He is Watching You

by Charlie Gallagher

  Maddie nodded. ‘Well, I can see you have your hands full. I’ll leave you my number if you don’t mind. Please let me know if you hear anything, or if she turns up.’

  ‘I will do. Let me know if you hear anything too.’ He lingered on Maddie.

  ‘You okay? Was there something else?’ she asked.

  ‘I do still love her, you know. It’s ridiculous when I think about what she’s put me through, but the sober version of Lorraine is all I ever wanted.’

  Maddie was a little taken aback. ‘We’ll keep you informed.’

  They said their farewells. Maddie sat back in the passenger seat. She peered back at the house. Rhiannon started the engine.

  ‘He’s really worried about her,’ Maddie said.

  ‘He seemed it.’

  ‘And being married to an alcoholic for a few years . . . it must take a lot to worry him.’

  ‘You think he knows a bit more than he’s telling us?’

  Maddie turned to look at Rhiannon. ‘No, that’s not what I mean. Just that this is more out of character than it might look. I know how missing persons used to be treated. An alcoholic who has been missing a million times before and always turns up? We would barely have taken details.’

  ‘But you have a bad feeling, right?’ Rhiannon said.

  ‘Like you do.’

  ‘Like her husband does.’

  Maddie’s gaze drifted away and she began staring out of the window again. ‘Well, we’ve done all we can today, I think. But we do need to find her. All this bad feeling can’t be good for any of us, can it?’

  ‘I agree, but my skipper . . . I think he’ll be taking me off it tomorrow. He said as much. He’s passing the enquiries over to community officers. I’m not sure they’ll be too bothered.’

  ‘I’ll keep on it. I probably can’t get you out of your other work but I’ll keep looking.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Rhiannon said.

  ‘Don’t thank me. I’m glad of it. It’s either a day out looking for our Lorraine or in the office trying to work out my passwords!’

  The two girls shared a brief chuckle as they set off back towards the station.

  Chapter 17

  Harry paced along the path. He was keeping close to the frontage of the block of flats. His target lived in a ground-floor flat: number 4. Mitch had been able to find out some information that he could use. The keys to the burnt-out vehicle were signed out to Jonathan Lee. A thirty-year-old with previous for domestic violence and minor theft offences. Nothing that had stuck — not yet at least.

  He got to the communal entrance and stopped to peer through. He was at an angle so he wouldn’t be seen by anyone looking out. He could see a bright strip light on the ceiling. It made the entrance glow a vibrant orange against the darkness of the night. He was here much later than he wanted to be, already a good few hours after his shift ended, but this was a lead that he didn’t want to put off until morning.

  He signalled to the uniform officers behind him to move up. There were two of them — and two more around the back. He would have liked more, but two would be just enough to get his man under arrest and back to the station — leaving two to carry out an evidential search at the scene. That was the plan at least. There was a panel on the wall that had a grid of numbered buttons. He pressed numbers 3 and 5 at the same time. Someone answered. The speaker crackled in response. The voice was muffled and low, and Harry couldn’t make out what was being said. He spoke anyway.

  ‘It’s the police. We need access to your building.’ He paused. The speaker fell silent. A few seconds passed. He was about to select another button when the door buzzed. He pulled it open and moved into the light. He held the door open and the two officers moved quickly in behind him. Harry stepped back to let his colleagues knock on the door. The taller of the two officers hit the door with his fist. It was a hammer blow. The sound echoed and bounced round the sparse hallway. It would have travelled up the concrete steps that were central to the building. Sure enough, he heard a door open on the floor above. It closed almost straight away. They all fell silent for a few seconds then the officer hammered the door again. There was still no response. The officer dropped to his knees, pulled the letter box open and flattened the bristles to see in.

  ‘Lights are off, boss,’ he said.

  ‘Any signs of life at all?’ Harry said. This wasn’t ideal. He would rather they got him in now, rather than having to come back out in the morning. It would only take a nosey neighbour to let the occupant know that the Old Bill had been knocking at his door and before they were able to come back they could stand to lose key evidence.

  ‘Someone’s in!’ the officer said. He stood up and took a step back. There was a noise from behind the door and then it was pulled open. A man stood in just a pair of shorts. His eyes were half-closed; he looked like he had been woken up.

  ‘What the hell is this about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Jonathan Lee?’ the officer with the heavy hand replied.

  ‘Yeah. What do you want?’

  ‘Can we speak to you inside, mate? I’d rather not do this out here.’

  ‘No, you can’t. Do what?’

  ‘Okay then. Jonathan Lee, you are under arrest for murder. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence—’

  ‘What the fuck? Did you say murder?’ He expelled air through his nose in a sort of laugh.

  ‘You’ll need to get some clothes.’

  ‘Well, yeah. I mean, I reckon I will, won’t I? What the hell is this all about?’

  Harry stepped forward. ‘Jonathan, I’m Inspector Harry Blaker. I work in Major Crime and we are investigating an incident where we believe a man was unlawfully killed. I need to talk to you about it. I won’t do it here.’

  ‘What? You need to talk to me about what? Murder? I just got back, like, this morning. I don’t know what this is all about?’

  ‘And why would you? I’ll explain all in interview. Back at the police station.’

  ‘Jesus . . .’ The man shook his head. He seemed to be coming to terms with his predicament. ‘You better come in, I need to get something on at least.’

  Jonathan backed into the flat. Harry thought his shock seemed genuine. He just couldn’t tell for certain what had caused it — being arrested for something he knew nothing about or just being caught. The uniform officers bundled in after him. They followed their suspect through to where he could get some clothes on. Harry stepped into the lounge. His first impression of the place was that it was sparse: a few chairs faced a large flat-screen television and very little else. The kitchen was just off the lounge and there it was a similar story. The work surfaces were clear except for a toaster and a kettle. It looked more like a base than a home. Certainly it smacked of a man living alone: all functionality and nothing more. It was just a few minutes before Jonathan reappeared. He still looked shell-shocked. He ran his hands through hair that was cropped close to his scalp. It was a similar length to the stubble on his chin.

  ‘Can I have a glass of water?’ he said.

  ‘Sure. Which cupboard are your glasses in?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to help myself?’

  Harry fixed him a look, that he hoped was stern enough to give him his answer. ‘I get nervous in kitchens,’ he added.

  ‘This is ridiculous . . . the cupboard there, over the toaster.’

  Harry filled the glass with water. The man took a couple of swigs. He was wearing a jumper now and jeans that fell over new-looking trainers. He put the glass back down.

  ‘You ready?’ Harry said.

  ‘I suppose so, yeah. I mean, this is all shit. Let’s just get it over and done with. I’ve gotta go to work in the morning.’

  ‘Bring your boss’s number,’ Harry said.

  ‘I don’t have a boss. I have a meeting.’

  ‘Bring whatever number you need to explain you ain’t gonna
make it.’

  ‘You’re joking! This is a joke! I’ve done nothing wrong!’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone who has,’ Harry said. Then he spoke to the officers stood either side of him. ‘Let’s get our friend back to the station, shall we?’

  ‘Can I lock up at least?’ Jonathan said.

  ‘No need. I’m staying. We’ll be searching your place.’

  ‘This place?’ Jonathan snorted a laugh. It was incredulous rather than amused.

  ‘This very place.’

  ‘Mate, you can tear this place apart. There’s nothing here, I’ll tell you that now. Nothing here that makes me a murderer. This is ridiculous.’ Harry sensed that he was starting to wind himself up. He also noted the phrase nothing here that makes me a murderer. He would bank that one for later.

  ‘I’ll try not to tear anything apart.’

  Jonathan Lee was led out, still protesting his innocence. Harry heard him on the way out. His protestations increased in volume when the uniforms stopped at the door for handcuffs to be applied. He heard one of the officers explain.

  ‘It’s standard, mate. I do it with everyone. Do you want me to get you a jacket? We can lay it over the top so no one sees you in the cuffs.’

  ‘Let’s just get this over and done with, can we? You’re really starting to piss me off. This is a joke! Don’t push me!’ Jonathan’s voice was moving away. Two different officers stepped into the kitchen.

  ‘He didn’t seem too happy, sir!’ A young girl with a sweet smile. She was pulling search gloves onto her hands.

  ‘They rarely are.’

  ‘Anything you want us looking for in particular?’ she said.

  ‘He didn’t have a phone on him. That’ll be here somewhere. Apart from that, you have the victim’s details and the car’s details. Anything that links him to either or both — or anything that makes him look more like a murderer.’

  * * *

  She had drifted off again. She must have. She could remember the light and the panic. It had taken her over. It was still dark. She felt for the end of the plastic sheeting again, ignoring the buzzing as best she could. Her body hurt so much. The pain in her stomach was enough on its own, but her movement was causing her neck to hurt too. It felt like it was burning hot. The numbness in her lower legs and feet was wearing off, but as the feeling returned it brought painful pins and needles with it. She could move her toes now, but she could feel the movement of the insects more too, all the way down her legs and on her feet. She knew they must have been there all the time but that did nothing to ease her discomfort. She needed to stay calm. She tried to block out the horrors that had been revealed by the light. She thought about the light itself. She considered there was a switch somewhere and she had knocked it; she couldn’t think of another explanation. It would have to be on the floor for her to have done that. She plunged her free hand to the floor and scrabbled around. It seemed like everything was damp and moving. She pulled it back in disgust.

  She concentrated on her breathing. She realised for the first time that she was hungry. She focussed on that as a way of distracting herself. It was a new feeling, distinct from the other pains in her abdomen. She was thirsty too. She didn’t know how long ago she had taken the water that had dripped from above. Time meant nothing. She didn’t know how long she had been lying there. She considered that it could only have been a few days. She was still alive. Had she been trapped here much longer, she didn’t think she that would be the case.

  She moved to sit up. It was easier now that she could plant her right hand. She reached again for the start of the plastic sheet that she knew was somewhere under her hip. If she could unravel it just a little bit, the wrapping around her would surely loosen enough for her to crawl out.

  She felt for the end. She pulled on it, lifting her hips at the same time. Her abdomen tensed and the pain took her breath away. She tried to moan but her neck was too swollen to let any sound out. Her mind flashed with doubt. This was not going to be possible.

  She took a moment. She got her breathing back under control. There was no rush. This was all she had to do, but she did have to do it. She had to get out of here. She had to get her life sorted out. She had made mistakes and hurt the only people in her life that she cared about. When she got out, she was going to tell her husband that it had all been a mistake, that she could be somebody different — or even somebody the same . . . the same person that he had married — and they could be a family again.

  She took a firmer hold of the plastic and tugged harder. Her abdomen reacted instantly but she was able to keep tugging long enough to drag the sheet under her hip. It came free. She fell back to the floor. Her head ran with cold sweat. The flies that had been disturbed landed on it. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. She would recover — she knew she would. She needed to wait out the pain and then she could go again. She was inching closer to getting free.

  * * *

  Harry Blaker moved through the custody area to commence his interview with Jonathan Lee. He had waited until the search was complete in case anything came up that he could use in interview. It had been a waste of time: they had found nothing, not even his phone.

  Jonathan had a solicitor: Karen Wilson. Harry had clashed with her a few times before. There were very few solicitors that he hadn’t clashed with at some point in the past. He understood the purpose of a state-funded solicitor scheme — that they should never return to the bad old days of oppressive interviews and false confessions from prisoners who couldn’t afford counsel. But Harry wasn’t interested in false confessions; he was only after the truth. It seemed to him that things had gone too far the other way; solicitors now seemed to see it as their job to block the truth or to make getting at it as difficult as possible. Karen Wilson had a large build and cheeks that always seemed to flush red — as if just sitting there was an exertion. She pushed her glasses up her nose as Harry entered. He was accompanied by the night turn DC who would act as scribe, a guy called Tony Seddon. He was a good detective from what Harry knew; he worked CID and had done for some time. He was a little like all the rest — worn out. Harry didn’t need him to be sharp; he just needed him to be able to write and to stay quiet.

  Harry had already spoken to Karen before she had met with her client, the part of the process that was called disclosure. This was where he told her what he thought he knew. He’d then given her as long as she needed to spend with her client in private while they discussed the best strategy for blocking his way to the truth. Karen had a reputation for encouraging her clients to give no comment interviews. Harry was prepared for that.

  He skipped any pleasantries and started the tapes before launching into the formal bits. It was nearly 10 p.m. and he was starting to feel tired himself. Eventually he was able to ask a relevant question.

  ‘So, Jonathan . . . You understand that you have been arrested on suspicion of driving at someone and causing their death. What can you tell me about that?’

  ‘What do you mean, what can I tell you? I can’t tell you anything, man, I—’

  ‘Can I remind you, Jonathan, that we discussed this matter and I have given you clear advice,’ Karen Wilson interrupted. She put her hand on his arm.

  Jonathan sat back in his chair. He had been leaning forward with anger written clear across his face. Harry had been hopeful. Angry people were often loose lipped. They talked fast and often without thinking and made mistakes. Instantly Jonathan became more measured.

  ‘I got no comment,’ he said.

  Karen took up the talking. ‘My client would like to provide a prepared statement that I will read on his behalf . . . My client Jonathan Lee was out of the area on the date on which this incident is said to have taken place. He was staying with family in Suffolk and can provide any number of people who will confirm this. He also has a travel railcard and other receipts from shopping outlets used while he was away. He visited several town centres and he is confident that they will have some sort
of CCTV coverage. The locations with possible CCTV are listed below — I see no point in reading these out. Further, my client wishes to make clear that he travelled by train and has not driven a vehicle for a period of more than seven days. He has certainly not driven any vehicle in any incident that could even be considered similar to the one he has been arrested for. The only vehicle he has had access to in the last month is a work vehicle, which was returned to his place of work before he went away. Any number of people have access to that vehicle. He wishes to make no further comment.’

  Jonathan Lee was sitting back in his chair. He had his arms crossed now and his face was the very picture of smug. Harry’s first instinct was to grind it into the table. Instead, he fixed Lee with a glare.

  ‘I still get to ask my questions,’ he said.

  ‘Go right ahead. That’s all you need to know, though. Get it over with so I can make my complaint, yeah? You lot drag me down here in cuffs, you take my DNA, my fingerprints and treat me like a criminal — and for what? Just because you can’t do your job!’

  Harry sucked in a deep breath. His eyes never left the man sat opposite. ‘I’m a police officer, Jonathan. It’s my job to treat people like criminals.’

  ‘No, it ain’t! What happened to innocent until proven guilty?’

  ‘I’m all about the proving guilty part. Don’t forget that. Which brings me on to the fact that a truck signed out for your use ran down and killed a man on Saturday 18th August. How can you explain that?’

  Jonathan leant forward, the emotion was returning to his face. Karen Wilson’s arm moved across him. Her hand now rested on top of his. ‘Remember what we discussed, Jonathan. I believe we’ve told Inspector Blaker all that he needs to know.’

  ‘No comment.’ Jonathan broke out in a grin. Once again Harry flushed with the urge to slam him face first into the solid table. He gave himself a moment, and he reminded himself that interviews were rarely the part of an investigation where convictions were won. Patience was the name of the game. Anyone sitting in an interview room accused of something that fell under the Major Crime remit was not of a mind to start making admissions. Murderers rarely liked to make things easy.