The Watcher Read Online Free PDF Page A

this lady on his walk. Today she was sweeping up the leaves, the last few leaves, that had sailed over the fence from the tree in her front garden. She would often be sweeping the street even on those days when anyone else would have said that there was absolutely nothing to do. Samson knew she lived on her own. Even a less observant person than him would have seen she had a need to do something that gave her a chance of snatching a quick ‘good morning’ from a passer-by. She never had visitors. Either she had not had children, or if she had, then they were not the kind who cared about her. Nor had he ever seen any friends or acquaintances whom she could visit.
    ‘Good morning,’ she said, rather out of breath, as soon as she had seen him.
    ‘Good morning,’ he mumbled. It was his unbending rule that he would have no contact whatsoever with the people he watched. It was important that he did not stand out. But he could not bring himself to pass this woman without greeting her. In any case, if he had not said anything, he would only have made her remember him all the more. The unfriendly man who walks past every morning . . . At least this way she would remember him positively.
    He had now reached the row of houses opposite a pretty little park. The Ward family lived in one of the houses. Samson knew more about them than about all the other people, because Gavin had called on Thomas Ward’s help to sort out inheritance tax issues after their parents’ deaths. Ward and his wife worked as financial consultants in London. Ward had advised Gavin, who was near to despair over the issue, at a more than reasonable rate. Since then Gavin would not hear a word against him, even though Thomas was exactly the kind of guy neither brother liked normally, what with his big car, his fine suits and his ties that were not showy but obviously expensive . . .
    ‘You shouldn’t judge someone by their appearance,’ Gavin always said when Ward came up in conversation. ‘Ward is all right. Leave it!’
    Samson knew that Gillian Ward did not go to the London office every day. He could not see any pattern in her working hours. Probably there was none. But of course she also had to take care of her twelve-year-old daughter, Becky, who often seemed so withdrawn and difficult. Samson had the impression that Becky could be quite rebellious. No doubt she did not make her mother’s life any easier.
    He was surprised to suddenly see Gillian’s car come down the street and then turn into her drive and stop. That was strange. He knew that she shared the school run with the mother of one of Becky’s friends and that this week was the other mum’s turn. He was sure. Maybe she had not taken the children to school. If not, where had she been? At this early hour?
    He stopped. Was she planning to go to the office? She always drove to the station, either Thorpe Bay or Southend Central, and then carried on by train to Fenchurch Street station in London. He had followed her on a number of occasions, so he knew her route perfectly.
    He watched her go inside. The light in the hall went on. The Wards’ pretty red door had a lozenge-shaped window, so from the street you could look down the hall and into the kitchen behind it. Through this practical window he had on one occasion seen how Gillian had sat back down at the breakfast table after her family had left. She had poured herself another cup of coffee and then drunk it slowly, in little sips. The newspaper lay next to her but she had not been reading it. She had just stared at the opposite wall. That was when he had first thought: she’s not happy!
    The thought had pained him, because he had come to like the Wards. They were not the typical kind of people he shadowed. He preferred single women. He had already asked himself why he was shadowing them so doggedly. One summer evening when he had hung around in the streets and stared into the Wards’ garden and watched them laughing and chatting, he had