I Am Watching

by Emma Kavanagh

“I . . . There’s something behind here.” A feeling had settled on her, déjà vu . . . but not. Perhaps rather a premonition of the moments to come. Mina slid her fingernail beneath one edge of the card, lifted it up just a little, so that she could peer beneath it. There, in the darkness, came a glint of light. Mina’s stomach turned over. She tugged at the cardboard.

  “Mina . . .”

  Taped to the rear of the picture frame was a slender gold chain, a heart-shaped locket dangling from it.

  “That’s . . .” Mina felt light-headed. “That’s Victoria Prew’s. It’s the locket that was stolen from her house.” She stared at the locket, at the superintendent, as the pieces slid into place for her. “He . . . No.” She looked about the room wildly. “No, he couldn’t be.”

  Eric Bell had stood up straighter, his face switching to cool control again. “We’re going to need to do a full search. I’ll get some people in.”

  Mina nodded, set the photograph back down. Her gaze darting this way and that, she tried to take in everything at once, to make sense of it. It landed on something meant to be hidden, a fabric edge that had nudged its way out from beneath the bed.

  “Sir,” she said quietly, “there’s a bag under here.”

  The superintendent gave one small nod. “Check it.”

  Mina pulled gloves from her pocket, slid her fingers into them, trying to keep it together, to remember to breathe. In, out, in, out. She reached beneath the bed and tugged out a rucksack. Carefully, she slid the zipper open, peered into the darkness of it: a boxlike shape was just visible at the base of the bag.

  She pulled out a digital camera.

  Mina looked up at Eric. But it seemed that the superintendent was stuck, the carpet quicksand, and he could no more move closer than he could fly.

  “Turn it on.” His voice came out hoarse, raw.

  She glanced down at the camera, took a quick breath, then toggled the switch, and the screen turned from black to blue. Then to something else. Mina stared at it. “Oh God.”

  The superintendent moved then, crossing the room to her in awkward steps. She turned the camera screen toward him silently.

  Jake Gilbert seated dead at Vindolanda.

  “That’s the photo that was sent to Rachel Flowers,” Mina said.

  She toggled back.

  And there they were, as they were always going to be. Jake and Parker, Isla and Ramsey kissing, and Maggie and Victoria.

  Eric looked at her, face white as death. “Stephen Doyle was the killer on the wall.”

  Making everything okay again – Isla

  Isla watched as Ramsey poured tea from the long-spouted teapot. Two cups, three, four. She felt Emilia’s arm snake around her waist, her head resting upon her sister’s shoulder the way it used to when they were children. Bonnie sat neatly on a kitchen stool, her hands folded into her lap, her face lit up from the inside.

  “Honestly, I can’t believe it’s over. I wish your father could have come home, but he says there’s lots of mopping up to do. They didn’t want the press to get it so soon, but you know how they are. Still”—she accepted the cup from Ramsey with a grateful smile—“it’s almost over now.” She patted her son-in-law on the cheek. “Thank you, my love.”

  Ramsey gave her a swift smile, a glance to Isla. She knew what he was thinking, had been married to him long enough to read it without the words ever being uttered. How could I miss it? How could it have been under my nose the entire time?

  Ramsey had come home from the search, had sat down on the sofa, buried his face in his hands. How could this have happened, Isla? She had wrapped her arms around him, thinking that perhaps, of all the sins, hers was the greatest. Hadn’t she gone into forensic psychology for this very reason? Hadn’t the plan been to arm herself for the future, to learn all she could so that never again could a monster come near her without her knowledge? But then, Isla allowed, it was rarely that simple.

  She had kissed her husband’s head, had murmured that it was okay, that he couldn’t have known. Had explored her own failure, a tongue probing a cavity. What it came down to was that Stephen Doyle had embodied his persona, that of the victim. He had suffered too well, had grieved too painfully, so that all about him had been blinded to the fact that it was make-believe. It was, after all, a human failing to accept that which was presented to you as truth. And even after arming yourself, even with all the knowing, sometimes it just wasn’t enough.

  Isla felt the brush of her sister’s curls against her cheek, and the butterfly flutter low in her abdomen, and felt a flood of relief. It was over. And even though she had failed, it was a gentle failure. Because all that mattered was the end of it.

  “Why didn’t you bring the boys, Em?” Ramsey asked her sister, then sipped his own tea. “House feels bizarrely quiet without them.”

  Emilia snorted. “You can say that again. No, Adam has taken them swimming. Be good for him to have to control all three of them on his own for once.”

  Isla watched her sister catch the quick side glance and knew that she was lying. That it wasn’t about paternal bonding or about marital revenge. That her sister had not brought her nephews here, to Briganton, to this house, because—in spite of the news, of the relief, of knowing that the killer on the wall was dead—Emilia remained afraid.

  “So, Rams,” Emilia hazarded, “must be weird for you. I mean, you knew him pretty well, yeah?”

  Ramsey nodded slowly, setting his cup down on the kitchen counter. “Yes. Or . . . I thought I did. When I think back . . . to think that it was him, that it was Stephen, what he did to Zach, to me . . .” He shook his head. “Look, it’s done. Let’s talk about something else.”

  Stephen Doyle. In Isla’s mind now that never-faded image of three dead bodies sitting at the wall. Had he picked them out, selected them ahead of time, or was it something different? He would have been young then, just at the beginning of his killing career, and yet, with three in one, clearly determined to make a name for himself.

  Isla sipped her tea, wondered where her father was now and if this new discovery would seem like a reprieve for him or a hangman’s noose. The final, incontrovertible proof that he had been wrong about Heath. Was he turning it, attempting to reshape this history into one in which his actions had merit? That, of course, would be the psychopath’s way. The thought brought with it a flourish of guilt. And yet, she allowed, she, of all people, should know that biology was not destiny.

  A knock on the door shook her from her reverie, and Isla disentangled herself from her sister, padded to the front door with slippered feet. Her hand upon the latch, she felt a brief thrill, a moment of daring, that it was over, that she could open this door without first checking through the peephole, without fear that what waited on the other side of it was death come to claim her. But then a little voice in her head said, Always best to check. Just in case. Isla smiled, pulled open the door, anyway.

  Connor stood, shivering, on the doorstep, his light jacket zipped right up to his chin. He grinned. “Ta-dah.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He scuffed his feet against the path. “Well, I was going to go home, but I thought . . . I didn’t know how you were—you and Ramsey, I mean—what with everything. And Stephen . . . I just thought I’d come check on you guys.”

  Isla smiled and pulled the door open wider. “Come on in.” She watched as Connor slinked through, could sense the adrenaline, the fear. For despite all his protestations, Connor was not like her. He had not grown up in the shadow of the killer on the wall, had not built up the same kind of immunity. The events of today—tough to go home alone after that.

  She shepherded him into the kitchen, then poured him a cup of tea. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Connor,” said Ramsey, with a grin, “good to see you.” Then he gave a little cough, caught Isla’s gaze with a meaningful look. “Shall I?”

  Isla smiled back. “Be my guest.”

  “Well”—Ramsey looked from her mother to her
sister in the manner of one settling in to make a speech—“we were hoping that Eric and Cain could be here, but what with everything. . . I’m sure they’ll understand.” He nodded to Isla. “Isla and I . . . we’re having a baby.”

  The room stilled for several long heartbeats; then Isla was engulfed in a flurry of sound.

  Emilia squealing, wrapping her arms around her. “You’ll love it. You’ll love it. I know mine can be little sods, but they’re fab, really.”

  Bonnie crying, hugging Ramsey, then Isla. “This . . . it will make your father so happy. Oh, this is it. This is just what we need to make everything okay again.”

  Spin of the wheel – Mina

  Mina sat at her desk. She stared straight ahead, even though she didn’t see. The others had gone home, grateful for an end to a seemingly endless day. The major incident room was stripped back to a skeleton of itself. Just the low hum of the heating, the television barely audible against the sound of it, Superintendent Bell closed up in his office, his door shut, his blinds drawn. And Mina. Waiting. She sat and sat. Telling herself that she should leave, that what she was doing now would ultimately come to be seen as the greatest of her crimes, but still not able to get her feet to move.

  And so she waited.

  There came the sound of footsteps in the hallway beyond. The door swinging open. Chief Superintendent Clee walked in briskly, his face set, a cold fury pulsing at the edge of him. He afforded her a glance, and it contained what she had already told herself. Go home. You’ve done enough. Then he rapped sharply on Eric Bell’s door, entered without waiting for a reply.

  Mina had returned from the house of Stephen Doyle, her head still thick, as if the grief there had attached itself to her so that now she would carry it in the absence of Stephen. The numbers had circled in her head. Twenty years. Twenty years of freedom spanning fourteen deaths. Then Briganton, four more. Eighteen deaths that could have been prevented had Eric Bell not done what Eric Bell had needed to do to make himself great. Had he not needed quite so badly to be the one to solve the murders, the one whose name was stamped across the front page of national newspapers, who was asked to appear in documentaries under the tagline “The detective who stopped the killer on the wall.” Stephen Doyle had killed because Eric Bell had allowed him to. There could be little other interpretation.

  Mina had marched through the crowded incident room, where the detectives had been congratulating themselves on an end, had yanked open the drawer, and pulled out the file.

  The chief superintendent had been on the phone. He had been smiling. The smile had not lasted long. As she’d run through Eric Bell’s accumulation of missed leads and buried evidence and into the murky woods of the victims’ items that had somehow found their way into the possession of Heath McGowan, his face had darkened.

  Leave it with me.

  The door to Eric Bell’s office was closed tight again now, yet it was not enough to drown the voices within. At first the edge of them, the hint of anger, suggestion of a battle afoot, then the chief super’s voice rising, the words achieving clarity.

  “Did you plant evidence on Heath McGowan?”

  Mina’s breath caught in her throat. Would he admit to it? Surely, it made little sense not to at this stage.

  Then that single word. No.

  A silence that seeped beneath the closed door, then the chief super, his words unclear, tone anything but. Mina strained, picked out the shapes of words—investigation, suspension, federation representative.

  The door flying open, the chief super stalking past her, not a glance in her direction, his body seeming tall with fury. Mina watched his long strides, her heart beating hard. She should leave. It would not do for her to be sitting there when Eric Bell emerged. The truth of what she had done would, she felt sure, be written across her face. He would know.

  What was that feeling? Guilt? But surely that was not for her. It was as if she was picking up what Eric Bell had left free floating, taking on emotions he should have kept for himself. Her gaze fell on the television. A photograph of Stephen Doyle, the scrolling bar beneath: “The killer on the wall found.”

  For twenty years, Stephen Doyle had killed without notice. He had moved among the survivors, had been considered one of them, perhaps, she thought, because he had worn his vulnerability like a badge. The families had spoken of him in hushed tones as one broken by his lot in life. He was broken—he was damaged—so he could not be the predator. Mina thought of the eyewitness, the one who had been with Ben Flowers that night in the pub: I saw a man. He was limping. Perhaps for Stephen that had been as much of an MO as was strangulation, the placing of the bodies against the wall. Perhaps that was how he had got to them—by adopting a weakness and appearing to be safe, for long enough to get close to his victims, for them to let their guard down.

  No. She would not accept guilt as her lot. Whatever she had done, it had been for the right.

  She stood up, pulled her handbag toward her. It was time to go. She needed a shower. To sleep and, for once, not to dream. Mina slid her coat from the back of the chair and stuffed her arms into the sleeves. In her mind, she had already gone down the stairs, out into the chill night air, when the phone on her desk began to trill.

  She answered it, not thinking. “Mina Arian.”

  “Mina? It’s Zoe. I thought you’d all gone.”

  “You got something on my broom handle?” Mina said, an almost joke that now withered away.

  “What . . . ? Oh . . . nearly.” Zoe sounded ragged. “Look, is the super still there?”

  Mina glanced over at Eric Bell’s office, saw the door closed again. Heard a loud thump, as of something being thrown against the wall. “I . . . ah, I think he’s a bit busy . . . The chief super was just in here, though. Zoe? Is everything okay?”

  A long breath in. “We finished with the hair found in Victoria Prew’s house. We were able to develop a DNA profile on it. The results confirm that it was left by the same person whose DNA was found beneath the fingernails of Zach and Amelia.”

  Mina stared ahead of her, her brain trying to form Zoe’s words into some kind of meaning. “Right?”

  “But . . .” Zoe’s voice cracked. “Mina, they compared the results to Stephen Doyle. It wasn’t a match. It wasn’t him.”

  An end and a beginning – Ramsey

  Ramsey was drinking tea, the earthy, sweet taste of it still on his tongue, when the phone rang. He answered easily. This day was one of moving on.

  “Rams – – ”

  “Cain. Where are you, brother? You need to get over here. Me and Isla have some big news for you.”

  “Rams, listen to me.” There was something in his brother’s voice. “They have DNA. From the killer on the wall. It wasn’t Stephen Doyle.”

  Ramsey felt his knees buckle, the room spin.

  “Ramsey, it’s not over.”

  Hanging up the phone without really meaning to, his hands on autopilot, disconnecting him from what he could not bear to hear.

  Isla asking, “What? What’s wrong?”

  And Ramsey just standing, mute, his mouth working to form the words but somehow failing.

  Connor’s hand on his shoulder. “You okay, buddy? Here, sit down.”

  Then the words, “They have DNA. They have DNA from some of the victims. Stephen . . . he’s not a match.”

  It was throwing a bomb into a room and watching the detonation. Long moments while they worked out what that meant.

  Then Emilia, as if cut down in front of them, grabbing on to him. “No, no, no.” Looking to her mother, her sister. “He’s going to come for me. I know he’s going to come for me. I said it. I always knew . . . I have to get out of here, Isla. I have to go. I can’t stay here.” Her voice shrill and uneven.

  His wife looking like she was trying to figure out which of them to deal with first.

  “Emilia. Breathe.” Isla’s voice was firm, calm. “Take a deep breath. Right. Now, it’s okay. We’re safe here. Adam will be coming
to get you . . .”

  “No, please, I can’t wait that long. I can’t. Please. If he, what if he comes and gets me? My boys, God, my boys would be left behind . . .”

  There was little sense to her now, just fear. Pure, unadulterated fear.

  Ramsey found his voice. “Emilia. Stop. You’re with us. You’re safe.”

  “Isla, take me home. Will you? Please.”

  “No.” The strength of Ramsey’s voice surprised even him as he fought to maintain calm. “Em, remember the photograph? If he’s . . . if he’s still out there, Isla is a target. She stays here. Where it’s safe. Look, Adam won’t be too much longer.”

  Emilia had begun to cry, had folded against Isla’s shoulder, suddenly very much younger than her thirty-seven years.

  “Rams, will you take her?” asked Isla. “Please? She’s frightened, and she just needs to be at home with Adam and the boys. Will you take her home, wait with her until he gets there?”

  Ramsey felt something race through him. “Isla. I can’t just . . . What about you?”

  “Connor will stay with me until you come back. Won’t you?” Ramsey refocused his gaze. Connor looked younger than he had ever seen him, as badly frightened as Emilia.

  “Yeah,” Connor said, attempting to sound like he had everything under control. “Yeah, of course.”

  Isla patted her sister on the back and moved closer to Ramsey, pulled him in for a kiss. “I’ll be fine,” she said quietly. “But Emmy’s lost it now. Please, honey? Take her?”

  Ramsey felt himself bow to the weight of the inevitable. “Sure.”

  “Rams, love, drop me off, too, would you?” asked Bonnie quietly. “I was going to walk, but . . . maybe best not.” She looked to Isla. “Your dad will be home any minute. I want to be there when he gets in.”

  Ramsey looked from mother to daughter. “Yes, right. I’ll go in with her, Isl. Check everything is secure. Yeah? Just make sure you lock the door behind me, okay?”

  Isla looked up at him with her best approximation of a smile. “I’ll be fine.”