HE IS WATCHING YOU an Absolutely Gripping Crime Thriller With a Massive Twist

by Charlie Gallagher

‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because you don’t really believe that. I assume you weren’t a misper coordinator up north?’

  Maddie resisted the instinct to bite back. He had a nonchalance about him, as if he knew everything about her already. He definitely didn’t.

  ‘No. I’ve spent the last ten years working as a UC asset in the North West. Manchester mainly. Infiltrating organised crime groups. Just a few days ago I was on the ground and I made a decision in the heat of the moment that I believe saved a man’s life. I knew it could have ramifications for me . . . I guess I just thought my team might have backed me a bit more.’

  ‘And instead they moved you to the other side of the country?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘To go to meetings with school head teachers and social workers, to work out how you stop kids from going missing when you know the only answer is to give them a bit of a slap.’

  ‘Oh, God. Is that what the job is?’

  ‘A big part of it.’ He actually chuckled. Sure, it was at her expense but she joined in. She was a little surprised that he could actually laugh but when he did it was quite catching.

  ‘I didn’t realise you ever laughed,’ she said.

  ‘I try not to. I have a reputation for being miserable to uphold.’

  ‘Really?’ Maddie did nothing to hide her own sarcasm.

  ‘Hard to believe, right?’

  ‘Nope.’

  A smile flickered across his face again. It was gone just as quickly.

  ‘So what about you? I assume you’re not in CID anymore?’

  ‘No. I’ve been in Major Crime for most of my time. I got moved out for a few months. They soon realised that they couldn’t live without me.’

  ‘I’m sure. Major Crime, eh? I take it the atmosphere is better there, is it?’

  ‘Yeah, generally. It’s a bit strange at the moment. A lot of new people. Major Crime used to be run out of Langthorne, but they had some high-profile incidents that were picked up by the media and it didn’t reflect well on them. They had some changes in personnel — the supervisors mainly. I was brought down from Major Crime in the West. The DCI was brought in from where he was working Counter Terrorism. But, yeah, it’s a good atmosphere. You get a room full of people who want to be doing the job, it’s going to be better. We’re strapped for resources, just like the rest of ’em. But you put in the extra effort because of what you’re chasing . . . murderers, rapists, kidnappers. The people who do that don’t give a damn that we’re tired or overworked.’

  ‘That’s the most passionate I’ve seen you.’

  ‘It gets tested.’

  ‘Do you get many murders in Lennockshire? I have a bit of an impression of the place. I lived in the Medway towns once. This county’s called The Garden of England, right? Hardly a murder hotspot?’

  ‘Every garden has its compost heap.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You get murders everywhere.’ Harry suddenly sat up straighter. Maddie could hear the vibrating noise in his pocket. He stood up and stepped away. No apology, no explanation. Maddie watched him go. She supped at her coffee. She could only concur with his reputation: he was a miserable bastard. But she could see the passion in him too. She found him interesting if nothing else.

  His call was brief. When he came back over he pushed a lid onto his coffee and made no attempt to sit down.

  ‘I assume you’re needed?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. There was a hit and run over the weekend and we’ve got a burnt-out vehicle that might be linked.’

  ‘Hit and run? I thought Major Crime investigated murder? That’s a traffic offence, isn’t it?’

  ‘Depends on why they hit him.’

  ‘You think it was on purpose?’

  ‘My gut does. And now I might have a burnt-out murder weapon.’

  ‘Hit and runs, murder weapons . . . sounds so much more interesting than what I’m going to be dealing with.’

  ‘Investigating murder is never as exciting as it sounds.’

  ‘I remember.’

  Harry had been gathering up his bag before he stopped and turned. ‘You’ve worked Major Crime?’

  ‘The fringes. I started out as a detective. A few years on the street, a few years as a detective. A long time ago, before I was headhunted for UC work. I was a good detective too. Or at least I had the potential to be. That’s half the reason why they asked me to switch. The best UC assets have an investigator’s mind set.’

  ‘I’m sure they do.’

  ‘So you can bear that in mind. That lack of resources you’re talking about. Don’t forget they’ve got me down here doing some made-up job at a desk down in CID.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s a very essential job.’

  ‘You obviously didn’t think so.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So keep me in mind.’

  Maddie stayed while Harry made his exit. He didn’t reply. She watched him leave. He was already on his phone by the time he walked through the door. He turned left and out of sight. She knew she ought to go back, too — not that she thought anyone might be missing her. She let her eyes wander round the busy coffee shop. Most of the tables were occupied now, filled with people talking to one another. Maddie imagined they had interesting things to say and places to go afterwards. She was considering another coffee. Fifteen years into a career she adored and that had consumed her life, she had never felt so lost.

  Chapter 12

  The bingo hall bustled with people and activity. The speaker system was loud and the calls were quick. It was hot, too. Lisa Simpkiss knew that her mum was not going to last long but she had been insistent. Lisa knew better than to argue with her when she was in that sort of mood.

  ‘This okay, Mum?’ She put her bag down on a free table towards the back. Her friend Naomi Wood looked over at her, her smile was reassuring. Naomi sat down.

  ‘This looks okay to me, love. I don’t mind where we sit.’ She took the chair her daughter was holding out for her.

  ‘I’ll get your stuff sorted, okay? What are you drinking?’

  ‘Just a soda water for me, please, love.’

  ‘One soda water.’ Lisa knew her mother wouldn’t drink it. She lingered on her as she sat with a straightened back and placed her hands out in front of her. Her fingers fidgeted and drummed on the table. Her eyes fidgeted too. They moved from one noise to another. She looked nervous, fearful almost.

  ‘Are you getting that coke or not, Cathy?’

  ‘I’m Lisa, Mum. Cathy’s not here.’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Lisa swept her bag back off the table. She walked to the bar and picked out some pens and game boards. Naomi appeared next to her. She leant against the bar, still looking over towards their table.

  ‘She gonna be okay?’ Naomi said.

  ‘No,’ Lisa replied curtly. Her mother hadn’t been okay for the last five years at least. And it was getting worse. She was forgetful, confused, anxious — and so spiteful at times. She fiercely resisted going back to the doctor. Lisa knew why: she didn’t want to be told she was getting worse or that she needed to be taking her medication every day — not by someone she might have to listen to. Lisa couldn’t get across the argument that she might be able to delay or even stop whatever it was if she would just do as she was told. And it was an argument. Every time. They couldn’t just talk about it; her mum was too terrified.

  ‘How long do you think she’ll last?’

  ‘Don’t get comfortable.’ Lisa said.

  She ordered the drinks. She stuck with the soda water for her mother. She was expecting a complaint.

  ‘I wanted a coke.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Sorry, Mum. I’ll take it back.’ Lisa had put the drink down and her mother reached out to stop her taking it away again.

  ‘Don’t worry about it now, Cathy, I’ll drink it.’

  ‘I’m n
ot Cathy, Mum. She’s your other daughter.’

  Her mother looked at her closely. ‘I know who you are. You’re the drunk!’ Her last words were said with such venom that Lisa had to bite her tongue. She took a second.

  ‘Not anymore, Mum. I’m done with all that.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve given me nothing but trouble, young lady! Your father . . . he would be turning in his grave if he knew what you were doing to yourself.’

  ‘So you keep telling me, Mum. I don’t do that anymore.’

  ‘Well, good. I always said you should stop, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did, Mum. Oh, this is our game!’ The PA system gave a sixty-second warning. Lisa handed out the game cards, one to her mum and one to Naomi. The pens followed. The sixty seconds were up.

  ‘And here we go! Eyes down for the next game, ladies and gentlemen. We have a big game with a thousand pounds up for grabs! So listen in.’

  There were whoops and cheers. The noise subsided quickly and the hall fell silent. The caller pulled his first number.

  ‘Here we go . . . first ball. Two little ducks to start us off! Two and two, twenty-two.’

  Lisa scanned her card. Then she scanned her mother’s. She could see twenty-two on there. Her mother’s pen hovered; there was a tremor to her hand.

  ‘On its own, number three!’

  Lisa checked her own for number three. Her mother’s pen still hovered.

  ‘Four and one, forty-one!’ Lisa could see forty-one on her mother’s card. Still it was unmarked. She leant over.

  ‘You’ve got that one, Mum.’

  ‘I know what I’ve got!’ Her mother lashed out with the back of her right hand and caught Lisa lightly in the face.

  ‘Okay, Mum.’

  ‘One dozen! Number twelve.’

  Her mother’s eyes lifted towards the caller. There was clear desperation in them. ‘He’s going too fast! I can’t . . . Can you tell him? He’s going too fast!’

  ‘I can’t, Mum. There are other people here. I can just help—’

  ‘I DON’T WANT . . .’ she stopped herself. Her voice was raised enough that the caller stopped. Lisa looked up as her mother struggled to her feet then walked to the door through which they had entered just a few minutes earlier. Lisa watched her step through. She expelled her breath. She fought back the tears and dipped her head. The caller started up again. The world around her returned to normal.

  ‘Do you want me to . . .?’ Naomi whispered.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Lisa said. She stood up and straightened her vest top. She took another deep breath and then she made for the door.

  The sunlight was bright, the air warm and unmoving. The bingo hall faced out onto a busy road. The traffic was barely edging past in front of her. Her mother was over to the left, sitting awkwardly on a low wall and looking out over the traffic — beyond it, perhaps, to where Canterbury’s cathedral filled the skyline over the row of houses on the other side of the road. Lisa sat next to her. She didn’t speak. Her mother spoke first.

  ‘I know I’m difficult. I know I am. I don’t mean to be. I don’t want to be.’

  ‘Payback, I guess, Mum. It’s not like I’ve been easy to bring up, right?’ She chuckled.

  Her mother relented enough to flicker a smile. ‘The numbers. I can’t get the numbers anymore, that’s all.’

  Lisa took hold of her mother’s hand and rubbed the back of it gently.

  ‘It wasn’t so long ago that I had a big birthday and I was panicking that I was letting it all slip by — life, I mean. You said to me that the numbers . . . they don’t matter. That’s what you said. You said, “Life isn’t about numbers, it’s about moments.” Do you remember that?’

  Her mother’s smile was more than a flicker now. ‘I do. I was right, too.’

  ‘You were. So those numbers in there. They don’t matter.’

  ‘They don’t, love.’ She lifted watery eyes to meet with her daughter’s. ‘But these moments . . . they really do!’ A tear leapt from her eye. Lisa reached up to wipe her tear away then she grabbed her mum and pulled her in for a hug tight enough to hide her own.

  Chapter 13

  The heat rolled over Harry with an almost tangible weight as he stepped out of a car that had been loud with the sound of air-conditioning. He hadn’t realised just how loud it had been until it was silenced and he had pushed the door open to the gentle sound of birdsong. He was back out in the woods. He had taken a farmer’s track leading off a country lane and down to a ploughed field. The field was actually an expanse of scorched mud ruts, like a rough sea frozen in time.

  He was in the corner of the field. On his left stood a police officer, his head bent over his notepad, his pen scribbling notes furiously. The air was tinged with the smell of burning and chemicals. The source of the smell was just beyond his colleague — a blackened husk still making metallic pinging sounds as it cooled — Harry’s burnt-out murder weapon.

  ‘DI Blaker, right?’ Harry turned towards the voice. A middle-aged man in black cargo trousers and a blue polo shirt emblazoned with the force crest. As he spoke, he peeled a pair of gloves from his hands.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I would shake your hand there, sir, but I don’t think you would appreciate it. It’s warm work out here today.’ He flicked droplets of moisture from his hand.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You’re the vehicle forensics guy?’

  ‘Yeah, for my sins. The name’s Tom.’ He pulled a tissue from his pocket and ran it over his hands. He used a second one for his glasses. ‘I have to say though, sir, I’m not sure I can be of much assistance today. I got a chassis number but that’s just about the only useable thing.’

  ‘Well, it’s a start. Have you fed that up the line?’

  ‘I’ve added it to the running log. I don’t usually run the checks myself. I figure that’s something the investigators usually like to do.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll get my team looking at that. So there’s nothing else you can tell me?’

  Tom turned back to take in the husk. Harry did too.

  ‘Not really. The ground’s so solid at the moment I can’t even say for certain which way it came in, although you could take a good guess. I’m not going to get any tyre lifts for comparison with your scene. Anything left on the front when it hit is going to be long gone. It would have gone up quick and hot. We’re lucky it didn’t set the whole place alight.’

  Harry noted the ring of ash neatly framing the collapsed chassis. He paced around it. The plastics of the interior had largely melted away; there was some of the dash left, but it had twisted and warped in the heat to the point where it was barely recognisable. The position of the two front seats had been marked by their springs and metal frames. The gear lever was a scorched metal pole and the steering wheel was gone completely. The back seat was easy to pick out, too; the square frame of the bench seat met with the flat, metal panels that once formed the truck bed. The four corners of the vehicle were supported on blackened steel wheels, their tyres burned off completely. The whole thing was in the shade of a huge tree whose lower branches were all scorched. Higher up the green was tainted with grey ash. Harry could see what Tom meant. There had been some rain recently, but not enough. Everywhere was still so dry and the heat would have been incredible.

  ‘Do we know anything else about it at this stage?’

  ‘Well, I can tell you it was a truck. It has a flatbed at the rear that would have had a lid on it. The lids are mainly plastic, so it’s pretty much gone. It was white too — I’m pretty certain of that. I’ve got some paint scrapings for analysis. Sometimes I can find a paint match, which can help if it’s a rare type, but a white truck? It’s gonna be a flat, common shade. I’ve found a few Volkswagen references on some of the internal components that would suggest to me that this was a VW Amarok. I’ll be able to confirm that, but I’m pretty happy to stake my reputation on it. Your chassis number should confirm that, too.’

  ‘But we’re not getting anything he
re that will link this car to any crime scenes, right?’

  ‘Forensically? No. But if you have a witness who says he saw a white VW Amarok making off from your scene then I could be useful yet. No matter what they tell you is registered against that chassis number, you’ll still need to be able to say for certain that it was right. The number’s etched into the engine mount so it’s pretty fire-resistant. I can show you if you like?’

  Harry held up his hand. ‘No need, thanks.’

  ‘No problem. I’ve taken photos. I’ll submit them as part of my report.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom. I’ll let you finish up. I’ll be getting a couple of search officers out to do the surrounding area here. I’ll make sure they don’t get in your way.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m almost done.’

  Harry moved away. He walked along the edge of the field, staying in the shade of the tree line. He called the Major Crime hunt number and the call was picked up by Mitch Evans, the team’s civilian investigator who majored in putting intelligence together. Just the guy Harry needed to talk to.

  ‘Mitch, I’m out at the burnt-out car linked to the hit and run. The link is tenuous. Good enough for me but it won’t be good enough for court.’

  ‘What is the link, sir?’

  ‘It’s in the right area. Right now, that’s about it. There’s a chassis number that has been added to the log. I need some work done on that, please.’

  ‘I did see it actually. I ran it through and put the results on there. It matches with a VW truck registered to a local construction company.’

  ‘What company?’

  Mitch hesitated. Harry could hear the scuffle of paperwork. ‘McCall’s. I don’t know much about them yet but I’ll put something together for you.’

  ‘McCall’s? Yes, please. I assume it didn’t bring up any person’s name specifically?’

  ‘It didn’t. It might be someone’s allocated work truck, though, which would be a place to start. I’ll make an approach to McCall’s and see what we can find out.’

  ‘Yeah . . . we need to do that. But Mitch . . . be subtle about it, okay? Let’s try and find out who was supposed to be driving it without sending out too many alarm bells. I’ll want to speak to this person without them expecting it.’