The Watcher (39 page)

‘All right. So you’ll stay here tonight in any case,’ he said. ‘I must have a sleeping bag somewhere. You can have it. And then we’ll see how things go.’

More than ever before, his intuition was telling him that Liza Stanford was the key. That if he met her, light would be thrown on the whole situation and everything would change. For the unfortunate Samson Segal too.

John drained his mug. He felt better. He was not freezing like he had been. It was amazing what a difference that made.

‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but I’m terribly hungry. As we shouldn’t go out in public, my local at the end of the street is out of the question. I’ll order each of us a pizza. Agreed?’

‘I’m famished,’ admitted Samson. ‘I haven’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime.’

‘Then it’s high time.’ John jumped up. ‘What kind of pizza do you like?’

For the first time since John had met him, Samson gave him a wide, friendly smile.

‘Hawaiian,’ he said.

When the pizza was delivered, it was already after eleven. The delivery man brought cold and the smell of snow into the stairwell. Tara took the two hot cardboard boxes, paid him and went back into the living room, where Gillian was sitting on the sofa in her pyjamas, dressing gown and thick woollen socks. Her hair was still wet. She had been soaking in the bath for half an hour to relax and warm herself up. Tara had poured an essential oil into the water. It smelt of eucalyptus and was supposed to help prevent colds. After she had heard that her friend had been running around in the deep snow in her tights, she had insisted on the oil.

‘Cold feet are dangerous. And you can do without a cold right now!’

She had been relieved that Gillian had called her. Gillian had worried for a long while over the decision, but in the end she could not think of anyone else whom she could ask to shelter her – apart from John, and that would only cause other problems. She had sat for hours in her kitchen with Luke Palm, scared, panicky, but at the same time wondering whether she was reacting hysterically to something that was all in her imagination. Around nine in the evening Luke Palm had said that he had to go home, but that he would only go if Gillian decided not to spend the night on her own. She had understood how afraid she was and that she would not be able to bear another minute in her own house. So she called Tara. Luke Palm took her with him to London and dropped her right in front of Tara’s door. His relief was obvious, and that only made Gillian more afraid. If he had treated her like a jittery neurotic who let herself get carried away with crazy ideas, she would have felt calmer. But Palm was taking seriously what had happened that evening.

Perhaps, she thought, that’s normal in a man who has found a horribly murdered woman in an isolated house in the woods. Luke Palm’s perspective on reality was no doubt different now to what it was before all these horrors.

Tara had scolded her for not calling the police immediately. ‘That’s what you should have done! They have to know whenever something like this happens!’

‘Tara, I’m not even sure something has happened. I thought I saw a shadow in my kitchen. But I might be mistaken. The agent and I hunted all over the house. There wasn’t anyone there.’

‘And your hunt probably obliterated any clues that a police expert could have found. That wasn’t very clever, Gillian.’

‘I felt so ridiculous,’ Gillian said quietly.

Gillian had also swatted away the idea of informing the police retrospectively, as Tara suggested. ‘No. Then they’ll just tick me off like you did. Tara, I’m dead tired, completely
kaput
. I don’t want to talk to a police officer now and be told off. I can’t take any more.’

Tara gave in. She had run the bath, ordered pizza and taken two bottles of beer out of the fridge. Gillian was glad her friend was being so uncomplicated about her return. Not that there had been any really ugly scenes, but her affair with John had created an uneasy atmosphere between them that was still in the air. Sitting now in the living room and eating their pizzas, out of the blue Tara said, ‘Gillian, I’ve wanted to say something for a while. I’m sorry for what I said about John. I overreacted. And I shouldn’t have meddled in your affairs. I was just shocked. Sexual harassment . . . that term pulled me up short, and at the time I didn’t understand why you . . . well, never mind. I drove you away, and the whole time since then I’ve wanted to call you and say how much I wish I hadn’t!’

‘Well, I’m here now,’ said Gillian. ‘You see, you can’t get rid of me all that easily.’

‘Thank God. My home is your home.’

‘I was suddenly so afraid. I mean, on the one hand I feel foolish. On the other hand, the police warned me. Whoever killed Tom might be out to get me and might strike again. Do you think that’s crazy?’

Tara lowered the slice of pizza she was about to bite into. ‘No. I wish I did think it were absurd. I’d feel a lot better if I did.’

‘But . . .’

Tara pushed her pizza box to the side and leant forward. She was intensely serious now – frighteningly so, thought Gillian.

‘Gillian, I’m a lawyer. I’m confronted regularly with this world that seems so absurd to you right now. This is the first time you’ve been affected by violence and such horrors. I’ve got the feeling that you’re trying to deal with it by putting it all down to crazy flights of fancy. But as you know, that’s impossible. Your husband was real. You found him shot dead in your house. Don’t underestimate these things. I can understand that you think that’s the only way you can bear it all. But you’d be careless to deny the danger. It wasn’t OK that you went back to live in your house. I’m bitterly sorry that I was partly to blame for that. I won’t let it happen again.’

‘I’m safe now.’

Tara pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t know if you’re safe here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Gillian, we don’t know who is after you. There’s still that Samson Segal guy, and he hasn’t been caught. Or to be precise: the police don’t seem to have the faintest idea where he could be hiding. He obviously spied on you for months. Do you really believe that he doesn’t know me, your friend? And that if he does, he couldn’t work out where you might be hiding?’

‘We haven’t got any idea whether he’s involved in this or not,’ said Gillian, although she herself realised that she did not sound convincing. Because they were talking about risk. And the risk remained, especially because no one had any idea.

‘Around New Year, when you were here with Becky, I could take whatever time off I wanted,’ said Tara. ‘But I can’t right now. You’ll be here on your own all day long, while I’m at the office. I don’t feel comfortable with that.’

‘I’m not going to open the door to anyone.’

‘And how long will you be able to bear that? Sitting around here from morning to night without seeing a soul, and not able to go out either, because that could be dangerous?’

‘That does sound wearying,’ Gillian admitted. She was suddenly no longer hungry. She pushed her pizza carton to the side too. She felt that Tara wanted to be rid of her and she thought she knew the reason: Tara was herself afraid. If a killer was out to get Gillian, the killer’s gun might end up pointing at the person sheltering Gillian too.

She could understand her friend. But she suddenly felt very lonely.

‘What would you suggest?’ she asked.

‘You’re welcome to stay here,’ said Tara. ‘For as long as you like. But you’re not safe here. You sent Becky to stay with your parents. I think that was a sensible thing to do. It would be good if you too—’

‘No!’ said Gillian. She saw Tara flinch and understood how harsh her response must have sounded.

‘No,’ she repeated more calmly. ‘Not Norwich. Not to my parents. If your fears are justified and the culprit guesses I’m here, because you’re my friend, then he will certainly know that I’ve got parents. He might even know that Becky is with them. I can’t put her in danger, Tara. If I run away to my parents, I might draw him there too. That’s too dicey.’

‘You’re right,’ said Tara, resigned.

‘I’ll find something,’ Gillian reassured her, although she actually had no idea who she could turn to. Of course she had friends and acquaintances in town. But it was one thing to meet up now and then for a coffee or a meal. It was quite another thing to be put up by a family for weeks because you were on the run from a killer.

No idea how to deal with such a situation, she thought dejectedly.

Tara seemed to be thinking about it too. ‘A hotel?’ she suggested, hesitantly. ‘Somewhere up north. Or south of London, in the country. Maybe a B and B.’

‘Hmm. What would I do there all day long?’

‘Well, at least you’d be safe. That’s the main thing.’

Gillian pondered it. A hotel, a bed and breakfast . . . somewhere isolated. Maybe in Cornwall or Devon. She imagined herself walking on snowy cliffs, her face reddened from an icy wind. Tara was right. At least she would be safe.

‘I don’t know . . . It would probably be a sensible thing to do . . .’

Sensible. But not particularly appealing. Gillian asked herself if she had a choice.

In any case, it would only be a short-term solution. She did not want to go into hiding for months on end. But maybe she could start to prepare for her new life in Norwich. She could take a laptop with her and look at the job ads. Research the property market. That would make her feel that she was not just twiddling her thumbs.

‘We mustn’t say a word to anyone about it,’ she said.

‘No one,’ said Tara.

For an hour he had been watching Hampstead tube station with its dark red brick facade. He had also kept his eye on Hampstead High Street and Heath Street, the roads that forked away from the station. In spite of the cold and snow, the roads were full of people heading into the shops, pubs and cafés. It would not be easy to spot the woman he was looking for among the hurrying throng: a blonde woman keeping watch for her son.

Of course he was prepared for the possibility that she would be in disguise. If, for whatever reason, she did not want to be recognised, then she would probably wear a wig. So it was not necessarily that he was expecting a blonde. A woman with black or red hair standing here and looking around would have attracted his attention too. But none of the people pouring out of the station or in the streets was waiting about. It was cold and damp. Everyone kept moving.

The important thing now was to see Finley when he appeared and to find out which building he went into. He would have a better chance of success once he no longer had to watch two busy streets but could concentrate on a single building and its surroundings.

Maybe he would be lucky.

He had not told his guest what he was up to. That morning he had said to Samson that he would be spending the whole day in his office. He asked him to please stay in the flat and not open the door to anybody. Samson had sat in the armchair in the empty living room and watched John go.

He won’t be able to stick it out for long here, John had thought.

He stepped from one foot to the other, now and then breathing warm air into his cold hands. He had forgotten his gloves. No doubt he would end up not finding Liza Stanford but contracting pneumonia.

Around half past four, when he was already sure he would not get lucky with a lead that day, he suddenly saw Finley Stanford coming down the High Street. He must have got off a bus further down the road. He had a rucksack on his back, which probably contained his piano music. He was walking down the road at a leisurely pace, almost dawdling. Piano playing was obviously not one of his passions.

John was immediately wide awake. His frustration, tiredness and awareness of the cold all evaporated in a split second. Now the moment had come. If Liza Stanford was to see her son, then this was the best moment. Within a minute or two he would have gone into his piano teacher’s building and then there would only be the moment when he left afterwards. By then it would already be dark.

He looked around. Up and down the street, behind him, upwards. Was there any suspicious looking character anywhere?

The woman seemed to appear out of nowhere. That alone made her stand out. John had looked a few seconds ago at just the place where she was now standing and she had not been there or anywhere nearby. She was wrapped up warmly, which was the case for most people today. It just seemed strange that not a single strand of her hair was visible. She was wearing a shapeless woolly hat pulled low over her forehead and ears. All her hair was hidden underneath it.

Strangest of all, however, given the stormy conditions, were her giant sunglasses. They were monstrously large, covering almost her whole face. Add to that the turned-up collar on her coat and the scarf wrapped across her chin . . . Here was a woman who did not want to be recognised on any account.

She was staring at a building on the other side of the road. A building with a blue facade, the ground floor of which was occupied by an antiques shop. There was a narrow path right beside the shop door and Finley Stanford was walking up it at that very moment.

Her eyes were glued to him, sucking him in.

He was sure. He was completely sure. He had her. His plan had worked. A mother’s longing. And the piano lesson, which had no doubt been something just between mother and son: Liza’s wish and Finley’s readiness to fulfil it. Thursday afternoons had belonged to the two of them. She had dropped him off, had done a bit of shopping and then returned early to listen to him for the last ten minutes of his lesson. Maybe the two of them had then gone for a hot chocolate or eaten an ice cream together in the summer.

John could feel it. He could see it in the way the woman stood there, in the sorrow in the face that even behind her glasses, scarf and hat was not completely hidden.

He stepped towards her.

Either he had been too hasty, too abrupt, or Liza Stanford, like all hunted animals, had a sixth sense for danger. She jumped in fright, looked around and then retreated, disappearing so quickly it was as if she had never been there.