The Watcher (35 page)

So what.

He was not planning on giving up. There was another possibility still – the boy. He had to go to school and Stanford could not have him watched around the clock. William Ellis School, Highgate. It wouldn’t be difficult to find Finley there.

The boy was Logan Stanford’s Achilles heel. Not only because John could reach him. But also because he knew a lot. He had learnt to accept things, to bottle them up inside, and to play his parents’ game: that they were an intact, successful, happy family.

Perhaps the most deceitful bit of acting the city had ever seen.

Gillian had the impression that since the day she had found Tom dead in their dining room she had not had a moment’s rest. That was almost literally true, discounting the nights when she took a strong sleeping pill and collapsed like a felled tree, waking the next morning from the depths of the narcosis without – fortunately – the slightest memory of disturbing dreams. Her nights were utterly black and utterly empty. When she got up, she felt like a hamster about to get on its wheel and run itself to exhaustion. The caged hamster ran from the boredom and isolation of its prison; Gillian was running from the moment of finally understanding what was happening.

At some point she would no longer be able to run.

She cleaned out the house. She had bagged up and taken Tom’s clothes to a charity shop, got rid of the clothes Becky had long outgrown and sorted out her own old, no longer used clothes. She fetched old newspapers and cardboard boxes from the attic and put them in the recycling bin. The cellar still contained furniture from the start of their marriage. It held so many nostalgic memories that Gillian had never been able to separate herself from it. Now it too was put on the list of objects she would throw out.

In the cellar she had found many flattened cardboard boxes from when they had moved into the house. She lugged them upstairs, assembled them and started to pack. Books, china, framed photographs, candlesticks.

By now the house looked like a move was imminent.

Realising how hungry she was, she took a pizza from the freezer and put it in the oven. While waiting for her food, she booted up her computer and googled estate agents in Southend and London. She did not know anyone in the business and she could have gone for the first one she saw, but then she spotted Luke Palm’s name and it rang a bell with her. The name had been in one or two newspapers. Palm was the man who had found Anne Westley’s body. She wondered if he might be the best option for her. She would be able to tell him openly why she wanted to sell the house without him falling off his chair in shock or showing no understanding or being greedy to hear the details. In a way he was a part of the whole thing. Since the brutal act had occurred in her life, Gillian sometimes felt as if she were afloat on a floe of ice far from normality and people who had never experienced such violence. She saw Luke Palm as another person adrift on an ice floe. She trusted him.

She dialled his office number and was put through immediately by his secretary.

‘Hello, Luke Palm here.’

‘Hi, I’m Gillian Ward.’ She paused slightly and waited to see if he reacted in any way, but he obviously did not know her name. ‘I’d like to sell my house,’ she continued. ‘Out in Southend, the Thorpe Bay part of town. I’d like advice on what price I should put it on the market for. I’ve no idea about the state of the market right now.’

‘No problem. I can visit any time. When would be good for you?’

‘Would tomorrow be all right? Tomorrow afternoon?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve got a few appointments tomorrow. Would half past five be too late for you?’

‘No, that would be perfect.’

She gave him her address and telephone number. After she had said goodbye, she carried on sitting at the dining table for a few more minutes, gazing out at the garden, which lay deep in snow. It looked like it would be her last winter here.

I’m going to do it, she thought. I’m really going to do it. I’m going to burn all my bridges.

A few hungry birds fluttered around the bird table next to the cherry tree. They flew off in disappointment when they realised it was empty. Gillian could not stop herself seeing in her mind’s eye a scene from Becky’s birthday two years ago. Becky had wanted so much to have the bird table and had got it. Gillian had stood at the window and watched as Tom had put it up for her that very same afternoon. Becky’s cheeks were glowing with joy. Tom had enjoyed doing something with his daughter. The two of them had looked so happy, so harmonious. Just watching them had made Gillian feel all warm. She could still feel some of that warmth now – and that was dangerous. Much too dangerous.

She shooed away the image.

Once again she saw the empty garden in front of her, buried under a carpet of virgin snow. No longer with a husband laughing and talking to a child. Just the hungry birds.

I must buy bird food, Gillian thought.

Samson closed the door of the caravan carefully behind him and put the key in the pocket of his anorak. The cold outside made him shiver. A bright blue sky, sunlight and deep snow whose surface sparkled and shone. At least minus ten, thought Samson. He could never remember having experienced a winter as cold and snowy as this. No, the last few years had only brought nasty wet weather. No one had thought they would see another white Christmas in England. Children pulling sleds behind them as they stomped towards the nearest hill for an afternoon’s fun. Samson could remember doing the same when he was very young.

But that was a long time ago.

He had a bag of breadcrumbs with him. He wiped the snow off a half-finished section of a wall and shook the crumbs out on to the bricks. He knew that as soon as he moved away a little, the birds would descend like a black cloud on the wall. He had fed them regularly over the last few days. They were his only company out in this desolate place. Their hungry cries almost broke his heart.

‘From now on you’ll have to manage on your own,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t cope out here any longer.’

He planned to make his way across the fields to the outskirts of London, find a phone box and get John Burton’s address either from a phone book or from Directory Enquiries. He needed a new place to stay and Burton was the only person who could help him. If he could not find Burton, then it would have to be Bartek, although he could imagine that if he turned up, Bartek would faint or chase him away. His brother Gavin would be a last resort, because of Millie. But to be honest, he would rather starve or freeze to death than return to that hellcat’s den. Eventually he would end up in a police cell, he had no illusions there. It was just a question of how long he could put it off. But by now he had long reached the conclusion that time in a cell was not the worst of all imaginable evils. Being alone had almost broken him. He was setting off now to find John in order to save his life. A few more days in the caravan on the abandoned building site and he would have committed suicide.

It was half past one. On the horizon he could see the silhouette of the houses on the edge of the city. It was not clear what part of London he was looking at. He guessed that he had an hour and a half’s walk ahead of him until he reached a residential area. He did not mind. He had always liked to walk, he was wrapped up warm and before he started he had strengthened himself with a meal of the tinned food. Nothing could go wrong on the walk. He just needed to find somewhere to sleep before night came. The temperature plummeted at night to around minus fifteen.

He set off. It was not easy to walk, because he sank deep into the snow with every step.

I’m going to feel it in my legs tomorrow, he thought.

He turned around just once. The cranes and the incomplete walls of the tower blocks towered up against the unearthly blue sky. His caravan looked small and insignificant beside them, almost lost.

The birds fluttered around the wall, fighting for the bread.

John had been parked opposite the school since three o’clock, keeping a close eye on all the gates. A few pupils had left the redbrick building with its white window frames, but Finley was not one of them. The school backed on to the meadows and fields of Hampstead Heath, the edge of which contained tennis courts, sports facilities and various buildings belonging to the school. Even if Finley had a lesson in one of those buildings, John supposed that he would have to come eventually out the front. The bus stop was a little further down the road. He assumed that Finley would go there in order to get home.

John was hopeful.

He was less upbeat when he thought about his company. The last few days’ research had had a decidedly negative effect on his presence in the office. He had capable employees, but it was important for the boss to hold the reins. And that was not the case right now. What was more, he felt guilty about Samson Segal. He should have popped in and seen him ages ago. The poor fellow was so utterly alone out there and no doubt near to despair. John felt responsible for him, but instead of looking after him, he was playing the role of a private detective out to find a disappeared woman and waiting for hours for the right leads to materialise. The thing was that a real private dick was normally paid for his work, while he was neglecting the work that paid his bills.

Never mind. What he had started, he would finish.

At around three thirty, things started to happen. A trickle of pupils left the school, soon followed by a horde. The peaceful, snow-covered street was suddenly unrecognisable. Shouts, laughter and screaming filled the road. It was teeming with children and young people. John got out of his car and concentrated on looking at them. He hoped he would not miss Finley in the crowds.

At the same time he kept a close watch on the street and other parking cars. He did not rule out the possibility that Logan Stanford himself would come to pick up his son. John was not afraid of meeting him, but he knew that his chances of talking to Finley on his own would be close to zero if Stanford found him here at the school gates. If he did, he would probably not leave his child unaccompanied for a moment, even if it meant hiring a bodyguard.

However John could not see Stanford anywhere. Good. The man had to do some work for all that money of his.

Finley appeared so suddenly that John almost started. Unlike most of the others, he did not come out in a big, noisy group, but walked out on his own. He recognised John and went over to him. He just looked at him with his calm, gentle eyes.

‘Hello, Finley,’ said John, scanning the area again from the corners of his eyes. Still no Logan Stanford in sight.

‘Hello, Mr Burton,’ said Finley. ‘My dad said I shouldn’t talk to you.’

‘Yes, I expected he would. And I know that I’m asking a lot when I ask you to ignore that. But it’s important. It’s about your mum.’

Finley looked torn. He did not want to do what his father had expressly forbidden, but he was also a child who missed his mother.

‘You don’t know my mum?’ he asked.

‘No,’ admitted John. ‘I don’t know her. But it’s important that I speak to her. It’s important for someone else, who I do know well.’

Finley shrugged. ‘I don’t know where she is.’

‘Do you have a photo of her?’ John asked.

Finley nodded. He slid his rucksack off his back and put it down on the snow so that he could rummage around in it. After a while, he pulled a photo out of a wallet. ‘That’s her.’

John looked at the picture. A beautiful woman, he saw immediately. Long blonde hair and large eyes. A finely chiselled face. But he saw too a harassed expression, fear in her eyes. Signs of depression? Or very specific fears that were poisoning Liza Stanford’s life?

He gave him back the photo. ‘She’s very beautiful,’ he said.

Finley nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Is your father in his office?’

‘Yes. He’s coming home this evening.’

‘Were you going to get on the bus?’

‘Yes?’

‘If you like, I’ll take you home. We can talk a bit on the way.’

Finley shook his head firmly. ‘I never get into a car with a stranger.’

‘OK. You’re right. But would you give me five minutes of your time to talk here on the street?’

‘My bus goes in ten minutes’ time,’ said Finley.

‘All right, then. Finley, you know it’s almost impossible to believe that someone would disappear without reason. Certainly not a mother. She’d have to leave behind what is dearest to her in all the world – you. A woman would only do that if she was under some enormous pressure.’

‘Yes,’ said Finley.

‘Your father told the police that your mother suffers from depression. Do you know what depression is?’

‘When you’re always sad.’

‘Right. Is that something people could say about your mother? That she is always sad?’

‘Yes,’ said Finley seriously.

John tried another tack. ‘The reason why depressed people are sad is often hard to see. They might feel there is a reason, but for us on the outside it can seem that there’s no reason. As if the sadness was just there, like a runny nose or sore throat. A kind of illness. Even when everything in these people’s lives seems fine and people might say
Why is so-and-so always so sad?
Is it like that with your mum?’

A look of uncertainty flitted over Finley’s features.

‘You mean that no one knows why she’s sad?’

‘Yes, that’s what I mean.’

‘It’s not really like that,’ Finley said quietly. He was no longer looking at John.

‘So you know why she’s sad?’ insisted John.

Finley nodded.

‘And do you know why she went away?’

Finley did not say anything. He was looking fixedly at his boots. John could see that the veins under the pale skin of his temples were twitching slightly.

‘Can you tell me?’

Finley shook his head.

‘It might help me to find her.’

Finley’s eyes started to wander around. It seemed that he was hoping for something to come to his aid, although he himself had no idea what it would be.

‘Did your parents often fight?’ asked John.