Val McDermid – The Wire in the Blood (страница 1)
VAL McDERMID
HarperCollins
First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollins
Copyright © Val McDermid 1997
Val McDermid asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007217120
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007327607
Version: 2014-09-01
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
T. S. Eliot
Praise for The Wire in the Blood
Murder was like magic, he thought. The quickness of his hand always deceived the eye, and that was how it was going to stay. He was like the postman delivering to a house where afterwards they would swear there had been no callers. This was the knowledge that was lodged in his being like a pacemaker in a heart patient. Without the power of his magic he’d be dead. Or as good as.
He knew just from looking at her that she would be the next. Even before the eye contact, he knew. There had always been a very particular combination that spelled perfection in his thesaurus of the senses. Innocence and ripeness, mink-dark hair, eyes that danced. He’d never been wrong yet. It was an instinct that kept him alive. Or as good as.
He watched her watching him, and under the urgent mutter of the crowd, he heard echoing in his head the music.
And so there had to be a next one. And there he was, watching her watching him sending her messages with his eyes. Messages that said, ‘I’ve noticed you. Find your way to me and I’ll notice you some more.’ And she read him. She read him, loud and clear. She was so obvious; life hadn’t scarred her expectations with static yet. A knowing smile quirked the corners of her mouth and she took the first step on the long and, for him, exciting journey of exploration and pain. The pain, as far as he was concerned, was not quite the only necessity but it was certainly one of them.
She worked her way towards him. Their routes varied, he’d noticed. Some direct, bold; some meandering, wary in case they’d misread what they thought his eyes were telling them. This one favoured the spiral path, circling ever inward as if her feet were tracing the inside of a giant nautilus shell, a miniature Guggenheim Gallery compacted into two dimensions. Her step was measured, determined, her eyes never wavering from him, as if there were no one else between, neither obstacle nor distraction. Even when she was behind his back, he could feel her stare, which was precisely how he thought it should be.
It was an approach that told him something about her. She wanted to savour this encounter. She wanted to see him from every possible angle, to imprint him on her memory forever, because she thought this would be her only chance for so detailed a scrutiny. If anyone had told her what the future truly held, she’d have fainted with the thrill of it.
At last, her decaying orbit brought her within his grasp. Only the immediate circle of admirers stood between them, one or two deep. He locked on to her eyes, injected charm into his gaze and, with a polite nod to those around him, he took a step towards her. The bodies parted obediently as he said, ‘Delightful to have met you, do excuse me?’
Uncertainty flitted across her face. Was she supposed to move, like them, or should she stay in the ambit of his mesmerizing stare? It was no contest; it never was. She was captivated, the reality of this evening outstripping her every fantasy. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘And what’s your name?’
She was momentarily speechless, never so close to fame, dazzled by that spectacular dental display all for her benefit. My, what big teeth you’ve got, he thought. All the better to eat her with.
‘Donna,’ she finally stuttered. ‘Donna Doyle.’
‘That’s a beautiful name,’ he said softly. The smile he won in response was as brilliant as his own. Sometimes, it all felt too easy. People heard what they wanted to hear, especially when what they were hearing sounded like their dream come true. Total suspension of disbelief, that’s what he achieved every time. They came to these events expecting Jacko Vance and everyone connected to the great man to be exactly what was projected on TV. By association, anyone who was part of the celebrity’s entourage was gilded with the same brush. People were so accustomed to Vance’s open sincerity, so familiar with his very public probity, it never crossed their minds to look for the catch. Why should it, when Vance had a popular image that made Good King Wenceslas look like Scrooge? The punters listened to the words and they heard Jack and the Beanstalk – from the little seed Vance or his minions planted, they pictured the burgeoning flower of a life at the top of the tree right alongside his.
In that respect, Donna Doyle was just like all the others. She could have been working from a script he’d written for her. Having moved her strategically into a corner, he made as if to hand her a signed photograph of Vance the megastar. Then he did a double take so exquisitely natural it could have been part of De Niro’s repertoire. ‘My God,’ he breathed. ‘Of course. Of course!’ The exclamation was the verbal equivalent of smiting himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand.
Caught with her fingers inches from his as she reached out to take what had been so nearly offered, she frowned, not understanding. ‘What?’
He made a twisted little
‘What do you mean?’ Breathless, tentative, not wanting to admit she already believed in case she’d misunderstood and left herself open to the hot shaming flush of her misapprehension.
He gave the faintest of shrugs, one that hardly disturbed the smooth fall of his immaculate suiting. ‘Forget it,’ he said with a slight, almost imperceptible shake of the head, disappointment in the sad cast of his eye, the absence of his gleaming smile.
‘No, tell me.’ Now there was an edge of desperation, because everybody wanted to be a star, no matter what they said. Was he really going to snatch away that half-glimpsed magic carpet ride that could lift her out of her despised life into his world?
A quick glance to either side, making sure he wasn’t overheard, then his voice was both soft and intense. ‘A new project we’re working on. You’ve got the look. You’d be perfect. As soon as I looked at you properly, I knew you were the one.’ A regretful smile. ‘Now, at least I have your image to carry in my head while we interview the hundreds of hopefuls the agents send along to us. Maybe we’ll get lucky …’ His voice trailed off, his eyes liquid and bereft as the puppy left behind in the holiday kennels.