The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  I cram the trolley full of plants, sticking to my list and throw in a couple of trowels alongside. Freddie and Emily will help me liven up the front of the house; perhaps parenting practice will help. As an afterthought I add a couple of sets of children’s gardening gloves, pink and sky blue for Emily and dark green and yellow for Freddie.

  In the café, I linger over tea and scones, amazed at the pleasure of eating on my own when I’ve craved company for so long. Perhaps this is what happens when you reach your goal: Anticlimax with a capital A.

  When I pull into the driveway, everything is unnaturally quiet. I’ve only been gone a couple of hours but it seems a lot longer. I lock the car, leaving the flowers in the boot for the kids to carry in, and tentatively put the key in the front door, half expecting Freddie to come pounding down the hall shouting ‘Miss Digby, Miss Digby.’ But there’s no noise, not a soul in sight. When I reach the kitchen, I see the sliding doors leading out to the patio are open wide. Perhaps they’re all playing hide and seek and deliberately keeping voices to a whisper. But no one is playing and the scene in front of me is like the aftermath of a nuclear bomb, orchestrated by an eerie silence.

  ‘What the fuck?’ I freeze at the sight of the decimation, every single plant has been beheaded; death is everywhere.

  Emily is choking out subdued sobs, the aftershocks of a major outburst. Travis is holding her close, patting her head, his eyes glazed.

  ‘What’s happened? Travis?’ My voice is calm but Travis seems to have lost his.

  Brown cardboard boxes, ripped apart, have been discarded by the back door and Freddie’s and Emily’s names, in bold ink, are vaguely decipherable on the packaging.

  ‘Travis?’ I repeat. ‘Where’s Freddie? For Christ’s sake what’s going on?’

  ‘It’s not Freddie’s fault,’ is Travis’ opening gambit. ‘You shouldn’t have bought him the sword, Beverley. It was so sharp.’

  ‘What bloody sword? What are you talking about?’

  ‘The outfit was fine but what were you thinking?’

  The sword, its evil glint twinkling, lies discarded amongst the decimated flowerheads. Coloured, shrivelling petals and clustered blooms lie defeated on the ground; dead soldiers cut down in the prime of life. The bare stalks point proudly heavenwards, a declaration that survival is possible without such colourful adornments.

  I walk through the garden, picking up and dropping the flowers that have been sliced through the throat with a clean sharp swoosh of metal. The sword has small bits of green and yellow stuck to the end and as I peer more closely I make out the merest speck of blood.

  ‘Where’s Freddie?’ Sweat has formed an oily slick across my skin but Travis’ immobility tempers my fear. If there’d been serious injury, he’d have forgotten his limp and run to the rescue. Nevertheless my stomach is tight.

  ‘Upstairs, I think. Don’t be cross with him. Tell him it’s your fault that you didn’t know how sharp the sword was.’

  Emily stares at me. I’m the stranger she’s never met whom Travis said she would adore. From the eyes, I’m not so sure but perhaps I no longer want to be adored.

  I wander through the house, in and out of rooms, upstairs and down until I finally head for the cellar. It’s kept bolted but not locked. I used to hide down here or up in the attic and will someone to come and find me, but no one ever did. Instinct tells me this is where I’ll find Freddie.

  ‘Freddie. I know you’re in here. I want to talk. I’m not cross with you.’ There’s a faint rustling noise from behind the wine rack. ‘Okay. When you’re ready, come on up.’ I switch the light off again and go to pull the door to, leaving the cellar in darkness. I knew it would do the trick.

  ‘Miss Digby. I’m here.’

  From behind the rows and rows of red wine, a collection it took my father twenty years to amass, a small samurai warrior appears, looking like a miniature monster and reminds me of ET waddling out from his hideout; an ugly, threatening alien with a child’s heart.

  ‘Come on. I’m here.’

  As he slinks towards me, his head downcast and emitting loud blubbery sounds I’m reminded of Travis. He’s a little man on his early journey to become a big cry baby.

  I hug him close and pat his soft head, free from the confines of the helmet which has been discarded near the wine bottles. ‘You’re not in trouble. It’s okay.’

  As Freddie and I ascend the steep wooden planks together, hand in hand, I’m thinking about what I’ll say to Travis. His accusations ring loud and clear in my ears. I’m not sure if he really believes I would have done such a thing or if he’s trying to find an excuse to blame me for the mess his life is in and maybe give him a way out if he decides to slope back home to Queenie.

  The sheen has definitely come off my illusion of happy families, but whatever happens, I’ll call the shots. Travis will only be given a ‘get out of jail free’ card if I decide as he certainly won’t be walking away of his own free will. Scott is testimony that this wouldn’t be a good idea.

  Once we’re back upstairs, cold lemonade with squeezed lemons floating on the top helps to placate Freddie. His shuddering shoulders and heaving tearless sobs finally abate as he ambles out to find his sister among the carved-up blooms. I can’t help wondering if he’ll try to locate the offending weapon, the trophy that caught the attention.

  Travis is sitting on the garden wall, head in hands. He probably struggled outside with a much less pronounced limp when I was out of sight. I’ve seen his movement from afar when he thinks I’m not looking but he’ll cling to victim status as long as he thinks he can get away with it.

  ‘If you didn’t send the presents then who did?’ He doesn’t look at me as I sit alongside, uncomfortable in the face of confrontation. He’ll be hoping I can offer an alternative so that he won’t have to make any momentous decisions about the future, at least not today.

  I play along. Queenie would be my obvious suggestion but he needs to come to that conclusion on his own. He’ll stick up for her, claiming her brilliance as a caring and wonderful mother, certain that it could never have been her. Not in a million years. We’ll see about that.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I reply, biting back the finger pointing. The boxed presents point at someone who either has it in for Queenie and Travis, or perhaps someone who hates children. Then again it must surely cross his mind that someone has it in for me. I told him over supper about the dead badger saga. Although he didn’t say much at the time, he must surely be putting put two and two together that I might indeed have a vicious vengeful stalker playing some weird game of tit for tat.

  ‘That sword could have sliced my head off. Or Emily’s.’ He doesn’t mention that my head could have ended up on a platter, perhaps because I wasn’t home at the time and therefore he doesn’t think I was ever in any danger. But I don’t think that’s the reason.

  Travis’ tone is chilly and accusatory and he’s looking at me strangely, inching his way along the wall. I’m reminded of Scott who was cold and censorious when he wanted to pass the buck, like my father.

  ‘But it didn’t, did it? There’s no harm done. Look. They’re playing happily. That’s Mercy, the neighbour’s cat.’

  Freddie and Emily are chasing a fat ginger tom through the garden, the lethal weapon forgotten, buried at the bottom of the refuse bin in swathes of newspaper and cardboard.

  ‘Glass of wine? Go on. It’ll be okay.’

  ‘Go on then,’ he says. Scott would have refused, kept the blame going and my father would have pummelled my mother in the face if there’d even been a smidgeon of doubt that she was in the wrong.

  But Travis is weak and apathetic with nowhere else to go. He’ll not dare to try to walk out on me, not yet.

  ‘Cheers.’ I come back and hand him a long cold glass of Sauvignon.

  ‘Whatever,’ he replies and knocks it back in one.

  38

  Scott’s eyes bored into Colgate as the detective read through the entries. Incidents, ti
mes and dates were clearly marked and Scott had also attached email and photographic evidence.

  ‘Quite a whizz with a spreadsheet. It’s all very clear, Mr Barry. Well done.’ Full marks young man but ‘I wish you’d stop wasting my time’ was shot through Colgate’s tone.

  Scott needed him to understand that this wasn’t simple amorous revenge. He leant forward in his chair, pushed his face closer. ‘Listen, I’ve had twenty-four silent phone calls, sixteen rogue emails and fourteen anonymous photographs sent to me and Cosette.’ Scott stubbed his finger hard onto the spreadsheet, making Colgate recoil. The detective’s lips puffed out.

  ‘Look. This has all been since the dead badger incident.’ Scott carried on, pointed his finger at the date column and ran it down through the entries. ‘There’s been no let up.’ Christ. The detective was treating him like the mad person. Scott stared across the table, his eyes pleading with Colgate to understand.

  ‘I see.’ But Colgate didn’t see. ‘Mr Barry. Old and young are winding people up all the time on social media, texting, posting unflattering photographs and suchlike. Also, I have to tell you, that Miss Digby has made similar accusations against you. It’s looking a lot like tit for tat from where I’m sitting.’

  Colgate picked up the photographs and casually flicked back and forth through the pile.

  ‘That’s me with my ex-girlfriend, Danielle. Remember she had the nasty accident and lost our baby? You were the SIO on the case.’

  ‘I remember. Why have you put this photograph in the pile?’

  ‘Because it was sent to Cosette, my new girlfriend, addressed to her personally. It’s a deliberate attempt to cause us problems. You see, I met Danielle for a drink after she rang me; I didn’t think it would do any harm. I thought it best to tell her, face to face, that I was with someone else and hoped there’d be no hard feelings. It was a chance to draw a line under the past.’

  Colgate was finding it hard to take the guy seriously. Mr Barry had real ego issues and seemed to be under the impression that all three women hankered after him. The detective couldn’t see the attraction, especially now that Mr Barry was on part-time stress leave from work, citing depression and panic attacks. His hair wasn’t so slickly styled and his eyes were red and puffy; blotchy cheeks hinted at too much alcohol. Far too much time on his hands.

  ‘Do you think Cosette might have followed you, taken the picture herself? Perhaps she was trying to catch you out?’ Colgate knew it was a ridiculous suggestion but it was too tempting not to wind Barry up for being such an arrogant prick.

  ‘She wouldn’t. I know it’s from Beverley.’

  ‘How can you be so sure? Have you any proof?’

  Scott let out a dry cough and sipped from a water bottle. ‘I just know. She’s still angry and jealous.’ Scott’s voice was ragged as if a saw had hacked through his voice box.

  ‘Okay, Mr Barry. I hear you. But according to Miss Digby, she has a new boyfriend, who’s living with her. She seems to have moved on.’ Colgate hesitated, cleared his own throat and teased out the punchline. ‘Is it possible you’ve got another enemy? Another woman perhaps who’s got it in for you?’

  Colgate was on a roll and Scott could feel the tables turning back on him.

  ‘Beverley told me that herself, but she still won’t let up.’

  ‘Do you think she’s hoping you’ll get back together? Seems a bit extreme to have another man move in to make someone else jealous.’ A sarcastic chuckle popped out from the back of Colgate’s throat, and a questioning eyebrow shot up.

  ‘No. It’s nothing like that. I’m afraid of what she’ll do next.’

  Colgate stacked the evidence neatly together and thanked Scott for taking the time in collating such a succinct report. The detective offered polite platitudes, and assured Mr Barry they would look into the case but Scott knew he was being panned off. Unless Beverley arrived at his home with a handgun and a shitload of pellets, he was on his own.

  As Scott slipped on his jacket, Colgate sat forward and peered more closely at the last couple of photographs in the pile. The detective’s tongue ran over his lips and his eyes moved rapidly from one picture to the other.

  The Grim Reaper, black-cloaked and wielding a scythe, Colgate knew was the personification of death. The scythe was for reaping the dead. Yet these photographs were no caricatures, or cartoon drawings of the imagined monster that had first surfaced in the Middle Ages. Someone had dressed up in a costume. A hard theatrical skull had been placed over their head and long skeletal hands protruded from the cuffs of the cape. It was the attention to detail that caught the detective’s eye.

  He knew these last two pictures were no wind-up holiday snaps or photographic evidence taken by a private detective. These were death threats, plain and simple. Maybe Mr Barry wasn’t such a timewaster after all.

  ‘When did you get these?’

  ‘Yesterday. I thought it best to bring them along. Why? Do you think there’s a problem? Should I be worried?’ Scott gripped the edge of the table.

  ‘Not necessarily but someone’s gone to a lot of trouble here. I’d just say to be vigilant. Same goes for your girlfriend. We’ll follow up with Miss Digby and let you know of any progress. I’d like to keep hold of these pictures if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Keep the whole log.’

  ‘I will if that’s okay.’

  Scott hovered but Colgate managed to convince him that they were taking his claims seriously and would be investigating.

  Back outside, Scott turned the collar up on his jacket and shivered. The sun was high overhead, the sky cloudless, but cold sweat bathed his body and the tremor was back in his hands. Why had the Grim Reaper photographs caught Colgate’s attention? Christ, what was he dealing with?

  Colgate returned to his office and shut himself away, pouring out a neat malt and wiping a clean handkerchief across his forehead. The pictures of the Grim Reaper had churned up memories.

  He’d been on the force, in the area, for only a few months when he’d had his first taste of a real case which brought him face to face with murder. It was the sort of incident that feeds a true detective’s appetite. As rookie sidekick to DCI Quinn, Colgate learnt that sometimes there was no escape from the gore. Cops had to swallow back the bile, take deep breaths and force themselves to look.

  The murder scene had been a small back-garden shed of a semi-detached house a few streets away from Southgate Police Station. It had involved a 160mm miniature garden sickle with a curved blade and finely serrated edge. One tiny slash had been enough to sever the victim’s carotid artery. The weapon had lain abandoned on the victim’s chest without trace of a fingerprint or drop of blood, other than the victim’s.

  The murderer had never been caught. But when Chuck ‘Chuckles’ Curry, the fat bastard who died, was posthumously convicted as a serial paedophile, no one really cared. Six boys and girls, aged between eight and thirteen inched their way forward. The newspapers were mainly concerned with the gruesome details of the death and the horrors of abuse, but Colgate always wondered what happened to the perpetrator. They’d been no nearer to making a conviction at the end of the case than at the beginning.

  Call it instinct, a detective’s best weapon, but the photographs in front of him were bringing it all back. It was a nagging suspicion, but Colgate thought it might be possible that he was looking at pictures sent by the paedophile’s executioner.

  The more he thought about all the weird stalking reports on his desk, combined with this latest montage, the more uneasy he felt. Stalking might be the outward manifestation of obsessive, unhinged behaviour, but the roots were often deep-seated, planted by more than amorous rejection. Stalkers with serious issues, those who needed to regain control, could be extremely dangerous, even murderous. He thought of John Lennon, gunned down outside his apartment, and JFK shot in broad daylight, both incidences carried out by psychopathic stalkers.

  Colgate sat back and let the malt sting his throat. Maybe
he was overtired, stressed or overreacting but there was definitely something sinister afoot and, if his hunch was right, something he shouldn’t ignore.

  39

  The rain is a relief. I turn my face heavenwards as I amble towards the hospital and let it wash over me. No doubt Ms Evans will try to look for some deep-seated psychological reason why I’ve decided not to bring an umbrella. Perhaps I have masochistic tendencies or it’s down to a dearth of sexual activity that makes me crave wetness. Truth is, I don’t own one.

  I’ve left early today, desperate to escape from what was meant to be marital bliss but has instead turned into a nightmare. Travis can’t go home as Queenie won’t have him back and he’s nowhere else to go. The kids are inconsolable, caught between the warring factions and banned from seeing us again since the sword incident. I’m not denying involvement in the incident too vehemently, as it’s giving Travis a strong motive to leave. He won’t give up seeing the kids and on his own, he knows he stands a much better chance that Queenie will capitulate, although I’m not so sure.

  Travis doesn’t yet know that I’m in therapy, seeing his wife for so-called stalking addiction. While I’ve never told him, I’m amazed that his darling Queenie hasn’t imparted this rather colossal piece of information to her cheating spouse. After the sword incident there was no doubt that she realised I was the other woman, but I’m not sure how long she has really known. I suspect it could have been all along and she’s been masterful at hiding the knowledge.