of the hill, tall iron gates set into a towering stone archway at its entrance.
He crossed over, gazing between the railings with their flaking black paint, smiling at the single cobweb strands catching the light, staring at the forgotten headstones in the grass beyond.
Which way had his target come from?
He turned and looked at the road, trying to visualise the man approaching from each direction. That rounded figure, the brisk stride and the dreadful jacket . . .
Naysmith looked one way, then the other. His eye settled on a small signpost, pointing up the hill, bearing a single word.
University.
He gazed thoughtfully at it for a moment, then set off up the road.
20
Tuesday, 10 July
Naysmith stepped down onto the platform and adjusted his jacket before allowing himself to be carried along in the current of passengers that streamed towards the ticket barriers. Indistinct station announcements echoed high above in the glass canopies, train motors idled noisily, and all around him came the insistent murmur of voices as people hurried along, ready for the grey London morning.
He glanced down at his watch and considered for a moment. Time enough. He could walk rather than suffer the tube.
Threading his way across the busy Waterloo concourse, he looked at the unseeing faces that slipped past on either side. Serious or smiling, bored or confused – so many people, all unaware of his passing. They had no idea who was in their midst; here in the crowd he was truly invisible.
Veering right, he passed under the arched entrance and emerged into the daylight, trotting briskly down the broad stone steps towards the steady growl of traffic on York Road. A walk would give him time to clear his head.
The last couple of weeks had certainly been challenging. This latest game was becoming a real test of his instinct and, to some extent, his determination. He’d now spent a good deal of time in Winchester and clocked up several hours walking the streets around the university. The cemetery, which lay adjacent to it, provided a useful focal point for his journeys. He’d identified a suitable grave to visit – one that commanded a good view of the main university entrance across the road – and chose different places to park on each trip so that he could walk down different streets. As he’d come to know the area, he occasionally thought about the large hospital that stood a little way further up the hill, but something told him that he was looking for an academic and he’d decided to play his hunch for a while longer . . .
‘Standard, sir?’
Naysmith blinked, then realised that a street vendor was offering him a free newspaper. Shaking his head, he ascended the flight of steps by Mandela’s statue on the South Bank, smiling as he noted the traffic cone perched on the great carved head. Sidestepping an erratic group of schoolchildren, he walked along the side of the Festival Hall and up to the Jubilee footbridge.
Music wafted down to him as he climbed, and he found a weather-beaten old man playing a clarinet at the top of the steps, a thin but uplifting melody cast out over the Thames against the dull rumble of the city. Pausing to drop a coin into the upturned hat at his feet, Naysmith strolled slowly onto the bridge.
There was no wind today, but the water below was a sullen grey to match the overcast sky. Here and there, knots of tourists took photos of each other leaning against the handrail, or pointed at St Paul’s. On the adjacent railway bridge, a train crept slowly towards him, the metallic groan and squeal of its wheels against the rails drowning out the music as it passed.
At first, he’d imagined that his target might have been going for a train. The footpath where they’d made eye contact wasn’t far from Winchester station, and the man had been walking in that direction.
He’d studied the timetables, and sat watching the station entrance from his car. He’d tried an hour earlier, and an hour later. Once, he’d actually come by train so that he could wait in the station itself – there were only two platforms and it was possible to wait on one and see passengers on both sides of the tracks.
But his target hadn’t appeared.
Sitting there, searching the faces of the commuters without success, he’d resigned himself to the idea that the target either lived locally or had travelled by car. Perhaps it was the way the man had been dressed, with that dreadful jacket. There was a certain stuffy formality in his clothes – however poorly chosen they were – that didn’t seem consistent with someone popping out for a walk.
Of course, this raised a new problem. Parking was scarce in that part of the city. Sticking with his academic theory just a little longer, he decided to focus on the university car parks.
Once across the Thames, Naysmith wandered slowly past the leafy entrance to the Embankment Gardens and up the narrow chasm of Villiers Street as it climbed between the looming buildings. There was a quiet bustle here, amid the cafés and the aromatic coffee shops. Restaurants and bars were having their tables set out on the pavement, ready for lunchtime, while a delivery van unloaded crates of bottled water for a local gym.
At the top of the incline, he checked his watch once more before turning right onto the Strand. It was busier here, with a steady stream of people weaving through each other as they hurried along. Seeing a break in the traffic, he stepped out from the broad pavement and made his way across the road to the quieter north side. A tailor’s shop window caught his attention for a moment before he turned left and made his way up towards Covent Garden.
Winchester University had a number of car parks spread over a large campus, so he had decided to play the odds and watch the main entrance on Sparkford Road. He had considered watching from his car, but in the end he’d been annoyed by his own timidity and elected to take a much bolder approach. It was a warm day, so he’d taken his laptop and sat on a bench near the main entrance. Nobody questioned someone typing on a laptop.
At first, he’d felt optimistic, but after an hour, the doubts had begun to creep in. How much did he really know about his target? Everything thus far had been guesswork – intelligent and considered, but guesswork nonetheless. The man might just as easily have come from the nearby hospital, or even the cemetery. Sitting here could be a complete waste of time.
And yet he had stayed there. Something stubborn inside had kept him in place, looking out over the screen of his laptop even as the traffic slowed and a silver car coming down the hill stopped to let a delivery truck pull out of the campus entrance.
It was him.
He was wearing a different jacket, but it was unmistakably him, impatiently waving at the truck driver to get out of his way.
Naysmith calmly typed out the car’s registration, then closed his laptop.
That had been yesterday. Now he stood on a narrow street just off Covent Garden and paused to check the address before pushing on a heavy glass door that swung open onto a bright, airy foyer. Walking across the polished marble floor to the broad reception desk, he put his bag down and smiled.