The Watcher (31 page)

‘She sent Becky away?’

‘It’s not that she sent her away. They were arguing constantly and she thought it would be good if they each had some space for a while. School starts again the day after tomorrow, but Becky isn’t ready to carry on as normal yet. Gillian has excused her for the whole of January – and organised a therapist in Norwich for Becky to visit. The kid needs professional care. I think Gillian did the right thing.’

Of course, thought Samson with animosity. Tom is dead and Becky is visiting her grandparents; now your path’s clear. All running like clockwork, right?

But of course he did not express his thoughts.

Instead he asked, ‘And what about the case? Anything new? Any developments? A lead?’

‘Not that I know, unfortunately,’ said John with regret. He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m sorry, Samson. I know it’s damned lonely out here and you feel rotten, but I can’t do any more for you other than to come now and then and make sure you have the basics.’

‘And that’s a lot,’ murmured Samson. ‘Thanks, John.’

He watched Burton walk back to his car and get in. He was driving back to real life. To a meeting, a meal, to voices, laughter, lights and company.

Good-looking John Burton. Whose presence shouted out the fact that he would always land on his feet. Whatever fate held in store for him. Whatever traps lurked along the way.

While I always lose. People can probably see that. And there’s little that makes a man more unattractive than a big sign on his forehead saying:
I’m a loser!

He picked up the shopping bags that John had put down in the snow and stepped into his murky accommodation.

Perhaps he would drink a beer this evening.

On the way back into town, John thought about Samson Segal. The man was mentally close to breaking point. He could feel it clearly. Samson would probably not be able to stick it out much longer. John was sure that he was already toying with the idea of voluntarily turning himself in to the police. The only thing holding him back was the certainty that a prison cell was not going to improve his situation. He might not be alone in prison, but for someone like Samson, that only contained new horrors. He had always been dominated by others, serving as a lightning rod for other people’s aggression. Samson might be crazy, but he was not stupid. John was sure of that. He had a pretty clear image of himself and of the situations he found himself in. He knew that prison would be a hell he could not even imagine.

John thought about his own motives, too, as he joined the heavy traffic going into town. By hiding Samson, he was committing an offence. The police would only have to interview Samson’s only friend in the world, the Pole quaking in his boots, one more time for them to discover that he, John, had been there a few days ago too and had found out where Samson was staying. He should have gone to the police immediately with that piece of information. Fielder was out to get him, and this would give him the perfect opportunity.

Detective Inspector Peter Fielder. He was probably one reason why John had got involved in the story and was taking this dangerous path on the edge of an abyss. He had not had too much to do with Fielder in his police days, but it had been enough for the two men to take a deep dislike to each other. Not that they had ever had a real scrap or confrontation. There had just been a heartfelt sense that they would not get on. John thought Fielder was boring and conventional, possessed mediocre talent as an investigator but would climb the career ladder because he always stuck to the regulations, was highly reliable and never antagonised the people important for his career progress. John’s colleague at the time had been Sergeant Christy McMarrow, the woman Fielder was hopelessly in love with. Everyone knew it, but Fielder probably thought that he had been clever enough to conceal his feelings. It had been the most popular topic of gossip in every office. Everyone had smirked to think of the pining policeman. In the end the subject had run its course, even for the most hopeful romantic and the most fervent gossip: there was no development beyond Fielder’s worshipping of her. John could have guessed that from the start. Fielder was far too square, too conventional for actual adultery.

And even when John’s departure meant that Fielder, so to speak, inherited Christy, romance did not bloom.

John knew that Fielder despised him because there were few middle-class virtues that John had adopted, and yet that he simultaneously envied him because he lived out what Fielder denied himself. It had been the same for many of his colleagues. John was rather unpopular with other men, because he was good-looking, had few scruples, was completely independent and because he could have almost any woman he was attracted to. Most of his colleagues had been all too happy to see the intern put him in an awkward situation, but he had managed to turn the tables. He had left the service of his own volition and had happily started his own company. He knew that he had given his colleagues the feeling that they were the real losers.

He saw a space and parked up. It was still some distance from the restaurant he was going to, but around here empty spaces were as rare as water in the desert. At the moment they were even rarer, as the snow cleared from the roads was piled high on the kerb, taking up valuable space.

The Italian restaurant welcomed him in with warmth, candlelight, a smell of pasta and herbs, the hubbub of voices and the sound of glasses clinking. Saturday evening. It was rather full, but John could see at the door that his date was there. She was sitting near the back, at a table off to one side.

Clever girl.

Perfect for what they had planned.

She had seen him now too and waved at him. As he approached through the rows of tables, he could see that she was glowing with happy expectation. She had something for him. She could not wait to see his surprise and to hear him praise her.

Detective Constable Kate Linville. Thirty-five years old. Looked at least forty-two. Light brown hair, pale face. Features that were not easy to remember. Her eyes always looked a little swollen, as if she had got blind drunk the night before and barely slept, which was definitely not the case. They just had that unfortunate form. Kate was repeatedly passed over by men, and her police career had not exactly taken off. Why she had ever chosen that career had always been a mystery to John.

She had been one of the women in Scotland Yard who had fallen for John. For a long time he had not known it, or even imagined such a possibility. But one day when he was at the photocopier, she had come up with a document she wanted to copy, and after waiting silently for a while, she had asked him suddenly, ‘Would you fancy catching a film with me this weekend?’

Her voice had trembled and her lips had been pale. Looking at her in surprise, John had realised that she had been hoping desperately for such an opportunity for months, that she must have practised that sentence ad infinitum. And he had recognised something else in her eyes: that she longed for him, that he was the hero of her daydreams and that in her mind there was a world where he and she experienced wonderful things together. He had recognised how monotonous her life was, with its quiet evenings and empty weekends. He had seen the desperation that gave her the courage to ask him.

He had found a polite excuse to let her down gently and, as he had expected, she had never again dared to approach him with a similar request.

But now, wondering whom he could ask for information, he had remembered her. She was not adventurous and what she was doing was risky: she could lose her job or face disciplinary action. But he had guessed right. She was so utterly alone that she had not been able to resist the temptation of getting a date in this way. Even a second and third date, perhaps. And with the man she had pined for all these years. Her desperation was greater than her caution. John had speculated as much and had not been wrong. This was their second meeting that day. And she had no doubt already been sitting there for half an hour waiting for him.

‘Hello, Kate,’ he said when he reached the table.

‘Hello, John,’ she replied.

‘I’m sorry I’m late. I had to park quite far away. It’s not easy around here. Did you come by car?’

She shook her head. ‘By train. I wanted to be able to have a glass of wine.’

He sighed, but just on the inside. He had offered to come out to Bexley, where she had been living for ages, but she had insisted on meeting in town, saying she also had some urgent shopping to do. If it got rather late (and he knew from their first meeting that she would try to stretch things out as long as she could), then he could not with a good conscience let her take the train. Was she hoping for that? That he would take her home? Or that he would suggest that she should stay at his place?

He sat down and took the menu that the waiter held out to him. Kate waited until he had chosen something and they had both ordered before leaning over and whispering, ‘There’s news!’

He smiled at her. ‘Pray tell!’

‘Well, we found out something from Carla Roberts’s life. She was in a kind of self-help group. For women on their own. Divorcees, widows and such. They met once a week and tried to . . . well, somehow to come to terms with their situation. The group stopped meeting nine months ago but the group’s initiator told DI Fielder about it. There was a woman in the group who was . . . well, friends with Carla Roberts might be an exaggeration, but at least closer to her. Liza Stanford. Who didn’t live on her own, by the way. But she wasn’t particularly happily married.’

‘I see,’ said John. He noted the name mentally. ‘How many people were in the group?’

‘Six. Fielder has all their names. Anne Westley is, unfortunately, not one of them. That would be too perfect. But Stanford . . . we struck gold with her!’

‘How so?’

‘Well, Christy had the idea yesterday. Our clever Christy McMarrow,’ Kate said with some bitterness in her voice. She had never been able to stand her. Christy too was single, but out of choice and happily. She never had difficulty in getting a date for the weekend. And their boss worshipped her too. ‘So, Christy took the names of the group members to the surgery where Dr Anne Westley had worked and compared it with Dr Westley’s patients. And what name did she discover?’

‘Liza Stanford,’ said John. ‘As you said, you struck gold.’

‘Right,’ confirmed Kate.

She was silent for a minute, as the waiter had brought a carafe of wine and a bottle of water. He filled their glasses and then left.

‘Liza Stanford has a son,’ Kate reported. ‘Finley. She had been to Dr Westley’s surgery four or five times with him. Of course the boss is in seventh heaven, because he had been looking like crazy for some point where Carla Roberts’s and Anne Westley’s lives crossed. He assumes it’s no coincidence that they both knew Liza Stanford.’

‘It probably isn’t,’ said John. He tried to organise the various questions and thoughts that were suddenly whizzing through his head.

‘Was there any problem with the son?’ he asked. ‘In medical terms, I mean. Something serious?’

Kate said no. ‘It was always just little things. A throat infection. Measles. A sports injury. Nothing spectacular. Nothing that would suggest any motive for a crime against Westley.’

‘And what about Gillian Ward? Does she know the woman too?’

Kate pulled a regretful face. ‘Of course that was immediately checked. It would have been nice and tidy. But no. She had never heard the name. Fielder tried to find out if her husband might have had been in contact with her, either through work or sport. But that’s harder to ascertain, of course.’

‘Did you visit Liza Stanford?’

Kate looked as though she had been waiting impatiently for this question all along. ‘Here’s the best bit,’ she said. ‘Fielder naturally went to see her
immediately
. Yesterday, late afternoon. Or rather, he tried. And found out that she’d disappeared. Almost two months ago!’

‘Disappeared?’

‘He found her husband. And guess who it is?
Stanford
. Dr Logan Stanford!’

‘Oh,’ said John, surprised. ‘Charity Stanford?’

‘That’s the one. The legendarily rich lawyer with his showy Hampstead mansion and his friendly contacts with everyone including the Prime Minister and the Queen, for all I know. Who is always appearing in the gossip mags in connection with his charity balls. That’s the one. He told Fielder that his wife disappeared mid November.’

‘Aha. And Stanford found that normal? Or did he do anything about it?’

‘As far as I know, it’s all a bit mysterious,’ said Kate. John understood from her phrase that she was not completely clued up in this regard. ‘Stanford didn’t do anything because it appears it wasn’t completely unusual for his wife. To disappear now and again, I mean. He admitted to Fielder that his marriage isn’t particularly happy. That matches what we heard from the women’s group. Liza Stanford was thinking about separating. The image we can gather of her is of a rather depressed, nervous woman who regularly takes time out to work out what her future should be. In those periods she has no contact with her family.’

‘What is the real problem with the marriage? Was Fielder able to find that out?’

‘I don’t know that,’ admitted Kate. ‘You know, it’s only Christy that he really talks everything through with. I just find out what is discussed in the general meetings, and we had a short chat about this latest development last night.’

‘The son. What’s he like? Was he at home?’

‘Yes. Finley is twelve years old and was sitting at his computer when Fielder arrived. He wasn’t very chatty, but then boys his age never are. But he seemed fine. He didn’t appear disturbed to Fielder. He seemed like the situation wasn’t unusual for him.’

‘Hmm,’ said John thoughtfully. ‘What do you think of the situation?’

‘Me?’ asked Kate in surprise. She obviously had not expected John to seriously ask her opinion. ‘Well, in all honesty, I can’t quite make head nor tail of it. A wife and mother who disappears for weeks on end and her husband and son just carry on as if nothing has happened. I mean, especially if she is depressed, they should be worried, shouldn’t they? Even if she has always ended up coming back, I’d imagine that the moment could come when she’d do something stupid. She could have killed herself, and her family wouldn’t even know!’