The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  ‘Good afternoon, officer.’

  ‘Mr Pratchett.’

  ‘Hope you haven’t come to make an arrest?’ Pratchett’s spindly white legs swung over his bike which he leant up against the wall.

  ‘No, you can rest easy. We’re only here to ask a few more questions.’

  ‘Garden Shed Murder stuff? I see it’s back in all the papers.’ Pratchett bent down and fiddled with wires on a back wheel.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ Colgate asked.

  ‘No, not today. I pop by most afternoons, chat to friends. Helps keep me sane.’ A high-pitched laugh cackled through the air.

  ‘We’re here to see your friend, Justine Evans.’

  ‘Oh. She’s not in this afternoon. She’s on a house call.’

  Colgate took an unsteady step nearer to Pratchett and pointed. ‘That’s her car over there, isn’t it? We’ve been told she’s in with a patient.’ Sweat rippled across Colgate’s brow as pins and needles shot up his left arm and his right palm sought contact with the brickwork.

  ‘Oh, she leaves her car here sometimes and walks home. She doesn’t live far away.’

  ‘Who’s she gone to see? Perhaps she’s taken the day off,’ Colgate croaked, a frog stuck in his throat.

  ‘No, I saw her last night. We’re good friends, you know. She’s helping me to come to terms with all the shit.’ Pratchett’s ribs stuck out like a rack of lamb as he straightened up. ‘She likes to visit patients at home. It helps her understand them better when she meets them in their natural habitats. Like studying gorillas in the wild. Know what I mean?’ Pratchett’s fingertips on both hands poked up under his armpits like a chimpanzee.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Colgate slid over the gravel as he lost his footing and raced back to the car. He banged on the window. ‘Get out, Lindsay! She’s not bloody here. We’ve been wasting our fucking time and it’s already four o’clock. Hurry the fuck up. It’ll be as quick by foot.’

  ‘I think Ms Evans is seeing Beverley Digby, across the road, big detached house opposite the entrance.’ Bob’s voice screeched after Colgate and his outstretched arm flailed in the air, like a bothered windsock, in the direction of the winding driveway.

  But Colgate was already forging ahead towards the main road with Lindsay close behind. As he ran, he glanced heavenwards, saying a silent prayer that they wouldn’t be too late.

  59

  ‘Boo. I’m back. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’

  Although my blood’s pumping, I’m enjoying myself. The stairs are quite a challenge, even for a seriously fit person but it’s been a long time since anything gave me this much pleasure. Up the ladders and down the snakes and Ms Evans is definitely on a viper.

  Her body is motionless and I wonder for a moment if she’s having a petit mal fit. She’s like an alabaster statue; white, powdery and deathly. I pull out a chair and sit astride, as if riding a horse, and turn it towards her. She’s probably in shock.

  ‘Are you okay? You don’t look so good. Not long to go. Bet you’re keen to know what I’ve decided? Which option is coming out tops?’ Her lips don’t move, so I lean across and prod.

  ‘Well?’ I ask.

  ‘Beverley.’ There it is again. One word. La-di-da-di-da.

  ‘Justine.’ Two can play.

  ‘Let me go and I’ll put it right. I promise.’ The words escape like furballs from a cat. Hoarse and choking. Her choice of words isn’t good though. Put it right. That’s a joke.

  I get up and lift the scythe which is lying bereft on the sofa. I hold it up as if I’m deciding what to do with it and the action makes her cry. I do it again, for fun. Up and down. Up and down. Cry baby.

  ‘Justine. I think it could be your lucky day. But I’m relying on you to follow through on your promises. If you don’t I’ll be behind you, every step of the way. Okay? You know how it works.’

  ‘Yes. I promise. I promise. I’ll tell them everything. From the start.’ Her eyes light up as if she’s won the lottery, all six numbers plus the bonus ball and she can’t believe her good fortune.

  ‘Okay. I’m going to unlock your hands and you’ll be free to go. I’ll be waiting for the police to come calling when you’ve been to the station. I’m not guilty of anything today except for my role as a mad patient at the end of a hard week. Understand?’

  I wonder if Ms Evans is surprised by my sudden calm. She probably thinks I should be looking for more assurances, but I don’t need them. I’m pretty certain her first intention will be to go directly to the police station and tell them what’s happened. Exactly what’s happened. She’s a slippery fish and I can’t be certain she’ll own up to her part in events, but for now I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, I’m confident she won’t get that far.

  When I unlock the handcuffs she shakes down her wrists, like chicken bones, sinewy and meatless. She continues to cry and wobbles as she stands up, her legs threatening collapse.

  ‘Go on. Off you go. Mind your way. I’ll tidy up here but remember though, if you don’t play along, I’ll be back. And by the way, don’t forget to sign me off. Bye for now.’

  She ignores my outstretched hand and quietly picks up her shoulder bag and heads for the door. ‘Goodbye, Beverley.’

  She moves slowly while I stand and listen. I take the zapper out of my pocket and hold it up. I count her steps. One, two, three, four, five. Then I click.

  The screams are piercing. I move to the door and watch the spectacle. Unlike Danielle, she’s not such a tumbling cheese but the hard wooden risers provide an unforgiving landing pad. Side to side, boom, boom, boom. Her arms flail out wildly in a futile attempt to find some purchase. She’s all arms and legs. Danielle was one round fat ball but Ms Evans is much more edgy; sharp and defined, but it’s not helping her.

  Then there is one almighty crack, followed by silence. I think of the film, Silence of the Lambs. After all the screeching of the mothers when their lambs are led to slaughter, there is silence; piercing and shrill. It is the silence of death, but I’m not sure I’ve been that lucky.

  I hover at the top of the stairs and wait a few seconds to make sure there’s no movement; no open eyes, pleading for mercy. I haven’t got long. Firstly, I click the zapper again to turn the piercing light beam off and move to unwind the clear taut fishing line from across the top step. Easy to reel in. Fluorocarbon. Thin, lightweight and strong. A fisherman’s favourite for catching the most slippery eel with its invisible thread.

  I then unclip the fasteners which hold it in place, one both side of the top step, and shove them in my pocket along with the line. Once the police have gone I’ll get rid of the evidence. Perhaps I’ll drop it in a bin when I take the train back up to Covent Garden. I wonder how Scott is getting on. I’m still curious. My mind wanders, agitated by the thought that Danielle might be pregnant again.

  A sudden loud bang on the front door jolts me back from my reverie. It’s my cue; the green light. Centre stage, here I come.

  I let out the most blood-curdling scream as I wend my way down the stairs, carefully stepping across Ms Evans’ inert body. I look down at her, continuing to scream as I check for signs of movement but there aren’t any. I then dishevel my hair, using both hands, to give me the look of someone who’s been in battle and narrowly escaped the enemy, and begin a cautious descent.

  As I reach the bottom stair into the hall, the front door implodes in on itself and DCI Colgate appears in front of me like Doctor Who coming out of the Tardis in a cloud of mist. He’s gripping his shoulder, grimacing in pain from the force of entry. Over his shoulder, Lindsay hobbles heavily forward on one foot. I suppress the urge to laugh at the duo; the cavalry who have arrived to save me from certain slaughter at the hands of a deranged killer. The Garden Shed Murderer takes their Revenge. I can see tomorrow’s headline.

  ‘It’s okay. You’re safe now, Miss Digby. Tell me what happened. Slowly does it.’ Colgate approaches me gingerly, much the way you would a sick lion. He gl
ances at Lindsay to make sure she’s alongside.

  ‘I think she’s dead. She tried to kill me.’ I collapse on the bottom stair, amazed once again at my ability to cry on cue. My shoulders heave up and down.

  ‘Where? Where is she?’

  I point skyward, back up the stairs. Less said and all that.

  ‘Lindsay. Call an ambulance and hurry.’

  Colgate pushes past me, taking the risers two at a time. He should be more careful but if he tumbles he’ll know the stairs are dangerous. I don’t warn him as it might help if he experiences their threat first-hand.

  Once Lindsay has put her phone down, she drapes her coat round my shoulders. I must be in shock. Maybe she’ll offer to make me some sweet tea.

  ‘You’re safe now,’ she repeats. The wording seems to have come from some police manual. Yet the content makes me think my plan has worked. They’re already treating me as the victim, having come here convinced that Ms Evans was going to kill me. They’ve no idea that it was the other way round.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble.

  ‘Perhaps we could go into the kitchen and I could make you some tea?’

  Yes, I was right. Lindsay’s studied the manual carefully. Sweet tea must be pointer number two on what to offer in an emergency. I could offer her a glass of champagne but think I’ll keep that for myself and enjoy a silent toast when they’ve gone.

  The future’s looking bright. Some peace at last. Saluti! Cheers!

  60

  LONDON ECHO – Isaac Gatward

  SUSPECTED GARDEN SHED MURDERER IN A COMA

  AFTER 25 YEARS, REVENGE ATTACK BACKFIRES

  Justine Lowther, known professionally as Justine Evans, has been left in a coma after an aborted revenge attack aimed at Miss Beverley Digby. Miss Digby had been having an affair with Ms Evans’ husband, Travis Lowther.

  Twenty-five years ago, Justine Evans was a child victim of the Garden Shed Murderer, Mr Chuck Curry, but she never came forward after his death to tell her story. It has only recently come to light that she was in fact a victim of his heinous crimes against children.

  It would appear that Justine Evans had been planning revenge on Miss Digby for some time, sending threatening messages and stalking her at all hours of the day and night. The police were alerted when photographs of the Grim Reaper turned up, all dated Friday 13, 4.00pm. DCI Colgate, who is heading up the investigation, followed a lead that took him to the house of Miss Digby where Ms Evans appeared to have planned to cut off the victim’s head with a garden scythe, identical to the one used to behead Chuck Curry. The scythe had Ms Evans’ fingerprints all over it.

  However, Miss Digby managed to escape from her attic room where she was being held hostage. In the ensuing pursuit, Ms Evans missed her footing and fell heavily down the steep flight of hard wooden stairs, cracking her skull as her body came to rest at the bottom.

  The police are waiting to speak to her should she wake up from her coma. At the present time the signs are not looking good and they may have a long wait.

  Miss Digby is in shock and refusing to discuss what happened with the press. She has asked that her privacy be respected at this difficult time.

  Paper clippings, heroic headlines, lay strewn across Colgate’s desk. It was exactly one week since the event and there was still no let up. The story was front-page news and he was man of the moment; the hero of hunches. Yet he felt like a fraud. He’d got lucky, pure and simple.

  To escape the claustrophobic atmosphere of the police station, as well as the hungry hacks camped out front, Colgate sneaked out through the back door. He headed towards the Abbott Hospital grounds, his lungs craving fresh air. His mouth was furred, a metallic taste glued to his tastebuds and he didn’t feel so good. Sunlight seared through his pupils and starry zigzag lines played havoc with his peripheral vision as the migraine got worse.

  Outside the hospital building, a small group of patients lolled on the grass and sipped water from plastic bottles. Christ, he could do with a proper drink. He veered to the right but was too late.

  Bob Pratchett stood up, his arms criss-crossing in the air as if guiding a plane to land. ‘Yoo-hoo. Over here. Come and join us.’

  Colgate wandered over. ‘Hi. Sorry, guys, but I can’t stop. Just taking a short break. Lovely day,’ he offered, squinting and using his hand as a visor to shield his eyes.

  Bob Pratchett scratched furiously at his bare arms. The psoriasis had turned them into a minefield of erupting scabs. He was overly agitated. Colgate should feel sorry for the guy, but Pratchett got under his skin, made him uneasy. Following on from the incident at Miss Digby’s house, Colgate had heard Pratchett’s account of his relationship with Ms Evans and what had happened when they were kids. Apparently, they’d formed a close bond after Curry’s murder and Bob had promised not to tell anyone that Ms Evans had been there at the time. He told the police that she’d been too traumatised to come forward and wanted to suppress all memories of what had happened.

  Yet Colgate wasn’t convinced. Ms Evans didn’t seem like a victim of abuse. He’d seen enough cases over the years. She was too controlled, professional, and lacked the psychotic symptoms and cycles of heavy depression shown by other child victims. But Pratchett was confident in his storytelling.

  Colgate raised a hand and wandered on past, but Pratchett’s grating tones followed him.

  ‘The attic. Check out the layout. Ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome? Well, Beverley’s attic is a mirror image of the garden shed. Down to the chintzy teacups. It’s like a comfort blanket to the past.’

  The sun slipped behind a cloud and Colgate shivered.

  ‘Sorry. What’s that?’ A chill, like an arctic blast, attacked his bones. He turned round to face Pratchett.

  ‘We were given a guided tour when we went for a session at Beverley’s house,’ Pratchett continued. ‘She showed us the attic, but it was only later I realised there was something odd. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it. You see I’d been in the shed enough times to remember every nook and cranny. How come Beverley, who claims never to have been there, has just decorated her attic in an exact replica of the garden shed?’ Pratchett’s head nodded as if on a spring.

  Colgate swallowed hard and tossed a reply back. ‘Thank you, Mr Pratchett. I’ll definitely look into it.’ His legs moved like unoiled pistons, eager to work but creaking under the effort. He moved as fast as he could, his head thumping as the blood pumped and thoughts scrambled round his brain.

  When he saw the station up ahead, he checked his watch. He’d done the return journey in little under ten minutes.

  How the hell could he have missed it? Colgate swilled the whisky round the tumbler, threw back his head and swallowed. Fire burned his throat and made his eyes water. It had been right in front of his face and now the archive evidence spread across his desk, confirmed Pratchett’s observations.

  Colgate looked at the faded colour print of the inside of the garden shed. Memories of the green flaky paint, the chintzy china tea set and brown polyester-covered sofa, which seemed to hold the shed in place, flooded back. The sofa had acted as a buttress to save the building from collapse. He was now certain Digby’s attic layout was identical, except for the flaky paint; although the colour was the same. The Bakelite radio, as well as the wall clock in the picture were, without doubt, replicas to the ones he’d noticed in the attic.

  He shook the whisky bottle, held it up to the light and emptied the contents into his glass. His shoulders slumped as the alcohol took hold and his thoughts unravelled. On the other side of the locked door the muffled sounds of the night-time station activity was distant.

  There was no such thing as repeat coincidence in murder cases. Two bodies falling down hard unforgiving flights of stairs were both linked to Miss Digby. He banged his fists hard on the desk. Christ. How the hell had he started to believe in all that coincidence shit?

  The blurry picture in front of him, when compared with Miss Digby’s current attic layout, might
give him enough to prove that he’d been right all along to harbour doubts about the woman’s innocence. The evidence could help prove that she intentionally tried to cause serious harm to both Danielle, Scott Barry’s girlfriend, and to Ms Evans. If the latter never came out of a coma, Miss Digby could be looking at a murder charge.

  Colgate dragged himself up and neatened the pile of papers. He needed stronger evidence to show that the two ladies’ tumbles were no freak accidents. He had to get back to Miss Digby’s house as soon as possible, and photographing her attic was top priority.

  61

  I smile to myself, realising that Ms Evans would be very disapproving. I can hear the sharp intake of breath and feel her stony admonishing stare. But I’ve no intention of stopping what I do best, what has become a way of life and gives me good reason to get up in the mornings.

  As I stroll through Regent’s Park it’s as if the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders. I’m not sure how long the levity will last but today, Friday 20 July, I feel as if I’ve finally been let out of prison; on parole pending further investigations. Time will tell.

  I pass the tennis courts and listen to the pit-pat of balls ricochet back and forth across the nets. ‘Good shot.’ ‘My advantage.’ ‘Well played.’ ‘Hard luck, old chap.’ The green painted playing surface is smooth, hard and unforgiving. The balls bounce so high, mini kangaroos, that one pops over the fence and I catch it in my left hand.

  ‘Well held,’ whoops a sweaty player with a paunch. His hand shoots up, indicating that he’s waiting for me to send it back. Suspicious idiot. I toy with pocketing it but decide against. Not today. Today he’s in luck and I toss it back.