Watch Over Me: A psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist

by Jane Renshaw

  ‘I can take her, no problem, while you get some rest, yeah?’

  Flora nodded. ‘Okay. Thank you… Oh God, Caroline, it was awful. In the end I couldn’t think straight. They made me go over the whole of yesterday again, and they kept asking me about what I said in my statement… Like I forgot, when I was giving the statement, that we’d picked up Edith before driving to the beach – How could I have forgotten that?’

  ‘But that’s not a problem. Who’s going to remember every little detail of any particular day? It would be more suss if you had everything off pat. Why would you want to miss out the bit about picking up Edith when she’s part of your alibi, for God’s sake? It’s actually good that you got muddled up about that, when it’s obviously not something you’d need or want to lie about. It’ll make any other mistakes seem more innocent.’

  ‘The only lie was about the window… I don’t think I should have done it. Broken the window, I mean. It wasn’t –’

  ‘Listen, Flora, those fuckers are trying to frame you for murder, right? What’s wrong with trying to protect yourself from that? Chances are they’ve been extremely careful not to leave any forensic evidence behind that puts them in the house, and what with the CCTV not showing anything… That broken window is crucial. It’s the evidence the police need to put the Johnsons in the frame – without it you’d be fucked.’

  ‘But Caroline –’

  ‘You’ve got to get yourself into the mindset of an innocent person. You’re convinced the Johnsons did it –’

  ‘They did do it! You believe that, don’t you? You believe I didn’t do it?’

  ‘I know you didn’t, Flora. I know you didn’t. And we’re going to get through this, okay? They can’t have enough evidence against you or they’d have charged you by now. It’s going to be fine.’

  Flora stared at her, at this woman who for some unknown reason seemed to think she was worth saving. ‘Thank you. Thank you. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  Caroline pulled her into a hug.

  It’s a lovely wee scene, so it is: a granda bonding with his grandkid. Jed’s in his La-Z-Boy with my tablet and Corrigan’s leaning over him eyeballing the screen. He’s, ‘What’s that word?’ and Jed’s, ‘Bile… Biligist… Bio-lo-gist,’ and Corrigan’s wrinkling his face just like Granda, and then he’s, ‘What’s that word?’ and Jed’s, ‘Strangled.’ Right back in his comfort zone.

  ‘That’s no appropriate for a wean,’ I goes. ‘You fucking prick. What is it any road?’

  Jed gives me evils.

  ‘A bit on that blog Edinburgh Crime Scene,’ goes Corrigan. ‘But there’s no even any photies of the body.’

  I puff. ‘Course there’s no.’

  ‘When’s that bint getting arrested?’ goes Jed.

  ‘What bint?’ goes Jordaine.

  I goes, ‘Connor son, get Corrigan and Jordaine a lolly in the kitchen, aye? And yous can take the dug an’ all.’

  Connor sighs. He and Jordaine have been making a wee card for Willow, Carly’s babby, and there’s pink fucking glitter all over the coffee table, the carpet, the settee, Connor, Jordaine and the dug. Jordaine’s put a massive sticker of a Labradoodle on the dug’s heid and he’s going mental so he is.

  ‘Can I get a strawberry mivvi?’ goes Jordaine.

  ‘If Corrigan hasnae had them all.’ Connor picks the sticker off of the dug.

  ‘I’m wanting two lollies, minimum,’ goes Corrigan.

  Connor gets up. There’s a bit of pink card glued to his arse with ‘KIK HEAR’ written on it in black marker pen. Corrigan’s giggling away, the wee bastard.

  When they’re out the room, I snatch the tablet off of Jed and have a wee look at the article. There’s a photy of Neil and Flora’s house with police tape across the driveway and the gate, and a polisman standing doing fuck all. Article goes on about how Neil was a respected scientist and worked at Edinburgh University. There’s quotes from his colleagues about what a nice guy he was. Quotes from DI McLean saying they’re pursuing several lines of inquiry, blah fucking blah. And then a bit about ‘a source’ saying that Mr Parry may have been strangled.

  By an intruder.

  Fuck.

  Polis have been round interviewing Jed and the boys, right enough, and searching the place, but they found fuck all. Alibis are fucking solid. What are the bastards playing at? They cannae be thinking intruder. That’s just some eejit mouthing off on the internet. The polis have got to like Flora for it. How can they no?

  Jed’s spot on for once in his fucking life – why have they no arrested the bint? Ryan keeps on about how the polis have to have their ducks in a row, but they fucking ducks are lined up ready and waiting. What is their fucking problem?

  31

  ‘Okay, darling. We’re here,’ Flora said unnecessarily.

  She pulled in opposite Caroline’s. There were still two police vans parked at the gate of Number 17, and tape across the entrance to the drive. Beckie had glanced at it all as they passed their old house – Flora was already thinking of it as their old house – but she hadn’t said anything.

  Beckie hadn’t cried, not once, in the four days since Neil’s death. She had acquiesced to all Flora’s suggestions about how to fill their days. This afternoon they’d been at Shona’s, and Beckie and Edith had played quietly on the carpet, threading beads to make necklaces and bracelets, while Shona had talked – so Flora didn’t have to – about her new job in a florist’s and the awkward customer she’d had yesterday, a man who’d insisted on pulling all the plants out of their pots to check their root systems. Beckie had hardly said a word, and she had stayed within a few feet of Flora the whole time. But Shona had succeeded in persuading her to eat a blueberry muffin, a very nice one with huge juicy blueberries in it, which Beckie had seemed to enjoy and had almost managed to finish.

  Now she was sitting in the passenger seat, fingering the bright pink and blue plastic beads on the necklace Edith had insisted she keep.

  ‘We’re here,’ Flora repeated.

  She got out of the car and opened the passenger door. She unclipped Beckie’s seatbelt and lifted her out, as if she was still a toddler, and for a moment Beckie clung to her.

  Caroline’s front door opened and Lara appeared. Behind her was DI McLean, his face stony, and Sue.

  DI McLean looked at Beckie, and fixed on a smile. ‘Hello there. Beckie, right? We just need a word with your mum for a minute, okay?’

  And now, thank goodness, here was Caroline, taking Beckie’s hand, pulling her inside, and Flora was being herded after them, into Caroline’s front room, where there were three cups on the coffee table and a plate of digestive biscuits.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Sue grimaced. ‘Mrs Parry –’

  Not Flora any more, then.

  She took a breath. ‘Why haven’t you arrested the Johnsons?’

  DI McLean just looked at her. ‘Mrs Parry, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of your husband.’ A pair of handcuffs were suddenly in his hands. ‘You are being detained under Section 14 of the Criminal Procedure, Scotland, Act 1995. You have the right not to say anything other than giving your name, address, date of birth, place of birth and nationality, but anything you do say will be noted and may be used in evidence. You have the right to see a solicitor. Do you understand? Mrs Parry?’

  ‘My daughter!’

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand, but please – let me see her… Let me see her without…’ She looked down at the handcuffs. ‘Please! Her dad’s just been murdered, and now…’

  The police officers exchanged glances. ‘Okay. But please keep it brief.’

  In the kitchen, Beckie was sitting at the table, staring at a slice of bread and jam. She looked up at Flora, at the police officers behind her, with a blank expression.

  ‘Beckie. Darling… I have to go with the police now. There’s… there’s obviously been a misunderstanding, but it’ll all get sorted out, so you
don’t have to worry, okay?’ Flora squatted by her chair. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but Caroline will look after you for now.’ She shot a pleading look at Caroline, who was standing propped against the sink, her face very pale.

  ‘Course I will,’ Caroline said at once, attempting a smile.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Beckie.

  ‘To the police station. I – the police think… They think I had something to do with Dad… with what happened to Dad… But Beckie, I promise you I didn’t, okay?’

  ‘Something to do with it? What do you mean?’

  Flora couldn’t say it. She put her arms round the thin, stiff little shoulders. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

  ‘You mean –’ Beckie pulled back. ‘You mean they think you killed Dad?’ And suddenly she was up and away, backing from the table, and Flora’s words caught in her throat, she couldn’t get them out, she couldn’t move, like one of those terrible dreams where all powers of speech and movement are denied you.

  Beckie was staring at DI McLean. ‘She didn’t,’ she said, quite calmly. ‘My mum didn’t kill him.’

  ‘But they have to… They have to ask me questions…’

  ‘Are you arrested?’

  Flora nodded. And at last she was able to go to her, to put her arms round her and pull her close, and Beckie was saying, ‘It’s okay, Mum, it’ll be okay because you didn’t hurt Dad.’ But she wasn’t hugging Flora back, she was just standing there.

  It was the shock.

  Of course it was the shock.

  ‘Mrs Parry –’

  Flora pulled away; put both hands either side of Beckie’s face. ‘You’re going to have to try your hardest not to worry about me, Beckie, because I’ll be fine. It’s a mistake and it’ll be sorted out. I’ll be back before you know it, but in the meantime you’ll be fine here with Caroline.’ She smiled. ‘Remember you have to eat to keep your strength up, okay? And probably soon they’ll let Caroline pick up some more of your things from the house… Anything you want…’

  Beckie’s lips moved in an approximation of a smile. ‘Okay.’

  And then suddenly she was having to leave her, and how was Beckie going to even begin to cope with this? She wanted to hold her so tight and never let her go but she couldn’t, all she could do was say ‘Thank you’ to Caroline, and then she was out of the kitchen, Beckie was gone, the cuffs were around her wrists and hands were on her upper arms and she was walking down the path to the street.

  ‘This is fucking ridiculous!’ Caroline said behind her. ‘There’s no way Flora… How can you think she killed Neil? This is a huge fucking mistake and you’re getting your arses sued for this!’

  Flora turned.

  Caroline was trying to push her way past Sue.

  Flora caught her gaze and held it. ‘Look after her.’

  It seemed to stretch on, the moment in which she stared into Caroline’s eyes, wordlessly beseeching.

  ‘God, yes, of course I will, Flora, don’t worry about that for a second… Are you proud of yourselves, are you, for traumatising a nine-year-old child, taking her mum away from her when she’s just lost her dad?’

  ‘Ms Turnbull, please go back inside.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Flora! Don’t you worry, okay, we’ll sort this out!’

  It was the same pale blue interview room. This time her solicitor, Charles Aitcheson, was sitting next to her, a calm, reassuring presence. He had told her to make no comment to anything they said. They had to wait and see what ‘evidence’ they had against her before they formulated their response.

  That made sense.

  But what evidence could they possibly have against her?

  She hadn’t done it.

  She hadn’t killed Neil.

  Could they know? Could they know she was Rachel Clark?

  DI McLean was accompanied, this time, by a male colleague in uniform who was making notes on a laptop. DI McLean sat opposite Flora. He also had a laptop, and a blue card-covered file on the table in front of him.

  He opened this, removed a photograph, and pushed it across the table. ‘This is a photograph of the chain used to strangle your husband. A partial print has been recovered from it, and it’s a match for the thumb of your right hand. How do you explain that?’

  ‘I told you. I touched it when I found him. When I – when I tried to get it off him, when –’

  Charles put a hand on her arm.

  But she didn’t need to say ‘No comment’ to that, because the explanation was so straightforward and obvious.

  ‘Okay.’ The policeman took back the photograph; returned it to the file.

  She turned her head away. She didn’t want to see anything else from that file.

  ‘Mrs Parry, I’m going to ask you to have a look at some CCTV footage obtained from Eden Security, the company that stores footage from the cameras installed at your residence at 17 Gardens Terrace.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Before you do so, I have to tell you that the post-mortem findings include an estimation of time of death of between 8:45 and 10:30 a.m. on the day your husband died. Until the arrival of the paramedics at 6:28 p.m., no one appears on the CCTV footage for that day apart from yourself, your daughter and your neighbour Caroline Turnbull. The three of you leave the house at 9:19 am. You and your daughter return at 5:38 p.m. and then leave again at 5:46 p.m. You said in your statement that your priority was getting your daughter out of the house to safety. That’s why you didn’t call the emergency services straight away.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Is that correct, Mrs Parry? Please speak for the audio.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You and Ms Turnbull return to Number 17 at 6 p.m. precisely. Why? If you felt so unsafe in the house, why take that risk?’

  ‘Because Caroline – She thought I might have made a mistake about Alec being dead.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call 999 from Ms Turnbull’s house before returning to Number 17?’

  ‘I – No comment.’

  He nodded, as if satisfied by this answer. ‘In her statement, Ms Turnbull has said that she assumed you had already called 999 when she returned with you to your house. Is there any reason for her to have assumed this?’

  ‘No. I don’t know.’

  ‘Ms Turnbull is shown on the CCTV leaving the house at 6:09 p.m.’ He sat back and looked at her. ‘Your call to the emergency services was registered at 6:21 p.m. What were you doing, Mrs Parry, between the time Ms Turnbull left the house and that call? The two of you have just established that your husband is dead – murdered – and Ms Turnbull has run back to her own house to be with your daughter Beckie. Why delay still further before calling 999?’

  ‘No comment.’

  He turned the laptop sideways on the table so they could all see the screen.

  ‘I’m going to ask you to look at this footage, Mrs Parry.’

  On the screen was a sharp image of the back garden. Alec had insisted on state-of-the-art cameras and had spent hours adjusting them to get the pictures as sharp as possible. She could see the individual lavender flowers, and the little weeds between the stone slabs of the patio. And then a figure appeared on the patio, a pale-faced, wild-haired woman with the kind of fixed expression you saw on people filmed during earthquakes, or gun massacres, or famines.

  She watched herself run across the patio, along the gravel path to the shed. Fumble with the combination padlock. Dive inside, and reappear with a hammer swinging from her hand. Run back down the path to the patio, and disappear off the edge of the screen.

  DI McLean reached across the keyboard and tapped at the keys. The scene on the screen changed to the side wall of the house. The kitchen window – Oh God, the kitchen window was visible! Right at the edge of the screen.

  Caroline had been wrong.

  The CCTV did cover that window!

  She watched in dismay as she appeared behind the glass. She had stood on a chair to enable herself to reach far enough over the
sink to get her hand out of the window with the hammer… And there was her arm, her hand, the hammer… There was the glass shattering, her grimace at the noise of it…

  DI McLean leant across the table. ‘What happened, Flora? What happened in your house that day?’

  She sighed. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Flora,’ said Charles.

  ‘No. It’s fine, I need to explain… When we got back, Caroline and I –’ But no. She couldn’t implicate Caroline in this. If Caroline was also arrested, as accessory after the fact or whatever, what would happen to Beckie? ‘When Caroline and I got back to the house, while she was upstairs… I checked the CCTV. I realised that it didn’t show anyone breaking in to the house, I realised the Johnsons must somehow have manipulated the footage or something to frame me… But the kitchen window wasn’t covered by the CCTV, at least that was what I thought, I didn’t realise that that camera included it… So after Caroline had gone, I got a hammer and broke the glass…’

  ‘Mrs Parry,’ sighed DI MacLean. ‘Even if the window itself had not been covered by your CCTV, in order to reach it, an intruder would have had to pass through the fields of view of at least two other cameras.’

  ‘I – I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘Evidently not. Just how do you explain why no one was caught on the CCTV that day, in the time interval between yourself, Ms Turnbull and your daughter leaving the house, and yourself and your daughter returning?’

  ‘Flora –’ Charles shook his head.

  There were grey splotches in front of her eyes. A buzzing, high in her head. But she managed to get it out. She managed to say:

  ‘No comment.’

  32

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Fisher?’ I goes in a polite wee voice. ‘This is Jessica Stuart from Making Waves? The TV production company? You were kind enough to speak to myself and my colleague about your daughter Tricia a few weeks ago?’