The Watcher (17 page)

The receipt on which John had written down his number was in her jeans pocket. She took it out, fetched the cordless phone from its docking station in the hall and went back to the living room.

A call was nothing earth-shattering, she reassured herself.

He picked up after the third ring. Gillian could hear voices in the background, as well as laughter and the clatter of glasses.

‘It’s me, Gillian.’

‘God,’ said John. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t get in touch again.’

He seemed to have really been waiting for her to call.

‘I think I overreacted a little the last time we met. I didn’t . . . want to leave it like that.’

‘Overreacted in what way?’

‘I shouldn’t just have got up and left. I’m afraid the situation got the better of me.’

The laughter in the background grew louder.

‘Where are you?’ asked Gillian.

‘In the Halfway House. We had a tournament at the club and then I popped in here. Can you come? I’m sitting all on my own at a table, consoling myself with a little too much whisky.’

Gillian realised with some astonishment how happy and relieved she was to hear that he was there on his own.

‘I can’t just come like that tonight.’

‘When can you come?’ asked John.

She laughed. ‘How do you know that I want to meet you?’

He did not respond as if it were a joke. ‘You said:
I can’t just come like that tonight.
That sounded to me as if it is a question of timing. Not a complete no.’

‘You’re right.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I’d like to talk. I was shocked when you told me why you had to leave your job. I’d like to know more about that.’

‘Just tell me when.’

‘Next Thursday. Becky has been invited to stay the night for a friend’s birthday party. My husband has a meeting at his tennis club. I’m free.’

‘Thursday? That’s almost a week away.’

‘I know.’
Enough opportunity to think twice about this.

‘OK. Take it or leave it. It looks like it’s my only option. Fine. Do you want to come to me?’

‘To your house?’

‘Why not?’

She did not want to look silly. Or stuck-up or traditional. ‘Well, all right. Do you live in London?’

He gave her an address in Stratford and she scribbled it down next to his number on the receipt.

‘So, see you then,’ she said.

‘Looking forward to it,’ said John.

Luke Palm was thirty-eight years old. He had worked for the last eight years as an independent estate agent. One of his principles was not to hassle his clients. Of course he knew the cliché of the smarmy, pushy estate agent who would keep on at people until they ended up buying properties they had never wanted. Properties whose shortcomings they failed to see, swept along by the unscrupulous agent’s eloquent words. He had never wanted to be like that. He had made a point of being different. He was rewarded with success. He had the enviable reputation of being honest and serious. People were happy to trust him.

Anne Westley had come to him through the recommendation of one of her friends. She was a lovely and clever old lady. He had immediately found a rapport with her. Of course, he was lucky to have a client like her. Not only did she want to sell a house, but she was also looking for a flat. He would earn two lots of commission with her. So it was natural that he would make every effort.

He had tried to reach her many times over the past week, but had only got through to her answering machine each time. He had asked her to phone him back as soon as possible, but had had no response. He wanted to tell her that he had been doubly successful. He had found potential buyers for her house in the woods and an enchanting flat in Belgravia had just entered his portfolio. He was sure it was perfect for her. For both, he was keen to arrange viewings before Christmas.

He could not work out why she was not getting back to him. She had seemed so interested, so determined to finally escape her dubious idyll in the woods. Luke could understand that only too well. It was an enchanting property in its way, but he would not have been able to stand more than a couple of days there.

The couple that had shown interest had five children and many pets. Luke Palm was convinced that he was offering them their ideal home. He was getting increasingly nervous that he could not put them in touch with Anne.

He was getting worried.

That Thursday he had called several times. Each time, just the answering machine. He had not left another message. There must already be five or six identical messages on it from him. But he started to wonder whether he would go against his principle of never hassling a client.

He toyed with the idea of doing just that. Of driving out to talk to Anne Westley. To find out exactly what was happening.

It was early afternoon. He did not have any more appointments, just paperwork. He could do that at home later. He hesitated. Maybe he should drive out to Tunbridge Wells and see Anne. He had an uneasy feeling. She was so alone out there. Of course it was possible that she had let drop her plan to move house, but he felt she would have told him. She would not just have disappeared.

Luke Palm looked at his watch. Just after three. Outside it was snowing more and more heavily. In the last week it had snowed a few times already, but it had quickly melted each time. Now winter was really coming and everyone was hoping for a white Christmas. The meteorologists had forecast an extremely heavy snowfall for that evening, but as Luke did not intend to stay long, he hoped he would be home by then. He just wanted to see her briefly, to reassure himself that everything was fine and to tell her that there were people interested in viewing her house.

He set off at twenty past three.

The start of the snowfall had triggered hysteria among drivers, so it took him longer than usual to get out of town. It was almost five when he reached the small car park for visitors to the woods. There was not a single car there. After deliberating briefly, he decided to leave his car and walk the final stretch. The snow was falling more heavily now and he did not trust the dirt track leading to Anne Westley’s house. He did not fancy getting stuck and having to dig his car out.

It was already dark. In this wood with its high trees it was even darker. Luke trudged up the narrow track. It had a romantic Christmassy atmosphere, but was also threatening somehow. The snow made everything so quiet. Peacefully quiet, or as if you were holding your breath? He did not know. He asked himself again how someone could bear to live like this.

And suddenly he thought with some annoyance that he shouldn’t have done that. Westley. Dragged his wife out here to fulfil his own dreams. You couldn’t do that to someone else!

Not that Anne had complained. But Luke Palm was good at reading between the lines. He had understood from what she said that it was her late husband who had followed his desires and that it had not been easy for Anne. Only her loyalty to him, even beyond the grave, had kept her here until now.

The track led into the clearing in which the house stood. Everything looked the same as it always had. If anything, it looked even more enchanted with the flakes swirling around and all the trees and bushes as if under a layer of icing sugar. A Christmas fairy tale.

I hope she doesn’t mind me just turning up like this, thought Luke.

There was not a single light on in the house, but he could see Anne’s car, so she must be home. She could hardly get out without her car.

He opened the garden gate and went up the path between the high bushes. Lilac probably, jasmine in between. The garden must be idyllic in spring and summer. Just that anything could happen out here and no one would know.

He went up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. He waited.

Nothing.

Of course she could have gone for a walk, to get some fresh air. She did not need her car for that. Actually, quite possible. Luke could not have said why he did not believe that. Why instead he was increasingly feeling it was a dangerous situation. It was so damn isolated here! If he had been crazy enough to live out here, he would have had at least two mean Dobermanns. And as for a woman who was almost seventy, living alone here . . . Somehow it almost seemed like she was tempting fate.

Rubbish. No doubt he was making a mountain out of a molehill. She had probably just gone into the woods with an axe to cut down a Christmas tree, while he was imagining all sorts of gruesome scenarios in which she fell victim to a coldblooded killer.

Nevertheless, he decided to just look around the back of the house too. From his previous visit, he knew that there was a terrace and a second entrance there that led into the kitchen.

He went round the side of the house. In spite of the quickly dwindling daylight, he could see immediately that the terrace door was wide open. On the steps up to the door and on the exposed part of the terrace the snow had started to pile up. Virgin snow. Although the door was open, no one had come in here in the last few hours.

He stopped and could hear his own breath. It was not looking good. Anne must be home, so why were the lights not on? He remembered the fairy lights that had given the kitchen Christmas cheer on his last visit. This time not a single light was on.

And now he was sure. The calm around him was not the same as peace. It was an evil, lurking thing, hiding a fearful secret.

He felt for his mobile, but realised that he had left it in his car. He really wanted to turn around and run back to the car park, but he forced himself to pause. He had to see what had happened. Perhaps Anne Westley had had a nasty fall and was lying somewhere in the house, unable to move. A life-and-death situation.

If so, why is the door open?

He slowly climbed the steps. He wished it would stay light for longer. The approaching darkness only made it all worse.

He called out quietly, ‘Hello? Is anyone in? It’s me, Luke Palm!’

There was no reply.

He stepped into the kitchen, which was no warmer than outside. The door must have been open for ages. He felt for a light switch, found one and, turning the light on, jumped at the sudden brightness cutting through the dark.

He looked around.

The kitchen looked as though it had been left just minutes earlier. A pot of tea and a half-full mug still stood on the table, next to the open brochures he had given Anne on his last visit and candles that had burnt down to their holders. In the sink, dirty dishes were piled up. Luke’s gaze fell on the tear-off calendar. It was still showing 10 December – last Thursday. The day he had been to the house. No one had torn off a page since then.

He looked at the fairy lights with growing anxiety. Their wires had been pulled out of the sockets. It looked to him as if it had happened suddenly, as one of the chains of lights had slipped off the window and was wrapped lifelessly around the coffee machine.

‘Something’s not right at all here,’ said Luke. Hearing his own voice made him feel a little better.

He crossed the kitchen, stepped into the hall and turned its light on too.

‘Mrs Westley?’ he called out in a whisper, simultaneously wondering why he was keeping so quiet. He knew the reason. He was afraid that instead of an accident, something much worse had taken place out here. And that perhaps the person behind it all had not gone far. That he was still here – either in the dark old house or in the woods surrounding it.

He really should just get out of there. But first he had to find Anne. If he just ran away now, he would never be able to look himself in the face again.

He wondered if it was a mistake to turn on the lights. They broadcast all around that he was there. But how else was he to make out anything? He cursed his bright idea in coming out here. He could have been at his desk long ago, with a nice cup of coffee. Instead . . .

A quick glance out of the living room window showed him that the snow had started to fall more strongly. To top it all, he would find it difficult to get his car out.

He climbed the stairs. Halfway up, he noticed the strange smell for the first time.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said out loud.

He was under no illusions. It was the smell of rotting flesh.

He found Anne Westley in the bathroom next to her bedroom. The old lady was lying on the mat in front of the shower. Her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on the ceiling above her. Something had been stuffed in her mouth. It was chequered. A cloth or a scarf. Luke could not tell exactly. Her nose was taped over. Her wrists and ankles were tied together with masking tape too. It was all too clear that she had not had an accident. She had been murdered in a brutal way. Her killer had suffocated her by blocking off her nose and mouth. She must have fought hard against the cloth in her throat – desperately, but in vain.

It might have happened on 10 December. In any case, that was what he inferred from the calendar’s date. That was after he had left. After he had advised her to lock her door well.

Luke Palm sank down next to the bath because he had lost all strength in his legs. For a moment he felt faint and thought he might end up on the floor next to Anne. He came out in a cold sweat all over his body and on his face. He cradled his head in his hands, trying not to look at the dead woman or to notice the smell. And yet to breathe deeply.

His dizzy spell passed.

He raised his head. He saw that the handle of the bathroom door was hanging down at an odd angle and that the lock fitting was out of place. It looked as though someone had broken open the lock.

He groaned quietly as he realised what had probably happened. However her killer had got into the house, Anne had obviously managed to escape from him at first and lock herself in the bathroom. But her pursuer had not given up. He had broken the lock and got into the bathroom.

Anne must have felt terrible fear. She was locked in the little room without any way to call 999 or to scream out of the window for help. Who would have heard her? And at some point she would have realised that the other person was going to win. That the door was not going to keep him out.