With her in position, he lifts the handles of the wheelbarrow he’s used to transport her from the car. He pushes it into the bushes and trees of a small archipelago jutting into the reservoir. Reaching the water’s edge, he heaves the wheelbarrow into the still water and starts to make his way back to the bush where he’s stashed his ghillie suit and observation gear.
The bush will make an ideal vantage point, which is why he’s chosen it. From underneath its thorny boughs he can watch both the bench and the parking area at the end of the bay.
All he has to do now is wait. And watch.
Soon the next stage of the pattern will begin and he’ll be able to identify his next victim.
The Watcher knows the net is closing on him. Jake Boulder turning up today has taught him that.
The homicides being the subject of an investigation is only to be expected. That Boulder and his buddy Devereaux have been hired doesn’t come as any kind of surprise – everybody in Casperton is aware just how ineffective Farrage and his team are.
Now he’s accelerated his killing, it is only a matter of time before the bigger guns of the FBI are brought in. Their presence will limit his chances to continue, but he plans to keep going until they catch him.
Once arrested he’ll be stopped, but the authorities have nothing they can threaten him with. The nurse has already sentenced him to death with her laziness.
Her ignorance has robbed the law enforcers of their greatest deterrent. By the time he is arrested and a trial date set there is every chance he’ll be dead.
His greatest concern is being stopped before reaching the kind of numbers that will ensure his name goes down in history. With the police as inept as they are, there is little threat from them, but Boulder and Devereaux will bear watching. He knows their diligent attention to detail and intelligence is far superior to any of the town’s detectives.
A teenage couple walk into view. Hand in hand, they laugh and joke with each other as they move towards the bench. The guy leans into the girl and kisses her cheek.
She takes a playful swipe at him, then moves her head so they can have a proper kiss.
When they break apart, the Watcher sees the girl point at the bench. He hears their whoops and laughter abate as they show respect to the elderly woman on the bench.
A new possibility springs into the Watcher’s mind, causing him to stifle a shout of joy.
He watches as the teens walk towards the bench. With every step they take he releases a prayer they will realise the woman’s slumber is of the permanent variety.
If they do, the possibilities for him will become endless.
29
I curse at the message on my cell and put down the papers I’ve been reading. Of all the times to receive a summons from my mother, this is the worst.
Inept with technology at the best of times, Mother has never gotten the hang of messaging via a cell phone.
Trying to explain to her why texting in capitals is akin to shouting is like trying to educate a tiger on the benefits of a vegan diet.
To her the fact she is perceived as shouting is a good thing. She once told me ‘People react quicker to a shout than a whisper’.
While she’s a loving mother, she is still hard to handle. Now she doesn’t have to work or guard every penny, she fights boredom by having a social circle of women in a similar position.
Neither wealthy nor poor, the group has given her the friends she didn’t have time for in Glasgow. When not raising money for one charity or another, they shop, lunch or just interfere in the lives of their families.
Several times I have received one of Mother’s summonses, only to have one of her friend’s daughters ‘drop in’ while I was there.
There have been many arguments ending in a stalemate. She is left with the knowledge grandchildren won’t be along soon and I’m made to feel inconsiderate and selfish.
Still, despite everything, she is my mother and I love her. The text I’ve received has an urgency, beyond the shouting capitals, which makes it impossible to ignore or defer until later.
I enter her house via the side door. Finding nobody around, I am helping myself to a coffee when a loud voice rings out.
‘Jacob Boulder. Get yer scrawny arse in here right now.’
This isn’t good. Not only has she Sunday named me, the Glaswegian accent she’s worked so hard to lose is as strong as I’ve ever heard it.
I follow her voice to the lounge, where I find her sitting in her usual seat. Instead of being reclined in front of the fifty-inch TV, it is upright and facing the kitchen door.
Mother is even more upright than the chair. Her posture indicates a mixture of anger and worry, the crow’s feet on her face transformed into deep furrows.
‘Sit.’ The sole word is a command not an invitation.
I am getting spooked now. Mother deals with life’s blows in a matter-of-fact way. Drawing from her incredible reserves of inner strength, she tends to meet challenges head on and beats them through sheer force of will.
Combined, her posture, summons and accent tell me she is facing something she doesn’t believe she can conquer.
‘What’s up? Are you okay?’ I hate the concern in my voice but I can’t stop its presence.
‘I’m fine. It’s you who’s ill.’
‘Me?’ I start to laugh as relief courses through my body. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘There bloody well must be. Otherwise you wouldna be chasing after thon killer.’
To hear Mother swear is a rarity. Only in times of consternation or extreme sorrow will she permit a strong curse to pass her lips. Her accent has returned not just to Glasgow, but direct to the Govan estate where she’d spent her life before moving to Casperton. In her current state of agitation she looks and sounds just like my grandmother. In the interests of family harmony I don’t inform her of the fact.
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘Is it no’? Explain it then. Stop an auld woman from worrying about her only son. Stop her fretting that the only chance she’s got o’ becoming a granny is hell bent on getting his sel’ killed.’
‘Enough!’ I raise my voice enough to shock her into silence. I need to stop her nonsense before she gathers a head of steam. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick altogether. You may even have the wrong stick.’
There is no point denying my search for Kira’s killer as she’s obviously heard who hired Alfonse and me.
‘Don’t you be raising your voice at me, young man.’ A knobbly finger points at me. ‘C’mon then. Tell me which stick I should have a hold of and which end.’
I try to play down my involvement as her concerns aren’t groundless. ‘Kira Niemeyer’s father hired Alfonse to look into her death. I’m helping out, that’s all.’
‘So it’s no’ just your own life you’re risking, you’re also putting the life of the best friend you e’er had in danger too.’
This is impossible; once she has an idea in her head it’s easier to move a sleeping elephant than convince her she’s wrong.
‘Settle down. We’re looking into a few leads and are working in full cooperation with the police. If we find a suspect, we’ll hand them over to the police and keep well out of it. We’re not stupid, so don’t treat me as if we are.’
‘So now you’re working with the police. Brilliant. Don’t they have guns?’ A liver-spotted hand slaps her forehead. ‘Of course they do. What have you got? Let me tell you what you’ve got. You’ve a reputation as a hard man, who fights for the fun o’ it. Tell me, Mr Don’t-You-Worry, what do you think this killer is going to do if you happen to confront him? Or get too close to him?’
I don’t have an answer for her. At least not one that will give her the reassurance she craves.
‘Don’t just sit there like a big stookie. Tell me you’re gonna stop this nonsense right away.’