The Other Child (37 page)

Seeing how frustrated she was, he would have liked to leave her in peace, but he had a burning question.

‘Don't you think that this whole story, about your father and Fiona, should be handed over to the police?' he asked cautiously.

She looked at him. She was neither shocked nor worked up, just sad. ‘Then my father would know that I've read Fiona's emails to him. And that I printed them out and gave them to you and Jennifer. And Dave. He would never forgive me.'

‘Maybe he won't care who else knows the story. Chad seems pretty wrapped up in his mourning for Fiona. I don't think that anything apart from that is going to upset him much.'

‘Still. I don't want him to find out, so the police can't find out either.' Gwen sounded more decided than normal. Colin knew how close to her father she was. She would have found a lingering row with him difficult to bear. Nor did she want to dirty his reputation by opening up his past to the police and then possibly the public at large. The same was true regarding Fiona. Her memory would be brought into disrepute and she had been like a mother to Gwen for many years. It would have broken Gwen's heart to see these two people at the mercy of the full force of public opinion, when they could no longer defend themselves – Fiona because she was dead, and Chad because he was so self-absorbed.

‘Gwen …' said Colin slowly, but she interrupted him in a tone which for her was surprisingly sharp:

‘There's something else the police should know, Colin. Something which seems more important to me than these old stories.'

‘What?'

‘Jennifer,' she said.

He did not understand. ‘Jennifer?'

Gwen did not look him in the eye. ‘I've been thinking this over these last few days. That Saturday night. You know we were asked, Colin, what we did and where we were at the time of the crime.'

‘I know. What's the problem?'

She seemed to be struggling with herself. Later Colin thought that she would never have said what she said next if she had not felt her back was up against the wall. She had to stop him from insisting she gave Fiona's story to the police. She did it with the only option she had: she focused his attention on another person. Yet strangely, he did not doubt for a minute that what she said was true.

‘Just after we heard about Fiona's death, Jennifer came to me. She said I could get in trouble, because I might have had a motive to kill her – after all, she had practically driven my fiancé away from the farm. She said things could get tricky for me.'

‘Tricky … with the police?'

‘Yes. And she was right. There were really only two people that evening who had a real reason to be angry with Fiona: Dave Tanner – and me.'

‘Yes, but …'

‘She offered to give me an alibi.'

‘What?' asked Colin, dumbfounded.

‘She said I should say I'd been out at the bay with her and the dogs. She would confirm it. I was … so confused and afraid that I agreed.'

He was appalled. ‘So, really, you weren't …?'

‘No. I wasn't down in the bay with her. We sat in my room for a long time, and she consoled me, but then … she went off on her own. I stayed here. All night long. There are no witnesses for that.'

He shook his head. ‘Gwen, do you know what you're saying?'

‘I'm just telling you,' Gwen replied. ‘I wouldn't tell anyone else, but … I think about it all the time, that … Jennifer was walking around outside at the time it happened. Even at the time, I had the thought that it could have been the other way round, you know.'

‘The other way round?' he asked reluctantly. He was taken aback.

How could Jennifer have been so stupid?

‘Maybe she wasn't so much wanting to give
me
an alibi. Maybe she needed one. I don't mean that she … I don't for a second think she could have murdered Fiona. Why should she? But it's strange, isn't it, Colin? Why did she lie to the police? Why did she take the risk? Why did she want to be sure she was covered?'

11

The big houses on St Nicholas Cliff all looked a little shabby, including the Grand Hotel whose façade seemed to have suffered particularly from the wind and salt of the last few years. The house Stan Gibson lived in was at the top end and seemed very rundown. On the ground floor there was a shop for women's clothing, which to judge from the displays was aimed at middle-aged women of slender means. The flats above it had small windows. Even from the outside, you could see that they did not close well or let much light into the rooms.

All in all, thought Jennifer, it's not exactly a building I would like to live in.

Feeling uneasy, she followed Ena up the dim stairwell. Steep, creaking stairs. A terrible flowery wallpaper. A musty smell.

‘It will get better,' said Ena. ‘He has a really nice flat.'

Jennifer had a hard time imagining it.

On the third floor Ena stopped at a door and unlocked it. ‘He renovated it himself. The landlord agreed. I think he's done a good job.' She let Jennifer in.

Stan had indeed made the best that could be made out of it, as Jennifer had to admit. She supposed that the flat had once consisted of many small rooms. Stan had knocked out the dividing walls and made a single large room. It looked cosy, and the remaining columns were nicely joined with wooden shelving. The kitchen was part of the room. Its stainless steel and black granite shone. There was also a generously sized corner sofa facing a nice brick fireplace. The Scandinavian furniture looked inexpensive but bright and friendly. A white-painted door led to the bedroom, and beyond that there was a bathroom too.

‘Newly tiled, with a great shower, a big table and lots of mirrors …'

At least she likes Stan's flat, if not him. Better than nothing, thought Jennifer.

She walked across the room and looked out one of the windows. As the flat was so high up, you could see the sea from here. Below the house was the wide street and on the opposite side a few residential houses and the Grand Hotel. Not a bad place to live, thought Jennifer, revising her initial estimation.

She jumped – Ena was suddenly next to her.

‘Linda Gardner lives in the house opposite,' said Ena.

The house looked a little like a long thin tooth which had a bit broken off its side.

‘Who's Linda Gardner?' asked Jennifer.

‘The woman Amy Mills was babysitting for. The student who—'

‘Oh yes, I know,' interrupted Jennifer. ‘A terrible affair. Horrible.'

And so similar to our own, she thought.

‘That's the house she left on that July night,' said Ena. ‘She went over that bridge and then into the Esplanade Gardens. Her last trip. Mrs Gardner's flat is on a level with Stan's, by the way.'

Jennifer looked at the windows. They were dark holes framed by the frilly curtains.

Suddenly she shivered, but that might have been because of the rainy atmosphere outside. She turned from the window. ‘You wanted to tell me something, Ena. And show me something.'

‘Yes,' said Ena. ‘That's what I wanted to show you. The house opposite. The flat. And this here.' She pulled a tripod from the corner. A black telescope was attached to it. She put it at the window.

‘He watched her from here.'

Jennifer did not understand. ‘Who? Who watched whom?'

‘Stan. He watched Amy Mills. On the evenings when she was over there. You can see everything in the flat with this lens. At least in the evening when the lights are on. And it was always evening when she was there.'

‘What?' asked Jennifer. She understood what Ena was saying, but was hoping that there was something she had not understood. ‘What are you saying, Ena?'

‘It's not some absurd idea of mine, Jennifer. He told me. A few days ago. Stan told me that he used to watch Amy Mills over there, and he showed me how well it works. We could see Mrs Gardner and her daughter. She read to her and—'

‘He told you that he used to watch Amy Mills?'

‘Yes. For months. He acted as if he was … really proud of it.
The girl who's dead now, I knew her pretty well
, he said, and then he brought out this thing. I was completely shocked, but he didn't notice. He bragged about his great telescope and that he even … even knew what colour her panties were. You can see into the bathroom too, you see.'

Jennifer put a hand to her temples. She felt a pounding starting. ‘That is … indeed a little disturbing,' she said in the end.

‘But that's not all,' said Ena. You could see it was doing her the world of good to tell someone about this. ‘The day before yesterday I found something which … And since then I've felt awful, and known I couldn't keep it to myself …'

She pulled Jennifer over to a little chest of drawers, and kneeling down she tried to open the lowest drawer.

Jennifer turned nervously towards the flat's front door. She was shivering even more, and she knew it had nothing to do with the cool day. ‘Are you quite sure he won't suddenly come in?'

‘He wouldn't come back from Hull just like that,' said Ena, but she did not sound completely convinced.

‘Quick, have a look,' she insisted.

She had finally managed to pull out the drawer. It was full right to the top with photos – photos of all sizes, black and white as well as colour photos, framed in wood or paper sometimes. Ena grabbed a pile and pressed them into Jennifer's hands. She was squatting down next to Ena. ‘Here!'

All the pictures showed a young woman. Most of them were grainy snaps, obviously taken at a great distance. They showed the young woman on a cliff-top walk. At the beach. Walking down a road. Coming out of a supermarket. Eating in McDonald's. Inside a flat. Reading. Watching television. Staring out the window.

‘Who is it?' asked Jennifer, although she knew. Her voice sounded hoarse.

‘Amy Mills,' replied Ena. ‘I know because her picture was in all the papers after she was murdered. It's Amy Mills in just about every possible situation. You can see for yourself,' she motioned to the open drawer, ‘the pics fill the whole drawer.'

‘Most were taken with a telephoto lens,' said Jennifer, ‘and it doesn't look as though Amy Mills knew she was being photographed.'

‘He must have been following her all the time,' said Ena. ‘At least each weekend, when he wasn't working. And on his days off. Evenings. He was constantly taking her picture.'

Jennifer swallowed. Her throat was dry. She looked at the door again.

‘Did he show you these too?'

Ena shook her head. ‘No. Like I said, I found them. And I didn't talk to him about them. You know, I really didn't like the thing with the telescope, and I'd tried to convince myself it was just a coincidence that Amy was his target. I said it was just because she happened to go to the flat opposite his, and that it was a terrible coincidence that she was later the victim of a crime. But the pictures … I mean, it looks as if …'

‘He was obsessed with her,' said Jennifer. ‘What this is, Ena, is stalking. Even if the victim didn't know about it.'

‘Stalkers aren't necessarily murderers,' replied Ena.

The word
murderers
reverberated awkwardly in the air. It stood out like a penetratingly bad smell. It shook Jennifer out of her paralysis. She got up, with the photos in her hand. ‘Is
that
what you wanted to talk to Gwen about?'

Ena stood up too. ‘I wanted to ask her what to do. I couldn't work it out on my own.'

Jennifer did not let go of the photos. Her eyes drifted back to the door. ‘We have to get out. If he finds us here …'

‘Do you think he …?'

‘I don't know. I don't know how far his involvement in the crime goes, and I don't know how dangerous he could get with us, but I don't want to know that, in any case. Come on. We have to go.'

‘And then?'

‘I'm taking these photos with me. And we're going to the police. You have to tell them everything you've told me, Ena. The police
have to know.'

In an instant it seemed as if all the energy which had carried Ena through the last half hour disappeared. Suddenly her arms hung limply at her sides.

‘And what will happen to me? He won't want to be with me any more.'

‘Do you want to be with someone who …'

‘What?'

‘Who might have committed a serious crime?'

‘And what if it wasn't him?'

Jennifer waved the pictures around. ‘This here just isn't normal! The telescope's not normal! The guy is, at the least, disturbed! Anyway, you aren't happy with him, as you just told me at some length. Please, Ena, let's hurry. We shouldn't stay here this long!'

Finally Ena snapped out of her torpor. She bent down and closed the drawer. ‘Right. OK. I just want to pack a few things. I've already got some personal things here and I don't know if I will ever …' Her voice was trembling.

‘Hurry,' urged Jennifer.

She stepped over to the window while Ena rushed around the flat. Rain. Rain. Rain. And across the road the dark windows of the flat where Amy Mills had spent her Wednesday evenings. Dark windows which when lit up would allow you to have a good view in.

Stan Gibson – a peeping Tom? A stalker?

Or a murderer?

Rain.

Suddenly she knew why she was so uneasy. Why she kept looking at the door. Why her heart was pounding so loudly and fast.

It was pouring down. You could not work on any building site in rain like this. And it did not look as if it would stop soon.

She turned to Ena, who had just taken two pictures down from the fireplace and was stowing them in a plastic bag.

‘Ena. I bet he'll come home early today. Are you ready?
We have to go!'

‘Soon,' said Ena.

Jennifer looked out again and checked the street.