3
BRISTOL
Sam turned Lucy’s head in a gloved
hand, looking into her face. It wasn’t her face anymore though: it was a bad
fake; a facsimile that didn’t have the details right. He closed her eyes and
checked her over: broken neck; fractured skull; brain damage; immediate death.
He lowered her head gently.
Back on his feet he moved swiftly
through the room, taking a rapid inventory, looking for signs of the boyfriend’s
full identity.
Jack; that was all he knew: seeing
Lucy for three months.
Double bed, wardrobe, chest of
drawers, two bedside cabinets, two lamps, bookcase, en suite bathroom, no
cooking facilities, gaudy fireplace too big for the room, fold out easel
leaning against the wall with a price label still attached; no painting; no
paint or brushes. He found, and took, Lucy’s flat keys.
The light was fading fast from
outside. Sam reached quickly into his inside breast pocket. He had already
reloaded and replaced the pistol in its holster. He pulled out a strap-on torch,
slipped it over his head and turned the lens until it gave out a broad beam
from his forehead like the lamp on a miner’s helmet.
The wardrobe was empty; drawers too.
Both sets of clothes were hanging out of their cases; no identification. He
glanced at the bed: ruffled; covers up and over; rough; careless. They’d had
intercourse – he put his hand on the centre of the mattress, felt the stain
with his fingers – less than half an hour ago.
There was something on top of the
drawers beside the bed. Sam circled to it: a photograph of Lucy at the beach.
She was smiling, happy. He looked at it for five or ten seconds then slipped it
into his inside jacket pocket.
He flicked off and removed his torch
and moved over to the window; frowned down at the broken glass in the frame. A
two second glance back at Lucy then away; then Sam slipped back to the door and
down the stairs.
There was only one place now likely
to give him the name he needed.
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