The Watchful Eye (8 page)

His visit was to Maud Allen whom he found looking pale and tired, sitting in an armchair which looked directly out over the paddock full of apple trees in blossom and clumps of daffodils.

‘So what is it?’ he asked, sitting opposite her in a shabby, comfortable armchair.

‘I’m so sorry to have called you out,’ she said. ‘I feel guilty. I know how busy you are but I simply feel washed up.’

There was something anxious yet friendly in her manner. He took her pulse, listened to her heart, peered into her throat. He could find nothing tangible but she did look very tired and a little pale with an unpleasant chalky look to her skin.

‘I think you should come down to the surgery,’ he said, ‘and we’ll send off some blood tests.’

‘I’ll come tomorrow.’

They both looked out over her paddock. ‘It should have a pony in it,’ she mused. ‘Does your daughter like horses?’

‘She loves them,’ he said. ‘Like lots of little girls there’s
nothing she’d like better than a pony of her own.’

‘How old is she now?’

‘Seven.’

‘And does she like living with her mother?’

He shook his head.

‘Then why doesn’t she come and live with you?’

‘The courts,’ he said. ‘They almost always come down on the side of the mother.’

‘What a shame,’ Maud said.

He stood up. ‘We’ll get the blood tests done, make sure there’s nothing underlying your feeling of malaise. Maybe you should have a holiday.’

She shook her head. ‘I never leave here,’ she said. ‘My spirit of adventure, my lust for travel – it’s all gone now, but thank you, Daniel.’ It was as he was leaving Applegate Cottage that she added, ‘I do hope that things improve for you and that your little girl does come back to you.’ She put a hand on his arm as she spoke. It gave her words an extra poignancy.

He had backed down the drive and turned out into Kerry Lane before he added the word depression to his observations. Something was troubling the octogenarian.

For lunch he made a quick sandwich at home, sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. He had two hours before surgery.

At the police station Brian Anderton was putting the specimen bag down on the desk. ‘Do you think you can get this analysed,’ he said. ‘Get some DNA off it?’

The desk sergeant raised his eyebrows. ‘Burglary?’

‘Some nut’s nicking my wife’s underwear off the line,’ he said shortly.

‘Right-ho then.’

The sergeant’s face was impassive but for some reason Brian felt his anger bubbling up. ‘You got anything to say?’

The desk sergeant’s hand closed over the bag. ‘Keep your hair on, Brian. We’ll get it checked out.’

But the constable’s ill humour hadn’t subsided. He grunted a ‘thanks’ and stomped through into the hallway.

The South African senior house officer, whose name was Leroy, rang Daniel at four o’clock and he could hear the same puzzlement he had felt in the doctor’s voice.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘little Anna-Louise was certainly dehydrated. We’ve put a drip up and rehydrated her with IV fluids. But,’ he said, ‘and here’s the puzzle, though she showed all the clinical signs of dehydration, sunken eyes, dry skin, venous insuffiency, hypotension, her urea and electrolytes were normal apart from a high sodium level.’ He stopped. ‘Which could, I suppose, just about explain her dehydration but not quite. Her blood sugar was OK, renal function fine. Once we’d given her a drink and pumped some fluids into her she seemed OK. I’ve discussed her diet with her mum but to be honest I’m not sure just how much got through to her; the grandma seems more with it. We’ll keep her in overnight but unless something else transpires she can go home tomorrow morning. I’ll expedite the appointment for Doctor Lewis and see what he makes of her.’

Daniel thanked Doctor Leroy for the call and put the phone down.

Puzzles, he thought. General practice was tricky enough
without all these puzzles. He was still pondering the anomalous two-year-old as he worked his way through the evening surgery.

Daniel was due to make his weekly visit to The Elms Nursing Home on the following Thursday morning, which suited him well; it would be an ideal opportunity to speak to Bobby about her granddaughter.

The worst thing about resident geriatric homes, he decided, as he pushed the door open, was the smell. It hit him the moment he drew breath inside – a fusty stink of stale urine and old clothes. But the odd thing was that once you had been inside for more than a few minutes you became unaware of it.

Which was lucky.

No one met him at the door so he wandered towards the main sitting room and located Bobby Millin there. He watched her carefully lead an old lady to her chair in the sitting room and tuck a shawl around her legs, fussing over her like a child.

She was a big-bosomed, hefty woman with bleached blonde hair, stocky legs and a very powerful personality. She turned
around and straightened up. ‘Doctor,’ she said brightly. ‘I’d forgotten you were coming today.’ Her voice matched her appearance, big and booming.

‘I always come on a Thursday,’ he said. Both ignored the querulous voice behind her asking where her cup of tea was. ‘How’s Anna-Louise?’

‘Fine,’ she said, again in the same bright, reassuring voice. ‘She’s fine. They kept her in for a couple of nights but she’s home now. They had to put a drip up, you know.’ She spoke with a tinge of criticism in her voice which Daniel thought was undeserved. He had been the one to send the child into hospital. If she’d thought Anna-Louise was so ill she could have taken her straight to the hospital herself – not waited for a GP appointment.

‘I spoke to Doctor Leroy.’ Bobby Millin had very pale blue eyes around which she had smeared some pink eye shadow, finishing off with a heavy wand of thick black mascara. Her face was completed with a generous coating of orange lipstick. The effect was colourful but clownish. She shook her head at Daniel. ‘He wasn’t a lot of use,’ she said. ‘Didn’t really have a clue what was going on. And so clumsy,’ she said, with a touch of malice. ‘I could have taken blood out of the poor child better than he did.’ She turned around as an ancient inhabitant approached her. ‘Dinners will be here in a little while, Mr Steadman,’ she said severely. ‘Now just sit down, will you?’ She watched as the old man shuffled away, his feet in the wrong slippers, making his walk look clumsy and odd. Then she turned back to Daniel. ‘They just said she was short on fluids. Well, any old fool could have told them that.’ The large bosom puffed out. ‘You don’t need a medical degree to tell you when a child is bone dry and needs fluids. Oh – and
they said something about a high sodium level.’

Daniel frowned. ‘Yes,’ he said steadily, ‘Doctor Leroy mentioned that. Does Vanda give Anna-Louise a salty diet?’

‘Not especially. No more than normal.’ Bobby Millin regarded him, her head on one side, the pink eyelids flashing as she blinked rapidly. ‘They said it wasn’t serious – she just needed to drink more. Amazing how quick she recovered though, with the drip up and they didn’t half run it through fast.’

Daniel felt a faint frisson of unease.

In cases of Munchausen by proxy the victims do recover – quickly – when removed from the source of their illness. It is easy to add too much salt to a small child’s diet and watch her slowly parch. In fact it is one of the most common manifestations of the syndrome. So what was he going to do about it? Interrogate Bobby as to whether she had ever seen Vanda harm Anna-Louise knowing that the mother would inevitably share the suspicion with her daughter?

It was a dangerous thing to do. He knew as well as any other doctor that once the perpetrator knows they are suspected the assaults against the victim escalate. By speaking to Bobby he could be exposing Anna-Louise to even more danger. There was another pitfall: if he was unable to substantiate his allegations he would have laid himself wide open to a charge of serious professional misconduct. He could even be suspended.

He must be cautious, walk the tightrope of protecting his professional integrity and his patient.

‘And so,’ he said slowly, ‘Anna-Louise is home.’

The words seemed a threat.

The owner of the nursing home, Sister Graves, bustled in then and immediately took charge. ‘Oh good gracious me,
Doctor,’ she fussed, before speaking to Bobby. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he’d arrived?

‘It’s OK,’ Daniel said. ‘I wanted to have a word with Bobby anyway.’

‘Hmm.’ Sister Graves was one of the old school who believed firmly in a hierarchical system. Only
she
should speak to the doctor. Daniel felt he had to make it up to her so he forced himself to adopt a hearty tone. ‘Now then, Sister, what delights have you got for me today?’ She rallied at that and proceeded to talk quickly about the residents she wanted him to see this morning, while Bobby Millin faded away in the background. Daniel spent an hour at The Elms, poking and prodding, prescribing and sympathising, before finally driving home.

She’d stopped putting her washing on the line. He’d looked for it on Monday and again on Tuesday. The days had been breezy and dry. He would have thought they were perfect for drying clothes but although sweaters and jeans and plenty of the little girl’s clothes and Brian’s enormous black socks and horrible underwear hung and danced along the line there was none of her pretty, personal lingerie.

He desperately wanted to be inside Claudine’s home, to insert his presence there, take something else of hers and leave something of him behind. He knew it must be Brian who had suggested she dry her underwear downstairs but he would get the better of him. Now he had the key he knew
his opportunity would come sooner or later.

On Friday morning, the opportunity came.

Brian had already left for work, early he presumed. The police car was not outside. At ten o’clock Claudine left the house too, locking the door very carefully behind her before walking briskly down the road. He knew exactly where she was going, with the basket looped over her arm: to buy the weekend’s provisions, and she would be gone for at least an hour by the time she’d queued and gossiped her way up and down the High Street. He was starting work at one, working through until ten o’clock tonight. But she never came in on either a Friday afternoon or evening – unless she’d forgotten something in her routine Friday-morning shop. He had further confirmation of the fact that the policeman must be out because of the way she turned the key twice in the door, double-locking it. She wouldn’t have done that had
he
been inside.

He always called him ‘the policeman’ now because he didn’t like saying
his
name. Just calling him by his job title depersonalised him
.

He waited until Claudine had turned the corner and was out of sight before he unlocked the door and slipped inside.

Then he started to be clever. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, which he had filched from a packet of hair dye that had been damaged in the shop.

He stood briefly in the hall, looking around him at the pale walls, the cream carpet, the pictures on the wall. Ahead of him was the kitchen, neat and clean with a stainless steel sink. On his left were two doors, both ajar. He peeped around the first door into a square sitting room decorated in the same pale, neutral colours. The other room was a dining room with
dark walls and a mahogany table and chairs. The whole house smelt of her. Clean, fragrant oranges and perfume. She must have given herself a quick spray just before she had left. He breathed her very air in, deep into his lungs, tasted it in his mouth and smiled. He knew Claudine would be gone for an hour but he didn’t want her to come back and find him here so, just to make absolutely sure, he had allowed himself only twenty minutes. Twenty whole minutes. No more.

He didn’t want to be discovered.

He padded upstairs, noting the cream walls, the tasteful pictures of rainy French street scenes, leant in close to scrutinise one particular framed photograph in gaudy Seventies colours. A little girl, presumably Claudine, about six years old, in a white dress, standing against the whitewashed wall of a French farmhouse, a severe looking, black-frocked woman behind her, her arm resting on the little girl’s shoulder. He stood back and wasted a precious moment looking at it. ‘Charming,’ he muttered. ‘Quite charming.’

But of course he couldn’t linger. Time was of the essence. He moved on to the landing and found her (he couldn’t call it their) bedroom easily. His nose led him straight to it, that waft of perfume leading him on. He stood in the doorway and admired the white, cotton duvet cover, starched pillowcases, the open window blowing the fragrance right through the room towards him. On the far side of the room was a huge piece of furniture even he recognised as antique and French. A sort of wardrobe thing. But he didn’t want that. Her personal belongings wouldn’t be in there.

They would be in – ah, the chest of drawers.

He tugged the top drawer open and almost recoiled in disgust.

Men’s underpants and black socks. Big black, policeman’s socks. The smell of shoe polish and feet. He closed it quickly then pulled open the next drawer and immediately smelt the perfume again. Stronger than before. She must spray her underwear. ‘The little tart’, he muttered under his breath. He removed his glove and put his hand in to touch the beautiful, beautiful things. Pink, black, white and cream. Such a lovely cream brassiere. Satin and lace. He ran his hands over them. The satin felt smooth – almost oily against his skin.

‘Sweet satin and lace,’ he whispered before lifting out a cream top and French knickers, putting it to his cheek before stuffing them into his pocket.

On the top of the chest of drawers was a small, wooden jewellery box. He lifted the lid and found a pair of pearl earrings pressed into a velvet groove. He put them in his pocket too.

Now he had his trophies he wanted to leave something of himself. But he must remember. Anderton was a policeman, careful, cunning, suspicious. So he had deliberated about what he could leave and be sure that it would remain here, in this house, in this room, near enough to Claudine. It must be something small so that it wasn’t discovered, but intimate too. He pulled a hair out of his head and placed it underneath the scented drawer liners, next to the wood. Then he closed the drawer almost reverently.

He was inside.

It was time to go. The sense of urgency was stifling. He went down the stairs, two at a time, his prizes in his pocket, the wires of the bra making him stiffen with anticipation. He let himself out of the front door, rounded the house and crossed the back garden quickly, anxious now to be gone.

Two minutes later he was stepping jauntily across the field, hands in pockets, whistling a tune. With his little secrets nestling in his pockets he felt confident, and so when he met one or two people he knew, he greeted them normally, smiled in their faces and finally reached home. He still had almost three hours before he needed to go to work.

Guy Malkin’s home was a bed-sit above the kebab bar on the High Street. His bed formed a sofa in the day with the help of four scatter cushions his mother had given him when he had finally moved out and left her to be alone with her new boyfriend. Guy shared both kitchen and bathroom with another single man named Gerald. Gerald was in his fifties. Guy suspected he was a ‘reformed’ alcoholic. He was divorced, he’d told Guy, and apart from his drinking buddies in The Bell, he appeared to have no friends.

Gerald was also a bit of a pig in the kitchen and in the bathroom. While Guy wasn’t a fussy person he did like to keep his personal space clean and tidy and he’d had a number of rows with Gerald over his untidiness. As he walked past the kitchen he noticed a pile of dirty dishes on the draining board and cursed. Gerald was almost spoiling his moment. He let himself into his room and locked the door behind him.

Now at last he could study his prizes in private. Prizes for being cunning and clever, innovative and brave. He was pleased with himself. His confidence, he knew, was growing.

He laid his trophies out on the bed, the knickers below the top, and the earrings to the side. Filling in the space he could imagine her slim, firm body.

On Friday at around twelve o’clock Daniel was standing outside the ugliest building in a beautiful town. The block of flats where Vanda Struel lived was Sixties concrete, an eyesore, a blot on the landscape.

She lived on the third floor, her mother on the floor above.

Daniel climbed the concrete staircase and knocked on number 37, half expecting Vanda to be out. But the door was opened.

Trouble was, it wasn’t Vanda. It was her brother, Arnie, who peered out, bleary-eyed, shaved head, tattoos, a can of lager in his hand. His name wasn’t actually Arnie at all. Arnie was a nickname. His real name was Mark. Mark Struel, but everybody called him Arnie after the great Schwarzenegger. It was an appropriate nickname. So appropriate that most people didn’t even realise he
had
another name.

He looked as startled to see Daniel as Daniel was to see him. ‘Didn’t know ’er had called for a doctor,’ he grunted.

‘It’s just a courtesy call,’ Daniel said at once. ‘I just wondered how Anna-Louise was.’

Struel jerked his finger behind him. ‘’Er looks OK to me.’

‘Is Vanda in?’

‘No. ’Er’s popped out for some fags.’ Arnie gave him a crooked grin. ‘I’m babyminding. ’Er’s safe with her uncle.’

Daniel felt a physical twinge of alarm.

Safe? The child was just out of hospital, for goodness’ sake.

He wouldn’t have classed Anna-Louise as safe left alone
with the town’s psycho. He felt a quick flash of anger at Vanda who had just ‘popped out for some fags’, leaving the child with Arnie.

‘Your mum not around?’

‘She ’ad to go to work today. Somebody’s off sick so ’er ’ad to go in.’

‘Do you mind if I take a quick look at your niece?’

Struel stepped back. ‘’Elp yourself,’ he said politely.