Brian’s attention was diverted by a noise.
Claudine was no hysteric. She didn’t scream. She merely made a guttural noise that was part groan, part whimper.
Brian turned his head to make sense of the sound.
‘Brian.’
He was at her side in a second. ‘What is it?’
She was staring out of the kitchen window, looking over the garden. Disgust had screwed her face up.
He followed her gaze. Through the kitchen window, out into the garden. But Claudine had not hung her washing out to dry this morning. The machine had remained silent, the line coiled up. Not now. It was stretched right across the lawn, from side to side.
And one item was neatly attached to it with a green plastic clothes peg.
‘Bloody hell,’ he murmured.
It was unmistakably a condom. Pale thin rubber, flopping in the breeze. The bulb on the end had filled with air or—
‘I did not even stretch the line out,’ Claudine protested. ‘It was coiled up. Brian. I didn’t do any washing this morning.’
His first instinct was to get it out of his wife’s sight. He raced out into the garden. Then stopped. No, he thought and walked slowly back to the house and unhooked his car keys.
Claudine watched him uneasily. ‘What are you going to do?’
He stepped out of the front door, unlocked his car and took out a pair of latex gloves and a specimen bag.
‘I’m going to find out who’s doing this,’ he said grimly. ‘People can’t just come in and,’ he paused, ‘pollute my garden. Give filthy messages to my wife. He’s been stealing your underwear and now he’s sending you filthy insults. I’m not having it.’
His silences were the worst. Claudine had learnt this soon after they had been married. His silences always meant something. Whenever he was quiet it was his mind which was busily working things out. And whatever was in his mind was almost always frightening; what he worked out was the product of a sick and suspicious mind. She hardly dared breathe because he was silent now.
Her husband turned his head very slowly to look at her. ‘What do you know about this?’
‘Nothing.’
His eyes studied her from top to toe, finally concentrating on her face. Then he turned around and left the room.
Through the window she watched him stride across the garden just as Bethan shouted from the top of the stairs. ‘Mummy, someone’s put a sausage skin on the clothes line.’
She was descending awkwardly in her new Wellington boots. Claudine heard her daughter trip and crash down the stairs. She ran into the hallway.
Bethan was unhurt – apart from her pride. ‘Mum,’ she said, her face mournful.
Claudine held her daughter to her, smiling now.
Brian was back in the kitchen, peeling the gloves off and throwing them in the plastic swing bin. ‘I’m sending this off,’ he said, holding the bag up. ‘I’m going to find out once and for all what’s going on. I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Claudine. He can’t get away with it. It’s…’ He broke off as his daughter clumped into the room.
‘…obscene,’ he muttered.
He put the bag carefully into his car. He’d take it in on Monday morning.
Claudine had prepared some open sandwiches with Parma ham and some tiny, sweet cherry tomatoes, but as they ate lunch husband and wife hardly looked at each other. Finally Claudine put her sandwich down. ‘Is it because I’m French?’ she demanded. ‘Because I’m a foreigner?’
Bethan tugged at the bread. ‘Is what?’ She could sense the atmosphere and like most children she worried that she was to blame. ‘Is it me? Were my Wellingtons too expensive?’ She looked anxiously from mother to father.
Her father stroked her long hair then gave it a playful tug.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said.
‘Is it the sausage skin?’
Husband and wife exchanged glances.
‘Yes.’ Brian Anderton finally answered her query. ‘Someone’s been playing silly, rude jokes. If you see someone – anyone in the garden or watching the house – I want you to come and tell me.’
‘Yeah. OK,’ the child said slowly, not understanding.
They continued eating in silence, chewing their food without enjoying it until Claudine lifted her head. ‘I think I hear a car,’ she said.
Bethan was ready to go in a flash. In fact, as she tore down the path, Daniel had the impression that she was relieved to be going out. He decided to leave the car outside the police house and walk, with the two girls, through the gate at the back of the garden and across the field, then down to one of the tributaries of the river. They armed themselves with nets and two large Tupperware containers complete with lids. The girls ran on ahead, shouting and laughing and Daniel had to run to keep up with them. The breeze was cool in his face, the sunshine bright enough to make him squint through the trees dappling the light. At the bottom of the slope he could see the sharp glint of Perle Brook. He met one or two dog walkers and a courting couple who giggled and flushed as they greeted him.
He sighed. Today he was off duty. He didn’t want to think about anyone – not Anna-Louise or Chelsea or Cora or even Maud Allen. He only wanted to think about his daughter, her friend, spring sunshine and the tadpoles they were sure to catch.
Chapter Four
They were back at the police house by four o’clock, the girls chattering excitedly as though they had been friends for years.
Claudine looked at Daniel, hopping around on the doorstep, his hands still occupied with the Tupperware containers and their wriggling contents. ‘Why don’t you and Holly stay for supper, Daniel?’ she suggested as the girls scampered upstairs. ‘It’s nothing special, I warn you – just some chicken, but I’m sure Holly would enjoy it and I expect you enjoy being cooked for.’
He had the feeling her ‘nothing special’ was on a different plane than his and he couldn’t deny it, he would love to be cooked for. Not just Mrs Hubbard’s left-outs but properly cooked for. It is something married men value cheaply but once home cooking is gone they quickly miss it.
He read the warmth in her toffee-coloured eyes behind the invitation and just as clearly he sensed that PC Anderton wasn’t quite so keen on the idea.
Perhaps his wife picked up on it too. She swivelled around to challenge him. ‘We do want them to come, don’t we, Brian, and I always cook too much. I can’t bear the thought of being short of food.’
It would have been very churlish for the policeman to say no, and yet Daniel sensed that the word was on the tip of his tongue. Since his divorce he was beginning to realise that, whereas females found him an amiable challenge, males sensed something predatory about his single status and wanted to lock up their women. Inwardly he gave a wry smile. He wasn’t that attractive or Elaine wouldn’t have walked out on him. He knew he was average-looking, a bit on the bony side. He wouldn’t have minded being a couple of inches taller and he tended towards round shoulders from spending his youth poring over books.
So he eyed the policeman warily and waited. Failing to meet his glance, Brian gave a grudging nod and Daniel accepted.
So that was that.
His eyes moved from husband to wife, careful to address them both. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it would be really nice. I’m sure your cooking’s better than mine, Claudine.’ Now was his chance to reassure Brian Anderton that he wasn’t chasing after his wife. But he breathed in her fresh, clean scent, oranges mingled with sunshine. If she was single, he added mentally, it would be a different matter.
He gave himself a cop out. ‘Perhaps I’d better just check with Holly, see if it’s OK with her.’
‘Don’t worry, Daniel,’ Claudine said, her foot already on the bottom stair. ‘I’ll go and ask her myself. Brian, why don’t you put the tadpoles in the kitchen then pour Daniel a beer?’
‘OK. Yeah. Sorry.’ The policeman was obviously abstracted. ‘Lager OK?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’ Daniel nodded. Brian Anderto
n disappeared, returning with a couple of cans of Stella and pint glasses. He handed one of each to Daniel and they settled comfortably into the sitting room armchairs.
Daniel looked around approvingly. A woman’s touch, he thought, noting the simple clean lines of the furniture, the vase of purple tulips on a low coffee table.
‘How did you meet your wife?’ he asked, purely as a conversation opener, but quickly realising he’d made a bad choice talking about Claudine.
Anderton was eying him suspiciously. ‘Holiday, mate,’ he said. ‘I was with a few buddies of mine, camping in the south of France. She was there on holiday too.’
‘There’s something about French women, isn’t there?’ Daniel winced. It was an even bigger faux pas.
‘I thought so,’ the policeman said testily. ‘That’s why I married her.’
Right on cue Claudine put her head round the door. ‘It’s all settled,’ she said. ‘The girls are going to help me to cook and lay the table. You two men just talk.’ She aimed a brilliant smile into the room and closed the door behind her.
At first the two men drank in silence. Everything Daniel thought he could say seemed to have a double entendre.
Avoid comments about his wife, his home, his daughter even. Daniel was stuck for conversation so merely fixed a pleasant, consultation-room, neutral smile on his face and said nothing. Then Anderton set his glass down heavily on the table and cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ he said gruffly.
‘Go on.’ With a sinking heart Daniel knew it would be something medical.
Chest pain, bowel trouble…impotence?
He waited.
Anderton didn’t get straight to the point but meandered thoughtfully. ‘I’m well used to crime,’ he began slowly. ‘You know – plain theft, drunken assaults, burglary, that sort of thing, but some crimes, to me, are…’ he was frowning, ‘inexplicable.’ He took a deep swig of lager, frowned into the can. ‘I just can’t follow them. I can’t understand the motive. I mean…’ He leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘Why would someone steal a woman’s knickers off a washing line?’
‘Claudine’s?’ It was out before he’d thought.
Anderton nodded grimly, took another angry swig out of his lager can and waited for an answer.
‘It could be…’ he couldn’t think of a way to say this without sounding voyeuristic. ‘Perhaps her underwear is expensive? Tasteful and someone’s simply stolen them.’
Anderton looked almost bored by this explanation,
‘But usually,’ Daniel continued warily, ‘it’s stolen by someone inadequate. The act is done for sexual gratification because they can’t get it normally. But surely,’ he couldn’t help himself, ‘not here? Not in Eccleston. It’s not that sort of place. We don’t exactly breed people with sexual fantasies.’
It was a stupidly naïve statement and he knew it.
‘We do now,’ Anderton said grumpily, ‘right in my back yard. Someone’s been stealing my wife’s underwear from the washing line. And then this afternoon.’ He got up, agitated, gripping his can so hard Daniel thought it must crumple and spill lager over the pale carpet. ‘This afternoon,’ Anderton repeated, ‘a condom was pinned to it. Someone – I assume it’s a he – had not only pulled the washing line out – it’s a retractable one,’ he explained, ‘but they’d pinned a ruddy…’ Upset he couldn’t continue. ‘For goodness’ sake, Daniel, what sort of a man would do such a thing? A perv? And how far will he go? Claudine was asking me for answers. “Is it personal? Is it because she’s French?” Is this rotten weirdo trying to get close to my wife – because if he is I swear I’ll…’ His face was contorted with anger. ‘Is this the start of serious stalking?’
‘It could be but—’
The policeman butted in. ‘I was involved in a case that began like this a few years back in Birmingham,’ he said, his hand stealing round the cigarette lighter in his pocket. ‘He began by pinching underwear. “Bloody saddo,” we thought. We didn’t get too worried. But – well, let’s just say it escalated.’ He broke off, his face hard, lips pressed together and an angry fire lighting his eyes. Daniel waited for the inevitable eruption but Brian gripped the can of lager tighter until it did crumple in his hand. Luckily it was empty. Hardly noticing he stared, with brooding anger, into the gas fire and said nothing. Daniel knew better than to speak. Anderton must tussle with these demons alone.
At last he looked up and Daniel was shocked to see the hatred on his face. ‘He started really stalking this woman. Watching her house, following her to work, shopping, that sort of thing. He’d ring her number and hang up the minute she answered. This went on for nearly three years. We kept trying to get court injunctions but it all took time and in the meantime this poor woman had no life. Her marriage broke up; her children went to live with their dad. She stayed in the house but only because she couldn’t bring herself to show people round and sell it. She was too frightened he’d turn up on a viewing.’
‘In the end?’ Daniel asked curiously.
Anderton turned his gaze back towards the dancing flames. ‘He topped himself,’ he said bluntly.
And now he was summoned back to his nightmare, knocking on the door of the house in Sparkbrook for what must have been the fiftieth time, already angry, frustrated by the law which was confining him, recalling his promise to protect the vulnerable woman, watching the man taunt her as she stared out of the bedroom window, screaming. He recalled the man picking up a can of petrol, the smell of it even which today, years later, still evoked the dramatic, hysterical scene, a taste and nausea and the scent of burning flesh.
‘Go on then,’ he whispered as the man held a yellow Bic cigarette lighter out. ‘Go on. Go on. Go on.’
He had heard the voice urging the man to do it, goading him even, challenging him that he didn’t have the nerve. He had thought that he had muttered the words only to himself. Later he had realised that he had screamed the words at the top of his voice. Seconds later there had been the terrible explosion, the roar of flames that had illuminated the dull day like a scene from a Catholic Hell, burning martyrs, hands beseeching, the sound of flesh crackling like roasting pork, the inhuman screams and then the sickening stink of human flesh burning.
And silence.
He came to. ‘Sorry mate.’ Anderton looked across at Daniel. ‘I was the officer on the scene,’ he said. ‘There was the most almighty explosion. The fire brigade were there. They doused the flames out but he’d…’ Anderton closed his eyes and his face slackened. ‘His skin was like mud. Dark, sludgy mud. His eyes…I don’t know what had happened to them. They were staring but he was not conscious. He’d stopped screaming. He’d left a carrier bag a little way away. It was full of letters, all to her. All saying the same thing, how much he loved her, that he would die for her.’ He laughed mirthlessly into his lager can. ‘You know the funny thing, Dan?’
So he was ‘Dan’ now?
Slowly Daniel shook his head. He couldn’t think that anything connected with this grotesque episode could possibly be called funny?
‘She was a real plain Jane,’ Brian said, smiling down into his lager can. ‘Plump, plain, odd, quiet personality. She worked as a medical secretary in the hospital. Her husband had been a medical engineer. They had two children, girls, fourteen and sixteen, and as far as they could see their mother was just plain nuts. She was quiet, shy, wore glasses, had mousey brown hair that she tied back in a pony tail. She had the most gross dress sense, woolly knee-length skirts, flattish shoes. She was simply nothing. Her voice was like suet pudding. And yet in David Sankey’s eyes,’ he leant back in his chair, ‘she was Jordan and Liz Hurley rolled into one.’
Daniel felt his eyebrows shoot up.
‘Last I heard she was receiving long-term psychiatric care. Like a zombie.’ He sat up. ‘I don’t want that to happen to my wife.’
Daniel wanted to say something, that he was blowing this out of all proportion, that surely most episodes like
this never escalated to such a horrible crisis. He wanted to say this but he felt he couldn’t. Not now.
Instead he tried to lighten the policeman’s tone. ‘How did they meet?’
‘He was a porter at the hospital,’ Anderton said. ‘She couldn’t even remember when it was that she’d first met him it had been so unmemorable, but he did in fine and graphic detail. The cleaners had been mopping the floor. She’d slipped and he’d saved her. He saw it as a Galahad act and it brought out the man in him. He said he’d felt chivalrous and strong, that she’d made him feel like that about himself and no one else in the world either had or could. That was that. The seeds were sown and by golly they bore some fruit.’
‘That’s all?’ Daniel asked incredulously.
‘That is it,’ Anderton said. He drained his can, went from the room, returned with two more cans, sat down heavily and asked, ‘So, speaking as a doctor, why?’
‘Lonely, inadequate, disturbed people,’ Daniel said hesitantly. ‘People with low self-esteem who believe that only this one person can give them status. I don’t have much experience of this sort of thing,’ he confessed. ‘We had a couple of lectures on sexual deviation, that sort of thing. As far as I remember it’s usually for sexual gratification. They’re normally inadequate men who have real difficulty making and maintaining relationships. They’re almost always impotent and I imagine your wife’s underwear…’ He found he couldn’t continue.
‘Yes, yes,’ Anderton said impatiently. ‘Like many women she’s fond of nice…’ He stopped speaking to look suspiciously at Daniel who could feel his face flush right up to the roots of his hair. Surely he didn’t realise he fancied his wife? Something told him that if the policeman did believe this it would go hard with him.
Claudine walked in. Daniel breathed in the gentle waft of sweet perfume that he was beginning to associate purely with her as though, like an animal, he could pick up on her own, personal scent. She’d applied some pale lipstick and exchanged the T-shirt she’d been wearing earlier for a crisp, white, cotton blouse. The material was thin and she’d left the first three buttons undone. He could see the outline of her bra and the top of her breasts. Stop staring, he lectured himself and averted his eyes. Claudine flopped in the chair, a glass of wine in her hand, her eyes bright as though she was ready to join in the conversation, but her entry had put an end to it. Daniel felt disinclined to continue the subject in front of her. She must have picked up on their silence. ‘It’s only got to cook for a little while,’ she said brightly. ‘I expect you’re hungry, both of you. It’ll be ready in half an hour.’
The Watchful Eye Page 5