Her visit was never wasted. If nobody entered or left the house, it didn’t matter, she’d wait for that glimpse of either Toby or the woman at one of the windows. The first evening Babs had visited, she’d figured out that the woman worked from a room in the front of the house. Her back was to the window, the glow of a computer screen in front. It took Babs a few minutes to puzzle out the strange, deformed shape of the woman’s head, then she banged her forehead with the heel of her hand. Headphones!
The nights when she caught a glimpse of Toby gave her more pleasure. She saw him most days, of course, following him when he left his office, keeping her distance on the train, getting off at the same stop and walking several feet behind him until he reached Myrtle Road.
Seeing him at home, though, was different – there was a curious intimacy about seeing him cross a room, shirt collar open, sleeves pushed up. Sometimes, he’d stand at the window with a drink in his hand. He couldn’t see her but she could see him and memories of being with him would come flooding back. The way he would unexpectedly grab her for a hug, a kiss or more. The smell of him, the feel of his skin.
Sometimes her desperate need for him would almost overcome her and she would grab onto the pillar for support. And when the stars blinked into existence, she’d wish on each one that he would see sense and come back to her.
The nights when she’d watched Toby and the writer woman leave by taxi were the worst. It would curdle Babs’ brain to imagine all the wonderful places they were going. Once or twice, she waited until they returned, slumping to the ground in a gap between the gate pillar and a privet hedge behind. She kept a story ready for anyone who stopped to enquire if she were okay but Myrtle Road was quiet and in all the weeks she never saw a soul.
Recently, though, there had been no nights out. There had also been a worrying change in Toby’s routine. Instead of going directly for the train after work, he’d take a taxi. There was no way for her to find where he’d gone and she’d lurked on Myrtle Road waiting, tension easing when he arrived home a few hours later. Babs hoped it was a harbinger of the end of his relationship with the writer.
Weekends were always difficult. Sometimes, she’d spend a few hours during the day and, if she’d not managed to see him, she’d go back at night. There were times, too, when she’d see him during the day and still be drawn to returning.
Then there was the odd, devastating day, when she didn’t see him at all.
Friday had been such a day, leaving Babs desperate to see him on the Saturday. Weekends were challenging for such a conspicuous stalker as she was in her overlong Burberry coat and tweed flat cap. There were too many people around, walking to the shops or the train station, or in their gardens clipping hedges or faffing with hanging baskets and pots.
She walked up and down the short road a few times, slowing as she passed the house to try to catch a look through the windows but there was no sign of Toby. When she passed on the far side of the street, she could see Misty at her computer writing her rubbish and Babs’ pace had increased to keep time with her heartbeat when she thought of that woman.
It was too difficult to stay for longer but when the light faded and the road was once again quiet, Babs returned and took up her usual position behind the pillar. A glimpse of Toby would have been enough to satisfy her longing and send her home content and that night she was in luck. After a twenty-minute wait the front door opened and he came out.
Babs’ reaction was automatic. The quick smile, increased heart rate, a warmth spreading from her toes to her cheeks to colour them bright pink. He could still do that to her – every time. When she saw a holdall dangling from each hand, hope instantly bloomed. It had raised its deceitful face before, but maybe this time Toby had come to his senses and realised that the pathetic writer couldn’t give him what Babs could.
There was no other explanation. She felt a shiver of anticipation… he was coming back to her, coming home where he belonged.
She pulled off the flat cap and ran a hand through her hair. It would have been nice to have been wearing a dress… some off-the-shoulder sexy one that would have swished around her legs as she walked to meet him… but it was too late for regrets, she had to work with what she had. She slipped off the coat and tugged the T-shirt down over the bulge of her belly and with a smile so big it hurt, she stepped out from her concealed position.
61
Babs
Babs was ready to forgive and welcome Toby back, more than happy to take up exactly where they’d left off before he’d been lured away. She opened her mouth to call him, but before she uttered a word, before she’d moved away from the pillar, the quick clip of footsteps dragged her attention from the man she loved to the figure rushing toward him… an elegant, beautifully dressed, obviously wealthy woman.
Babs looked back at Toby in time to see his cheating, lying face break into a smile that said he knew this person intimately. Anger doubled Babs over and made her gag followed by a wave of nausea that sent her stumbling against the pillar. But she couldn’t drag her eyes away from the scene unveiling across the street.
Toby leaned forward as the woman reached his side and Babs braced herself to see them kiss. Anger and jealousy twirled in a painful dance that left her weak, blurring her vision for a moment. When it cleared, she wondered if they had kissed and she’d missed it, because Toby had dropped his bags, had taken the woman’s arm and together they walked to the passage at the side of the end-of-terrace house.
Babs had already explored the side passage and knew it led to a generous back garden. Weeks before, while on one of her early morning visits to the house, she’d seen a van pull up and a tall, well-built man climb out. The van proclaimed him to be a gardener but her suspicious eyes saw the muscled body and was instantly convinced that the writer was cheating on Toby.
Her suspicions increased when the man didn’t knock on the front door. Instead, with an air of entitlement that shouted he’d done it before, he sauntered down the side passage and vanished from sight. He’d not been carrying any tools of his trade nor did he return to his van over the next hour. Neither was there any sign of Misty at her desk. Gardening, pah! Toby needed to know what was going on behind his back. Filled with the anger of an avenging angel, Babs crossed the road and made her way to the side of the house.
It was a sunny morning, but the narrow passageway was bordered on one side by the house and on the other by a high wall so little light filtered through. A wooden gate separating it from the garden beyond was shut with a simple lever catch. No lock. She pressed her ear to the rough surface of the gate wanting to hear grunts and groans of passion. She pictured herself breaking the bad news to Toby, then offering him consolation. But if the gardener and writer were fornicating in the garden, the sound was smothered by loud music. Babs needed to know… she needed proof she could take to Toby.
Her fingers closed over the lever and pressed gently. It was the point of no return. She pushed the gate open. It creaked loudly but the sound was smothered by the music and she stepped into the garden with high hopes. What she wanted to see was a tawdry, compromising scene involving a naked gardener and a cheating, sluttish, wannabe writer.
So certain she was of what she was going to find, that it took a few seconds for Babs’ brain to process the mundanity of what she was seeing. The gardener was on his knees with his attention on what he was doing – but he wasn’t doing any naked female. His frowning concentration was on the spirit level he was holding on the top of a low brick wall.
Her grunt of annoyed disbelief was louder than she’d intended and before she could step back into the passage and disappear, the gardener looked her way.
Babs pasted on a smile and stepped forward. ‘Hi, I’m sorry to bother you.’
Keeping his eyes on her, he reached a dirty hand behind to switch off the radio. The same dirty hand pushed thick curling hair from his eyes as he got to his feet. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I live up the road–’ Babs wave
d a hand towards the front of the house, the gesture deliberately vague. ‘–and saw your van. I was thinking of having work done and wondered if I could have a business card.’
‘Sure.’ He brushed dirt from his hands, reached into a pocket and pulled a pile of cards out. Separating one, he shoved the rest back. ‘Here you go, my mobile and website.’
‘Thanks so much.’ Babs took it, looked at it with feigned interest and slipped it into her coat pocket. ‘This is a nice garden.’ It was. She hadn’t expected it to be so large.
‘It was a bit flat and boring so the owner came up with an interesting plan.’ The gardener nudged the wall he was building with the toe of his shoe. ‘This is going to be a raised flower bed and there’ll be another on the other side with grass or maybe AstroTurf in between.’ He smiled again. ‘I’m not keen on the fake stuff but the final decision isn’t mine.’ He pointed towards the shed. ‘Between this area and that, there’s going to be a wild flower bed. There’ll be a path through it to the shed which is going to be painted in pastel shades so that it blends in a bit.’ He prodded the half-built flower bed again. ‘There’s going to be hardy fuchsias in here. They’ll give nice colour all summer and are fairly easy to maintain.’
Babs struggled to keep an interested expression in place. ‘It’s going to be lovely. I know Misty, of course. The noise doesn’t bother her?’ Babs indicated the radio.
‘No.’ He held his hands cupped over his ears. ‘If she’s working, she uses headphones, can’t hear a thing. I don’t need to bother her when I come around. Everything I need is there in the shed.’ Obviously keen to reassure a prospective client that he was a thoughtful, conscientious worker, he indicated the neighbours on one side with a jerk of his thumb. ‘I don’t bother the neighbours either, they’re away on that side.’ His dirty thumb moved to the other side. ‘I spoke to the elderly couple on that side, they said I could hold a rock concert in here and they wouldn’t hear it.’
Babs gave the laugh that he seemed to expect. ‘Right. That’s great.’ She’d heard enough. ‘Thanks for your card, I’ll be in touch.’
Back on the road, she took the card out, tore it into pieces and tossed it into the breeze. She’d no use for the stupid man’s services. She’d wanted a tawdry affair, something she could wave under Toby’s nose.
Still, her time hadn’t been wasted, she’d learned how easy it was to access the back garden. Over the next few weeks, she visited several times, waiting until it was dark to sneak around the side of the house, open the gate and hurry inside. She discovered the shed was never locked but there was nothing of interest in it and, behind it, a nasty-smelling compost heap didn’t encourage further exploration.
Once, the light had been left on in the kitchen. Babs crept up to the windowsill and peered into the room, then slid along the wall to the French doors. She wanted to sneer at the candles that sat in the middle of the dining table and on the shelving unit behind… she wanted to but she couldn’t, not with tears running down her face…
Once, she saw Toby’s jacket draped over the back of one of the chairs and she was filled with a desperate longing to bury her nose in it. She stood with her face pressed to the glass for a long time until, startled by the opening of the kitchen door, she jumped back to blend in with the shadows and slink away.
62
Babs
That Saturday night Babs waited for the distinctive creak of the wooden gate to tell her that Toby and the woman had gone through to the garden. When it didn’t come, curiosity forced her across the street. She stepped around the bags Toby had carelessly dropped and crossed the small front garden to the side of the house. Muffled groans coming from the side passage fell into the silence and painted a clear picture for her. They twisted her heart and brought her to a standstill, a hand over her mouth to stop the cry of despair.
She should leave. Put a stop to the heartache she was causing herself. Face the truth that Toby wasn’t coming back to her. He’d never intended to.
She should leave, she knew she should, but her obsession was deep-rooted and her feet moved forward. At the edge of the house, she stopped again, her ears tuned to the sound of passion that drifted on the night air from the dank side passage. Had they been overcome with lust before they managed to open the gate?
Babs edged nearer, gripped the quoin brick and leaned forward to peer down the passageway. Little light filtered through to the end but enough to show her the figure of the woman straddling Toby. The groans were coming from her. The rhythmic sound of passion. Conflicting emotions of love and hatred kept Babs immobile, her eyes fixed on the woman as she got to her feet, still groaning.
Babs waited for Toby to get up and when he didn’t, when it finally struck her that the woman’s continued moaning was bizarre, she stepped forward.
The woman turned with a gasp when she saw her. ‘I think he’s dead.’
No, it wasn’t possible. Babs rushed forward, squatted down and pushed back Toby’s sleeve to feel for a pulse. There was one but it was faint. She dropped his wrist, then reached a hand to his face, her breath catching as her fingers, almost despite themselves, lingered in a caress. She swallowed the sob and moved to the still warm stretch of skin between Toby’s jaw and the collar of his shirt to feel for his carotid pulse. It was stronger.
The woman was standing close by, lines of worry on her face. But any sympathy Babs might have felt was wiped away by the sight of the elegant, classy clothes and the scent of expensive perfume that cut through the dank smell of the side passage. The holdalls made sense then. Toby was leaving the writer woman all right but he was moving on, not returning to Babs. This was the woman Toby had chosen. A more elegant, sophisticated, and wealthier woman.
Despite all the behaviour management courses Babs had done, anger always simmered beneath the surface waiting to erupt or, as in that moment, to ooze insidiously as the woman hovered anxiously, shuffling from one expensive shoe to the other. Each movement sent her scent wafting over Babs, triggering a memory of Toby nuzzling her neck, telling her how much he loved her natural smell. How much he loved her. How she made his life worthwhile… all the lies he told and she foolishly believed.
All the lies.
She felt Toby’s heart beating under her fingers, a tiny dart of pain shooting through her as she finally acknowledged that despite all her work and years of planning, despite all his words, all his promises, his heart didn’t beat for her.
‘He is dead, isn’t he?’ The woman’s voice, soft, educated, thick with sorrow and shock.
Babs felt the anger oozing from every pore, felt herself bathed in its toxic mess as she struggled to her feet. ‘Yes, I’m afraid he is.’
Later, when the grave was ready for its occupant, Babs picked up Toby’s wrist again, shocked to find the radial pulse stronger. Strong enough to worry her. She sent Gwen to lift the legs so she wouldn’t feel the waft of his breath as they carried him to the side of the raised flower bed. Babs felt his warm breath on her cheek as she struggled to get him upright and she was almost sure she heard him grunt when he landed inside.
With Gwen gone to fetch the holdalls, Babs acted quickly and shovelled the soil in over Toby’s face and chest as quickly as she could. It was easy to ignore the faint cough she heard, easy to aim the next loaded spade of soil to land on his face. There were no further sounds after that.
Babs looked across the table at the two detectives as she finished her story. She guessed neither the severe-faced older one or the one with the clownish make-up had a clue what loving someone like Toby was like. The gut-wrenching pain of seeing the man you loved so desperately cast you aside and move on to someone else.
It seemed ironic to Babs that a Rolex watch which had contributed to her financial disaster was now proving her guilt. She remembered pushing it out of the way to take Toby’s pulse, the idea that she should remove it dismissed instantly when her fingers felt the steady beat that told her he was still alive.
‘I paid eight grand for th
at watch. Extra to have it inscribed. He told me I was spoiling him, that it was too much.’ Babs laughed briefly, the sound lacking humour. ‘He didn’t mean that, of course. Toby never thought money spent on him was too much.’ She looked down at her bare hands. ‘I hoped he’d ask me to marry him, that we’d be together forever. Even when he moved on to that writer, I thought he’d come back to me. He told me…’ She met the older detective’s eyes. ‘Lies. He told me lies and I believed them.’
‘You still loved him?’
Babs thought she heard a touch of sympathy in the question. ‘Loved him or hated him. To borrow from the great John Dryden, thin partitions do their bounds divide.’ She dropped her eyes to her hands again. ‘At that moment, I suppose hate had the upper hand. I hated him for wanting Gwen more than me.’
‘And if you couldn’t have him, she wasn’t going to?’ Collins said with a sneer.
Babs looked at her. There was no hint of sympathy in the younger detective’s cold eyes. This wasn’t a woman who was going to obsess over a man, who would ever understand the way love could consume you. For a second, Babs envied her, but only for a second. It might have been an obsession but for a while it had been paradise.
‘No, it wasn’t quite that simple,’ she said, staring into the heavily made-up eyes. ‘More a case of, if I couldn’t have him, nobody was going to.’
63
Misty
It had been four hours since the detectives had left the interview room. The solicitor shrugged and raised a ginger eyebrow when I asked her if this was normal practice.
‘There’s no normal when it comes to murder, I’m afraid. Best thing is to sit back and try to relax.’ She opened her briefcase, took out a neat laptop which she opened on the table and sat glued to it, ignoring me.
The Lies He Told: a gripping psychological suspense thriller Page 21
