I Am Watching You

by Teresa Driscoll

  Never say no, the instructor advised. Just say, I’ll look into that for you, Karl. Negotiators should always appear to pass requests through other people, so any negativity or delays do not seem to be their fault. I’m so sorry, Karl. They’re telling me that’s not possible at the moment. Let’s talk about what is possible. How we keep everyone safe. That’s going to really count for you. I’m doing my best for you, Karl, I promise.

  Matthew is still about fifteen minutes from Ella’s house and can no longer bear the wait. He pulls into a layby. He has to know what all this blessed talk of pictures is about. He pulls out his phone and calls up Twitter. The images are everywhere. Shots from several different angles, of Karl with a gun to the head of a blonde woman, presumably Anna, at the window.

  Matthew feels his heart race as he forces himself into that professional gear: the place where you fight the fear and the panic and you switch on your analytical brain. OK. What does this mean? What needs to be done?

  He begins to analyse all the pictures as swiftly as he can. What do they really say? What is really going on? The problem is that in all the shots Anna has her back to the window.

  Matthew finds maybe half a dozen different photographs taken from slightly different angles, and frowns. Feels his brain burning, sparks flying as involuntarily he makes connections he does not yet understand. In the force, he learned to trust his gut when this happened. To relax and look and wait.

  It is a bit like that series of posters – Magic Eye – where you have to stare and relax your eyes until you almost go into a trance to see the three-dimensional image appear. Relax. Trust your natural ability.

  He is flicking between all the pictures and doing this same thing. Something is not quite right . . .

  He skims through the messages circulating on social media. The comments are meant to be kind but are seriously unhelpful.

  OMG is he gonna shoot her?

  There are some messages on Twitter from the police, too, in Spanish and in English, asking people not to take and share photographs, but it is clearly making no difference.

  Jesus. A shambles. Matthew skims again through the range of pictures, this time searching news-agency coverage. Some seem better quality, taken by a long-range lens, possibly a press photographer? But most look as if they were taken on phones, perhaps from the window of upper-floor flats opposite the block where Karl is holed up. And then he finds a different shot taken from much higher up. Maybe the top floor of a block of flats, looking down at the window from a different, sharper angle. Now, at last, Matthew sees what was troubling him in the other photographs.

  He takes out his iPad to call up the same image and to zoom in a bit. Even as he is dialling Melanie’s number he is emailing this image to her. She has to make sure the Spanish team have seen this.

  Jesus Christ . . . they need to see this.

  Five rings before Melanie picks up. ‘Mel. I’m sending a photograph over right now. Karl at the window with his hostage. You have to get a message through to the Spanish team.’

  ‘Matthew?’

  ‘Sorry. Yes. It’s Matt. On my way home from hospital.’

  ‘I don’t have the picture yet. What’s going on? Remember – I’m persona non grata. Practically on gardening leave . . .’

  ‘I don’t think it’s Anna, Mel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The girl with Karl. The girl he’s taken hostage. I’m not convinced it’s Anna.’

  ‘But that’s crazy . . . Oh, wait. The picture’s through. OK, so what am I supposed to be seeing here?’

  ‘Shoulder width. Wrong body shape, Mel. A rectangle, not a pear.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘OK. Right.’ Matthew tries to calm his voice; realises this is going to sound as if he has finally lost his marbles. ‘Sal – she’s obsessed with the body shape stuff. What clothes to buy. Anna is a pear. Not fat, not at all . . . a very slim pear.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Matt. Have you got baby brain or something?’

  ‘No, listen. This is important. I couldn’t give a stuff about this, but one night Sal made me look at all this nonsense in a magazine. So I would stop buying her the wrong clothes as presents. Body shape apparently doesn’t change much . . . even if you lose or put on weight. It’s about bones. Skeleton. Fixed. Anna, from all the photographs her family shared, is a classic pear. Same as my wife. A slim pear. Tiny waist, slim shoulders and tiny upper body – slightly broader hips. This girl, the girl in the flat with Karl, is a totally different body shape. Straight up, straight down. Zoom in and look. Shoulders same width as her hips. No proper waistline. It only shows up in this photograph from the higher angle.’

  There is silence for a while.

  ‘Are you seeing it, Mel? Check back with the file photos of Anna. Please. Compare them. Compare the shoulders.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Christ. I think you might be right . . . But there’s no way the team’s gonna listen to me, blabbering on about body shape. I’m technically off the case until I see the chief and try to talk my way out of my meltdown with DI Halfwit.’

  ‘So how about phoning your mate . . . Cathy? The family liaison officer. I take it she’s with them? We need to know fast.’

  Matthew can hear Melanie take in a long breath.

  ‘Please, Mel. If I’m right and this isn’t Anna, they need to take a whole different approach. Also – if this isn’t Anna . . .’ A pause. ‘Where the hell is she and what’s Karl playing at?’

  A huff. ‘OK. I’ll send this pic to Cathy. See if she will very gently sound out the family. But she may point-blank refuse.’

  ‘OK. Look, I’m about to make a house call myself on the case. The witness – Ella? I promise to share anything I have if you’ll keep me in the loop. Please.’

  ‘OK. Though I might be looking for a new job myself.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Mel. I was banking on you rising through the ranks so I could make a comeback.’ Matthew is surprised to hear himself say this out loud for the first time.

  ‘You kidding me?’

  ‘Course I’m kidding.’ He isn’t. ‘OK. Speak to you soon.’

  It takes about fifteen minutes to Ella’s home, the rain getting heavier so that he wishes he had thought to put a coat in the car. Matthew checks his watch. He needs to crack on if he’s going to get home in time to get the chores done and a decent night’s kip. According to Ella and all around him, this is soon to be the stuff of dreams. Poor Sally is having trouble breastfeeding and is already talking about switching to formula. Matthew doesn’t mind either way, but is picking up hints that he may well be taking a share of the night feeds. He is starting to wonder how on earth people do it. Work when they have newborns . . .

  Pulling up onto the drive of the house, behind a large black BMW, Matthew realises that Ella’s husband must be home. He checks his phone – no message yet from Melanie, damn – and braces himself for the rain between the car and the porch.

  There is no light on in the hall, but after a few moments he can hear an interior door squeak, strained voices, the click of a light and then Ella is opening the door. She looks pale.

  ‘We’ve been watching it all on the news. Terrible. Have you seen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Matthew stamps his feet on the doormat. To the right there is a bamboo umbrella stand containing two large golfing umbrellas. A briefcase. The husband definitely home then. Matthew takes in that the briefcase is expensive, the leather well kept. A smart men’s raincoat on the nearest hook – silk lining.

  Ella is babbling about the news coverage. How shocking it is for so many pictures to be circulating on social media. Matthew is just nodding, waiting to size up her husband’s attitude.

  In the sitting room, the tension is immediate. Tony is introduced, his body language all conflict. Shoulders held tense. He shakes Matthew’s hand but is unblinking, then narrows his eyes, making no effort to conceal that he is weighing Matthew up.

  ‘I should have told Tony bef
ore. I realise that now. We normally tell each other everything, so I feel very bad indeed.’ Ella is looking first at Matthew and then her husband. Ping-pong paranoia. Ella is a very nice woman and Matthew does not like to see her distressed. ‘I was just so sure that the postcards were from Mrs Ballard, you see.’

  ‘And what do you think, Mr Hill?’

  Matthew meets Tony’s stare and takes a deep breath. ‘I think it’s understandable that you would be worried, perhaps sceptical even, about my involvement. That’s why I was happy when Ella suggested this update. I am hoping I can allay any fears.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I was in the force myself. I have a lot of experience and I still have good contacts. And between these four walls, strictly not to go any further, I think they are making an unholy mess of the Anna Ballard inquiry and I am increasingly glad to be involved. To help you, Ella – obviously. But also, I hope, to help get to the bottom of this case in any way I can.’

  ‘Well, that’s very noble, I’m sure, but my main worry here is my wife’s safety. That’s what we’re paying you for. Not to solve the Anna Ballard case. That’s for the police team. So – do you think Ella is in any real danger? These postcards?’

  ‘Tony, please.’ Ella continues to glance from one to the other. ‘We’re all worried sick about Anna. Of course we are, Matthew. Have you seen the photograph with the gun to her head? Do you think they will calm it down? Or use a sniper? What do you think? I feel so terrible. So worried. Just think what poor Mrs Ballard must be—’

  Tony puts his arm around his wife’s shoulders, kissing her forehead to quieten her, and Matthew watches closely. Tony smooths his wife’s hair very tenderly and Matthew reassesses the aggression, no longer minding Tony’s disapproval. He would be the same, were it Sal. No – it is good that Tony is protective.

  ‘I’ve involved a colleague I trust, over the postcards. There is no way to be sure at this stage but it is more likely to be someone random who has latched onto the case. There is no evidence of a real threat as things stand. That said, I prefer caution until we know more and I have advised Ella to take care. Is there anything else to update me on? Anything unusual? Anything worrying you?’

  Ella for a moment looks flustered. Fidgets with her hair. ‘A couple of times I thought someone was watching the shop early in the morning. But it could just be paranoia. Headlights shining into the shop early. It just unnerved me because I’m jumpy.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me this.’ Tony’s eyes are wide with alarm. ‘Right. That’s it. No more working early in the shop.’ He turns to Matthew. ‘Back me up here, please. She just won’t listen. We’ve installed new alarms . . . though it’s all a bit shambolic.’

  ‘Did you see anyone, Ella? Watching the shop?’

  ‘No. It was just a feeling really. Probably because I’ve been so upset over all of this.’

  ‘Well, my advice would be to close the shop for a couple of days while this situation pans out in Spain.’ Matthew is staring directly at Tony.

  ‘Hallelujah. My thinking exactly.’ Tony takes a deep breath.

  ‘But what about my flower orders?’

  ‘Stuff the orders, Ella. I’ll ring the customers and say you’re ill. Recommend other shops – just for a couple of days.’ Tony seems pleased, instantly happier, and signals the way through to the kitchen where he is more polite, offering coffee which Ella begins to make. The TV news is on in this room, too, and they all glance at it when they hear a newsreader sharing the latest pictures from the flat in Spain.

  While Ella is bustling over the coffee grinder and cafetière, Matthew checks his phone. Still no message from Melanie.

  As Ella waits for the coffee to stew a while, she turns to Matthew. ‘So will they try to shoot him – Karl? Is that what they’ll do? I find it so unbearable, just watching and waiting.’

  ‘A negotiator will be trying to talk him down. Persuade him to come out. It’s a waiting game. They won’t opt for intervention unless they have no choice. If it is Anna, let’s remember he has kept her alive for a year.’

  ‘If it’s Anna? Who the hell could it be if it’s not Anna?’ Tony’s voice is incredulous and Matthew wishes he had not shared this.

  CHAPTER 38

  THE FRIEND

  ‘You still haven’t explained why you feel it’s your fault, Sarah.’ Lily has made sandwiches on a large platter with slices of apple and peach, which she sets on top of the dresser in her room. ‘You really need to try to eat something.’

  Sarah’s stomach is still unsettled. She looks at the platter, so carefully arranged, and then at her sister. The irony of Lily, all bones beneath her baggy disguise.

  ‘I don’t know if I can eat. You have some.’ Sarah watches her sister closely but Lily shrugs.

  ‘I ate earlier.’

  Sarah lets the lie go. She scans Lily’s bedroom, at least pleased for this new privacy, fed up with Moon and the others poking their heads around the door and interfering downstairs, but she is sorry to be away from the large television. She flicks between social media and the news updates on her phone but is wishing now she had an iPad so that she could see better. Also a better data package. She has had warning texts that she’s at her limit. No money to top it up.

  ‘Would you mind calling it up on your laptop, Lily? The coverage?’ Sarah will not call her Saffron. She watches and tries to find a smile as a thank you, as her sister sets up the computer, searching for a rolling news channel.

  ‘OK. But don’t dodge the question, Sarah. This Karl is clearly a nutter and I’m so very sorry this is so frightening for you – what’s going on in Spain, I mean. But to be perfectly honest, I’m just relieved Dad wasn’t involved. And if Anna upped and went off with this guy Karl . . .’

  ‘She didn’t up and go off with him.’ Sarah lets this hang in the air and feels suddenly exhausted. It is a bit like that feeling when you stand on a bridge and there is this tiny part of you that wants to jump. To join the water. You know that you shouldn’t but you can’t help the feeling. And you know that there is this really important decision to be made in a split second and it is frightening. The consequence. The thin line between one choice and the other. Just like with the bottle and the pills, though she realises now that this did not end it. Solve it. Just made it go on and on and on.

  ‘At least, I don’t know if she did. Or if he took her, or spiked her drink or whatever, because the point is I didn’t look out for her. We had a bad row, me and Anna. And the truth is I just don’t know what the hell happened.’ Sarah realises as she listens to her own voice, gabbling suddenly, that she just needs an end to this. However awful and shaming and terrible. And her sister – this shrunken and sad version of the sister she has so missed – is her only hope for a full stop.

  Lily sits on the end of her bed, her expression changing. A deep frown, then a sort of twitch of the head.

  ‘You need to tell me, Sarah. Please.’ Fidgeting with the bands around her wrist again, which makes Sarah want to cry for her. For them both.

  There is a long pause. A deep breath that Sarah realises must be her own. And . . . jump.

  ‘We had agreed to stay at the club until about two a.m. and then take a taxi back to the hotel together. I was chatting with Antony to start with and Anna was with Karl. It was OK at first. We felt really grown up. I feel stupid admitting that now, but it’s the truth. But then they both sort of lost interest in us. They seemed to know quite a few people. Just wandered off. Pretty much ignored us.’ Sarah’s voice quietens as she remembers how it felt. How angry she felt. How ashamed and duped at how hard she had tried to make Antony like her on the train . . . How quickly he was off, laughing and flirting with other girls at the club. She had thought when they invited them out that it would be like a double date. She had imagined they would sit, the four of them. Dance. Have fun together. But no . . .

  ‘I always get it so wrong with boys . . . with men, Lily.’ She is looking up at her sister now. ‘They call me
a slag in school.’

  ‘You are not a slag.’

  She can feel tears on her cheeks and closes her eyes, not caring. ‘I just want people to like me.’

  She keeps her eyes closed but can hear the creak of the bed as Lily moves to put her arms around her. ‘Shhh. Shhh. Sarah. It’s going to be all right.’

  She shakes off the comfort. ‘No. It’s not. Anna came to me at about half past midnight and said that she wanted to go early. She’d had enough. She was tired. Very tipsy. But I was looking for Antony still. I was a bit drunk too, and really cross with him, so I told Anna not to be such a baby. To have another drink and to chill out.’ Sarah wipes her cheek with one hand, the salty taste of the tears now on her lips. ‘That’s why we rowed. She told me she didn’t feel safe anymore and I more or less told her to piss off. To make her own way back.’

  ‘And that’s when she suggested contacting Dad?’

  ‘Yeah. She said that maybe we should get him to come to the club and see us back to the hotel. But I said she was being pathetic and if she contacted Dad I would never speak to her again.’

  ‘Did you tell the police this?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I lied. I said Anna was the one who didn’t turn up for the taxi later . . .’ Sarah opens her eyes to try to read her sister’s judgement. Lily looks shocked, and Sarah remembers the look of shock on Anna’s face, too. Please. I want to go back to the hotel now. I feel a bit too drunk. Please, Sarah, I’m begging you . . . She is wondering how much worse all their faces will look when they find out what happened on the train. With Antony.

  ‘Later I couldn’t find her. So I had to take a taxi on my own. I thought she would be back in our room already. Cross with me. I thought I would have the chance to get sober. Say sorry. But when she didn’t come back to the hotel, I was in this incredible panic at first, that maybe she had got in contact with Dad.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  ‘I was so confused, Lily. Back then, I didn’t even know if I was wrong to think so badly about Dad. Paranoid. But I started to think – what if Anna did phone his hotel and he came to the club? Met her outside or something. Oh, I don’t know, just mad worries firing round my brain because of the way he is, Lily. But I was too scared to tell the police.’ She looks directly into Lily’s eyes, whose expression says she understands. ‘And then Karl and Antony did a bunk and so I thought it was way more likely to be them. And this finally confirms it. That Karl just took her . . . and God knows what . . .’ Sarah is openly sobbing now.