The Finisher

6

The body was unlikely ever to be found. No one had any reason to go down there. The Finisher had no conscience about what he’d done. He didn’t allow morbid thoughts to burden him. The act of murder had become necessary. End of story.

Now is now and then was then.

The final stage in getting away with murder is that you do nothing different. You carry on living at the same address, rise at the same hour, eat the same food, use the same shops, meet the same people and give the impression you’re no different from any of them.

Normal life resumed. He lived at a good address and had a reasonable income, enough to indulge himself when he wished and others when he chose. The others he indulged were always women and Bath was the ideal place to meet them. He loved their company and they responded to him, his good looks, his sense of humour and infectious laugh, his delight in everything they said and his interest in their stories. He never forced the pace. They relaxed with him over tea and cake, coffee and biscuits or gin and lime — whichever they preferred. Carrot juice and a high-calorie protein bar for one fit lady.

He didn’t need to go far. Gorgeous women were everywhere in this enchanting city: students too deep in loan debt to enjoy the best time of their life; tourists on short visits wanting to pack as much pleasure as possible into a few hours; over-thirties starting to lose confidence in their pulling power; fitness fanatics desperate to be told they glowed with health; bored housewives thinking there must be someone better out there; and trophy wives of the ultra-rich, only too willing to be unfaithful with someone more their own age.

And so to bed, as the diarist said.

But it isn’t as straightforward as that.

Where to meet them? This city was stiff with coffee shops, tea rooms, restaurants, pubs, parks, galleries, museums, gyms, thermal spas, nightclubs and a bewildering choice of tourist attractions from the Roman Baths to the Jane Austen Centre. He would join a guided walk, hop on a tour bus, take a river trip or simply stroll up Milsom Street, where they did their window shopping. If you can’t make out in Bath, you must be Godzilla.

He wasn’t short of experience, and that helped. He could read the signs, so he didn’t waste time and money on unresponsive dates. He knew the chatlines that worked and he used them. Relationships weren’t for him. He was a one-night-stand man (in fact, a one-afternoon man, because he had other things to attend to at nights). Always on neutral ground, hotel rooms he paid for. No strings. He would say, “That was sensational.” But never, “When can we meet again?”

He wasn’t deceitful. He told them they were amazing, sexy, irresistible, like no one else he’d ever met, and he believed it at that moment, and they could tell and they lapped it up. He said nothing about future plans. You don’t, before you’ve got to know each other. After sex, he was generous enough to confirm that they’d been amazing, sexy, irresistible and like no one else he’d ever met, and that was it. They couldn’t possibly top such a high, so the best thing was to leave it there. No exchange of phone numbers. In the nicest way he knew, he would let her know that the experience had been a one-off.

Finish.

The majority understood. A few had to be told he didn’t do second dates. Some got emotional, which was a pity. You can’t predict how everyone will react.

After that, there was a small risk of being recognised by one of them when he was with somebody else. It had to be factored in and it had happened more than once. His way of dealing with it was a quick, faint smile of recognition and then back to full-on charm with his new companion. It worked.

Now is now and then was then.