The Watcher (54 page)

Just that key?

She screwed up her eyes, visualising the room and the situation. Oh God, it wasn’t just the key to the hut! Right beside it lay the bundle of keys to the flat and the car. It had fallen out of her bag when she had been getting the food out. She had picked it up and put it down on the stove.

But she should have seen it when she picked up the key to the hut. She would not grab one key and leave the others that were lying beside it.

That meant that when she left, the keys were no longer there. Impossible.

Gillian had pleaded to have a pee. She had passed the stove. Had she grabbed the bundle of keys?

Maybe. How evil she was! That really could be it. In that case, Gillian was able to move her hands better than Tara had thought. Probably the masking tape had come loose. Probably she had been tugging like mad at it while she listened to what it was like to have a childhood and youth with a stepfather like Ted Roslin – and while she was pretending to be horrified at it.

Tara almost laughed out loud. It was too ridiculous – she had the key to the hut in which Gillian was locked and was standing next to the car that was of no use to her now. Meanwhile Gillian had the car key but was stuck in the hut.

Well done! You carried that out to perfection.

Stunned, she shook the door handle and achieved an unexpected victory: the car was not locked. She could at least sit inside it.

In a jiffy she gathered together the contents of her bag from the bonnet and slipped into the passenger seat. It was ice cold in the car, but for the moment it was a relief to be sheltered from the wind. And there was the thick blanket in the boot. She could hold out like this for quite a while.

For a moment she wondered whether she could hotwire the car, but she rejected the thought immediately. She had no idea how to do such a thing – or even whether it was possible with her car. The risk of breaking something was too great.

She weighed up her chances and possibilities. Go back to the hut? Grab the keys from Gillian? Or just wait here in the hope that perhaps a gritter would come by and be able to tow her?

You’re in trouble now, Tara!

No, she wasn’t. She leant back and took a deep breath.

Think it through. Keep cool. And do the right thing.

That had always been her motto, and it had worked.

Her hand hurt and the night had closed in on her from all sides, bringing with it the fears of her whole life.

John had almost reached the end of the street, without having made a single step of progress towards what he intended. People’s reactions had been extremely varied. The occupants of two flats had simply not opened the door, although light and the noise of people moving about revealed that someone was in. An old woman had peered suspiciously out from behind the chain that secured her door. In spite of John’s repeated attempts to explain why he was there, she had not understood what he was talking about. Some people were actively hostile and had defended themselves against accusations that he had not made. ‘Mrs Caine-Roslin? Yes, easy to say with hindsight that we should have noticed that she hadn’t been around for weeks. But we’ve got our own problems too, you know! I mean, there’s so much to do in your own life that you can’t keep track of what other people are up to. And anyway, she had a daughter. Why didn’t her daughter look after her? Good lord, I’ve got enough problems of my own without thinking about other people’s! Did I know the daughter? No, not at all. I sometimes saw her. With her chic Jaguar and her fine clothes. Thinks she’s something special, no doubt. Apparently she’s a bigwig in the London courts.’

Some people were happy that someone had appeared to break the tedium of their long, lonely evening. They would have spent hours talking to him – but not about what he was interested in. He had forced himself to swallow lengthy accounts of their life histories in order to return to what he was there to talk about. ‘That’s really interesting. But I’ve got to find Mrs Caine-Roslin’s daughter urgently. Tara Caine. Did you know her as a child or teenager? Can you think where she might have gone to be on her own?’

At least some of them did know Tara. The ones who had been living in the street when Tara had still lived at home. She was described to John as a very pretty but also exceptionally thin and very withdrawn child and young woman. She had not been close to anyone in the street. She had walled herself off from everyone.

‘She always seemed so unhappy,’ said one old woman, who said that she had moved to Gorton in 1981. ‘Her father had died, and her mother had remarried. The new guy was strange, somehow. Not in any obvious way. He didn’t booze or cause mayhem. He took over Mr Caine’s bike repair shop and ran the business well enough. But there was something about him . . . I don’t know. I didn’t like him. No one in the street really liked him.’

‘What about his relationship with his stepdaughter – how was it?’

‘I don’t really know. I wasn’t in close contact with the family. I just know that the girl seemed unwell to me. Unwell in body and soul.’

‘Was there anywhere she would retreat to? To get away from what might have been a difficult family situation?’

The woman had shrugged her shoulders. ‘Maybe. But I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’d really like to help.’

He stood on the street in the dark, shivering in the cutting wind and staring at a McDonald’s carton that was being blown down the pavement. An image began to form in his head. An image of how Tara Caine had been as a child and of her path in life from an underprivileged area of Manchester via university to her highly respected London career. Anyone who started life in Gorton had the cards stacked against them. Tara Caine must have been clever, ambitious and disciplined to make it this far.

There was an early, decisive break in her life. She had just been a child when her father died. Apparently no one liked her stepfather, although no one had anything concrete against him either. The family seemed to live a pretty ordered life. They owned the flat, and the bike repair shop fed them all.

Nevertheless, Mrs Caine-Roslin had ended up dead, and her daughter had possibly killed four people.

She seemed unwell to me. Unwell in body and soul.

That didn’t tell him anything about where she was now. Or where Gillian was.

He had reached a dead end. Time was running out and he had not come any closer to his goal. He did not even know if he was on the right track. The only reason he had driven to Manchester was because Tara had grown up in the city. That might have been a mistake. The two women he was looking for might be at the other end of England.

He raised his head and noticed someone waving to him on the other side of the street. Samson.

With three large strides, John was standing next to him. ‘What is it?’

Samson stuttered nervously. ‘I . . . I’ve found someone. It could be something. An old man. He’s known the Caines for decades. He – oh, come with me!’

The two men ran down the road. The house in front of which Samson finally stopped was a little way down from the Caines’. It looked dilapidated and rather neglected. John felt his spirits sink. Hopefully it was not a confused old man about to tell him stories that did not make sense, stories that did not help them at all.

The man lived on the first floor. He was waiting at his door. At least in one respect John felt reassured when he saw him. This man was certainly not confused. He looked at his visitors with bright, attentive eyes. His face revealed him to be a clever man with much life experience.

An intellectual, thought John. Thank God.

He shook his hand. ‘John Burton. I’m a friend of Tara Caine. I’m worried about her. But Mr Segal told you that already, no doubt.’

‘Angus Sherman,’ said the man, introducing himself. ‘Please, come in.’

They were soon sitting on an ancient sofa in a warm living room, each of them holding a glass of sherry. The flat was meticulously clean, but could not hide its resident’s poverty. It was scantily furnished. What little furniture there was was of the cheapest and most modest kind. However, there were many books.

Mr Sherman told them that he had seen Tara grow up. ‘I knew her father well. He was a nice man. Very special. He and Tara were close. His early death was a tragedy for the girl, a real tragedy. No one could have imagined it. He suffered a heart attack, just fell over and died soon after. He wasn’t even forty!’

‘Mr Sherman, we need to know whether—’

Angus Sherman nodded. ‘Of course. When your friend here,’ he said, nodding towards Samson, who was fidgeting nervously, ‘asked about a place Tara might have gone to hide away, I did remember somewhere. A hut.’

‘A
hut
?’

‘The family had a hut in the Peak District. Up in the northern part, where it’s all moors and almost uninhabited.’

‘Out in the wilderness?’

‘Out in the wilderness. Ike Caine – Tara’s father – built it with his own hands. A kind of log cabin. It was a present for Lucy.’

‘And Tara liked to go there?’

‘Weather permitting, the family spent practically every weekend there. Tara loved it. I sometimes warned Ike about it. The hut was built completely illegally on the edge of a wood. The land didn’t belong to the Caines and they had never received any permission to build. But he just laughed.
Angus, no one will mind
, he said to me.
We don’t have electricity or running water. It’s just a little hut by a wood. Doesn’t look all that different from the roofed feeding troughs for the deer. I don’t think anyone will even notice it
. And he was right: there was never any problem with it. At least not as long as Ike Caine was alive.’

‘Do you think the hut is still standing?’ asked John.

Angus pondered, swaying his head back and forth slightly. ‘Well now . . . I don’t know. Ike built it in the early seventies. He died in 1978. After that, the family rarely went there, I think. Although . . . it might still be standing, mightn’t it?’ He looked questioningly at John.

Thirty years. John had his doubts. But it was a straw to grasp at. The only one.

‘Do you know if Tara ever went there later on?’ he asked.

Angus Sherman gave him a regretful look. ‘I don’t really know. After Ike died, I gradually lost contact with the family. The man Lucy married after Ike . . . well, not that I have anything specific to hold against him, but he was certainly not someone I particularly liked. And Tara wasn’t the same. Before her father died, she was a cheerful, open, lively girl. She laughed and talked a lot. But then she lost all her openness. She seemed to retreat into a shell. You couldn’t really reach her any more. So I didn’t actually know anything else about her life. Until she learnt to drive, she certainly wouldn’t have gone to the hut. It was too far to get to by bike. But as to whether she went back later – no idea.’

‘Do you know where exactly the hut is?’

Angus got up, fetched a book from the shelf and started to leaf through it. ‘A book about the Peak District . . . Somewhere in here there’s a map . . . Unfortunately, I can only tell you the rough area . . . Aha, here it is!’

He laid the book down on the table. The three men leant over it. It was open at a black and white map. Sherman took a pencil and circled a small area. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘If I understood Ike right, the hut must be somewhere here.’

‘Hmm,’ said John, sounding worried. What looked on the map like a tiny blob was in fact a massive area of moors, hills and woods. It would take days to search it all.

Angus pointed to a black line. ‘This is the main road from Manchester. They must have used it whenever they went to the hut. However, it doesn’t go right up to the hut. Apparently they needed to take an unpaved track for the last stretch. But I don’t know exactly where that is.’

‘There are probably dozens of farmers’ tracks,’ said John. He rubbed his eyes. They were stinging with exhaustion.

Angus looked outside gloomily. ‘But in any case, it’s ridiculous to think that you could reach the place in this weather. The snow must be three foot deep. There’s no way you’d get through with your car. The main road might have been cleared, but the minor roads and farmers’ tracks certainly won’t have been.’

John and Samson looked at each other. Sherman was no doubt right.

‘In that case,’ said John, ‘Tara Caine can’t have got to the hut either. Not in her car.’

‘Definitely not.’

Samson piped up for the first time. The stressful situation was making him stutter again. ‘B-but th-then we should see the c-car. It must be p-parked at the s-side of the road!’

‘Right,’ said John, standing up. ‘And there must be footprints in the snow. We’ll try. Thank you very much, Mr Sherman. You’ve been very helpful. We’ll get going at once.’

Sherman stood up, somewhat shakily. ‘Take the book. So you can find the right road once you’re in the Peak District.’

‘Thank you. We’ll bring it back. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.’

The old man smiled. ‘I’d do anything for Tara. If she’s out there in a bad way, you have to find her! She was such a wonderful child. She was close to my heart. As was her father. The fact that I can help her now is a real gift to me in my old age.’

John nodded. He avoided looking in Sherman’s eyes at this moment. If they managed to find Tara, it looked like it would be the old man’s knowledge that would lead them to catch a four-time murderer. He did not need to know that now.

He might have this heartbreaking realisation soon enough.

She had the torch. Tara had left it behind. So she had light. That was already a lot in her position.

Her hands and feet were free. No sooner had she heard Tara lock the door from the outside than she had her hands free of the masking tape. It was then no longer difficult to free her feet too.

She also had the key to the car. She had grabbed it as she went past it and then held it tight in her hand.

The hut was almost hermetically sealed. And icy cold. Gillian was afraid of the moment when the torch’s batteries ran out. Then she would be enveloped in darkness. And that would be the end for her.