The Watcher

by Kate Medina

  The Parkers’ house was at the end of the close, behind a waist-high brick wall, which bordered a small, lawned front garden. A concrete path led to a front door, the top half glazed with leaf-print-patterned glass; a concrete drive to Jessie’s left was occupied by a silver Ford Focus. She stood on the doorstep for a few more moments, not yet having summoned enough energy to knock, knowing the intensity of engagement required behind it. The enervated feeling the breeze had momentarily lifted had settled back, shroud-like, the moment she’d stepped through the Parkers’ front gate. Raising a hand to briefly smother a huge yawn, she pressed her finger on the bell.

  The door was answered, almost before she’d lowered her hand, by a slight, middle-aged man with wispy, mouse-coloured hair combed carefully across a patch of pink skin on the top of his head, shiny as a peeled egg. Pale blue eyes popped from behind wire-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Hello, you must be Dr Flynn. I’m Allan Parker, Robbie’s dad.’ The hand that shot out and enveloped Jessie’s squeezed with a strength which belied the slightness of his build. ‘Thank you so so much for coming. I can’t tell you how grateful I am – how grateful we both are. Sarah told you, of course, how much Robbie needs your help.’

  He virtually doubled in half as he backed away, still clutching Jessie’s hand, drawing her inside the hot little hallway. He brought to her mind an obsequiously welcoming courtier from the trashy period drama she’d watched on Friday, the night before all hell had broken loose with the Fullers’ murders, rain hammering at the windows, Callan working late. Workman had said that Jessie was Robbie’s last hope and clearly his father felt that acutely. It was a position she’d rather not be in, with the pressure of the murder case.

  ‘It’s my pleasure, Mr Parker,’ she said, looking at the top of his inclined head – at the pink skin through the swirl of mouse hair.

  ‘You found it OK?’ He released her hand and pushed the door closed, shutting off the last remnants of breeze. ‘We’re a bit off the beaten track out here. It’s terribly unsociable of us, but we like quiet.’ His narrow lips curled into a smile so unnatural it looked cut out from a joke book and pasted on.

  ‘I have satnav,’ Jessie said, with a brief, unconvincing smile of her own.

  There were no family photos in the cramped hallway, only a large, wall-mounted black and white photograph of what looked to be a lifeboat shed on the end of a long, wooden jetty jutting out into the sea, black water and pale polka-dotted shingle beach in the background. The photograph seemed out of place – too modern, too art house – for the house and its occupant.

  ‘Is that the lifeboat station in Selsey?’ she asked, as much to break the expectantly laden silence as anything else.

  ‘Got it in one,’ Parker said and his voice was too animated for the subject matter, too cheerily booming for the cramped hallway. ‘I found it at a gallery in Chichester.’

  ‘Do you volunteer for the lifeboats?’

  He shook his head, the joke-book smile fading from his face. ‘I always wanted to, but I never found the time. It’s been hard finding the time to do anything much,’ he mouthed, jabbing a long, pale index finger at the ceiling. ‘Since Robbie’s mother left.’

  In the potted history Workman had imparted, Jessie remembered the mention of an absent mother. ‘When did she leave, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  The raised hand flapped in an ineffectual motion on the end of his arm and his gaze wandered away, somewhere over Jessie’s head. ‘Oh, God, so many years ago that she’s just a dim and distant memory. Robbie was only nine months old.’

  ‘It must be tough bringing up a child alone,’ she murmured, thoughts of her own teenage life, her parents’ car-crash parenting rising in her mind. She pushed them away before they took hold.

  ‘I like it,’ he said, in a quiet voice.

  And for a moment, she thought that he meant bringing up a child alone. Odd.

  ‘It’s a great thing, isn’t it? People risking their lives to help others.’

  ‘Oh, right, yes, it is,’ Jessie said, her eyes re-finding the picture.

  ‘I’ve always been very drawn to the lifeboat station. I used to take Robbie there sometimes when he was little.’

  He smiled again, this one limp around the edges with suppressed sadness. Jessie figured that it was probably his normal smile – the smile that had become ‘normal’ over years of disappointment and hardship.

  ‘There’s a nice pub close to the lifeboat station and we’d pop in for fish and chips. I’d prop the Robster up on the bar stool and he’d chat to all the old timers, the boatmen. They’ve seen it all, those old boys. They don’t judge. I liked being around them – we both did. We haven’t been for a while though. Robbie stopped wanting to go.’

  Another sad, distant smile and a jerky shake of his head, the movement as if to dislodge a foreign object wedged in his brain. It reminded Jessie of Callan after he’d had an epileptic fit, when his mind was on the bullet lodged in his brain, the unconscious action of trying to eject it.

  ‘Sorry, I’m rambling. Here, let me take your coat.’

  Jessie shrugged off her puffa jacket and handed it to him.

  ‘Robbie is upstairs in his room. Are you happy to chat to him there, or do you want to chat in the lounge? I’ll make myself scarce if you prefer the lounge.’

  ‘Probably the lounge,’ Jessie said. ‘As he doesn’t yet know me, his room is too familiar. It might make him feel as if I’m intruding on his territory.’

  Parker nodded. ‘I’ll pop up and get him. Do you want a tea or coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Lemonade, Coke, water?’

  Jessie shook her head. ‘Nothing, thank you.’

  Another of those effortful pasted-on smiles and then Allan suddenly closed the distance between them with one stride, hooking a pale hand over each of Jessie’s shoulders.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, squeezing with a strength that Jessie found as surprising, as unnerving, as his handshake.

  She resisted an intense urge to wrench herself from his grasp. Though she recognized that his touch was driven by gratitude, it felt wholly, creepily inappropriate. Forcing a barely there smile of her own, she stepped purposefully sideways, pretending to study the photograph of the lifeboat station. Robbie stopped wanting to go.

  ‘Thank you for doing this,’ she heard Allan say from behind her. ‘Sarah Workman told me how busy you are and I really appreciate it. And Robbie, whatever he says or does, he appreciates it too. Beyond anything. Really beyond anything.’

  22

  ‘Shall we begin with the metaphorical, then move on to the physical?’ Marilyn suggested, unfazed. In his twenty-five years with Surrey and Sussex police, he’d seen it all; a habitually philandering married man didn’t scratch the surface.

  Jones gave a clipped, efficient nod – slightly disappointed, Workman sensed, not to have generated at least a modicum of shock in either of her guests. ‘What do you want know?’

  ‘You didn’t have any moral objection to the type of work Hugo was involved in?’

  ‘It wasn’t illegal.’

  ‘It was immoral, though.’

  Jones shrugged, her gaze steely. ‘We weren’t selling drugs, trafficking humans or selling knives to teenagers to stab each other with, unlike Tesco and Asda, and I don’t suppose you’ve been over there questioning their morality.’ Her gaze moved to Workman. ‘So, morality is a bit elastic, isn’t it? Big companies and rich people get away with not concerning themselves unduly with morals and it’s only people like me, the solid, lower- and middle-class workers who are supposed to care. Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t have the luxury of being able to care. I’m a single mother with a teenage daughter to look after and bills to pay. I’m nice to my neighbours, I don’t kick dogs or pull the wings off butterflies and I give to charity when I can afford to. I do my bit. It’s a little bit, but it is still something.’

  Marilyn nodded. It was one of the first times Workman had seen him lo
st for words. She suppressed a smile. Despite her and Jones’ surface kindred-spiritness, with their shared car choice and manner of door opening, she had been turned off by the woman’s sharp manner, had been struggling to like Jane Jones. But her opinion was turning full circle. Just as Jones’ boss, Hugo Fuller, had been a ‘does what it says on the tin’ kind of man, she was a ‘does what it says on the tin’ kind of woman, and Workman had always admired straight talking. Jones needed a secure job to pay the bills and give her daughter a decent life and no one could reasonably hold that against her.

  ‘Do you think any of the company’s clients harboured bad feelings towards Hugo Fuller?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d be surprised if any of them didn’t.’

  ‘Enough to murder him?’

  ‘If you dance with the devil …’ Jones paused. ‘Most of the people we dealt with were decent, hard-working people who were just doing their best, but a minority weren’t. And people can get aggressive when it comes to protecting the roof over their family’s head. Hugo definitely wasn’t popular among his clients, if I can put it like that.’

  They were back to the parental feelings again – how far parents would go to protect their children. Most people considered a roof over their head to be a basic right and Hugo Fuller had been enriching himself by denying people that right.

  ‘Do you remember if any clients became particularly aggressive in the past year or so?’ Marilyn asked.

  ‘There were always angry emails and phone calls, some that went further than others.’

  ‘Further?’

  ‘We had a couple turn up to the office this year. One in January and one a month or so ago. Both men. The last one was covered in tatts.’ Her mouth twisted, as she ran her hands down both arms. ‘They were everywhere. I do find tattoos quite repulsive.’

  Marilyn gave a non-committal nod. Workman wondered if he had a secret tattoo. She could imagine the teenage Marilyn ticking every box that could feasibly be described as rebellion.

  ‘How did Mr Fuller deal with the men?’ he asked.

  ‘He called the police and had them arrested. Hugo wasn’t brave.’ That cynical smile again. ‘I can give you their names.’

  ‘We’ll have them on record, if they were arrested.’

  She nodded. ‘I remember Hugo ranting about the disgusting state of the British justice system, so I assume that neither of them were charged. Hugo kept all the threatening emails and recordings of the telephone calls. I can email them to you. It’s all stored on iCloud so I can access them from my home computer.’

  Marilyn pulled a business card from his pocket and passed it to Jones. ‘My email address is on there.’

  ‘Do you think I’m at risk?’ Jones asked, laying the business card on the smoked-glass coffee table.

  ‘How visible were you to the clients?’

  ‘Not very. I was employed to organize Hugo, not to liaise with the clients.’

  ‘Who else is employed by the business?’

  ‘There are six other employees, all young, all cheap, and the turnover is pretty high – youngsters don’t stick around long these days. Hugo was the figurehead. His ego wouldn’t let him be anything else. He liked the limelight and it was very much his business.’

  ‘Can you give me a list of their names and contact details?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll print you a list before you leave and also email them to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Marilyn said. ‘Even if the murders are linked to Fuller’s business, I’d be surprised if any other employees are targeted, though obviously I can’t guarantee that. However, if you feel under threat at all at any time, call 999. Colleagues of mine will visit Winner Fuller’s other employees to inform them of Hugo’s death, ask them to be vigilant and see if they can add anything more to what you’ve told us.’ He paused. ‘Now, how about we move on to the physical.’

  Jane Jones rose from the sofa. ‘Give me a minute.’ She left the room, returning a minute later with an innocuous-looking black mobile phone, which she held out to Marilyn. ‘Hugo’s,’ she said simply.

  ‘What did he use it for?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you think he used it for?’

  ‘The physical?’ Marilyn said, holding out an evidence bag. ‘A little black phone – the electronic version of a little black book. How unoriginal.’

  Jones shrugged. ‘Originality wasn’t one of Hugo’s strong points.’

  Workman thought of poor Claudine, floating face down in the swimming pool. Had she known? Probably. If Hugo was as much of a ‘does what it says on the tin’ kind of man as Jones said he was, he probably wouldn’t have bothered to cover his tracks too thoroughly.

  ‘Why did he give it to you?’

  ‘As a nod to showing some consideration for his wife, I suppose. He kept it on him during the day and asked me to look after it for evenings and weekends.’

  ‘And you were fine with that?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought we’d had the morality discussion. Well-paid, secure jobs with decent hours are hard to find. And if I needed to leave early or take the odd morning or afternoon off to go to an event at my daughter’s school, Hugo was fine with that.’

  ‘Do you think Claudine knew about her husband’s extracurricular activities?’

  ‘She found out about a couple, a few years back. That’s when he asked me to look after his phone evenings and weekends.’

  ‘Did you take messages?’

  She shook her head. ‘I never answered it. I wasn’t his pimp – or theirs.’

  ‘Do you think Claudine knew that he was continuing having relationships outside his marriage?’

  ‘I’d be surprised if she didn’t.’

  ‘Ronseal?’ Marilyn said.

  Jones met his gaze and gave another of those cynical smiles. It was obviously her stock smile when discussing Hugo; often required, unfailingly delivered.

  ‘Do you have the names or any of the details of any of the women he had had, or was having affairs with?’

  Jones shook her head. ‘As I said before. I wasn’t his pimp or theirs.’

  ‘Were there many?’

  ‘I think he always had a couple on the go. I used to hear him laughing about them with Adrian Foster, the accounts guy. Adrian’s fiancée unequivocally wears the trousers, and I doubt that Adrian would be allowed to squeak without asking her first, so he enjoyed living vicariously through Hugo. And Hugo absolutely loved an audience, so they were both happy.’

  Marilyn nodded. ‘Do you think Hugo upset any of the women?’

  ‘I don’t doubt that he did. Call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s hard for women to have a sexual relationship with someone without getting emotionally involved to some extent, even if they start out with the intention of not doing so. But I can’t imagine that Hugo would have misled any of them, made any of them promises he had no intention of keeping.’ She smiled. ‘There’s that song, isn’t there – something about not being able to promise you golden rings, but promising you everything for tonight. That would have been Hugo’s approach, and if any of the women got upset, I’m sure that he would have been generous with parting gifts. He wasn’t poor, as I’m sure you’ve worked out.’

  ‘Hugo Fuller received two telephone calls on the night he was murdered – very shortly before he was murdered – both from an unregistered mobile phone that hasn’t been used or activated since that evening. The first call lasted for just over two minutes and the second for twenty seconds. Do you have any idea who could have made those calls to Fuller?’

  Jones shook her head. ‘No idea, I’m afraid.’

  The street lights on Jane Jones’ estate had flicked on to replace the sinking sun.

  ‘That was a depressing discussion,’ Marilyn said, as they walked back down her drive, to his Z3 parked on the roadside.

  Workman shrugged. ‘That’s life, sir. Down, dirty and not very exciting.’

  ‘I think I prefer murder and mayhem. At least there’s
life in that, if you get my meaning.’ He smiled a cynical half-smile that Jane Jones would be proud of.

  Workman nodded. She did get his meaning. Hugo had been the posh end of low-level filth and she felt as if, even having only talked about him, she could do with hopping in the shower and scrubbing herself clean.

  23

  The only things that Workman had told Jessie about Robbie, beyond the fact that his mother had walked out when he was a baby, and that he had been badly bullied since starting school, was that he had been born with a cleft lip and palate. Tessier Type 4: severe, bilateral, a deep cleft on both sides of his mouth. Baby Robbie’s had been one of the worst the surgeons had seen and though they had repaired it as best as they could, he had been left with facial disfigurement and a speech impediment.

  The doctors thought he wouldn’t make it because of the high chance of infection, Workman had told her.

  He was electively mute until he was nine years old, because the other kids teased him so badly about the sound of his voice. He still only speaks when he has to. She’d given a sad smile then. To me. He speaks to me though, when we’re doing the washing-up at the community centre.

  Fuck, Jessie had found herself thinking. This is all I need, with the murders … and Callan. I’m sure something’s up with Callan.

  And now? How did she feel now?

  Looking at Robbie, the way he walked, sidled, actually, into the sitting room, his sitting room, in his home, shoulders sunk, spine rounded, eyes glued to the hard-wearing beige carpet, a heavy dark fringe shielding his face, Jessie felt intense sadness and the uncomfortable sense of being catapulted back fifteen years, to her own miserable, marginalized post-Hartmoor Psychiatric Hospital teenage existence. Most bullies were lazy and stupid, picked on easy targets. It didn’t remotely surprise her that Robbie had been – was being – bullied.

  Relentlessly bullied, Workman had said. Relentlessly.

  Jessie extended her hand; it took Robbie a moment, from under the concealing darkness of his fringe, to notice. A pale hand emerged from the ragged sleeve of the oversized, iron-grey sweatshirt that swathed him to his thighs.