The Watcher (44 page)

‘Does the name Stanford mean anything to you?’ he asked. ‘Dr Logan Stanford?’

Samson looked thoughtful. ‘Stanford . . . isn’t that the lawyer? The one who has so much money and is always organising charity events? He’s in the papers a lot. Just before Christmas he put something on in Thorpe Bay . . . at the golf club, I think. A tombola or something.’

Interesting. At any rate, it was a connection. Stanford had been to Thorpe Bay. Near to Gillian’s house.

‘But you don’t know him personally?’

Samson laughed. ‘No. Someone like him would not even notice me! I don’t mix in his circles.’

John decided to pass on at least some of what he had found out. ‘His wife, Liza Stanford, was in contact with the two murdered women. Carla Roberts and Anne Westley.’

‘Really? How do you know?’

‘It doesn’t matter how. I do. And it’s important to know whether she or her husband was in contact with Gillian Ward.’

‘Ask her!’

‘I asked Liza Stanford. She says that she’s never heard the name Ward. You don’t know anything about it, do you, by any chance?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said Samson, confused. ‘I’m guessing you’re wondering if I ever saw Dr Stanford visit the Wards? No, I didn’t. I mean, I just know his face from pictures in the papers, but I think I’d have recognised him. But I don’t know what his wife looks like.’

‘Very attractive. Tall, slim. Long blonde hair. She always wears large sunglasses. She’s a woman who stands out.’

‘No,’ said Samson. ‘I’m sorry. Gillian rarely has visitors. Actually, only her best friend visits her. And sometimes mothers who bring or pick up Becky’s schoolmates. No one else.’

‘I see,’ said John. That matched what Kate had told him. Gillian had told the police that she did not know Liza Stanford. Fielder and his team were now sifting through Thomas Ward’s professional contacts and those from his tennis club. John did not think the solution would be as simple as finding Stanford in the same tennis club or among Ward’s clients. That would have been so quick that Kate would have already known about it when they met. It would be much harder to find the connection – if there was one.

Charity Stanford was a brutal murderer. John did not find it hard to imagine that, not now that he knew how he beat his wife when he was unhappy about something. Yet too much was still unexplained. Kate had said that Carla and Anne might have been terrorised and intimidated in subtle ways for weeks. Carla had talked openly about some strange happenings, while the interpretation of Anne’s last picture suggested something similar. It was almost unimaginable that Stanford had gone to a block of flats every day and taken the lift to the top floor to scare an old woman living on her own. It did not fit John’s image of him, nor did he have the time to do so. Nor would he drive around in woods at night to scare his son’s doctor. If Stanford had murdered the two women, then he had just one motive: they knew too much and that was why he had to silence them. That could have been done quickly, without all the drama that had obviously accompanied the actual murders. And the gruesome, painful method of suffocating the women to death seemed very strange. The hate . . . Would a man do that if he were just wanting to remove a danger? On the other hand, Stanford was a sick and evil sadist.

Liza . . . She certainly had reason to hate Carla and Anne and to enjoy an act of vengeance. Yet it was difficult to imagine this worn-down, fearful, desperate woman in that role. However, he knew he should not exclude the possibility. Liza was very pretty and she clearly woke his protective instincts; he should be careful not to let himself be influenced.

‘Was Mrs Stanford involved in the crime?’ asked Samson.

‘I don’t know.’ John played with the slice of toast on his plate. He had not eaten since lunchtime yesterday, but the hunger he had felt when he had got up had already gone.

As he looked at the breakfast Samson had made, another thing occurred to him: what did Liza live off? She had to pay the rent on the flat, to eat and drink. Petrol wasn’t cheap. Apart from that, the flat would need to be rented in a name that passed all the checks, and she would hardly have used her own. Landlords wanted to see people’s papers. How had she solved the problem?

So much new information had come at him the previous evening that he had not thought of this obvious question. If he had understood Stanford right, the man would have blocked her use of their accounts. So it was unlikely that Liza was using their debit card, apart from the fact that it would have been dangerous and allowed her location to be traced.

And that led to his next question:
Who was supporting Liza Stanford?

Damn it. He should have thought about that earlier.

‘You’re deep in thought,’ Samson said.

He nodded, distractedly. Was there a crazy but possible connection here? Could Gillian or her husband be behind this? Gillian would not have told the police, as it could have put Liza in danger. Was that what had made the Wards a target for the murderer – who in that case could only be Logan Stanford?

And why only now? Anne Westley had represented a danger for three years. Maybe Stanford had just heard about her, for whatever reason. And it was only now that the situation had got worse. Liza had gone into hiding. Stanford might have had the feeling that things were getting out of control.

He had chosen the solution he knew: violence.

‘Do you think you’re any closer to solving the case?’ Samson asked timidly.

John replied honestly. ‘I don’t know. In one way, yes, but everything just seems to be getting more tangled. I can’t really make head or tail of it yet.’

‘You’re my only hope,’ Samson blurted out. His face was blotched red with excitement. ‘Please stick at it. You’re the only person who can get me out of this mess.’

‘The police won’t cut corners either, Samson. They don’t want to arrest the wrong person.’

‘But I don’t trust them.’ He looked pleadingly at John. ‘Please help me. I can’t bear it any longer. I’ve got no home. I’m desperate. I just want to live my life again. Only that. Just live my life again.’

John bit back the comment that in his eyes Samson’s life was not the most appealing place to return to. He did not know much, but what he knew did not sound enticing: a man who lived with his brother and sister-in-law, who was unemployed and had the highly eccentric hobby of spying on other people and finding an obvious satisfaction in identifying with their lives. His own sister-in-law had snooped around in his computer and taken his notes to the police, delivering him to the lions. The Segal family did not seem a harmonious one.

And yet it was Samson’s life. And even if he was unhappy in it, it was the life he knew. The life he had learnt to deal with. Which he somehow coped with. It was familiar to him.

Compared to the existence of a man on the run from the police, who had no idea when those circumstances would end, it seemed like paradise.

‘I’ll do what I can, Samson,’ he promised. ‘You can be sure that—’

At that moment, the phone rang.

John excused himself and left the kitchen. The cordless phone was on a pile of books in the living room. The number on the display seemed familiar to him, but he could not think whose it was.

‘Hi, it’s Kate here,’ said a woman’s voice on the other end.

‘Oh . . . hi, Kate.’ That was why he knew the number. He was surprised that Kate Linville was calling. That evening at Charing Cross, he had thought he would never hear from her again.

‘How are you?’ she asked stiffly.

‘I’m fine, thanks. And you?’
What does she want?
he wondered.

‘Fine too. John, I had actually decided not to go out of my way for you again. The whole thing is just too risky. It could end badly for me.’

‘I promised that I’ll never let anyone, under any circumstances, know that you gave me information. You can rely on that. I know I’ve got a bad reputation, but I’ve never broken a promise.’

‘I didn’t want to insinuate you would. But there’s still that risk.’

‘Of course. With everything we do in life.’

Kate hesitated, then carried on. ‘I don’t know why I should warn you, but . . . well, I’m not completely indifferent to you.’

‘Warn me?’

‘Maybe it’s no big deal. But Fielder asked to see the file that was opened on you. I know because I had to ask the Crown Prosecution Service for it.’

‘The file from the investigation?’

‘How many files do you have? I mean the one about the rape,’ said Kate smugly.

‘I see. So he’s not excluded me completely yet.’ It was not as if this information came as a complete surprise. Fielder could not stand him and he was all at sea with the present case. As John knew, Stanford was on Fielder’s radar. However, he also knew that this fact was playing on Fielder’s mind. If he went for Stanford and it turned out that he had made a mistake, he would find his career stalled. If he still had a career. Fielder did not like risks. He must be scared shitless. He would do anything to be able to quickly present another suspect before he had to go after Stanford.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Thanks for telling me, Kate. Fielder is flailing about – let him. The case was never taken before a court. He won’t be able to construct anything on it.’

‘Right,’ said Kate. ‘I just wanted to let you know. By the way, I could tell from the cover of your file that you’re obviously the man everyone wants to see. Fielder was the second person in a few days to ask for it.’

The names of the people who had asked to see the file were always noted, with the date of delivery, on the cover.

‘Really? Who else?’

‘There was a request from . . . wait, what was the name . . .’

He could hear rustling. Kate was leafing through her notes. He wondered. Stanford, no doubt; he should have known. Of course Stanford had taken down his number plate, knew who he was, had got his own investigation started and had now unearthed this old story. As a lawyer with top-notch contacts, he would have found a way to see the file.

He must have acted quickly.

‘Let me guess: Dr Logan Stanford.’

‘No,’ said Kate. ‘It was a woman. Works for the Crown Prosecution Service. Wait, here it is . . . Tara Caine. Public prosecutor.’

‘Tara!’ Now he was gasping for air. Gillian’s best friend. ‘No way!’ he exclaimed.

The pieces of the puzzle were slotting together. Gillian’s sudden rejection of him. Her wish to go back to Norwich. Her complete withdrawal. She had fought with Tara after she told her friend the details about his past. She had even moved out of Tara’s flat. But Tara had obviously not given up. She had mounted a campaign against him. Had obtained his file, gone through it with a fine-tooth comb to find something that cast him in a bad light, and then no doubt enjoyed telling her friend about it. And in the end, she had won. Gillian had lost her nerve. She had given up on the relationship that was just beginning and got as far away as possible. John could imagine only too well what Tara had said:
You’ve got a child! A daughter just starting puberty. Do you want to be with a guy who’s been investigated for rape? You realise you’re putting your daughter in danger? Never mind that the investigation was shelved; where there’s smoke, there’s fire. They just didn’t have enough proof to take him to court. That doesn’t mean he’s innocent!

He could not suppress a groan.

She was a viper. A damned viper.

‘John?’ asked Kate. ‘Are you still there?’

He pulled himself together.

‘Yes. Still here. Thank you, Kate. I really appreciate your telling me all this. So, Tara Caine had already returned the file?’

‘Yes. Before Christmas, in fact.’

‘OK.’ Something about this information niggled at him, but he could not immediately see why.

‘Caine,’ said Kate. ‘Hasn’t that name cropped up somewhere before?’

‘Yes. She’s friends with Gillian Ward, the wife of the third murder victim. Which will be why she’s got involved and would like to see me as one of the suspects.’

Then he remembered something else. ‘Kate, could you do me a favour? I’ve got a car registration number here. It would just take a call – I need to know what name the car is registered under.’

After a short pause Kate said, ‘I can do that.’

He took the piece of paper on which he had noted the number of Liza’s car from his pocket and dictated it to Kate.

‘All right,’ said Kate. She waited for a moment. John had the impression that she was waiting for
him
, for something that would give her hope. The offer of a meeting that weekend, or just some warmth in his voice that she could hold on to.

‘Thanks, speak soon,’ he said.

‘Speak soon,’ she replied and slammed down the receiver.

He could only hope she would still help him with the number plate.

Her mobile rang. Gillian recognised John’s number on the display and hesitated. Then she decided to take his call. John had not done anything to her.

‘Hi, John,’ she said.

‘Hi, Gillian.’ He sounded relieved. He had probably been afraid she would see his number and not pick up. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ Then she corrected herself. ‘Well,
fine
is maybe stretching it after everything that’s happened. But I’m getting there. Life goes on.’

‘Are you still sorting things out at your house?’

‘Not right now.’ She thought for a minute and then decided to come clean with him. ‘I’m not at home. I’m at Tara’s again.’

Silence from John’s end.

‘Well, then my chances are pretty slim,’ he said in the end.

‘John . . .’

‘She’s utterly set against me. And by now all her reservations about me have no doubt convinced you too.’

‘We didn’t even talk about you again. I moved back to hers because I didn’t feel safe on my own.’ She didn’t mention the events of that evening. After all, she still did not know whether it had all just been in her imagination.

‘I just have to find how I can best cope. You probably think I’m haring about in a crazy zigzag. Maybe I am. But I haven’t found a straight path yet. Nothing in my life is like it once was.’