The Watcher

by Kate Medina

  ‘This isn’t The Hound of the Baskervilles,’ Jessie said, forcing a smile.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘If it was, you’d be dead by now.’ She had meant it as a joke, to lighten the atmosphere that suddenly felt lead heavy, but as soon as the words had left her mouth, she realized how ridiculous a statement it had been. This charity was Cherry’s life’s passion, the dogs her babies. The thought that someone or something was letting themselves in at night must be horrifying. And now Jessie had planted the seed that the person might be dangerous.

  ‘My boyfriend is a military policeman. This is totally outside his jurisdiction as it’s not military, but I can ask him to come around and have a look. Maybe give you some advice about security.’

  Cherry nodded gratefully. ‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be,’ Jessie said. ‘I’m sure he’d be fine about it.’

  Would Callan be fine about it? He didn’t seem to be busy at work at the moment, so he’d have time, and how hard could sourcing and installing a couple of cheap CCTV cameras be?

  ‘That would be great. Thank you so much.’

  ‘I’ll call you when I’ve spoken to him.’ She held up the bone. ‘Could I take the bone?’

  Cherry looked even more doubtful.

  ‘I’ll return it.’

  ‘What do you want it for?’

  ‘Just for, uh—’ she broke off. For evidence – she didn’t say it. The words sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears. Evidence of what?

  ‘Sure. If you want to,’ she said. ‘Do you think that we should be worried? For the dogs or ourselves?’

  Jessie shook her head. ‘No.’ But even as she said it, she really wasn’t sure. She had met some crazies in her life, but this was new to her. ‘Shall we get Lupo?’ she asked, changing the subject. She had nothing else to add on the shelter’s night visitor and she needed to get going. They had a killer to find. She would speak to Callan though, ask him to come and take a look. If she mentioned it to Marilyn, he’d laugh her out of the place: You’re supposed to be finding the nut jobs, not turning into one.

  31

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Callan asked, when Jessie stepped into the living room, towing Lupo on a lead, behind her.

  ‘It’s an animal commonly known as a dog,’ Jessie replied. ‘Or Canis Lupus Familiaris if you want to get technical.’

  ‘Whose is he?’

  ‘He’s ours.’

  Callan didn’t smile. ‘What?’

  He looked tired, his amber eyes washed out and bloodshot, black rings underneath them, as pronounced as hers when she’d swum with mascara. She hadn’t picked a great moment to bring a wolf-dog into the house. But was there ever a great moment? And she hadn’t had much choice around the timing.

  ‘He’s ours,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve, uh … we’ve adopted him.’

  ‘What?’

  Jessie hunched her shoulders. ‘Stop saying “What?”. It’s making me nervous.’

  ‘How about “What the fuck?” Is that any better?’

  ‘Nope.’ She stroked Lupo’s head. ‘He needed a home.’

  ‘Lots of dogs need homes. I didn’t think we were currently in the market to offer creatures homes. We both work full time. And we’ve …’ His eyes dropping from hers to study the carpet. ‘I’ve got a few things on my mind at the moment.’ Unconsciously, his hand rose to his head. His conscious brain engaged as his fingers brushed his temple and he turned the movement into a drag of his fingers though his blond crew cut.

  ‘I know that it’s not ideal, but—’ she broke off, her mind’s eye finding those gold-framed images of Lupo on Claudine Fuller’s mantelpiece. The huge, soulful black and white photograph on canvas that she’d also spied in the kitchen. ‘He needed a home.’

  ‘Where did you get him from? And can you take him back?’

  ‘He was the Fullers’ dog.’

  ‘Who the hell are the …’ he began. ‘The murdered couple?’

  Jessie nodded.

  ‘Can’t a dog shelter take him?’

  ‘A dog shelter did take him.’

  ‘And – so?’

  ‘I just—’ she broke off. How to explain it, so she didn’t sound mad. ‘The woman, Claudine, loved him. Lupo was Claudine’s baby and she’s not here to look after him any more. I went to their autopsy yesterday and saw her. She looked so sad.’

  The look on Callan’s face was pure incredulity. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘I know she’s dead, but she still looked so sad. It was as if she was thinking about Lupo while she was being killed, knowing that she was leaving her baby behind with no one to look after him.’

  ‘You’re nuts. And no.’

  She clearly hadn’t managed to explain herself without sounding mad.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I love your soft side, even if you do a great job of hiding it most of the time, but we’re not the right home for any dog, let alone a dog like that. Do you understand how much exercise he’ll need? How much mental stimulation? He’s not a Chihuahua.’

  ‘Our next-door neighbour had two Chihuahuas when I was growing up and they were aggressive little fuckers. They’re the land piranhas of the dog world. They used to squeeze under the neighbour’s gate and take chunks out of my ankles when I was walking home from school.’

  Callan smiled despite himself. ‘A Pomeranian then.’

  ‘I’m not a small-dog person. We’re not small-dog people.’

  ‘We’re not any dog people.’

  Tilting her head, she cartoon-grinned. ‘But we could be. I like walking. You run every day and you can take him with you.’

  ‘One reason I run is to have time alone, get away from people.’

  ‘I hate to point out the obvious, but he’s not a person.’

  ‘Things. Get away from things. Be on my own.’

  Jessie put her arm around Lupo and lifted his paw, in a ‘hiya’ wave. ‘I’ll be good company,’ she said, in a squeaky voice. ‘And I won’t annoy you at all. You’ll hardly notice I’m there. And you might get to quite like running with a big, hairy wolf-dog like me.’

  Callan rolled his eyes, suppressing a smile. ‘Still no.’

  Jessie sensed a chink in his armour, dived for it. ‘You like him really. I know you do.’

  ‘I really don’t.’

  Another paw-wave. Lupo stood statue still beside her, despite her clutching his paw. ‘He’s like you, Callan. Cool, calm, collected, a still-waters-run-deep kinda guy. He’s your doppelgänger. How could you reject him, you cruel, cruel man?’

  ‘He’ll give you a bite in a minute, if he’s got any sense.’

  Jessie lowered Lupo’s paw to the ground, slowly, gently, casting exaggerated looks at him. ‘Phew. I got away with it!’

  The ghost of another smile. ‘For fuck’s sake, Jessie Flynn. Why the hell did I ever get tied up with you?’

  She grinned. ‘Because you love me. And because I keep you on your toes by doing all sorts of unexpected things like bringing huge, hairy wolf-dogs into the house.’

  ‘It’s not going to do your …’ he tailed off, the subject still sensitive, despite all the progress she’d made. Despite what he had going on in his head – the bullet, the mystery letter that couldn’t be anything but bad – all far more important than her stupid psychological problems.

  ‘OCD? It’s not going to do my OCD much good,’ she finished.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. He’s white. He matches.’

  ‘Huskies blow their hair twice a year.’

  ‘Blow their hair?’

  ‘Shed. All of it. Twice a year. There’ll be hair everywhere.’

  ‘Why do you think Hoovers were invented?’

  Callan sighed. ‘For the record, I think it’s a terrible idea—’

  Jumping up, Jessie flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Thank you, thank you thank you.’ Pulling back, she met his gaze, biting her lip. ‘And now that you’v
e agreed to give a needy dog a home, there’s just another teeny-tiny good deed that I need you to do.’

  32

  Once Jessie had unpacked the bowls and food that she’d bought for Lupo from Paws for Thought and given him dinner, she fetched Callan a cold bottle of beer from the fridge, poured herself a glass of Sauvignon, and settled down on the sofa next to him, tucking her bare feet under his legs, taking his hand. Despite the beer and the cosying, his expression remained one of pure cynicism.

  ‘Cherry Goodwin, the woman who runs Paws for Thought, thinks that someone has been breaking in,’ she began.

  ‘Breaking in to do what?’

  ‘To do nothing, though that sounds ridiculous now that I’m saying it out loud.’

  Callan frowned. ‘They must have a purpose. People don’t break into places for no reason.’

  ‘You’d think not – but in this case, that doesn’t appear to be true.’

  ‘Tell me what she said – exactly what she said.’

  ‘She told me that she’s sure someone has been visiting Paws for Thought at night.’

  ‘Breaking in or visiting? They’re very different.’

  ‘There’s no sign of a break-in, so I suppose it’s more like visiting. Uninvited visiting.’

  ‘So how does he or she get access?’

  ‘Cherry doesn’t know, but she assumes that he or she has a key or can pick locks.’

  ‘Is it every night?’

  Jessie shook her head. ‘Again, she doesn’t really know, but she doubts that it’s every night. Probably more like once or twice a week. There’s a cage at the far end of the compound that she tries to keep free so that she has somewhere to put emergency abuse cases. It’s furnished, if that’s the right word, with a basket, dog toys, bowls, et cetera.’

  He nodded. ‘And …’

  ‘And she’s found, on quite a few occasions, evidence that something … someone I suppose, has been in the cage.’

  ‘How does she know?’

  ‘Because she found an imprint in the basket.’

  ‘An imprint? Of what?’

  ‘Something big. Bigger than a dog, or at least bigger than most dogs. She thinks that it was a human.’

  Callan raised an eyebrow. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘And she found teeth marks on the toys in the cage.’

  ‘Human teeth marks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He laughed. ‘Jesus Christ, there are some proper weirdos out there.’

  ‘Don’t laugh,’ she said, slapping his leg.

  ‘I’m not laughing.’

  ‘You are laughing, and it’s not funny.’

  His amused gaze met hers. ‘It’s a bit funny, to be fair.’

  ‘It’s really not funny, Callan. It’s incredibly disturbing. I told Cherry to call the police, but she’s already had a community liaison officer around and he wasn’t helpful, and there’s never been anything stolen, any damage or any harm done to any of the dogs.’ She reached for his hand, entwined her fingers with his.

  ‘What?’ he asked, a blend of amusement and suspicion in his voice.

  ‘Will you go and have a chat with her?’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘To reassure her. You’re the policeman-cum-dog-whisperer now, after all. You’re the perfect man for the job.’

  ‘I’m a military policeman-cum-very-reluctant-dog-owner and Paws for Thought is civilian jurisdiction.’

  ‘Your visit need not be on an official basis. Just go as a …’ She was going to say, friend, but given that she’d only met Cherry once, and Callan had never met her, friend was a stretch. ‘You won’t need to do any actual policing.’

  ‘Does she feel under threat?’

  ‘She said not, but I’m not sure she was telling the truth. I’d feel under threat if I was her.’

  Callan nodded without enthusiasm. ‘OK, I’ll have a look around and give her some advice about security.’

  ‘Can you also fit a couple of cheap security cameras?’ She tilted her head and smiled beseechingly. ‘Argos in Chichester opens at eight a.m. You can go before work.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Please. I promised her I’d ask you and I don’t want to let her down.’

  He grimaced. ‘I’ll go tomorrow morning. For another beer and a kiss.’

  ‘Cheap at the price.’ Tilting forward, she planted a soft kiss on his cheek, feeling the rough stubble grating her lips, then slid off the sofa, stepped over Lupo who had settled himself at Callan’s feet, and padded into the kitchen.

  33

  The cold air and silence hit Sophie like a physical shock after the dense heat of Sheiks. She had already been sick in the nightclub’s toilets, hadn’t made it to the bowl in time and had coated her calves and feet with vomit. The cubicle had rocked and swayed as she struggled to wipe herself down with toilet paper and she had slipped in the vomit, having to snatch at the toilet seat for support, covering her hand in urine. The thought that she didn’t even know whose urine it was had sobered her up just enough to realize that she’d gone too far, needed to go home. Now. Right now.

  Lucy was long gone. Sophie had been dancing with a boy she’d fancied for ages and hadn’t wanted to leave, said she’d make her own way home. Sometime later the boy had disappeared and she’d found herself alone. She was aware that she was swaying, as she tottered down the road in search of a taxi, but however hard she focused on the narrow stone slabs that edged the pavement, she couldn’t plant her feet in a straight line.

  ‘I’m pissed,’ she said, out loud, clutching onto a lamp post to steady herself. ‘So fucking pissed.’

  ‘Need a minicab, love?’

  She hadn’t noticed the car in the dimly lit street, but now she turned and saw that it was a small, dark-coloured hatchback and that she must have stumbled straight past it. She nodded to the man who was holding the passenger door open. She still felt sick, was aware that she must stink of vomit and urine, and the adrenalin of the evening was draining from her limbs. She was cold and tired and she could already feel the muggy fingers of a hangover cloying at her brain. She wanted to step into a Tardis and be magically transported to her bed, sleep until lunchtime tomorrow, wake up to the smell of roast lamb wafting up the stairs.

  As she stepped towards the car, her stiletto heel snagged between two paving stones and she staggered. A strong arm snaked around her.

  ‘Woah, love. Steady there.’

  As his face oscillated in front of her, she formed the impression of a man around her dad’s age, dark hair, black-framed glasses, the rims so thick they reminded her of joke-shop glasses people used to disguise themselves in bad comedies, chapped lips that were smiling. Smiling and speaking.

  ‘Where to, love?’

  ‘Twenty-one Marine Drive, Birdham,’ she managed.

  He gripped her arm to steady her, while she slithered awkwardly sideways in her tiny skirt. It occurred to her, momentarily as he shut the passenger door, that it was odd he’d ushered her into the front seat. She would have preferred to get into the back, like she usually did in taxis, so that she could stare out of the window and not have to chat. But now that she was settled in the warmth and comfort, she couldn’t bring herself to care. It was a car, a lift home, and taxis were like hen’s teeth on a Wednesday half-term night in Bognor. It felt so good to ease her feet from the silver stilettos. They had looked so glam with her thigh-length black dress when she’d left home, but they were now clenching her toes in a vice. Anyway, the man was nice – kind and considerate. None of the boys she’d been out with had ever opened a car door for her, or waited until she was settled before closing it, and all of them would have had a good ogle at her knickers, when her skirt had ridden up as she’d climbed in the car. He had just looked off down the road politely.

  ‘You out alone?’ he asked, pulling out into the traffic.

  She shook her head. ‘I was with a friend, but she left earlier.’

  ‘Some kind of friend to leave you on your own,
when you’re drunk.’

  He had a local accent, Sophie thought, soft and quiet. Tilting her head back against the headrest, she closed her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘She wanted to go and I wanted to stay. Anyway, I can look after myself.’

  ‘Sure you can,’ he said.

  The scent of pine from the air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror couldn’t quite mask the sharp tang of his body odour. The smell made Sophie feel even sicker, and she leant away from him, resting her head against the chill window, the cool glass salve to her thumping head.

  ‘I’ll lock the door, so that it doesn’t open by itself with you leaning against it,’ he said, and she heard locks click shut.

  Whatever, she thought, focusing on an air vent in the grimy dashboard, to try to stop her brain from slopping around inside her skull. The man had a nasty-looking cut on his forearm, she saw, as he moved again, to flick the windscreen wipers on. It had started to rain, fat drops that snapped and popped against the windscreen. She hadn’t noticed the gash on his arm when he’d ushered her into the car. Hadn’t noticed anything much.

  ‘How did you get that?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The cut. It looks nasty.’

  He glanced down at his arm. ‘Oh, uh, DIY,’ he muttered, shucking the sleeve of his jumper down to cover it. ‘I was putting up some shelves.’ He smiled across at her, showing a line of straight, white teeth. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sophie. What’s yours?’

  ‘Charles,’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

  She smiled. ‘Like the prince.’

  ‘Yeah. Like the prince.’

  ‘I like Meghan.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Sophie nodded. ‘Well, I don’t actually like her much, I’d just like to be her.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘Because I quite fancy Prince Harry.’

  ‘Don’t all young women fancy Prince Harry.’

  He turned off the main road suddenly, into a narrow, tree-lined street, and darkness closed in around them. Sophie could see only a strip of cracked tarmac, picked out by the narrow column of the headlights, and the packed trunks of trees, crowding the tarmac on either side.