The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  I close my eyes as the Merlot washes over my lips and the soft waves of nectar ripple down my throat. Vickers stands up, pushes his stool back and my eyes pop open. He looks at me strangely but at least he’s stopped rambling.

  ‘Sorry, hope I didn’t bore you. Thanks for the drink, but I’d better make tracks. I’ll see you Thursday.’

  ‘Not at all, thanks for stopping, and sorry, but I was miles away.’

  I walk him down the hall, open the front door and wave him off.

  ‘Bye, Vince. Great job, by the way,’ I say in hushed tones. ‘Cin Cin! Alla Salute! Cheers!’

  64

  As Colgate drained a second full tumbler of whisky, with only a faint streak of light from a desk lamp for company, a sharp burning sensation hit the back of his throat. His eyes were bloodshot, dried like shrivelled prunes from scouring old files, looking for evidence to link Miss Digby to Chuck Curry and put her at his house on the day of the murder, along with proof that she’d met Justine Evans at the same address.

  Googling into the small hours had finally thrown up some important information. As Colgate suspected, Miss Digby and Hannah McGregor were one and the same person. Passport identification showed her full name as Hannah Beverley Digby-McGregor, and Hannah McGregor was mentioned in the Garden Shed files. She was the daughter of the bastard’s stepsister, and Mr Curry had been her regular childminder; babysitter.

  Beverley’s mother had eventually committed suicide following a history of violent abuse from her husband. There was little in the files relating to the girl herself, other than her name and nothing untoward relating to a relationship with her uncle had been flagged up. There was no evidence that she’d ever been abused. Her parents obviously suspected nothing, probably too wrapped up in their own domestic war and the girl herself had kept quiet.

  Colgate, hunched over, felt the old familiar creak in his back. He still hadn’t enough evidence to make an arrest. Digby had framed Ms Evans for the Garden Shed Murder by making it look as if Ms Evans had it in for her instead. The therapist appeared to be getting revenge for Miss Digby’s affair with her husband. Colgate knew Ms Evans had been at Chuck Curry’s house often enough; Bob Pratchett had confirmed the details. Yet for some reason, Miss Digby had drawn Ms Evans into a web of intrigue, having some sort of axe to grind against her therapist, but Colgate had no idea what it was. But he knew for certain now that this was not some sordid crime de passion. Mr Lowther had nothing to do with events, rather the Garden Shed Murder held the answers. The two women must have met there and for some reason Miss Digby sought revenge. Revenge for what? There were no obvious pointers.

  Colgate winced as he reached for the bottle, his body sore and stiff. Even with new evidence, what did it prove? He still had nothing concrete as far as the murder was concerned and he couldn’t prove Miss Digby culpable of anything. The facts swirled round in his head.

  There was the attic, kitted out exactly like the garden shed had been twenty-five years before. A strobe light inserted at such an angle that it most likely blinded Ms Evans in her haste to descend the steep rickety stairs leading away from the attic. He suspected that, most probably, a trip wire, something like invisible fluorocarbon fishing wire, had been used to trip up both Danielle, Scott Barry’s girlfriend, and then Ms Evans.

  Perhaps Miss Digby got lucky in the stairwell with Danielle as Colgate was certain a strobe light hadn’t been used but he was convinced a trip wire had been. Probably the pregnant woman didn’t have a clear view of the ground under her bump. Yet it was all conjecture. A wire would have been easy to reel in and dispose of, but there was no CCTV footage and nothing to place Miss Digby in the stairwell on the day Danielle lost the baby.

  With Ms Evans in a coma, it was Miss Digby’s accusations that held sway. Even if Colgate could prove the two ladies had been victims of Chuck Curry around the same time, he only had Miss Digby’s statements to go on. She would doubtless offer up a reason why Ms Evans had it in for her after all this time, even if it wasn’t solely to do with the errant husband.

  Colgate downed the whisky and switched off the lamp. At fifty-eight he ought to be considering early retirement. He could hand in his badge, take to the golf course and enjoy holidays in the sun with his wife, enjoy some well-earned quality time together.

  Yet, as he reached for his jacket, he knew he wasn’t ready. He’d worked too long and hard on this particular case to walk away with nothing to show for it. There’d be no happy retirement until he had Miss Digby banged up behind bars; either in a top security prison or a remote mental institution. He didn’t care which but he couldn’t live with the failure for the rest of his life.

  65

  Justine didn’t want to open her eyes. Safe behind shuttered eyelids, not ready to tell her story, she feigned sleep as her mind wandered.

  Uncle Chuck had been her first customer. It was only a Saturday morning job in a sweet shop but it was a start. He’d winked, told her to keep the change. Fifty pence was a lot for an eleven-year-old, but she didn’t tell about the tips which soon became regular. She pocketed the coins and waited until her empty growling stomach sucked them from her grasp.

  It had all been about the money. Uncle Chuck picked up on her plight and used the insight to feather his nest. It worked; for both of them. She started earning good money and, in return, she turned a blind eye to the depravity. It began when she followed him, one Saturday afternoon, to his house. He led her down a side alley into the back garden which was awash with flowers and colour. The sight and smells were intoxicating.

  ‘Help yourself to the strawberries. There’s loads. And look here. Take some tomatoes with you too.’ He proudly stroked the plants, treating them like fragile precious babies’ heads. His fat fingers, weirdly gentle, feathered the surface of the delicate leaves.

  Then he opened up the garden shed and showed her inside. ‘What do you think?’

  She didn’t know what he wanted her to say. It stunk. Dirty tools lined the walls, the neatness of the display at odds with the rusting implements. She pretended to be impressed. She needed the money. When he produced the biscuits and made her a creamy mug of hot chocolate, she overdid the enthusiasm, telling him it was a palace.

  Only after her stomach was full did she start to feel uneasy.

  ‘Here, pet. Sit on the sofa. It’s really comfy. I might get a television set in here. What do you think? Put it up in the corner and you could watch your favourite programmes.’

  He pointed with his arm and his dirty tight shirt reared up to display a bare hairy midriff pitted with angry pockmarks.

  ‘It’s hot. Why don’t you take your jumper off and we can get comfy?’ With that he slipped his own shirt over his head. If she hadn’t been freaking out it would have been funny. His fat head got stuck and he couldn’t shake the shirt off.

  ‘Fuck,’ was all he said.

  At that point she stood up and looked at the door.

  ‘Not so fast. You’ve had your treats. What about mine? Come on. Fair’s fair.’

  The biscuits and hot chocolate exploded in a sudden projectile missile of vomit, spewing a deep yellow concoction on to his bare sandaled feet. The slime congealed over his black nailed toes.

  ‘For fuck’s sake. What’s up with you?’

  It seemed to do the trick, because his hand moved away from his trouser belt and he stepped outside, inhaling greedily at the fresh air.

  ‘Sorry. I feel sick and want to go home.’ Queenie didn’t cry. It didn’t seem right considering the mess she’d made. He stared at her as if she was a scrawny horse at an animal auction and he was weighing up whether to put his hand in his wallet or turn around and go home.

  His next words stuck in her mind, sealed her fate and explained what happened next. He patted her on the head, handed back her jumper and said, ‘Don’t worry. You’re not really my type.’

  With that he locked up the shed and they walked back towards the house in silence. She didn’t dare pick any fruit on the way
and he didn’t encourage her.

  It was only when they were inside that she started to panic that he mightn’t give her any more tips. She’d become dependent on the ever increasing amounts as the money put food on the table.

  Yet Uncle Chuck made a serious miscalculation. He underestimated her cunning. Kids were gullible, trusting and needy but not stupid.

  ‘Go along then. See you around. Sorry about your upset tummy.’

  ‘Bye, Uncle Chuck. I’ll be able to tell my friend Bob that I’ve now seen the inside of the shed as well. He’s been desperate to tell me about what goes on but he’s been sworn to secrecy. He’ll not need to worry now because we can share all.’

  Chuck pushed in front of her and blocked the exit, slamming the door so that the noise cracked through her ribs.

  ‘Bob? Bob who?’ Chuck’s jowls wobbled, and his breath laboured. At one point, he put his hand to his chest and closed his eyes.

  ‘Pratchett. Bob Pratchett. You know him. He comes into the sweetie shop all the time. He’s my best friend.’ She hardly knew Bob at that point but had seen him follow Uncle Chuck, more than once, back to the house.

  ‘Listen, Queenie. I’m going to call you Queenie, if that’s okay? You’re one special little lady. I bet you’re a good friend to Bob. But let’s keep it among ourselves. If you fancy you can come back and watch telly here any time you like. Look.’ With that he flung open the door to his living room where a massive television sat atop a dark mahogany sideboard.

  ‘Wow,’ she said.

  ‘Would you like that? Perhaps you could help me look after my dog, Ratty. Take him for walks? I’ll pay well.’ She might have only been eleven but she guessed what his game was. She knew she shouldn’t, but she accepted and he was soon paying generously to buy her silence, even before the television was switched on and even when rain kept the dog’s enthusiasm for a walk at bay.

  You see, Justine’s mother was a gambler. A single mum who always thought the next punt would provide the big win; the solution to all their problems. But it never did and they lived hand to mouth. Social services had threatened more than once to take Justine into care.

  If her mother thought the Saturday job was overly well paid, she didn’t moan. She took the earnings and Justine pocketed the tips, the latter far outweighing the former.

  It was only some time later that Hannah McGregor appeared on the scene, usually on Fridays. She was a year below Justine at school but they never spoke. When Hannah stopped outside the living room door on the way through the house to the garden shed, her eyes made silent pleas in Justine’s direction. Yet Justine gripped the remote control and averted her eyes. It was her way of coping as she turned a blind eye.

  Justine guessed it was Hannah who had sliced Chuck’s head off. She hadn’t been there that Friday but knew Hannah had. Uncle Chuck had been suffering with a high temperature and had sent Queenie packing before the younger girl arrived.

  Hannah certainly had motive, opportunity and the weapon. When she didn’t come forward after the murder and the police never found out who did it, life got back to a new type of normal for Justine. She never told anyone that she had become a lookout for Uncle Chuck and no one ever asked. The public were more than happy that someone had the guts to finish him off.

  66

  ‘Ms Evans? Ms Evans? Can you hear me? It’s Detective Colgate. I need to ask you some questions. May I sit down?’

  A chair was dragged closer, grating harshly on the hard floor, interrupting the steady hustle and bustle of the ward. Justine encouraged patients to be honest as the best way forward but she herself didn’t feel strong enough to bare all. She needed answers, especially to questions concerning Beverley.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes. I can hear you,’ she whispered. Her lids peeled back and her eyes screwed up against the blinding light. Her throat felt as if a saw had hacked through her voice box, serrations ripping it apart.

  ‘This is PC Lindsay. She’ll be taking a few notes, if that’s okay?’ The detective nodded towards his associate.

  Justine was a suspect. That’s why they were here. It was all flooding back: the scene in the attic; the curved glistening scythe, the handcuffs and then the fall down the rickety stairs. Beverley had framed her for attempted murder, had set her up. Justine’s thoughts scrambled for clarity.

  She realised now that it had been Beverley toying with her for months, with all the threatening emails, late-night phone calls and sinister messages. The sword incident had been clever. It had appeared to be a present from Justine herself but what mother would have put their child’s life in danger?

  The police were here to get her version of events before applying the handcuffs. She closed her eyes again as the room spun. Where the hell was Beverley now? Could Justine convince the police, before it was too late, what the woman was capable of?

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Go ahead. I’ve nothing to hide.’

  ‘We have reason to believe that Miss Digby tried to cause you serious injury and also that she might have been responsible for the murder of Mr Chuck Curry. We also think she was involved in the accident which caused Mr Scott Barry’s girlfriend to lose her baby. Your testimony, we hope, will help us to convict her.’

  Childhood trauma, neglect, and abuse explained the behaviour of the majority of her patients. Beverley was no different. Justine realised that the stalking habits kept Beverley occupied, helped her to maintain control of her life and of other people. But they were a front for the real darkness that lay beneath. As a professional psychologist, Justine had failed. She hadn’t put two and two together and had no idea that Beverley Digby and Hannah McGregor were one and the same person. Not until the day in the attic.

  ‘How did you first meet Miss Digby?’ Colgate sat down.

  And so it began. She told Colgate the whole undiluted truth. How Beverley had never forgiven her for not helping release her from the nightmare of the garden shed. She could have, but she did nothing. She had been young herself and relied on Mr Curry for money. Beginning the affair with Travis was only a small step towards revenge for Beverley. Breaking up the enemy’s family would have given her little comfort and she would always have needed more.

  ‘Why didn’t you come forward when you received so many threatening emails, phone calls and sick messages? You only told us about a sword incident involving your son, if I remember rightly, but not about all the other threats.’

  ‘I work with sick people all the time; delusional mental patients. I’ve spent many hours over the years dealing with such threats. It’s one of the downsides of the job. I’d only take further action if I believed there was a threat to life. If I’d known who Beverley was, I’d have been much more vigilant and most likely gone to the police.’

  The clock on the far wall clicked relentlessly forward. It was one hour later when the nurse approached and told the detective that time was up.

  ‘Ms Evans needs rest.’

  ‘Where is Beverley now? Is she in custody?’ Justine’s neck creaked as she turned to look at Colgate.

  ‘Not yet. We’re on our way now though. Thank you. You’ve confirmed what we suspected but we needed to hear it first-hand. Listen, we’re really sorry for having put you through all of this but time is ticking. I hope you understand. Thank you, Ms Evans.’ Colgate pushed his chair back, got up and marched towards the exit.

  Justine’s eyes followed him, a wry smile on her lips. Beverley would have probably left the country; she’d be long gone. Time spent in the company of Chuck Curry had hardened her and kept her one step ahead of everyone else. Poor Colgate would be chasing his own tail.

  As she drifted in and out of fitful sleep, Justine’s mind wandered. Perhaps it was time to take retirement or change careers. She and Olga could move with the children to France; start afresh. They’d talked often enough of renovating a tumbledown chateau and Travis had slim chance of getting custody of Freddie and Emily. He had dug his own grave.

  London and S
outhgate held too many bad memories, the past constantly hammering at the door of the present. Beverley had found a way and now Justine needed to as well.

  67

  My feet dangle through the balustrade and I let my toes, coated in a bright orange polish, wiggle back and forth. The midday sun is high in the sky, blanketing the terracotta piazza below in a shimmering heat haze.

  The Umbrian countryside stretches out far and wide past Lago Trasimeno, which glistens like a large frosted pane of glass. My viewpoint is spectacular. I’m in Castiglione Del Lago, an ancient hill top fortress once impenetrable to marauders. It’s providing a heavenly sanctuary and I’m blending nicely into the surroundings, embracing all things Italian. The food, the wine, and even the men are delicious.

  Today I’ve already moved on from cappuccino to wine. It’s a bit early, even for the Italians, but hey ho, I’m feeling very ‘devil may care’. In front of me I’ve laid out, on a wooden platter, salamis, Parma hams and pungent cheeses which I picked up from the delicatessen two floors below. I wave down at Alessandro who is offering bite-sized tasters to passers-by and who loves to glance my way when Maria isn’t looking. I pop an olive on my tongue and turn back to my scrapbook.

  It tickles me to think that one day a film might be made of my story. Perhaps some savvy writer will pick up my likeness to Ted Bundy. Not because of my prolific, sadistic and vile murderous rampages but because of my rapt attention to all the newspaper articles, internet posts and television coverage of my case. I am quite the celebrity, albeit one that has disappeared; flown without trace. I wonder how long it will be before I am on the FBI’s most wanted list. Colgate suspects I’m in Italy, but has no idea whereabouts.