I Am Watching You

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘I’m sorry. The fallout from cases is underestimated. People can be very unkind.’

  ‘Yes, well. Tony, my husband, was completely furious. Like I say, he is very protective. A sweet man – and he was furious that my name got out.’

  ‘And how exactly did that happen?’

  ‘We were never entirely sure. I was at a floristry conference in South London. Training and business-modelling. Officially the police insist that the press just got lucky and put the jigsaw together by tracing me as one of only two people on the course from Devon. But Tony suspects a deliberate leak to boost press interest in the case.’

  Matthew pulls a face.

  ‘So you do think that’s possible?’ I ask.

  ‘Wouldn’t like to say. It seems highly unlikely. They wouldn’t want to put you in danger.’

  ‘Danger? So you really think I might be in danger now?’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s not as if you’re the only one who could identify these men. No. I really think it’s unlikely there would be a deliberate leak. An accidental one . . . that’s a different matter.’

  ‘Well – either way. Everyone knows now. I’m the woman on the train who did nothing.’

  ‘Tough for you, then?’

  ‘Yes. But nothing compared to what that family has been through.’

  ‘So why on earth did you go down there? To Cornwall?’

  I can feel the sigh leaving my body and put the coffee down for a moment, cradling my head in my palms. ‘Completely stupid of me, I know. But the thing is, when I saw her, Mrs Ballard, outside my shop, just watching me, I recognised her from the press coverage – it was in the local paper such a lot. Anyway. It gave me the creeps, and when I thought it over, I felt it would be better to try to talk to her. I got it into my head that if I told her in person how very, very sorry I was and that I accepted she had the right to be angry – that if she could see that I was a mother, too, and how terrible I felt about her pain . . .’

  Matthew’s face gives him away.

  ‘Yes. I know. Stupid of me.’

  ‘And she reacted badly?’

  ‘Understatement. She went completely berserk. Of course, I can see it now. I was being selfish. I had this fantasy in my head that if she could just see that I was a decent person and that I so badly regretted—’

  ‘Was anyone else there?’

  ‘No. Just the two of us. I took some flowers. A big posy of primroses, which I read were Anna’s favourites – which I can see now was probably the trigger. Made it so much worse. She became quite hysterical. Said she was sick of flowers and I had no place. No right. Floral tributes as if her daughter were dead. Which she doesn’t believe she is, incidentally.’

  Matthew pours some more frothy milk into his coffee and offers me the same, but I put my hand over the cup.

  ‘Do you think it’s possible? That the girl is still alive?’

  Matthew tightens his lips. ‘Possible, but statistically unlikely.’

  ‘That’s what we think. Me and Tony.’ For a moment my voice falters. I wish that I could feel more hopeful. I think of a recent television drama in which missing girls were found years later. I try to picture Anna emerging from a basement or a hiding place with a police blanket around her shoulders, but I cannot shape the scene in my mind. I cough, looking away to the wall of filing cabinets and then back, picking up my coffee cup once more. ‘So anyway. It was pretty terrible in Cornwall. I tried to leave. Apologising for disturbing her. She rather lost it.’

  ‘Physically?’

  ‘She wasn’t herself.’

  ‘Did she hurt you, Ella? I mean, if she hurt you, if she’s volatile, then you really ought to go to the police with this. They should know this.’

  ‘She didn’t mean to. A tussle on the steps outside – an accident more than anything. Just a bit of bruising. On my arm.’

  Matthew is now shaking his head.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake; it was my own fault. She’s not a violent woman. It wasn’t deliberate and I should never have gone there. Provoked her. But the point is, it shook me up a bit. I mean – I knew that she blamed me and I wanted to try to redress that. But the extent of her hatred. Her eyes.’

  ‘Which is why you think the postcards are from her.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  He shrugs, tilting his head from side to side.

  ‘I wish you had kept them all.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t want my husband to worry. He’s going for a promotion at work and has enough on his plate. Look, Mr Hill. Sorry – Matthew. If you won’t take this on for me, I will burn them. I’m not handing them in to the police, I can tell you that.’

  Matthew examines my face very closely and shifts position.

  ‘I would like you to visit her, Matthew. You’re neutral and experienced at this kind of thing. I am hoping that you can put a stop to this without upsetting her further. Gently warn her off, but without involving the police and making it all worse for her.’

  ‘And what if you have this all wrong and it isn’t her? This mother who seems to have a bit of a temper on her.’

  ‘Well, then I will reconsider. And listen to your advice.’

  ‘Good. So we have a deal here, Ella? I try one visit to Mrs Ballard to see what I make of the situation, and if I’m still uneasy, you consider passing all this on to the police?’

  ‘You don’t seriously think this has anything to do with the investigation?’

  ‘In all honesty – probably not. If it’s not the mother, it’s most likely some saddo. But the team ought to be told.’

  ‘But my call?’

  ‘OK. We regroup after I’ve been to Cornwall.’ And now he is frowning, narrowing his eyes as he stands.

  ‘I take it you’ve heard the new development, Ella? This morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘On the local radio this morning. After the anniversary appeal.’

  ‘No. What development? Has someone come forward? I missed it. What’s happened?’

  Matthew winces. ‘They haven’t released a name, of course. But I’m assuming it’s the other girl. On the train. The friend.’

  ‘Sarah. Her name is Sarah. What do you mean? What’s happened to Sarah?’

  CHAPTER 7

  THE FRIEND

  Again Sarah is pretending to be asleep, but this time it is more difficult. There are nurses to deal with, not just her mother.

  ‘Come on, Sarah. We need you to try to have a little drink. Yes?’ The nurse is gently tapping her hand.

  Go away. Go away.

  ‘Why can’t you just keep her on a drip?’ Her mother has been clucking and fussing and crying alongside the bed for most of the night. ‘She looks terrible. She can’t sit up.’

  ‘Trust me. It’s better for Sarah if we can get her to stay alert and take a little drink herself.’

  They are on a unit called HDU, which Sarah learns stands for ‘high dependency unit’. She has been conscious of the goings-on around her for several hours but has been feeling woozy and playing dumb.

  They want to know precisely how many tablets she took. They keep asking this. She has listened in on conversations between the medical staff and her mother. Tests are apparently under way to determine how many tablets, but they take time and it would be much easier, everyone explains, if Sarah would just tell them.

  The nurses have been trying to get her mother to take a nap in the family room and Sarah wishes so badly she would agree.

  She feels too tired and dazed and wretched to feel guilty. She is sick to her stomach of feeling guilty; she just wants everyone to leave her alone.

  Her mother is now telling the nurses that the last time they were in hospital was over an asthma attack when Sarah was in primary school. All the parents were allowed to bed down in the playroom next to the children’s ward. They slept on mattresses on the floor, though some got the luxury of proper fold-up beds.

  This time there is no mattress or bed. Margaret sp
ent the night like some ghost, wandering here and there to stretch her legs every few hours, alternating between the green plastic armchair alongside Sarah’s bed on the unit and the closed cafeteria that offered filthy coffee and snacks from machines.

  Sarah is now vomiting less. Still determined to say nothing.

  How many tablets, Sarah. We need to know how many.

  ‘I don’t have many in the house. Paracetamol. Two packets tops.’ Sarah’s mother repeats this to the staff for the umpteenth time.

  The truth? Sarah doesn’t remember how many tablets she took. She bought some at the corner shop and some at the supermarket. They have stupid rules about how many you can buy in each place.

  It was the thought of the TV reconstruction. The push for new witnesses. That stupid bitch on the train.

  Over and over she had told the police and her parents that it was all vicious lies. Have sex in a toilet? With a complete stranger? What did they think she was? How dare they.

  But later Sarah had panicked. What if the TV show led to more witnesses? The whole case had gone quieter since the immediate aftermath of Anna’s disappearance. And of course she wanted people to help the police; of course she wanted Anna to be found. She just didn’t want anyone to find out the truth about her part in it all. Not that. Please not that . . .

  ‘Do you think we had better get the doctor again? Maybe a consultant? See what he thinks?’

  ‘I’m following the doctor’s very specific instructions. Please try not to worry. Sarah has stopped vomiting and it’s best we try to get her to take in some fluids herself. Trust me. It’s best for her. Then we can get a better idea of where we are.’

  ‘And what does “where we are” mean?’ Sarah’s mother is all agitation.

  ‘Shut up.’ Sarah cannot help herself. Barely a whisper. ‘Just shut up, will you? All of you.’

  ‘There we are. Good girl, Sarah. Come on, then. Let’s try opening your eyes and then we can see if we can sit you up a little bit, yes? We should have the test results back soon. Let you know how you’re doing. But it would be a great help—’

  ‘I don’t know how many I took. Right? I just don’t know.’

  ‘I think we should just leave her. Please.’ Sarah’s mother begins to cry, and Sarah can feel tears forming on her own face. She wishes Lily were here, but cannot say this to her mother. Yet another taboo subject.

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘You have nothing to be sorry for, my darling. It’s going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine. I promise you. Everyone sends their love. Anna’s parents. Jenny and Paul and Tim and everyone. They just want you to get well.’

  Sarah closes her eyes. Not true, is it? Truth is, they blame her. They’d said as much.

  The night before the wretched TV programme they had all got together, supposedly for moral support, but it had all gone badly wrong. Spiralled down and down into this ugly place until there was a shouting match. The two boys really angry. Jenny crying.

  The thing was, they were all supposed to go to London. All five of them. Anna and Sarah to celebrate the end of GCSEs and school uniform, and the older ones for fun. But it was like everything they tried to do. People were so flaky.

  When they were little it was very different. The age gap never seemed to matter. Jenny and the two boys were two years ahead in school – but so what? Then in secondary school, when the older ones got part-time jobs, everything changed. They had more money suddenly. They wanted to do different things. And they started bailing on plans.

  Sarah hated all the change. She especially hated people flaking out on things, and she spat out her anger in the row.

  If you hadn’t all been so selfish. Made other plans. Maybe I wouldn’t have been trying to look after Anna in London on my own.

  Paul had caved on the trip first. Offer of a week in Greece. Villa with a pool with his parents. Tim bailed next. Mad keen on walking. He was offered a trekking week in Scotland and wanted to see the Loch Ness Monster museum. Also didn’t fancy being the only bloke on a girls’ trip.

  And then Jenny had the offer to see a band with her then boyfriend. And so it was only Sarah and Anna.

  You still should have looked after her . . . The boys were both furious. We don’t understand how you got split up . . .

  And then Jenny wondering why they didn’t have the usual pact. Watching each other’s back. I mean it was London, for God’s sake . . .

  Sarah had wanted them all to shut the hell up. In any case, why was she the one who was expected to look after Anna? Why not the other way round, eh? Because Sarah was from the estate and supposed to be more streetwise? Because Anna could be a bit of a princess? Was that it?

  Of course they’d had a pact.

  It was Anna who broke it, she shouted at them. All of them. At Tim with his selfish trekking holiday. Paul with his fancy villa. Jenny with her gig. She spat the lie at them just as she had spat it over and over to the police.

  We said we would meet at the bar at 2 a.m. for a taxi to go home. She didn’t show . . .

  Anna broke the pact. OK? Anna didn’t show . . .

  I told you. I told you. I told you . . .

  Her mother had tried to calm her about the TV programme. The woman on the train wouldn’t be allowed to make false claims. Not on television. It was libellous. She’s obviously some kind of weirdo . . .

  But Sarah was petrified. What if other witnesses now came forward? From the train or from the club.

  She remembers her father’s reaction at the Paradise Hotel in London. At first she refused to talk to him. It had been years since he left the family, and she’d refused all contact. But her mother wanted him there with everything that was happening, and he went mental when the DI shared what the witness had said.

  You calling my daughter a slut?

  And so Sarah had sat at home before the television programme, terrified about what would come out. She was supposed to be going to Jenny’s. To the farmhouse. All of the friends together. But then all the images had started to flash through her mind.

  The club. That queasy feeling when she looked at her watch . . .

  The row with Anna. Don’t be such a baby . . .

  The trouble with not telling the whole truth to the police was, sometimes, a year on, she couldn’t remember exactly what she had said and what she hadn’t said. She was petrified that all this stirring it up would make her slip up . . . and say the wrong thing.

  So she had taken the tablets into the bathroom and said she was having a bath. And it wasn’t as if she made this clear decision that she wanted to kill herself. Nothing that dramatic, nothing that black and white.

  She just wanted the panic to stop, the waiting for the TV programme. The not knowing how much they would find out. She just wanted all of it to stop . . .

  Now, as the nurse helps her to sit, plumping pillows up behind her, someone new appears alongside the bed. Another nurse in a different-coloured uniform. She is older, looks more senior and is talking to her mother. Ominous whispering. Something about the test . . .

  ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump. It’s just the doctor would like a word.’

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s best you come this way, please, Mrs Headley.’

  CHAPTER 8

  THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  On the drive down to Cornwall, Matthew phones home twice.

  ‘It’s just Braxton Hicks, Matt. I will ring if it changes. It’s fine. Braxton Hicks.’

  ‘I can come back. Stay home if you’d prefer? If you’re at all worried?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Sally is eight months gone and insists practice contractions are nothing to be alarmed about. Perfectly normal. But Matthew is no longer doing normal. He has found everything alarmingly abnormal since the surreal experience of the childbirth classes. Dear God. Why had his friends not warned him?

  Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a caesarean, Sal? Some reckon they’re a lot safer,
you know. And these days you can say. No shame in it.

  Getting frightened, Matt? Sorry. But I’m not too posh to push. And it’s a bit late to chicken out now.

  This whispered conversation had taken place with Sal sitting on a yoga mat in her grey sweatpants and a black T-shirt, with Matt following instructions on how to massage her back, thinking how very lovely but also slightly ridiculous she looked. From behind she looked her normal slim self . . . just this huge balloon stuffed up her top.

  Sal was the envy of everyone in the class. How come you’ve not swollen up all over? The others displayed their puffed-up ankles and their puffed-up legs, pinched the fat padding around their backs and their arms.

  God knows. I’m eating like a horse.

  This was true. Matthew had never seen his wife pack away so much. Fish finger sandwiches late at night with mayonnaise and chopped gherkins. The stench of her farts these days was mind-boggling.

  Piss off, Matt. I don’t fart. I am a pregnant goddess.

  Matthew checks his phone one more time and smiles. Truth is, Sal even farts in her sleep now.

  The phone confirms a strong signal. No text. He could ring just one more time?

  No. Calm down, man. She was getting prickly, the second call. Everything is going to be just fine. Not long to go.

  Matthew checks the satnav – less than a quarter of a mile to the Ballards’ farm – and pulls into a lay-by. Mel should be in the office by now. Good.

  DS Melanie Sanders – hopefully soon to be DI Melanie Sanders – is Matthew’s dearest police pal from the old days. There was a time, a million years ago, when he had a bit of a crush on her; had hoped for something more. But that was history. He told Sal all about it. Came completely clean.

  No. That wasn’t one hundred per cent true. He had not told her that he still got this slightly weird feeling in his stomach when he spoke to Mel. Not desire. Not that anymore. Just a feeling that reminded him of a whole different time, a different version of himself.

  Three years out of the force, and Matthew hates to admit that he is still struggling to adjust.