The Watcher (52 page)

‘My parents always slept on the sofas,’ explained Tara. ‘I had the small room at the back.’

The first shutter swung open. It was now considerably brighter in the room, which also revealed the full squalor of the place. Moss and mould was growing on the wall. The sofas were falling to pieces, their foam stuffing spilling out of them. Some of the floor was covered in something slimy that Gillian could not identify. Perhaps lichen. Over the years, the damp had seeped in through the cracks, and as no one had used the stove for years, the room had never dried out.

Impossible for anyone to live here. But Gillian had a feeling that Tara was not too worried about that.

The second shutter opened, not making their surroundings appear any less wretched.

‘Do you think we could try to get the stove working?’ asked Gillian.

Tara shrugged. ‘If there’s still a woodpile behind the hut, then maybe. Although any logs will be pretty wet. Sit down,’ she said, and nodded towards the two sofas.

Gillian hesitated.

‘Sit down!’ repeated Tara sharply.

Gillian sat down. The sofa gave way under her weight and she sank almost to the ground. She guessed that there must be all kinds of creepy-crawlies in the foam filling. Maggots and worms maybe. If they had not frozen to death.
Let them have frozen to death
, she prayed silently to herself.

Tara left the hut, but came back immediately empty-handed. ‘No wood there. So we can’t have a fire.’

What remained of Gillian’s courage deserted her. Now that she was no longer moving, she was freezing, in spite of her thick coat. Tara really had found a completely remote place. No one would come across her here. Tara had wanted to win some time to think about her next step. In the end she had realised that only one thing was possible: she had to get rid of her former friend somehow. Then she would go back to London alone and hope that no one noticed anything. She could tell everyone that Gillian had set off for a hotel and that she hadn’t heard from her since then. She could cut Gillian’s throat. She could shoot her. She could even just leave her in the hut and barricade the door and shutters so she could not get out. It wouldn’t take too long for her to starve or freeze to death. Someone must walk through these woods only once in a blue moon, so no one would hear her screams. Probably no one would even find her when she was dead. No corpse, no murder. Even if people suspected Tara, they would not be able to prove a thing.

Gillian had to think about how to escape. That was her only, tiny chance. Somewhere there were people, even if it had looked outside as if she was alone in the world. Perhaps she would manage to get Tara’s keys too and somehow find her way back to the car. The car key was lying beside the key to the hut on the unused stove. It had fallen out of Tara’s bag when she got out the bottle with the last few drops of mineral water. Almost absentmindedly, it appeared, she had put it on the stove. Yet as she was standing right in front of the oven, leaning against its iron door, there was no chance that Gillian could even get near it.

Tara was holding her arms wrapped tightly around her body. She must be freezing too, and suddenly the wind seemed to have been knocked out of her.

‘We never used to come in winter,’ she said, and it sounded almost like an apology. ‘The first time in the year that we’d normally come to the hut was at Easter. Then for the summer. And not after mid-October. Then the nights were pretty cold. It was often rainy and you couldn’t stay outside for long. The landscape around here is beautiful though. Untouched nature, as far as the eye can see.’

‘But we’re near Manchester?’ asked Gillian.

Tara nodded. ‘In Dark Peak. The northern part of the national park.’

Gillian let out a dispirited sigh. She knew that the Peak District had two parts, the Dark Peak in the north and the White Peak in the south. The White Peak was relatively densely populated, while the Dark Peak was mainly high moors that stretched on for miles without human habitation. Hikers sometimes sought out this empty wilderness, but certainly not at this time of year. They were at the end of the world.

‘Does your family own the land?’ she asked, to keep the conversation going.

Tara laughed sarcastically. ‘Good lord! My family never had much money. They really didn’t. My father owned a bicycle repair shop and he also sold second-hand bikes that he had repaired. He kept us afloat like that, but land . . . we’d never have been able to afford land!’

‘But . . .’

‘Yes, the hut is illegal, you could say. The land here doesn’t belong to anyone and luckily no one ever minded. My parents once came past here on a walk – that was before I was born – and my father said to my mother that he would build her a log cabin here. Which he then did.’ She looked around her. A tender expression played on her features. ‘It was really beautiful. We had wonderful weekends here. My father did a lot with me. He built tree houses and we collected wild flowers. He played cowboys and Indians with me and showed me how to lay trails in the woods. My father gave me strength. That’s stayed with me all my life.’

‘It must have been very tough when he died so young,’ said Gillian. She surreptitiously shifted her hands behind her back. She had the impression that the masking tape around her wrists had loosened somewhat. Not nearly enough for her to free her hands, but if she was very patient, she might be able to pull them out in the end. She just had to be extremely careful. No sudden movements. Tara could not be allowed to notice a thing.

‘A heart attack,’ Tara said. It was as if a shadow fell across her face. Gillian could almost feel the pain and mourning that after all these years still weighed on Tara. ‘It was a normal day. He was working in his workshop behind the house. I was coming home from school and ran towards him. He saw me coming, stood up, smiled at me and then fell over. Just like that. He died in the hospital a few hours later.’ She could not keep her hands still. ‘God, I should have remembered to bring cigarettes. I really need one now. Shit!’

Her pain suddenly switched over into anger. In a flash. Gillian was scared. She had the feeling that Tara was an emotional powder keg. She had never seen her friend like this in the past. Tara had always been calm and objective. Obviously she had been using a flawless mask. The elegantly dressed, smartly made-up and coiffured public prosecutor who was always in control and above things. A woman who let her reason steer her in almost all areas of life.

When did I ever see her excited or out of control?
Gillian wondered. She remembered the time, not too long ago, when she had told Tara about John’s past. It was not exactly that Tara exploded, but by her own standards she did lose control. Was there some key to understanding her in that?

If only I knew!

‘Tara,’ she said. ‘I’m your friend. And whatever happened—’

‘Save it,’ Tara said coldly. ‘You
were
my friend, Gillian. In the past. But I was wrong about you from the start. You’re a bit like my mother, and that’s about the worst thing I can say about someone. My mother was a really nice woman, very friendly. I don’t think anyone would have thought she was capable of something really evil. Everyone liked her.’

‘Your mother . . . wasn’t as nice as everyone thought?’ Gillian asked gently. She could now definitely feel that the tape was loosening. She would have liked to move her arms around wildly, but she controlled herself. As long as Tara had a knife and a pistol lying beside her, Gillian would still be in an unfavourable position, even if her hands were free.

‘My mother was weak. I didn’t see that for a long time, because my father gave her strength. But when he died, she showed her true colours. She went wet. Day and night she moaned that she couldn’t do this, couldn’t do that. Her nerves this, her health that. My father had taken out life insurance and that kept us going for a while, but do you think my mother used the time to find a job? Or to do anything to bring our life back on to an even keel? No, she just sat in the corner and bawled her eyes out, saying she didn’t know how we were going to make ends meet from now on. I was eight! I couldn’t help her. It was too much for me.’

‘But somehow . . .’

‘Somehow things went on, you mean?’ Tara nodded. ‘Yes, things went on. After my mother had bawled her eyes out for long enough, she suddenly had a great idea. The classic solution for a woman like her. She hooked up with the first bloke that came along. She just couldn’t live without a man. And she was not unattractive back then. She was in her mid thirties and rather pretty. She could have chosen from a whole bunch of men. Nice, friendly men.’

Tara grabbed the knife, the one she had used earlier to cut through the tape around Gillian’s ankles. She slowly traced its edge with her thumb and index finger. Gillian saw a fine line appear on her thumb, from which blood welled up.

‘But she chose Ted Roslin. Probably because he never stopped courting her. He flattered her with all sorts of seductive arts. He gave her the feeling that she was a fantastic woman. The fact that he had nothing going for him was lost on my mother. He swept her off her feet. They got married just before my ninth birthday.’

There was only a trickle of blood from the small cut at first. But the flow was increasing.

‘Then came a bitter disappointment for her. I think my mother was a good catch for Ted Roslin. She owned the house and he could take over my father’s bike workshop, which had always done well. He had absolutely no interest in my mother, in spite of what he had pretended before the wedding. She just didn’t turn him on. Sometimes I heard her really begging him to take her in his arms. She was always wanting to sleep with him, and he was always making up excuses. He just didn’t fancy her.’

‘Why not?’ asked Gillian. ‘She was young and pretty—’

‘He wasn’t into women,’ interrupted Tara.

‘Oh,’ said Gillian. ‘But . . . surely by the late seventies, a gay man could be fairly open . . . I mean, not need to hide behind marriage.’

She was interrupted again.

‘He wasn’t into men,’ Tara explained. She looked with satisfaction at the blood that was now running warm and bright down her hand.

‘He was into little girls,’ she said.

Luckily the M1 northbound was almost completely free of snow and there were no major delays. They made good progress. The day was going quickly and soon it would be dark. John wanted to reach Manchester by early evening. He had found two Lucy Caines, neither with a double-barrelled surname, but he was convinced that one of the two was Tara’s mother. Two addresses. That was doable.

Samson Segal sat nervously next to him in the passenger seat. He was relieved that John had let him come and at the same time worried sick, because he had no idea what would happen. After the unpleasant conversation with Christy McMarrow at Scotland Yard, John had immediately driven back to his flat, showered quickly, found the addresses and set off for Manchester. Maybe he was making a big mistake, but Manchester was his only lead, so he decided to follow it. Tara Caine had grown up there. Maybe she still knew places to hide in Manchester or nearby. If she had had it in for Gillian for a long time, but perhaps also knew that the net was closing in, she might look for somewhere where she felt safe for now.

Samson had been waiting for him tensely and immediately bombarded him with questions, but John had cut him off. ‘Did you call Gillian? And leave a warning for her on her answering machine?’

Samson went pale. ‘Yes . . .’

‘You didn’t think that one through, Samson. You really didn’t. Gillian and Tara have disappeared. But it looks like Tara might have been out in Thorpe Bay yesterday – if so, then probably with Gillian. We can only hope that Tara didn’t hear your message. Otherwise the mess Gillian is in could be much worse now.’

‘Why?’ asked Samson in horror.

John was annoyed. He should not have left Segal on his own. The man had a real talent for doing the wrong thing at the wrong time.

‘If Tara Caine is really dangerous – and unfortunately we have to assume she is – then Gillian’s chances of getting away safely will be greater if Caine assumes that she doesn’t suspect anything. As soon as Gillian starts to get suspicious, then to Caine she’s a danger.’

‘I wanted to warn her. I thought . . .’

‘But you shouldn’t have left a message. You have no idea who might hear it.’

Samson looked as if he was about to fall into a deep depression. ‘I do everything wrong.’

Too true
, John would have liked to add, but he bit his tongue. Getting Samson down was not going to help.

When John announced that he was going away, for at least two days, Samson jolted upright. ‘I’ll come too!’

‘No. Wait here.’

‘I want to come. Please. I won’t do anything without agreeing it with you first. But I can’t wait here. I’ll go crazy!’

John had hesitated, but eventually agreed. Samson could do less harm where John could keep an eye on him. There were also many situations in which it could be good to have a second person around.

‘OK. But I don’t want you talking, all right? And you’re not to do anything without asking me first.’

‘Like I promised. Uh . . . where are we going, actually?’

‘To Manchester. Tara Caine was born there and grew up there. It’s just an idea, born of desperation more than anything, but if Caine thinks her back’s up against the wall, she might decide to flee to somewhere she knows well: her home town.’

‘To her parents?’ Samson asked.

‘It seems like she only has a mother,’ said John. ‘And the police found her dead in her flat this morning. Murdered. Probably by the same person who went on the rampage down here. Maybe Tara Caine herself.’

Samson was agog. ‘Oh God . . .’

‘We’d better get cracking,’ said John.

They reached Manchester towards evening. Samson, who had been silent the whole trip and obviously deep in dark thoughts, asked: ‘What’s the first thing we’ll do when we get there?’

‘We’ll look for Mrs Caine’s house,’ replied John. ‘And then I’ll see if I can find out anything. There must be neighbours who have known the family for a long time. Maybe there are places where Tara used to like to go. She could have fled to a place like that with Gillian.’