I Am Watching You
Page 22
Is none of their business.
If they had just let us be, it would have been all right. But people are so stupid. So now I have to do something to make it all stop.
No choice.
Their fault, not mine.
No choice . . .
CHAPTER 43
THE WITNESS
So often this past year I have wondered what exactly makes us the way we are. I don’t just mean the nature/nurture thing, I mean the sum of our personality and the decisions we make. All the thoughts that fire around our brain, even when we don’t want them to. How we handle the issues of conscience and responsibility. Why I blame myself when others wouldn’t.
Tony says my biggest problem is that I overthink things, that I take the world on my shoulders, and I just need to relax more and stop going over everything. I sometimes wonder if I would be a different kind of person if I could just learn the trick to do this. To stop with the analysing and concentrate on one thing at a time. But my brain simply doesn’t work like that. Never has. I’m always thinking, thinking, thinking. A million things competing all at the same time. Constant and exhausting buzz.
Take today. Like everyone else, I am too hot, but I feel just a little bit embarrassed in short sleeves because my arms are not what they used to be. As I unpack the flowers, I keep getting a glimpse of myself in the mirror set up on the wall to check the bridal bouquets. How they look held at waist height. So that right now I am thinking not just of the flowers and the heat but of my fat arms – in fact, I have all of the following thoughts at the very same time. That I should put something up on the blog about how to keep flowers fresh in this weather. Yes. People like tips. That I need to sort out the flower presses with the stock that has ‘gone over’ in the heat, to make up some pretty labels and cards for the window. That I really don’t like the way my arms look in the mirror here at the back of the shop and I wish I had brought a shirt. That I am glad Luke reckons he has found a couple of people who could take over his job. He’s going to vet them first, then introduce them to me. Quite frankly, I would rather handle the whole thing myself, but there’s been no response yet to my sign in the window and I don’t like to burst his bubble. It seems to make him feel better to be helping with a replacement, so I am letting it be.
I am also thinking that I wish Tony didn’t have to be away again. That we need to get someone in to check the boiler at home. That I need to do a sign for the window, recommending flowers that do well in this weather.
That it is not my fault after all, about Anna. But it still feels it somehow. I just can’t let it go.
See what I mean? All these thoughts, all at the same time. Small wonder I get so many headaches.
I have ordered in extra lisianthus and roses this week, as both do well together and in these hot conditions. They’re long-lasting and good value and very stylish. I must remember to put that on the blog, too. Personally, I like all white, but the purple lisianthus are gorgeous, so I’ve ordered more of both. I’ll put most in the cooler, with a few on display to show how versatile they can be. They look so different in varying vase heights.
I am trying not to bother Matthew, not least because he is supposed to be taking a break now that his new family is home, but also because my part in this whole terrible case is technically over.
I still find it hard to believe. Karl and Antony apparently in the clear over Anna. A complete shock to everyone, me especially. Matthew says this kind of thing happens a lot during big investigations, a sudden and unexpected twist, which is why you always have to keep such an open mind.
Tony, in the meantime, sees it all more simply; he says I now need to just put the whole thing behind me. You see. Not your fault at all. Never was, Ella.
The problem is that I still keeping thinking about her. Anna. That beautiful picture from her Facebook page, hair blowing back in the wind. Where is she? What happened to her really? I worry now, more than ever, that we may never find out.
Goodness – it’s three o’clock already, and with all the urgent work done, I decide to stop this; to pop home to get a light shirt to cover my arms. Silly, I know . . . but we are who we are.
I finally make it home, and as I pull into the drive I notice that the curtains upstairs are still drawn. I must have forgotten them when I left. The garden’s surviving surprisingly well in this heat. You get a few people raising their eyebrows when I pop the sprinkler on in the evening, but there’s no ban so I don’t really see why not. We pay the bill.
The porch door jams a little as I try to open it – a couple of those advertising booklets. I wish they wouldn’t leave them. Such a waste of trees. I’ve registered for that system which is supposed to block junk mail. It’s reduced the flow a bit but there’s still a lot hand-delivered, which is infuriating.
Inside, I notice Luke has popped the pile of mail on the little bookcase by the front window, and I skim through it. Phone bill. Someone who reckons we might be interested in new windows. No, thank you. A letter from the bank – that will be the interest rate for our ISAs. Down again. Then I see it. The horrid, familiar, dark envelope, cheap and thin and nasty, with the pale address label stuck on the front.
I lean back against the wall because I simply don’t understand. It’s over now. Finished. I didn’t do anything wrong. Karl and Antony were not involved, so nor am I, not really.
My heart pounding, I pause to remind myself of Matthew’s instructions. I move into the kitchen and fetch the little box of protective gloves and the evidence bags provided by the police. For a moment I think about popping the envelope inside, unopened, but I find that I can’t do that. I have to know why someone would still do this to me. I mean – they must surely have heard on the news. That it wasn’t Karl and Antony after all. So why would they still do this? Why?
With the gloves on, I rip it open. Same as before. Can hear my breath now. Find myself looking around the hall, through to the kitchen again. Can just see through to confirm that the bolt is across the back door. Good.
The postcard is black again. Letters cut out from magazines and stuck on. Messy. Not in a straight line.
I AM WATCHING YOU.
I stare at it, reading it over and over as I take out my mobile from my handbag, trying to calm my breathing as I dial Matthew’s number.
CHAPTER 44
THE FRIEND
Sarah has been dreading this meeting and sits at the kitchen table, tapping her nails against her mug of coffee.
The past few days – all the long hours with the police – have been utterly exhausting. Caroline, the linchpin of this home, refuge, commune or whatever you want to call it, has been kind and supportive and very obviously a rock for Lily, certainly more helpful than Sarah, who realises only now how desperately she underestimated just how bad going to the police would be.
She had expected swift progress – that the police would arrest her father and get answers about Anna quickly. But they can’t seem to find him . . .
She thought, also, that she and Lily would be interviewed together and would be able to support each other, sisters side by side, but she found out too late this is not allowed because of rules to ensure one witness does not lead another. Separate evidence. Separate stories. Separate spells in the special little unit with its soft green sofa and a basket of toys in the corner which haunted Sarah as she realised, with a horrible tingling of her skin, that they were for young children being interviewed about equally horrid things.
The police leading the inquiry into Anna’s disappearance were first up. She had to tell them the truth. About the sex on the train and her obsession with Antony. About the row in the club, how she told Anna not to be a baby and pretty much lost track of her from about half past midnight. That Sarah had refused to get the taxi with her when Anna wanted to go back to the hotel. Assumed Anna would be asleep when she got back there herself . . .
Next, the awful truth about her dad. The thing he did when she started her period. The text message the night Anna
went missing that she had shown to Anna – asking for them to meet him at the bar of his hotel. The reason Sarah is once more worried he might somehow be involved with Anna.
Then it was poor Lily’s turn. Sarah watched her sister being led into the room with the green sofa, while she and Caroline waited outside. Everyone was almost too kind. Just a little bit too fussy. Tea? Biscuits? Lots of offers of magazines and more drinks. But it all took ages and ages and ages.
‘So, Sarah. Thank you for agreeing to this chat. It’s just we need to make some decisions together.’ Caroline has her hands cupped around her own mug. The familiar aroma of green tea.
‘Have they found my dad?’
Caroline shakes her head. ‘At least, they’re not telling us if they have.’ Sarah cannot stop looking at the bands on Caroline’s own wrists. It’s not difficult to work out why she runs this place.
‘So, the thing is, I’ve been talking to social services. About going forward now.’
This is unexpected. A sweep of dread through Sarah. Social services? She had no idea this place would liaise with social services. She thought it was independent. The reason it was so off-piste. Own rules. Own oddball way of doing things. No pressure to involve the police unless you want to.
‘It’s because of your age, Sarah,’ Caroline says, as if reading her thoughts. ‘And the fact that your mother wants you home. It complicates things.’
‘I don’t want to see my mother. Can I stay here, please? With Lily?’
Caroline nods, and Sarah finds that she is crying with the sudden relief, no longer hearing properly as Caroline goes on to explain about enrolling her in a local sixth form. The various protocols and conditions. That she will sort it all out.
Caroline reaches out to take Sarah’s hands and tilts her head. ‘Lily still has problems with her anorexia, and I am very concerned about how a trial over your dad – if it gets to that stage – will impact on her. So I need you to cooperate with my house rules if we take this forward. Not talking to people about why we are here – that sort of thing.’
‘Will I have to wear the bracelets and have a new name?’ Sarah has no idea why she asks this so quickly. It sounds rude and ungrateful. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.’
But Caroline is laughing, which makes Sarah relax even more, the relief now reaching the tips of her fingers. Her toes. Her cheeks flushing.
‘You find all that a bit kooky, Sarah?’
‘A bit.’
‘No pressure, but you might find both help. The bracelets are terrific for easing tension. Something to fiddle with when you feel overwhelmed. I introduced them to help people who self-harm.’
Sarah is suddenly thinking of the marks on her sister’s arms before she left home.
‘What about the names? Why did you pick Saffron for Lily?’
‘Because she came here like someone who wanted to be invisible. To disappear. That’s why she stopped eating. And then one day, when I saw her painting, I saw this entirely different person. This vivid energy and colour on the page. Spicy. Evocative. Memorable. “Look at me.” And I felt that was who she was meant to be.’
Sarah cannot stop her tears, and Caroline squeezes her hands very gently.
‘There is a lot to sort out. Your mother wants contact and we will need to liaise very carefully over that. But if you accept my offer and you wanted a new name’ – again Caroline seems to be reading her mind – ‘I would suggest Dawn. Just something for you to think about.’
‘Why Dawn?’
‘Because you don’t like yourself very much, Sarah. And no girl of seventeen should hate themselves. Especially when they have experienced what you have. You need a fresh start, lovely. In my opinion, and it is just my opinion, you need the sun to come up.’
CHAPTER 45
THE WITNESS
Trends are such a funny thing. Greenery is back, big time. Suddenly we can’t get enough glossy greenery in to bulk out our bouquets and displays. All the restaurants and the brides want it everywhere. Green table runners. Green arches for the doorways. Luscious leaves everywhere. It is a bit like the popularity of baby names. Trends creep up on you. Suddenly everyone is called Amelia. Suddenly everyone wants greenery.
I don’t mind, actually. Change is good and I enjoy gathering my own greenery from the garden and local lanes. I have always grown lots of hostas for the large leaves and curved shoots, and have found that cuttings from our laurel hedges are working well for larger displays, too. It is good to be doing new things, and to be frank, I need something to distract me. I hate this new limbo. Two weeks since that new postcard and zilch progress. I handed it straight over to Matthew, who passed it on to his friend Melanie Sanders. They ran the usual fingerprint tests, postmark enquiries, blah blah. Nothing. Whoever sends them must wear gloves. Turns out the haters can be clever as well as cruel.
Right now I am making up today’s final birthday order while Luke holds the fort front of house. He is looking so much better, and the two contenders interested in his job are calling in to see him later while I’m in Cornwall with Matthew. He’ll vet them first. I’ll only see them if they are OK about the hours. I’ve had a couple of time-wasters over the ad in the window, horrified at the very early starts. I guess teenagers like their weekend lie-ins.
I set everything out as usual – ribbons, tape, pins – and begin the bouquet. A combination of roses and stocks, in pink and purple, with some rosemary for the scent. I do my usual trick of twisting and building slowly to keep the balance and the rhythm. It is a fortieth birthday bouquet, and so I add in a couple more flowers than usual as I remember my fortieth so well. I check the display, bind it, trim the ends and then pop it into a vase just to circle it, walking round to check from all angles before wrapping it in tissue and ribbon.
I pop it into the cooler and move through to Luke to remind him that it is not for delivery, that the husband is calling in for it later. It’s prepaid, all written up in the book.
And then I check my watch and Luke is telling me not to worry about the shop, that he has it all in hand, and reminds me he is seeing his potential replacements later. Girl first, then boy. They both did the Ten Tors same time as him apparently, so are solid. Used to early starts. Reliable. If they both seem sane, he will leave their CVs and contact details on the shelf under the counter and I can decide whether to see them myself or to advertise. He would like to stop working by Christmas at the very latest so that he can concentrate on his studies. Is that OK?
I smile. I like that Luke is doing this for me; that he is sleeping better and doing OK back at school. It’s been a tough time.
And then the text comes. Matthew is waiting in his car outside. I don’t want Luke worrying; I tell him I am off to see a potential client in Cornwall and will be back late afternoon. I kiss Luke on the forehead and he pulls a face, so I wink my goodbye and remind him to text if there are any worries. I warn him that Cornwall can be a bit patchy for signal, so not to panic if I don’t reply immediately.
Climbing into Matthew’s car, I smile at the evidence of his very different new life. Dark circles still under his eyes – the parental clutter of a nursery rhymes CD, spare bibs, a pink blanket in the back. A soft yellow duck on the parcel shelf. The ‘Baby on Board’ sticker, which Matthew tells me his wife insisted upon.
‘You sure you’re feeling OK about this, Ella?’ Matthew looks over his shoulder as he reverses out of the parking space. I think of the headlights that so frightened me those early mornings in the past. This was the exact parking spot. It was probably someone in the flats above the shops. I put on my seatbelt and try not to dwell on it. Enough now, Ella.
‘A bit nervous, but I want to come.’
I didn’t honestly know what to think when Matthew first rang me. It was a shock. Mrs Ballard getting in touch with him. At first I wondered if it was to be some kind of formal complaint – me sending him down there that time. Suspecting her of sending the postcards. But no. Something even more surprising.
‘It gets easier,’ I say. ‘Once they sleep.’
‘Oh, I’m not complaining,’ he says, and he is wearing that open expression I so like. Relaxed. Straight. Kind. I find myself looking at his profile and wondering again why he left the force. He avoids the question very cleverly whenever I raise it.
We make good time, stopping only to buy takeaway coffees. We listen to the radio mostly, and only once we are within ten minutes does he talk through his own strategy. Clever of him not to wind me up earlier.
The latest from the Met police is not good news. They have just discounted Sarah’s father from the inquiry into Anna’s disappearance. He was found in Norwich somewhere. I don’t know the details, in fact I’m not supposed to know this at all, but off the record Matthew says that CCTV from the hotel he was staying the night Anna went missing, along with mobile phone tracking, has provided a cast-iron alibi. He was in his hotel room when Anna went missing. No question. Cameras in the hallway show he only emerged when Sarah’s mum phoned him.
Mrs Ballard is now desperate. She wants to employ Matthew herself to review Anna’s disappearance: to try to see if the police have missed anything. She believes the case has gone completely ‘cold’. With no suspects left, the investigating team is being quietly reduced in number. Matthew, equally surprised by her sudden approach, says he has made it very clear that he is highly unlikely to be able to make progress alone. But he feels compassion for the family and wants to at least hear Mrs Ballard out. However, having been engaged by me first over the postcards, there is a potential conflict of interest and that’s why he has asked me along.
‘I remain almost certain that Mrs Ballard isn’t behind the cards, but I need to see you in the same room to make this call. I hate to be so blunt and to use you like a guinea pig but that’s where we are, Ella.’ He has said this already to me on the phone, and I do understand.