To Catch a Creeper (18 page)

I glance at the wall clock – eight p.m.

‘And that’s where you come in, Mrs O’Farrell.’

‘Me?’ Red Jumper’s speaking to me?

The eyes of the room swivel in my direction and I instantly blush.

‘So will you be a Nominated Neighbour?’

‘Me, um…yes…sure. If, um… What do I have to do again?’

‘You’ve a pensioner next door, haven’t you?’ Purple Jumper steps in. ‘A lady by the name of…let’s see…’ he runs his finger down a list. ‘Mrs Baker?’

Oh God, not barmy Mrs Baker. Don’t remind me.

***

After she began waving the flag out of her bathroom window, thus stopping me spilling the beans to her daughter, I waited for Eleanor to drive off, then went over and knocked at her door.

‘Is she gone?’ Her eyes darted left and right like Josh’s lizard on a cricket hunt.

‘If you mean, Eleanor, yes. But now…’

I was immediately dragged inside by her gorilla-strength arm.

‘I didn’t say anything. It was…’ I begin.

One bony hand was thrust across my mouth, while the other extended a thin wrinkled index finger which she positioned vertically in front of her lips. I got the distinct impression she wanted me to be silent.

I nodded to show I understood and she led me through to the lounge.

She quickly wrote in spidery handwriting on a piece of paper.

The house is taped
.

‘Taped?’ I mouthed, imagining for a second rolls of silver gaffer tape draped around the outside of the house. She shook her head, thought a second, then wrote it again with two p’s.

‘Ah. Tapped,’ I said. ‘Like in bugged?’

‘Shh!’ She did the lizard eyes again.

Paranoia. Yes her daughter had intimated there’d be some of that.

She picked up her pen and wrote some more.

Listening devices are everywhere
.

I nodded again in agreement. Yes, everywhere, supermarkets, petrol stations, everywhere. I did my best to stop my eyes rolling upwards.

Then again, she pulled out another piece of paper and began writing again; pressing so hard on the pencil that the lead broke.

My daughter is trying to send me to a sanitarium
.

I picked up a pen from the side and changed the spelling to sanatorium.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I whispered, humouring her. ‘And if you ever run out of milk or anything, just let me know.’

And with that I retreated.

***

Mad Ma Baker. And now they want me to do…what…with her?

‘Double-check on the validity of any visitors,’ Purple Jumper jumps in. ‘Either verify their details yourself or telephone a trusted relation. When you’re satisfied the caller’s legitimate, you accompany them to the older person’s home.’

‘All right, I’ll do it.’ Doesn’t sound too bad and after all I’ve got her daughter’s phone number anyway.

They all look genuinely pleased.

‘Also could we add your details to the ringmaster messaging system?’ asks Shilpa.

‘Ringmaster?’

‘It’s to keep you informed of any bogus caller activity,’ Norman addresses my bemused expression.

‘Well, good, OK.’

I knew I shouldn’t have come. You go to these meetings expecting to be an anonymous observer, next thing you’re bludgeoned into Chairing meetings, being nominated for things and before you can say,‘I’m only here for the beer’ you’re swinging on a sodding trapeze or something. They’ve not even given me a chance to bring up the Henrietta situation. ‘Just one question. Did Mrs Baker request personally that I be her Nominated Neighbour?’

‘No, she didn’t,’ Purple Jumper replies. ‘We thought it might be nice if you’d approach her. Community spirit and all that.’

‘Thing is. She has a daughter who pops around occasionally. And she’s slightly doola…’

‘A daughter, who pops round occasionally, my dear,’ Red Jumper says in a terse tone, as he offers me a tin with galloping horses on the outside, ‘is not quite the same as someone right on your doorstep.’

‘’Suppose not.’ I rummage in the tin and end up with a stale Rich Tea biscuit.

‘OK.’ Purple Jumper runs his finger down his minutes. ‘Any other business?’

Finally. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Mumbles of no’s, nahs…

‘Yes, I want to say something.’ The hell with it, I’m not wasting an entire evening. ‘Crouch End Creeper.’

‘Ah yes.’ Now it’s their turn to look thoroughly bored and glazy-eyed.

‘Any more news?’ I ask.

‘Only that the police have been very cagey about it,’ says Red Jumper.

‘Cagey, lazy or they just darn well don’t know anything,’ adds Purple Jumper with a sneer.

‘I mean obviously we know all the victims live within a mile radius of each other,’ I lift my small rucksack onto my lap, ‘but there’s no distinct pattern about time of day, or particular day or anything.’ I pull out my file and give it to Norman.

‘Thanks.’ Norman looks pleasantly surprised.

‘We’ve got no real descriptions of him/her,’ I say, ‘as of yet.’

‘Except he has a goatee beard which he constantly rubs,’ offers Shilpa, looking over Norman’s shoulder.

‘That my dear,’ Norman reminds her gently, ‘is not the Crouch End Creeper. It’s the Rochdale Rapist. It was on
Crimewatch
,’ he explains to the rest of us.

‘I don’t see any mention of the transvestite with the lambswool coat in here.’Red Jumper taps the file which he’s now sharing with his brother. ‘The prime suspect.’

‘Oh that’s since been discounted,’ I say quickly. ‘It was only one sighting and…they found out they were wrong. Yes, very
very
wrong.’

Their impressed expressions turn to disbelieving glances. Clearly this declaration has shaken their new perception of me as a useful sharp-eyed know-it-all.

So I add in a brisk sort of voice, ‘My friend has a father who drinks with the local constabulary, so he has inside information. It’s definitely a red herring.’

‘I thought it sounded absurdly odd,’ says Shilpa. ‘I’ll e-mail the other Watches to let them know.’

‘We also aren’t certain as yet whether he drives a car,’ I carry on, ‘but we do know you can’t always park outside the victims’ houses.’ Parking’s a nightmare in Crouch End but that was one of the things I’d noticed when I did my late night recces. ‘So he/she more than likely would be watching their houses on foot.’

Purple Jumper and Red Jumper have sat up and are now both taking notes.

‘We also doubt that they all drink down at the same local, as the vet’s teetotal, the publican owns his own pub and the bachelor’s probably of an age and disposition where he goes to trendy gay bars.’

Suddenly there’s a blur of activity in the room as my file is passed back and forth.

‘If it’s all right with you, Mrs O’Farrell, I’ll photocopy these sheets,’ says Shilpa, leafing through. It’s her house. I’ve only just realised. I thought it was the twins, they seemed so at home. ‘I can do it from my printer upstairs.’

‘Good thinking,’ I say, as she rises to her feet. ‘Although I’d leave out Sheet No. 5 if I were you.’ The cigarettes and bottle tops.

‘Fetch your whiteboard while you’re at it, Shilpa,’ Norman instructs. ‘And make sure you use the correct marker this time. Took us ages to rub that last lot out.’

‘What’s NTC mean?’ asks Purple Jumper as Shilpa rushes out.

‘Note to Cathy. But you can always read it as Note to Consider if you prefer. Right, now. Attention everyone. I put it to you…members of the Committee,’ I start. ‘We–’

‘Watch.’ Purple Jumper interrupts.

Norman busily begins polishing his spectacles like I’m a card shark and he’s hoping to spot me dealing from the bottom.

‘What?’

‘We’re members of the Watch,’ Red Jumper explains.

‘I put it to you members of the Watch that he/she–’

‘Sorry,’ Norman cuts me off. ‘I don’t get it. Why do you keep saying he/she?’

‘Because, until we have some hard facts,’ I punch the air for emphasis, ‘we mustn’t rule out anyone, age, sex or beauty, even yourselves.’

They all start giving each other furtive glances.

‘Yes, it could be your neighbour, your milkman, your friend, uncle, even your mother.’

‘Our mother!’ Purple Jumper says with alarm. ‘But she’s been dead twenty years!’

‘God rest her soul,’ Red Jumper adds.

‘Well not your mother then, but you know what I mean, someone who lives amongst us, works amongst us, breathes the same air, shops at the same shops, walks the same walks, jogs the same…er…running tracks. Trust no-one, believe no-one…’ I pause while Shilpa brings the whiteboard in and Red Jumper positions it in front of the television.

‘So what connects them?’ Shilpa hands me two marker pens, one black, one red and I draw a spider diagram with the word ‘VICTIMS’ in the middle in red. ‘And what do we know?’

‘Not much,’ murmurs Norman.

‘No,’ I agree, ‘but in my investigations I’ve surmised that it’s unlikely the victims are masons as some of them are women.’ I draw a black line up to the word ‘masons’, draw a large curly cloud around it, then cross it out. ‘Most of the victims are professional people, vets, dentists, but not all, say fifty percent.’ I draw another cloud, but cut this in half and put ‘professional’ one side and ‘everyday workers’ the other.

‘The burglar is non-age discriminatory; the range is from twenty to sixty-four which gives a mean average of forty-three. Nor does he/she just go for the big houses. Some of the places were quite small, although not in bad condition. Well looked after.’

‘Do you think that means anything?’ asks Purple Jumper.

‘Not sure,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Now his MO…’

‘Is that a–’ Shilpa begins.

‘No if you’re thinking of doctor, Shilpa,’ I cut in. ‘Probably from that old American series
Owen, M.D
. No, MO stands for modus operandi. Anyway, I’ve not quite yet figured that out, but I think I’m close.’

‘I knew one of the victims,’ volunteers Norman. ‘Well his wife’s cousin.’

‘Whose wife’s cousin?’ I fetch my notepad from my bag and begin scribbling.

‘No. 5, the forty-year-old married banker.’

‘What do you mean, knew?’ My normally sharp ears only just picked that bit up.

He looks solemn. ‘Committed suicide, near the old Ally Pally racecourse.’

A bell goes clang in my head. ‘Hung himself on the big old horse chestnut – Parkinson’s disease?’

He nods enthusiastically. ‘But actually it was Motor Neurone.’

Ah well that’s cleared that up.

‘But it wasn’t so much the disease,’ he continues, after a quick blow of his long nose. ‘That could be contained for some years before it really took hold. It was the thought of someone rummaging through his private things that sent him spiralling into depression. That’s why he killed himself. By all accounts, if the burglar hadn’t broken into his home and stolen his belongings, he’d still be alive today.’

‘So we’re not just looking for a burglar,’ says Shilpa, dramatically. ‘We’re looking for a killer!’

Chapter 17

Saturday morning, two and a half weeks later and I’m wandering down the aisles of Go-Buys, our local supermarket, searching for items of produce that might inspire me to cook something worthy of the sparkling new pots and pans purchased by Declan in his new house-husband role.

Obviously I can’t be cat-sitting every day. The Friday after the Neighbourhood Watch meeting I just about got away with not going into work by getting all dolled up and then pretending to slip down the stairs ‘spraining’ my ankle. The weekend was fine, normal – taking Sophie and Josh to Saturday Club, strolling around Highgate Woods. Sunday, watching the kids in the playground, visiting the café for hot chocolates (my foot made a miraculous recovery) before making our way back through Ally Pally.

It was Monday onwards though that I found myself at a loose end and having to make my own entertainment, if that’s the word. Obviously because I’m supposed to be gainfully employed and earning oodles, I had to disappear during the daytime to keep up the pretence. Leaving in the morning suited, booted and with a purposeful expression on my face, even keeping up the pretence by hollering at Declan to get the kids ready and banging on the toilet door just so I’d appear to be my usual stressed self.

Anyways as the days have gone on I’ve found myself a few haunts where I can safely keep out of sight and while away the hours until home time. First of all, there’s a café, bit of a workman’s greasy spoon, the other side of Wood Green High Street, so very unlikely anyone who’d know me would visit. Crouch Enders being a very insular lot.

All the truckies, builders, plumbers, etc. that frequent the joint are extremely pleasant and the chips are yummy. In fact, so yummy I’ve replaced quite a bit of the weight that I lost when I started work and am even getting a few teenage-like spots. But I’m happy there, because at least they don’t look at me like I’m an oddball nor, thankfully, do they chat me up or anything (either it’s because I’m getting past that age or it’s the weight and spots). I once overheard one of the guys serving behind the counter say something about ‘the new J.K. Rowling’ to his mate and he gave a little secret head flick in my direction. Maybe because I’m forever jotting down notes gleaned during my evening walks with Custard orsent by e-mail from Norman (a mine of information). I’m onto Sheet 32 now, although Sheets 25 to 30 were cheating a little as they were mostly photos of the outside of the victims’ houses.

Before I left the meeting, you see, Red Jumper started whispering in the ears of the others and they all began muttering and then Shilpa disappeared and came back seconds later with something tucked under her sari.

‘This is for you.’ She began pulling it out, Norman took off his glasses and quickly wiped them. For a ghastly moment I thought she might be about to perform a striptease and that I could have unknowingly stumbled on a swingers group, when she opened it wider to reveal a digital camera.

‘For me?’ I said, touched.

‘It belongs to our Neighbourhood Watch,’ Shilpa passed it over. ‘We think you should have it…’

‘For a borrow,’ Norman butted in quickly, in case I took it the wrong way. ‘To gather info on the burglar.’