The Watcher (46 page)

And she had screamed: ‘Luke Palm?’ A high-pitched, loud scream full of fear.

If someone had been in the house or garden, they could have heard it.

This is absurd, she thought.

She looked at Tara in profile. Her straight nose, her full lips, her high forehead. She was such a beautiful woman. Rather strange that she had never had a man in her life.

How on earth does she know the name?

She thought about all the conversations she had had with her friend since Palm had dropped her at Tara’s flat that night. She was pretty sure that she had only ever referred to Luke Palm as
the estate agent
. She had only mentioned him briefly.

The estate agent who is going to sell the house for me had just gone. Luckily he came back, because he’d forgotten something. He reset the fuse in the cellar and looked round the house with me. But we didn’t see anyone.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Tara. She looked over at Gillian. ‘You’ve gone pale. Aren’t you feeling well?’

‘No, I’m fine.’ Gillian tried to smile. It was obviously not a convincing attempt, because Tara said, ‘Really? You seem upset.’

‘I’m just not sure I’m doing the right thing,’ said Gillian. ‘It seems so crazy to sneak away to a place I don’t know. That’s a pretty dramatic step to take.’

‘Staying here could turn out to be a far more dramatic step,’ said Tara. ‘If the murderer tries anything again.’

They had reached Thorpe Bay. Quiet roads. Quiet houses. Gardens deep in snow. Children were sledding on a hill in a little park. Until recently, all of this was normal life for Gillian.

Now nothing was normal any longer. Now she was about to run away.

She felt a prickle at the back of her neck. An underlying nervousness, a suspicion that, as strange as it seemed to her, she could not silence.

There was a voice inside her that told her quietly but insistently:
Just get away! Something’s wrong! Get out of the car.

Maybe I mentioned the name sometime, she thought in despair, and I just can’t remember!

Maybe she was in such a mess now that she saw ghosts wherever she looked.

Tara turned into Gillian’s drive. The car’s wheels crunched through deep snow.

‘Here we are,’ she said.

She looked at Gillian. And Gillian saw it. She saw it in her eyes.

A strange look. Unnaturally large pupils.

Tara’s eyes were glassy.

Suddenly Gillian was afraid. And she knew one thing: Tara could not be allowed to see it. To notice Gillian’s suspicion, fear and confusion.

‘OK,’ she said as casually as possible. ‘I’ll just go in quickly, pack a few things and leave. You should get going, Tara. It’s quite a drive.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Tara. She opened her door and got out. ‘I’ll come with you.’

Gillian got out too. She was holding the front door key in her hand. Her hand was trembling and she hoped that Tara could not see.

Tara went around the car, moving as if everything was normal.

And what if I’m just going mad?
thought Gillian.
Probably I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown and just seeing things.

At that moment her phone rang. It was in her handbag, which was still in the footwell of the passenger seat.

Gillian immediately turned around, but Tara held her back. ‘Leave it. You can call back later. Don’t waste time now.’ She had that glassy look again.

Gillian felt perspiration on her forehead. ‘All right,’ she said. She thought her voice sounded funny, but Tara did not seem to notice.

They trudged slowly over to the house. Gillian opened up and stamped her shoes free of snow. She heard Tara do the same behind her.

She felt her heart beating loudly and fast. She was sweating profusely now. She did not know if it was just chance that Tara was sticking close behind her like a second skin. Unimaginable that she would be able to go anywhere on her own, or even make a call. And what was she to say to the person on the other end of the line?
I’m in my house with my friend. I’ve got a bad feeling. Something’s not right with her. Of course I might just be imagining it, but fear is eating me up and I think I need help.

There was only one person she could call. One person who would not think she was crazy and would rush over: John. She only had to say
Please come!
And he would come.

But there was no way of calling him. Tara was as close behind her as a shadow.

The toilet, Gillian thought. She can’t follow me there.

There was a cloakroom on the ground floor, with a small window. She could try to climb out and run down the road. She could ring a neighbour’s doorbell and ask to phone.

Tara could hardly stop her.

‘What’s up?’ asked Tara. ‘Didn’t you want to go upstairs and pack your things?’

Gillian turned to her. Hoped that she did not look as bad as she felt.

‘I just need to go to the loo,’ she said apologetically. ‘Would you wait a minute?’

Tara stared at her.

At that moment the phone rang. Both women jumped. Then Gillian reached out her arm.

Tara stopped her. ‘Just let it ring. It’ll only hold us up!’

After the sixth ring, the answering machine came on.

Samson was nowhere close to really understanding the direction things had taken, and John had left the flat so quickly that he had been unable to ask him a single further question. Confused and uneasy, he was left in the bare rooms.

He went over the last few minutes of their conversation once more.

Is Gillian in danger?
he had asked, and John’s answer had hardly set his mind at rest:
I don’t know.

Then he had asked if Tara, her best friend, was a danger to her, and this time John had answered:
I hope not
. Which was no better.

Tara.

John’s faint suggestions did not make any sense to Samson. He had been on the phone and then there had been the name
Tara Caine
and John was instantly buzzing. He spoke about some missing link that everyone had been looking for. Somehow it was all connected to Charity Stanford’s wife, but Samson could not make head or tail of that either.

He tried to recall the images he had of Tara Caine.

He had watched her a number of times when she visited Gillian. It had been immediately clear that the two women were close friends. Their greeting was not exaggerated but had a real closeness that made fussing unnecessary. He had liked Tara. He kept a jealous eye on the image he had carefully constructed of Gillian’s perfect, invulnerable family. The way Gillian’s friend fitted into that image was important to him. Tara Caine had put him at ease. She was friendly and, what was even more essential, she suited Gillian. She seemed like a very normal woman. She was intelligent, elegant but never done up to the nines, never garish or vulgar. Sometimes she had obviously come straight from work and was wearing a chic trouser suit. Sometimes she just wore jeans, a sweatshirt and trainers.

Fitted right in, he thought. Fine. The perfect friend for the perfect woman in the perfect family.

Apparently he had made a bigger mistake than he had already realised. Thomas Ward was not a nice man and the Wards’ marriage had been teetering on the edge. Gillian had got involved in an extramarital affair. Her daughter had massive problems. And now something was not right about her best friend too – Samson just did not know what.

Tara isn’t a threat, is she?

I hope not.

He paced back and forth between the window and the chair in the middle of the room. The whole room smelt of cold fries. Samson looked at his half-eaten burger in disgust. He could not believe that just a little while ago he had been so hungry that his mouth had watered. Now the thought of food tied his stomach up in knots.

John had said that Gillian was at Tara’s flat. That made sense. It must have been a nightmare for her to return to the house where her husband had been murdered. And secretly Samson had been relieved – although also ashamed at his relief, as John had been the only person to help him, to risk a lot for him – that Gillian had not taken refuge with John but instead with her best friend.

That told Samson that John and Gillian’s relationship was not all that close.

John had tried to call Gillian but she had not answered her mobile. If she was in danger, she might still be completely unaware of it.

Samson had often read about people tearing their hair out, and until now he had just thought that was a way of saying that someone was going mad with anger, confusion or helplessness. Now he realised that you could actually do it. He was grabbing his hair, running his splayed fingers through it as if he could make his mind come up with one good, sensible, useful thought. Something to free him from this never-ending wait. Sitting either in an unheated guest house or a caravan at an abandoned building site or an empty old flat, waiting for something and not even knowing what that something was.

He wanted to play a part, make something happen. Be useful. Not for himself so much as for everyone else caught up in this confused situation.

For Gillian, more than anyone.

His hair was shooting out in every direction now, but he had come up with an idea. John’s unsuccessful attempt to call Gillian had obviously been in the hope of warning her. Why shouldn’t he try to do the same?

He could ask Directory Enquiries for Tara Caine’s phone number and then call her. However, that idea worried him. It was late on Friday afternoon. Probably Tara had left the office long ago and was home already. She would probably pick up the phone. She would see John Burton’s number on her display. And what would he, Samson, say then?

Hi, it’s Samson Segal here. The man being hunted for the murders. As you can see, I’m sitting in the flat of John Burton, the ex-cop. Can I talk to Gillian, please?

He might manage to make his call anonymous from John’s phone, although he had no idea how to do that. He might even pluck up the courage to introduce himself with another name, and Tara might even pass him on to Gillian.

And then?

Would she calmly listen to his warning while the person she was being warned about was standing right beside her?

Still, he thought, I’ll give it a go.

He was feeling hot all over.

He need not have worried so much. When he called Directory Enquiries, he found out that Tara Caine was ex-directory.

Not surprising, given her job, thought Samson. Otherwise how many ex-cons would terrorise her once they got out!

He could not just sit back down again and twiddle his thumbs. Not after he had got so far ahead, at least in his thoughts.

Just for once, he wanted to do something decisive.

Be the hero.

He took what was left of the unappetising meal to the kitchen and threw it in the bin. Strangely, as he did so, he had a brainwave.

Gillian was living with Tara, but she must visit her own house now and then. To water the flowers, to pick up the post, to fetch something she needed. He knew her phone number off by heart. And she had an answering machine. He had often called the Wards when he knew no one was there and then listened to her voice.
We can’t get to the phone right now but please leave us a message.

He had always hung up at that point, without saying a word. But this time he was going to speak. And even though there was no guarantee that his action would be a success, because he could not know when Gillian would actually hear her messages, there was at least a chance. Not a slight chance either, he thought. And it was better than doing nothing.

He went back into the living room, dialled the familiar number with trembling fingers and cleared his throat several times.

As long as his voice did not fail him now!

Gillian and Tara stared at the answering machine as if transfixed.

Gillian’s voice rang out loud and clear in the hall. ‘Please leave us a message.’

The machine beeped.

First there was the noise of a throat being cleared noisily. A man, thought Gillian. Perhaps John. Perhaps Luke Palm, with questions about the sale of the house. Luke Palm, whose name Tara should not have known.

‘Yes, hello, Mrs Ward,’ a voice was saying now. Definitely a man. Gillian thought the voice was familiar, but she could not place it immediately.

‘It’s me. Samson. Samson Segal.’

Gillian put her hand to her mouth. Samson Segal. That strange man who was hiding from the police. He was calling, even daring to leave a message on her answering machine.

‘Mrs Ward, we’re worried about you.’ Samson sounded less awkward now. ‘It might sound strange to you, and I can’t explain it properly either, but . . . you should be careful around your friend. Tara Caine. Something’s not right. Get away from her. Please.’ He paused. ‘I hope that you hear this message sometime soon. It’s important. Please.’

With a click, the message ended.

Gillian could not move. She had the impression that she was not even breathing.

She did not know how Samson Segal came to be calling her. She had no idea who he was talking about when he said
we
. She was completely in the dark as to how he had come to see Tara as a threat. But she understood one thing. He was right. He was not just talking rubbish. And she was not just seeing things.

‘You’ve got loyal friends,’ said Tara behind her. Her voice sounded different. Strangely lacking in emotion. It was too level. ‘Worried friends. How nice for you.’

Gillian ran her tongue over her lips. They felt suddenly dry. She turned around to Tara and tried to smile, hoping that she’d managed to do more than grimace. ‘Segal is not my friend. He’s disturbed. You know the police are looking for him. I expect he wants to divert attention from himself. He thinks his situation will improve if he spreads wild rumours.’

‘Interesting rumours,’ said Tara.

Gillian shrugged. ‘The man’s off his rocker. I don’t pay him any attention. Listen, I should hurry. I’ll just go to the loo and then—’

‘What for?’ asked Tara. There was something threatening in her voice and posture. ‘So you can escape through the window?’