The Watcher (27 page)

‘There came a time when we realised that we saw him almost every time we left the house or looked down the street. He would either just be passing by or standing around . . . Tom noticed before I did. Tara noticed once too, when she visited. After the two of them pointed it out to me, I realised that I was bumping into him a lot.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘But I didn’t find him threatening. He seems to me to be a nice, if shy, man. A harmless eccentric.’

‘Apparent harmlessness can be deceptive,’ explained Fielder. ‘I’ve met hardened criminals who look so harmless that every grandmother would trust their savings book to them.’

‘Just before Christmas, there was one incident,’ said Gillian. She told Peter about meeting John, and how she and Tom had both arrived home late; how Becky had left her friend’s sleepover and Samson Segal had taken her to his house. And that Tom had been aggressive towards him whereas she had felt grateful. Peter already knew the story from Segal’s notes, but he listened with interest. He felt it was important to find out that Thomas Ward had indeed acted inappropriately towards his neighbour. Segal had clearly not imagined this or exaggerated it. He had helped the Wards’ daughter in an emergency and in return had been treated shoddily by her father.

‘Do you know why your husband reacted the way he did?’ he asked. ‘What did he have against Segal?’

She thought, trying to recall the evening and their conversation. Oddly, it all seemed so very far away. As if years had passed, not just two weeks.

‘I don’t think he could put his finger on it,’ she said in the end. ‘He just didn’t like Samson Segal. He was shocked to hear that a man who was almost a stranger to us had taken our daughter to his house. He immediately assumed the worst, but in fact it was all quite harmless. Samson Segal’s brother and sister-in-law were there too and Becky had fallen asleep in front of the television in the living room. I was embarrassed at Tom’s rudeness. But that evening he said that he had often seen Samson Segal outside our house and so it wasn’t a coincidence that he had been there just when Becky got home and no one answered the door. It all seemed highly suspicious to him.’

‘We know that Becky told Segal about her holiday plans in Norwich at her grandparents. He could assume she had gone to visit them,’ said Fielder.

‘Have you already questioned this Mr Segal?’ asked John.

‘No,’ said Fielder. ‘That’s the problem. He’s disappeared.’

‘Disappeared? Fled?’

‘Yes.’

John whistled quietly through his teeth. ‘I understand. That doesn’t exactly prove his innocence.’

‘If he is innocent, it wasn’t the cleverest move,’ Fielder agreed.

‘He hung around the Wards’ house,’ said John. ‘He had a reason to be really angry with Thomas Ward. Is there any possible connection to the two murdered women?’

Peter Fielder shook his head. ‘As far as we can see – no.’

He had the impression that John could see he was not showing all his cards, but that he also realised that he would not find out more by asking questions. The man had been a really good investigator once. Very intuitive and capable of understanding what was not said.

Could he be a murderer?

You have a problem with women, Fielder thought, I’d bet anything on that. Not as obvious and classic a problem as Segal’s, but you are a little unbalanced. Who throws away a promising career because he can’t keep his hands off a young woman? Why are you obviously incapable of having anything like a normal relationship? Why this relationship now with a married woman, the mother of one of the children you coach? The wife of a murder victim. That’s the decisive factor. ‘Thomas Ward’s death associates you with a horrific series of crimes, John. If you had anything to do with them, I swear I’ll find out and put you behind bars. It will be an enormous pleasure!’

He was scared by the strength of the feelings that his former colleague caused in him. He saw the hint of a smile playing at the corner of Burton’s mouth and had the unpleasant impression that his expression mirrored some of his emotions.

He forced himself to act calmly, returning to the topic of Becky’s planned trip.

‘Who else knew that Becky would be gone after Christmas? We cannot exclude the possibility that the culprit was banking on that fact – that your daughter would not be home.’

Gillian shrugged. ‘It would be easier to ask who didn’t know. I think everyone in her class at school did. Perhaps some of their parents. Almost everyone we know, too. My friend Tara. Diana, the mother of Becky’s best friend Darcy. Various people in the neighbourhood. For years Tom and I have driven Becky to Norwich on the twenty-sixth of December and returned two days later. My father then brings her back before school starts. It’s always been like that. The cleaners who have worked in our house knew. Our work colleagues knew. So, pretty much everyone.’

‘I see,’ said Fielder.

‘Before you ask: I knew too,’ said John. ‘In the last coaching session before Christmas, we talked about the children’s holiday plans. Becky told us about hers.’

‘Excuse me, Mrs Ward,’ said Fielder. ‘But I have to ask: does Becky know about your relationship with Mr Burton?’

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered. Then she added, ‘At least, I hope she doesn’t suspect anything.’

‘I suppose a lot of people also knew that Mr Ward is always at his tennis club on Tuesday evenings?’

‘Yes, almost as many people knew that.’

‘Did you know?’ Fielder turned suddenly to John.

‘Yes. Gillian mentioned it to me once.’

And you are much too clever to lie to me, thought Fielder. You’ll be nice and cooperative about everything I can check. But that doesn’t mean that you aren’t a lying bastard.

He held out his hand to Gillian. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Ward. Are you planning to stay here? Can I reach you here?’

‘Yes.’

‘It would be good if you . . . were not to leave the flat too often. And were just a little bit careful. Towards everyone.’ He would have liked to make it clearer that he mistrusted Burton and that she would do well to stay away from her lover, but he could not express his suspicion as openly as that. He could not prove anything against John.

‘I’ll be careful,’ promised Gillian. Her fingers were ice-cold. ‘And I’ll not be going out much anyway. I want to spend a lot of time with Becky. She needs me.’

‘We’ll have to talk to Becky again. Gently, of course. It’s possible that she might remember more from that evening. She had a terrible shock and might have repressed some things. Everything that she gradually starts to remember could be of importance.’

‘Of course,’ said Gillian.

Gillian accompanied Inspector Fielder to the door. After he had disappeared from view down the stairs, she closed the door very carefully, and drew the chain across. When she went back into the living room, she found John crouched down, stroking her purring cat, who had left his place by the window.

‘He’s suspicious of me,’ he said. ‘Inspector Fielder. He never could stand me, and to find me caught up in this crime is music to his ears.’

‘He seems to me to be competent and objective,’ said Gillian. ‘He won’t let any personal feelings guide him.’

John stood up. ‘Do you think I could have done it?’

She looked at him in amazement. ‘Of course not.’

He moved closer to her. His voice was tender. ‘How are you? I didn’t have a chance to ask you yet, what with my lovely ex-colleague here. You look pale.’

She had been holding herself together the whole time. For Becky’s sake. But also so that she did not fall victim to her feelings too. Victim to her horror, her shock, her mourning, her guilt and her fear. But now, as he talked gently to her, the protective wall she had put up around her heart or soul, or whatever the pulsing, glowing centre of her pain was, broke down.

She started to cry for the first time since the unbelievable occurrence. There had been a few tears into her pillow at night, barely daring to breathe, for fear that Becky, sleeping next to her, would hear. Now they flowed freely. She was crying, trembling, letting John wrap his arms around her and pull her to him. She could feel the wool of his jumper against her cheek, his heartbeat, his breath as his chest rose and fell with a peaceful rhythm. It was the powerful, secure embrace of a man who was used to keeping calm and never letting the circumstances around him get to him.

The embrace could have consoled her.

She only realised that she did not feel consoled after she had let go of him and disappeared into the bathroom to blow her nose, wash her face and wipe off her smudged make-up.

She looked at herself in the mirror and could not understand. She could not understand why she still felt so cold and hopeless. Why she had felt so alone in his embrace.

Perhaps she could never be consoled again.

She broke down in tears once more.

Sundays were the worst. It was not that they passed in an essentially different way to Mondays or Thursdays. But a leaden calm settled over the city on Sundays, at least over this rather soulless estate in Croydon where Liza lived. Even where you saw people and heard noises, realising that you were not alone in the world, a thick blanket seemed to cover and suffocate every living thing. It was as if nothing moved. Sundays were dead days.

She had once read that most suicides occurred on Sunday afternoons, and she had no doubt that was true. There was also an increase in suicides around New Year. Oddly, Christmas did not see a rise. But she understood that too. People with troubles could deal with the peaceful message of Christmas to some degree. But the popping corks and blaring music of New Year’s Eve’s enforced cheer just rubbed salt into wounds. That was when the pain was no longer bearable. And New Year’s Day bathed the pain in a pale winter light. It hurt. The New Year began as wretchedly as the old one had finished, and it would carry on just the same.

So people preferred to end it straight away.

Liza had not fallen off any of the cliffs. Christmas, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day.

She would not throw her life away on this sad, empty, dead Sunday afternoon.

She told herself to keep going. Somewhere in one of the flats below, someone was playing the piano. The piece sounded vaguely familiar to her, but she could not place it. It was just a short passage, actually. At the end of every rendition the piano player would make a mistake and start again from the beginning. This had been going on for two hours now. The player must have the patience of an angel.

Or be a simpleton.

Apart from the piano, nothing else in the house. Most families must be out on walks. Outside, the sun was shining, the snow was glittering and it was icy cold. Just the day to go on a long hike and then warm up later in a cosy living room with a glass of mulled wine and a nice evening meal.

At least she could do that: she could cook something nice. It was not the same if you had not gone for a walk before, but it was something you could look forward to.

She glanced at the clock. Not yet four. A little early to be thinking about an evening meal. Nevertheless, she went into the kitchen and looked in her fridge. She had a few things she could use: meat, potatoes, carrots. She could make an Irish stew.

Suddenly she felt sick. She slammed the fridge door and straightened up. She had lost her appetite completely.

She left the kitchen. She would not eat anything. More than two months had passed since she had broken down that evening in the Kensington Hotel’s ladies’ room. Nothing had been the same since. Her whole life had changed. She wondered if she could still talk of a
life
. She was practically not moving any more, just drifting like a captive animal through her flat in this anonymous tower block. She had lost a lot of weight, although before it happened – in her other life – she had already been too skinny. Too often she felt like she had just now: hunger, a need to cook, and then some memory of a situation, image, moment that made her feel sick and killed her appetite. She would abandon what she had been doing and, at most, just dissolve an aspirin in water. To be safe. Because she knew that this feeling would be followed by a migraine, forcing her into a darkened room, where she would lie for hours with a wet cloth on her forehead, trying to endure the attack. Sometimes she managed to pre-empt it.

Once again she went into the bathroom, took a pill from the mirrored bathroom cupboard, threw it into her toothbrush glass and poured in water. In the mirror she could see a creature with pale skin and grey lips. She turned her head a little, looking at herself in three-quarter profile. She looked like a wreck, but she still had beautiful hair. It was blonde, long and a little wavy. There were moments when she thought it possible that she might manage to find the normality that other people experienced. But of course that was not going to happen. Not as long as she locked herself in this flat and barely ventured out. Not as long as she avoided all contact with other people.

On a day like today, with the snow shining in the sun and the cold air burning on her skin, she would have given anything to be able to go out. Just to walk briskly through the park, hearing the snow crunch underfoot, watching the children build a snowman, looking at the dogs chasing each other boisterously.

But it would not have been a good idea to do that. Just to leave the flat for fun. Two or three times a week she went out to do her shopping. That was something she had to do. And then there were her expeditions, when she visited the part of town where she used to live, to see Finley. At least for a moment.

Without that, she would not have been able to bear it all. She would have just sat in a corner and died.

She drank the water with the dissolved aspirin in little gulps. She forced herself not to let the bad, painful thoughts gain the upper hand. They could plunge her into panic.

Because she could see no prospects for the future. That was the worst of it. There was no saying how long she would be here in Croydon. There was no point to it, no hope. She might have to sit here for five years.