Watch Over You

by M. J. Ford

  Megan looked up sharply towards the door, and Jo saw Annabelle Pritchard and another woman standing on the other side of the glass, speaking to Constable Marquardt. He let them pass.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Pritchard formally.

  Jo remained seated. ‘Lots of visitors today, Megan.’

  ‘Would you mind if we spoke to Megan in private?’ asked Pritchard.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ said Jo. ‘Goodbye, Megan. And good luck.’

  She picked up her bag and walked past the bed, past the council workers, reflecting on the hollowness of her own words. The girl would need a lot more than luck.

  ‘Hey,’ said Megan. Jo turned by the doors. Megan lifted the make-up bag and gave a small smile.

  Jo nodded in acknowledgement, and left. As she signed Marquardt’s register, she glanced back through the glass partition as the two council workers moved to the end of the bed. They’d had a dozen years to fix the broken parts, and they were still trying.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be so cynical.

  JAMES

  NINE DAYS EARLIER

  He scanned up and down the street. A fat woman walking a Jack Russell, but not paying him any attention. He knocked at the door to number 21.

  ‘Hang on a mo,’ came a voice. A few seconds later, the door opened, and the old man was standing there. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Mr Ferman, I’m Megan’s brother.’

  He nodded. ‘Aye, she mentioned you. Not seen her for a few days.’

  James didn’t like his tone. ‘Can we talk?’

  Ferman took in a deep breath through his nose, then stood aside. ‘Come in.’

  James entered, wiping his feet on the doormat. No need to be impolite. Yet.

  The house smelled musty. The carpet brought back memories of one of his first foster places. Ferman led him into a living room. Fireplace, crappy TV, a sofa that looked as knackered as its owner. Nothing worth nicking.

  ‘So where is the young lass?’ said the old man.

  None of your fucking business.

  ‘Hotel,’ lied James. In fact, he’d told her to wait at the camp while he fetched a few bits. He trusted her to stay put. She seemed to find the outdoor living quite exciting, bless her.

  ‘Can I get you a cuppa?’

  ‘Coffee. Ta.’

  Ferman traipsed through to the small kitchen, leaving James standing awkwardly. After a couple of seconds, he followed. He watched the old man’s back as he set the kettle to boil.

  ‘Do you take sugar?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Have a seat, please,’ said Ferman.

  James pulled out a chair from under the small Formica table.

  ‘She’s a good girl, Megan,’ said Ferman, as he fetched two mugs from a cupboard.

  ‘Yeah,’ said James. ‘It’s great to see her again.’

  Silence fell over the kitchen as the old man poured steaming water into the cups. As he fetched milk from the fridge, he shot a glance at James.

  ‘She told me you two had a difficult time when you were younger.’

  What was this? Some sort of counselling session? ‘Did she now?’

  Ferman placed a mug in front of James, and eased his frame into the chair opposite. ‘I don’t mean to pry. She’s had a hard time ever since, by the sounds of it.’

  Nervous, James sipped the drink too fast, and scalded the roof of his mouth. ‘That’s why I’m taking her away.’

  ‘What happened to your neck?’

  James shrugged. It hadn’t healed well and he was almost certain it was infected. ‘Cut myself shaving.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said the old man. ‘You should go electric.’

  James nodded.

  Ferman folded his arms and leant his weight on them over the table, closer than James would’ve liked. ‘She told me you served in the army.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Afghanistan.’

  ‘Must’ve been tough.’

  ‘It was okay.’ James didn’t feel like any more chat. ‘Listen, I only came by to grab her stuff and thank you for looking out for her.’

  Ferman continued as if he hadn’t heard. ‘And you’ve got a place, back in Manchester? Big enough for the both of you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The old man sipped his own drink thoughtfully.

  ‘And have you spoken to her parents?’

  ‘They’re not her parents,’ said James. ‘I’m her family.’

  ‘I understand that, but they raised her,’ said Ferman. ‘Don’t you think they deserve to know?’

  James felt the blood rising to his face as he thought back to the disaster of five days earlier. He’d only gone to the posh house to get a few of Megan’s things. She’d told him they were away. It was her fault what had happened, really. After they’d seen his face, there was only one possible outcome. He hadn’t told Megan, of course – didn’t want to freak her out. The sooner they were away from Oxford, the sooner they could put it all behind them.

  ‘It’s up to her,’ said James.

  ‘Is it?’ said Ferman, staring at him hard.

  James pushed his seat back. ‘I’ve just come to get her things.’

  ‘Finish your coffee first, lad,’ said Ferman. ‘There’s no rush.’

  It didn’t sound much of a friendly offer, and James suddenly had a good idea what this old geezer once did for a living. If he was right, it was time to leave.

  ‘Tell you what, keep the stuff,’ said James. He stood.

  Harry stood too. He looked a bit taller now, his back a little straighter. ‘If you give me your address, your full name, I could post them on,’ said the old man. He was standing in the doorway, blocking the way out. Yep, definitely police. He had that way about him.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said James. He held out his hand. ‘Nice to have met you.’

  Ferman looked at the hand, but didn’t take it. ‘Was that your car, James?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘The blue one you’ve been driving around?’

  ‘Course it is.’

  ‘So have you got kids?’

  Fuck. He’d seen the child seat.

  ‘No, but I sometimes drive my nephew.’ He squeezed past, out into the living room. His nerves were fizzing.

  ‘I didn’t know you had another sibling.’

  ‘Step.’

  ‘What’s the lad’s name?’

  James turned around to face Ferman.

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  Ferman shrugged. ‘I’m just curious.’

  ‘Nosy, more like.’

  Ferman nodded. ‘Maybe. Thing is, James – I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying to me.’

  ‘Don’t you now? And why exactly should I care?’

  Ferman cocked his head. ‘Why don’t we all sit down together – you, me, and Megan?’

  ‘She won’t be coming back,’ said James. ‘She doesn’t need you any more.’

  ‘Because she has you?’

  James took three quick breaths, but none of them seemed to calm him.

  ‘What is it with you, anyway? You some sort of perv? You like having a young girl in your house?’

  Ferman shook his head, a little sadly. ‘There’s no need to get angry, lad.’

  ‘Stop fucking calling me that.’ His heart was beating its way out of his chest. No stopping now. ‘You couldn’t just leave it, could you?’

  ‘Leave what? I’m just worried about Megan.’

  James crouched, and took the knife out of his boot.

  At the sight of the blade, Ferman moved to the other side of the sofa. ‘Now, now,’ he said. His voice remained surprisingly calm. ‘You don’t have to do anything silly, James. Walk away. I won’t stop you.’

  ‘And you won’t phone your pig friends?’

  ‘If you go now, and leave Megan alone, I won’t tell anyone. You have my word.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ said James. His tongue played over
the blister forming on the roof of his mouth. ‘You think I’d just walk away now, after everything I’ve done for her?’ He moved to intercept Ferman, who kept the sofa between them.

  ‘What is it you’ve done?’ asked Ferman.

  James thought of the parents, wriggling and wailing in the cellar as they realised what was coming, and of Xan Do and the surprised look as James had shone the torch into his car window. He probably hadn’t even seen the gun before the bullet entered his brain. He thought of Christopher Putman, begging for his life, promising he’d told James everything, everything he knew, everything … I promise, I swear, please …

  Ferman’s arm came up suddenly. James dodged back instinctively as the metal poker winded past his face.

  ‘You fucking cunt,’ he said. As Ferman advanced and swung again, he overbalanced and fell across the end of the sofa. James reached forward and snatched the poker from him. Ferman looked afraid as he approached. His foot caught the edge of an occasional table, and spilled over a small vase of flowers.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ said the old man, holding up his arms to defend himself. ‘It’s not too late.’

  James swung the poker, and felt an arm bone give. Ferman cried out and dropped to his knees, cradling his wrist. When he looked up, though, there was no fear. His gaze was filled with disgust.

  ‘She’s not stupid. She’ll find out what you are, lad.’

  ‘I told you not to fucking call me that,’ said James.

  He lifted the poker over the bowed grey head.

  Chapter 31

  WEDNESDAY, 30TH APRIL

  The turnout at the funeral was better than Jo had expected. In addition to half a dozen folk from the Three Crowns, there were uniforms aplenty in the aisles at the crematorium chapel, as well as several grizzled faces, almost all male, who must have been former colleagues. Mrs Milner from the house two down on Canterbury Road had made the trip, and several other residents too. As Jo milled around before the service, she heard of the many small kindnesses that Harry had performed over the years, simple things like fixing a leak under a sink, or helping to find a runaway dog. It made her realise that the street where Harry had lived wasn’t such an unfriendly place after all. They might not have been a community, but neither did they shun one another.

  Jessica Granger and her step-son stood near the back for the duration of the service, despite that the organisation was their doing. Jo had contacted them to offer her help, but they had rejected any financial contribution. Jessica, however, had made a far more daunting suggestion, and Jo had been moved to accept. So it was, after a few words from the minister presiding, that she stepped up to the podium, just as Vera Coyne, alongside a shabbily dressed Mel Cropper, entered late at the back of the chapel.

  Harry’s coffin lay off to one side on a raised dais – it had seemed too small to hold his body as the pallbearers carried it in, and she tried not to imagine him inside it now. On a trestle table were three framed photos: two that bookended his police career, and at the forefront, Lindsay and Harry on the beach. Jo looked up at the expectant gathering. In the silence, she fancied Harry himself speaking to her over a glass of something peaty.

  They’re not getting any younger, Josie. Get on with it.

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘Some of you will have known Harry longer than me. You’ll have your own stories, about good and bad times on the job. I met him only a couple of years ago, but sometimes that’s all you need. And time – real quality time, anyway – isn’t measured in minutes and hours. So I’ll keep this short …’ She pulled out her pocket book, which drew a few muted chuckles, and opened it to the allotted page. ‘In the time we spent together, I’ve estimated Harry drank one hundred and seventy pints of ale, and fourteen bottles of Irish whiskey. That’s a conservative number, by the way. Later, when I was pregnant and on the wagon, he occasionally switched to ginger beer in my presence, though I expect he was laying a drop of something else in the glass too. When I talked, he always listened, and when I wanted advice, he gave it graciously. And even when I didn’t think I needed advice, he managed to give it anyway. He would have hated to be called wise, but that’s what he was. I remember going through a proposed list of names for my son, and he could say a great deal with just his eyebrows.

  ‘We laughed a lot, even when life wasn’t funny. And much of the time, as my colleagues will know, it really isn’t.’ She looked down at her feet for a moment, thinking about the other funerals that would be taking place today, or soon. ‘We lost more of our number last week. Sergeant Alan Menzies, Constable Fred Connor, Chief Inspector Amanda Pettifer, Sergeant Simon Jeffries. They all put their lives on the line to protect the innocent; they were willing to pay the ultimate price. Harry would want us to remember them today as well, his brothers and sisters.’

  She left a few moments of silence, before continuing.

  ‘We deal with the worst, and Harry was no stranger to those realities. He served his community for over thirty years, and it took its toll. And all of us, even those who aren’t police officers, can understand that. It would be all too easy to let life’s horrors overwhelm us. To think the worst of the world. But not Harry.’ She paused, wondering how long it would take her to get over the horrors. If she ever could. Maybe it was more about living with them. ‘For Harry, the glass was always half full, and he lived his life in the belief that people, even ones who behaved badly, could do better. It would serve us well to follow in his footsteps.’ She glanced at the coffin. ‘Safe travels, Harry.’

  * * *

  Outside, in the ornamental gardens at the back of the crematorium, she joined Andy and Heidi as they lay a wreath from the CID team at St Aldates among the amassed floral tributes. Heidi had to leave promptly to attend a PTA meeting at her child’s school, and gave Jo a long hug. ‘He’d have been bloody proud of you, you know?’

  Jo didn’t know what to say to that.

  She spoke to Mel Cropper for a while, who revealed he had known Harry since the days when smoking on a crime scene was not only acceptable, but positively obligatory. He’d once been charged with trying to explain the intricacies of DNA profiling to a class of investigators, some newly qualified as detectives, others dyed-in-the-wool and nearing the ends of their careers. Harry had got it immediately, but there was one old geezer near retirement age who muttered the immortal line, ‘It’ll never catch on.’

  After half an hour or so, Jo was thinking about taking her leave – Theo was with her brother – when Andy Carrick arrived at her side and offered his good arm. ‘Fancy a walk, sergeant?’

  Jo smiled, and linked her arm through his, and they set off together along one of the paths that wound through the crematorium grounds.

  ‘How’s the other one healing?’ she asked.

  ‘There are bad days, and flippin’ bad days,’ he said. ‘Apparently, I’ll need physio for three to six months. My tennis game isn’t going to be what it was for a while.’

  ‘I didn’t know you played tennis.’

  ‘It’s more Jasmillah’s thing to be honest.’

  The present tense caught her attention, and she glanced at his face, searching for the emotion behind the words. He looked far from the bereft man she’d spoken to before. ‘Does this mean you two are …?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘But we’re doing some counselling. It might be the start of a long road.’

  They walked on in silence, under an arched trellis, and out into the cemetery. Jo had always found such places oddly comforting.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about work,’ she said. ‘I reckon I might have come back too soon.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘Be serious.’

  ‘I am,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’m glad you’ve worked it out before it’s too late.’

  She stopped and broke from his side. ‘So you’d approve of me taking a break?’

  ‘Very much so,’ he said.

  ‘Oh … right.’ It wasn’t
quite the reaction she’d imagined.

  She’d made the decision the night after she’d shot James Brown. The moment when she’d come through the door of her brother’s house, Theo had shuffled towards her on all fours from the living room, his movements malcoordinated and jerky, but pure concentration on his face. Amelia had followed, exclaiming. ‘You didn’t tell us he’d started to crawl!’ and Jo replied, ‘He hadn’t this morning.’ She’d picked him up with a whoop of delight, and let his smell fill her chest.

  The day’s awful events were still a jumble in her mind, but the one that struck her most as she held her son was when she’d been ordered to discontinue the pursuit, and had disobeyed. At the time, she’d thought she’d made the decision as a matter of course, weighing up the pros and cons. Megan was in danger, and she was the only one who could help save the girl’s life. And she might have been right, but that didn’t make the decision the correct one. The only thing that mattered was in her arms in that moment, and if she couldn’t trust herself to put him first every single time, then the choice was sort of obvious.

  ‘I was sort of hoping you’d try to convince me to change my mind,’ she said to Carrick.

  ‘I know it’s hopeless to try and convince you of anything. I’ll miss you, of course. We all will.’

  ‘Even George.’

  ‘Especially George,’ said Carrick. ‘He respects you a great deal.’

  Jo chortled. ‘He has a funny way of showing it.’

  ‘Can I let you into a secret?’ he said.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘When you went off on maternity leave, no one thought you’d be back. The whole Jack Pryce thing, on top of Ben Coombs – we thought you’d have Theo and never darken the doors of St Aldates again. Dimi actually put in for a transfer to London. Said he wanted to expand his horizons. But then, when you announced you were returning after six months, guess who withdrew his request.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jo. ‘You’re confusing causation and correlation. He could have had a hundred reasons. Where is he anyway?’

  ‘He had some good news this morning. From Riley Matthis.’