Night Visit (16 page)

My
ears were tingling. I knew they were talking about Melanie Carnforth.

Arthur
was looking lightning-struck. ‘But we don’t know what happened, Ruth,’ he said. ‘No one knows.’

‘
Oh yes we do.’ There was a certain viciousness in Ruth’s voice. ‘I went to the library and found all the old newspaper articles. She disappeared, almost certainly murdered. End of story. A great big blank and a killer is still on the loose. How would you feel if that was your daughter who had disappeared? Our precious, precious child? And now we find him in a school?’

Arthur
muttered something, picked the glasses up and left to queue for the bar.

Ruth
leaned towards me. ‘Why do you think you have an instinct about that man?’

My
mind flashed, the odd story about his father, the malevolent prank he had played on his mother, the insinuating way he intruded.

Something
.

‘
Because,’ I said finally, ‘I can picture him doing it.’

And
I could. I could see it, firstly him getting close to the child, brushing against her, as he did with me, rubbing her with his fat, roly poly fingers, with that strange dysfunctional look in his eyes, just the way he looked at me.

‘
Exactly.’ She glanced around the hall to check no one was eavesdropping. ‘You know that story you were asking about?’ She spoke quickly, the words tumbling out, slightly muddled. ‘The little girl.’

I
nodded.

‘
You know I said I thought they’d got the right man all along? That he was arrested but not charged?’ Ruth said. ‘But we all knew he was guilty. Evidence pointed to him.’ She was staring at Pritchard. ‘What I want to know is,’ she said, ‘what is that man doing hanging round a school?’

I
caught her feeling of foreboding. ‘He shouldn’t be allowed here.’

‘
Exactly. He has no excuse. He hasn’t got children, here at the school, has he?’ Unconsciously her hands stole around her bump.

‘
No. He isn’t married.’

‘
Does he work here, do you think?’

‘
I don’t know.’

Ruth
gave me a hard stare. ‘Well, if my daughter was a pupil I’d sure as hell want to know what a little shit like him was doing here. And if he does work here I bet he hasn’t told them he was questioned in connection with the disappearance of that poor child. Harriet,’ she said, ‘we have an obligation to report this to the authorities.’

I
struggled to be impartial. ‘But what evidence was there against him?’

‘
They found the little girl’s dress along the road where he lives. There’s only one house along that road, Harriet.’ Ruth’s eyes were luminous dark pools as she spoke. They reminded me of the twin heron pools, the bridge of her nose the causeway. I felt sick.

‘
Why wasn’t he charged?’

‘
There was no more evidence. He’d been too clever for them. And they never found the body. The poor little thing.’

*

The rest of the evening passed in a haze. I know I danced a couple of times with Jay Gordon but I could not enjoy the music as I had before and he seemed disappointed. I tried to ask him by eye movements and shouting what Pritchard was doing here but the music was too loud. He simply shook his head and grinned. It didn’t help that Pritchard had parked himself on the edge of the dance floor, set apart from the other groups of watchers. And every time I glanced across at him I could tell he was watching me.

He
watched only me. I never saw his head turn away once.

A
little after midnight, accompanied by groans of disappointment, the music finally stopped. The lights went on and we all saw ourselves for what we were, thirty-somethings who had been playing the sweet game of being teenagers all over again. I felt tired.

Jay
Gordon crossed the floor. A bouncing step, no paunch yet. Black jeans and an open-necked shirt. ‘What was it you were trying to ask me?’

I
spotted Pritchard on the other side of the hall, holding out a black, plastic bin liner. Someone was dropping paper cups into it, and the remains of the pies.

‘
That man,’ I said. ‘Who is he?’

‘
Pritchard?’

I
knew he was curious about the tone in my voice. ‘He works here. He’s the sort of janitor. Why?’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘What’s the problem? Mrs Lamont, Harriet, I can assure you, there’s no harm in him.’

But
I could fill in things Jay Gordon obviously knew nothing about. I knew that he watched Rosie as he watched me. He had known that she was my daughter and he had known she was at Merrivale Primary. He had got away with it once. The police had been close but the law had protected him. The burden of proof had been too light.

And
now he was close to my daughter.

13

I know the way these people work. They deliberately take jobs to be near children. They gain their trust and their friendship. The children hardly notice them they are so familiar. And then when they have selected a child, a vulnerable child, they stalk it as a cheetah stalks a zebra, waiting for that child to be isolated from the herd. They derive satisfaction as much from the watching and dirty fantasies as from the act itself. They watch children.

Instinct
told me Pritchard was such a man. Instinct told me I must act. But how? I could alert the authorities. But on suspicion alone?

I
could almost hear their scepticism. ‘So, Doctor, you have this
suspicion
?’

It
was no good. There had been no proof. I knew where the proof lay, with the body of Melanie Carnforth. Find that and you will have your proof. So where was it? They must have searched the woods. Acres of trees, covering the sides of the hill as far as the eyes could see, stretching right round the eastern side of the town. It was too big.

I
had to talk to someone. I thought Neil would be ideal. I thought he would give the subject the gravity it demanded. Instead he seemed irritated. Maybe he had not yet forgiven me for not asking him to the sixties night.

‘
Why are you so interested in a murder that happened so long ago?’

‘
So you do think Melanie was murdered?’

‘
Yes I do,’ he said reluctantly. ‘It stands to reason. The child is dead, Harriet. She must be. And if she isn’t dead she would have been sixteen years old by now.’

‘
They have to find her body,’ I said.

‘
Why?’ he said impatiently. ‘What on earth’s the point of dragging the whole thing up again? Let the poor child rest.’

‘
You don’t understand, Neil. The innocent are still under a cloud. And the guilty can reoffend. And Vera Carnforth still doesn’t know what happened to her granddaughter.’

‘
And what good will it do if she does know?’

‘
You sound as though you don’t care that a child murderer is walking free.’

‘
Oh.’ Neil was exasperated. ‘You’re being completely over the top.’

‘But
Pritchard,’ I insisted. ‘He works at the school,’ I said. ‘Rosie’s school. And that is typical of these types. They get near to children through their job. I’d have thought you’d have cared about Rosie.’

Neil
’s face softened. ‘I do, Harry,’ he said. ‘Of course I do but she isn’t in any danger. Even if Pritchard really was the person who abducted and killed Melanie nothing has happened for ten years. There hasn’t even been a report of an attempted abduction. If Pritchard’s innocent you’re dragging up an old case for nothing.’

I
felt cruel then, cruel and lonely because I knew I would do anything to make him see. ‘So what would you have done if you had made the same discovery, that a suspected child killer was working at Sandy’s school when he was ten years old?’

‘
I’d have done nothing,’ Neil said viciously. ‘Suspicion is not the same as guilt. If there had been hard and fast evidence Pritchard would have been charged and convicted.’

‘
Without a body?’

‘
Well that makes it more difficult.’

‘
Sure of his innocence, are you, Neil? Sure enough to risk Rosie vanishing in the same way?’

A
shadow moved across his face. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘you’d better have a word with the headmaster. But be careful. You’re a doctor, the man’s own doctor. You shouldn’t forget that position of privilege and responsibility. You have a clear duty towards your patient which you’re breaching now. All you’re talking about is “hunches”. Doctors don’t work on hunches, Harriet. Even what you’re saying is slanderous. If word got out—you know how the newspapers treat such people. And you’ve no proof. Just hunches, instincts and silly superstitions.’

*

The headmaster was not convinced. I could see it in his pale eyes, in the tightening of his lips, in the way he fiddled with his pencil.

‘
I don’t quite understand what you want me to do.’

Patiently
I explained and watched his dislike for me grow.

‘
Dr Lamont,’ he said finally. ‘We knew that Mr Pritchard was questioned over the missing little girl. He was quite open about it when he applied for the job. But he was never formally charged.’

‘
He was questioned.’

‘
I expect many people were questioned.’

I
conceded the point and he stood up. ‘Well, Dr Lamont. I’m very grateful to you for bringing this to my attention. But as I’m sure you know, in this country one is innocent until proved guilty. He wasn’t even charged. From what you say the only evidence was the fact that the child’s dress was found in his road.’

‘
He is the only person who lives up that road.’

‘
Lives, yes. Anyone could walk up that road. We must not let our prejudices stand in the way of appointing our staff, particularly in the education service.’

I
was feeling desperate. ‘I don’t know all the evidence against him,’ I said sharply. ‘I am not privy to police files.’

‘But
the police are. If there was anything concrete they would have charged him.’ He shook my hand. ‘Thank you so much for bringing this matter to my attention. We will be vigilant.’

‘
And what action will you take?’

I
knew the answer. None. Pritchard was to be left roaming around a primary school because there was no proof.

But
I was a mother. I had a duty to my daughter. I had to protect her. Stuff proof. Suspicion was enough for me.

I
asked Rosie if she knew Anthony Pritchard.

‘
Piggy Pritch?’ She smothered a giggle with her palm. ‘Everyone knows him. He’s dead peculiar.’

I
stopped in my tracks. ‘How peculiar? What does he do?’

Rosie
wasn’t even looking at me but at the television. ‘He asked me if I wanted a lift home one day.’

I
could picture it clearly, the blue car sliding insinuatingly close to the kerb, the window dropping, the ‘friendly’ offer to a child to take them home. Only he wouldn’t.

‘
You mustn’t get in the car. Not ever.’

‘
I wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘He’s a right weirdo.’

I
was a tiny bit reassured then. Children knew. Their instincts told them Pritchard was strange. No one was telling
them
to scoff at instinct. They knew he was not to be trusted.

‘
Does he ever make approaches to you?’

She
was lolling across the sofa, her eyes following the soap, the cat nestled against her, purring softly. ‘What do you mean approaches?’ Her eyes briefly left the TV screen.

‘
Does he talk to you? Try and get you on your own?’

‘
I’d run,’ she said, still giggling. ‘The fat thing wouldn’t catch me.’

I
was tempted to shake her. ‘Rosie,’ I said. ‘This is important. Does he ever approach you?’

‘
He sometimes asks if we want sweets.’

‘F
or what?’ I said. ‘What does he want when he offers you sweets?’

She
hunched her shoulders in a definite don’t-know. ‘I never take them,’ she said.

‘
They’re always stuck together. Yuck.’

But
I knew I must warn her. ‘Rosie,’ I urged, ‘have nothing to do with him. If he tries to get you to go somewhere with him, don’t go. Don’t speak to him. Don’t take his sweets.’

‘
Why?’

‘
I think,’ I said, ‘that he’s one of those people who tries to get too close to children.’

But
I could tell I had failed to alert her. She looked wholly unconcerned. The credits flashed up with the signature tune and she sat up. ‘Can I go out to play now?’

*

The dancing patients’ jig was changing. Slowing, quickening then slowing again and it had changed to a minor key. The patients were taking odd lunges at me. Danny had become strange. Pritchard still came for his monthly blood pressure check. Vera Carnforth had not been near the surgery for months and I felt that in her eyes I had let her down. She had trusted me, the doctor, and twice I had let her down. Reuben had died despite me and I had failed to keep my promise. ‘Help me, Doctor. Help me.’ But I hadn’t. I had done nothing.

*

Even my surgery had lost that comfortable, homely look. The walls were permanently stained from the damp soil from my flowerpot. The carpet too was stained and there remained an odd musty smell which reminded me of graveyard earth. When Fern brought my coffee in a couple of mornings later she gave a sniff followed by a tut of disapproval. ‘It’ll have to be decorated, Harriet. And the carpet cleaned.’

‘
I know. But when? It’s always in use.’

We
both stared around the scarred room and shared the same anger.

‘
Drug addicts,’ she said, then brightened. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Dr Anderson’s on holiday again in a couple of weeks’ time. Why don’t you move in there?’

‘
Can you arrange for the handyman to come in then? And while he’s at it,’ I said, ‘I think I’ll go for a change of colour.’

Her
face brightened. ‘I’ll get some shade cards. What about pink?’

I
made a face.

‘
Don’t you worry about a thing. You choose your colour scheme and I’ll arrange everything.’

‘
Not pink though,’ I warned.

She
left me cheered. With my room decorated in warm, clean colours, things, I thought, would seem more normal.

When
Jay Gordon rang two days later to ask me out for a drink I accepted, feeling more cheerful than I had since the sixties night.

But
Pritchard
was
inching
closer
.
I
might
forget
him
for
a
moment
but
he
had
not
forgotten
me
.

*

It was a Thursday night in November, a night which followed a rainy, grey day. Surgery had been busy and I was on call, hopping around the house when the message appeared on my pager.

Amelia
Pritchard
,
aged
84
,
Gordon’s
Lane
,
vomiting
all
day
.

The
telephone number followed. I read it twice through. I knew what he was doing. He was daring me, dancing round me, teasing and challenging. Lunging.

But
I wasn’t frightened now. At least not for myself. I wasn’t a child. Therefore I thought he was no threat to me. So bravely I believed I could use these enforced encounters to my advantage. I could learn things about him, I reasoned. And who better to inform against him than his mother?

*

And so when I read the message I welcomed the chance to observe Anthony Pritchard at close quarters. For sometimes confrontation can be a relief.

‘
Grasp the nettle, child,’ my mother had urged while my father had stared silently. Only later I had realised why he could say nothing. He did not want me educated. Dominance came with superiority. If I gained a degree he would lose status. So he would chip at my confidence with a chisel while my mother used me as her weapon against him.

I
dialled the number.

He
picked the other end up straight away. ‘What seems to be the trouble, Mr Pritchard?’

Typically
he didn’t tell me. It was all part of the menace, you see. He knew my mind would torture out the details. ‘I wonder if you’d come and take another look at my mother.’

I
could hear rain spilling down the gutters and pictured a torrent flushing down Gordon’s Lane. ‘What’s the matter with her?’

‘
She won’t stop being sick.’ There was a note of triumph which he was not bothering to conceal.

‘
How long has she been vomiting for?’

‘
Nigh on two days. She’s kept nothing down. And now her mind’s wandering.’

I
understood then. Pritchard knew enough about medicine to force me to drive along that lonely lane. Someone who vomits is usually suffering from a minor illness but superimpose age and a wandering mind and alarm bells would ring in the head of any doctor. I had no option.