The Watcher

by Kate Medina

  Jesus Christ.

  Lowering the mask from his face, he met her gaze. His eyes were bright.

  ‘Robbie? What the …’ What the fuck?

  He glanced down at the dog mask clasped in his marble-pale hands.

  ‘I found it in a box under my dad’s bed.’ His robotic voice barely there, the rise and fall of his shoulders exaggerated as if he was having difficulty catching his breath. ‘There was other stuff too. A whole costume.’ He balled a fist. ‘And gloves, paw gloves with sharp steel claws embedded in them. I left everything, except for this.’

  Jessie nodded, trying to maintain her composure, the image of that pale figure from the security camera at Paws for Thought rising in her mind, the images of the dead rising there also. The electric suit hissed hot across her skin and clenched cloyingly tight around her throat. She took a breath, trying to steady the crazed beating of her heart. She had to be calm, for him – for herself.

  ‘When did you find them?’

  ‘This afternoon. My dad went out for a run and I went through his things.’

  ‘Why?’

  Robbie lifted his shoulders. ‘He’s been acting odd for weeks. It’s only the two of us, so I know. He’s out running all the time in the evenings and I’m often asleep before he gets home. I’m prescribed melatonin. It knocks me out.’

  ‘He’s innocent until proven guilty, Robbie, and police make mistakes. It’s early days in the process.’

  Robbie nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose …’ he murmured.

  There was something in his voice, an odd tone, an unsettling intonation that Jessie couldn’t put her finger on.

  ‘You need to give the mask to DI Simmons,’ she said gently. ‘It’s very important evidence.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have taken it, should I?’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Will it be contaminated now? Will I have ruined the case against my father?’

  Jessie shook her head. ‘They have the stuff you left, the dog suit, and other evidence, DNA evidence.’

  Robbie was looking at her oddly, his head tilted, green eyes shining.

  ‘Do you want to ruin the case?’ she asked softly.

  He lifted his shoulders, the shrug strangely nonchalant. ‘Not if he did what they said he did.’

  ‘As I said, he’s innocent until proven guilty.’ Pulling a towel off the rail, she spread and held it out to him. ‘Drop the mask in the towel, Robbie, and I’ll call DI Simmons to say that we have it.’

  Though Robbie nodded, he didn’t move. His fingers were clasped tight around the mask as if he didn’t want to let it go.

  ‘Robbie. The mask.’

  He still didn’t move. It was as if the mask, everything it represented, had rooted him to the spot. The silence became a tangible shape, stretching between them. Jessie closed her towel-wrapped hand around the mask and, as she did so, images of the dogs at Paws for Thought rose in her mind.

  They’re loyal, faithful. Everyone has a place in the hierarchy and everyone is accepted for who they are.

  I don’t think he’s dressing up as a dog – I think he wants to be a dog.

  She thought of Eunice Hargreaves.

  Huskies can withstand temperatures of minus sixty degrees centigrade, Dr Flynn.

  So why had the perp tramped a kilometre through woods, in the middle of the night, to Eunice Hargreaves’ cottage, to ensure that Lupo would be found?

  Because he had humanity.

  Her hands froze on the mask.

  Because he was young and naive, and because he loved dogs … and was accepted and loved by them in return, far more than he had ever been accepted or loved by people.

  She looked up into Robbie’s pale face. Met that bright gaze.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  85

  Sharon Scuffil dropped her son’s shirt and spun back to face Marilyn.

  ‘Late last night. It happened late last night. I was out … on a date. Niall called me to say that he’d been attacked. Parker came to our house and, when Niall opened the door, he hit him with one of those electric cattle prod things and beat him up.’

  ‘Crazy,’ Niall lisped, through his swollen, bloodied lip. ‘He’s fucking crazy.’

  You’d be right there, son, Marilyn concurred silently.

  ‘I told them outside,’ Mrs Scuffil said. She flapped a midnight-blue-lacquered hand over her shoulder. ‘I told them all.’

  ‘The press?’ Marilyn asked incredulously.

  ‘Of course. Everyone needs to know.’

  ‘We have Mr Parker in custody, Mrs Scuffil. Involving the press—’ any more than they already are ‘—is very unhelpful.’

  ‘I’m not interested in being helpful to the police. It’s your job to help us—’ She broke off. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘What? How did we know what?’

  ‘To arrest Parker. We’ve only just come in. We’ve been at St Richard’s Hospital all night and most of today getting Niall’s injuries treated.’

  ‘We have Parker in custody on a different charge, Mrs Scuffil, though I would like to take a formal statement from you and Niall.’

  There was a blast of cold air and a sudden wall of clamouring voices as the station door opened, the noise muffled again as DS Workman stepped through, shutting it quickly and firmly behind her. She was breathing hard and looked shock-faced, as if she’d just run a modern-day gauntlet, which doubtless she had, courtesy of their friends from the media.

  ‘They’re everywhere,’ she muttered, undoing the top button of her belted navy-blue overcoat, moving to skirt around them. Marilyn caught her eye and held up a finger, asking her to wait. He turned back to Sharon Scuffil.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Workman here will take your statement. Just give her a moment to take off her coat and get settled.’

  Marilyn saw Workman’s eyes snap from Sharon Scuffil to her son, linger, a look of pure disgust overtaking her face. Light suddenly illuminated the dark corners of his mind, where previously there had been none. He narrowed his gaze.

  ‘I remember why I recognize your name, son.’ He addressed himself to Niall. ‘You’re the schoolboy who bullied Robbie Parker, the boy who broke his leg.’

  ‘That was a bad tackle on the football pitch,’ Sharon Scuffil snapped. ‘My son isn’t a bully.’

  ‘You also broke his arm,’ Workman said, stepping forward. ‘I took the statement from Allan Parker myself.’

  Marilyn was watching Niall Scuffil. His feet appeared suddenly to fascinate him, given the intensity with which he was studying them.

  ‘I don’t care what report you have. If my son has ever had cause to raise a hand to Robbie Parker it would entirely have been in self-defence. That boy is totally mad. For Christ’s sake, look what he did.’ She jabbed her son in the small of his back. ‘Stop staring at your feet like some hopeless bloody wet blanket, Niall, and tell the detective what Robbie Parker did to you.’

  Marilyn’s head was aching. A night spent interviewing Allan Parker under the judgemental gaze of DCS Janet Backastowe was starting to look appealing. ‘What Allan Parker did?’ he corrected wearily.

  ‘What?’ Sharon Scuffil snapped. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘You’ve come in to make a complaint about Allan Parker. I thought you said that Allan Parker did this to you?’

  ‘Niall, look at the detective and tell him what happened. You said it was Robbie who did this to you.’

  Niall nodded. ‘Robbie.’

  ‘It wasn’t his father?’ Marilyn pressed.

  The boy, still refusing to meet his eye, shook his head. ‘Robbie,’ he lisped. ‘I opened the door and he jammed this thing, this electric prod, in my chest. I collapsed and he went batshit fucking crazy. Kicking me, punching me, stamping on me. He’s fucking mad, man. He’s totally fucking mad.’

  Jesus, Marilyn thought. The bloody Parkers. The kid must have found his dad’s Taser, thought he’d take the opportunity to even up some scores. Had h
e sensed – been influenced by – his father’s dysfunction? Had his father encouraged him to finally stand up for himself? Embark on his own, more minor, rampage of revenge?

  ‘As I said, DS Workman will take a statement from you,’ Marilyn reiterated, waving Workman over.

  He took the stairs back up to his office two at a time, pulling his mobile from his pocket as he jogged, jamming his finger on Jessie Flynn’s number. A ringtone, on and on, unanswered, then a flip to voicemail.

  ‘Call me urgently,’ Marilyn snapped. ‘I’ve got some information for you about Robbie Parker.’

  86

  Panting and shaking, her head throbbing as if it had been cleaved in two with an axe, Jessie came to, lying on Workman’s bathroom floor. An explosion of pain as her exploratory fingers found a fleshy section at the back of her skull, came away coated in scarlet. Rolling onto her stomach, she felt for the edge of the bath and hauled herself gingerly to sitting, the room spinning at the movement, her mouth filling with vomit which she gulped back down. The bathroom door was shut, locked from the outside, she realized, when she crawled over and reached for the handle. Was Robbie outside, waiting, listening? Or had he gone, run?

  ‘Robbie? Robbie, are you there?’

  No reply. Only the throb of her own manic pulse in her ears.

  Then a voice, barely a murmur.

  ‘I’m going to tell you a story about a boy called Sam and his dog, Buddy.’

  ‘Karma?’ she murmured, when he had finished.

  ‘Yes, karma.’

  ‘How did you find out about them … about Sam and Buddy?’

  ‘My dad keeps a diary, in a locked box, hidden under his bed. A confession, I suppose it is. He keeps photographs of my mother in the same box. And some of me when I was tiny, back when I used to smile. I found it a year ago.’

  ‘And you unlocked the box?’

  ‘I taught myself to pick locks when I was ten, simple ones at first, like my dad’s box. Then more complex ones. I have a lot of time on my hands and the Internet is a great teacher.’

  ‘So the murders, framing your dad, was karma? For Sam and Buddy?’

  ‘For them … but for me too. I was born as I was, a deformed loser who was always going to be bullied to punish him for what he had done. To punish him for being a bully and driving a boy to his death. And I am now his karma … their karma. They deserved it, Hugo Fuller, Daniel Whitehead, Simon Lewin. Bullies deserve it – all of it. You told me that, too, didn’t you? Take the head off the snake and the body dies.’

  ‘I didn’t mean murder—’

  ‘What did you mean?’

  What had she meant? Violence? Yes, she felt so strongly about bullies that violence was exactly what she’d meant.

  A soft laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Dr Flynn, it’s not your fault. I decided to inflict karma on those men long before I met you. I decided it the day I found my dad’s diary and I’ve been planning and preparing ever since.’

  He’s been watching them … Watching and waiting. Planning.

  ‘And the women?’

  ‘I didn’t want to kill Claudine. I knocked her out, but she came to and surprised me, pulled my mask off, so I had no choice. I met her at Age UK. She was a good person, kind. I didn’t want to take the same risk with Eleanor Whitehead, and she did choose to marry a murderer.’

  ‘You didn’t kill Denise Lewin, did you?’ Jessie said, clarity flooding the places in her mind where there had been none. ‘Your father did. He found out what you were doing, dressed in your dog outfit, murdered Denise and left Leo at Paws for Thought, with the clue – the hair – in the mask Leo was wearing so that the police would catch him, blame him for all the murders.’

  ‘He realized that I’d read his diary, that I knew everything. He’s been able to track my mobile via the Find My iPhone app for years. Given my history of being bullied, he likes to know where I am.’

  ‘And you knew that he could track you?’

  ‘Sure. I often go out at night, walk through the countryside. I like the solitude. He knows that I’ve been visiting Paws for Thought for months, letting myself in, spending time with the dogs. He didn’t like it, didn’t like me breaking in, but he never tried to stop me. He knows that I love animals and he was pleased that I had finally found somewhere I enjoyed being, where I was safe. He wasn’t suspicious until the night the Whiteheads died. He must have tracked me, found out where I was.’ Another soft laugh. ‘Too late though.’

  ‘And Denise?’

  ‘He drugged me with my melatonin that night, put it in a bottle of beer he gave me as a treat, I think, so that he could kill her and frame himself for the murders, save me. The ultimate sacrifice. He didn’t know that I was wearing his trainers when I murdered the Fullers and Whiteheads, that I was going to frame him anyway. He’s always been a fool. A weak, cowardly fool – and guilty. I have no sympathy for him and I have no sympathy for them.’ Silence for a moment. ‘I paid Niall Scuffil a visit last night too.’

  ‘Niall Scuffil? The boy who led the bullying against you?’

  ‘Yes. The head of the snake.’

  ‘You didn’t—’ she broke off. Jesus, had Robbie killed Niall too? Killed a fifteen-year-old boy?

  ‘No, I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking, though only because I couldn’t frame my father for the other murders if I had.’ Another soft laugh. ‘I wanted to, though. I really fucking wanted to.’

  ‘I’m glad that you didn’t kill him, Robbie.’ God, what an insane understatement.

  ‘I’m not.’

  Silence again, then, ‘Thank you for helping me, Dr Flynn.’

  Thank you for helping me. And she had helped him, but not in the way that she had intended. They had all helped him. Her. Workman. Even Marilyn. Jesus. What should she say? It’s a pleasure? Fuck. Why hadn’t she sensed that he wasn’t all he seemed to be?

  ‘Robbie, please unlock the door so that we can talk properly.’

  ‘Goodbye, Dr Flynn.’

  ‘Robbie.’

  Silence.

  ‘Robbie.’

  Silence still.

  Twisting onto her back, Jessie slammed the sole of her boot hard against the wood, close to the lock. Pain ricocheted up her leg, jarring through her body, slopping her aching brain around inside her damaged skull. Taking a breath, she pulled her leg back again, slammed harder. Slammed again and again until the wood around the lock splintered.

  87

  Every light in Workman’s thatched cottage burned now, and Jessie could see figures moving around inside, the ceiling lights throwing huge, malevolent-looking shapes of their shadows on the opaque linen curtains.

  ‘Fuck,’ Marilyn said, with feeling. ‘How the hell did we not see it?’ He glanced across; Jessie studiously ignored his gaze. ‘You talked to him, for God’s sake.’

  Jessie bit down on the shrug that was threatening to lift her shoulders, knowing that the movement would be a red rag to Marilyn’s stamping, bellowing bull.

  Hindsight’s a wonderful thing. She didn’t say that either, but now that she looked back, should she have been able to recognize that Robbie had murdered the Fullers and the Whiteheads? That Robbie had been the pale figure at one with the dogs?

  Dogs in a pack have each other’s backs and support each other unfailingly against outside aggressors.

  Everything that Robbie didn’t have in his human life. Everything that he wanted, that anyone wanted: only to be accepted for who they were, to fit in, to belong – somewhere.

  Should she have known?

  Jessie had met many disturbed people over the course of her working life – was disturbed herself, she knew, however hard she had tried to paper over her own psychological cracks. But Robbie, how he’d survived the abandonment by his mother and the ferocious bullying that had defined his childhood, what he had done to avenge a child who had been bullied as ruthlessly as he had, to punish his father for his involvement, was a level apart, far beyond any psychological dysfunction she had ex
perienced. But having said that, it also all made sense. A hideous, warped, sick, logical kind of sense. Sense for a boy whose life had been destroyed by abandonment and bullying.

  His finally taking revenge on Niall Scuffil also made perfect sense and, as he’d said, letting Niall live still allowed him to frame his father for the murders. He could doubtless have told the police, her, Marilyn, that Allan had goaded him into taking revenge, and that Allan’s coercion, in addition to the atmosphere of dysfunction in his home, and finding his father’s Taser, had finally propelled him to do so.

  A blinding wash of light as the police helicopter flew overhead, the thwack-thwack of its rotor blades muffling the barks of the police dogs as they fanned out over the fields behind Workman’s cottage. The helicopter was now searching the woods a few hundred metres to their right, Jessie saw, lighting up the swaying canopy of leaves with the gargantuan spotlight hanging from its belly that had robbed her of her night vision.

  Would they find him? The dogs? The helicopter? The uniforms being yanked off other duties and given hurried instructions no more complex than, Find him? Whatever it takes, Find him. If the investigation into the deaths of those two little girls had been a shit-show for Marilyn’s career, this threatened to blow it wide open, no chance of reprieve ever, if Robbie escaped.

  Unless. Unless, Jessie took the blame.

  ‘I should have known,’ she said, swinging around to face him. ‘I’m sorry. It was my fault that Robbie got away. I let you and the investigation down and I’ll take the blame.’

  ‘I don’t need you to do that, Jessie. I’m the SIO on this case. The buck stops with me.’

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘This isn’t about blame, Jessie. It’s about both of us trying to do our jobs to the best of our abilities, in very difficult circumstances. We’re both human, we both make mistakes and this—’ His hand curved an arc through the dark, cold air. ‘None of this was textbook. There were no records about that boy Sam Garry’s death, so we never could have found the cause of all this. And there were no obvious connections between the four men, apart from them being approximately the same ages. They met at West Sands Funfair in Selsey one summer, started hanging out, Allan Parker told us.’ His hand found her shoulder. ‘However good a psychologist you are, and you are a great psychologist by the way, one talk with Robbie Parker could never give you an idea of what lay beneath.’