The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  Danielle finally pulled away. ‘I’ve got to go, but it was great to see you and thanks for listening.’ She slipped her jacket on and lifted her bag off the floor. ‘And I hope it works out with you and Cosette.’

  Scott watched Danielle walk away, her shoulders straight and determined. He then slumped back down into his seat and ordered another drink.

  By the time Scott reached the train station, he was looking forward to getting home. Cosette had texted to say supper was ready and the wine on chill. Domestic simplicity and contentment nudged away the unsettling feelings. His relationship with Cosette was simpler, less complicated than the all-consuming passion he’d shared with Danielle and he needed to move on, grow up and put down roots.

  Back soon. Sorry about the delay. Drinks with clients. Very hungry! Xx

  As he put the phone back in his jacket and stepped onto the train, he promised this would be his last lie. He would bury the ghosts of Christmas past and wouldn’t tell Cosette about meeting Danielle. Time to move on.

  He whistled all the way back to his flat, the night air warm and balmy. On impulse he’d picked up a bunch of flowers from the corner shop and tucked them under his arm as he turned the key in the lock.

  ‘Hi. I’m home.’

  Inside, he unlaced his shoes and set them neatly by the door. It was only then that he became aware of hushed voices in the kitchen.

  ‘In here, Scott. We’ve got company.’

  He had his own flashback. Fatal Attraction. Dead rabbits. As he pushed open the door, a warm wafting smell of roast dinner invaded his nostrils, but he stopped short when he saw the two police officers.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Barry. Sorry to call so late but we need to ask where you’ve been all evening.’ The detective’s voice pierced his jugular.

  DCI Colgate’s long legs were splayed out under the table and his boots had left distinct black scuff marks on top of the spotlessly scrubbed tiles. PC Lindsay, rosy-cheeked, stood behind.

  ‘I’ve been at work. Why? What’s this all about?’

  ‘We need to know where you were between the hours of five thirty and now. 10pm.’ Colgate checked his watch.

  ‘At work, I’ve just told you. I finished late and then popped into a bar for a couple of drinks.’ Scott’s first thought was that perhaps they had proof that Beverley had sent the badger and they were pursuing a new restraining order. But if that was the case, why did they need to know where he had been this evening?

  ‘Were you anywhere near Barnet General Hospital?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake. I’ve told you. Here’s my train ticket if you don’t believe me.’ He tugged the ticket out of his trouser pocket.

  ‘It’s just that Miss Beverley Digby has lodged her own complaint against you. She says you’ve been threatening her, sending strange packages, threatening messages and tonight someone damaged her new car. Sprayed red paint across one side.’

  In the background Cosette drained vegetables through a plastic colander before she put them back in a saucepan and replaced the lid.

  ‘This is ridiculous. She’s the one harassing me. You saw the dead badger. For fuck’s sake. Why the hell would I want to damage her car? The last thing I want is to see her at all or have anything to do with her!’

  Cosette opened the oven, letting out a hot blast of steam, and cautiously lifted out the roasting tray. The chicken was accusingly burnt on top and the flowers he held seemed to back up the guilt. He laid them down on the table.

  ‘That smells good.’ Colgate sniffed. ‘A bit overdone, but better safe than sorry. Anyway, we’ll let you enjoy your supper but we’ll be in touch. It’s all getting a bit complicated. One minute Miss Digby is accusing you, the other you’re accusing her.’ Colgate laughed.

  The policeman extended an outstretched hand towards Cosette which she ignored, keeping her attention on the carving.

  ‘Bye. Hope you catch whoever did it,’ she said. The knife was sharp, slicing seamlessly through the carcass. Colgate stood and watched.

  ‘She’s good with a knife,’ he said. With that he buttoned up his coat and turned to Lindsay. ‘We’ll see ourselves out. Enjoy your supper.’

  Scott leant with his back to the door once they’d gone. Christ, he needed food and another stiff drink.

  In the kitchen, Cosette had dimmed the lights and lit a couple of candles. The flowers were in the centre of the table, neatly arranged in a see-through cut-glass vase and had sprung back to life.

  ‘You pour the wine and I’ll serve up. Hope it’s not too cold,’ she said.

  ‘Come here, you. It smells delicious, and so do you.’ Scott’s arms encircled his young girlfriend, encasing her slim body as he kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Thanks. I love you.’

  Scott sat down, filled their glasses and held his up. ‘To us.’

  ‘To us,’ she said.

  Cosette would help him weather the storm, deal with all the shit. As he started to eat, she seemed like the best choice he’d made in a long time. Maybe she really was the one for keeps.

  32

  I get up to close a gap in the curtains, check the time and lie down again. Ms Evans asks how I sleep. Am I getting eight hours every night? Early to bed, early to rise and all that. I tell her I’m in bed by ten and up with the lark. It’s the shit in between that causes the problems.

  ‘I see,’ she says dispassionately and puts it in her notes. I don’t think she does though, see. Her astute insight must offer peaceful slumber which irritates me. She’ll not be mooching round the house at 3am.

  Tonight the ceiling spins, the fancy stucco work swirling as in the eye of a tornado, round and round, faster and faster rapidly closing in on the dangling lightshade. I’ll soon be sucked into its black hole, lost for ever.

  But this time it’s not the alcohol. The window is cracked but the fresh paint fumes are toxic, making me nauseous. I turn the bedside light on again, fed up of tossing and turning and readjust the pillow, restraighten the duvet and take a sip of water. I know it’ll not help but it’s something to do. I’ve another six hours to kill.

  I haven’t told Ms Evans of the night terrors, the sudden panic attacks and waves of depression that ride over me like a thundering tsunami. Darkness is my enemy. I finally sit up and slump on the edge of the bed, mentally exhausted, limbs heavy.

  Perhaps it’s time to own up and tell her how jealous I was of the darkness when Scott and I were together. He would succumb to sleep within five minutes of lights out. Sex or no sex, he was in a catatonic state for seven hours, give or take a few minutes, after a mumbled ‘goodnight’.

  I’d stare at the back of his head, jealous that he’d gone; angry that I’d been abandoned to the night. Scott would twitch when I touched his crown, coiling my fingers through his hair as I tried to pull him back, keep me company.

  I was ecstatic when he occasionally couldn’t sleep so he would see what it was like. This happened only a few times like when he thought he had bankrupted Barclays and when his mother took sick. Only a major trauma kept him awake and then he’d turn into a rabid dog, all teeth and foam.

  I want to joke with Ms Evans that perhaps I should have used the time more fruitfully and readjusted my pillow over his face but I doubt she’d see the funny side. Another black question mark in the notebook more likely.

  I give in and head downstairs, padding over the bare wooden boards, gingerly sidestepping the tacks that once held down the carpet. They’re like miniature landmines in a war zone.

  I draw my dressing gown tight and sit down at the computer. Night-time googling differs from that of the daytime. Searches of supermarket opening hours, directions to restaurants or flights to exotic destinations are replaced by surreptitious searches of old friends, ex-lovers and random people whose names you’d almost forgotten. Was it Pat Godley or Pat Goodman? Oscar Wilson or Oscar Woodward? Even my old headmistress suddenly seems of interest.

  My eyes are heavy. Perhaps I’ll fall asleep in the chair, briefly cheating the in
somnia which threatens early onset dementia according to recent reports. Perhaps madness is already here, thoughts flitting skittishly round in my head. I hop from person to person, subject to subject.

  As I read the obituary of Freja Gough, dead at thirty-three from some rare blood disease, my ghoulish concentration is broken by an incoming email. The blue box pops up in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen.

  What’s up, Beverley? Can’t you sleep again? I’d turn that light down a bit; dim the room. It might help but then again it might not. Whose image are you checking out? What posts have caught your eye? Come on. Share.

  I leap up, push the chair back with a violent shove and rush towards the window. I trip over an empty plastic carton on the floor, stubbing my toe which sends a sharp pain through my foot. I swear loudly, pick up the container and hurl it across the room.

  The road is deserted. I look left and right and scan the cars parked along the road, the colours hard to discern but the shapes and makes familiar. There’s only one I don’t recognise as being that of a neighbour. It’s a Mercedes; C class. I know, because I nearly bought one.

  I push my head closer to the glass and peer through the window but can’t see anyone and the cars are all empty. I unpin the heavy curtains and pull them shut before I return to the computer screen. Suddenly the room feels very cold.

  Did you see me? I’m out there, walking up and down. The dog’s legs need stretching. That’s all. You can join me if you like? Or perhaps not. I’ve already turned the corner. Another time. Sweet dreams.

  Panicked, I rush upstairs, flitting nimbly past the landmines, in and out, left and right until I reach my bedroom where I grab a pair of jogging pants from the wardrobe. I pull a hooded sweat top over my head and throw on my trainers. My shaking fingers struggle to tie the laces. I tumble out the front door, grabbing my keys and mobile on the way, and slam it shut.

  The night air is chill and silent, not a soul in sight. Even the owls are asleep. I turn this way and that, racking my brain for clues as to possible directions they might have taken. Right would take them back to the High Street, where the homeless guy huddled against the glass by Boots might stir.

  Left would take them towards the Bourne Estate where teenage rebels loiter, all hours of day and night. I look across the road, slightly to the right and decide to try down Winchmore Avenue. It’s a long road dotted with residential side streets and I reckon this would have been their most likely choice. My instinct tells me they know the area. They can’t be far ahead. I jog faster, my feet pounding across the concrete, until the cold air clamps around my lungs and breathing hurts. The silence speaks loudly but the occasional upstairs light reminds me I’m not alone. I bend down, crouch over and stretch my arms out towards my toes to ease the stitch but it’s futile; the knot has tightened. I’ve come the wrong way. My stalker must be fast, fit, determined.

  I decide to go home the way I came and walk past the same houses but in reverse. The semi-detached homes are like the marriages inside; solid and respectable with their bland facades. Two point four windows mirror the number of children. I wonder at my craving for such blandness and my belief that it holds the answer.

  A street lamp stands outside number twenty-one. An insipid glow is dulled by the overhanging foliage of a mature tree, heavy branches blocking out the light. But on the thick trunk I can make out an A4 poster, most likely an appeal for information on a missing cat. The notice has been newly pinned, the writing and picture clear and bold. As I draw closer, I see the picture is of a person rather than an animal.

  MISSING. Have you seen this person? Last seen in Winchmore Avenue on Tuesday 3 July at 3.50am.

  If so, please call urgently on …

  On a phone number not too dissimilar to mine.

  I check my watch. It’s exactly 3.50am and it’s also the third of July. I stare at the picture. It was taken a couple of months back. It’s a copy of my Facebook profile picture, head and shoulders and I’m smiling broadly at the camera. My head is cocked coquettishly to one side and my lips are pouting. It’s a perfect showcased selfie.

  As I rip it off the trunk I check the phone number. The moment I realise it’s my own number, my mobile rings.

  33

  Lack of sleep, compounded by nauseous anxiety, makes me feel as if I’ve taken a cocktail of alcohol and magic mushrooms. The hallucinations have only begun to abate, inched out by the intake of four strong coffees.

  The police station is deserted when I arrive. The grey square walls are as unenticing as a prison block, but without the barbed wire, and I’m tempted to turn back. Cold light of day makes me think I’m overreacting, but I’ve come this far and at nine on the dot I push through the heavy swing doors.

  I stick my chin out and approach the desk.

  ‘I’d like to speak to DCI Colgate, please. My name’s Beverley Digby.’ I recognise PC Lindsay from the house call, but opt for a respectful distant approach. Familiarity might dilute her professionalism.

  I lean on the countertop, placing both hands firmly on the surface. Lindsay, neat and polished, glances up at the clock. She looks like she’s about to tell me her boss isn’t in when the door behind swooshes open.

  ‘Lindsay. Coffee, please, if you’re not too busy.’ Colgate sweeps past with a curt nod and a loud voice.

  ‘Sir. Miss Digby’s here to see you.’

  ‘Morning, Miss Digby. Take a seat and make yourself at home,’ Colgate says as he slithers past, his left hand grazing the shadow of stubble on his face.

  I sit and fidget as the clock hands clunk forward, getting up every couple of minutes to do a circle of the foyer. Impatience is nudging me towards aggression when Colgate reappears rubbing a wet finger across a razor gash on his chin.

  ‘Miss Digby. Come through.’ I ignore his outstretched hand and follow him through to the back of the station with Lindsay close behind, a junior having been left in charge on reception.

  The interview room is like a fridge and cold blasts of icy air seep through the air-conditioning vent. Colgate tuts, clicks off a switch on the wall and indicates for me to take a seat.

  ‘Well, Miss Digby. It’s nice to see you again. How can we help?’ Colgate pulls out his chair, drags the legs across the floor and opens the conversation with a sigh.

  ‘It’s the stalker. I’m having all sorts of threats now. Last night they were spying on me and I found this attached to a tree trunk.’ I unscrunch the missing person’s poster and slap it down on the table under Colgate’s nose.

  ‘I see. What time was this at?’ A sarcastic twist curls his lips as he reads the notice. ‘It seems to be quite a specific time that you went missing. 3.50am? And the phone number. Have you tried to call it?’

  ‘It’s my number and I’ve had twenty-five calls already. They started at 3.50am and have just stopped.’ I check my mobile screen.

  ‘Do you have any idea who your stalker might be?’ Colgate sets the poster down. ‘Take a copy, please, Lindsay. For the records.’ He pushes it towards his colleague who sits alongside.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I told you. I’m certain it’s Scott. Mr Barry. He’s still got it in for me. You know our history.’

  ‘I do indeed. How could I forget?’ Colgate links his fingers together, stretches his arms in the air before placing them firmly behind his head. ‘Go on. Why do you think Mr Barry’s got it in for you?’

  ‘I’m friends with his new girlfriend, that’s all. He still can’t forgive me for what happened but I’ve moved on. I’ve no interest in him anymore but he doesn’t seem to believe me.’ My fingers drum on the table, keeping time with my legs which are like pistons, moving up and down in steady rhythm. ‘I didn’t send the dead animal but Scott seems to blame me for everything.’ I lower my eyes.

  ‘Well actually, Miss Digby, I think you’re not quite telling the truth here. Hang on.’ Colgate leafs through a file of notes, before turning towards Lindsay.

  ‘Find me the name of Mr Barry’s ne
ighbour who made the statement, please, Lindsay. It’s somewhere in the pile. Reed, I think it was.’

  ‘Rogers, sir. Here it is. He saw Miss Digby get out of a car, a blue Mini Cooper convertible, and deliver a cardboard box to Mr Barry’s doorstep. The date and time is noted.’ Lindsay’s pink-painted forefinger points to the log.

  ‘You see, Miss Digby, I think you’ve still got it in for Mr Barry. It’s more likely that you’re still stalking him rather than the other way round. That’s the way it looks from where I’m sitting.’

  ‘That’s not true. Because I’m friends with his girlfriend he can’t let it rest. I was returning the unopened package that I found on my doorstep. He started it. I’ve already told you. I’d nothing to do with what was inside.’

  Colgate glances at the clock, puffing into hands which cover his mouth and nose. He uncoils, scrapes his chair back across the hard floor, chalk on blackboard, and stands up.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you any more time at present but I suggest, Miss Digby, you make a record of all suspect activity; times, dates and keep us informed. It looks as if someone is having a bit of fun at your expense.’ His grin makes me think of the Cheshire cat. ‘If the twenty-five calls have all been from a withheld number, it’s likely this was the only poster, so I wouldn’t worry too much. That’s probably the end of it.’

  As an afterthought he adds, ‘I do suggest, however, that you keep well away from Mr Barry and his girlfriend. If it is him who’s pestering you, then you’d do well to steer clear. I’m sure you have plenty of other friends. Lindsay, please show Miss Digby out.’

  As Colgate turns to walk away, a torrent of bottled-up fury explodes in a screech of words.

  ‘Is that it? Some mad person is stalking me, calling me at all hours of day and night, damaging my property and all you can say is that’s probably the end of it?’