The Watcher (26 page)

‘Were they shot too?’ asked Gillian. In the newspapers, there had only been speculation about the cause of death, as the police had not revealed any details. For this reason Fielder did not want to go into specifics with Gillian.

‘It appears that they were at the very least threatened with the weapon,’ he replied evasively.’ He didn’t want to mention that the culprit had shot the lock off the door to the room in which Dr Westley was hiding.

Gillian found it all rather strange. ‘But why should someone who killed two old women then kill a middle-aged man? Nothing was even stolen from our house. It doesn’t make sense!’

‘Nothing makes any sense yet,’ said Fielder with some resignation apparent in his voice. ‘At least, we haven’t found a link yet. There is a strong possibility that . . .’ He was trying to find the right words. He did not want to just blurt out his suspicion without finding a way to soften it somehow.

Yet she guessed what he wanted to say. She could see it. ‘You think that Tom was not the intended victim? You think it was
me
?’

He seemed relieved that she had said it. ‘It really is just a hypothesis. But it is the case that your husband would not normally have been in that evening. Just like your daughter. Anyone who knows your family a little, or who had researched it, could have assumed you’d be home on your own.’

‘He looked in the kitchen . . .’

‘Yes. But he didn’t see anyone, because it appears your husband was in the dining room. His murderer just saw the lit kitchen and the open door. He came inside and suddenly there’s a man in front of him instead of the woman he expected. Of course, he had no sensible explanation for why he had crept into this man’s dining room with a pistol. He can only kill your husband – so that he isn’t identified by him later. And then to his horror he hears a sound on the stairs. There’s someone else in the house. Someone who might have seen him too. So he hunts like mad for that person. Thankfully he didn’t find her.’

Gillian groaned and buried her face in her hands. ‘If he’d found Becky . . .’

‘Becky is very lucky. She was also lucky that the murderer obviously got jittery about sticking around at the scene of the crime and gave up looking for her. Your daughter has a guardian angel, Gillian!’

She lifted her head. ‘But why me? Who would want to kill me?’

‘We’ve been asking the same question for weeks in the Roberts and Westley cases,’ said Fielder. ‘If we put your husband’s murder down as a terrible and unplanned mistake, then that leaves us with two murders and one attempted murder whose motives are as yet unknown. At first we thought that the culprit must be full of aggression for all women and had just chosen Roberts and Westley because the two of them, living in such isolated circumstances, were easy prey. They were both found a week after their murder, and even then only by chance. But you don’t fit that pattern. So it must be something else that you and the other two women have in common.’

‘But I don’t even know them!’

‘Your lives might still overlap in some way.’

‘Oh God,’ mumbled Gillian. ‘What a nightmare.’

‘What do you know about Samson Segal?’ asked Fielder. Gillian gave him just the answer he had expected after reading Segal’s notes.

‘Segal? That guy who always hangs around our house?’

Maybe Christy was right, he thought suddenly. But before he could ask anything else, the doorbell rang and Gillian stood up, murmuring an apology. When she came back, she was not alone.

John Burton was following her.

Samson Segal almost jumped out of his skin when someone knocked on the door of his room. As the dive where he had holed up definitely did not offer room service, he assumed it was not someone from the hotel.

He asked hesitantly, ‘Who is it?’

‘Me. Bartek. Open up!’

With relief, Samson unlocked the door. He had called Bartek that morning, but had only got through to his answering machine. He had explained where he was and asked him urgently for help with money. After that he had sat on the worn-out mattress, stared at the square of sky visible from the window and hoped that his friend would pick up his message sometime that day. His paltry hundred pounds would not last long. When he had turned up in the middle of the night and asked for a room in this place that could scarcely be called a hotel, the woman at reception, who stank of alcohol and cigarettes, had taken thirty pounds immediately and said that she also wanted to be paid thirty in advance for the next night. That meant he only had enough for three nights.

‘Thirty pounds?’ he had asked in horror, and the woman had immediately turned nasty.

‘What world do you live in, young man? One where things are free? Well, wake up and smell the coffee! And that price includes breakfast, so stop grumbling!’

Not that he had yet tried the breakfast. He felt paralysed. It seemed impossible for him to leave the cold, damp room with its grotty furniture for even a moment. He knew that the security provided by the four rickety pale green walls was only deceptive, but the world outside seemed like shark-infested waters to him and he did not dare go out.

Bartek looked terrible. Samson saw that as soon as his friend stumbled into the room. He had dark rings under his eyes and his lips were ashen. He must have been partying well into the night. He looked tired and hung-over. Under normal circumstances he would no doubt have stayed in bed until evening. Instead he had to help a friend in trouble.

Samson felt guilty immediately.

‘Bartek! Thanks for coming!’

Bartek looked around the room. The hotel was right by the Southend railway station. It was an old rundown building with low ceilings and creaking floors. The windows were tiny, the carpets disgusting. There was one armchair. A small chest of cheap wooden drawers. A sink on the wall. You had to cross the hallway to get to the bathroom.

It was utterly wretched.

‘God,’ said Bartek. Then he raised his shoulders, shivering. ‘It’s cold in here!’

‘The heating doesn’t work properly,’ explained Samson.

‘Oh man,’ said Bartek and dropped down into the armchair. ‘Samson. This is a right bloody mess! The police were just at mine.’

‘What?’

‘And not just any old Southend bobby.
Scotland Yard
, you understand?’

‘Christ!’

‘A policewoman. Detective Constable Linville. She had just spoken to your lovely sister-in-law, who had given her the tip to visit me. She told her what good friends we are and that we meet every week in the pub and who knows what else! And so the policewoman rushed over to my place. Helen and I were still in bed.’

‘Did Helen say I went to your house yesterday evening?’

Bartek shook his head. ‘No, thank God! Although we hadn’t agreed on that. She was completely shocked to have a policewoman suddenly standing in our flat and asking about you. But she’s clever. She just kept quiet.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That I had last seen you before Christmas. And that I had no idea where you were.’

Samson relaxed a little. ‘I’m really grateful, Bartek.’

Bartek shook his head again, as if he wanted to reject Samson’s thanks, as if he wanted to keep Samson as far from him as possible. ‘Then I listened to your message on my phone. That’s careless, Samson! Don’t do that again! Don’t leave messages on my voicemail. Nor on my landline’s answering machine. In fact, don’t call me at all from now on!’

Samson felt himself go weak at the knees. Without anywhere else to sit, he settled on the mattress, which sank down towards the floor with a sigh. ‘But I need your help, Bartek! I can’t do it on my own!’

‘Nor can you do it with me,’ said Bartek. ‘You have to face the situation.’ He fished around in his trouser pocket and pulled out a few crumpled notes. ‘Two hundred quid. I can’t give you any more. I can’t do anything else for you.’

Samson leant forward and took the money. With it, he would be able to stay here for almost a week and a half. As long as his picture did not appear in the papers. Then it would become dangerous to stay in one place for more than a few hours at a time.

‘Thanks, Bartek, I know that for you it’s—’

‘It’s completely dangerous,’ said Bartek. He sounded angry. ‘I’ve not got British citizenship, understand? I’m starting my life here. I work hard. I want to get married. Helen and I want to buy a flat. We want to have a child. Do you know what it would mean for me to end up in a murder investigation? If they have a warrant out for your arrest and I help to hide you? You might go to jail for a few years, but I might get deported. I might be back in Poland and everything I’ve worked hard for would suddenly be over. You might wreck my whole future!’

‘But it wasn’t me, Bartek. I haven’t harmed anyone!’

‘Then don’t run away! Go to the police!’

‘It’s too late now! I’ve already run away!’

‘You can explain that – panic, confusion. You realised how suspicious you must look, so you ran away, scared.’

‘They won’t believe me.’

‘They won’t be able to prove you did anything, if you haven’t done it!’

‘But you know what it’s like. They need a culprit, and I’m perfect for them. They don’t really care whether or not I—’

‘Oh, stop it,’ said Bartek. ‘They can’t just put you in prison for no reason. They have to have proof. And if you didn’t do it, then they’ve got a problem.’ He got up. ‘I’m not going to get drawn into this, Samson. This is the last thing I’ll do for you. I can only hope that I haven’t put messed up my life by doing it. From now on, you have to get by on your own. I promised Helen, too. She is going crazy. I’ve never seen her so mad.’

Samson got up too. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he replied. It was already sounding like a stuck record to him.

‘Then you’ve got nothing to be afraid of,’ said Bartek.

‘Nor you,’ said Samson. ‘Because you’re not helping a killer. You’re helping someone who’s innocent.’

He could see the doubt in his friend’s eyes.

He thought sadly: he isn’t certain.

The two men stood facing each other in silence for a few seconds. Both of them were surprised and unsure at first how to proceed.

Then Fielder said, ‘Hello, John. I hadn’t expected . . .’

He did not finish his sentence, but of course John chimed in.

‘Hello, Peter. What didn’t you expect? That we would ever see each other again?’

‘That we would see each other again during a murder investigation. I didn’t expect that,’ said Fielder.

‘Your people have already checked on me,’ said John.

Fielder smiled at him in a friendly way. ‘Right. And found out that you don’t have an alibi for the time of the crime. Of the murder of Thomas Ward.’

The way Fielder emphasised the last sentence made John narrow his eyes. ‘What other murder should I find an alibi for?’

‘You’re not a suspect,’ said Gillian. Fielder saw that her hands were trembling slightly. ‘They also checked on me. That’s normal, isn’t it?’

‘Of course,’ said Fielder.

‘What other murders?’ insisted John.

‘Tom was killed with the same weapon that was used when two elderly women were murdered,’ explained Gillian. ‘You know, the ones in the papers. That’s why all three crimes are probably by the same killer.’

John raised his eyebrows. ‘The same gun?’

‘Right,’ said Fielder. He watched closely and saw that John immediately had the same thought that the police had been talking openly about: that Tom had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. That the killer had meant to kill his wife. Fielder could read that realisation in John’s eyes. He thought: either he’s a damn good actor or he really had nothing to do with the crime.

John turned to Gillian. ‘Gillian . . .’

‘I know,’ said Gillian. ‘I might have been the target. I’m a woman and I was supposed to be alone that evening. I fit the pattern better than Tom.’

‘We don’t know that for sure,’ said Fielder. ‘But it would be sensible if you were to stay here for a while. Even after the cordon comes down.’ He turned abruptly to John. ‘How did you know that Mrs Ward was at her friend’s house?’

‘I texted him this morning,’ explained Gillian before John could answer. ‘Right after Tom’s . . . death I didn’t want to see him, but now . . .’ She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. ‘I’m not in the best of states,’ she added quietly. ‘And I have to seem like I’m on top of things for Becky. Tara, my friend, is very caring, but I think that she probably has an issue with the fact that I wanted to meet John that evening. She doesn’t say, but . . . to her, it would definitely have been better if I had left Tom if I was no longer happy with him. I always think that her secret opinion is that only bad things happen when people deceive each other and aren’t honest.’

She swallowed. Her face trembled as she tried to hold back her tears.

John went over to her and put his arm around her shoulder. The two men looked at each other over her head. They both thought the same thing. You did not have to be a psychologist to understand that Gillian was projecting on to her friend the thoughts that were torturing her all the time: her almost unbearable feelings of guilt.

‘You can’t think like that,’ said Fielder. ‘It’s not about whether or not you acted morally towards your husband. We’re dealing here with a coldblooded killer who, for some reason we don’t know, targeted your family. If we’re talking about guilt, then it’s just about that person’s. The culprit will be up before a judge one day, hopefully – not you, Mrs Ward!’

She had wiped a few tears from her cheeks. Now she lowered her hands. She had pulled herself together. ‘And do you think it could be Samson Segal?’ she asked, coming back to the topic of conversation that John’s appearance had interrupted.

‘Who is Samson Segal?’ asked John immediately.

‘He lives in our street,’ said Gillian. ‘And he . . . he has been acting a bit strangely. Tom was pretty angry with him.’ She looked at Peter Fielder. ‘How did you find out about him?’

‘We were tipped off,’ said Fielder. ‘But I have to add that we have absolutely no idea whether he is involved or not. What do you mean, strangely, Mrs Ward? And what did you mean earlier, when you said he hangs around your house?’