WATCHING YOU_The gripping edge-of-the-seat thriller with a stunning twist.

by Lynda Renham

  ‘Could I come up?’

  The buzzer sounds, and I push open the door. I hurry to the lift as someone comes out of it. The lift ascends, and I study my reflection in the lift mirror. Will Ewan recognise me? Surely not, I look very different to the teenager he knew fifteen years ago. The lift pings and I step out. My legs have turned to jelly. I’ve completely forgotten what I’d rehearsed. The door of number twenty-three opens and I take a deep breath. A man of about twenty opens the door. It isn’t Galbreith and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

  ‘You want to see me?’ he asks.

  His voice is deep. It doesn’t match his boyish face.

  ‘I … I live in the block opposite,’ I say, pointing into the flat.

  ‘Yes, you said.’

  ‘I have a stalker,’ I say abruptly. This wasn’t how I had planned it. ‘Could I look to see if your apartment overlooks mine?’

  He wrinkles his brow.

  ‘Are you accusing me of stalking?’

  I shake my head emphatically.

  ‘No not at all. It’s just the man stalking me is sending me messages saying he’s watching me.’

  His rubs at his chin.

  ‘I’ve got a flatmate but …’

  My stomach tightens.

  ‘Do the police know?’ he asks.

  I nod.

  ‘You can have a look,’ he says uncertainly.

  He opens the door to his flat. I step inside cautiously. The flat smells of weed. I wrinkle my nose and follow him into an untidy living room.

  ‘Your flatmate …’ I begin.

  ‘He’s at work.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  He rubs his chin again.

  ‘I don’t think …’

  ‘Is he Scottish?’

  He stares at me for a second and then bursts out laughing.

  ‘Scottish? He’s from East London.’

  I look out of the window.

  ‘I’m really sorry about your stalker and everything but you’ve got the wrong flat.’

  I look across to my flat. I recognise the blinds at my kitchen window, but I can’t see anything inside the living room. The inside of the flat looks dark against the sunshine outside.

  ‘What’s your flatmate’s name?’ I ask, turning to look at him.

  He bites his lip.

  ‘Look, I don’t think …’

  ‘If I have to send the police here then I will,’ I say firmly, reaching in my handbag for the rape alarm.

  ‘It’s Dave,’ he says.

  ‘How long has he been your flatmate?’

  I glance around the room.

  ‘Eighteen months. Look no one in this flat is stalking you …’

  ‘Eighteen months?’ I repeat, my hand dropping the alarm.

  ‘Yes.’

  I feel deflated. I take one last look out of the window and walk to the door.

  ‘I made a mistake, I’m sorry.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘There’s no way my stalker could have been living here for eighteen months.’

  I open the door as my phone bleeps. The door is slammed shut behind me. I step into the lift, pull out my phone and squint to read the message through the crack in the screen. There is a dark picture, the silhouette of a woman in a doorway. The text message simply reads Every move you make and every step you take I’ll be watching you. I rub the screen and look again, and realise the woman in the picture is me. The photo is of me entering the building.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Fifteen years earlier

  Libby watched as her aunt nodded at Uncle Edward. She knew they were about to leave. They always left the party just as it got going. Libby felt her heart sink. She knew everyone had had too much to drink, but it was Christmas after all. Why shouldn’t they have a good time? Just like previous years they were making the most of it and Libby enjoyed seeing them having fun. Molly’s cheeks were bright red and strands of hair from her perfect coiffured bun were hanging around her face, making her look a little wild. Libby liked Molly. She was kind. Libby guessed her to be about thirty. Her boyfriend worked at The Pleasure Gardens in town and was very handsome.

  ‘We’ll leave you to it,’ said Uncle Edward, downing the last of his whisky.

  ‘Don’t fancy Twister then?’ Ewan grinned.

  Libby saw Molly cringe. Everyone thought Ewan pushed things too far with the Owens.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ smiled Edward. ‘I’m surprised you’re up for it with that arm.’

  Molly stood up.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely dinner sir,’ she said, and for a moment Libby thought she was going to curtsy.

  Rose smiled.

  ‘We’re very pleased you enjoyed it. We’re very grateful for all that you do.’

  ‘The pheasant was mighty tasty,’ added Kevin.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Edward. ‘You carry on with the festivities. Graham will drive you home whenever you’re ready.’

  Rose beckoned to Libby who stood reluctantly.

  ‘Are you leaving too?’ said Peter, the stable lad.

  ‘Well … I …’

  ‘Goodnight,’ said Rose, taking Libby by the hand.

  ‘I could stay a little bit longer,’ Libby said, looking pleadingly at her aunt.

  ‘Well …’ said Rose.

  ‘I’ll make sure she’s in bed before midnight,’ said Ewan winking at Libby.

  Libby blushed and hated herself for it.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine,’ Edward said to Rose.

  ‘Brilliant,’ cried Peter.

  Libby rolled her eyes. He was the same age as her and she knew he liked her. She didn’t go for boys her own age. Libby preferred a more mature man. One who knew what he was doing. There was a moment of silence after Rose and Edward left and then Molly jumped up grabbing Ewan by the arm.

  ‘Let’s have some music,’ she said.

  Ewan went over to Uncle Edward’s music system and sorted through the CDs.

  ‘Fancy a game?’ Peter asked, pointing at the Twister mat.

  ‘Okay,’ said Libby, looking at Ewan.

  ‘Come on Ewan,’ goaded Peter.

  ‘I’ve got an unfair handicap with this arm and not to mention the sore ribs,’ protested Ewan but he climbed onto the mat anyway. Peter threw the dice and Ewan struggled to reach the squares. His leg crossed over Libby’s and his eyes met hers.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘I’ll change the music,’ said Molly. ‘Let’s put your CD on, Ewan.’

  Ewan’s warm hand touched Libby’s foot as he moved to take his go. She wobbled and her other foot got caught up in his. Suddenly she was on her back with Ewan on top of her. His whisky breath wafting over her. He laughed, showing her his even white teeth. At that moment Molly changed the music. Ewan’s eyes looked into Libby’s as ‘Every Breath you Take’ played through the speakers.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Present day

  Libby

  I’m so hot. I can feel the sweat running from my underarms. My throat is so dry that I can barely swallow. I don’t want him to know how scared I am. I wrap my hand around the rape alarm and pull it from my bag.

  I wave at three cabs before one finally stops. I’ve got one hour before my meeting. I rest my throbbing head for a few moments before taking the phone from my bag. A picture message with a sound file attachment shows on the screen. It’s the 80’s song, Every Breath you Take. There’s no doubt that this is Ewan.

  I feel sick and my head is spinning. The cabbie glances at me in his mirror.

  ‘Are you okay there?’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s the heat.’

  ‘You look a bit pale. I’ll turn the air con up.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ewan Galbreith knows my surname. He knows where I live. He knows what I look like. I tap into my phone and google private security firms.

  ‘Can you stop at Fulham Police
station please?’

  I’ll hand my phone in and let Fran know when I get my new number. I won’t let him get to me. He’ll do something stupid and then they’ll throw him back inside. I won’t let him intimidate me. I won’t.

  ‘Excuse me?’ asks the cabbie.

  I realise I’ve spoken my thoughts out loud.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, looking out of the window.

  Is he following me now? The text sits menacingly on my phone. I hesitate for a few seconds and then type who is this? I wait for the message received notification but there is nothing. Damn him, damn him to hell. Simon was right. He is no doubt using pay-as-you-go mobiles.

  I turn my phone off and breathe deeply. He’s playing with me. Anyone who remembers Ewan Galbreith knows what a marksman he is. If he gets hold of a gun I won’t stand a chance.

  *

  ‘That’s if you’re interested,’ says Carol.

  My eyes are fixed on the man entering the restaurant. He’s wearing a blue hooded jacket. It’s like the one Ewan used to wear. I tighten my grip on my wine glass. The man looks over and I hold my breath. It isn’t Ewan.

  ‘Libby?’

  I turn back to Carol.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you okay Libby? You seem distant.’

  I force a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve not been sleeping well.’

  ‘Oh, poor you. Do you need something? I’ve got this great doctor, he gives me everything.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s fine.’

  I never want to be out of control, especially at night.

  ‘Shall we talk about it at another time?’ Carol asks.

  ‘No, absolutely not,’ I say resolutely.

  I wave to the waiter and order coffee. I need to pull myself together. I can’t let Ewan destroy me. It took a lot of work to build my new identity and even more work to set up my business. I’m a success and I won’t let him ruin that.

  ‘The new venture sounds fabulous and I’d love to do the designs,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Brilliant,’ says Carol enthusiastically. ‘Let’s celebrate with lunch and then I’ll take you to see the development.’

  ‘I have a new mobile number,’ I say, pulling an iPhone from my bag.

  ‘Love the handbag,’ she says enviously eyeing up my Gucci.

  ‘Thanks, it’s one of my favourites.’

  She covets it with jealous eyes and I make a mental note to have one sent to her from Harrods the next day. Clients love that kind of thing. I allow myself a glass of champagne with lunch and begin to relax. My phone doesn’t bleep. No one knows my new number, except for Fran. The sales assistant was able to restore my contacts list for me, which was a great help. The restaurant is getting busy and Carol and I have difficulty hearing one another. I preferred it when the place was empty. I could keep tabs on the people coming in. Now it’s almost impossible.

  ‘Shall we go to the development?’ Carol asks.

  I nod and we make our way to the doors. I look at the diners but I only see strangers. Carol has a car waiting. I look down again at my phone and sigh with satisfaction. I feel better and less anxious than earlier. I’ll go to Harrods later and treat myself to some retail therapy. That always helps. I’ll buy a new dress for my date with Simon tomorrow. The security company aren’t coming until nine, so I have plenty of time. I’m my own boss. There’s no one to say I can’t go shopping at three in the afternoon. I’ll make sure there are lots of people around. He can’t get to me that way.

  ‘I’m delighted you’re on board,’ says Carol.

  ‘Me too,’ I say.

  ‘We’re having a small function to celebrate the opening. I do hope you can make it. It’s next Tuesday at eight. It’s in the penthouse suite of the development. Do feel free to bring your partner.’

  ‘Lovely, thank you.’

  Maybe I’ll ask Simon. I’ll see how tomorrow goes.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Present day

  Fran zoomed in on the photo of Rose Owen. She recognised it. It was one of the photos that had been posted online by a sick bastard. She topped up her wine glass. It was sharp and vinegary. Bloody cheap plonk, but it did the trick. If the photo jarred memories for her, what must it have done to Libby? Fran and a number of other officers had been the first on the scene and the sight that greeted them had etched itself on their brains forever. One newbie had to rush out to throw up. Fran remembered fighting back the nausea. The sight of Rose Owen’s body had tortured her ever since. The look of horror shown on her dead face as she must have faced the gunman is something Fran could not get out of her mind. The naked breast hanging over her red dress had disturbed Fran the most. It was a final humiliation. Fran had wanted to cover it, but she couldn’t touch the body. She remembered seeing Galbreith as he’d sat in the hallway, his head buried in his hands. That’s how he’d found them, he said. He was still holding the shotgun while maintaining his innocence. He looked after the Owen’s hunting guns and was a trained marksman. Everyone knew it. He’d been twenty-four years old. Libby must be terrified. If Galbreith got hold of a rifle he could shoot her through the heart from five hundred yards. Jesus, what must she be going through?

  She offered the bottle to Mike.

  ‘Do me a favour,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘Meths would taste better than that shit you call wine.’

  He fumbled in his jacket and pulled out a hip flask. Fran had bought it for him last Christmas.

  ‘You use it?’ she said surprised.

  ‘Wasn’t that why you gave it to me?’

  She smiled and popped a cracker into her mouth and then slid Libby’s phone across to him.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  Mike took a swig from the flask and looked thoughtful.

  ‘Galbreith is no fool. That’s something I remember about him. I don’t understand why he’s doing this, if it is him.’

  ‘Who else would it be?’ Fran said.

  Mike shook his head.

  ‘How would I know? Someone out to get Libby or out to get Galbreith?’

  ‘It’s Galbreith,’ said Fran with certainty. ‘You heard his threats as they took him down.’

  ‘He’s also done fifteen years inside. No one who gets out is going to want to go back, now are they? He was younger then. He had no previous convictions. Why would he walk straight back into trouble?’

  Fran shrugged.

  ‘We know he sunk Ben Mitchell’s boat.’

  ‘There was no proof. Mitchell never filed a complaint.’

  Fran sighed.

  ‘We have to protect her, Mike. She’s already been through a lot. The poor bitch has lost everything. First her parents in a car crash, killed by a drunk driver. Can you imagine? Then being taken in by her aunt and uncle only to have some maniac shoot them dead in a moment of rage. I don’t know how she managed to come out of this sane.’

  ‘I expect the money helped,’ he scoffed.

  ‘You’re too cynical,’ she smiled.

  ‘Yep, that’s me. Anyway, anyone could have sent that photo and voice mail. There are home videos on You Tube, of their shoots and parties afterwards. Anyone could have edited Rose Owen saying, ‘It’s Rose, help me.’

  ‘I know,’ Fran sighed.

  Mike shook the hip flask.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything decent in this place?’ he said, peering into the empty flask.

  Fran shook her head. She was surprised Mike had come over. She’d phoned him for advice about Libby and expected him to tell her to hand it over to Scotland Yard, but he hadn’t. He’d offered to come to her place and discuss it. She would have got a bottle of whisky in if she’d known.

  ‘Let me have another look at that mobile,’ he said nodding to the phone.

  Fran pushed it across the table. Mike silently studied the text messages and photos.

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Not recently. I can’t accuse him. It’s not hard to make
an untraceable call these days. There must be a dozen apps that will do it.’

  ‘There are a lot of weirdos out there still obsessed by her story,’ Mike reminded her. ‘It may be coincidence that Galbreith’s just out of prison.’

  ‘Libby is convinced,’ said Fran.

  ‘Any trace on the Facebook page.’

  ‘It was closed down after she got the request. The mobiles are black market disposables.’

  ‘It’s a lot of trouble to go to,’ said Mike cynically.

  ‘Well, she’s not making it up,’ Fran said irritably.

  ‘I’m playing devil’s advocate,’ said Mike. ‘Someone’s got to.’

  ‘I know,’ said Fran.

  He slid the phone across the table.

  ‘She can afford a security guard. She’s less vulnerable than some.’

  Fran grimaced at him.

  ‘I’m just saying if she’s really that scared then she can afford her own cover, CCTV, panic button, I don’t know. We can’t bang up Galbreith because she thinks it’s him. We need proof.’

  ‘We’ll just wait until he blows her head off, shall we?’ Fran said, getting up. ‘Do you want some pizza?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You put it in the oven and I’ll go and get some decent booze from the off licence.’

  Fran failed to hide her surprise.

  ‘Don’t you have to get back?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you. Barb and I have separated.’

  Fran gaped at him. Shit, she thought. Only fifteen years too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Present day

  Libby

  James greets me as I enter my apartment building. It’s almost eight o’clock. I have one hour before the security guy arrives.

  ‘Evening Miss Warren. Would you like me to take those for you?’ he says nodding at my Harrods bags.

  ‘That would be great, thank you.’

  ‘I have a parcel for you. It was delivered at lunchtime.’

  ‘A parcel?’ I repeat. ‘Do you know who delivered it?’ I say sounding anxious.

  ‘I believe it was the florist. Their name is on the box.’

  He disappears into his office and returns with a large box. I stare at it and turn to the doors. Is he watching? Is he frustrated that he can’t call my mobile? I don’t touch the box but study the sender’s details. ‘Gabriella’s flower shop’ Knightsbridge. It must be from Simon.