The Watchful Eye Read Free

washing.
    The April breeze was making the lingerie dance for him. He crouched down on his haunches, camouflaged against the line of trees, fascinated at the floor show. The cups on the bra were filling with the wind then twisting and turning, seducing him. His mouth dropped open. The line of tantalising femininity stretched the entire width of the garden, lined up like young girls at a dance. Pinks and whites, Siren Black and Vamp Red. He felt the familiar trickle of pleasure. Just to tease him, she’d pegged her underwear out. He knew what her game was. This was a message. An invitation to him. He risked lifting his head one more inch to stare. Knickers. French knickers, wiggling towards him then away, then back. ‘Come hither,’ he muttered. ‘Come hither.’ But they danced away. The line of bras. Breasts, cupped together. He put his hands out. He wanted to
feel
them. Cradle them in his hand. His eyes slid along the line. Right on the end was…he felt a frisson of delight. A black suspender belt. Oh Heaven. It conjured up an image of inches of pale naked flesh between sheer stockingsand the lace of her panties, the cool touch of that wonderful, precious skin.
    Claudine had gone out five minutes ago. From his hiding place against the rim of trees from which he could spy on the back of her house, he’d seen her reverse down the drive in the yellow Fiat. Every day she left the house at exactly the same time – three-fifteen on the dot, to fetch her little girl from school. Although she tended to shop on foot she always drove to the school, never walked – even when the weather was as good as it was today. Bright, breezy and slowly warming towards the summer. Her regular habits made his observations easier.
    He particularly liked fine weather because it was only on fine days that she pegged her washing out. Usually on Tuesdays but sometimes Wednesdays.
    His attention strolled back along the washing line.
    She’d bought new knickers – palest pink this time. In his mind he called it Shell Pink. Four pairs of French knickers with lace on the legs, and two bras to match. Padded bras, which she probably wore because her size was small. He’d read somewhere that French women always wore their underwear in matching sets and that had been why he had first ventured up here. To check. Purely to check out a fact. Nothing dirty. He looked around him furtively. Someone might see him, might misunderstand his intentions.
    His eyes scanned the back of the row of houses, out along the damp fields, still on towards the river. He was all right. The entire landscape around him was empty. No one was there.
    He smiled. It was lucky for him that these houses backed onto fields that were sliced in half diagonally by a quiet public footpath, giving him the perfect right to be here. He hookedhis thumbs into his waistband. Anyone could walk on a public footpath. He sniggered softly to himself.
    He’d known Claudine was French the first time he’d served her at the supermarket. She had quite a strong accent. Her being French had intrigued him. And then she had started giving him little hints that she found him interesting. Every time she came into the supermarket where he worked, she
always
made sure
he
served her. He helped her pack her shopping into the bags and she always gave him a wonderful smile, said, ‘thank you,’ in a soft, flirtatious voice, enticing him, inviting him to love her.
    So he did. He was her devoted lover.
    The thought made him brave and the line of washing was a secret message, like waving semaphore. He had a sudden, dangerous thought. No one could challenge him while he was on the footpath. That was why they were called public footpaths. He was doing nothing wrong
until he climbed the
fence
into the garden. And at one point the footpath was only two feet from the garden gate. Two feet, he thought, wasn’t very far at all.
    But it was risky. Some people were nosey – like that horrible old Mrs Rathbone and her