The Watcher Read Online Free PDF Page B

him so deeply was now waning. He had the vague feeling that it was not a good thing. He understood now why right from the start he had chosen to watch and keep a written record of a large number of people. He had not wanted any individual to become too important. He would take part in lives without being swallowed up by them.
    With Gillian there was a risk he would be.
    The wind blowing from the north-east was really cold. Not a day to spend at the beach. Over the summer it had been fun to stroll through the streets from morning to night, avoiding the heavy atmosphere at home. Now, in winter, it naturally felt different. The only advantage was that it got dark early and that from five, at the latest, he could look into the brightly lit houses. To do so, thought, he was at risk of freezing off various parts of his anatomy.
    He lifted his head in the wind, sniffing like an animal. He thought the air smelt like snow. Not that they often had snow here, but he would have bet on a white Christmas this year. Although of course a lot could change before then.
    Definitely too cold, he decided, to walk any further along here.
    He left the beach, pausing when he came across a kiosk on the promenade. Unfortunately he had had to give greedy Millie almost all his money, but after lengthy searches of his pockets he managed to come up with two pounds. That was enough for a hot cup of coffee.
    He drank it standing up, protected from the wind by the kiosk wall. He enjoyed the tickle of heat in his hands as he held the cup. There was a newspaper stand just in front of his nose. He read the headlines and his attention snagged on a particularly sensational Daily Mail front page: Grisly Murder in London!
    He bent his neck right over to try to read the story below the headline. An elderly woman had been murdered in a tower block in Hackney. The act had been one of extreme brutality. It was estimated that the woman had been lying dead in her flat for ten days before her daughter found her. There were no clues to the killer’s possible motives.
    ‘Ugly thing, that,’ said the kiosk owner, who had seen what Samson was looking at. ‘I mean, especially the thing about ten days. That someone can be dead so long before someone realises. What’s become of our society?’
    Samson murmured agreement.
    ‘The world gets worse every day,’ the other man said.
    ‘That’s right,’ said Samson. He finished his coffee. The change he had was just enough for a Daily Mail .
    He bought the paper and walked on pensively.
3
    At least she had finally stopped shaking.
    Detective Inspector Peter Fielder from the Metropolitan Police was not even sure that she was ready for questioning, but he knew that time was of the essence. Carla Roberts had been lying dead in her flat for over a week before her daughter discovered her. This had given her murderer a massive head start. They needed to act quickly, but they could get nowhere with this young woman, who was holding her baby tight, threatening to burst into tears when a policewoman suggested she hold the child for a moment. A patrol car had driven her to the hospital the evening before. She had stayed the night under heavy sedation. This morning she had been driven home to Bracknell.
    The officers accompanying her had called Fielding’s mobile to tell him that Keira Jones seemed to be doing better. That was why he was now sitting in her nicely decorated, warm living room, drinking mineral water, with Keira opposite him, as white as chalk but much calmer than the day before. Her husband, Greg Jones, was home. When Fielder arrived, Greg had just fed the baby, changed its nappy and put it to bed. Now he was standing at the window, his arms folded across his chest. The posture expressed not a defensiveness but a need to offer protection. He was clearly devastated by events, but he was trying to stay somewhat calm and collected.
    ‘Mrs Jones,’ said Fielder cautiously, ‘I know it’s not easy for you to talk to me