I Am Watching You

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘Insurance company. Multi-car deal.’

  He pulls a face and turns away, as I switch on the oven and begin busying myself with the bread and the bacon, just as the phone goes.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ I say, wondering if it’s Matthew. I thought I asked him to ring me at the shop.

  ‘There’s something going on, Ella – isn’t there. Something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘Not now, Tony. Please. I’m fine.’ Damn. If it’s not the mother in Cornwall, we have to hand the mail over to the police. Right. I will have to tell Tony then.

  With one hand opening a new pack of bacon, I pick up the phone, bracing myself to ask Matthew to ring back later, at the shop.

  ‘Is that Luke’s mother?’

  ‘Yes. Ella Longfield here. Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Rebecca Hillier. Emily’s mother. I was hoping we could confirm arrangements. For the meeting.’

  ‘The meeting? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  There is a very long pause. ‘Has Luke not spoken to you?’

  ‘No. Is something wrong?’

  ‘Look – there’s no way I’m dealing with this on the phone. I made that very plain to Luke. So – are you free tomorrow or not?’

  Tony is now mouthing questions. Who is it? What’s the matter?

  ‘Well – my husband is playing poker with friends, so . . .’

  ‘Let’s say 7.30 p.m. At ours. Luke has the address.’

  And then she hangs up.

  ‘That’s very odd. Very rude, actually. Get Luke down here, would you?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  I begin to lay half a dozen slices of bacon on the tray, placing each one slightly overlapping so they just fit. With Tony’s footsteps back on the stairs, I quickly open the dreaded envelope.

  WATCH YOURSELF. I DO . . .

  ‘Ella! I think you’d better come up here.’

  Dear God . . .

  In Luke’s room, I know immediately that things are bad, the dread switching instantly from the card to my son. These last couple of weeks, he has been running later and later, for shifts at the shop and for school. There has been a letter from the school about missed lessons, too. The suggestion of a meeting with his tutor. I have been meaning to sort it out, but with so much happening . . .

  ‘What the hell’s going on, Luke?’ Tony is at first more cross than worried.

  Luke is curled up under the covers, fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Jeans and a thick blue-green hoodie. Sweaty. Smelly.

  ‘You feeling cold? Going down with something?’ I try to keep my voice calm. Feeling guilty that my eye has been off the ball.

  ‘Start talking, Luke. What is all this about?’ Tony is opening the curtains.

  Luke, his eyes dark and hooded, does not reply.

  ‘I’ve just had Emily’s mother on the phone. Going on about some meeting. She was quite off with me. Seemed to think I would know. What meeting, Luke?’ I try not to sound angry.

  Still he says nothing.

  ‘What is it, Luke?’ And now I am panicking. I am thinking – drugs? Shoplifting? Trouble with the police? No. Not my Luke, surely. My straight-As Luke, who was supposed to be in with a chance of Oxbridge until all this nonsense just lately. A phase, Tony reckoned. A little rebellion because the AS year was so much tougher than anyone expected. Maybe he’s just sick of exams. Is that it?

  ‘Please, Luke. Tell us what’s going on. Maybe we can help.’ Tony has softened his voice.

  And then Luke takes us both by surprise and starts to cry. Great heaving waves of sobbing. Toddler tears, incongruous and dramatic and at the same time terrifying from this fully dressed six-foot-two boy wrapped in a blue striped Marks and Spencer duvet.

  I know two things immediately.

  That whatever has happened is very serious, and that I have been too distracted by the Anna Ballard case to even notice.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE FATHER

  Henry is putting the tractor into reverse when Barbara appears on the doorstep.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, Henry?’

  ‘I’m getting things ready for your vigil.’

  ‘My vigil.’

  ‘Well it certainly wasn’t my idea.’

  There are a few minutes when she just watches him manoeuvre the tractor. Angry, jerky movements to and fro. He hopes she will go inside. Leave him to it. But no.

  ‘I still don’t understand what you’re doing.’

  ‘Putting out some bales of straw. Seating.’

  ‘People won’t want to sit down. They won’t be here for long, surely.’

  ‘People always want to sit down. There will be some older people who need to sit down, Barb. We can’t put chairs out. I don’t want them to get too comfy or we’ll never get rid of them.’

  ‘Oh, you’re being ridiculous.’

  Henry is thinking that this is a fine time to call him ridiculous. He never wanted the stupid vigil. In bed last night they had another spit-whispered row about it.

  We could have it at the front of the house, Barbara had said when the vicar called by. Henry had quite explicitly said he would not support anything churchy – anything that would feel like a memorial service.

  But the vicar had said the idea of a vigil was exactly the opposite. That the community would like to show that they have not given up. That they continue to support the family. To pray for Anna’s safe return.

  Barbara was delighted and it was all agreed. A small event at the house. People would walk from the village, or park on the industrial estate and walk up the drive.

  ‘This was your idea, Barbara.’

  ‘The vicar’s, actually. People just want to show support. That is what this is about.’

  ‘This is ghoulish, Barb. That’s what this is.’

  He moves the tractor across the yard again, depositing two more bales of straw alongside the others.

  ‘There. That should be enough.’

  Henry looks across at his wife and is struck by the familiar contradiction. Wondering how on earth they got here. Not just since Anna disappeared, but across the twenty-two years of their marriage. He wonders if all marriages end up like this. Or if he is simply a bad man.

  For as Barbara sweeps her hair behind her ear and tilts up her chin, Henry can still see the full lips, perfect teeth and high cheekbones that once made him feel so very differently. It’s a pendulum that still confuses him, makes him wish he could rewind. To go back to the Young Farmers’ ball, when she smelled so divine and everything seemed so easy and hopeful.

  And he is wishing, yes, that he could go back and have another run. Make a better job of it. All of it.

  Then he closes his eyes. The echo again of Anna’s voice next to him in the car.

  You disgust me, Dad.

  He wants the voice to stop. To be quiet. Wants to rewind yet again. To when Anna was little and loved him, collected posies on Primrose Lane. To when he was her hero and she wanted to race him back to the house for tea.

  Barbara is now looking across the yard to the brazier.

  ‘You’re going to light a fire, Henry?’

  ‘It will be cold. Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m doing soup in mugs, too.’ A pause then. ‘You really think this is a mistake, Henry? I didn’t realise it would upset you quite so much. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK, Barbara. Let’s just make the best of it now.’

  He slams the tractor into reverse and moves it out of the yard and back into its position inside the barn. There, in the semi-darkness, his heartbeat finally begins to settle and he sits very still on the tractor, needing the quiet, the stillness.

  It was their reserve position, to have the vigil under cover in this barn, if the weather was bad. But it has been a fine day. Cold but with a clear, bright sky, so they will stay out of doors. Yes. Henry rather hopes the cold will drive everyone home sooner, soup or no soup.

  And now he think
s he will sit here for a while longer, actually. Yes. It’s nice here alone in the barn. He finds he does not want to move at all.

  A full hour later, and Jenny turns up in the kitchen to check on her mother just as Henry finally takes off his wellies in the boot room.

  ‘You gonna be OK for this, Mum?’

  Barbara is stirring two large stockpots of soup. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s just so difficult to know how many people will come.’

  Henry stares at her back. ‘I’m sorry about earlier, love. I’m just a bit wound up.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ She does not turn to look at him but reaches out her arm to touch Jenny’s shoulder for reassurance.

  ‘And how is Sarah doing?’

  Jenny takes in a deep breath. ‘She still wishes she could come. Her mum says she feels bad about missing this. And she’s still saying it was an accident – the pills. But we all feel so terrible.’

  There is something about her tone that unsettles Henry. ‘What do you mean, you all? It’s very sad, but it’s not your fault.’

  Jenny turns to her father. ‘Well, maybe it is, actually.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘We had a bit of a row with her, before the TV appeal.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘All of us. Me and Tim and Paul.’ Jenny’s voice is now breaking up. ‘We’ve just been all over the place, with the anniversary. And with you guys arguing all the time . . . I don’t know. I went round with the others to see Sarah to talk about watching the appeal together. And it all got a bit heated. A bit out of hand.’

  ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘I suppose we all feel bad for bailing on London. If we’d gone, there would have been more people to look out for Anna.’

  ‘You can’t think like that,’ Henry says.

  ‘But the trouble is you do, don’t you? And so the boys were grilling Sarah again about why they didn’t stick together at the club. What exactly happened to split them up. Why she’s been so vague about it.’

  And now Jenny starts crying properly.

  ‘We didn’t mean to make Sarah feel so bad. We just got carried away. I mean, I bailed on the trip because of John and the gig, and I’m not even going out with him anymore. I can’t believe I did that. Put a stupid boy ahead of my sister. We just all feel so guilty . . . For not being there – in London – ourselves. But we shouldn’t have taken it out on Sarah . . .’

  ‘And this row happened when?’

  ‘The night before the reconstruction on telly.’

  Which is why she took the pills, Henry is thinking. Jesus.

  Barbara’s arms are now around Jenny.

  ‘Right. So this is a pickle, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘But we are all of us struggling to handle it. You’re not to blame yourself. What you need to do now is to talk this through with Sarah properly. Explain that you don’t blame her.’

  ‘We don’t. Not really. We’re just . . .’

  ‘Upset. As are we all. I’ll speak to Sarah’s mum and see when you can visit her. Iron this all out. Now then. Dry those tears and get your new coat. People will be arriving soon. I’m going to help you sort this out, I promise. You’ll work this through with Sarah. OK? It’s going to be all right. We just need to be strong now, tonight, for Anna. Yes?’

  Henry is looking at his wife and wondering how she ever learned this trick. Always knowing what to say with the girls.

  Girls? He winces at the plural.

  ‘This is for Anna, remember. To keep our chins up for when Anna comes home. Yes?’ Barbara is wiping Jenny’s face with a tissue as the doorbell goes.

  Henry shuffles through in his socks to find the vicar in a waxed jacket and wellingtons.

  ‘I won’t come in. Mud.’ He is smiling. ‘Nice idea to set up some seating, Henry. I just wanted to show you the little reading I’ve planned. Nothing too churchy, as we agreed. Just something uplifting and positive. And then I thought that perhaps you would like to say a few words, Barbara? You know, to thank everyone for their support and to ask the local press to keep up the appeal for witnesses. That any little thing may help.’

  Barbara smiles, and Henry watches Jenny disappear upstairs to fetch her new coat before suddenly calling to them from the landing window.

  ‘Look. Look out of the window, guys. You have to see this . . . Come up here.’

  The vicar, stirred by her sudden excitement, removes his wellies after all and follows Henry and Barbara up the stairs, where there is a clear view of the narrow lane to the farmhouse. In the fading light, it is mesmerising.

  A thin line of all manner of lights weaving their way along the track: lanterns and candles and torches too, all glowing a trail in the shadows.

  Henry surprises himself. His lip is trembling.

  He watches the lights flickering and pictures Anna running ahead of him, pink gingham school dress beneath her coat, a posy in her hand.

  Cathy, the family liaison officer, will be here soon. And he realises that it has all gone on long enough.

  He is going to have to talk to the police.

  He is going to have to tell everyone the truth.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  Matthew is making little pyramids from sugar sachets as DS Melanie Sanders enters the coffee shop, checking her watch. He has never been able not to fidget. It drives Sal mad. Right now he has challenged himself to have three pyramids standing at any one time. As soon as one collapses, he must make a new one before he tries to repair the old one. The table has a bit of a wobble on, adding to the uncertainty, and he is enjoying himself so much that he feels a ridiculous, childish pang of disappointment as he realises he has to stop.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you at the weekend, Mel.’ He stands and kisses her on the cheek, trying not to watch as the pyramids collapse with the movement of the table.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m working, actually.’ She is staring at the sugar sachets.

  ‘Force suddenly flush on the overtime budget?’ Matthew gathers up his debris and places the sachets back in the stainless-steel stand at the centre of the shiny wipe-down surface.

  ‘No. We have DI Halfwit down from London on the case you’re so mysteriously interested in. I’m babysitting.’ She raises her arm for the waitress and glances behind the counter before ordering a cappuccino.

  ‘So you’ve warmed to him, then.’

  Melanie pulls a face and pokes out her tongue.

  Matthew can feel his smile. It is so good to see Mel. She was one of the few coppers at training college who refused to drink instant coffee, too. Produced a little cafetière on the first day. They both got teased mercilessly. When they worked together, she had an app on her phone to identify the nearest cafés with proper espresso machines. Their perfect breakfast was chip butties and good Italian coffee.

  Matthew stares at her and realises how much he misses it. Not just working with Mel. Working on the force. The sense of team, of collaboration. This.

  ‘OK, Matt. So are you going to tell me now what’s really going on, ’cos I haven’t got much time.’ She is widening her eyes now. ‘The DI is down to speak to the Ballards again. Fresh stuff from the TV appeal, I’m assuming. They’re not telling me much yet, of course, but I’m taking the family liaison officer out there straight after this. What’s going on? I really need to know why you’re interested, Matt.’

  Matthew glances around the coffee shop and then produces from his pocket an evidence bag containing a postcard and envelope.

  Melanie turns it over to read the message and frowns before glancing back at him for an explanation.

  ‘It was sent to Ella Longfield – the witness on the train. The flower shop woman. She called me in. There were two previous very similar cards that she threw away, unfortunately. Random postmarks. Liskeard. Somewhere in Dorset. And London.’

  ‘And she didn’t think to come to us?’

  ‘Trust me, I said the same, Mel, from the off. But she seemed convinced they were from Anna’s
mother, Barbara Ballard. And she didn’t want her to get in trouble. Feels guilty.’

  Melanie lets out a long sigh as the waitress brings over her coffee.

  ‘You don’t change. This should have been handed in straight away.’

  ‘Don’t be unfair. This is what I do now, Mel. And you wouldn’t have this at all if I hadn’t persuaded Ella. Anyway. We both know it’s more likely to be a crank than any kind of lead.’

  ‘Is that your gut, Matt? A crank? She had quite a bit of trouble on social media after her name got out.’

  ‘Yeah – a bit of a cock-up, that.’ Matthew is checking Melanie’s face as she turns the evidence bag over to examine the back.

  ‘We really don’t know how it got out, Matt. Honestly. But there’s been a lot of noise upstairs about it. Press office furious. Anyway. We put quite a lot of time into investigating the hassle. To reassure her. Trying to make amends. But the feeling back then was it was likely just trolls or kids. Maybe Anna’s school friends. Unpleasant, but nothing significant or linked to the enquiry. Or the two guys on the train.’

  ‘So you think this is the same? Just some nut trying to frighten her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Quite a lot of effort put into this.’ She is examining the card more carefully. ‘Doubt we’ll get any prints now but we’ll try. Run it through the system. Probably just a random nutter. So – talk. Why does this Ella think it could be the mother?’

  Matthew tells her about Ella visiting Cornwall. The fracas.

  ‘And she didn’t think to tell us about that either. Great.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the mother. I talked to her, Mel.’

  ‘Jesus, Matt. This is a live investigation . . .’

  ‘And like I say, you wouldn’t have this handed in at all if it weren’t for me.’

  Melanie dips her finger into the froth of her coffee. ‘I’m not looking forward to explaining this to DI Halfwit. You’re right, most likely another troll. But he won’t like not being told.’

  ‘What’s his problem then, this DI? Doesn’t sound as if they’ve got very far.’

  ‘He’s an arrogant pain. Looks about twelve. Wouldn’t mind that, if he were halfway competent, but he seems distracted by some new Soho murder case. Also, he seems to think I’m his personal chauffeur every time they’re down here. Which isn’t often.’