The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  It took all her energy to reach the Tube entrance and once inside, she leant against a newspaper kiosk and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Caged behind the wired billboard she caught the evening headlines.

  The Garden Shed Murder

  Case to be reopened after Twenty-five Years

  Queenie lifted a copy, folded it under her arm and walked slowly downwards towards the platform. The rumble of an approaching train enticed her closer and closer to the edge until she stepped over the yellow line. One more step and she could slip away, under the approaching train, out of sight, and away from view.

  49

  Ms Evans likes to compare our personalities to giant jigsaws; complex, many-faceted and each individual piece totally unique. Apparently, we should strive to complete our own picture. People with pieces missing visit her to find out where they might look, under a sofa perhaps or in a dark corner. She’s smug with her jigsaw analogy but even smugger in her attempts to prove what a great detective she is, ferreting around and poking about in the recesses of people’s minds.

  Personally, I prefer to blame the manufacturer. When I can’t find the corner piece I’m more inclined to point the finger and apportion blame elsewhere, starting with my father. Ms Evans has helped me though to question my mother’s role in the whole miserable affair that was my childhood. After all, my mother let my father get away with his monstrous behaviour. I have agreed with my therapist, more than once I might add, that if my mother and father were still around today I would certainly confront them both with the evidence.

  However, this week I’ve been feeling quite gleeful since I discovered a large missing piece of my therapist’s own jigsaw. Olga is her name. Ha. Ha. I must say I hadn’t seen it at all. Ms Evans has kept her sexual preferences and her long-term lover well under wraps. I wonder if Travis knows and this is why he wanders so freely from the fold, and I can only imagine how he’ll feel when his wife finally throws him out and moves her lover in.

  As I walk down King’s Road towards Sloane Square, purposeful in my step, I’m increasingly agitated to think that Ms Evans might come out on top. The smugness at having solved her puzzle has quickly faded. Whereas Travis got his just deserts, his wife is like the cat that got the cream. I paved the way which wasn’t part of my plan.

  As I head for my destination, I can hear her admonitions. ‘You need to move on. Leave the past behind.’ She’s hinted more than once that my tiredness, lack of sleep and lack of appetite might be down to bitterness and inability to let go.

  ‘Let sleeping dogs lie. Do you know what that means, Beverley?’

  Bitch. Who doesn’t? But sometimes it’s good to give the dog a good kick, pick up its lead and drag it off to the park; especially when Rottweilers are out to play. Why let them lie?

  I force thoughts of Ms Evans to the back of my mind for now because my stride today has meaning. You see, I’ve also found the missing piece for my Scott Barry puzzle. Although I have quite a few puzzles to solve, today I need to keep my mind focused on the one in hand. Ms Evans can wait. My plan for her is complicated, but all in good time.

  Each click of my new sharply filed kitten heels lends rhythm to my journey. Today I have found a resolution for all the hours invested in following, watching and waiting for Scott Barry over the years. Doing him physical harm was never an option; for someone my size it would have been well-nigh impossible. Hiring a hitman is not my style and far too extreme.

  So I’ve wracked my brains, day and night, for an alternative course of action that might help put my mind at rest and let me move on. Vigilance and patience have finally earned the prize.

  Cosette has never been to Sloane Square. She’s rather a home bird, despite being a French student in a foreign country; she doesn’t seem that interested in sightseeing or nightclubbing. To date, she’s only travelled as far as Oxford Street and once to Harrods. Scott sent her, shortly after they started dating, to browse the food halls in search of truffles. This would have been part of his attempt to mould her into the perfect partner; accomplished in the kitchen, hot in the bedroom, and in thrall to his manhood at all times. He wouldn’t want her visiting too many London hotspots; certainly not without him. I remember the MO, the modus operandi.

  Cosette is in the early stages of infatuation where Scott’s actions and behaviour all equate to caring and commitment. The apron and toaster were fun birthday gifts but what girl wouldn’t prefer diamonds and pearls?

  I’m whistling as I cross into the square. Cosette has texted to ask the whereabouts of the café. Is it the one beside the Italian deli or the one next to the champagne bar? I see her some feet away, texting furiously on her new iPhone.

  ‘Yoo-hoo. Cosette. Over here.’ My voice is sing-song, screechy, but the buzz around the plaza dulls the scale of my excitement. Cosette won’t notice. She’s far off the age where doubt and cynicism have taken hold. I like her and think we’ll become good friends. She’ll help me to loosen up once she’s shot of her much-too-old boyfriend.

  ‘Hi. It’s really busy. Is it always like this?’ Cosette puts her hand up to her forehead and scans the square. She’s like a frightened rabbit in the glare of oncoming headlights. Her family home is in the heart of the Auvergne, in a small village in the middle of nowhere. The only buildings of note are a town hall and a patisserie. She doesn’t speak the language of big cities yet.

  ‘It’s London. It’s never quiet. Also the weather pulls out the punters, especially as it’s Friday lunchtime. It’s always busy at the end of the working week.’

  I lean across and kiss her three times in greeting. Right cheek, left cheek and back again. It’s meant to confirm our friendship, using the French three-cheek custom to gain her trust. She needs to trust me, believe me, when I tell her later I had no idea of what is about to unfold.

  ‘It’s across the road. Over there. Can you see it? Café Pierre. It’s always packed but I’ve booked a table. My treat.’

  She doesn’t protest. Her evening bar job pays peanuts and I certainly don’t mind footing the bill; today it will be money well spent.

  ‘I love your shoes,’ she says as we stroll towards the café; side by side like a couple of besties. She eyes my expensive Christian Louboutin kitten heels, black and shiny. I stop and turn up the sole.

  ‘Look. Do you like the red sole? They weren’t cheap.’ I laugh and take her arm.

  By the time we reach the entrance to the café she is relaxed and I notice her glance in the spotless glass window at her reflection. She smooths down her hair and pushes the curly fringe back from her forehead. She’s underdressed for the occasion but she wasn’t to know.

  ‘You look fine,’ I say. ‘They’re not stuffy about dress code.’ It’s another lie but I don’t want her suggesting we go somewhere less formal, more relaxed.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ she says.

  A waiter pulls the door wide as we approach and asks if we have a reservation.

  ‘Miss Digby. Two people at 12.45.’

  ‘Perfect. Come this way. You’ve requested number 24 at the back. That is correct?’

  He leads us through the jam-packed room. Diners chat loudly and everyone seems to be drinking champagne. It’s that sort of place; in-your-face ostentatious. It’s too late for Cosette to change her mind and I bolster her confidence by suggesting she might like to do the ordering as the menus are in French.

  ‘Bien sûr!’

  We settle down, order a bottle of Chablis and wait for the waiter to return. It’s exactly 12.45. Not long to go.

  50

  Cosette and I chat about our college courses, plans for the summer. Scott is taking her to Germany; a river cruise on the Rhine. Well, that’s the current plan but in about fifteen minutes time I suspect he’ll be hoping the travel agents offer full refunds.

  Table number 24 is in the back corner. It has a great view of everyone coming in and going out of the restaurant. The lighting is poor though; soft and romantic was how I found it the first f
ew times Scott and I came, but now it seems very dull and the corner spot rather dingy.

  I see Scott long before Cosette does. I nearly jump up and whoop in delight when I see Danielle is with him and they are holding hands. This is better than I could have hoped for. He can’t squirm out of this one with excuses of a last-minute casual catch-up. You definitely don’t hold hands for those sorts of meetings.

  His other hand is on the small of her back and he’s gently propelling her towards the bar. He’ll have booked table number 22, as this was the fallback option if someone beat him to number 24. Not quite as romantic and definitely second best. Today is Danielle’s birthday, a special occasion.

  Cosette has her head buried in the menu.

  ‘There’s rabbit. And quail. The menu’s super.’

  I seal my lips and will her to look up.

  ‘What’s up? Are you okay?’ she asks.

  I turn my head round to the right and nod, indicating something not far away.

  ‘What?’ she repeats. I wait, not sure what she’ll do; what her reaction will be when she sees what I’m looking at but I’ll let her take the lead.

  ‘Are you ready to order, Mademoiselles?’ The waiter appears like a white rabbit out of a hat.

  ‘Just give us another minute, please,’ I say.

  I’m not really prepared for what Cosette does next but I think I have definitely underestimated her feistiness. She gets up, gently sets the menu back on the table.

  ‘Excusez-moi, Beverley. I’ll only be a minute.’

  She threads her way carefully past the tightly packed tables, weaving this way and that until she reaches the bar. Scott has his back to her but Danielle has seen the slight young woman. She doesn’t know Cosette, of course, and thinks she’s a random customer ordering a drink.

  I take out my phone. The moment screams to be captured. I hold the screen up and prime my finger in preparation to start videoing.

  Cosette pokes Scott in the back. He doesn’t feel it at first, no doubt suspecting some impatient customer pushing their way through. She tries again, this time with the tips of all four fingers, making a hard and brutal stab.

  ‘Shit. What the hell?’

  I can lip read from where I’m sitting. I press record. Wow. Cosette lifts her right hand and smacks it hard across his cheek; not once but twice, before Scott manages to grab her wrist. She then kicks him in the shins with the toe of her sturdy boot.

  Danielle’s face is a picture of horror. Did he really not tell her he was co-habiting, or is it the covert nature of relationships that gets her hot? I can’t hear what they’re all saying but an officious-looking gentleman, who has been studying table bookings to the right of the bar, gets up and approaches the fractious party.

  Then something makes me sit back. I’ve caught it on video. While Scott is fending off his petite attacker, Danielle places the flat of her palm across her stomach. It’s an instinctive gesture but enough to make me sit up. I wonder if Scott knows she might be pregnant. Perhaps she was intending to tell him today.

  Scott throws his hands down by his sides in an insincere gesture of capitulation as the maître d’ arrives but keeps talking, trying to convince Cosette of his innocence.

  It takes a few minutes before his eyes skate across the restaurant towards table number 24. I take my right hand momentarily off the camera and wave in his direction.

  ‘Hi,’ I mouth, my lips wide like a guppy fish as I beam from ear to ear.

  ‘You fucking cunt,’ he mouths back.

  Cosette wends her way back, her eyes ablaze and tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Do you mind if we go, Beverley? I can’t stay here.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. I’m so sorry.’ If she wonders at my sincerity, she doesn’t flinch. She lifts her bag off the chair and heads straight towards the front door before I’ve time to rustle my own things together.

  I move as quickly as I can, avoiding the bar area, skirting round the far side of the restaurant but I’m aware of Scott heading in my direction. His aim is to block my exit but I’m too quick. I scurry under the arm of a waiter, who is holding up a loaded tray of drinks, and beetle outside. When I look back I see the tray upended and, as if in slow motion, I see the glasses crash to the floor. Scott’s face is crimson and his mortification is complete.

  I see him glower through the window before I take Cosette’s arm and propel her as fast as I can back the way we came.

  ‘Shit. I thought he was going to kill me. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to have done wrong,’ I say as we jog away.

  We collapse breathless onto a small wall, once well out of sight of the restaurant.

  ‘He’s the one I’m going to kill. Thank you, Beverley. What a complete shit. You knew, didn’t you?’ She doesn’t ask how I knew but I seem to have come out on top when my plan could so easily have backfired.

  Her eyes are wet, cheeks pale, and her hands are shaking. Yet, I must say, Cosette has proven that she is no pussycat; no doormat. I can see why Scott likes her.

  ‘I guessed. Leopards and their spots and all that. I didn’t know he would be there today though,’ I lie. Cosette doesn’t know it is Danielle’s birthday and for such a noteworthy celebration this was always going to be Scott’s first choice of venue.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter. The fact he was is enough. He told me he was up in Peterborough today on a conference and wouldn’t be home till late.’

  ‘Oh. I’m so sorry. But perhaps it’s for the best.’

  ‘Thanks again,’ she repeats.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Yes, a real pleasure. I’ve managed to find the corner piece to my Scott Barry jigsaw puzzle. Ms Evans will be pleased, as I’m confident today’s events will help me to move on where he’s concerned. Meting out punishment was always going to help.

  As we travel home on the Tube, Cosette lost in her own private thoughts and sobbing silently into her earphones, I bite my lip against the slight problem that Danielle being pregnant might cause me. I’m so hoping it won’t set me back but then there are several possibilities that might help with the closure issue.

  Firstly, the baby might not be Scott’s. Secondly, he might not know about it. These are significant trump cards for me to work with should I find out for definite that Scott is stalking me with tit-for-tat punishments. Although I’m not certain, at least I now have some leverage if he is and hopefully plenty enough to make him back off completely. Ms Evans is right. It is all about completing personal jigsaw puzzles.

  At Southgate, Cosette and I alight and she hugs me with a tearful goodbye. I can’t help the contented set to my lips and although I try to look sympathetic, I fear a random victory smile is evident. It helps that someone else now understands the pain that Scott Barry is capable of imparting and I’m not worried about Cosette; she’s young enough to find another partner, preferably one not fifteen years her senior.

  I amble home, feeling pleasantly contented; an all is well with the world feeling. As I approach the house, I stand back to admire the fresh coat of paint I’ve applied to the door and window frames. By the gate, I bend down and pick up a stray Coke can when something catches my eye on the front door.

  A handwritten envelope is stuck to the wood and even from a distance I can see my name scrawled large in thick black ink. I step forward and rip it off, removing a sharp tack holding it in place.

  The envelope tells me that Scott might not be my stalker. He’s been in London all day. Someone else, closer to home, has been here and is reminding me they’re watching; waiting. I scramble for my door key, hands wet and shaky, and check right and left before I duck inside, slamming the door hard behind me and setting the deadbolts.

  I put the envelope down on the kitchen table, unable to bring myself to open it. The house is drowning in an eerie silence, the bare walls closing in. I’m sure I can hear a creak upstairs in the attic and I glance at the ceiling, waiting for the noise to intensify. It could be the hot water system cranking up, or someo
ne could have broken in.

  As I stare at the envelope it hits me that I’m completely alone. I’ve no one left to talk to, discuss my worries with. The police aren’t interested and I’ve no idea what to do next if the latest missive is a threat on my life.

  51

  Bob Pratchett lived on Southgate High Street, first floor flat, over Kasbah Kebabs. Heat from the kitchens and a rank stench of greasy spit meat clung to the walls of his den. Opening the smeared window overlooking the street didn’t help. He stuck his head out, wheezed as the hot polluted air filled his lungs and sneezed loudly to expel the toxins.

  His head grazed the top of the frame as he dived back inside. Shit. There were two police officers down below, walking back and forth. He slammed the window shut, turned the music up and took up the Lotus position in the centre of the floor. Eyes closed, humming noises, like swarming hornets, zinged from his lips. Manufactured calm wasn’t easy. Bob Pratchett guessed why the police were knocking.

  DCI Colgate had got Lindsay to do some digging, deep archaeological spadework, to try to unearth hidden nuggets of information. The Garden Shed Murder was like a black hole, dark and cavernous, and was sucking him back in.

  ‘Five children came forward after the Garden Shed Murder, sir. Three boys and two girls. Looks like the pervert didn’t have a preference,’ Lindsay began.

  Colgate, shoulders hunched, scanned the open file on his desk. ‘Have you managed to trace the kids? Do any of them still live around here?’ His stomach felt the old familiar churn from the gruesome accusations in front of him and his heavy breakfast somersaulted. Child abuse was the worst.

  ‘Yes, sir. Two of the victims committed suicide. Vicky Briers jumped in front of a train on her eighteenth birthday and Alan Stanton hung himself when he wasn’t much older. His father found him dangling from a beam in their garage; only twenty-one. I managed to track down scant newspaper coverage of these two events. Pippa Nicholls, the third victim, emigrated to America, according to her neighbour, ten years ago and hasn’t been seen or heard of since. Kevin Clements has dementia and lives in Finchley in a private nursing home. That only leaves one of the original five still alive and possibly capable of murder.’