The Watcher (50 page)

He discovered a brown paper bag on the sideboard. The bag carried the name of a Chinese restaurant. Someone had visited the old woman and brought a takeaway meal with her. And then . . . ?

He left the kitchen. He knew that the real challenge lay ahead.

He found Lucy Caine-Roslin in a child’s bedroom. At least it seemed once to have been a child’s bedroom. Or a teenager’s. It contained a sofa bed covered with a flowery patchwork quilt. Curtains of the same pattern at the windows. A wardrobe, one door of which stood open, revealing two pullovers on hangers. A few posters on the walls, including one of Cat Stevens, Meyers thought. There was also an armchair on which some magazines and paper with scribbled notes were strewn. Along the wall were wooden shelves. A number of books for children and young people – as far as could be gathered from their titles and bright colours – were lined up on the shelves, carefully held in place with plastic bookends. Meyers thought later that this was what had immediately told him it was a young person’s room: the books and the picture of Cat Stevens on the wall.

Lucy Caine-Roslin was lying on her back in the middle of the room. She looked like a darkening, bloated shell of what had once been a person. The cold, dry air in the barely heated flat had preserved her better than would have been the case in less favourable circumstances. Her face was relatively intact, but Meyers could not bear to look at her eyes – or what was left of them. It was hard for him to keep his composure.

Normally he would have assumed that the old woman’s death was, while unfortunate, at least from natural causes. She might have started to feel ill after her visitor had left and before she had been able to clean up the kitchen. However, this assumption was contradicted by the fact that there was something large and – at first glance – unidentifiable stuck in the dead woman’s mouth. Controlling himself, Meyers walked over and crouched down over the stinking corpse. A cloth. A large checked cloth. It might be a tea towel.

Someone had stuffed it violently down her throat.

And blocked off her nose with several strips of masking tape.

He got up again, stepped over to the window and opened this one too. He leant far out and took another deep breath of fresh air.

Lucy Caine-Roslin’s death was not in itself news: an old woman who had been lying dead in her flat for weeks without anyone noticing. Her isolation was tragic, but not unusual. Many people, especially older people, had no family left, and when they died, no one noticed. In Lucy Caine-Roslin’s case, it seemed a little strange, as she still had her daughter in London. Perhaps the younger woman had broken with her life in Gorton. Meyers turned back from the window and looked at the room. Like the rest of the flat, it was friendly and clean, although it was also clear that the family had never had much money. The furniture was simple, the curtains and blankets no doubt sewn by the mother. Was this the flat in which the public prosecutor had grown up? Her life today probably looked rather different.

But Lucy Caine-Roslin had not just died of a heart attack. Someone had stuffed a tea towel down her throat. Maybe she’d choked to death on it. It appeared that she had been murdered. An old woman, who obviously had nothing of value. Who would gain from killing her?

Meyers remembered his task. The daughter. He had been sent here to find her daughter.

Although he assumed that he was in the flat on his own, he checked all the rooms just to be sure. The place was larger than it appeared from the outside. It contained a living room, a dining room, two bedrooms and a bathroom. It was all spotlessly clean. A teapot and cup stood on the living room table. There were brown stains in the cup, left by the tea that had either evaporated or been drunk. A doily with a needle still sticking into it lay on the armchair. Wilted African violets stood in pots on the windowsills. Although it had been too much for Lucy Caine-Roslin to maintain the outside walls and the garden, inside she had kept everything shipshape.

But back to his job: the daughter was certainly not at her mother’s house.

Meyers pulled out his mobile. He had to ask for back-up. Lucy Caine-Roslin had died without anyone noticing, but now her death would be thoroughly examined. That was all they could do for the old lady now.

She had fallen asleep, as impossible as that seemed to her. Her exhaustion had got the better of her horror, nausea and nervous confusion. She did not know how long she had been asleep for. A sudden jolt, followed by the sound of spinning wheels and the screaming engine, woke her.

She’s stuck, she thought.

She
. Her best friend. The person she’d trusted. Someone she had known for years and who suddenly seemed like a complete stranger to her.

She could hear Tara getting out and slamming her door behind her. Suddenly the car boot opened. Ice-cold air flooded in, penetrating even the suffocating blanket. Then the blanket was removed. Gillian immediately scrunched her eyes closed. The bright daylight was hellishly painful after all the hours in the dark.

‘Right. This is where we stop,’ said Tara. ‘The snow’s too deep. Get out!’ As she spoke, she drew a knife, letting the blade spring open and cutting the tape binding Gillian’s ankles.

‘Out!’ she ordered.

Gillian tried to sit up and groaned in pain. She had been immobile in an uncomfortable position for too long, lying on the hard floor of the boot, shaken and jolted in a car struggling to make progress on almost impassable roads. She could now feel all her bones, all her joints. Her whole body hurt. She had no idea how she was going to move. When she finally managed to open her eyes and blink at her surroundings, she saw Tara as a large, dark shadow. The sky was dove grey above her. Behind her there was a snow-covered expanse – and nothing that looked like a house or a hamlet.

We’re far from anywhere. We’re completely alone.

‘Come on,’ Tara hurried her.

As Gillian was still unable to move, Tara bent over and grabbed her under both arms and dragged her out. She was surprisingly strong. Gillian could not hold herself up on her own two feet, and fell down in the snow. It was soft and cold, but after a second she could feel the hardness of the tiny crystals. They cut painfully into the skin of her face. Moaning unintelligibly, she first lifted her head, then started to pick herself up. As her hands were still tied, it was hard for her to keep her balance.

Tara helped her to her feet. ‘Don’t worry, your muscles will relax. We’ve still got quite a hike ahead of us.’

Gillian fought the dizziness that came over her as soon as she got to her feet. She realised that she was terribly thirsty. She had not drunk anything since lunchtime of the previous day. Add to that the masking tape over her face and the heat of the car, and she now felt completely dried out. She tried desperately to communicate this to Tara. She knew she could not go on without having a drink first.

Tara seemed to weigh up her options before grabbing at Gillian’s face and pulling the masking tape down with a sudden yank. It was wrapped several times around her head and stuck to her hair, so it did not come away completely, but at least she managed to pull it down so that it hung below Gillian’s chin.

‘Water,’ Gillian croaked.

Tara opened her driver’s door and fetched a bottle of mineral water that was in a bag on the back seat. She unscrewed the cap and held the bottle to Gillian’s lips. Gillian drank greedily, like someone dying of thirst.

‘Please,’ she said, when she was done. ‘Please don’t tape up my mouth again.’

‘Feels pretty stupid, not getting much air, doesn’t it?’ Tara replied, and it almost sounded sympathetic. ‘OK, I’ll tell you what. I’ll leave the tape where it is. No one here to hear you if you scream anyway. Still, if you try anything on, like trying to call for help or running away, I’ll wrap your face with so much tape you won’t see or hear a thing. Got it?’

‘Yes,’ said Gillian. She looked around. Snow-covered hills as far as the eye could see. In the distance, a wood. The road had been cleared of most of the snow and was just covered in a thin, hard layer. There was no village to be seen. Tara was right: she could scream as much as she wanted. No one would hear her. And running away: how far would she get? Tara would catch her immediately. Her hands tied behind her back, she would not be nimble on her feet. She had no chance.

‘Where are we?’ she asked.

Tara opened her big handbag and put in some supplies: a loaf of bread and two bottles of water. She had her pistol in her hand.

‘The Peak District,’ she said. ‘In other words, the middle of nowhere.’

The Peak District. It stretched over several counties, almost touching Manchester to its north-west.

Tara was from Manchester.

‘You know this area?’ asked Gillian uncertainly.

‘You could say that. We’re near the hut. The perfect place. No one will find us there.’

‘What hut?’

‘Stop asking questions,’ Tara said. ‘Start moving!’

‘Which way?’

Tara gestured across the fields with her pistol. ‘There’s a footpath here, even if it’s hidden at the moment. Just go straight ahead.’

After the fields came the woods that Gillian had seen when she opened her eyes. She let herself nurture a little hope. If there was any chance of escape, then surely it was in a wood. Unlike the treeless plain on which the two women were standing at that moment, it would offer hiding places. And a hiding place was the only hope for Gillian, handicapped by the tape as she was. But she was also under no illusions. She would have to be very lucky to trick her guard. And even then she would only survive if she managed to find a village or at least a farm as quickly as possible. It was bitterly cold. It was unlikely that anyone could survive more than one night in the open air.

She took her first trudging steps. In places she sank up to her knees in the snow. Once again she realised how difficult it was to keep her balance with her arms tied behind her back. She could hear Tara breathing behind her. It was not an easy walk for her either. She was lugging the bag of supplies, holding a gun in her other hand and probably not risking a moment’s lack of concentration. Not that she would think that Gillian, hands tied and scared, was particularly dangerous.

After a while, Gillian stopped. She had the impression that she had been walking for hours. ‘Could we rest a bit?’ she asked, turning to look at Tara.

Tara shook her head. ‘We have to make it to the hut in half an hour. We can do it.’

‘Tara, could you at least explain why—’

‘No,’ Tara interrupted her. ‘I’ll spare my breath. You should too. There’s a real climb ahead. It would be stupid of us to waste our energy. So shut up and keep going.’

Gillian did as she was told. She fought against a despair that wanted to take over. The cold air stung her lungs. The snow blinded her eyes. Exhaustion seemed to want to push her down towards the ground.

She walked on.

‘What I need from you,’ said Detective Sergeant Christy McMarrow in a cold voice, ‘are convincing explanations.’

They were sitting in her office in Scotland Yard. It was Saturday morning. Fielder had driven to Croydon to talk to Liza again. He had visited her the night before. Two of his people were getting in touch with Logan Stanford, others had driven out to the Ward family’s house in Thorpe Bay, while another team had gone to Tara’s flat in Kensington. Constable Kate Linville had indeed dug up information on Tara Caine right after her call with John. For once in her career, she had really shone. She was able to provide the important information immediately: that Tara Caine had only one living relative, her mother, who was up in Manchester and might be able to tell them something about her daughter’s whereabouts. Everyone was amazed that Kate had already looked up Tara Caine at a time when she was not on the radar of anyone else in the team. Kate explained that her suspicion had been raised after seeing Tara’s name on John Burton’s file. She enjoyed showing this investigative flair that no one would have expected of her.

After many attempts to contact Mrs Caine-Roslin by phone, they had finally asked the local police in Manchester to find the old lady urgently and see if her daughter was staying with her. John was relieved to see the police apparatus swinging into action. The previous evening they had questioned him for hours. Of course they were happy that he had found Liza Stanford, but they had reacted with utter scepticism to his suspicions regarding Tara Caine. Fielder had visited Liza later that evening and had a first conversation with her, but everything relating to Tara Caine and Gillian Ward was put off until the next morning. John had the clear sense that they found his theories, for which he had no supporting evidence yet, pretty far-fetched – even if they were now looking for Tara. But a whole night had been wasted, a night in which John had not been able to sleep for a moment. He had paced up and down his flat and smoked two packets of cigarettes. Early the next morning he had returned to Scotland Yard and demanded to know what would happen next.

Christy McMarrow had time for him. It was easy to see what her job was: to find out who had leaked information to him. John refused to reveal his source. In his opinion, it was of no importance.

He and Christy had worked together for years. They liked each other. Sometimes they had gone for a drink together after work. Back then, Christy was one of the first to tell whoever she met, whether or not they wanted to hear, that the accusations raised against John were all rubbish. John had hoped he could make her understand the current situation. But Christy barricaded herself behind a stony facade and did not appear to want to make any allowance for their earlier friendship.

He tried one more time. ‘Christy, I—’

She immediately interrupted him. ‘I’ve still not got an answer to the question of how you stumbled upon Liza Stanford’s name. The only possibility I can see is that you’ve talked to Keira Jones. Carla Roberts’s daughter.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Who then?’

He could feel a rising impatience. ‘Christy, does that really matter? We’ve got other problems. Gillian Ward has disappeared. Caine too. Caine—’