The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? What trail?’

  ‘Where should I start? There was the samurai sword for Freddie. You’d been googling for such a present for ages. I’m good at hacking. It’s a stalker’s skill. So when a sharper more lifelike weapon arrived at my house, it looked as if it was from a rather careless, unbalanced mother. Also a sharp blade? A big clue combined with Freddie’s masterful skill at deadheading the plants. As if he had been taught by a master.’

  ‘Christ. That’s all bullshit. You’d never convict me with that. Is that it?’

  ‘Then there were the pictures of the Grim Reaper. Scott Barry took these to the police station, as I knew he would, and they warned Colgate that something was awry. I also took one of Jeremy and myself for Colgate to mull over, in case Scott didn’t behave true to form. As planned, Colgate put two and two together and reopened the Garden Shed murder. Today’s date, by the way, was put on the pictures. 4pm.’

  Ms Evans frantically tries to wriggle her watch face round to see what the time is.

  ‘It’s 3.45. Look, there’s a clock on the wall. Bakelite frame. Familiar? Anyway I’m certain Colgate will have dug out the files. He’s pretty astute, even if he is a pain in the ass. He’ll have studied the trail of evidence left at the time, and you see, I’m not in there anywhere. There’s no trace of me. My mother would never have suspected that her devoted stepbrother would ever have touched me. You know. You’ve heard it often enough. My mother never really noticed me. Not much time in her sad life for a skinny little daughter. I slipped through the net. But you… that’s a different matter.’

  I’m starting to enjoy myself. I have all the time in the world. I swivel the chaise longue round so that Ms Evans doesn’t have to strain her neck to look at me. She’s like a scraggy old chicken with her white scrawny flesh.

  ‘I didn’t come forward either. You’re wrong there. There’s no trace of me either in any of their files.’ Ms Evans is panicking.

  ‘Ah, but Bob Pratchett did. You’re good friends. He did me a favour by spraying that red paint all over my car at the hospital. He thought he was doing you a favour. Getting revenge for how I’d stolen your husband. Bob doesn’t know you’re a lesbian, does he? He’s a big mouth and he’ll have told the police that you were a regular at Uncle Chuck’s house. That’s when you two linked up.’

  ‘Go on.’ I’ve got her full attention and she’s desperate to find out what I know.

  ‘You’re looking after him though, aren’t you? Giving him free therapy; for life I suspect. He’ll never get over what happened to him. Chuck didn’t have a preference. Boys and girls, he wasn’t fussy. You’re trying to make amends for what happened and Bob doesn’t blame you but rather leans on you for support. He thinks you understand. That’s a joke!’

  I suddenly pick up my mug and fling it across the room, narrowly missing her head. Brown viscous liquid slithers down the freshly painted walls and the shards of china scatter across the floor, a couple of pieces landing on the sofa.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Calm down.’

  ‘Calm down. Calm down. Relax. Deep breaths. You think that’ll make it all go away? You’re fucking mental. Next time I’ll not miss.’ I hiss like a ready-to-explode hand grenade. If I was Ms Evans, I’d think carefully before speaking.

  ‘Anyway, Colgate will work out that you were at the scene. I’ve told him of all the rogue threatening emails, late-night phone calls which have come my way. He’ll probably put two and two together.’

  ‘Those weren’t from me. I haven’t sent you anything. I don’t stalk my patients. It’s the other way round. You’re the stalker, Beverley, not me.’

  ‘I know that, but Colgate is looking for someone to pin the murder on. Scott has done me a favour with his tit-for-tat revenge, but he’ll never own up. I’ll suggest that the threats came from you all along and my hunch is they’ll buy my story. There’s too much evidence pointing your way. Anyway, it’s a murder they need to solve, not domestic stalking issues.’

  I get up and walk round behind the chaise to face the back wall. It’s hung over with a large sheet which looks as if it’s covering wet paint; perhaps a still-damp mural to liven up the space. Like a magician uncovering a white rabbit, I pull the sheet away.

  ‘Voila. What do you think? Recognise the rusty display rail? It took me a long time to find an exact match.’ I stretch my arm wide in front of the recent acquisition.

  ‘You see, I had to look at it every Friday, week after week. Do you remember it? Probably not. You weren’t interested, were you? You got all your treats indoors. Did you even dare a peak into the garden shed or did you hibernate in the warmth of the television room?’ I rear back like a dragon breathing red-hot fire.

  ‘You turned a blind eye. Didn’t you? It was easiest. You knew what was going on. Even after Chuck was killed you stayed quiet. You know exactly what you turned your back on. Do you really think I chose you to talk about my ex-boyfriends and my stalking issues? I’d have much preferred a man. You’re a real nosey bitch when it comes to digging.

  ‘I chose you from a whole list of possible psychotherapists. I’ve waited and plotted for years on how to make you pay for what you did and I had to get close. Travis was the icing on the cake, although it would have been more effective if you hadn’t been a dike.’

  I turn back towards the hanging rack. The structure is identical to the one Uncle Chuck kept in the garden shed, hung with bespoke gardening tools.

  ‘On the right. Look here. This is what spliced his carotid artery. A small handheld scythe. After I’ve got your fingerprints on it, I’ll decide which way to go. I’ve a couple of choices. I can put you in the frame for murder and ruin your life that way. It’ll be your word against mine and my history of stalking lovers and boyfriends is a great smokescreen against anything more sinister. That’s just become my way of life. Or, perhaps the other possibility is more exciting.’

  I lift the scythe down and swish it round in the air. Left and right. High and low, flicking my wrist with agile movements. I’m still a dab hand at the actions.

  ‘I could come over there now and dead head one last thing. I could say you brought the weapon with you and waited until I was in a deep hypnotic state before lunging forward to take me down. Your motive would be hatred because of how I stole your husband, spurred on by your sick unbalanced mind which has always threatened to explode following on from the trauma over your murder of Chuck Curry. I’ll plead self-defence after I’ve killed you, finished you off. Mine would be the only voice left to speak and I’d claim that you were seething from hatred and had finally had enough.’

  Ms Evans has gone white as her eyes skitter from side to side.

  ‘What about this room? It’s a replica of the garden shed. Don’t you think Colgate will recognise it? It’s not a normal room. It’s a cell; a prison of your mind.’

  ‘Oh I’m well ahead of you on that one. Why do you think I’ve got a whole decorating ensemble of paints and papers up here? Look.’ I fling open the doors of a small cupboard built into the wall. ‘I’ll have completely changed the layout before the police twig. Don’t forget, I’m an expert with the paintbrush. I’ll have a coat on it no time. Anyway, it’s unlikely to be the first thing the police will notice and by the time they’ve worked it out, it’ll be much too late. The proof will be long gone.’ I throw the large white sheet back over the tool rail, push the cupboard doors shut and wander back towards the sofa carrying the scythe.

  ‘Here. Let’s get those fingerprints on the handle. Gently does it. That’s right. Grip firmly. No, your right hand. I’m not that stupid. We all know you’re right-handed. Well done. Give it back. That’s a good girl, Queenie.’ I take the lethal weapon, lay it on the table top before removing my gardening gloves.

  At this point it’s pretty much fifty–fifty which route I’ll go down, but the way I’m feeling, I think I’m slowly starting to prefer dead heading the bitch.

  57

  ‘I think it�
��s time for me to lie down so that we can get on with the session. You’re being well paid so no point in wasting taxpayers’ hard-earned money. Agree?’

  I keep the chaise longue facing Ms Evans and then plump a cushion up, easing it in under my neck. I close my eyes, let out a deep breath and don’t move for a couple of minutes. Then I peek back at the prisoner.

  She’s still frantically jiggling the handcuffs in the vain hope that the action will free her from the metal vice. The soft cushioned coating on the inside of the cuffs isn’t hurting and won’t leave any marks on her wrists; bare metal on her skin would be a lot more painful and I don’t want to leave evidence of her bondage.

  ‘It’s no good. They’re on tightly. Go on. First question. I’m ready.’

  Without her notes the quizzing doesn’t roll so slickly off the tongue and I’m thrown by her opening gambit.

  ‘Did you kill Danielle’s baby? Or have any part in it? That was the reason you were forced to seek counselling, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s three questions. Come on, one at a time.’ She doesn’t have a quick answer to that one. ‘What do you think? I wasn’t even there so what makes you think I could have been involved?’

  ‘You were in the area. The police have CCTV footage.’

  ‘No comment.’ I laugh at this point. No comment. No comment. No comment. Colgate nearly put his fist through the wall with my chirruped chorus.

  ‘If your aim all along has been to get revenge on me, why bother persecuting your ex-boyfriend? Why follow everyone you’re involved with? Including their partners.’

  Ms Evans is trying to sit up so that I’ll take her more seriously, but it’s difficult as she’s hunched awkwardly. It’s a good set of questions though.

  ‘It keeps me busy and it’s second nature, a way of life. You see, Uncle Chuck taught me the damage that stalking can do to the mind; the fear and nightmares that don’t go away. It feels good to punish Scott. Oops. Felt good. Past tense. You still need to sign me off. Remember?’

  ‘What do you want to achieve? You’ve followed Travis and me; not to mention Danielle, Cosette, Scott, and God knows how many others. Couldn’t you find a better way to occupy your time?’

  I jiggle my foot up and down. She’s starting to really get under my skin with all the digging, but she should be careful as she’s in no position to wind me up. She’s the one who needs me to hold it together.

  ‘Children would have made my life better. Scott took away that chance. Don’t you think he should be punished? Go on. Doesn’t he?’ I put my hands on my thighs to stop a sudden spasm.

  ‘You could have talked to me about Uncle Chuck. That’s the root of it all, isn’t it? You need help, Beverley. Not punishment. I can help you.’

  ‘You could have helped me. But you didn’t. Did you? You turned a blind eye. I know how different my life could have been. My father never abused me and my mother just didn’t care but I’d have survived the family shit if it hadn’t been for Uncle Chuck. That’s the blackness. How the fuck can you help? I’ve no intention of going down for murder or being locked away in a unit for the criminally insane.’

  Ms Evans is crying, wet torrents rolling down her cheeks. I’d like to think she’s sorry, but suspect they’re tears of self-pity.

  ‘Did you know that our personalities are like layers of rock formation? Starting with childhood we deposit little seams of rich experience, right the way through to adulthood and onwards to old age. Most people have little nuggets of gold sprinkled here and there. Freddie and Emily, they’re your little gold nuggets, aren’t they? I don’t have those. Travis must have been like a black viscous oil slick though. Not quite so precious.

  ‘Then there’s your girlfriend, Olga. She’ll leave something else entirely. Probably a good solid coating of shiny marble. You see, I think of these strata like strands of personality DNA. Rich and complex. But you see, Ms Evans, Justine, Queenie… whatever. I don’t have layers. On the surface I’ve worked hard at creating a pristine lawn of manicured perfection. But underneath there’s nothing. Just a hard black immovable boulder which is Uncle Chuck.

  ‘You were meant to dig and find some answers but you never did. You fiddled around on the topsoil. You thought my issue was one of stalking lovers who rejected me. Ha. That’s a joke. You saw nothing. Maybe I should ask for a refund for the cost of my treatment. Call yourself a psychotherapist? I could have done a better job.’

  The sodden tears on her ashen face have turned to large snotty blobs and her breathing is patchy, rasping.

  ‘A paper bag? It helps with panic attacks. I have some in the kitchen.’

  ‘If you let me go, we can sort this together. I’ll tell the police everything. They’ll listen to me. I can help you get through it all. Please, Beverley. Don’t make it worse.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell at the time? You didn’t even come forward after the murder. You scuttled back into your shitty little hole, and pretended none of it ever happened. You pretended to yourself that you’d never been a part of it all. Is that why you became a therapist? To work through the guilt?

  ‘Therapists all have dark filthy little secrets which they try to exorcise and understand. You had to find a way to work through yours; to deal with the shame. The one thing you never did was come clean; tell the truth. I bet it feels good listening to Bob Pratchett. He gets his treatment free. Lucky Bob!’

  I stand up, lift the scythe and swish it around until the sight of her pleading face nudges me to a third option, an option other than framing her for Curry’s murder or killing her myself.

  ‘Perhaps I could let you go. But what guarantee do I have that you’ll tell them everything? You might tell them I’m totally insane and get me locked away.’

  ‘You have my word, Beverley.’ She’s using my name over and over. Christ she must think I’m totally naïve. It’s as if I’m a potential suicide victim she’s trying to stop from jumping off a road bridge.

  ‘I’ll think about it. But first I need to pop to the bathroom. It’s all the liquid, but relax, I’ll be back.’

  With that I move to the door, open it and check over my shoulder at the Quasimodo form before gently closing it behind me. The third option is looking like it might be the way to go. Not quite so messy. But before I unlock the handcuffs I have a couple of little jobs to do.

  I check my watch. It’s now 4.15pm. The police will be here any minute. Colgate is so predictable and he won’t delay when he realises that Ms Evans isn’t at work. Any minute now he’ll be banging on the door. I’m surprised, but relieved, he isn’t here already. He thinks Ms Evans is here to kill me, slice my head off with the garden scythe. No one, apart from Ms Evans, knows about my visits to the garden shed. If she can’t tell then Colgate will always put two and two together and get six.

  I need to get the staging spot on before Colgate arrives. He needs to be certain that Ms Evans was the Garden Shed murderer who has hidden behind her profession and life of respectability all these years in an effort to cover her heinous crimes. Good old Bob Pratchett. He never did know when to keep his mouth shut. He’ll have told Colgate about his friendship with Ms Evans and how they became best friends after it was over and how she’s still helping him to deal with the abuse.

  As I set to work, I wonder if my therapist ever owned up to Bob Pratchett that no one ever laid a finger on her. It’s much more likely that they share horror stories and she lies by telling him how awful it was and about how she totally understands. I can’t help wondering how he would feel if he knew she’d been the lookout facilitating the sordid string of events. She kept the very people out who could have saved us all. She turned a blind eye, to save her own hide.

  I tug the wire hard, yanking it in place and draw blood as it cuts through my fingers. I lick away the redness, stand up and survey my handiwork. Showtime!

  58

  Colgate’s eyelids flickered open and shut and his temples throbbed as he tried to stay awake. The clock on the dashboard showed 3.4
0. Lindsay’s head bobbed up and down, like a buoy in the water, to a music beat and her pink air pods reminded Colgate of Percy Pig sweets. He put a strong mint in his mouth and hoisted himself up. Only another twenty minutes to wait.

  His mind played over and over what he thought they were up against. It was Friday 13 and exactly twenty-five years ago to the day that the Garden Shed Murder had taken place. His inability to solve the case back then still rankled, an irksome itch that wouldn’t go away. The recent Grim Reaper photos, coming on top of all the random stalking and harassment claims, churned up the memories. An unmovable hunch had taken root, the unyielding tentacles choking his thoughts.

  Colgate coughed as the mint slithered down whole and for a second blocked his airways. Lindsay’s head continued to bob. Suddenly, the hard-white globule shot back up like a bullet. He picked it off the floor, chucked it out the window and wiped his sticky fingers on his trousers before he checked the time again. A quarter of an hour and Ms Evans would be finished with her patient. The receptionist said they’d have to wait until four to talk to the therapist but keeping Ms Evans close, until four came and went, was Colgate’s priority. The time and date, inked boldly on the Grim Reaper photographs, had convinced him that Ms Evans had earmarked today’s date for revenge.

  Colgate nudged his colleague, opened the car door and stepped outside.

  ‘I’m going to walk round the grounds. Back in ten,’ he mouthed.

  He stretched out his arms and shoulders, raised his face to the sun before sauntering past Ms Evans’ bright-red Audi sports car. A loud crunch of gravel behind made him turn. Bob Pratchett, astride his bicycle, dragged his feet across the loose stones.