bedside.’
There was a click and cheerful classical music filled the earpiece. I was confident I’d get my way. I could always take the documentation to the High Street travel agent but I wanted to keep my local exposure to a minimum. The music stopped and Clare returned to the line.
‘Thank you for holding, Mr Hamilton. In view of the exceptional circumstances we will accept the cancellation provided you can confirm the booking reference and Ms Georgina Hamilton’s address plus details from her passport.’
I began to relay the information. ‘The booking reference is T, S, T, zero, zero, two, one, three, H, A, M, zero, one.’
‘And Ms Hamilton’s address?’
‘Thirty-two, Great Stour Court, Canterbury.’
‘And the postcode, Sir?’
‘It’s CT2 7US.’
For Gina’s passport details I had to pay close attention to the photograph on my mobile. With that completed I thought Tuscan Sun Tours would be satisfied but no, Clare also wanted details of the original payment.
‘Rather old-fashioned,’ I said in a lighter voice, conveying a smile. ‘It was a surprise for my sister. I paid with a postal order. I have a note of the serial number here somewhere …’
‘Thank you, Sir, that won’t be necessary.’ Clare paused and resumed apologetically, ‘I’m afraid that for such a late cancellation we will not be able to offer you a refund.’
‘The money isn’t important. Georgie just wanted you to know that she will not be joining the tour.’
‘Thank you, Sir. I have made a note.’
‘Will that information be available to everybody in your organization? My sister is very unwell. I don’t want her bothered by telephone enquiries about her failure to show up at Gatwick.’
‘That will not happen, Sir. A note that Ms Hamilton has withdrawn from TST247 is now on our company-wide system. Please give your sister our very best wishes for a speedy recovery. If she returns the confirmation and travel pack we’ll send a voucher for 10 per cent off her next booking.’ There was a brief pause before Clare added, ‘Is there anything else I can help you with today, Sir?’
‘No, thank you. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Sir, and thank you for calling Tuscan Sun Tours.’
I am feeling good. It’s gone well. This won’t be like Dover. That was a practice run. This is for real and extensively planned. This woman is perfect – elegant, slim, sexy and with long fair hair of the kind that only models and posh girls manage to have. Back in Gravesend, when I was at Scotts, she’d have been one of the smart set, the graduates who looked down on the likes of me. One of those confident professional women I wanted but couldn’t have – the unobtainable.
Things are different now. I’m in control. There’ll be no put-down this time.
I’ve learnt a lot, come a long way, learnt how to handle people, people like the woman at Sun Tours. She’d been resistant, exercising her power – ‘It’s procedure, Sir.’ I soon put her in her place.
It hasn’t always been like this. I wasn’t born with that confidence. It came when I started spending the money. I soon learnt how to get what I wanted. Not only does money make people want your custom, money also gives you the assurance not to take no for an answer. I guess a good education does the same, but that wasn’t on offer when I was young. I’m bright, but I didn’t pass the 11+ exam. My dad said I was a late developer. My mum, wiping her hands on her apron, and turning away to hide the look in her eyes, said she didn’t know where I got it all from. ‘Not y’ dad – or me, that’s for sure,’ she’d added diplomatically.
They loved me, my parents, and I loved them, but none of us was good at showing emotion.
At school I got into computers and wanted my own. I remember the first time I asked for one.
‘Dad, can I have a computer for my birthday?’
‘We can’t afford one, son.’ His eyes, which had flicked up when I spoke, had already returned to his newspaper.
I was desperate. I pleaded. ‘Birthday and Christmas combined?’
No dice. His eyes remained fixed on the sports page.
‘Maybe when I win the pools, lad, but it’ll have to be a big win.’
Dad never did have that big win, at least not while he was alive. He joined Mum in East Hill cemetery some six years after I’d left the Tech to work in electronics at Scotts. I inherited the house, but Dad’s building society account didn’t even stretch to a new computer. I planned to sell up and move to a new-build apartment, but, in the meantime, I carried on working at Scotts. It must have been three months before I went into Dad’s room to clear out his things. I thought there might be something I could sell. There wasn’t, but I did find his pools coupons. He’d been very tidy. They were piled in date order with the one for the week he died on top. The games had been selected and the form completed, ready to post. The season hadn’t finished. I found the current coupon, marked the same lines and posted it in my name as a last throw of the old man’s dice.
I won. Well … to be fair, he won. Dad’s system finally turned up trumps. It was a big win, a very big win. Although I’d ticked the ‘no publicity’ box they tried to persuade me, but there was no way I was going to be photographed with a cheque the size of a billboard. I carried on working for another 18 months. With the cash to give a girl a good time I asked a few of the women at work for a date. There were no takers. The stuck-up graduates had in your dreams, geek written all over their faces. I had to lower my sights.
I started going to football and buying drinks for the guys I’d known at college. I was generous. I fixed their computers and sometimes they’d take me to a club. I took what was on offer but I wanted more, I wanted better. I wanted a bright woman, a woman who’d been to university, a graduate like those who’d turned me down. It was then I had the idea and started working on my plan. I resigned from my job, stopped going to football and gave up clubbing. I told everyone I’d inherited some money and was going on a long trip to Australia.
In fact, I went to London. I spent one night in a small hotel changing my appearance and then rented a cheap bedsit in a run-down part of town. Immediately, I put my plan into action. First, I had to identify women who took my fancy and try to get their names from their credit cards. I trawled ATMs and supermarket checkouts. It was often easier on the tube, but that wouldn’t be any use because I intended to operate in small towns. I soon discovered it wasn’t as difficult as I’d first thought. There was no need to have an exact name because I was patient. I had all the time in the world. I couldn’t believe how many partial names I could confirm using company websites. A pattern developed. I’d follow a target back to her work and, later, back to where she lived. Some of the women even had their names by their doorbells.
As soon as I’d lined up a target who lived alone, I could have broken in, but that wasn’t my plan. If I forced my way in, they’d shout and scream, the neighbours would hear, call the police and I’d be in serious trouble. Even if no one heard, I didn’t want that, I didn’t want rape.
I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted my chosen woman to have time to get to know me. I wanted her to know my worth, to want me, to give herself to me. She would have to invite me into her home. She would have to trust me with a key. There must be no neighbours around. Once I was inside I knew it would take time. She wasn’t going to come round overnight, so she mustn’t be missed at work. It was a problem. It was a whole string of problems. How could I pull it off?
One day I came back from finding targets and trod on the answer as I came through the door from the street. So simple! So elegant! It just required patience