He is Watching You

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘I suppose not.’

  A man walked in carrying his own chair. Lisa recognised him as the regular host of the meeting. He called himself Ian and told the same story every week. Sure enough he ran through it again. It was a standard tale of woe, of how he had once had a wife, a nice house and a future but alcohol had taken it all away from him and now he was doing what he could to get it back. Weren’t they all? His story was for the benefit of any new people. It was also to break the ice, to get people talking about their own experiences. There didn’t seem to be a shortage of people wanting to do that. Some meetings were like that. Lisa sat quiet the whole time. The man with the nice eyes was quiet until the very end, when the host solicited him to speak. It took a couple of prompts but he relented.

  ‘Yeah, okay. I’ve been to a few of these. Not here though. I have a . . . an addiction. A problem. I take my hat off to the people around the room that have spoken so far and are able to say exactly what they are. I’m not there yet. But I know I have an addiction. And I slipped up really recently. I didn’t want to but I didn’t feel like I had a choice. I had been a few weeks clean, I was planning on getting to a month but then I slipped the once and one thing led to another . . .’ He paused. Lisa dared a look over to see if he was getting emotional. He was shaking his head and his eyes were down. She couldn’t tell.

  Ian took advantage of the pause to get his own voice heard. ‘So today is day one. And it’s okay to have a few of those. As many day ones as it takes. You made it here, though. You should be positive about that. You know your problem and you want to change. I don’t know your story but I bet you’re a lot further along than you were. We’ve all been there. Don’t beat yourself up too much for taking fourteen steps forward in those two weeks and then slipping one step back. You’re still closer to where you want to be.’

  ‘I guess that’s true.’

  ‘No doubt about it.’ Ian was beaming. Lisa always thought he was a little too delighted with his own advice. Like he saw himself as more than just the bloke who sent out the time for the meeting. He was still an addict who needed these meetings. Just like everyone else.

  There were some murmured voices of support around the room. The man flicked those handsome eyes left to meet with Lisa’s and offered her a smile. She returned it awkwardly.

  The meeting came to an end and she stood up. She refilled her coffee cup from the flask. It was part of her routine. She would walk it to the bench over the road, the one that overlooked the park. She would sit there and finish her drink and then walk back home. She liked to walk home. Her route took her past two off-licences and a pub called The Mariner. Sometimes she would even drop into the pub and buy a coke. She would sit at the bar on her own and drink it while she watched the regulars with their beers and wines. It was the only time she ever wanted to go there. Saturdays were her day to show the world that she was winning. It was a symbolic day for her. The weekends used to be when she was at her worst. It was how all this had started. You could always justify a drink at the weekend.

  Today, she fancied just the bench. The road outside was busy. She had to jog across while balancing her cup. She made it to the other side and sat down.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ The man with the nice eyes stood over her.

  ‘No,’ Lisa lied. Straight away she was thinking of how long she would have to stay before she could get up and leave without offending him. She even considered getting up straight away. Saturdays weren’t about making friends. They were about hiding from her former self. He sat down. She kept her gaze forward and shuffled a little to increase the gap between them on the bench.

  ‘Do they help?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘The meetings . . . do they help?’

  ‘Depends what you want help with.’

  ‘I just want to stop. I notice you didn’t talk in there. I wondered if maybe you thought they were a waste of time?’

  ‘It’s not really why I go — to talk about it, I mean. Everyone’s different. But, yeah, they help me.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. I guess I’m just looking for someone to tell me how I do this. I’ve had enough of people telling me that it’s something you have to do on your own.’

  Lisa looked over at him. He was gazing straight out into the distance. His tone was tinged with melancholy and desperation. She remembered being there. ‘You have to want to do it. No one can do that bit for you. But once you do it, other people can help, sure they can. It’s a big thing to go to one of these meetings. You’re trying to make it better at least. That’s the best I can offer you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He sounded genuine.

  ‘No problem.’ She stood up quickly; it was like a reaction. She even surprised herself. Her coffee slopped over the sides of the cup and onto her hands. She sucked the liquid off her fingers. ‘See you next week?’ She didn’t know why she had said that. It was like a panicked reaction. She didn’t want to see him next week or any week. That wasn’t what Saturdays were for.

  He looked up at her. ‘Maybe!’ he said. His grin seemed tinged with mischief.

  Lisa walked hurriedly away.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Harry Blaker! I heard there was a Major Crime Senior Officer on the way but I didn’t realise they were going to have to dig one up!’

  ‘I’m not dead yet, Vince. How are you? Still ugly as hell I see.’

  ‘I seem to remember your wife disagreeing.’

  ‘You’ve moved on from the mum jokes at least.’

  Inspector Harry Blaker took up Vince’s hearty handshake. The grip was crushing as always. With men like Vince Arnold, handshakes were more of a competition than a welcome. Harry had worked with Vince a number of times. Vince was generally his go-to man if he wanted someone bringing in — the more dangerous the better. He was a man who loved to nick a murderer. A dying breed.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve got a mum reference somewhere,’ Vince said. He was short and squat, almost as wide as he was tall. His hair still looked like it was shaped by the army, his freshly shaven face likewise.

  Harry, in comparison, was well aware that he was perhaps the anti-Vince. He’d been two days without a shave, he had lost the ability to shape his hair into anything a long time ago, and age and a lack of desire to stay in shape had seen his strong frame become somewhat smudged around the edges. ‘I don’t doubt it. So what have we got that you can’t handle? And it had better be good.’ Vince and Harry were standing in a clearing in the thick woodland that doubled as a car park. There were already a number of police vehicles on the scene but they were all silent and vacant, a CSI van among them. The side door was popped and he had seen a blur of white suit walk in and out of it already. The closest vehicle to him looked a lot more suited to their rural surroundings: an old style, bottle-green Land Rover. It looked clean and well cared for.

  ‘Hit and run, I hear,’ Vince said. ‘I’m sure they’ve saved a special briefing for you though, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure they have. I assume you had the one where you can just sit and colour-in if you want to?’

  Vince roared and slapped Harry on the shoulder hard enough for it to sting. ‘The dead fella is out on the road. There’s a club house just through the woods there. Have you been here before?’

  ‘Been here? No — should I have?’

  ‘I’m a regular. It’s a clay pigeon place. I’ve got my own shotgun now. It’s a lovely way to spend a morning up here. Twenty stands, pretending each spinning clay is your wife’s face.’ Vince lifted his arms like he was holding a weapon and closed one eye to squint down its imaginary barrel.

  ‘Is this your wife now, Vince, or still mine?’

  ‘Listen, I’ve got a very specific set of skills — you know me! If you need something sorted, I can do a little something. Mate’s rates!’ That roar of laughter was back again. A uniform sergeant appeared at the entrance to the woodland. He was clearly awaiting his time to interrupt. Harry got the hint and made his way o
ver.

  ‘I’ll sign you in. I appreciate you’re too important to write your name out these days!’ Vince called out after him as he followed the uniform sergeant into the woodland.

  ‘We’re down this way, sir,’ the sergeant said. Harry was a few paces behind. The path was well worn, lined with ferns and bushes on either side as well as mature trees. The path led to another clearing. This one had a wooden hut in it. The side facing them was open and the roof had an overhang. A Portakabin lay just beyond it and was signposted as a toilet. From here a number of other paths spread off. Some of them had labels high up in the trees. STAND ONE was the most prominent and a thick black arrow that had run some of its colour pointed the way there.

  Under the wooden overhang was a picnic bench that was being used to hold police paperwork and kit. There was a sort of counter over to the left-hand side. A few kitchen facilities punctured the surfaces behind. An older man in khaki trousers and a short-sleeved t-shirt stood behind it. He was still and quiet, as if he was taking in all of the activity. He also wore a quilted vest with deep pockets in its sides. He had his hands thrust into them. He looked every bit the shooting enthusiast.

  ‘We’re using this as a bit of a point for kit. I’m Sergeant McCallister — well, Paul. So what do you know, sir?’

  ‘Dead guy. Came in as an RTC, right? That’s about it.’

  ‘Not much then. Well, it doesn’t look like your standard RTC to me. The poor fella damned near had his head taken off. The traffic boys don’t reckon the driver even slowed up. That Town-and-Country-looking gent back over by the kettle is John. He was working with our victim this morning. He was gone before anything happened but he came back when he heard the commotion. He lives local and knows the victim well.’

  ‘Has anyone spoken to him?’

  ‘We’ve got his details. That’s about it.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll have a chat with him.’

  ‘Did you want to do that first? He seems very keen to be making everyone tea. I think he needs to be busy. Or did you want to go and see our victim? He’s still in situ.’

  ‘He won’t be going anywhere any time soon.’ Harry looked over towards John. His expression hadn’t changed. His eyes seemed to have lost their focus, his lips were pulled back in a sort of permanent grimace. Sure signs of shock. ‘I’ll speak to John. Then he can go home.’

  John was quick to offer tea. The sergeant was right. Tea making had become his purpose and he was clinging on to it.

  ‘Not for me, thanks. Are you okay, John?’

  ‘Not really, you know. I don’t know what to make of it all, really. I’ve done this a thousand times. I come here most days. Ron does too. He runs the site. Not always at the weekend but he was covering today. We got let down.’

  ‘What do you do, John?’

  ‘On Saturdays I run the groups. We get parties down here . . . stag parties, office outings or a just a few mates getting together. It’s pocket money, really, but I get to shoot for free when I want to. And it gets me out the house. I walk them round the stands, give them a bit of coaching where I need to. Nothing too stressful.’

  ‘The skipper over there, he said you had gone already when the accident happened?’

  ‘Accident? Is that what you’re saying now? When I got here I was asked to stay because you lot thought it was suspicious.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem right to me. They say he got run down out front. I can’t think of any reason why he would even have needed to go that way. Not out of his Landy.’

  ‘Landy?’

  ‘His Land Rover. The Series 2.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s his in the car park. I did see it. The site doesn’t go over the other side then?’

  ‘No, not at all. It’s a public right-of-way on the other side. We don’t have any stands pointing that way for obvious reasons.’

  ‘And do you keep records of who’s been here?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We have to for safety reasons.’

  ‘Have you handed those details over to anyone yet?’

  ‘No. I’ll look them out.’

  ‘Did anyone stand out? Did Ron get into any disagreements, anyone complain or make a scene?’

  ‘No. We don’t get complaints. I can’t remember any at least. Not ever. And Ron’s such a good guy . . . or at least he was.’

  ‘Okay, John. My colleague has your details. You don’t need to stick around if you want to get home.’

  ‘I don’t really know what to do. I think I might stay and lock up. I might be able to help. I said I would take Tucker back to John’s wife, too. I’m kind of putting that off, you know?’

  ‘Tucker?’ Harry repeated. John looked to the ground behind where Harry stood. Harry turned and stooped to see what he was looking at. He could just see a furry nose at first. He squatted down until he could see the full face of a handsome spaniel peering out through sad eyes. ‘Hey, Tucker!’ he said. ‘Will you come say hello?’ Harry had much more time for dogs than people.

  ‘Only if you’ve got a biscuit for that one. He doesn’t come out for anyone but Ron. Never left his side.’

  ‘Like all good dogs.’ Harry moved a little closer. Gently, he lifted his hand. Tucker strained towards it, his nose twitching. When he realised Harry had nothing for him he moved back to resting his chin on his paw. He was sandy coloured and his collar displayed his name in big letters. A piece of frayed rope stuck out from under it.

  ‘Where is he normally tied up, John?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him tied. Where he is now, that’s where he takes himself when the shooting starts. Otherwise he’s on Ron’s heel. He never bothers anyone. He’s a good dog.’

  Harry reached in to pat Tucker on his soft head. He stood back up. He thanked John and moved back to where Sergeant Paul McCallister was talking into his phone. He finished his call as Harry approached.

  ‘He okay?’ he said, gesturing towards John.

  Harry looked back over. John still looked in shock. Harry shrugged. ‘He will be.’

  ‘Did you want to go and see him then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They walked to the scene. He noted that the sergeant’s demeanour changed a little as they approached and when they reached the roadside he pointed the way and excused himself. Harry had never been one to worry about gruesome scenes. Death was inevitable. It was coming for us all and the best you could hope for was to go out with your trousers still pulled up. This was not something Ron had managed. Ron’s body was laid out at the side of the road. Harry guessed it was as he had been found. He was a bit of a mess. Harry would often find bodies laid out straight, their heads tilted back, their clothes cut open where those first on scene or ambulance crews had tried to breathe life back into them. It wasn’t his preference; it hindered an investigation. It wasn’t the case with Ron. Anyone would have seen that he was beyond saving. His body was bent in half. And not the way it might naturally bend. He was facing down into the ground, too, and his head was flatter than it should have been. His body was filthy overall, his trousers had been dragged down to his ankles by the forces in play and he was mixed up with bits of the hedgerow. The bank itself was scarred; a chunk was missing from it and strewn all over the road. The CSI stood up when she became aware of Harry’s approach. She stepped away from Ron and pulled her mask down.

  Harry spoke first. ‘Looks like he was dragged a fair way.’

  ‘And how are you, Harry? Still skipping the niceties, I see. We talked about this didn’t we?’

  ‘We did. I think I told you then about teaching an old dog new tricks.’

  ‘I can’t imagine a time when Harry Blaker was anything but an old dog.’ Harry couldn’t help but smile. Charlotte ‘Charley’ Mace pulled the hood down that was fitted to her paper suit and ran her fingers through her short hair. Harry had worked with her any number of times on everything from minor burglaries when he was in CID all the way up to the more serious end of the scale. Harry liked her. She wa
s very competent, she knew her job and she had the edge about her that you needed to manage a crime scene effectively.

  ‘So, how are you? Is that what you were after?’

  ‘Well, it’s a start. I’ve been better, Harry.’

  ‘There you are, that’s the problem with small talk. Now I’ve opened up to hear your woes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t waste my breath on anything personal — don’t worry about that. I take it you’ve come from the hut up the path? I told that sergeant that it all needs cordoning off. If we think this man’s been done in and the suspect was up there this morning, why are we not treating it like any other scene?’

  Harry scowled back towards the way he had come. ‘I get the impression everyone seems to be happy this is a hit and run rather than a murder. We’re missing any sign of a motive, right? The only answers are going to be on Ron here. Any early thoughts?’

  ‘That’s a big call this early.’

  ‘It would be. We’re not making any calls. First impressions?’

  ‘Well, the Serious Crash Team have already been out and done their bit. They took photos of the scene, measurements and all that. They can’t find any evidence of a car skidding, braking or even swerving before our friend was hit. Either he jumped out and surprised them or this was done on purpose. I think they’re the reason you got a call.’

  ‘Cars would shift along here. There’s no limit is there?’

  ‘No, but the traffic lot . . . they reckon he was hit at a lower speed. Too fast and you’re thrown straight up apparently. You have to be going slower to drag someone under the wheels. That’s another reason why they called it as suspicious. To hit someone at a lower speed you have to mean it. You would be able to stop, rather than dragging him twenty metres.’

  ‘So the driver meant to hurt him.’

  ‘Or kill him.’

  ‘It would have been useful if Crash had stuck around to talk to me about their theories.’

  ‘It would. They had some good ones, too. If you look further up there you can see some skid marks. One theory is that they’re linked to this scene. They’re certainly fresh. They reckon he might have kept the momentum up until the body came free from the underside, then slammed on the brakes.’