The Watcher (45 page)

‘Can we meet?’ It sounded almost like begging.

‘No. It’s—’

‘Please, Gillian. Just to see each other. To have a coffee together. To talk about unimportant things. I promise I won’t pressure you towards a life together. I just want to
see
you.’

‘It won’t work, John. I’m leaving London. In a few hours.’

‘You’re already going to Norwich?’

‘No, not yet.’ She stepped across to the balcony door, looked out over the snow-covered railing into the anthracite-grey London sky. She asked herself, not for the first time in her life, how people managed to survive January. ‘I’m going to disappear for a bit. Find a hotel in the country. Hope that everything gets cleared up soon and that I can try to construct a halfway normal life.’

He won’t know where I’m going, she reassured herself. I myself don’t yet know.

He sounded confused. ‘A hotel? Why? In the country? Where? Which hotel?’

‘That’s not important. I’m just going to get away for a while, sort my life out and try to find my feet.’

‘Why don’t you stay at Tara’s place?’

‘It’s just better like this.’

‘Gillian,’ he implored. ‘Something’s not right! What are you hiding from? Or who? Why did you move out of your house again, when you were busy planning your move? And why leave Tara’s flat? To go to some anonymous hotel? Why, Gillian? It feels to me like you’re running from something!’

‘I’ve got to find out where things go from here, John. That’s all.’

‘But you won’t find out by constantly changing where you stay. Is Detective Inspector Fielder behind this? Does he want to make sure you are safe at an unspecified location?’

‘The police know nothing about it.’

He was silent for a while. Then he asked quietly, ‘Are you hiding from me?’

‘Why should I hide from you?’

‘Because she – Tara – has stirred you up against me. No idea what she’s told you, but I heard today that she asked to see the file that was opened on me back then. And she won’t have done that out of idle curiosity.’

Gillian was surprised. ‘The file on your investigation? She didn’t tell me that.’

‘You were probably not supposed to know that she was spying on me. But she definitely had my file in her hands. And I’m sure she studied it carefully.’

Gillian turned away from the window.

She’s my friend. She would do something like that.

She said it out loud. ‘She’s my friend, John. She was probably very worried and wanted to see for herself what happened back then. Because of her work, she can easily access such files. Isn’t it normal for her to do that? I’d probably have done the same in her place. But believe me: she never told me. So probably she didn’t find anything she didn’t already know.’

‘Nor could she have. They had nothing, absolutely nothing, to cobble together a case from. Because nothing had happened.’

‘I have no doubts about you there, John.’

‘So where
do
you have doubts about me?’

‘Nowhere. I told you what my problem is. I have to stand on my own two feet. I have to find my own stability.’

Both of them were silent.

‘Well,’ said John in the end. ‘Take care.’ The resignation in his voice was easy to hear.

‘Will do,’ said Gillian. She snapped her phone shut without any further goodbyes.

She looked uneasily at the clock. It was just nine. So many hours until the early afternoon, when Tara would return. She had packed all her things.

She had nothing to do but wait.

John had finally gone into the office, although he had feared he would not be able to concentrate or think straight. But work was piling up. He had lost enough time over the last few days, and the alternative would have been to sit at home with gloomy Samson in his flat, not knowing what to do next.

For a few hours he managed to plunge into his familiar daily routine. That soothed his fraught nerves. He had to produce work schedules for the coming weeks, answer questions, write invoices, deal with one employee who was handing in his notice. He barely noticed time pass. When he got up to make a coffee, he realised it was already half past three. Apart from him, there was only the person on phone duty in the office. Friday afternoon. Everyone left as early as possible for the weekend.

He had not eaten a thing since nibbling at the toast that morning. He noticed how hungry he was. Perhaps he should get a burger instead of a coffee. He pondered for a minute, then decided to drive home. He had made headway today. And Samson was no doubt sinking deeper into depression. It’d be better not to leave him alone for too long. John was not unafraid that Samson, that strange man, might do something stupid.

No sooner had he left his office than the bad feeling returned that he had been able to escape for a few hours. Liza and Samson were two big issues. And he was worried about Gillian, because he had the impression that something was not right. He had sensed her fear. That and the fact that she was obviously running away disturbed him. The feeling grew that he was just treading water and did not know what to do next. He had found Liza and spoken with her, but it had not led to the breakthrough he had hoped for. In fact, he had not made any progress.

There’s something I’m missing, he thought. From his time in the force he knew that things could be staring you in the face sometimes and you didn’t see them, because you were incapable of peeling their silhouette from the surroundings and so of seeing their importance.

Maybe that was the case here. Maybe the solution was right in front of him and he was unable to see it.

He saw a McDonald’s and went through the drive-in, buying cheeseburgers and fries for Samson and himself. When he arrived home and ran up the stairs, he realised that the bag of food already felt cold.

Samson was sitting in the armchair in the living room, reading a book. John could see immediately that he was not doing well. He had an unhealthy colour to his cheeks, and red eyes. He looked pained. He was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

Something has to happen soon, thought John.

‘Here,’ he said, handing him the bag. ‘I missed lunch and you can’t have found anything in my rather empty fridge. You’ll feel better after eating something.’

‘Thanks,’ said Samson quietly. It did not sound as if he believed John.

Just when they were starting to eat, the phone rang. John answered immediately. It was Kate.

‘Sorry, John. I didn’t manage to do what you asked until now. It’s been a hell of a day.’

‘No problem. Have you been able to find out who owns the car?’

‘Yes. And it’s really strange.’

‘Strange? Why?’

‘Because it’s someone we’ve already talked about. The car is registered to the lawyer Tara Caine. Coincidence?’

‘That’s . . . unbelievable,’ said John slowly.

‘Is there anything I should know?’ Kate asked. ‘I’ve been very open with you!’

‘I know. I just can’t say anything right now. I can’t work it out yet. I have to order my thoughts.’
Tara Caine!

He would have expected anything but . . .

‘So, when you’ve ordered your thoughts, remember me,’ said Kate rather sharply before hanging up. John could guess that the next thing she would do would be to find Tara Caine’s personal file and trawl through her life, at least her professional life. She would not find much. She could not make the connection to Liza Stanford without further information.

Samson had stopped eating. ‘What’s up?’

John pushed aside his burger, no longer hungry. Tara Caine. Liza Stanford was driving a car that was registered to the lawyer. And John would have put money on it that Liza’s flat was also in Tara’s name. Was Tara pulling the strings here? Supplying Liza with a flat and a car, supporting her with money, and enabling her to go into hiding?

He thought furiously. What conclusions should he draw?

‘What do you know about Tara Caine?’ he asked. ‘Gillian Ward’s best friend.’

Samson thought. ‘The one who often visited her in Thorpe Bay? Not a lot, I’m afraid. I was just an outside observer. The two seemed to be really good friends. Gillian was happy when she came. They hugged. But as to what they talked about – no idea!’

‘Gillian is living at her flat right now.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. It’s natural that she can’t deal with living in the house her husband was murdered in, isn’t it?’

‘Of course. The question is – is the missing link perhaps not Liza but Tara?’

Samson looked utterly mystified. ‘You’re talking about Liza Stanford? The lawyer’s wife? The one you mentioned to me this morning?’

‘Yes. I can’t go into details now, Samson, but I’m a bit worried.’

John grabbed the phone and dialled Gillian’s mobile number. Gillian did not answer, but the voicemail kicked in. After a short pause he left her a message.

‘Gillian, it’s John here. I’d like to talk to you, it’s very important. Please call me back quickly. Thanks!’

‘Is Gillian in danger?’ Samson asked, wide-eyed. He put his burger down. He had obviously lost his appetite too.

‘I don’t know. Honestly. No idea. It’s all very strange.’

‘But Tara isn’t a threat, is she? Her best friend?’

‘I hope not,’ said John. He grabbed his coat, which he had thrown on to the windowsill. ‘I have to go. I have to talk to someone.’

‘Can’t you do that by phone?’

‘I’ve not got a number for this person. And it’s better . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence. Explanations would have taken too long, and would no doubt have left Samson more confused than enlightened. Because what John had said was true: he still could not work out the connections. But he had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling, in fact.

He was going to drive out to Liza Stanford now. She was the only person who could give him answers to a few urgent questions.

It was four o’clock by the time Tara got home. She had bought plastic-wrapped sandwiches and bottles of mineral water.

‘I don’t know how far you’re driving today,’ she said. ‘But at least you won’t starve on the way!’

‘You’re fantastic, Tara,’ said Gillian gratefully. She was relieved to finally see her friend. Sitting alone doing nothing in a flat where she was not at home for hour after hour had increasingly unnerved her. She had read every magazine she could find, had leafed through a number of books and in the end had cleaned the bathroom, which was in urgent need of it. Then she had just sat looking out of the window at the snow floating down.

‘Nothing you wouldn’t do for me,’ said Tara, glancing down at her clothes. She was wearing a light grey trouser suit and stiletto heels. It was a mystery how she had managed to negotiate the piles of snow along the roads. ‘I’m just going to change.’

Ten minutes later, the two women were sitting in Tara’s car. Tara was wearing jeans, a warm coat and waterproof boots. Gillian had put her travel bag and the bag of food on the back seat.

Hopefully I’m doing the right thing, she thought.

They made slow progress. The Friday afternoon traffic had plunged the city into the usual chaos. They only started to speed up when they reached the motorway.

‘We’ll be at Thorpe Bay soon,’ said Tara. ‘And by the time you get going, the worst will be past. Do you know yet where you’re heading?’

‘Honestly, I don’t have a clue,’ admitted Gillian. ‘I just keep wondering if it’s even necessary.’ She pressed her face against the window. She felt pleasantly cool. She did not know why her cheeks were burning. Perhaps nerves and all her brooding.

‘This running away. Right after the . . . thing that happened at home, I just wanted to get away. To your house. And until this morning I was sure it would be better to leave London. But now I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been too hasty. Maybe I’m just going a little crazy. About . . . nothing!’

‘Tom lying murdered in your house is not
nothing
,’ Tara reminded her. ‘And what happened recently—’

‘I don’t know whether anything happened,’ Gillian interrupted her. ‘That’s the thing. I just don’t know! It seems more and more likely to me that nothing did. A shadow! If I try to recall it, I can’t even see it any more. It was a fraction of a second – probably just in my imagination.’

‘But perhaps not. Perhaps something would have happened to you. You might just have been really lucky that Luke Palm went back to your house,’ Tara replied.

Suddenly the glass under Gillian’s cheek seemed colder.

. . . that Luke Palm went back to your house . . .

I didn’t tell her the estate agent’s name, thought Gillian. That was her first, almost intuitive thought. Then her reason kicked in: or did I mention it? Sometime in the last two days? During our chats?

She could not rule it out completely, but she was almost sure that she had not. She had not wanted to admit to Tara that she had turned to the estate agent who had found Anne Westley dead. As his name had been mentioned in the media on many occasions, Tara might have recognised it. Gillian had been embarrassed to explain how she felt she was on an ice floe, adrift from other people who had never experienced violence and crime, and that Luke Palm had a similar shadow over his life. She wanted to keep it to herself, although she would not have been able to explain exactly why. Perhaps it had something to do with the devastating wound she had been dealt, deep inside her, the evening she found Tom and wandered through her house in a panic looking for her child. She didn’t want to show anyone, not even her best friend, how much it had disturbed her.

Never mind, it’s not important, she thought. But she could not stop the thought niggling away at her:
If I didn’t tell her his name, how does she know it?

She remembered the evening, which was only two days ago. In her mind’s eye she saw herself come rushing out of the house after she had thought she had seen a shadow in the kitchen and the lights had gone off. She had run through the snow in her tights and at the garden gate had banged into a large shape, which she had started to hit, full of fear and blind horror. The person she hit had grabbed her hand and held it tight.

‘It’s me. Luke Palm!’