I ran downstairs frantically and found Beth lying on her side on the kitchen floor. Her face was blanched pale, her arm bent at a strange angle beneath her.
‘Beth!’ I dropped to my knees beside her. ‘What happened?’
Her lips trembled, and her eyes were wide. ‘I – I fell,’ she whispered, but her voice sounded off.
I looked up and saw David standing in the corner by the door, watching us. He didn’t look concerned and he didn’t move to help. Had he seen Beth fall?
‘She’s clumsy, your sister, isn’t she?’ he said, his tone matter-of-fact.
Fury surged in my chest, hot and fierce. Before I could say anything, David stepped forward. He crouched beside us, his voice soft now, almost tender.
‘Come on, let’s get you off the floor,’ he murmured, cradling Beth as if she was made of glass. ‘It’s all right, you’re OK. We’re here now.’
He rang for an ambulance and I watched as he helped her onto the sofa, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and even made her a cup of tea while I sat and held her hand.
For a moment, I even wondered if I’d been wrong about him. Maybe this was how he showed he cared.
But even as we waited for the ambulance to arrive, a small voice inside my head whispered that something wasn’t right with David Webb.
Something wasn’t right at all.
32
Sunday
The Watcher
He wakes early as always. Today, it’s 05.47 sharp. No alarm, no sudden jolt – just the slow slide from sleep to awareness, his body shifting as if it knows what lies ahead.
It is still dark and the air in the room feels stagnant with his stale warmth. He lies stock still for a moment, listening. The quiet hum of the pipes. The faint creak of the old building settling. Nothing else. Perfect.
He rises, moving soundlessly to the small bathroom, where the mirror gives him a glimpse of his face. His cheeks look hollow in the dim light, but his eyes are sharp and ready. He washes his face, brushes his teeth, pulls on black trousers, a dark-grey fleece zipped high and soft-soled shoes that will not betray him.
At the writing desk in front of the window, he selects his tools and packs them into his rucksack. Binoculars. A small bottle of water. He has his pay-as-you-go phone, but he also takes his notebook and graphite pencil, 3H, which he prefers.
He swings the rucksack over his shoulder and steps softly into the corridor, locking the door behind him. The house is still, the dated Axminster carpet swallowing his footsteps as he moves. He glances at Monica’s bedroom door as he passes. It’s closed and dark around the edges. He pads downstairs, placing his weight carefully, distributing it evenly, so the oldwood does not betray him. In the hallway, an antique grandfather clock ticks steadily on, the only sound in the hush of the sleeping house. He unbolts the door and eases it open. The cold air bites at his face as he steps outside and closes the door with a softthunk.
He heads for the lake, breathing in the damp air, laced with traces of wood smoke. There’s always someone burning something somewhere, in a place like this. He used to enjoy burning garden rubbish. He liked the smell of the smoke, watching with a cup of tea as the flames engulfed the twigs and dry leaves. Made everything clean and new again.
That was a long time ago now. That wasback then.
A few minutes’ walking and suddenly the lake is there. It stretches before him, smooth as slate, the dark water barely rippling. Around it, the trees gently stir. Sycamores, mostly, with their spindly limbs, but also the odd fir, thick and looming. It is, he supposes, a beautiful place. But he isn’t here for the scenery.
His eyes lift to the hill and to Lakeview House. It juts out from the landscape like a glass blade, all sharp edges and arrogance. Monica was right when she said it was a house that does not belong here, does notdeserveto be here.
He prepares himself for another day observing. Observing Janey and, crucially, observing others of interest.
It’s like plotting a novel, the most important part to get right before he puts his plan into action.
Later, back at the B-and-B, he sits in the worn armchair, his hands curled around the mug of tea Monica has given him. The tea is hot and too strong for his preference, but he doesn’t care. He’s not here for the tea. He’s here forinformation.
Monica is bustling about as usual, stacking newspapers on the side table and grumbling about how the latest lot ofguests have left muddy footprints all over the hall. He lets her talk, nodding absently as she mutters about people having no consideration.
‘You’ve got your work cut out with this place,’ he says mildly, glancing around the lounge. It’s old-fashioned but tidy, the smell of lemon polish lingering in the air.
Monica snorts. ‘You’re telling me. Some people think they can do as they please just because they’ve paid for a bed. Can’t say as I’ve ever been one for letting standards slip.’
He waits until she settles into the armchair opposite, her own tea in hand, before steering the conversation where he wants it. ‘I’ve seen a few folk going up to the fancy new house recently,’ he says. ‘Must be nice for the winners, already having visitors.’
