Watch Over You

by M. J. Ford

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘Shocked, of course. She’s not had any contact with Mr Ferman for years, but said she’d be happy to take care of arrangements.’

  ‘That’s something. You should finish up. Get some rest.’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ said Reeves. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Jo wished her a good night. Harry had spoken about his ex-wife a number of times, always fondly, if with a degree of wry detachment. From what she’d gathered, they’d separated on amicable enough terms, after soldiering on for a few years after Lindsay’s death. By his own admission, Harry had coped badly, and sunken into a depression that made him hard to live with. She gripped the steering wheel tighter as she remembered the lines of grief etched on his face, sitting opposite her in the Three Crowns. To have overcome that, only for this, seemed so grossly unjust. His life had been a simple one, with few friends, and few comforts. Whoever had taken it from him was going to pay – she’d make sure of it.

  Theo woke on the way inside, springing to sudden liveliness, all giggles and thrashing limbs. She’d been joking to the health visitors about claws and teeth, but there was something strange about the burst of energy just as the rest of the world was winding down. She gave him a bath, cupping water over his squirming pink body as he squealed. By the time he was wrapped in a towel, he was rubbing his eyes again. He lazily took a little milk, before settling into the cot beside her own bed. She lay down, watching him through the bars, as she sang a song of which she only half remembered the words.

  Lucas returned to her thoughts unbidden as Theo dropped off, and she wandered downstairs, vaguely considering making a call. He no longer had her number, but she’d kept his just so she was forewarned if he called from that phone. In the end, she decided against speaking with him, just as the solicitor had recommended. If he was in bad patch, it was likely he’d have been drinking again today, so it would be pointless having a conversation anyway.

  Their relationship, she reasoned from a position of hindsight, had been on rocky ground all along. First with the lies he had told her about his estranged family, and then later, even as they had tried to make it work, the truths she couldn’t tell him. When she had informed him, soon after realising she was pregnant, that the baby might not be his, it had opened a wound. And she had let it fester, refusing for her own reasons to have any sort of paternity test. It didn’t matter to her who the father was, Lucas or her former colleague Jack Pryce. Or rather, she simply didn’t want to know. Lucas couldn’t comprehend that at all.

  Within a couple of months of sporadic contact, she’d realised he was back on the booze. She, and everyone close, especially his ex-wife, had tried to stop him, but the compulsion seemed too great, and soon she felt vindicated in cutting him out of her life and that of her unborn child. With her maternal hormones raging, she had found it easy to be brutally selfish, conscious that her capacity for compassion had shrunk. He needed support greater than anything she could provide. She’d suspected Paul and Amelia hadn’t fully understood, and once or twice they’d made tentative queries to uncover what was going on. Harry had been the opposite. Non-judgmental, dependable, wise. A rock, whenever she needed to talk.

  But when he had come to her, she hadn’t been there.

  Jo drank a glass of water on the couch, then leant across and listened to his voicemail again.

  ‘Hello, Jo. It’s been a while. Listen, there’s something I need to talk with you about. I know you’ve got a lot on, but … it’s delicate. Maybe you could give me a call back when you’ve got a minute. Oh, it’s Harry, by the way.’

  It was impossible not to interpret it differently now, and the guilt that had gnawed at her that morning came close to consuming her completely as she sat in the darkness. Whatever the ‘delicate’ matter was, it likely had something to do with the fate her old friend had met a few hours earlier. And if she had just picked up the phone to speak with him, who could say the route the day would have taken? He might have been sitting opposite her now, his big body sinking into the cushions of her couch, his gentle laughter filling the room as she filled him in on her first day back.

  She pressed play again, torturing herself, searching for any hint in between the lines, any inflection in his voice that might be a clue. But there was nothing in his tone – no great anxiety or strain – that suggested he knew the fate that awaited him. He sounded pensive, a little confused and out of his depth, perhaps. Like he didn’t want to cause trouble for her. Whoever this girl was who was staying in his upstairs room, eating cereal at his table and leaving hairs on his sofa, he’d had little inkling that she was going to do him harm.

  JAMES

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER

  His watch read 07.33. He stamped his feet against the cold, and watched his breath spill out into the pre-dawn.

  Where the fuck is he?

  The stagnant water beneath James’ feet reeked, blackly reflecting the arch of Victorian brickwork above. The underside of the bridge had grown a skin of moss over fading graffiti. This place hadn’t been well frequented for a long time.

  James was beginning to doubt himself.

  Not that he could go through with it – there was never anything less than complete certainty on that count; the tools were ready in the holdall at his feet. But he was beginning to worry that Christopher Putman might not come at all. Perhaps tonight he hadn’t felt like his regular Tuesday jog. Or maybe he’d decided to vary the route for the first time in eight weeks. Worse still, what if Putman had somehow spotted him over the course of his surveillance? Maybe he’d even recognised him and gone to the police …

  No, that wasn’t possible. For a start, there was no way Putman would remember him. James been a boy back then, a skinny thing who’d barely been able to look Putman in the eye. Nothing like the man he was now.

  And James had been careful. So careful. Military precision was a cliché, but in his case, it was fairly applied. For the last two months, Putman had been his assigned target, and luckily that target was a man of routine. Every movement had been jotted down in James’ little book. There was a fifteen-minute window during which Putman left his apartment building, walking the four hundred yards to the nearest tram stop, boarding the blue line, which took him on a nineteen-minute ride to Piccadilly Gardens in the middle of Manchester. From there it was a short stroll to his offices, via a coffee shop on Jewry Street, where he purchased a double espresso. Occasionally he dipped out between 12.30 and one, but more often it looked like a young female assistant or intern did a run to a nearby café on behalf of several employees. The office itself was accessed by a code at street level – 808080. James had thought about striking there, as Putman was normally last to leave the building. The problem was the cameras. Two across the street, each linked to different premises. If his plan had any hope of working, this first part had to go off without a hitch. There could be nothing linking him to what happened next.

  Most nights, Putman went straight home, occasionally detouring via a supermarket to buy a few items he’d pack into a collapsible rucksack. He appeared, from the purchases James had seen, to be a vegetarian. One Thursday evening, he’d gone for a drink with colleagues, though he was first to leave after just a couple, heading out to meet his partner – a man he called Matt, and whose surname Putman hadn’t been able to find out. There was no need. Matt was not important in the scheme of things. The two of them seemed to be married – at least they both wore rings – and from time to time James felt distantly sorry for the happiness he was going to shatter. But there was a debt to be paid, and Putman was the only one who could pay it.

  At the weekends, the couple spent most of their time together – the exception was the running club on Sunday mornings, when Putman met a small group of Lycra-clad friends for a conversational hour around the Quays. He ran two other nights in the week as well. Friday’s route was straight home from the office, through built-up urban areas that offered no opportunities for ambush. Tuesday morning was
more promising: an early circuit from his apartment, along some of the more deserted and abandoned waterways of the old canal network. The run took forty minutes, give or take.

  07.37.

  But not today, it seemed. James took a deep breath, extinguishing his disappointment and frustration. It was no good guessing at a reason for the change of routine, and it didn’t matter. His time would come.

  He picked up the bag to leave, to head back to the hostel in the city centre, when the distant sound of slapping feet echoed along the path. Suddenly, it was back on. He moved briskly to the end of the tunnel, climbing the bank to a spot where he wouldn’t be seen. He could hear Putman’s heavy breathing, and slid out the crowbar.

  Now came the glow of Putman’s head-torch, rocking from side to side in time with his stride. James’ hand tightened on the cold metal, and he jumped down into the path.

  The light from the torch was too much, and James had to turn away dazzled.

  ‘Sorry!’ said Putman. He’d skidded to a halt, and as he hurriedly switched the beam off, James saw he had both arms raised in a gesture of apology. For a moment they stared at one another, then Putman caught sight of the crowbar. ‘What do you …’

  He didn’t finish the sentence as the metal bar struck the side of his cheek with a dull thud. He staggered and hit the wall of the bridge, trying to support himself, but falling to his knees. Blood poured from his face down the front of his running vest and spattered in heavy droplets on to the towpath. He turned and began to crawl back the way he’d come, making a whining sound. James walked after him slowly, tossing the crowbar to the ground. Another blow to the head was too risky. He needed Putman alive.

  His victim saw him coming and tried to crawl faster, but James placed his foot on the other man’s back and pressed him to the ground. Putman made no effort to fight as James slid an arm under his neck, clasped his hands together, and used his body weight to push Putman’s head forward against his own biceps and forearm, cutting off the flow of blood through the carotid arteries. There was a gurgling and then, after five or six seconds, he felt Putman’s body go limp. He held the choke for a few seconds more, just to be sure Putman was out, then he rolled off, so they lay together side by side, Putman facing down, James looking towards the tunnel roof. He let his breathing calm, then stood to check no one was coming. Satisfied, he went to retrieve the crowbar, and put it back into the bag, where it rattled against the pliers and the hammer. He’d come back and clear up the blood later. He took out two zip-ties and a cloth, then returned to the body.

  Christopher Putman was moving weakly. Muttering.

  James fastened his ankles together, and tied his wrists behind his back, then forced Putman’s teeth apart so he could insert the gag. Putman resisted weakly, his bloody face creasing in protest. Now for the hard bit. James took hold of Putman underneath the armpits and dragged him along the path, then hoisted him up onto the bank. Leaning his shoulder into Putman’s waist, he managed to get him into a fireman’s lift, and with great difficulty, to scoop up the holdall as well. He remembered doing similar drills in his army days, carrying a ‘wounded’ comrade and his pack half a mile over difficult terrain, with fake ordnance going off all around.

  It was only a hundred and fifty metres to the abandoned rubber factory, concrete all the way, so no problem at all, but Putman was wriggling.

  ‘Fucking give over,’ said James.

  He reached the building, kicked open the loose door, and went through to the old dark office at the back. All that remained were a couple of shelves, a desk, and a chair; a sports car calendar from 1993 on the wall. James dumped Putman on the floor. He was wide awake now, terror in his eyes. As James leant in towards his face, he flinched back, but James peeled the headtorch away, and placed it on his own forehead. The strap was still damp with sweat. He found the button and switched it on, illuminating the room and Putman’s terrified expression. He was trying to shout, but the sound was muffled.

  James brandished the crowbar. ‘I’ll let you talk, but if you scream I’ll crack your skull open. Got it?’

  Putman nodded.

  ‘You sure?’

  He nodded more vigorously.

  James plucked the gag out, and Putman coughed up a mouthful of spit.

  ‘I haven’t got any money. You can take my phone …’

  ‘I don’t want your phone.’

  ‘What do you want? I … I …’ He frowned, eyes widening. ‘Wait … you’re that man I …?’

  There was still defiance in Putman’s tone, but there wouldn’t be for long.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ asked James.

  ‘I saw you, in the city, the other day. Look, I’ll give you whatever you want.’

  That wasn’t what James had meant.

  He turned away and opened the bag again, and wondered where to start. Matt probably wouldn’t even worry about his husband until half past eight. He’d come alone first, searching the route. There wasn’t much time, but there was enough.

  He fished for the hammer and when Putman saw it in his hand, he began to drag himself across the floor, trying to get out of reach.

  Please!’ he said. ‘I haven’t done anything!’

  Hearing the words, James had to hold himself back. He couldn’t let his anger get the better of him now.

  ‘I need information,’ said James, stalking closer.

  ‘Okay, okay! I’ll tell you anything I can. You won’t need that!’

  ‘If you lie to me, I’ll hurt you.’

  ‘I won’t lie!’

  I know you won’t, thought James. Christopher Putman would give him everything he needed to know, because he thought it was the only way to survive.

  Sadly, he was wrong.

  Chapter 5

  FRIDAY, 18TH APRIL

  Each time she was woken in the night by Theo, the fact of Harry’s death hit her afresh, bobbing to the surface of her thoughts. Each time she tried to get back to sleep, it took longer as the images lingered. She felt restless, energised and enervated at the same time, thinking she should be doing something, but knowing there was little she could do in the hours of darkness. By the fourth wake-up, just after five am, the sun was coming up. Theo resettled quickly, but she gave up on getting any more sleep herself. Pre-motherhood, she’d just have got into the car and headed to the office, but instead she poured regular cups of coffee down her throat and logged on from the desk in the corner of her living room. She was gritty-eyed as she wrote up her notes from the previous day, trying not to miss a single thing. Policework was about detail, and as SIO she would set the example others would follow. She then listened to Harry’s message several times more, wondering whether she should include it in the official report. She decided, ultimately, not to record it. Her relationship to the victim was already a touch problematic; there was no need to highlight that further. Besides, it was too vague to have any useful meaning, and added nothing to the intelligence.

  Theo woke just before eight in a good mood. His oblivious smile was just the tonic she needed, and though it couldn’t chase away the demons entirely, feeding and dressing him and singing him songs kept them at bay for a while.

  Reality stole back over her between home and the nursery, like a deadly tide encroaching unseen, but subtly felt, as she closed the front door, clipped his safety harness, and pulled out of the drive. By the time she handed him over, Theo was fractious, as if he too now sensed her disquiet.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him,’ she said. She lingered at the threshold of the nursery, giving him one last cuddle. Even then, he clung to her, and pulling his fingers from her sleeve to hand him across to his carer, Suzie, almost broke her heart.

  ‘He’ll be absolutely fine, won’t you, little man?’ said Suzie, looking down at him.

  ‘I know he will,’ said Jo with a smile. ‘It’s me I’m worried about.’

  She fancied she could still hear him crying through the door as she walked back towards the car, and fo
rced herself not to turn around and go back to peer through the window.

  When she started the engine again, she looked in the mirror. Game face, Jo. Get yourself together.

  * * *

  She drove straight back out to Harry’s place. The police tape had gone, and Canterbury Road had returned to normality, with no indication of the brutal act that had befallen an elderly man inside number 21. The curtains were drawn, and Jo allowed herself a moment’s fantasy that she could knock now, and he’d answer like yesterday had never happened. She scolded herself for wishful thinking, but it was in his no-nonsense tone: That’s not how we work, Josie. You play with the cards you’ve been dealt.

  She used her own key to enter the house again. The crime scene technicians hadn’t made much effort to clean up – there were stray evidence bags on the floor, and various pencil markings on the wall. The cushions from the sofa had been put back untidily. The house had lost any form of homeliness now its occupant was gone, and she wondered what would happen to it next. Even if he could never have anticipated his death in violent circumstances, Harry seemed the sort to put his affairs in order well in advance. There’d be a will, and it might be worth checking the beneficiary.

  She checked the drawers of the dresser again, searching for anything that might look official, but found nothing. Out in the back yard, there was a plastic sheet laid out – it looked like Mel’s team had emptied the contents of the kitchen bin over it, searching the detritus for any more clues. Jo didn’t feel the need to inspect the rubbish in any detail, but something did catch her eye. Or rather, its absence did. She walked back to the kitchen cupboards, opened them all. Then the fridge. Now that was strange.

  ‘No booze,’ she muttered.

  The Harry she’d known had been pretty much a functioning alcoholic. In addition to daily trips to the Three Crowns, the time she’d been here before the cupboards had contained both bottles of ale and an assortment of decent whiskys and brandies. She wondered if the crime scene team had removed them for some reason.