Vincent is also tall, thin and kindly looking. I would buy life insurance off him in an instant. Which all could be leading to the classic ‘you wouldn’t think he could be a murderer’ statements in the red tops, ‘he was so nice, the last person you’d think would kill an OAP’. And sure, I would be willing to go along with this possibility and proceed towards level two so I can try to scope out his hands. But Vincent is an Asian gentleman. Not bleach blond either. And so I dismissed him from our enquiries immediately and watched them all go to work.
They flocked away. Some towards the overground. Some towards the Tube. Cary on his motorbike. Janet and Tippi together, a piece of toast each in some kitchen roll. Mr Smith went underneath the building to get into his Volvo and drove off to who knows where. But I stayed here. Birding.
The evening session brought nothing from Jonny and Joseph, both returning late. Joseph having done some serious overtime. Jonny having done some serious drinking. Neither standing still long enough in the darkness for me to catch sight of their hands. Alas.
I rolled into bed, kissed Aiden on his cold cheek and hit the sack.
Day 3: Flat 4. Alfred; Flat 7. Liz and Dicky.
The morning brought great joys. First a removal van with a glut of boxes arrived. I breathed in with the excitement of it all. The grip around my binoculars tightened and I awaited which building they were heading to.
In seconds a team of burly blokes jumped out and started unloading the van. They were like a cross between an army and a synchronised swimming team. They grabbed the brown boxes of various sizes, passed them to each other and headed towards Waterway. Yes!
Behind the van, three figures stepped out of a Merc and followed in behind, it was difficult to see who’s who. Difficult to make judgements. I needed to identify the resident.
They settled inside flat four and there was a clutch of biceps and hands putting things into place. An hour later, the room was fully assembled by the team and two well-dressed parents, the older figures from the Merc, jumped in the car and drove off into the distance. All shorts and sunglasses, as if off to a yacht in Monaco. Maybe they were.
They were all gone but one. Their son.
Inside, the skinny boy surveyed his surroundings, glancing every so often at his smartphone before flicking on the television. I’m calling him Alfred. That’s a name that could come back into fashion, you never know.
Alfred is twenty-one, saturnine, dark and slight. Welcome to the neighbourhood, my boy. Your first home, all funded by Mum and Dad. There is nothing imposing about him. How unthreatening. What they call ‘gentrification’ is at the end of it all. How unimpressive and easy it looks. All he represents is another cross on my grid. And the disturbing possibility that someone may have moved out shortly after Jean’s murder.
It’s a slim possibility. That anyone would kill and immediately sell up shop. That would be a hell of a swift move and a beast of a story to get to the bottom of. Quite a way to leave the neighbourhood with a bang. But if I don’t find that bandaged hand then it’s going to start to feel a lot more possible. But I decided to ignore that avenue for now and stay positive.
Just a few hours later, the sound of a rolling suitcase announced the arrival back off holiday of Liz and Dicky. Three weeks in Turkey I’d say by the look of their tans. You lucky lot. A lot has happened since you went away. They are in their mid-thirties and Dicky’s are the most pristine gentleman’s hands I’ve ever seen. Not a day’s physical labour in his life. I bet he runs a successful start-up that’s gifted him with long luxurious holidays at the back end of August when London is at its best anyway. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here at this time of year. They can keep their holidays. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.
I’ve seen them before come to think of it. They go running together on Saturday mornings. They’re happy. They’re humdrum. They’re of no use to me.
Stay awake. Stay conscious. Stay sane.
Only one flat to go now. One blind left to rise. Two pairs of hands to see.
Day 4: A complete shut-out.
Cary came home with a Vespa.
Gregory in the penthouse attached his feet to a metal bar, which he hung from upside down. He then failed manfully to do six consecutive upside down sit-ups. He failed to do this for around forty-five minutes. Every so often letting himself down to allow the blood to flow back around his body. He shook himself off. Before trying, and failing, again.
Day 5: Jonny’s hands.
Yesterday, I got lucky. It was the day the window cleaners are supposed to come and do the big windows. But some sort of ‘technical issue’ meant they wouldn’t be around till next week.
In their absence, a man like Jonny must step up to the plate and take on the task himself. Squeegee in hand, bucket at his feet, he leant around to try to give it a good go in the early evening. Lina looked on asking him to ‘be careful’. As he leant from the balcony, precariously. She needn’t have worried. I was watching too, to catch him if he fell.
I watched and waited. Then there they were. I couldn’t believe it. But it was unmistakable. Undeniable. Despite being covered in suds and water.
Two clean hands. Nothing to see there.
I’m losing time.
Today.
Revelations – Resolutions – Waterway Apartments – Good vis, strong breezes, 12 deg – Flocks and flocks – The men – Various heights – Ready to reveal.
Awake. Conscious. Sane. All in equal measure.
This is my sixth day on the watch, I’ve slept as little as possible. I’ve stuck to my task. I tell myself I’ve done everything I could do.
My head droops. I see the world through a brownish gauze. I think I do need to get some proper sleep at some point.
Today is a Sunday and what I thought would be my best day for sightings. You know, Sunday. Not an excursion day. Not a work day. A stay in the house day.
Joseph has done just that. Not venturing out enough for me to see him cleaning that bike. He hasn’t done that since Jean was killed. Not since the boys said someone came around their way and got cut for their trouble. Maybe that’s just coincidence. Or maybe he is hiding something. In his nest.
A tree partially obscures my view of Joseph and it irks me. This is probably why I haven’t seen more of him already and I’d considered finding another vantage point. Behind the tree perhaps. But now he’s my prime suspect I think it’s probably best not to rile the man. I can’t get too close. I can’t give myself away. This man could be dangerous.
He’s been pottering around in there doing God knows what all day. Then I lose him. I think I saw a flash of his shorts from his bedroom window so perhaps he’s going for a run. I consider putting on my trainers and vest and giving chase. I’m not fast. By no means am I fast. But if I got close enough even for a second that would be enough to see his hands. But I haven’t run in months and don’t often do sightings without binoculars. The naked eye can be so exposing.
You’re always better to stay where you are and let them come to you. That’s the philosophy. If you’ve got a decent enough view that is. I stare at my trainers, wondering whether that would be the stupid or smart move. I don’t feel like running. But that might have to be the way it goes.
Fortunately, I’m saved from any undue exercise when he comes tearing around on his bike. This is what I wanted. Full visibility. And no chance of me having to break into a sweat.
He removes a small sponge from his saddlebag and dips it into the fountain. This is it. Cleaning time. Back to the old routine.
Stay awake. Stay conscious. Stay sane.
One hand is in the water, the other is by his side, just out of view. He pulls it out, it’s obscured by the sponge. He rubs the bike down methodically. Now he crouches and rubs it along the frame. It glistens in the sunlight and obscures my view. I can’t see.
This is frustrating. I pull up the blind a bit, revealing myself more to the outside world. I’m taking a chance, but I have to. I need a better
look. It’s so close. He must be nearly finished. I can’t miss this open goal. I take a chance. I leave my apparatus behind. And go solo. I go out onto the balcony.
I focus in on the fountain, as if lost in thought, serene. When in fact I’m desperately trying to stay calm. It’s all a subterfuge. For his benefit. So he doesn’t think I’ve got my eye on him. I’m pretending to be merely an ordinary person on an ordinary Sunday. Not someone scouting for a killer.
He possibly sees me. Senses me. I’m not sure. I stay still. He’s so close. Close enough for the naked eye, but his hands keep moving. Then he stops. Wipes them dry and stands.
His right hand is clean. So is his left. No bandage, nothing. I see it. As clear as day. If that was my smoking gun, I’m going to have to think again. No cut hands anywhere in Waterway Apartments. It’s a washout.
No tells. No giveaways. This leaves the whole grid open. Everyone back in play. Dammit.
Just then. For the first time. The blind of flat eighteen shoots up and there stands a man. Tall, blond, a plaster cast on his right hand. I stare up at the sky as a flock of sparrows passes overhead. It distracted me for a second. But I’ve seen it.
I gasp and want to turn to go inside. But my feet are rooted there like concrete blocks. He sees the birds too. Then he sees me. My face. Or seems to. His face is… pensive. Not quite blank, but tough to read. Or maybe he’s just too far away to judge. He stands and looks in my direction for a second. And I at him. Me, unmoved. I’ve got him.
There seems to be an understanding between us. An electricity. No binoculars any more. Nothing for either of us to hide behind. The molecules in the air move silently between us.
Then, he turns and casually steps back, away from the window.
9 days till it comes. Evening.
WM – Waterway Apartments – Good vis, last of the light nights, 13 deg – Singular – Thick dark brow, almost Greek, died-blond plumage – Navy-blue suit and matching tie – 6’ 3” – A model of control, coiled rage.
It’s so hard to conceal ecstasy. When you have that piece of news you want to tell everyone but can’t. I skip around the flat, trying to compose myself. Terrence runs around my feet, excited, he knows something’s up. He feels vibrations off me. Feels it in the air. I don’t want Aiden to suspect anything. But then dogs are experts in human behaviour. I don’t think you could say the same of Aid.
I head to the bathroom and sit on top of the seat. I do this at work sometimes when I just need a break from the mundanity of it all. For now, I need to stay calm and stick to the facts.
Noises in the hallway. Footsteps. I can tell from the quality of step that’s Lowell coming home.
The man in flat eighteen – Mr Brenner I’m going to call him – fits the bill completely. I named him after the character Rod Taylor played in The Birds. It’s only a shorthand. He needed a name so I gave him one I’d remember. But Hitchcock’s Brenner was the hero of the piece, always saving Tippi Hedren’s character Melanie from gulls, crows and everything else. In fact, the Brenner home was constantly under attack from the birds. But my Mr Brenner isn’t under attack. He’s just under close watch.
My Mr Brenner is shifty. I can understand some level of privacy, but he seems rigorous about keeping his blinds down. He could’ve been away on holiday or something like that, of course. I can’t quite tell for sure.
But I can tell a few things. Because he’s had his blinds open for a luxurious three hours of watching time.
His home is studiously arranged. A large oak bookshelf reveals a taste for modern pop science books and other non-fiction. The angle of the flat means I can’t see the entire room, which frustrates me. But I can see a samurai sword in there and an arty wildlife shot of a lion. Framed. I remember reading that an obsession with predatory animals is an indicator of a psychopath. I meditate on this.
Perhaps he had no motive. Just a psychopath. Or maybe he did have a motive, I just haven’t figured it out yet. But whatever the finer details, I imagine killing people off is that much easier if you are a psychopath. The danger doesn’t touch the sides. You feel neither great highs nor crushing lows. You’re more pragmatic about what needs to be done. Not hampered by unhelpful fears or worries. Unemotional.
I can sympathise with him at this moment. I’m tired and hazy. I see him through a bleary-eyed film. The psychopath in the flat over the road.
He disturbed a couple of things so simply threw it away. A poker. A porcelain monkey. He’s pragmatic. He was in and out in five minutes, Thompson said. Cool, efficient, unemotional. Psychopath. A definite possibility.
Then there’s his arm. I didn’t expect the cast. Perhaps they cut him so deep they chipped or broke a bone. It could be an arm guard or support. Or, he could’ve applied it himself. Allowing him to hide the knife wound and tell anyone that asks that his injury is something more benign. Repetitive strain from tapping away on his computer. Torn ligaments while playing squash. Broken bone incurred when cycling. Anything that doesn’t involve a large unexplained gash to the forearm. That makes sense.
I try to get a better look at the cast, but my apparatus isn’t good enough to see if it’s set tight to his arm or removable.
There doesn’t seem to be a Mrs Brenner. Not yet anyway. I wonder what his home life is like. I wonder if he has friends. Whether he went to a good university.
Not that any of it matters so much. I’ve got him and I’m not going to let him get away. But this is just the beginning. Now I have to prove it. Now I’ve got to get close enough to find something incriminating before I turn him over to the police. Something good. Something big time. I need to gift wrap him for them. I need something concrete. And something that doesn’t make me look more crazy than he is. I’ll have to keep the tip-offs from squatters and night visits to the victim to myself. I won’t tell them that, of course not, no way. I don’t want them laughing at me again. I hated that. I don’t know what I’d do if they did that again.
There are movements in there. He gets a call. He paces around, smiling at first. Then a tightening of the features. His eyes widen, he rubs the top of his head. Then his left hand reaches his left temple and strokes up and down. A silent movie of a troubled man thinking.
It’s unclear what he does for a living. It’s a Sunday so it’s not a work clothes day. But I can usually have a pretty good guess at occupation from the look of someone on any old day. Whether they’re in their work costumes or not. I’m not boasting or anything. But I’m mostly right.
Maybe he’s an estate agent, not a slimy one. One with one of those offices with a bike in the window. That tries to convince you they’re really more of a boutique affair. More like a local art gallery. Rather than a chain company set up to extract yet more money from the housing market.
Or maybe he’s a a structural engineer. He has a smooth air about him, like he gives orders and has a secretary named Adrienne. But he also looks genuinely capable. Skilled labour. Some style, some substance. Respected in the workplace.
He’s shouting at the guy on the other end of the phone. He’s pacing around so he’s difficult to lip-read. Every so often he turns his back away and then I lose even the thread of the dumb show.
He turns back. I see his mouth. It looks like he was expecting the call to be good news. But it isn’t. I think someone is telling him that something is trickier than they thought it would be. Brenner didn’t expect this.
‘What? Why?’ he says – I can make that out. Then a disagreement. Proper drama. He gesticulates wildly, he’s pissed off. I even catch him saying ‘yes, I’m pissed off’. He mouths more expletives. I won’t repeat them here. He moves towards the wall, resting his head and his fist against it. He’s still talking, angry. His mouth moving a mile a minute.
Then he breaks away swiftly, walking towards a samurai sword mounted on the wall next to him. He picks it up. He runs his palm along the handle. I had a friend at university with a samurai sword. I always thought it was a lame collector’s item.
; Then he turns his back to me. Still holding the weapon. I wish I could hear inside. Tap his phone perhaps. Then we would be getting into serious territory. Terrence licks his lips and puts his head in my lap again. I stroke his head. Brenner runs his hand along his murderous little toy.
Then he seems calmed somehow. Perhaps by something his friend on the other end of the phone has said to him. He listens. This could be it and I’m missing it all. The vital piece of evidence I need. To know for sure he did it. If I got it on tape, for instance. If I had the equipment. That could be all they’d need to convict. Right? I’m so close. I see that now.
What I need is to see or hear something incriminating. Not even cold, hard evidence for now. Not Exhibit ‘A’. Just something good enough to confirm to me that he did it and I can work with the rest. I can take that tiny morsel of evidence and spin it into something solid. Then the police will take over.
I won’t tell the fuzz I’ve been watching. Of course not. Nothing like that. I’ll tell them I’ve overheard or caught a glimpse of him doing just some little thing. I’ll let them assume the rest. Then once they have him in custody, his fingerprints, then they’ll fill it all in. They can’t bungle it from there surely. Once they’ve got him in their sights. They’re not that incompetent.
A thought hits me. I could even call them now. Tell the police I happened to see a local man at Jean’s place that night. Pin it on him and see if it sticks. I can ring in on that number on the sign outside Alaska House. I could tell a little white lie. Put him at the scene and let them do the rest. I could make it all happen now if I wanted to.
But no. I have to know that it’s him first. For sure. For him as much as me. Fair’s fair. I’ll get close enough to find out either way. Then when I’ve got what I need, I’ll get it to the police, all tied up with a bow. With no suspicion that some strange woman has been hanging around rubbernecking at the case like some kind of pariah. Then it will be done. It’s as simple as that.
The Watcher Page 11