LITMIR.BIZ

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Definitely not my type, but what the hell, she was only a practice run. I went to the Gents, reversed my hoodie, turned my cotton bag inside out, swapped my beanie for a baseball cap and went back to my pint.

      Fifty minutes after we were due to meet, Kay was looking thoroughly miserable and she showed signs of being about to leave. I drained my glass, slipped out ahead of her and lingered across the road, checking my phone. When Kay left, she walked along the Folkestone Road towards the outskirts of Dover. I hung back and followed on the opposite pavement. When she turned into a side street, I pretended to look at my phone and saw her go into a small block of flats with a For Sale sign by the door. I watched the dark windows of the building until a light went on in a second-floor window, to the right of the entrance. Pocketing my phone, I walked further along the Folkestone Road and then circled back, to stroll past the building and check the agent’s board.

       Maxton House

      AVAILABLE SOON

      SIX ONE-BED FLATS

      NEWLY RENOVATED

      The next day, I rang the estate agency and – bingo. Renovation was scheduled to start in a month, when the last remaining tenant would have moved out. She might not be my ideal woman, but for this stage of my project, Kay from Dover was perfect. She lived alone and the other flats in her block were empty.

      I’ve now been watching Kay carefully for a week, whenever I could get away from Canterbury. She works in a corner shop on the main Folkestone Road. For lunch she takes a sandwich and a bottle of water to a small park, where she sits by herself on a bench facing the gate. Outside the shop, Kay doesn’t speak to anyone. It’s almost too good to be true; her home is isolated and she’s a loner. As soon as I’m sure, I switch to my other pay-as-you-go SIM, get on the dating app and hit her with my second fake profile. Once more, Kay from Dover is up for it and we arrange to meet next Thursday. She’s chosen the same time and the same pub. I could get there early and wait for her to arrive, but, just for the buzz, I’ll follow her into town.

      On Thursday, I took the train from Canterbury. As we entered Dover Priory station, my phone buzzed with a text from Kay. I replied, reassuring her our date was still on. It’s early evening as I walk along the Folkestone Road with plenty of time to pass Maxton House and wait, further down the side street, for Kay to leave. I know where she’s going, The Three Horseshoes, so I don’t need to be close as I follow her to the pub. When she goes inside, I walk straight on, to kill ten to fifteen minutes looking in shop windows before returning to our rendezvous.

      Kay’s at the same table. I buy a pint and take a stool close to where I sat the last time we were here. Watching her face, I almost feel sorry for her as expectation becomes concern and then the inevitable disappointment. What do the military call it – collateral damage?

      I swap my hoodie and baseball cap for a plaid shirt and a balaclava rolled to look like a beanie. After waiting for an hour, Kay leaves the pub and I follow at a distance on the far side of the road. I follow her into her side street, quicken my pace and close in as she approaches Maxton House. No need for subtlety. I pull the balaclava down over my face, tailgate her through the street door, grab the keys from her hand, bundle her up two flights of stairs, turn to the right, open the door and push her into the flat.

      She’s screaming, but no one will hear; there’s no one else in the building. I force her onto the bed and sit on her chest to tie her arms to the headboard. She’s still struggling and crying out at the top of her voice. I turn, sit on her knees, and tie her legs to the foot of the bed. When I get up to check the knots at her wrists and ankles, her screaming has turned to pleading, but she’s still struggling against her bonds. The knots are fine; she won’t be able to escape.

      The flat’s not warm, but I’m sweating and the blood’s pounding in my head. I must get out for some fresh air. Before leaving, I need a sample of her writing, her mobile, her real name and the keys to the flat. I also need a pee.

      In the bathroom, zipping up, I’m aware there’s no longer any sound from Kay. I flush and dash to the bedroom. Kay’s still on her back but she’s silent and no longer struggling. Her eyes are closed. I rock her head from side to side. She doesn’t respond. The silly bitch has fainted. To make her more comfortable I flip off her shoes and let them fall to the floor. Now for the things I need. I look for something with her writing on. No sweat. There’s a diary on a box by the bed. I put it in my pocket. From her bag, on the floor by the entrance, I take her mobile and a bank card. Ready to go, I let myself out, pulling her keys from the lock as I leave.

      Outside, I swap the balaclava for a baseball cap, leave the building and circle the block before heading back to the centre of Dover for a pizza. At a corner table, I check her things. The phone’s switched on. I open the dating app. There’s the meet with me, or rather my second fake profile, but no other dates. The same is true of her texts: nothing since our last meeting except the exchange earlier this evening. No complications there. I open her diary. It’s schoolgirl writing, easy to copy. I get her name and signature from the bank card, noticing she’d used her real name on the dating app. After a few practice attempts, copying the writing from the diary until I’m fluent, I write a short note.

       Need a break. Sorry for short notice. Back in two weeks. Kayleigh Robson.

      All’s going to plan. I pay the bill with cash and step into the street.

      It’s still early and I’m not ready to confront Kayleigh just yet. There’s a pub next to the pizzeria. I drink a couple of pints while leafing through her diary. God, I thought my life was bad but hers – no friends, just occasional guys from the dating app. Some have hung around long enough to cop a shag, but none has lasted beyond a third date. What a life. Well, things have changed, Kayleigh Robson, you’re going to have my company for a week or two. I won’t be able to remove my mask, but I hope you come to see my worth and enjoy my company.

      On the way back to Maxton House, I push the note under the door of the corner shop. The flat’s still silent. Kayleigh’s spread-eagled on her back just as I left her. In our struggle, her skirt has bunched around her waist. I don’t want her to be embarrassed when she comes round, so I lean over the bed and ease the skirt down to cover her thighs. My fingers brush her skin. It’s cold.

      Panicking, I feel her wrist and neck. No pulse – nothing!

      What the fuck!

      Kayleigh’s dead.

       7

      It was late afternoon. Ed had just got back to her apartment when her personal mobile buzzed with a message from Daniel. His rugby friendly had finished and he was waiting for her in the bar of a large hotel on the High Street. The County was the last place Ed wanted to meet him, but she didn’t want to raise questions by suggesting he move somewhere else. Instead, she called him back.

      ‘Hi, Daniel, I’ve just got home and I’m about to take a shower.’

      Ed paused for a response, but he remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

      ‘If you don’t get ideas, you could come here and we’ll have that drink at my place before going out to eat.’

      ‘If that works for you. Where are you?’

      Ed gave him her address and then added, ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’ She was just stepping into the shower when the phone rang again. With a curse, she dashed into her bedroom to answer it.

      ‘Hi, Ed, I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if you fancied a drink?’

      It was her friend Verity Shaw, who edited the local newspaper. ‘Hi, Verity, a drink sounds good but I’ve got something on this evening. How about next Friday?’

      ‘Next Friday would be good. I’ll look forward to catching up.’

      ‘Me too. Sorry, but I’ve got to dash. Bye.’

      ‘Until next week. Bye.’

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