DEAD Heat: A killer's mind unravels Page 3

  Stonebank was already pouring a sachet of tasteless powder into a cup for her whilst the kettle boiled. “Only decaff left, I’m afraid. Had the proper stuff myself, so I did. You’re not missing much, trust me. We’ll get a proper brew at the airport”.

  “Not already”, Jennifer protested through a yawn. “I’m bushed”.

  “We can’t hang around here. Need to keep on the move. You told me we were heading to Atlanta last night so I’ve reserved our tickets already. Just need to pick them up at the desk.

  “How’d you do that? Thought you told us we had to pay cash”.

  “We did. Until the bellhop tried to take my case for me last night. Easy to put my arm around him when I told him we could manage. Even easier to get his credit card out his pocket. So, this flight’s on Mario, bless him. Cheers, Mario”. He raised the white plastic cup and drained the last dregs of coffee from it.

  “I’m not convinced, Oliver. What happens if they want to see proof of ID when we pick the tickets up? What happens if good ol’ Mario has reported his card missing? God, you might just have dropped us in it big-style. They’ll be waiting for us”. A nerve twitched in her cheek as she spoke.

  Stonebank smiled, displaying crooked teeth stained by years of tobacco. “Calm down, girl. I checked when I booked. All we need to do is show the card they took payment from. We’re sorted”.

  “Have you thought of everything?”, Jennifer asked in reluctant admiration.

  “No, I haven’t. See, I haven’t thought how I’m going to get you to departures...”, he checked his watch “...in forty-five minutes. Get that coffee down you and let’s go”.

  **

  At check-in, the blonde-haired lady fidgeted in her handbag. The family in front of her gabbled endlessly while their two young children climbed all over the blonde’s luggage trolley. The youngest got his foot caught in the grid of the trolley and the remnants of his cherry coke stained her cream designer luggage.

  Watching all of this from a few places behind was Oliver Stonebank. He watched as the blonde tried to hide her irritation. He saw her bite her lips to stop the words of complaint spilling out at the sight of her damaged suitcase.

  “Good girl”, Stonebank muttered to himself. “Don’t draw attention to yourself”.

  Beneath the blonde wig, slightly dated in style, Jennifer – now Jodie Weston – tried to remain calm. As good an actress as she was – and, boy, she was good – she needed to rehearse for all eventualities. She hadn’t bargained for the little brat in front of her doing his best to distract her.

  Fortunately for them both, the girl at Check In desk number 28 chose that moment to call the family forward.

  Jennifer took the opportunity to check the wig in her vanity mirror. She needed to ensure no trace of her red hair showed. She also double-checked she’d pulled the right passport from her purse. Yes, looking back at her from the pages of the burgundy booklet was the blonde-haired Jodie Weston.

  She’d played it cool at check-in, managed to go undisturbed at security despite her fears that the numerous passports hidden beneath the inner casing of her handbag would show on x-ray, and was as anonymous as a striking blonde can be throughout the three-hour southbound flight to Atlanta.

  **

  Once again, Jennifer / Joanne / Jodie followed Stonebank’s instructions and waited for most of the passengers to disembark. She slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Not part of her disguise; more the fact she felt a migraine coming on.

  The sun streamed through the open cabin door like a gate-crasher. The temperature in the aircraft rose several notches. “Unseasonably warm, even for Atlan’a”, the stewardess had told her. “One of the hottest September’s I’ve known”, agreed another.

  “Great”, thought Jennifer as she bent to extricate herself from her seat. “That’s all I need”.

  Stonebank followed her down the aircraft steps, just close enough to remind her that he was still there; that he was still watching her much as an alley-cat watches a wren. He stayed a discrete distance from her on the short coach trip to the terminal building. His body craved nicotine, and the hunger became even worse when he realised he’d last had a cigarette in Amsterdam.

  He felt himself become twitchy. Not through fear, not like Jennifer. Simply through nicotine withdrawal. He had to be able to think straight. Make sure she had no opportunity to plot an escape.

  If he’d realised that Jennifer was also having trouble thinking straight, he’d have gained little comfort from it.

  An edgy, inexperienced, migraine-wracked killer was not the best travel-partner to get through US immigration.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There’s an old joke in the southern states that says when you die and pass to Heaven, you need to change planes at Atlanta.

  It’s the world’s busiest airport and has been throughout the millennium. Over a billion passengers pass through its terminals every year, with around two and a half thousand flights daily. It even has its own underground transport system linking its terminal buildings, each building being the host to several concourses

  Had Jennifer known this, she would have been better-prepared for the organised chaos that met her inside the Concourse E arrivals hall. The vast, cavernous space was a seething mass of humanity, reminiscent of an ultra-modern shopping mall that had forgotten to limit admittance on Black Friday.

  Panic began to well inside her. She was used to being a lone traveller but she’d never encountered anything like this. Her head throbbed and pulsed as she was shepherded between narrow lines of black tape meandering into the distance like a red-neck country stream.

  Although the air was refreshingly chilly after the outside heat, her body temperature raged. Sweat gathered in pools in the small of her back. She pulled at her blouse to release it. Claustrophobia enveloped her like a fog. Jennifer felt sure she was going to be sick. She swallowed hard. Her jaw began to ache, so tight had she clenched her teeth.

  Jennifer glanced around, her eyes seeking out Stonebank for moral support. He was further back than she remembered. Another flight had arrived at the same time as theirs and, as both sets of passengers were shoehorned towards the same immigration desks, the lines had merged. Jennifer was surprised to feel a pang of dismay at the separation.

  She forced herself to slow her breathing. Inhaled through the nose, exhaled by mouth. Gradually she felt herself calm. The swarm of travellers around her became less of a distraction once she donned a headset to dull the hubbub.

  She felt able to examine her surroundings for the first time. The passengers were being herded like cattle towards a row of immigration checkpoints; the officials housed in glass booths. Behind the immigration counters stood a row of blue-uniformed Transportation Security officers, legs apart, hands clasped in front of their belts. They watched the proceedings at the booths with a steely gaze, ready to intervene but rarely doing so. They weren’t armed but Jennifer had no doubt they’d be dangerous.

  Behind this line of TSA officers lay a final layer of security; Homeland Security. These were armed and, what’s more, came assisted by a team of dogs direct from Lackland Airforce Base as an added attraction. There was one dog and handler to every four arrival-booths.

  Looking around, Jennifer observed CCTV hubs in the ceiling above her. They reminded her of R2D2. The pods rotated to allow the cameras maximum coverage. The images were continuously monitored in the office of the Transportation Security Administration team. If that wasn’t enough, the surface of every pillar contained a mirror so that security in situ could catch glimpses of any suspicious activity from wherever they stood. Even the floors, polished as bright as a squaddie’s boots, gave off reflections.

  Jennifer couldn’t help but feel that the levels of surveillance were a foretaste of life in prison, without the violence and violations. She shuddered. A muscle twitched in the corner of her eye.

  She felt panic rise again. “Dear Jesus. Don’t let things go wrong. Not here.”

  The interminable
wait to clear customs gnawed at her. She wanted this to be over; to be free to seek the riches of her late-husband. Stephen had been so gullible; trusting her to invest his money into her theatrical business. A business that didn’t exist. Jennifer gained comfort from the knowledge that she deposited the funds herself in a place no-one else knew. No-one – not least, Oliver Stonebank – could reach them without her.

  As the line shuffled forward, Jennifer used one of the mirrors to seek reassurance that Stonebank was still there. She felt uncomfortable about needing his support but she knew the feeling was temporary. At first, she couldn’t see him and her stomach lurched. She took off her sunglasses for a better look, squinting as her migraine struggled to adjust to the bright light. Then she noticed him, watching her.

  She was surprised to see a worried look on his face. She offered him a half-smile which was met with a brief headshake. “No contact”, it said.

  She’d noticed Stonebank had slipped even further back in line. A third flight had disembarked and, in the writhing snake pit of the arrivals hall, several passengers had slipped under the tape to advance their position. As much as Jennifer bemoaned the slow pace of the arrivals process, a thought occurred to her. Seven other parties now stood between her and Stonebank. She could turn this to her advantage.

  She rubbed at her forehead to clear her mind and began to formulate a plan. It was a simple one but one she couldn’t find fault with. At the snail’s pace people were completing the formalities, she gauged that it would take Stonebank at least ten minutes to catch up with her. Probably more. In that time, she could saunter to baggage reclaim without drawing attention to herself – and walk straight out the other end again. She could be in a cab – albeit without luggage – before Stonebank knew what had happened.

  Simple but brilliant!

  “Miss. Miss? Would you step forward, please?”

  Jennifer was already spending Stephen’s money. All of it. All to herself. She’d lost sight of the fact she’d reached the front of the line. An immigration official who bore a striking resemblance to Pocahontas was calling her forward. She needed to clear her head. Get through this and she had it made. But she’d forgotten the story she’d rehearsed in her mind. She was flustered.

  As she stepped towards the booth, Jennifer couldn’t even remember which of her alto-egos she was supposed to be. Her head swam. This was all wrong. Not the way she’d prepared it. She passed her passport to the clerk like an automaton, desperately hoping her thoughts would emerge from the fog.

  “Welcome, Ms Weston”, Pocahontas was saying. “Would you take your sunglasses off of your face for me, please?”

  Weston. Yes, that’s who she was. Jodie Weston. Flying in from Toronto. Keep it together. You can do this.

  Can’t you?

  The clerk seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time studying the passport. She looked at Jennifer who tried to force a smile. Subconsciously, she flicked at a strand of blonde hair and wished she hadn’t. Don’t draw attention to it, she chided. Don’t let her see it’s a wig. Thinking about it only made her repeat the gesture, and this time she imagined a strand of red hair showing beneath the wig.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, then diverted them away from the dark-haired official. Only for them to dart back again when they locked with the enormous TSA officer behind Pocahontas’ kiosk. He was watching her intently.

  “How long are you intending to stay here, ma’am?” Pocahontas asked.

  “Sorry? Oh, a fortnight”

  “’Scuse me?”

  “A fort… oh, sorry. Of course. Two weeks. We call it a fortnight. Fourteen nights, you see. Same language but different. Sidewalks and pavements. Purses and handbags. Fries and chips, you say tomayto we say tomarto”.

  Stop gabbling, woman, she told herself.

  “And are you intending to do any work in your time here?”

  “No. No I’m not”

  Pocahontas looked Jennifer in the eye again. Then, without taking her eyes off her, she slipped out one copy of the green immigration form from the pages of her passport, stamped both documents, and returned them to Jennifer.

  “Thank you. Enjoy your stay”. The smile was perfunctory. Pocahontas was already using her eyes to signal forward the next in line. Jennifer slipped the passport back into her handbag and replaced her sunglasses, more to disguise the expression of relief on her face than protection for her migraine.

  Still, she was grateful for the shade. Until she realised the shade wasn’t caused by her glasses. It was a result of the shadow cast by the bulk of the TSA guard who had stepped across to block her passage.

  **

  Stonebank watched the man move in front of Jennifer with a mix of emotions. He’d been concerned that the gap between them left him vulnerable. He didn’t think she’d have the nouse to make a run for it without him, but the possibility crossed his mind.

  In other circumstances, he’d have made up the distance between himself and Jennifer by offering a few choice words to the line-hoppers. But the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself.

  He’d monitor the situation. Stonebank had always been averse to knee-jerk reactions but, if it was necessary, he’d done it before and would do it again.

  It came as a relief to him when he saw Jennifer’s progress delayed, but he was still concerned she wouldn’t have the balls to see this through under pressure. He took comfort from the way she had reacted to seeing him draw the blade across Stephen North’s throat back in Northumberland. Anyone who could watch her husband being slain – even if she’d arranged it – had something about her. And she was an actress of rare talent. But putting on a show for a few old dears in a village hall didn’t equate to the pressure she was under now.

  The line shuffled forward. He thought again about causing a distraction. It would enable Jennifer to escape the interrogation, but in so doing it would deflect attention onto him and slow him down still further. If she had been plotting an escape, it would give her even greater opportunity.

  Reluctantly, he decided his freedom was more valuable than Stephen North’s money. He couldn’t intervene.

  The couple in front of him were moving forward again. Stonebank picked up his bag and inched forward. There were only three parties between himself and the booth. He was confident that she wouldn’t have time to affect an escape without him. All that he needed was for Jennifer to stay calm and everything would be back on track. If it looked like she was losing it, he would simply walk on by without a second glance.

  **

  “Would you step to one side for me, ma’am”? The guard’s voice was as deep as his heavy frame suggested; a rumbling bass that wouldn’t have been out of place in an opera house.

  Jennifer steeled herself. Took a deep breath much as she always did before stepping on stage. Fixed a smile on her face. Told herself to maintain eye contact. “Of course, sir”, she said, a little too cheerfully for her liking.

  “May I see your passport?”

  “Certainly”. She handed over the burgundy booklet. He gave it the briefest of glances before fixing Jennifer with his eyes.

  “Mrs Weston, can you tell me what your plans are for your visit?”

  “It’s Miss Weston”, she replied, buying time with improvisation.

  “Really?” His eyes flitted briefly to Jennifer’s left-hand side.

  Shitballsandpiss. Her ring. She’d forgotten to remove her wedding ring. She swallowed hard, hoping he hadn’t noticed the tell-tale gesture.

  “Oh, this?” She raised her left hand and wiggled her fingers as if showing off her ring to her girlfriends. “It’s my mother’s ring. Single girl travelling alone can’t be too careful, you know. Keeps the flies away.”

  “Uh-huh”.

  Had he bought it? She had no way of knowing. Her eyes began to sting. She realised she’d forgotten to blink. Blink, damn it. Act naturally. She did blink, but the nervousness accentuated it. She screwed her eyes up a little too much. This wa
s going horribly wrong. The muscle in the corner of her eye twitched again.

  “Can you tell me what you’ll be doing here, MISS Weston?”

  Had he really over-emphasised the ‘Miss’, or was she imagining it? “Like I told your colleague. I’m here on holiday. On vacation”.

  “Nice. And where are you headed?”

  “Cincinnati”. She saw no reason to lie.

  “You’re going to Cincinnati for a vacation? Why would anyone choose to vacation in Cincinnati?”

  Doubleshitballs. Jennifer felt herself flush. “Wow, it’s so freaking hot today”, she said by way of covering it up.

  “Not in here, ma’am. Air-con working real fine as far as I can tell”.

  Jennifer felt her left eye screw up. Her nose wrinkled like a rabbit. Stay calm, girl.

  “Got a friend in Cincinnati. That’s why I’m going there. Spending some time with her”.

  “Uh-huh”. He left the phrase hanging. The silence seemed to stretch forever. “One final question then you can be on your way”. He smiled at her but the smile never reached his eyes. “If you’re headed for Cincinnati, why get on a plane from Toronto to Atlanta? You fly right over Cincinnati to get here”.

  On the wall behind the guard stood an illuminated advertising board. Jennifer saw the images on it flicker like a mirage. She blinked to clear her vision. Blinked again. Things began to spin like water down a plughole. She felt herself sway. Thought she was going to pass out. Nothing to do with the migraine but everything to do with stress. She planted her feet apart to stop herself from collapsing.

  “Why you on a flight to Atlan’a, Miss Weston?” the officer repeated.

  Her blink came out as a wink. Only the left eye shut. Pull yourself together. You can do this.