The Watcher (40 page)

Now John was running. He had started too suddenly, not been cautious enough. The woman lived in fear of being recognised and discovered. She had a thousand invisible feelers out and had immediately known that someone had spotted her.

He stopped when he could no longer see her. It was enough to drive you crazy. She had almost been close enough to touch. He suppressed a curse and the desire to kick the nearest wall. He was furious, mainly with himself. She had got away, and the worst thing was that she would not appear near her son for weeks now. Even if she were dying to see him. She would not take that risk again any time soon.

It was no use his letting anger and disappointment get the better of him. He had to keep calm and think about it. It was possible that she had come by car. If so, she had probably parked in a side street. That meant that she would have to drive down the High Street, as a lot of the other streets nearby were one-way. If he saw the car she was in, he might be able to follow her.

It was his only chance. She could just as well hide away for a few hours in one of the many shops and cafés and then head for home from a distant bus stop, if she were not walking.

He ran back to his own car. It was parked in a side street on double yellow lines. He got in and drove as far forward as he could, so that he could watch the main road. If Liza went by, he would pull out immediately. He only hoped no car approached from behind, wanting to turn on to the main road. If so, he would have to drive on instead of waiting there. Lots of people crossing the side street shot him evil looks as they made their way round his car, taking them dangerously close to the traffic on the main road. A man banged angrily on the bonnet. John showed him the finger.

Tense, he peered into each car approaching from the left. At least it was not snowing. An almost rare occurrence this winter. He leant far forward over the steering wheel, his gaze deep inside each car. The evening rush hour had started. The cars were bumper to bumper, beeping and braking nervously. John knew that it was only minutes until he would be driven from his spot, and then he would have a real problem, because it was not even possible to stop on this side of the road.

At that moment he saw her in a little blue Fiesta. The woman with the sunglasses and the woolly hat low over her eyes. It looked like she was concentrating completely on the road and the traffic. Another car was right behind her. It would be rash to try to slip in between them. John could only hope that he would not cause an accident, but he had no other choice; he had to risk everything. When the woman was level with him, he nudged out far enough to block his side of the road. Once the Fiesta had passed, he lurched forward. The driver of the car behind the Fiesta slammed on his brakes so hard that his car slid and shuddered. The driver honked his horn like crazy, waved his arms around and no doubt rained down a whole series of curses on John. But John was on the road and there had not been a collision. He could see Liza looking in her rear-view mirror, shocked by the honking and the screaming tyres behind her. He hoped that she did not recognise him as the man who had suddenly started to move towards her on the street. Not that the recognition would help her much. She could hardly escape anywhere, hemmed in as she was by the slow-moving column of rush-hour traffic on this winter’s evening.

He had her. As far as he could see, she would not be able to lose him now. Nevertheless, while they waited at a red light, he took down her registration number in his notebook. So that even if something unexpected happened, he would have something to go on.

He felt an almost childish joy at his success.

And a hunter’s instinct. He had not known that he still possessed it.

It looked as though Liza Stanford had really not noticed that she was being followed. At least, she made no attempt to shake off John’s car. No quick acceleration at a light turning red, no sudden change of direction without indicating first. She seemed calm. John suspected that she had been aware of him on the street in an instinctive rather than conscious way and that she was now annoyed she had taken flight so quickly. She probably looked forward all week to seeing her son on Thursdays, and now she had interrupted it prematurely. Probably she normally waited until he came out again. Instead she was on her way home and wondering if she had done the right thing.

They were moving towards south London, the opposite direction from Hampstead, where Liza Stanford’s actual home was. He wondered if her car was still registered at that address. He guessed it was. It would be the clever thing to do. If the police stopped her for anything, they would just end up at her husband’s door, and he would only be able to say that his wife had disappeared without trace. It looked as though Liza had constructed a new, utterly anonymous life for herself.

Why? Why would a married woman and mother of a child do that?

After a while, they reached Croydon, just south of London. In the last twenty years, numerous tower blocks had sprung up here, soulless buildings that offered great opportunities for someone to hide. Liza’s car wound past the first blocks before stopping to back into a parking space that had suddenly become free in a long line of cars parked along the road. John did not have it as easy. He had to drive on much further before he found somewhere to park. He rushed back as fast as he could. Luckily he caught up with Liza Stanford as she stood in front of the glass door to one of the blocks, looking in her bag for her key.

He stepped up to her.

‘Liza Stanford?’

He gave her such a fright that her bag fell out of her hands and into the snow. She looked at him fearfully. He could see her trembling lips and just about make out her wide eyes behind her giant glasses.

He bent down, picked up the bag and gave it to her.

‘You are Liza Stanford, aren’t you?’ he asked, although by now he knew it was her. She had clearly reacted to the name.

‘Who are you?’ she asked in return. Her voice sounded rather hoarse.

‘John Burton.’

‘Did my husband get you to find me?’

He shook his head. ‘No. It’s got nothing to do with your husband.’

She looked confused and frightened and completely unsure about what to do.

‘I have to talk to you,’ said John. ‘It’s important. I have no intention of telling anyone about you and where you’re staying. But I need some information.’

He could sense that she did not trust him, but that she was afraid to just tell him to go to hell, because she might make things worse. She looked as though she really wanted to run away but knew how senseless that would be.

‘Please,’ said John. ‘I probably don’t need much time. It’s important.’

She was obviously still trying to work out how he had found her.

‘You were on the street, when I . . .’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said John. ‘When you were watching your son. I thought you would come, which is why I was waiting there.’

She had gone as white as a ghost. ‘Have you talked to Finley?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘How is he?’

‘Good. But he misses you, of course. And something is troubling him – over and beyond the fact that his mum suddenly disappeared. But he’s . . . well provided for.’

‘Well provided for,’ she repeated. ‘Yes, I knew that. That he would be well provided for.’

John could see that she was in inner turmoil. She would have liked to pepper him with questions, to find out every little bit of information about her son. But that would mean talking to him. And she was still deeply suspicious, afraid.

He risked a direct approach: ‘Do you know Dr Anne Westley? And Carla Roberts?’

For the second time in as many minutes she jumped. Then she said, ‘Come in. Let’s talk.’

She found her key and opened the door. He followed her to the lift and up they went.

The flat was furnished with simple, light wood furniture. It looked a little like a friendly, clean student flat. Nothing special, but a place where you felt comfortable. Nevertheless there were signs that the woman who lived here had only moved in recently. There was none of that clutter that accumulates over time in a home. Everything looked too new. The objects were scarcely used, with no signs of wear and tear. The only personal touch was about two dozen framed photos of Finley. They decorated the windowsills and shelves. Finley as a baby, Finley as a young child, Finley as he looked today. On the beach, skiing, in a rowing boat, at the zoo, with friends in the garden. Normal snaps from a normal childhood.

And yet this was not normal. Not at all.

John turned around when Liza stepped into the room. She was carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a little jug of milk. She had taken off her disguise. No sunglasses, no woolly hat to hide her hair. John saw the beautiful woman that he recognised from the picture in Finley’s wallet. Large eyes, full lips. Long, wavy blonde hair. She was even more attractive than he had imagined. And sadder than he had guessed.

‘Why?’ he asked, pointing to one of the photos of her son. ‘Why are you doing this to yourself? This separation from your son?’

She put the tray down on the wooden dining table.

‘You asked me about Anne Westley and Carla Roberts,’ she said. ‘About the murdered women. It’s about them, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re not a policeman?’

‘No. I’m . . . a kind of private eye. A crime was committed that affected someone I know personally. The crime was related to the murders of Mrs Westley and Mrs Roberts. That’s the only reason I’m getting involved.’

‘I see,’ said Liza, although she looked rather confused.

‘Do you know the Ward family?’ John asked. ‘Thomas and Gillian Ward?’

She thought about it. ‘No.’

‘Thomas Ward was murdered too.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ she said. ‘I read about Carla and Dr Westley in the paper.’

‘Anne Westley was your son’s doctor.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you like her? Or were there any problems?’

‘I liked her. Fin did too. She had a nice way with children.’

He looked closely at her. ‘What about your relationship to Carla Roberts?’

She sat down at the table, took one of the cups and motioned with a nod for her guest to take a seat too.

‘It was not a particularly close relationship. I can’t even say that we were really friends. We met at that women’s group that you probably know about already?’

He nodded and sat down too, taking a sip of coffee. ‘Yes.’

‘We were both outsiders. The other women chattered away, talking about their failed relationships, the future, their plans, hopes, fears . . . who knows what. I’m not like that. I can’t come out of my shell as easily. Nor could Carla. We tended to sit there quietly.’

‘Isn’t there a contradiction there? Don’t people join such groups to share things?’

‘Maybe. I went because I was looking for help, and then I realised I wouldn’t find it there. It was just something I tried. I missed most of the meetings anyway. That got them quite annoyed with me. But I didn’t care.’

‘The police are looking for you,’ said John out of the blue.

‘They won’t find me. Unless you rat on me.’

‘
I
found you. They could think of the same thing: sticking to your son.’

‘I won’t see him for a very long time now. I’ve been warned.’

‘Liza,’ John said, suddenly insistent. ‘The police are working feverishly on three murders that in all probability were carried out by one person. The biggest problem has been that there was no apparent connection between the three victims. That left the police in the dark as to the killer’s motives. You are the first ray of hope in weeks: two of the victims knew you. The police aren’t going to rest until they find you.’

She looked at him with a serious face. ‘I haven’t killed anyone. Not Carla Roberts, Dr Westley or anyone else. I’ve no reason to do so.’

‘The police might think differently. You know two women who were killed in gruesome ways and you’ve disappeared from the face of the earth. Your husband says you suffer from depression and sometimes disappear for longer periods. No one believes that. People think something is not right about you, and that, in connection with the murder investigation, puts you in a suspicious light.’

‘Perhaps. But I haven’t harmed a fly. I saw Dr Westley four or five times when I took my son to her. I wasn’t at all close to her. And Carla Roberts was a completely neurotic elderly woman who might get on your nerves, but that was all. I don’t kill people because they get on my nerves, Mr Burton.’

‘So why would you kill someone?’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘Why did Carla Roberts get on your nerves?’

‘Oh, she was always complaining about her past. Her husband had cheated on her for years and led her family into bankruptcy. She hadn’t seen it coming and so she was always saying that she could not trust her own perception of things. That had become an obsession of hers.’

‘But she was no longer in contact with her husband?’

‘No. He had made himself scarce long ago. As far as I know, he can’t return to England, because if he did, his creditors would get him.’

‘Carla Roberts never mentioned that she herself was threatened by his creditors?’

‘No. They wouldn’t have got anything from her anyway.’

John sighed. He had found Liza Stanford, the missing link, as he had thought. And now he was up against a brick wall once more. The path he had followed had turned out to be a dead end.

‘And what about you? You held no grudge against the two women? Against Westley or Roberts? For any reason whatsoever?’

‘No,’ said Liza, but for a moment there was a tiny, barely noticeable trace of uncertainty in her expression and her voice.

There’s something there. Damn it, there is!

‘So it’s all pure coincidence? That the two women were murdered and you disappeared at the same time, leaving your husband and your child, moving to the other side of London? Looking at distances, the victims were certainly within striking distance for you.’

Liza’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you always have such a lively imagination?’