The Hunted Page 16

  She took her jacket off and hung it in the wardrobe, then unpacked her outfit for later, setting her wig on the corner of the old wing chair. She laid her other items out and ran thorough her plan once again, tossing around various scenarios and rehearsing in her head how she should react to each of them. Her main concern was getting into Sebastian’s apartment before Chloe, his true escort for the evening, arrived, but not early enough to put the plan in jeopardy and be spotted acting suspiciously. She took her chance among previous guests’ DNA, sat down on the bed cover and rummaged in her toiletry bag for the two miniatures she had brought with her for strength—she had been correct in assuming that her room would have no minibar. Whiskey and vodka weren’t really her thing—she was more a wine girl—but as she unscrewed the top off the whiskey bottle, she was glad she’d brought them. Her nerves were jangling, and she hoped the hot fiery liquid would help settle them as it burned its way down her throat. She winced, screwing her face up in disgust, though the warmth it provided was welcome.

  She had just two hours until ‘show time’ so she headed to the tiny bathroom, thinking a soak in the bath would help calm her. The water at least was fast and hot, and steam was soon rising from the stained tub. She added the contents of the mini shampoo bottle for bubbles. In the absence of a working extractor fan, the little room was immediately filled with steam. She tested the water temperature with her fingertips, turned both taps off and climbed in, sliding down until her shoulders were covered. It felt wonderful; it was a shame she wasn’t someplace nicer. She needed to relax a little before the main event of the evening. Allowing herself the luxury of closing her eyes for a minute or two, not for the first time that day, she wondered where this would all lead, what was in the near future for her. Relaxation was soon replaced with fear as her thoughts turned in a different direction. Would she get away with murder? How many would she have to kill to fulfil her mission? How and why would she eventually stop? So many questions, and none of them with answers. The thoughts terrified her and she opened her eyes in a flash like she was wakening from a nightmare, alarm written all over her face, her breathing rough. She shook her head to remove the negative thoughts and sat bolt upright, bubbles clinging to her shoulders, water splashing over the sides on to the floor.

  “You can’t afford those thoughts, Philippa! Get a grip!” she scolded herself, and reached for the tiny individually wrapped soap bar to wash. “Focus, or you’ll mess up. Now get ready, and get it done. You can dwell on things later if you have to, but now is not the time!” She sounded hard on herself, harsh to her own ears, but the voice was right. She washed quickly, then climbed out of the bath and let the water go, the loud gurgling sound grating on her nerves as the last of the water went down the wastepipe and out into the ancient drains of Manchester.

  The once-fluffy white towel did the necessary and she tied it around herself while she expertly applied a light covering of make-up, complete with pale pink lips. From her research on being a submissive, she knew that hot red lips were not expected; that was more for a dominatrix, and Sebastian would be looking for, and expecting, something much more innocent, more virginal. She let the towel fall onto the floor and stepped into the cream dress: oh yes, this was going to be perfect. A little rose water behind her ears, kitten heels on her feet, baby-pink toenails … She admired the look she had created. Even without the long brown wig on, she looked perfect for her mission. Almost elf-like.

  “And tonight, I’m going to be Chloe,” she said to her reflection, smiling broadly.

  Not wanting to leave the hotel completely dressed as the woman she was impersonating, she carefully placed her wig in the silk scarf she had brought and added it to her bag, the wrapping paper and bow of the ‘gift’ for him just visible in the bottom. Tucked securely in an inside pocket of the same bag was the syringe of liquid.

  She stared at the woman in the mirror, her mood changing to serious. “Give him hell.” She was ready. She gathered her kit, picked up her room key, and left.

  “Taxi, Miss?” the doorman asked as she stepped outside into the evening.

  “Please,” was all she said until, for the third time today, she slipped into the back seat of a cab. The only address she gave the driver was the street and a number well below the one she actually wanted, and that’s just where he dropped her some ten minutes later. She paid in cash again. and once the cab was well out of sight, she checked her watch and slipped down a nearby side street, finding privacy in a dingy, dark doorway. Avoiding the remains of desperate lovers’ activity that lay scattered on the ground, she put her brown wig on and double-checked herself in her little compact mirror.

  “Hello again, Chloe.”

  She smiled at herself in an effort to relieve some of the tension she felt inside, then pulled on pale latex gloves. She took the syringe from the safety of the inside bag pocket and slipped it inside her sleeve, balancing it ready in her hand.

  Everything was set now, and she strode purposefully out of the doorway and towards the main entrance of Sebastian Stevens’ home. In a few more minutes, the worst part would all be over, and she could relax again. But right now, she was on a mission.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  She pressed the bronze buzzer with a latex-covered knuckle.

  “What is it with him and bronze?” she wondered absently while she waited for his voice, careful to keep her eyes lowered and her face turned away from any possible nearby cameras.

  “Come on up. Level seven,” came Sebastian’s voice. Nothing more. She could have been anyone. The lift was already at the ground floor and her knuckle pressed the number 7. The heavy metal doors pinged open and ‘Chloe’ stepped out, still taking care to keep her head low, not looking too confident: he could well have been watching from somewhere. There was only one door visible on level seven. There was a foot holding it open, and her heart pounded in her chest as she got nearer. Then a male form filled it completely. ‘Chloe’ took comfort in the little plastic syringe hiding in her right hand and sleeve as she briefly glanced at him. He spoke first, as she intended him to do.

  “You’re a little early.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Stevens. It won’t happen again.” Never raising her head for eye contact, she heard him laugh a little at her response, delighted in her meekness. He held the door open for her to step inside.

  “Oh, after you Mr. Stevens. You’re in charge.” Still no eye contact.

  “That I am, Chloe, that I am. I think we’re going to get along just fine tonight.” That chuckle again. It turned her stomach. He led the way into his vast apartment with ‘Chloe’ a step behind. The door clunked shut behind them.

  Now she had to move fast: this was her chance, while his back was towards her and before she had to commit to anything more perverse, like what he was expecting her to do. The plastic syringe felt immensely heavy as it slid all the way out into her palm. She flicked the cap off. In one rapid movement, she raised her arm to full height and then brought it down fast and hard, slamming the needle into his flesh. It caught him in the back of the shoulder, his widest part, and she pressed the plunger, silently delivering the syringe’s deadly contents.

  He flinched at the sharp stab. “What the hell are …” But his words trailed off as the poison quickly took effect. Down he went, and down he stayed. It was over in a matter of seconds. ‘Chloe’ bent down and looked at him properly from a slight distance. He’d slumped down the hallway wall and crumpled in a heap, his legs buckled under him. She watched as the second hand of her watch circled around, and on its third pass, she stepped towards him and felt his neck for a pulse.

  Sebastian Stevens was gone: the first part of her plan was a success so far.

  As she was rising back up, a loud sing-song tone assaulted her ears. She shot her hand to her mouth: the doorbell. And now a rap on the door, and a woman’s voice. Shit, shit, shit: the real ‘Chloe’ was only a few feet away. How the hell had she gained entry? Someone must have let in her through the main lobby entr
ance, just like Daniela had let her in just a few days ago. Holding her breath, she stood motionless, hoping the woman would get the hint and leave soon. There was another knock, firmer this time. Oh god… What if the other woman had Sebastian’s mobile number, just in case of a change in plan? Energy filled her veins as she sprang noiselessly from her spot and scanned the surfaces in the main room for his mobile. She had to turn the volume off, and quickly. It wouldn’t do if ‘Chloe’ could hear it ringing from her spot on the other side of the door. At last she spotted it.

  “There you are, you trouble causer,” she hissed. She tiptoed to a glass coffee table, grabbed the mobile and turned it to silent, just as it started to vibrate. The doorbell rang again followed by another sharp rap. Philippa stood frozen to the spot. She waited patiently for five full minutes more, then finally heard the woman’s footsteps receding down the hall. The phone vibrated one last time with a text that went unanswered.

  It was time to activate the next part of her plan—the bit she abhorred.

  She stripped off the cream-coloured dress and laid it across the back of the sofa, keeping her wig in place but tying the long locks back with her silk scarf. She played with the corners of it as she spoke quietly, almost soothingly, to herself.

  “Always loved this scarf. So pretty with the big red poppy on it, don’t you think?” She moved back over to Sebastian and knelt beside him. Running her fingers through his thick dirty-blond hair, she said warmly, “You really are quite good-looking close up. Lovely blue eyes. I can see why women throw themselves at you.” She carried on, cocking her head to the left as she spoke to him kindly. “Georgia—you remember the gorgeous Georgia, don’t you? Your secretary PA lady? Well, I know her too as it turns out. How funny is that? Yes, I do. We went to university together, and she told me she wanted to go out with you, but you just weren’t interested in her, were you? Did you know she had the hots for you? Now she’ll never have the chance. You put paid to that with your stupid evil hobby.”

  As she talked to him, she manoeuvred him into an easier position than the crumpled state he’d landed in, which was no mean feat given his size. Slightly out of breath as she repositioned his dead weight, she carried on chatting to him like they were old friends about to sit down for supper together.

  “That’s not why I’m here, though. I wouldn’t be going to all this trouble because you’ve ignored her. Oh no. There is a much bigger reason, and it involves your other hobby, not the hooker one. Can you guess what it is?” She stood over him, panting slightly. Satisfied he was where she needed him to be, she excused herself.

  “Won’t be a minute. Just need some towels. I expect you have a sports cupboard somewhere, for beach towels maybe?” Blowing him a quick kiss, she left the room to explore. She returned a moment later, collecting the little gift-wrapped parcel out of her bag as she passed by.

  “I’m impressed at your orderliness. Nothing out of place anywhere,” she said as she laid a couple of the beach towels around his head and neck. “I don’t want to spoil your bath towels. That’s why I’m using these. It could get a bit messy and I can see you wouldn’t like mess. Thought that would be best. I hope you appreciate the thought,” she said, smiling. Satisfied with her towel arrangement, she sat back on her heels and looked at him. The towels made him look like something from a pantomime. She drew in a deep breath: time to focus on what she was now about to do. Her stomach rolled slightly.

  “Oh no, not again,” she whispered, but it was going to be futile. Darting up from her spot, she rushed to the kitchen and hung over the sink, fighting it back, willing herself not to vomit. Leaving evidence like her stomach contents was out of the question. When the sickening feeling finally left her, she checked under the sink for spare rubbish bin liners and peeled two off the roll. She put one inside the other, ready for what now seemed the inevitable. Tucking them under her arm, she headed back to Sebastian, her face as deadly serious about the upcoming task as that of any seasoned psychopathic serial killer. Her tone was now direct and serious, the banter gone.

  “I’m going to show the world what happens to people like you. Have you figured out the offending hobby yet?” she taunted him, waiting for an answer that would never come. “No? Well let me give you a hint. You take a trophy from it. Yes, that’s right: your hunting. It’s despicable, and that’s why I’m going to take a trophy from you. Your. Own. Dead. Head. And I’m going to parade it online, just like you did, except you’re not going to like it. But your haters will. And there are plenty of those.”

  Squatting behind him and pulling his head up by his blond locks, she struck quickly in one swift cut. Blood oozed out of the gash onto the towels and the sight of it worked rapidly on her stomach. She grabbed the refuse liners and retched violently into the bag, again and again and again. When she was finally empty and the spasms had stopped, Philippa tied the bag up, ready to dispose of later.

  “Damn stomach. No matter. Perhaps I’ll get used to it.”

  There was more clearing up to be done.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  She dressed quickly. One last scout round, and she was ready to leave. Then it hit her. What about the Trojan on his laptop? Could it be traced back to her if anyone inspected it? Of course, there would be an investigation: just like Fiona Gable, Sebastian Stevens had quite obviously been murdered. You couldn’t do what she’d just done to yourself. Why the hell hadn’t she asked Pete about whether the damn Trojan could be traced? She could have kicked herself, but there was no point in getting angry about it now: she needed to figure out what to do. The sleek silver machine glared at her from its spot on the glass dining room table and she knew she had to take it with her.

  She shut the laptop down, then slipped the whole thing into her bag along with his phone and everything else. It was getting late, and it was time to go, but there was still one important aspect of the mission to complete: post the image of her trophy for the world and his friends to see. But she wanted to be out the building before she did that, though still close by: pinging cellphone towers were an important part of this plan. The investigators would know his phone had been used after his death and they’d be able to trace the location to a point nearby though not the exact location. It was a point she couldn’t afford to overlook. She would post the photos later from a nearby doorway, but right now she had one more job to do.

  “Smile for the camera!” Lifting his head by his hair, she took three photos of the very dead Sebastian, then tapped the icon to his social media accounts. Unable to resist, she took a quick look at his recent activity and was quite surprised to see there hadn’t been much in the last few days, not since the auction video debacle at any rate.

  “Got a little burnt, did we? Well, I wonder what your ‘friends’ will say when they see this little offering from you. My kind of trophy, and if I say so myself, you do take a lovely photograph—very photogenic. I can see why the ladies swoon at your feet. I just hope Georgia isn’t too upset.” She slipped her feet into her shoes. “But I think she’ll get over it.” She slipped Sebastian’s phone into the side pocket for easy retrieval once she was outside, and took a last look at her victim.

  “Toodle pip,” she called over her shoulder as she closed the door softly behind her.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Leaving the building dressed nicely in her cream linen dress, silk scarf tied in her hair, and stylish though rather full bag balanced on her shoulder, she marvelled at the ease of it all. The only thing she hadn’t planned on was her upset stomach again, the contents of which still needed to be disposed of.

  It surprised her that she’d reacted that way again, and while the first kill had understandably taken its toll, she had sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be the same this time round. She couldn’t afford another day in bed, nor the time off work.

  To get away from the building safely, she slipped down the same quiet side street from earlier and into the same smelly, darkened doorway. She held her breath as she removed the bag of
vomit and set it down, then slipped her scarf and wig off, putting the wig back into her bag. Maybe a rat would find the vomit bag later, or a street cleaner in the morning. Either way, it was a long way from being connected back to her. She tied the silk scarf elegantly around her neck, the beautiful red poppy print fully central, and fluffed up her own short auburn hair. With a final application of bright orange lipstick, she was all set to enter the night again—not as the submissive Chloe, but as the strong woman she knew so well, as Philippa.

  But there was just one last piece of the puzzle to do before she left. She pulled the phone out, tapped the photo icon, and selected the recent images she’d shot. Picking one, she selected “upload to Facebook,” typed “Who’s the trophy now?” and hit post. Mere seconds later she saw her handiwork in full Technicolor on Sebastian’s profile. She grinned, turned the phone off, removed the SIM card and played with it between her fingers as she walked away.

  Rather than exit the side street the same way as she’d entered, she kept on walking down to the other end and turning left, feeling comfortable, confident, and in control, humming something tuneless as she went. Sebastian had paid for ‘Chloe’ in advance, the terms of the transaction, and Philippa hoped the agency wouldn’t stiff the woman and leave her out of the cut, but there was no way to ever know. Funny the things that go through your mind after you’ve just committed a murder. She meandered through the back streets towards where she figured she’d find a taxi rank and slipped onto the backseat of the first one in the queue, her fourth cab of the day.