The Watcher (36 page)

Finley looked as if what he wanted more than anything right then was to run off. John understood that he would not be able to keep the boy there another minute.

He had had an idea about a faint chance to find Liza. He just needed one piece of information from the boy, and he would not get it if he continued to be so insistent.

He changed the topic abruptly. ‘Do you do anything outside school?’ he asked casually. ‘After school, I mean. Do you have a hobby? Rugby? A musical instrument? Anything else?’

Finley looked surprised and relieved at once. ‘I play tennis on Wednesdays. And I’ve got a piano lesson on Thursdays.’

‘You play tennis? That’s great. I coach tennis in my free time.’

‘Really?’ Finley looked at him with respect.

‘Yes. Really. Are you any good?’

‘I’m OK.’

‘Do you play at school?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the piano lesson – is that here too?’

‘No. I’ve got a private teacher. Near Hampstead tube station.’

‘I see. I suppose your mum used to take you there, am I right? And now you go on your own?’

‘Yes. My dad doesn’t have much time.’

‘Of course. Finley – thanks for talking. I hope you catch your bus.’

‘There’s still time,’ Finley said. He turned to go. ‘Goodbye,’ he said uncertainly.

‘Goodbye,’ said John. He watched the boy walk away. As he went, he hunched his shoulders forward. He looked as if he were carrying an invisible load.

Certainly not a happy child. A child who was well provided for, who was supported in so many ways, who had a giant, well-equipped playroom waiting for him at home. But a sad child with neglect written all over his face.

It was clutching at a straw, but it was the only chance John could see. If Liza Stanford was somewhere nearby still, occasionally she would try to check up on how her son was doing. Or she would just try to see him, to make the separation from him bearable in some way. He harboured a small hope that Liza would sometimes hang around those places where she knew Finley would appear at certain times, in order to catch a glimpse of him. If he were lucky, he would manage to recognise her. He could either talk to her or follow her.

It was just a chance, nothing more. And it meant that he would have to twiddle his thumbs for whole afternoons. He had not asked Finley what time he had his tennis and piano lessons, as he did not want to draw attention to his interest. That meant he would have to keep watch from early afternoon. It would eat up his time – and would not be at all pleasant in this cold.

He looked at his watch. He wondered if it was still worth going into the office to see everything was running smoothly. In the end he decided to work things out on the phone – and to visit Gillian instead.

Christy McMarrow was sitting in DI Fielder’s office. The day before, she had told her boss about her conversations with Nancy Cox and with the receptionist from Anne Westley’s former surgery. Fielder himself had wanted to try to talk to Dr Westley’s confidante Phyllis Skinner.

‘I spoke to Dr Skinner on the phone,’ he said. ‘I’d have preferred to see her in person, but she’s in bed with terrible flu and isn’t up to having visitors. She remembers Liza Stanford. She describes her in a similar way to the receptionist: showy, arrogant. Icily distant. She says that Anne Westley hadn’t mentioned anything particular about her until shortly after she retired, three and a half years ago. Then one evening she called her, Dr Skinner, and said she had a problem with the mother of one of her patients, or rather, ex-patients, as she had stopped working two or three weeks before. With Liza Stanford.’

‘Ah!’ said Christy, sitting up straighter.

Fielder waved his hand dismissively. ‘Unfortunately it peters out there. Dr Skinner was just packing, as she was off on holiday the next day. She had no time to talk. Anne Westley could tell on the phone that she was stressed, so without even hinting at anything else, she suggested that they could meet and talk about it when Dr Skinner got back. But the house-warming party for the Westleys’ newly renovated Tunbridge Wells house was planned for just a few days after Skinner came back from holiday. A day before the party, Anne Westley’s husband fell off the roof, then contracted pneumonia in hospital and died. So whatever Anne had intended to tell her former colleague was completely forgotten in the ensuing tragic sequence of events. Neither of the women thought any more about it.’

‘They never took up that conversation later?’

‘No. Unfortunately not.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Christy with some force.

‘I know,’ said Fielder. ‘But moaning won’t help us now. What my call has made clear is that Liza Stanford has an important part in the whole affair. She knew two of the murder victims and one of them had some problem with her. And now she’s disappeared. She’s mixed up in these cases. We don’t know exactly how or why, but I bet she’s the key to them. Or at least that she’ll be vital in us finding the key.’

‘That means we must find her.’

‘Yes.’

‘What can we do? Put her husband through the third degree?’

Fielder nodded slowly. ‘He’s a tough nut to crack. Makes out that he’s friendly and cooperative, but if he doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t talk. And he’s got connections.’

‘That he’ll use, of course.’

‘Of course. We have to be careful. He’d lodge a formal complaint before we know it, something like that, at the highest level.’

‘Still,’ said Christy, ‘at the moment he’s our only chance.’

‘We could also report Liza Stanford as a missing person and look for her.’

‘He won’t allow that to go through unchallenged.’

‘You’re right,’ admitted Fielder. ‘Especially as we can only speculate vaguely at this point. We don’t have many hard facts. His version is that his wife has taken herself off to a secluded spot for a while because of her depression, that she does it often and that there is no reason to be worried. That does not justify a search.’

Both of them were silent. The case was getting them down. In the end Fielder said, ‘What about Samson Segal? Any sign of him?’

‘He’s still in hiding,’ said Christy. ‘He was my favourite suspect, but I’m not sure now. Maybe he really is just a harmless crank driven by panic and the thought that he could be blamed for something he didn’t do. He’s the living embodiment of the opposite of Stanford; someone who never knows how to make life easier for himself.’

‘It would be interesting to discover if he knows Liza Stanford.’

‘He didn’t mention her in his notes.’

‘We still shouldn’t rule it out. We have to find him too, urgently.’

‘And John Burton?’

‘Keep our eye on him,’ said Fielder. He added, ‘I’ve asked to see the files on his investigation back then.’

‘There was no court case,’ objected Christy. She had come to think that she could not remind her boss enough times about this. ‘The charges didn’t stick!’

‘Still. I just want to have another look.’

‘And I—’

‘And you try your luck with Logan Stanford. Maybe you’ll be luckier with him than I was,’ said Fielder.

She rolled her eyes. She had guessed that Fielder would put her on to Stanford, on to the man they wouldn’t get anything out of.

‘Will do,’ she said, resigned.

The first thing he saw as he came up the drive was the wide-open front door. In view of everything that had happened in the last few weeks, he felt an icy hand grip his heart as he feared the worst. He stood still, wondering how best to act. But at that same moment he saw Gillian come around the corner from the back garden. She had obviously not been outside long, because she was not wearing a coat or scarf. She had just put on her fur-lined boots to trudge through the snow. She was holding a plastic bucket in her hand. She jumped when she saw she had a visitor, but then relaxed when she recognised who it was. Not that she seemed particularly pleased to see him, as John noticed.

‘Hello, Gillian,’ he said.

She smiled, politely rather than warmly. ‘Hello, John.’

He approached her and gave her a kiss, but she turned her face so that his lips only brushed her cheek.

‘It’s probably rude to come by without warning, but I was in the area . . .’ he said.

That was not true. He did not have coaching on Tuesdays. He had absolutely no reason to drive out to Thorpe Bay. None, except to see Gillian. But luckily she did not question him.

‘Come in.’ She stepped into the house ahead of him and put the bucket down by the door. ‘I’ve just fed the birds.’

‘Aha.’ He looked around. Boxes were piled up along the hallway. From the clear marks on the walls, he could see that pictures had been taken down too.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘I’ve packed some things already,’ said Gillian. She disappeared into the kitchen. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’ He looked around, still shaking his head. The signs were clear: Gillian was preparing to move out.

He stepped into the kitchen. Outside it was almost dark, and yet through the glass of the back door he could still see the bird table on its pole. He turned to Gillian, who was busy with the espresso machine. ‘Why don’t you go out of the kitchen door when you want to get to the garden?’

She paused. ‘No idea,’ she replied. Then: ‘I’ve got a problem with leaving the garden door open. Even just for a minute. That’s where the . . . murderer came in. It’s just . . . impossible.’

‘But you can’t then leave the front door open instead – that’s not logical!’

She turned the machine on. ‘Logical? Everything in my life has been completely
il
logical for a while now.’

John moved closer to her. ‘Gillian, what’s up? What does this mean . . . you suddenly packing up? Are you moving out?’

‘Yes. I’m selling the house. An estate agent is coming tomorrow.’

‘Isn’t that a bit rushed?’

‘Should I live in this house, and bring up my daughter here, where my husband was murdered?’

‘Where do you want to move to? Do you want to rent a flat somewhere?’

‘I’m not staying here. I’m moving back to Norwich.’

He looked at her in horror. ‘Norwich? Why?’

‘That’s where I’m from. That’s where my parents live. As a single mother who has to work, I’m going to have to let other people help me take care of my daughter. Rather them than strangers. I need my family nearby in this situation – and they don’t happen to live here.’

‘But this is your house. Becky goes to school here. She has her friends here. You have a company in London that supports the pair of you. That’s all
here
!’

‘I’ll sell the company. It’s doing well, so it won’t be too difficult. Add to that the money from the sale of this house and I’ll have a tidy sum. That will give me time to get work. I’ll find a way somehow.’

‘You’ve already got it all planned out perfectly,’ said John in amazement.

Gillian added frothed milk to the steaming coffee and put the cups on the table. Cautiously, John took a first sip. He burnt his lips, but he barely noticed. He looked at Gillian, who was bending over and examining her cup as if the cappuccino held some fascinating secret. He could have sworn she was still suffering from shock and that this was the reason for her ghostly pale skin, her somewhat mechanical way of speaking and her unnatural calmness. She had not combed her hair and looked as though she had just got out of bed. Without her make-up she appeared younger than usual. And so fragile that he wanted to take her in his arms and hold her tight, but he felt that was the last thing she wanted right then.

‘Life goes on,’ she said.

‘Yes, but do you have to make such momentous decisions now? And must you do it at a time when you can hardly think clearly? Gillian, it’s just two weeks since you found your husband here. Two weeks! You can’t have dealt with your feelings yet. You can’t even have started to. And yet you’re changing your whole life!’

‘It’s my way of starting to deal with it.’

She was not the woman he had known. She was so rigid, brittle. He felt an increasing despair as he realised that he could not really get close to her. Whatever he said, he would not be able to touch Gillian inside.

Nevertheless he tried. ‘I can understand that you don’t want to live in this house any more. You’re quite right. It’s full of terrible memories for you. But you can move to another house in Southend. Find a pretty flat for Becky and yourself, but don’t uproot yourselves completely right now!’

She looked suddenly tired. ‘John, please. I don’t want to discuss it. It’s all decided.’

He would have liked to grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shake. He was surprised that he suddenly felt himself confronted by such strong emotions, by his
own
strong emotions. He was not like that. He was not familiar with this situation. He had rarely experienced a woman withdrawing from him, unless the woman was completely disillusioned about him and the way their relationship was going. However, in those cases he had, inside himself, already distanced himself from her and so had created the conditions for their frustrations. This time it was different. This time he would have begged her not to go.

‘And what if you moved in with me, Gillian?’ he exclaimed, before immediately correcting himself: ‘What if you and Becky moved in with me? And your cat?’

She looked up in surprise. At least he had managed to reach her – she was amazed.

‘With you?’

‘Why not? It’s a new city, new surroundings – what you are looking for. And I’d help to look after Becky.’

She almost laughed out loud. ‘John! You can’t even bring yourself to furnish your flat; that’s how afraid you are of settling down. Do you really think you would cope with a woman, her child and her cat moving in with you?’

He knew that her question was a fair one. And yet he also knew that his answer was the absolute truth. ‘Yes. I could cope with anything if
you
move in.’

She shook her head. ‘John . . .’

‘Please. Consider it.’

‘We barely know each other. We’ve gone to bed a few times. Nothing more than that.’

There was a desperate look in his eyes. He knew that his suggestion that she should move in had come too quickly, had rushed her. Her husband had just been murdered. She had not yet got to grips with that. And he was planning a life together! He was acting like an oaf, but he was suddenly afraid . . . terribly afraid he could lose her for ever.