Night Watcher

by Chris Longmuir

  ‘Fraid you’re out of luck then. He’s off to France. Paris I think he said, lucky sod.’

  ‘How can we contact him?’

  The boy turned his attention back to the computer. ‘Haven’t a clue, but maybe Karen will know.’

  ‘Somebody looking for me?’ A young girl emerged from the tiny cubby hole that seemed to serve as an office. Bill had the impression she had been listening behind the door.

  ‘How can I get in touch with Scott Ralston?’

  Karen shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. He just takes off and nobody knows where he goes.’

  ‘But surely he leaves word about how to contact him.’ Bill was getting exasperated, and Sue was no help. She was peering over the young guy’s shoulder and watching the computer screen.

  ‘Nope,’ the girl said. ‘He’s the boss. Does what he likes. He phones in every second or third day though.’

  ‘What about a mobile number?’

  ‘I can give you that okay, but it won’t do you any good. He keeps it switched off all the time – says he doesn’t like interruptions when he’s at meetings. To tell you the truth he’s a bit weird about mobiles, says they turn your brains to mush.’

  ‘You weren’t much help in there,’ Bill grumbled as they left and got in the car.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Ricky was quite helpful. Apparently Mr Ralston has what you would call an extra-marital interest. He goes to Manchester regularly to see a girl called Emma.’

  ‘I suppose he’s having it off with his secretary in there as well.’

  Sue laughed. ‘She’s not a secretary. She’s a Jill of all trades. Works on the computers and keeps the accounts. That sort of thing.’

  ***

  By mid-afternoon everyone in the store knew about Nicole’s death and rumours abounded. Depending on who was talking she had been shot, had her throat cut, been garrotted, raped, strangled or drowned; and that it was an accident, suicide or murder. Ken Moody had been sent home in a state of shock, and Patrick Drake had arrived demanding answers that could not be supplied. His face had been thunderous when he arrived. It was worse when he left.

  Julie sought shelter in her tiny cupboard of an office. She still had not informed anyone she was leaving and did not know how she could, after what had happened. It seemed to her as if there was a conspiracy to keep her in Dundee. She thought longingly of Edinburgh and her job in the art gallery. Her job? That was a laugh, because Adrian had informed her it would not be hers any longer if she stayed in Dundee. She did not want to stay in Dundee, but it seemed as if every time she made a plan to leave something happened to prevent it.

  She reached for the phone and started to dial Adrian’s number. She owed it to him to explain what was delaying her this time. But what would she say? Nicole’s dead – murdered. She could imagine his response, ‘What have you done, Julie?’ She had not done anything, but would he believe her. Slowly she replaced the receiver. The time to phone Adrian would be after the murderer was identified.

  The cold fingers of a shiver rippled up her spine lodging itself in her shoulders and neck. There was a funny smell, like grease or oil, and she had the oddest sensation she was being watched, although the door was still shut and there were no windows in her cubicle of an office. She flexed her shoulders and did some neck stretching exercises. It was probably stress or maybe a guilt reaction triggered by Nicole’s death.

  The exercises relaxed her muscles, but did nothing to relax her mind. Her forehead was tight, it seemed to be continually tight nowadays, and a headache was starting to gather. Unable to concentrate on work she tidied her desk, locked the confidential papers in her filing cabinet, shrugged her coat on and left the office.

  ‘My,’ Betty said, as she passed the entrance to the restaurant. ‘Finishing on time tonight, are we? Must have a heavy date.’

  Julie forced a laugh. ‘Sorry, Betty, nothing like that. It’s just that I don’t have the stomach for it after today’s news.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s a bitch, isn’t it?’

  Julie hurried through the food hall with her head down. She was not in the mood for conversation and when the exit door banged shut behind her, she sighed with relief. Her feet clattered as she climbed the half set of stairs that led to the rear corridor. The stairs went higher, all the way to the top of the building, however, they only began at the food hall basement, although Julie was aware there was a lower sub-basement. Harry was probably the only one who knew how to get down there. There was a lot about this building that no one but Harry knew, and Julie wondered if he had returned to work as she had advised.

  The light was on in his little room and she stuck her head round the door. ‘Ah, there you are, Harry. You came in then.’

  ‘Yes, I thought about what you said and I suppose they can only fire me again if that’s what they want.’

  ‘It’ll be their loss if they do,’ Julie said. ‘But don’t you even think that way. This is your job and you do it well.’

  ‘Thanks, you’re always nice to me.’

  ‘I’ll be off then, but you look after yourself.’

  The alley had never seemed so ominous. For the first time Julie realized the high walls at each side gave it a tunnel effect and she was glad that Harry remained standing at the door until she reached the safety of the street. She pulled her coat around her, grasping the collar with one hand so the wintry draught could not find an entry point, and hurried in the direction of the Nethergate and High Street. If she hurried she would catch a bus before the rush hour queues started to accumulate.

  ‘Tilly, Evening Tilly!’ The newspaper seller bellowed as she passed him.

  She rummaged in her pocket for some loose change. There might be something about Nicole in the newspaper.

  ‘Ta, miss.’ The man touched his flat cap in an old fashioned gesture and she nodded her thanks as he handed her the Evening Telegraph, noticing as she did so, the crutch under his arm.

  ‘Never mind the change,’ she muttered and hurried off along the street to catch her bus.

  Julie managed to get a seat near the front and, once she was settled, riffled through the paper until she found what she was looking for. But it did not tell her any more than she knew already, simply stating that the body of a woman had been found in a house outside Dundee and that the police were investigating.

  Her shoulders tensed and her neck stiffened. It was that feeling again, the feeling that someone was watching her. She shrugged her shoulders to loosen them. She was being silly. It was probably just someone reading her paper over her shoulder. People did that all the time on buses.

  The newspaper crackled as she folded it and tucked it down the side of her seat. Once that was done she glanced over her shoulder, but the two High School kids behind her seemed to be too engrossed with themselves to bother reading any newspaper, and no one else in the bus seemed interested in her. I’ll soon be as paranoid as Nicole, she thought, but she could not shake off the feeling.

  ***

  Once the doctor had examined Ken, standing over him while he took the tranquillizer he had prescribed, Evelyn took charge. ‘I’ll drive you home,’ she said, ‘and get a taxi back.’

  ‘But Patrick will expect me to be here,’ Ken protested.

  ‘I’ll handle Patrick,’ Evelyn said.

  Lassitude was creeping over Ken swamping his muscles with cotton wool. It was an effort to move. His tongue stuck drily to the roof of his mouth, making it difficult to argue with Evelyn. Home suddenly seemed very attractive and, in any case, he could not remember why he wanted to stay here. It was not a nice place.

  Later, Ken could not have described how he got home. He was aware of Evelyn driving as he relaxed in a pleasant limbo beside her. He floated into the house while Evelyn whispered to Claire, and then he crashed out on the sofa in the lounge.

  He might have slept for minutes, or hours, or days, Ken had no way of knowing. When he woke he was floating again in a pleasant, if somewhat disorienting, haze, an
d did not know where he was. The room was vaguely familiar, but it kept altering in size as the walls swayed back and forth, while the ceiling seemed to extend to the sky. Even the air moved around him in waves of light. Colours assaulted his senses, brighter than anything he had ever experienced before and he could hear his breathing and the rustle of the upholstery beneath him in minute detail.

  ‘You’re awake.’ The voice was so sweet and caring, he wanted to cry.

  She knelt beside him. ‘Are you all right?’

  Her aura shimmered and shifted, outlining her body with scintillating colours that moved when she moved. She was an angel. ‘Of course I am.’ He beamed at her, and reached out a hand to stroke the rainbow round her head. ‘Everything’s all right now.’ He did not know why, he just knew it.

  Claire started to cry. ‘That must have been some drug that damned doctor gave you, but you’ve got to pull yourself together. What if the police come?’

  ‘Let them come,’ Ken grinned. ‘I have nothing to hide. And now, I’ve got what I want. I’ve got my darling Claire,’ he sighed and then giggled. ‘And Nicole’s gone, gone, gone.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Claire said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Bill had arrived in time to see her start on her run, but had been too tired to follow her, so he waited, sitting on the top step of the stair, hidden in the darkness. Someone, further up in the building, was frying onions and the smell whetted his appetite. All he’d had to eat today had been that burger after he had left the crime scene. He rested his head on the wall and, impervious to its hardness, sleep started to overtake him.

  He should not be here. It was not the cleverest thing he had ever done, but he could not resist it. There was something about her that drew him. His breathing deepened and he was on the verge of sleep when the door at the foot of the stairway opened. That was when he remembered why the place seemed so familiar. He had been here before. This was where they had found the hanging man. But that had been months ago.

  He sensed her hesitation as she peered into the darkness and, using the stair banister for leverage, he hoisted himself to his feet intending to go down to meet her.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Her breath came in short gasps, sharpening her voice with anxiety. He also thought he detected an underlying note of fear.

  ‘It’s all right, Julie. It’s me. Bill Murphy.’ He snapped on his lighter so that the flame illuminated his face. He had not smoked for a couple of years, but still carried the lighter. It came in handy when he was interviewing the punters and wanted to give them a fag to loosen them up.

  She started to climb the stairs. ‘What are you doing here?’ She passed him and slid her key into the lock.

  Bill followed her into the small living room. It was a bit of a mess. There were dirty dishes on the table, an ancient dusty sofa and chairs to match, a cooker, partially hidden behind a curtain. The door to the bedroom was ajar and he could just glimpse the unmade bed. Somehow he had imagined her as a tidy person, someone who would pick up a pin if it fell to the floor. He had never for a moment visualized her in such tawdry surroundings.

  She collapsed on one of the armchairs. ‘Well?’ Her breathing was still laboured.

  ‘I wanted to see you again.’ It sounded lame, but it was the truth. ‘Besides I thought you might be upset at your friend’s death.’

  Julie bent over and, grasping one of her legs behind the knee, she flexed it. After several swings of that leg she transferred her hands to the other leg and started to exercise that one. ‘I’ll stiffen up if I don’t do that,’ she explained. After she finished exercising her legs she kneaded them with her hands using the same motions that Bill remembered his mother doing when she was making pastry. Finally she leaned back. ‘Who said she was my friend?’ She stared at him challengingly.

  ‘Why, Nicole did.’ Bill returned her stare.

  ‘Well, I suppose she was entitled to think what she wanted,’ Julie said. ‘But I never regarded her as anything more than a colleague. So I really don’t need you to be concerned about me.’

  ‘You said you were going to be with her last night.’ Bill was finding it difficult to justify his presence in her flat.

  ‘Something came up,’ Julie said. She thought for a moment. ‘D’you think she’d still be alive if I’d been with her?’

  Bill could not decipher the emotion behind the words and wondered if she was blaming herself. ‘No, either the killer would have waited for another chance, or,’ he hesitated, ‘you’d both be dead.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. She pummelled her knees, ‘D’you want a cup of coffee or tea, or something. I don’t have alcohol in the house.’

  ‘Tea would be all right.’ Bill was sick of drinking coffee. It seemed to be all he had been doing recently.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, rising from the chair and walking to the sink to fill the kettle.

  Bill watched her. She had the grace of an athlete and, even without makeup and with her face streaked with sweat, she was beautiful. He wanted to hold her and caress her. He wanted to remove the sweatband from her forehead and kiss the damp brown hair that had sculpted itself to her head. He wanted her, all of her. But he did not know what to do about it because he did not want to screw everything up before it even started.

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and studied the photographs on the mantelpiece above the electric fire. ‘Who’s this?’ He removed his hands from his pockets to lift the silver-framed picture.

  She looked over her shoulder. ‘That’s Dave, my husband.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know you were married. You don’t wear a ring.’

  ‘No. But I still feel as if I’m married.’ She washed two mugs under the tap and dried them on a reasonably clean towel. ‘He’s dead,’ her voice was little more than a whisper and she did not look up.

  The towel squeaked as she polished the second mug over and over again. The old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly. And the building creaked and groaned as only old buildings do. Bill watched her hands polishing the mug with fingers so stiff and rigid it was a wonder it did not break, but he could not see her face.

  Bill replaced the photograph on the mantelpiece. ‘How long’s he been gone?’ For some reason Bill did not want to say the word dead.

  Julie turned the tap off and turned to face him. ‘Gone, or dead?’ There was a harsh quality to her voice giving him the impression he had touched a nerve.

  ‘Both, I suppose.’ This was a complication Bill had not anticipated and he needed to know.

  ‘He’s been dead for four months, but he was gone long before that.’ There was a bitterness and finality in her voice that had not been there before and it sounded as if she were closing a book. Cutting herself off from a part of her life that still hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘No need to be sorry.’ She clattered the mugs onto the table.

  ‘I meant, I’m sorry for asking. But I had to know if I stood a chance with you. Do I Julie?’

  ‘When you see this you might change your mind.’ She pushed the sleeves of her sweatshirt up, exposing her scarred arms.

  Bill stared. ‘What happened?’ he whispered.

  ‘I was going through a bad patch, but that’s over now.’ She pulled her sleeves down and turned away from him.

  ‘I don’t care, Julie. That’s in the past and doesn’t alter who you are now.’ He grasped her hands. ‘As far as I’m concerned you are the most beautiful and interesting woman I’ve met for a long time.’

  There was a strange faraway look in her eyes and she seemed to be looking past him, rather than at him. At last she exhaled a sigh that fluttered through her teeth with the softest of sounds. ‘Why not,’ she whispered, more to herself than to him.

  Bill shook her gently. ‘Does that mean yes?’

  Her eyes widened, but she was looking at him now, although there seemed to be sadness deep within them that he could not quite fathom. ‘It means perhaps, maybe, I’m not su
re, but we can give it a try.’

  Bill drew her to him until they were standing close together. ‘Ah, Julie,’ he said, ‘I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you sitting there, so alone, in that crowded pub.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, allowing him to pull her into the circle of his arms.

  He bent his head, nuzzling her where the damp strands of hair met her neck. She smelled of sweat mixed with perfume; he had never smelt anything sweeter. He lifted his head to look at her. There was a tear trickling down her cheek. ‘We don’t have to,’ he said, ‘if you don’t want to.’

  ‘The damnable thing,’ she said, looking at him, ‘is that I want to. I want to very much.’

  Bill knew, when he took her, that this was not something that came naturally to her, and he was glad. However, she responded with a passion that bordered on desperation and he wondered, just briefly, if he was the man she was seeing behind her closed eyelids.

  ***

  Julie woke first the next morning and lay staring at the ceiling. She had not meant to let things develop this far, but something had happened between them when he had stood in her flat last night. It was something mysterious that she did not quite understand and could not explain to herself, but when he had touched her, a delicious, shivering sensation had travelled through her as if every nerve in her body had been sensitized. Maybe it was because no man had touched her since Dave and her body was crying out for a replacement of something she had once had that was very fine. Maybe it was just the stress of everything that was happening just now, and she needed comforting. Or maybe it really was a physical attraction to this man.

  She hoisted herself up onto her elbow and looked at him. He was nothing like Dave. His features were stronger, his hair darker, his nose slightly misshapen and his body was firm and hard. The slightly cruel twist of his mouth had softened as he slept and the worry lines appeared less. She realized, with a shock, that she wanted him again. She wanted to wake him and run her fingers through his hair and over his body until he was aroused. Her reaction astonished her because she had rarely taken the initiative when she was with Dave, and to think of doing it now with Bill, whom she had only known for a few days, was out of the question. She lay back and breathed deeply, but the feeling was still there.