The Watcher

by Kate Medina

  Workman knew how she felt. Since the Whiteheads’ murder last night, Surrey and Sussex Major Crimes had been under siege. They could have done with a moat and drawbridge, archers guarding the turrets.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. This case is attracting a huge amount of press attention.’

  ‘Predictably,’ Valerie replied, with an arch lift of one eyebrow. ‘Particularly after the latest murders.’

  Workman didn’t rise. She had listened to LBC on the drive over and Daniel and Eleanor Whitehead’s murders had been the main topic of conversation, of speculation, of repeated morbidly horrified phone calls from listeners.

  ‘I have a few more questions about Hugo, about his friends from childhood and his adult social and work connections,’ Workman said.

  Valerie smirked. ‘You don’t have any good leads yet then?’

  ‘We do, but I’m afraid that I can’t discuss them with you.’

  Valerie’s gaze narrowed, unconvinced, unsurprisingly; the lack of conviction in Workman’s voice had been an easy read.

  ‘Well, you might as well come and sit down,’ she said. Her front door had opened straight into a double-height kitchen-cum-dining-cum-sitting room, decorated in various shades of off-white, simple and stylish, big floor-to-ceiling windows – the barn’s previous doors – looking out over a small fenced garden and fields beyond. She led Workman to an oak kitchen table, taking a seat herself at one end. ‘I made a pot of tea actually, as you’d called ahead to say that you were coming.’

  Workman pulled out a chair next to her, so that they were sitting at an elliptical angle to each other. She’d learnt a few things from Jessie Flynn – not to sit end to end, so as not to make the discussion combative. Crossing her legs, she mirrored Valerie’s movements.

  ‘So – yet more questions,’ Valerie said, passing Workman a cup of tea and a jug of milk.

  Workman nodded. ‘Let’s start with Hugo’s childhood.’

  ‘I may be of little help. As I said before, Hugo was very self-sufficient. Godfrey and I only got involved when there was trouble.’

  ‘Was there trouble?’

  ‘His prep school called us a few times to complain about his behaviour.’

  ‘What kind of behaviour?’

  ‘Cheating in tests, a bit of argy-bargy in the playground, telling a teacher to fuck off once, smashing his violin against the wall in the middle of a music lesson when he decided that he couldn’t be bothered with it any more.’ Valerie plucked at her pearl necklace. ‘And he was caught tormenting the school’s rabbit. It was kept in a hutch outside and Hugo was found one lunchtime, stabbing it with a compass.’

  Workman’s widened eyes were met with a nonchalant shrug from Valerie.

  ‘I did tell you that he was a little shit.’

  ‘The school didn’t throw him out?’

  ‘No, he was suspended for a couple of days for the rabbit incident and then we agreed to send him to boarding school two years early. Westbourne House Prep School finishes at thirteen and we sent Hugo to Fettes College at eleven.’

  ‘Do you remember the names of any of his friends from his prep-school days?’

  ‘He had two good friends from Westbourne.’ She twisted her pearls around her index finger, her gaze finding the ceiling. ‘Martin something … something common.’

  ‘Common?’

  ‘Yes, Smith, Brown, Jones … something like that. And another boy, James Stoddard. Godfrey and I became reasonably good friends with his parents, though they moved up to the Cotswolds a couple of years after James left Westbourne and we lost touch.’

  Workman made a note. ‘Martin something and James Stodd—’

  ‘Taylor,’ Valerie interrupted suddenly. ‘Martin Taylor. That was it. I did tell you it was common.’

  Workman suppressed a smile. Valerie Fuller had clearly worked hard to discard the lower-middle-class tag that she had brought with her into her marriage.

  ‘Did Hugo keep in touch with them once he went to Fettes College?’

  ‘For a couple of years, but then they finished at Westbourne and went to boarding school too – not Fettes College – and the Stoddards moved, as I said, and they gradually lost touch.’

  ‘Who did Hugo spend time with during the holidays when he was at Fettes College?’

  ‘He either stayed at the house of his best friend from Fettes College, Angus Chisnall, or he came home. He’d usually spend half-terms and a couple of weeks during the summer holidays with Angus and the rest of the time with us.’

  ‘Where did Angus live?’

  ‘In the Scottish Borders. Dumfries and Galloway if I remember correctly.’

  ‘And when he was here, who did he spend time with?’

  ‘To be quite frank, I’m not entirely sure. As I said before, we had a house in East Wittering then, overlooking the beach. It was all very safe and he would just roam. I had my daughters and they were very young. Hugo made his own entertainment and didn’t appear to need monitoring. He was a leader, always has been, and he was hugely attractive to other boys because of that, so he never seemed to be short of people to spend time with. I didn’t like Hugo bringing boys home as they were so noisy and disruptive, so we came to an understanding pretty quickly that he could do what he wanted as long as we never had cause to worry and never had the police around.’

  ‘Did you ever have the police around?’ Workman asked.

  Valerie gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Once. Hugo had been caught tormenting some sheep in a field with some other boys, trying to ride them evidently, and the police brought him home. But it was just the once and they only gave him a warning.’

  ‘What about university friendships or adult friendships?’

  Valerie shook her head. ‘Hugo went to university in London and, once he was there, he stayed. Godfrey used to see him for lunch sometimes when he had work in London, but I had virtually nothing to do with Hugo once he went to university and I have no idea who his friends were. Godfrey never mentioned anyone specific.’

  Workman nodded. ‘One last question. Do the names Daniel or Eleanor Whitehead mean anything to you, Mrs Fuller?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve heard about them virtually every hour on the hour on the radio news since early this morning. I switched on the television at lunchtime and there they were on BBC1, poor sods. They were murdered by the same lunatic who murdered Hugo and Claudine, weren’t they?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t comment on that.’

  Valerie gave a nasty little smile. ‘You don’t need to. The press are commenting on your behalf and it all sounds incredibly grim and as if you lot have made no progress at all.’

  Workman swallowed back a biting retort. ‘Do either of those names mean anything to you beyond what you’ve heard about them in today’s news?’ she asked, keeping her tone measured, professional.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure? You haven’t heard of either of them, before today, in relation to Hugo?’

  Valerie shook her head firmly. ‘I’m absolutely sure. I had never heard of either Daniel or Eleanor Whitehead before this morning.’

  46

  ‘Sophie Whitehead confirmed that her parents left a key to the back door under the cast-iron hedgehog boot cleaner next to the back door, but only when she was out,’ Jessie said, when she and Marilyn had settled themselves at as quiet a table as it was possible to find in a busy hospital coffee shop. ‘Sophie said that she was absentminded and often forgot to take her door key. She’s a teenager. It goes with the territory.’

  Marilyn rolled his eyes. ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t the Whiteheads leave a note pinned to the door with an arrow pointing to the hedgehog for good measure.’

  ‘It’s not that dumb to leave a key.’

  ‘How do you arrive at that dubious conclusion?’

  ‘They live on a quiet, leafy, out-of-the-way estate, in the middle of the street of very similar houses. They must have felt as safe as houses, to use a lame pun.’

  ‘I
t’s a burglar and murderer’s dream that estate, with all the shrubbery. A whole army of serial killers could hide for days and no one would be any the wiser.’

  It was Jessie’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘There’s nothing to pick out their house from anyone else’s. They probably know … knew all their neighbours and their neighbours knew them. They’d have monthly neighbourhood committee meetings, rotating working parties to trim the grass verges, you name it, they’d have it all.’

  ‘My idea of hell.’

  Hers too.

  Marilyn sighed. ‘I know where you’re going with this, Jessie.’

  She gave a tired smile. ‘And where would that be?’

  ‘It’s personal.’

  ‘It is personal.’

  ‘Sophie said that her parents often went to sleep before she got home, particularly when they thought she was spending the evening at a friend’s house watching films and painting nails, or whatever the hell teenage girls do when they’re hanging out with their mates.’

  ‘Add discussing boys and posting selfies onto Instagram and that about covers it.’

  ‘It’s entirely possible they were asleep when our man let himself into the house. Sophie was on half-term, but it was Wednesday night, a work night for the Whiteheads. There was no damage to the front or back door locks or the doors themselves, so he either picked one of the locks, used the key that was left under the hedgehog or entered via an open door or window – the third option being the most unlikely given that it was a cold autumn night. Burrows should have a definitive answer to that question by now.’ Tugging his reading glasses from his top pocket, he slid them, self-consciously, onto his nose and pinged off a quick text. An answering ping a moment later. ‘He used the key and let himself in through the back door.’

  ‘He’s been watching them, as he watched the Fullers.’

  ‘Or he just got lucky. As you said yourself, lots of people leave keys hidden.’

  ‘That’s not his mentality. It’s all planned meticulously. Also, the timing is too perfect, while Sophie Whitehead was out. If my “personal” theory is correct, the timing would have been deliberate.’

  ‘If—’

  ‘It is correct,’ she said, with an assuredness that she didn’t feel. ‘Sophie is like Lupo – an innocent. He spared Lupo and he spared Sophie, so as not to create collateral damage.’

  Marilyn took a slug of his double espresso.

  ‘How can you drink that stuff?’ Jessie asked, reaching for her latte.

  ‘How can you drink that stuff? It’s a milky drink in the general direction of which a coffee bean may or may not have been waved.’ He drained the espresso.

  ‘Sophie and her friend, Lucy Heath, stood outside the Whiteheads’ house on the pavement vaping and chatting while they waited for the taxi they’d booked to take them to Sheiks nightclub.’

  ‘And we know how well sound carries out there, from the noise of our footsteps on the gravel. The murderer could have been hiding in the Whiteheads’ or a neighbour’s front garden, watching and listening, and heard Sophie and Lucy discussing their night out at Sheiks. Serial killers often revisit the scenes of the crime so that they can enjoy their kills multiple times. If … and only if your watching theory is correct, our man could have known that Sophie was going to Sheiks, murdered Daniel and Eleanor, then collected Sophie, pretending to be a taxi, and driven her home to her dead parents.’

  Jessie nodded. ‘We need to find Charles.’

  ‘We do. I’ll put a call in to Chichester’s three main taxi firms, ask them to get their drivers to keep an urgent eye out for a rogue operator in a small dark hatchback. They hate moonlighters illegally plying for hire on their patch so if he’s a legit moonlighter and not our man, they’ll find him far more quickly than we can.’

  ‘If he is still out there illegally plying for hire, he’s certain not to be the killer. And if he’s not out there plying for hire, he either doesn’t need to any more for whatever reason, or he just picked up Sophie.’

  ‘And the taxi drivers won’t find him. So we need to – urgently – to eliminate him or arrest him.’

  ‘Where is Sheiks?’

  ‘In Bognor, down a side road off the main strip.’

  ‘It sounds as if it would be busy.’

  ‘In summer, certainly, and in the autumn and winter there are people around at pub and club closing time, but she left after pub closing time, but before club closing time, alone. And the street is shops and offices, not residential houses.’ Marilyn pinged off another, longer, text. ‘DC Cara,’ he said, looking up. ‘I’ve asked him to go to Sheiks, check out their CCTV, and interview any of the staff who might have seen Sophie Whitehead at the club or when she left.’

  Jessie smiled. ‘So much for his forty winks.’

  Marilyn raised his coffee cup. ‘This is a murder investigation’s forty winks.’ He lowered the cup. ‘We can add Charles to our list of suspects, which will number one once he’s added.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘At least I will have something to say at the press conference later to give the illusion of progress, in the absence of actual progress.’

  47

  One Year Ago

  Dropping his gaze to the bleached slats of the jetty, between them to the waves, Robbie saw the image of a boy fighting against the current. It was the middle of winter, colder even than now, and the water was ice. The boy’s face was blue and his eyes were saucer-wide with fear.

  A dog.

  There was a dog in there too. A little black and white dog. Its head was black, but its front legs were white, and Robbie could see them churning through the dark water in frantic terror. The waves were crashing over their heads, over the head of the boy and his dog, disappearing them from view, surfacing them again, coughing and spluttering, blue and enervated from cold.

  Robbie looked down the lifeboat jetty towards the beach. Both the jetty and beach were deserted now. The others had gone. They had stood and watched for a while, watched and laughed. Then the laughing had shuddered and died as they realized that, this time, they had gone too far.

  Only the drowning boy and his dog remained.

  Robbie held his breath, willing them to survive. But he knew that all his willing was pointless. He already knew how their story ended.

  ‘Robbie. Robbie!’

  Robbie looked up. His father was staring hard at him. Robbie hadn’t noticed him reappear from the lifeboat shed. He had been too caught up watching the boy and his dog. His father’s face was pale, anxiety straining his expression at the look on Robbie’s.

  ‘Are you all right, Rob?’

  Robbie didn’t nod.

  His father frowned. ‘Are you all right?’

  It was a question his father asked often. Ten times a day at least – had done for years. From the plaintive tone of his question, Robbie knew that he was still waiting and hoping, desperately hoping for the answer, finally, to be Yes. Not just Fine. A Fine that his dad knew was a lie, a feeble construction that wouldn’t withstand a stiff breeze.

  Robbie shook his head. He couldn’t see the boy any more. The boy was gone, swallowed by the heaving sea. Only the little dog remained, its white legs pumping the waves like pistons, as it fought with raw animal desperation for its life.

  Fine?

  No, he wasn’t even fine. Not now that he had come here, to this place.

  48

  Dr Ghoshal looked up from the flayed body on his dissecting table, no translatable expression in his cool, dark gaze. He’d make an ace poker player. An ace criminal. An as-cool-as-a-grocer’s-shop-full-of-cucumbers murderer. Marilyn hoped that their man wasn’t as sub-zero as Dr Ghoshal, or they wouldn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of catching him.

  ‘As you know, Dr Flynn’s theory is that these murders are about watching,’ Marilyn said. ‘She believed before I … before you proved that theory not to be correct, that Claudine Fuller was murdered first and Hugo Fuller second, after being made to watch his wife’s death. But Claudine was killed af
ter her husband. What about the Whiteheads?’

  Dr Ghoshal dipped his gaze back to Daniel Whitehead’s pale, slack, splayed body.

  ‘Dr Flynn is right in the Whiteheads’ case.’ His habitually desiccated monotone was made more colourless than usual by the muffling effect of his clinical face mask. ‘Eleanor Whitehead was killed first and her husband, Daniel, half an hour or so later. I would suggest that Daniel Whitehead was made to watch his wife’s murder. Watch it and then spend some time absorbing it; or perhaps, during that time, the killer talked to him.’ Dr Ghoshal paused theatrically. ‘Explained.’

  Marilyn nodded. Jesus Christ, he thought. ‘What’s the evidence to back up that theory, beyond the timing?’

  ‘The timing firstly, as you point out, and secondly the location of where they were found. She was drowned in the bath and he was chained to the bathroom towel rail. He couldn’t not have watched.’

  ‘Sure, but doesn’t that speak to expedience, given that we know it’s a lone killer? He needed to incapacitate one of them to kill the other. He couldn’t tackle both at the same time. It doesn’t necessarily concur with Dr Flynn’s watching theory.’

  Dr Ghoshal nodded: not a nod of agreement but more the kind of patient nod that a parent would give a child to indicate that they have listened to their opinion, but have most certainly not agreed.

  ‘The pattern and depth of the contusions around Daniel Whitehead’s wrists, caused by the handcuffs cutting into his skin, suggest that he was restrained for a considerable amount of time, and that he struggled actively against those bonds, for a sustained period, before he was killed.’

  ‘I would struggle if someone was scratching my eyes out. Intense fear does that to a person, and Whitehead would have felt intense fear, whether he was made to watch his wife or not.’

  ‘Indeed, DI Simmons. Though he would not have struggled for so long or in such an industrious way.’

  ‘Industrious?’