The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  Travis also knew about Jeremy. He asked me why someone like me would be interested in an old married fogey like himself. Wasn’t I interested in single guys? But Travis was cocky and stupid enough to assume his charms were ample compensation for his marital status. I couldn’t tell him it was the full package, with the inclusion of two children that had fed my determination to pin him down. And of course, I was driven to wipe the smug smile off Ms Evans’ face. Stealing her husband and children had been a coup d’état as far as my plan was concerned.

  Ms Evans herself, of course, knows about Jeremy. Perhaps she’s had a fiery argument at some point with Travis about my relationship history. She might not be as chilled as Travis lets on about our affair or as she acts in our therapy sessions. She’s doubtless still trying to pin the sword incident on me as well as the crime of stealing her husband.

  I start to sweat as the possibilities and permutations run through my mind. I can’t halt the flow. Danielle springs to mind. She lost her baby. That would be a strong motive for hatred and revenge if she had any proof that I was involved. Perhaps Scott and she are in cahoots.

  Also, Bob Pratchett makes me uneasy. I’ve spotted him more than once wandering around outside my house. He has the excuse that he’s coming to and from the hospital but the hours don’t always coincide with his appointment times and he seems to loiter.

  I turn off the engine and close my eyes.

  A violent rap at the window shocks me back to life and Colgate’s lined weather-beaten face stares down at me. Shit. It’s nine. I’ve been asleep for three hours. The rain has stopped and the strengthening sun has turned the car into an oven.

  My eyes open and close like a camera shutter trying to focus. I slide down the window but Colgate walks on and pauses to speak to an officer loitering by the entrance before disappearing inside. The young man, crisp and fresh, nods at his superior and heads my way. He knocks more gently than Colgate but I ignore him, pull my collar up and apply a thin coat of lip gloss. When I do step out of the car, I beam at him.

  ‘Good morning. I’m here to see DCI Colgate.’ I swing my bag over my shoulder and sidestep his hovering form.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s busy this morning. Perhaps I can help you?’

  ‘No. You’re all right. It’s a matter of life and death. I have something I think he’ll want to see.’ I stick out my chin, throw my shoulders back and stride forward. If Colgate thinks he can fob me off with one of his juniors, after having wasted so much of my time in the past, he’s another think coming.

  45

  ‘Well, Miss Digby. How can we help?’

  Colgate sits on the edge of his seat as if he’s waiting to make a dash for it. He’s fiddling with a pen but the absence of paper lets me know that he’s not going to be taking notes.

  I detail the late-night calls, sightings of ghostly shapes in the blackness but Colgate’s face is deadpan, his mouth hanging open. He reminds me of a dog waiting for a walk, alert but immobile. When I produce my coup d’état, his bottom lip reels in and his ears prick up as if I’ve taken the lead off the peg, ready to go.

  ‘What’s this?’ Colgate peers at the grainy photograph. It’s a picture of me with Jeremy, Photoshopped in, standing alongside. A ghostly outline hovers over us. Colgate’s liver-spotted hands turn the picture over and back again.

  ‘Where did you get this? Is it recent?’ He carries on squinting.

  ‘Yes. Yesterday. It was pushed through my letter box.’

  ‘Do you mind if I hang on to it? We’ll look into your complaints and get back to you.’

  ‘Is that it?’ I knew I wouldn’t get star billing with a random list of threats, but the picture of the Grim Reaper wielding a scythe over my head has hit the mark.

  Colgate stands. ‘That’s all for now but you’ve got my attention.’ His gritted smile presents crooked little teeth like an uncultured string of off-white pearls.

  ‘Have a look at this.’ Colgate held out the photograph with one hand and gripped a plastic coffee cup in the other, taking regular little sips. His nose curled with the bitterness.

  ‘What is it?’ Lindsay asked, studiously eyeing the snap.

  ‘It’s another Grim Reaper picture.’

  ‘I can see that, but who are the people in the foreground?’

  ‘It’s Miss Digby with another ex-boyfriend, a Mr Jeremy Yates. She says she hasn’t seen the guy for years but the picture appeared through her letter box a couple of days ago. She’s convinced it’s been sent to wind her up and she’s freaking out. That’s the Grim Reaper in the background. Notice the scythe in his hand?’

  Colgate opened up one of a pile of files sitting in front of him and took out a much older, even more grainy, photograph.

  ‘Take a look at this. Dated 13 July, twenty-five years ago. This is a murder scene with the offending weapon lying across the victim’s chest.’

  Lindsay swallowed. Unlike Colgate she hadn’t yet experienced death in the field. There’d been a few near misses, police chases that had ended with badly smashed-up vehicles, but as yet no corpses.

  The picture showed a huge, fat, white male probably in his early to mid-forties lying prostrate across a small sofa. His unclad legs hung off the side, his flaccid penis shrivelled like a dried prune perched atop his left thigh. His eyes stared in the direction of the window with fear and pleading etched large on his rigid features.

  ‘Christ. Is this Chuck Curry? The Garden Shed Murder guy?’

  ‘The very one. Take your eyes off his body for a minute and check out the weapon. It’s a garden scythe. Not very big but lethal. One swipe was all it took.’

  ‘They should have lopped his prick off in the process. Shit.’

  Lindsay set the picture alongside the one of Miss Digby and her ex-boyfriend and looked from one to the other.

  ‘What do you notice?’ Colgate asked.

  ‘The scythe is the same in both pictures. It’s about the same length and the same shape. It could almost be the same weapon.’

  ‘If you look very closely, you can see in the latest picture a small maker’s mark at the bottom of the handle. It’s a Boysen and Horton scythe. It’s a newer model of the one used twenty-five years ago on the 13 July. I believe they’re still in production.’

  ‘Same make? How do you know?’

  ‘It’s in the file. All details of the murder weapon were logged. It had been one of a set of garden tools that the guy used to look after his allotment and if you look here, you can see the rest hanging behind the sofa, a bit to the right. The weight was also logged at the time and there was a theory that it might have been light enough for a youngster to handle, but no proof was ever found that’s what happened.’

  ‘But you think so?’

  ‘Yes. I think some sad, molested, traumatised child took the tool and made one almighty slash across the pervert’s throat. They were clever enough to wear gardening gloves, as no prints were left at the scene and gloves were never found. The child would have been smart and probably planned the whole thing in advance, as their only way out. They committed the perfect premeditated murder. ’

  ‘What’s your thinking in relation to Miss Digby’s and Mrs Lowther’s claims? Do you think they’re in danger?’

  Colgate’s lips were tight as he thrust the latest picture back under his colleague’s nose.

  ‘It’s the date. 13 July. That’s next Friday. It’s not just the date that’s got me worried. It’s the fact that a time has been recently pencilled in alongside. 4pm.’

  ‘You don’t think…’

  ‘You’re sharp, Lindsay,’ he snorted. ‘Yes, I do think. Whoever murdered Chuck Curry all those years ago is warning us all that they’re back on the scene and if my hunch is right, they’re planning another scythe attack next Friday at four.’

  I have a list of things to do and it’s getting longer by the day. Keeping on top of life is challenging but catching Colgate’s attention has filled me with renewed energy, not to mention the heavy three
-hour slumber in my car. Two more simple tasks have been added to my regular schedule, both pencilled in for before lunch.

  I’m back in front of my computer screen by eleven, an edgy determination fuelled by a double espresso. Crystal-cut plans can’t be side-tracked by random events, hard-earned control squandered in the blink of a few emails. Loose ends need to be tied up, wrapped and sealed away like leftover stew in a deep freeze.

  Jeremy

  Thank you for your interesting emails. Glad you’re still alive, ha ha. Hope your career plans, in how to trick the world, will work out and make you your millions.

  I’m in a committed relationship now, so can’t meet up.

  Anyway, have a good life.

  Best

  Beverley.

  I fiddle with the wording, directing sarcasm like a poison dart, not sure I’m glad he’s still alive, but he’ll get the gist. Ms Evans would be proud that I’m walking away from dangled carrots.

  The second task involves a bit of googling. But it doesn’t take me long to find a good local painter and decorator. Vince Vickers lives in Cockfosters and an email bounces back straightaway, telling me he’d be delighted to pop round and give me a quote. Concern about the speed of reply is brushed aside when he assures me he’s free to start anytime.

  46

  It’s like a leaving party but I suppose in some ways it is. I’ve brought cake, a Victoria sponge, hoping to tease Tamsin with a sliver. Perhaps the icing will melt in the mouth rather than choke her.

  Today is my last group therapy session and Ms Evans is encouraging us to bare our souls. As I’m not planning on keeping in touch with the motley crew, I’ll make the most of my one last time on the soapbox.

  In front of me, I’ve jotted down the list of possible stalkers who are hounding me and, as I wait for the others to arrive, my thoughts once more skitter around the possibilities. I’m not certain how much to share when it’s my turn to speak.

  Scott, Danielle and Cosette are likely suspects, either working in a group or singly. Perhaps Scott and Danielle are in cahoots; having some fun at my expense.

  Cosette might be tracking me, warning me off her new boyfriend to get rid of the competition but she doesn’t strike me as the type. Her youthful confidence hasn’t taken sufficient battering to make her desperate, and it’s unlikely she would have the time.

  Travis and Queenie certainly wouldn’t be working together. Travis may have tried to turn the tables my way after I sent the photograph of him and Gigi to his wife, as he rightly assumed that was down to me but I remind myself that the stalking against me continued after I let him move in when he wouldn’t have needed to carry on.

  I’ve had plenty of time and access to browse Travis’ laptop and there was no evidence of damning content pointing in my direction, although his regular browsing of porn sites came as a bit of a shock. My obsession to win him over certainly blinded me to his seedier side.

  Then there’s Queenie. She’s got motive as she’s probably known for quite some time about my affair with her husband and wants to get her own back. She’s still harping on about the sword incident, won’t let it drop, and it’s fuelling an obvious dislike. Travis doesn’t know what to think as he’s caught between the proverbial devil and deep blue sea.

  Then there’s Bob Pratchett, who’s definitely got more than a screw loose. Although he suffers from hallucinations and paranoia, all part of his schizophrenia, I think of him as mad rather than bad. Stark raving loopy.

  The sighting of Bob and Queenie together at the hospital, that day when they were visiting Travis, still bothers me. The red sprayed ‘Bitch’ on the side of my car points squarely in their direction. Perhaps they’re working in tandem and Queenie, in her professional role as Ms Evans, has led Bob down new paths; encouraging him to bond with ‘normal’ people. Yet the double edged personality of ‘Queenie-cum-Ms Evans’ appears to me anything but normal. As a wife and mother her actions seem responsible, predictable, but then there’s a lot I don’t know about her.

  Jeremy’s a possibility, a dark shadow lurking in the background, fogging my head up even further. I feel as if I’m sitting on an unexploded time bomb, dreading sightings of the postman. It used to be because I couldn’t pay the bills but now his cheery smile brings with it terror. I watch out the window to make sure he’s not walking up the path with a ticking package and breathe more easily when thin envelopes and pizza flyers drop on to the mat.

  Bob has brought the ginger wine. Tamsin chocolate eclairs, pretending these are what she eats, day in, day out. We all know the six raisins will stay in her pocket until we’ve gone and then she’ll try to force them down.

  We are all telling lies. Perhaps that’s what humans do. It’s not the lies we tell others, lies they won’t believe, the truth blatantly obvious, but the lies we tell ourselves. It’s these whoppers that let us carry on with the robotic dysfunctional behaviour. Problem is, while we’re patients of Ms Evans, we’re encouraged to dig deep and own up. I’m not sure she has succeeded with any one of us but then again she’s the biggest liar of the lot. She keeps her secrets well hidden.

  Today there’s a distinct lack of eye contact from our therapist. I reckon it’s the party atmosphere as she’s definitely more at ease on the opposite side of a sturdy desk. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but her professionalism hasn’t seemed so pronounced of late, the school ma’am efficiency not so slick. Maybe she’s not coping as well as she lets on with the errant husband issue and having to face his mistress across a busy room.

  Ms Evans has baked cupcakes, neatly displayed on a three-tiered plate stand. The cracked yellow glaze is overlaid with sickly pink flowers, a charity shop ‘steal’ apparently. Cupcakes are her speciality and Freddie helped with the adornments by sticking small treats in the centre of the buttery icing; a silver star here, a jelly baby there. A tinge of colour surfaces on her cheeks when she speaks.

  ‘He ate more of the sprinkles than he put on the cakes.’ She laughs, flicking away stray coloured dots that have fallen on to the table. She’s laid out a vinyl table cloth, green and white striped, as if we’re at a children’s tea party, expecting us to make spillages which she’ll carefully wipe away. Today Ms Evans is like our mother.

  ‘No more treats for you today,’ she’ll say, waggling a finger, when the cordial is spilt.

  There are helium balloons stuck in the corners of the room and an old CD player pumps out songs from the eighties. Jeez, Ms Evans has been busy. I wonder if it’s part of her training to finish on a high, make her patients feel as if they’ve achieved some hidden goal; like a birthday milestone, but it all seems rather ridiculous.

  We sit in a circle as we have some talking to do before we eat.

  ‘Are we playing pass the parcel?’ Dave. Deadpan. We laugh and chip away at the ice.

  ‘No, Dave. We’re not playing pass the parcel.’ Ms Evans smiles and I half expect her to pat Dave on the head and tell him to be patient. ‘Okay. Welcome to our last session together. Let’s begin by telling the others how we’ve been.’

  Manuel hasn’t learnt any more English, or so he indicates with a mute hand gesture. He’s allowed, as usual, to sit and watch, his smirk suggesting that he understands much more than he’s letting on and I still suspect he’s bilingual.

  ‘Dave? Do you want to go first?’

  ‘Not really. I’d rather play pass the parcel.’ No one laughs this time.

  We listen to his tales of misery and self-loathing as he sidesteps mention of the drug and alcohol addictions which we know he uses to mask the hell. We also know that he’s been charged with possession of class-A drugs but no one bothers to mention it. His folded arms hide the syringe marks on the insides. Ten minutes of self-denial seem to make him feel better as he lets out an extended sigh.

  ‘Tamsin. What about your week? I hear you’ve put on two pounds. You should be very pleased.’

  Tamsin looks horrified. The last thing she wants is for us to know that she’s put on weight
. She sucks air in, checking her concave chest for unwelcome signs of non-existent shape but her tight T-shirt does its job, accentutates the bones.

  It’s finally Bob’s turn. He’s cleverer than the others, too clever, and likes to lead us all a merry dance.

  ‘Everything is good. I’ve started work again. Two new commissions on portraits, although I can’t let on who they’re for. All very hush-hush.’

  ‘Are they for agents at MI5?’ Dave asks, voice thick with sarcasm.

  ‘Dave, let Bob continue, please.’ We all turn towards Ms Evans and I wonder how she can listen to this shit, day in, day out. The pay must be really good. Or perhaps her relationship with Bob really does run deeper than they both let on.

  I wonder why she decided to be a therapist, what led her down such a career path. Bob says she is fighting demons of her own, trying to find answers through all the probing interrogations.

  ‘My neighbour hasn’t been giving me any problems recently but, although you might laugh, Dave, I am having threats from the government. And yes, it is very hush-hush.’

  Bob omits a strange hyena squeal which we’ve all heard before, but it’s still alarming.

  ‘Okay. Thank you, Bob. We’ll be finishing early today so that we can enjoy the tea and cakes and it’ll give you a chance to talk more intimately to each other. Less pressure.’ Ms Evans is right there.