I've Been Watching You

by KA Richardson

  It was only now, some twenty minutes later that he realised the feeling was one of safety. It has been six years since his last tour, six years of pain and recovery, six years where he’d never quite felt like he fitted anywhere.

  In a sudden flash while standing on Ben’s doorstep, he’d realised that it had been six years of focussing on himself. He’d never once in that time told TJ he appreciated everything she’d done. He’d sat and wallowed with an ‘oh woe is me’ attitude and struggled through each day.

  Today had been like an eye opener. A young girl was dead, killed by the same man who had hurt Ben. He felt a little ashamed, if he was honest, here he was moaning about a gammy leg when she’d endured such horror and survived.

  OK, the things he’d seen he wouldn’t have wished on anyone, but there were a lot of people worse off than him.

  A new determined look in his eyes, or rather, the old determined look of who he’d been before Afghanistan flickered brightly. No more feeling sorry. So, I have scars. So do a lot of people. Deal with it. Finally feeling more at peace, he started the engine and pulled away.

  O’Byrne Residence, Sunderland

  Ben was sitting on the armchair with her legs pulled up under her bum, staring into space. Aoife had talked to her for a while after Jacob had dropped her off, telling her several times that everything was going to be OK. Eventually she’d realised Ben needed time with her thoughts, time to process having to expose herself to everyone she worked with, and time to realise that it wasn’t as a big a deal as she thought it was. She’d survived and that’s what was important, Aoife had said, kissing her on the head and leaving her on the chair.

  But Ben had her doubts.

  Telling the people she worked with meant that the stares she’d had from the staff at Durham would return, those stares that said ‘I can’t believe she went through that, the poor thing’, the stares that screamed ‘Why’s she still at work after an ordeal like that’; the stares that yelled ‘I don’t understand you any more’. That was how she’d seen them, at least. She’d noticed that people stopped speaking when she walked in the room, heard hushed whispers that hung in the corridors like accusations, and saw the looks of utter pity on the faces of her colleagues.

  None of them understood.

  You didn’t give anyone chance to understand. You just turned tail and ran for the hills. The niggling voice in the back of her head could have been right she supposed, her mouth turning downwards in a slight frown. I don’t actually give people chance to understand, ’cos I’ve never actually told them or talked about it.

  It had been really tough today, telling her story over and over, trying not to let the emotion take over, but failing. People deal with horrific experiences in different ways, and after spending a couple of years living in paranoia, getting drunk and generally not living, Ben had pulled herself together when she’d found out she was pregnant. That after all the horror, that through both the physical and mental scars, her body could still carry the wonder of a new life had felt like a miracle. There was one moment she considered aborting the baby. It had been a turning point.

  A lot of people didn’t get that option. After the rape, they lived forever with the fear and paranoia, the emotional trauma itself, the feelings of not being worthy, the thoughts that somehow, they were to blame.

  A surge of anger flew through Ben’s veins. They’re not to blame, none of them. No one asks for that to happen. I’m not to blame. He is!

  She’d told other victims that often enough. The website she administrated gave her a forum to help where she could, but deep inside she knew she’d never believed it until just now. It was his choice to do what he did. She had no control over him. She didn’t even know him. But I know you now, you bastard. And I’ll do whatever I can to catch you so you never do this to another woman again.

  The haunted look finally left her eyes; tonight, she would write it all down. Every little thing she remembered about that night, no matter how small. And tomorrow she would give it to Ali and talk to Jacob. She knew that if he hadn’t shown up at the scene of the murder, she might never have opened up as she had. She at least owed him for the millions of coffees he’d bought throughout the day. Aoife was right, there was something about Jacob. She wanted to make sure he was OK.

  Picking up her mobile, she sent him a quick text telling him she was thinking about him and saying thank you. Her mind now on a more even keel, she held her phone as she waited for his reply, but within seconds the device fell on to her lap as her head lolled and she fell straight into a deep sleep.

  For the first time in eight years, she’d fallen asleep naturally, without any panic that she hadn’t checked the windows and doors. If she’d realised, she might have checked out of habit, and if she had, she might have seen something.

  Stan stood outside the window, his eyes virtually burning holes in the glass as he stared at her.

  You’re going to pay for this. It’s going to take some planning, but soon, you won’t be telling anyone anything. You’ve fucked it all up. I have to move again and it’s all your fault. I’m going to make you wish you were never born. He stood there for several minutes, staring through the glass as his breath settled on the windowpane. Now he knew everything he needed to know; it was time to start laying the groundwork.

  He placed the pre-prepared letter in the letter box, barely making a sound. The letter said there was water works in the area the next day, and that an engineer may need to attend to check the water pressure hadn’t been affected. He would use his ruse to gain entry to the house and fit what he needed to ensure he could see and hear everything, and then, when the time was right, he would strike.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  O’Byrne Residence, Sunderland – 17 June

  Aoife clicked the washing machine shut and set the load away. She’d been slowly increasing the usage of her arm since the operation and figured she was now OK to do some washing. Ben would probably object but she wasn’t here now.

  Ben had left for work that morning, dropping Grace at school en route, and leaving Aoife at home with her thoughts.

  She was worried. Ben had seemed so low the night before, and she understood why. She’d never found it easy to open up about anything. Even when her parents had died and she’d wound up living with her aunt miles from her former home, Ben had hidden behind her shell and not shown much emotion. It had taken months for her to learn to trust Aoife, to open up and express her emotion.

  The turning point had been when Ben had caught flu the winter after arriving. It was a pandemic at the time, a virulent strain that lasted a good couple of weeks. Ben had been laid up with fever, her head pounding, her temperature skyrocketing, and she’d been afraid. Aoife had sat with her all night, stroking her hand soothingly, helping her drink fluids, and generally just being there. She’d woken in the middle of the night to the sound of Ben screaming, tears running down her flushed cheeks, sweat plastering hair to her head. Aoife had held her tightly until the tears stopped, her heart overflowing with love as Ben had cried over the loss of her parents, months of pent up emotion released in a flood. As the tears petered out, Ben had whispered, ‘Please don’t leave me, Aunty Aoife, I don’t want to be alone.’

  And Aoife had promised she would never leave.

  Pulling herself from the thoughts, she grabbed a cloth. There was only one thing to do when one had worries weighing them down, and that was to clean. She was just about to spray the bleach, when a sudden knock at the door made her jump.

  Opening the door a crack she peered round the side. Seeing his uniform, she opened the door farther.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’m from the water board. We sent letters out advising of ongoing work in the area this morning. I just need to check that your water pressure hasn’t been affected. The works have been completed with a temporary fix. We’ll be looking to get the permanent fix installed in the next month or two.’

  He smiled at her reassuringly, his ID card hangi
ng from his neck by an insignia coated lanyard. Aoife barely even noticed his overalls. Her focus caught by the scar on his face.

  ‘I wasn’t informed of any ongoing water works.’

  Frowning, the man checked his clipboard. ‘This is number forty-three, right? It’s definitely on the list. The letters were hand-delivered yesterday evening. Normally we send them in the post ’cos there’s time, but this was an emergency repair. I apologise if you haven’t received it. If you would like I can give you the contact number for the control room and you can double-check I’m supposed to be here.’

  As Stan said the words, his hand closed round the knife in his pocket. Damn it, don’t make me use this. Not yet. The timing isn’t right.

  ‘Let me see your ID closer.’ Aoife was aware she sounded suspicious, but she didn’t let people in her house unless she was certain they posed no threat. Deciding his ID looked real, she granted him access.

  ‘Stop cock is in the kitchen under the sink.’

  ‘Great thanks, busy morning today. Weather seems to be holding out nice though.’

  ‘A little sunshine is cheering,’ admitted Aoife with a small smile. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Do you know, love, I’d kill for a cuppa right now. White with two if that’s OK?’

  ‘No problem.’

  Busying herself she popped the kettle on. She didn’t quite feel comfortable though. There was something about this man that set her neck alight and shivers of awareness tingled down her spine as she poured him his hot drink.

  Just as she handed it over, the phone rang.

  ‘O’Byrne residence, Sunderland.’

  ‘Ms O’Byrne, Doctor Carmichael here. I’m sending a letter with the full results, but I just wanted to give you a quick ring. The results are back from your lumpectomy. The flesh margin is clear of cancer cells: it hasn’t spread. I want to look at getting you booked in for a course of chemotherapy within the next month. The course will give fortnightly treatments over a period of a few months. I’m confident we’ve caught this in time. This treatment will ensure that any remaining cancer cells are eradicated completely.’

  The man from the water board was pointing to the ceiling and the front door. He mouthed that he needed to check the pressure upstairs and grab something from the van and left the kitchen.

  Aoife had almost convinced herself that surgery was all she would need. Unable to hide her disappointment, she said, ‘Well, if you think it’s necessary, doctor, I understand.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it if it wasn’t. I know this is difficult, but trust me, you’re in good hands.’

  ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. Thank you.’

  ‘There are some things we will need to discuss. Can you come in for a chat next week? Say Thursday morning at 10 a.m.?’

  ‘Of course. Thank you, Doctor Carmichael. I do appreciate everything you’re doing.’

  He clicked off the line, and Aoife replaced the handset on to the holder by the microwave. Every couple of weeks for a few months. Boy, that’s going to be fun.

  Noticing that the kitchen was empty, and the man hadn’t returned, Aoife made her way into the hall. He stepped off the bottom step of the staircase as she approached.

  ‘Pressure seems fine upstairs, downstairs is a little low, so I’ll need to run some tests at the mid-station. Hopefully I can solve the problem from there and not have to bother you again. If I need to though, is it OK just to pop back?’

  ‘Yes, of course, no problem.’

  She didn’t know why she felt uneasy. It wasn’t like she hadn’t checked his ID. Maybe she would give the water board a ring just to confirm once he’d left. She watched as he drained his coffee in one gulp and handed her the mug.

  ‘Just what the doctor ordered that. You’d be surprised how many people don’t offer refreshments, not that I’d ask mind you, but it’s nice to be offered. Much appreciated, love.’

  Stan couldn’t believe his luck. That doctor had rung at just the right time. He’d already been pondering on how to gain access to the rest of the house. A moment in the living room to plant a sound bug on the table lamp, and two minutes for upstairs was all he needed though. He’d picked the right bedroom on the first try, fitting the tiny camera and turning the signal on. It had been easy to pick a spot too; the number of trinkets lying around had made choosing a hiding place easy.

  He wanted to know what the phone call had been about, had actually been tempted to stop and listen outside the kitchen door, but getting his tools fitted was more important. He’d almost baulked as he took a mouthful of the coffee she’d made, whatever it was, it wasn’t his favourite brand. While upstairs he’d poured most of it down the sink, only drinking the last mouthful before handing her the mug back.

  You’d have thought at her age she would know how to make coffee. All those years staying home and looking after her niece had not taught her properly. His mouth twisted in disdain; it was because there was no man in the house. This he’d ascertained from his quick glance around. How was a woman supposed to learn to act properly when not guided by a man? He would take great pleasure in showing her what he expected. He’d never tried teaching more than one student at a time. It would be interesting to say the least. He would need a good plan, and better yet, a good location.

  Pulling away from the kerb, he decided it was time to check out some of the abandoned properties he had a list of. Places that had been closed so long people didn’t even remember what they used to be. Places still in the city but secluded and forgotten. With so many likely spots available, perhaps his teachings could be done here without him living in the area. His job at the centre had given him the opening he needed: part-time hours suited and provided him with ample free time.

  He would regret moving this time though. The kids at the centre needed a good male role model. And he knew he provided that. Better than wimpy Brian at any rate. The man was permanently staring into space these days, had been ever since his wife had been murdered eighteen months before. From what he heard, she deserved to die. No woman had ever cheated on him, he’d never given them the opportunity, but Brian’s wife had. And if the rumours were true, she’d been pregnant with the bastard child of her killer too. And Gill, well she was OK he supposed, a bit exuberant for his liking, but she wasn’t a man. She couldn’t teach the kids like he could. Besides, she’d be too wrapped up in her own problems for a long time now. He doubted she would be at work for a while. Brian would have to get cover in, and who knew who that would be. At least the kids had the boxing ring he’d helped set up. Yes, the kids needed him. But the boxing would help and if it turned out he didn’t have to move, he wouldn’t. It would all depend on what Bree had said.

  The more he thought about her, the more he couldn’t wait to have her again. She’d been haunting his thoughts since he’d seen her, all trussed up in her white suit at the centre.

  He had visions of her being pleased to see him, being submissive and allowing him to teach her without saying no. His mind had even ventured into the field that maybe he wouldn’t have to kill her, maybe she would just do as he asked without question. He could see her breasts in his mind, big, beautiful and covered in his marks. She belonged to him, she always had.

  He was starting to understand there may have been a reason she’d survived, and that reason was to be there for him.

  The others were almost like a compulsion, the act itself something he couldn’t help but do. None had ever compared to her, though. It was almost as if he’d been travelling the long road around the country just to get back to her.

  Stan’s focus had shifted, quite suddenly really. It wasn’t about women in general but about her. And he would make sure she understood that when his plan was complete, and he had her again. He had the knowledge he needed to control her. He knew exactly what to do to lure her to him. And soon he would have the perfect location too.

  Major Incident Room, Sunderland City Centre Depot

  Ali reread Ben’s statement with tired eyes.
He’d been there until late last night; it had been around two when he’d finally crawled to the flat and into his bed, setting his alarm for six to get back to work. He couldn’t believe she’d been through all that and survived.

  He’d been surprised when he’d seen her earlier today, part of him expecting her to need time off. She’d been picking up the slack in the office, choosing to work the jobs to free up the other CSIs to deal with the murder. He knew Jason was at Clarice’s house with Jacob, dismantling the girl’s computer while he sat there putting his files together and passing them to the girls to load on to the HOLMES system.

  He’d rang the DNA Submissions company earlier too, trying to push the swabs from Clarice’s cheeks through. DNA would be a good lead. This guy had to be on file somewhere for something. One didn’t just wake up and decide to rape and murder women. There had to be something, somewhere, that would show him who this guy was.

  For a moment, his thoughts went to Alex, his brother. Alex had been the DCI of the Major Incident Team for about four years now. He’d seen more than his share of horrors. Ali wanted to ask him how he coped with it, ask him how he stopped the dreams coming. But he knew he wouldn’t. Asking Alex would be like admitting he couldn’t cope.

  The things that people did to each other never failed to amaze him. Maybe he’d chosen the wrong career. He’d worked his arse off getting to where he was now, accepting the secondment with North-East Police when it came up on Alex’s recommendation. But he missed being in Edinburgh with his family, missed the banter and the fact he knew he could always go to his mum’s and find cake, comfort and love. The flat was stifling, empty. Lonely. He hated it.

  As the phone rang on his desk, he pulled his head back in the game.

  ‘McKay.’

  ‘DI McKay, this is Marie Smithson from the DNA lab. Do you have a moment?’