I Am Watching You

by Teresa Driscoll

  It feels all at once wonderful and, yes, miraculous and absolutely terrifying. Matthew wonders if he is ready – if anyone is ever really ready.

  He presses the switch to fire up the espresso machine and flicks through the mail. Nothing significant. He puts it on the kitchen counter and takes out his mobile just as the green light signals the machine is ready.

  Placing a porcelain espresso cup under the nozzle, he feels the disconnection that true exhaustion brings. That sense of not quite fitting into the space around him. He presses the button for a double, and with the other hand dials Melanie’s number. To his surprise she answers instantly.

  ‘I wondered how long before you’d be onto this. So how did you hear? Bongo drums, or are you psychic as I always suspected?’ Melanie’s voice is hushed.

  Matthew feels the depth of his frown and pauses. He hasn’t the foggiest what she’s on about.

  ‘News travels fast.’

  ‘Does Ella know? Is that it?’

  Matthew does not answer.

  ‘Well, don’t you share it with anyone because the proverbial is really hitting the fan now. As far as I know the media haven’t cottoned on and that’s how we want to keep it. For now, at least.’

  Matthew stares at the promising crema on the top of his espresso, surprised that the bluff has worked. He takes a small sip, wondering what the hell could have happened. Until last night, the police teams in London and Cornwall wanted as much media coverage as possible. What is it that the police suddenly don’t want the press to know?

  ‘How about you tell me what you can, Melanie, and I share everything I’ve got. Also – I promise to keep an ear to the ground and tip you off if the media get wind.’ Matthew has some good contacts among local journalists, and Melanie knows this.

  ‘Strictly off the record.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mel. You know me. I may have stuffed up my own career but I’m not going to mess up yours.’

  ‘OK, but not over the phone. How soon can you meet me in Saltash? Usual café.’

  ‘I’ll text you.’

  ‘Good. And not a word to anyone. OK?’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Oh, and by the way, how is Sally? She’s overdue now, isn’t she?’

  A rush of guilt sweeps through Matthew. For a few minutes, he had actually forgotten. No. Not exactly forgotten . . . more switched off. It astonishes him that he could let that happen, and wonders if this is how it is going to be. Work. Home. Entirely split-thinking. Suddenly the image from the hospital is back in front of him, vivid and lovely.

  ‘I’m a dad, Mel. A little girl. I have a beautiful little girl.’

  CHAPTER 23

  THE FATHER

  Henry stares around the police cell and finds himself thinking of Sammy. He hopes that Jenny will take him out for a good stretch of his legs, but then leans forward to put his head in his hands. Poor Jenny. To add this to all her misery.

  He closes his eyes to the memory of the sheer, unmitigated mess he has made of this. Why, oh why, didn’t he just have the guts to pull the trigger?

  He has tried lying down on the hard, raised platform that passes as some kind of bed, but it hurts his back. The thin blue plastic mattress does little to shield the severity of the concrete slab. He wonders how long he will be held here. He looks at the door and shudders at the memory of the sound it made as it closed. Like nothing you can quite imagine until you are on the wrong side of it. Henry is not normally claustrophobic, but has never been tested in this way before. He is used to the outdoors. To freedom. To fresh air. He tries to remember what the law says. How long can the police hold someone in this way without charge?

  They have taken his shoes and belt, and Henry is conscious suddenly that he is probably more used than most to padding around in his socks. Wellies stored in the boot room. No stomach for slippers. He is conscious also that he must have lost weight these past few days, for his trousers feel loose as he stands and walks over to the door with its horrid little viewing grille.

  He thinks of Barbara and her plum slices. Of Anna turning cartwheels on the lawn. Her little gang round, running in and out of the sprinkler. What he needs is a Tardis to go back. Yes. To a completely different version of it all.

  Suddenly Henry is filled with both impatience and rage. He has had enough of this. All of this. This place. This bloody place.

  ‘Could I speak to someone please?’

  No reply.

  Henry kicks the door and shouts louder. ‘I need to speak to someone.’

  A few minutes and there is the sound of the grille cover sliding to one side, and the uniformed officer peers in at him. ‘Could you keep it down, please.’

  ‘I want to get in touch with my lawyer.’

  ‘I thought you hadn’t done anything wrong and didn’t need a lawyer.’ The tone is pure sarcasm.

  ‘Well, I want my lawyer now. I know my rights and I’m not speaking to anyone until I get my lawyer.’

  ‘Okey doke. Duly noted. But we’re in charge in here and you’ll have to wait.’

  Henry holds his stare through the grille. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Course you haven’t.’

  Two hours pass, forcing Henry to face the humiliation of using the nasty open-plan toilet, praying for no movement of the viewing grille as he does so.

  He has insisted on his own lawyer rather than a duty solicitor, which is apparently slowing things down.

  When eventually he is given time alone with Adam Benson, who until now has only ever handled property matters and his will, Henry realises the severity of his situation and miscalculation. Adam is upfront about his limited experience handling criminal proceedings. Henry says he wants no one else involved. Adam’s advice is simple: Tell me the truth. Trust me.

  ‘Is there something you need to tell me, Henry? Because if there is, I would strongly recommend you do that now, so I can get on to some contacts who are better placed to handle your situation.’

  The truth?

  Henry pictures Anna sitting alongside him in the car. Her ashen face. You disgust me.

  Henry can feel his bottom lip wobbling as he is led into the interview room with Adam already seated inside, opposite the wretched DI from London. The man Henry so despises.

  ‘You can’t hold me here. I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing illegal.’

  ‘You pointed a shotgun at one of my officers, Mr Ballard. We call that threatening behaviour.’

  ‘You broke into my barn. I was startled. I was protecting my property.’

  ‘We broke in after you telephoned us in a very agitated state, Mr Ballard, demanding to speak to DS Melanie Sanders. We broke in to prevent you from doing yourself or others harm. You know that and I know that, so how about we drop this nonsense about trespass. Save us all a lot of time.’

  Adam turns his head, wide-eyed, and nods encouragement to Henry.

  ‘I was distressed. It got on top of me. Anna’s disappearance.’ Henry can hear his heart pounding and tries to calm his expression. He suddenly very much wants to be home, to say sorry to Barbara and most especially to Jenny for the scene at the barn. All the shouting. The stand-off. Poor Sammy barking furiously outside. The mess. This whole terrible mess. He also wants to speak to Melanie Sanders, not this prat from London.

  ‘Why can’t I speak to DS Melanie Sanders?’ When he phoned from the barn he had said he would speak to her. Only her.

  ‘She’s not working at the moment. We told you that when you phoned us . . . Now then. The last time we spoke formally . . . before this recent incident . . .’ The inspector is staring down at some paperwork. Henry assumes it is the statement from his last interview, the one after the TV appeal. ‘You gave us your second version of where you were the night Anna went missing. So the current story is that your car was left near the railway station for most of the night because you had a bit too much to drink and decided to sleep in the back.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And that’s
what you told your wife? The reason you asked her to lie for you?’

  ‘Yes. I was embarrassed to have got so plastered. I didn’t think it would look good.’

  ‘But here’s my problem, Mr Ballard. We’ve spoken again to the witnesses who phoned in after our television appeal programme, and they didn’t see anyone asleep in the back of the car.’

  ‘Maybe they just didn’t see me because I was lying down. Or maybe they saw the car before I walked back to it from the pub.’

  ‘Ah yes – the pub. The Lion’s Head. Now, here’s my other problem. I’m wondering, you see, why you didn’t park in the pub car park. Also – no one at the Lion’s Head seems to remember you being in that night.’

  ‘It was busy. The car park and the pub. Packed, actually. Why would they notice me?’

  Beneath the desk, Henry can feel his palms all sweaty suddenly, and wipes them on his trousers. He turns to his solicitor who is writing things down, and wonders what the notes are for. He looks across at the black box recording the interview and wonders if they will get a transcript. The problem with lying, he is learning, is that you have to remember the details of the lie. To make them match each time. Each new version is making it more difficult.

  ‘How well do you know your daughter’s friend Sarah?’ The detective inspector has leaned forward suddenly and is closely monitoring his response.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. She’s Anna’s best friend. Has been for years. She comes around the house a lot, just as all her friends do. We’ve always made them welcome.’

  ‘And when did you last see Sarah, Mr Ballard?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  CHAPTER 24

  THE FRIEND

  Sarah is thinking about singing. One of the key things she quickly found she had in common with Anna – beyond the two-ball obsession of those early days – was singing. They were in the choir at primary school together and loved it. Then, in secondary school, they joined the musical theatre group together.

  For a number of years, this hotbed of theatrical ambitions provided a rollercoaster of tears and tantrums, triumph and tragedy for the two girls. During years seven and eight, the camaraderie was for the most part entirely positive. The younger girls all sang together in the chorus. But once auditioning for bigger parts was in the mix, everything became more competitive. As the pool of hormones, longing and insecurities bubbled furiously, Anna and Sarah watched all the subsequent falling-ins and falling-outs with a new awareness.

  While Sarah surprised many around her with her burgeoning academic talents, Anna became the better singer. By year ten, the two friends were both obsessed with the notion of becoming musical theatre stars. They each believed this to be perfectly possible and hatched a plan to apply together to study music and drama. They imagined sharing a flat and spending their days singing on a West End stage, ignoring the eye-rolling of Tim and Paul and all the adults in their families. Anna’s father was especially dismissive.

  I blame The X Factor for this, Anna. His mantra, sitting in his socks around the farmhouse dinner table, was that it was one thing to enjoy a school production, but quite another to kid yourself there was a career in it. Do you know, you two girls, where most musical theatre students end up? Waiting tables and pulling pints. You want to stop all this pipe-dream nonsense and work towards a solid degree. The pair of you. Something that will lead to a job . . .

  Sarah and Anna ignored it all. They huddled up in Anna’s bedroom, wrapped in her duvet, and watched DVDs of all their favourite shows back to back. Cats. Phantom. Starlight Express.

  And then – joy of joys – at the beginning of year eleven, the drama department announced that the new production was to be the girls’ favourite musical of all. Les Misérables.

  Sarah sighs and looks at her watch, her eyes narrowing as she remembers it. That first discussion with Anna about which part to try for. She remembers sitting in Anna’s bedroom as they fell silent, each realising with excitement and dread what lay ahead for their friendship.

  There was suddenly no place for loyalty or compromise. They were each ready to sacrifice their very soul to play Fantine.

  From the off, Sarah knew that Anna was more likely to get the part, but that did not stop her trying. In her own bedroom, she secretly watched Anne Hathaway in the film version over and over and over until she had perfected every nuance, every breath, every tear. To her shame, she began to hope Anna would catch a cold or that her father would ban her from the distraction during their important GCSE year.

  But no. On the day of the audition, there they both were – best friends and arch rivals – wishing each other well in public but secretly harbouring new and confusing thoughts. Sarah was ashamed but consumed by the depth of her ambition and jealousy.

  By 3 October it was all over. A post on the drama noticeboard confirmed it: Anna would play Fantine. Sarah would be in the chorus with the ‘additional responsibility’ of understudying Madame Thénardier. The baddie.

  Anna’s face said everything about the nature of her personality.

  You want me to withdraw, Sarah? Honestly – if it means so much to you, I’ll withdraw. My dad doesn’t want me to do it anyway. I don’t want this to be a thing between us.

  No, don’t be silly. I’m pleased for you.

  And then for weeks and months she had to watch it all. The spotlight on Anna. Everyone amazed at her talent. All the boys, who dismissed the musical theatre crowd as hysterical suddenly seeing her in this new light, as rehearsals were filmed and shared on Facebook. Even Tim and Paul, who both hated musicals, seemed to become more tolerant, showing an interest in how things were going. Sarah still had a secret crush on Paul, and hated to see his funny comments on Facebook telling Anna how fabulous she looked in the costumes.

  It was then that Sarah began her diversion. Not a conscious decision. More an experiment to boost her self-esteem . . . and then a steep and slippery slope. She discovered there were other ways to be popular with the boys. At first she felt powerful. She had her own spotlight. Then, very quickly, the grubby flip side emerged. Some gossip and nastiness on social media. A shared picture. And suddenly everything just ran away from her.

  It wasn’t long before she was openly being called a slag. An ugly rumour went round that she had given oral sex to two boys on the rugby team at the same party.

  Anna, ever loyal, told her to ignore the haters. Sarah wondered if deep down Anna suspected she was going off the rails, but they never discussed it properly. Publicly, Anna simply stood up for her. She said that people made things up because they were jealous of how clever she was. Sarah never told her it was all true.

  All of it.

  That was when their little gang really started to fall apart. Was it because Tim and Paul heard too much from the other boys? Sarah had never been sure.

  And now, checking the train timetable on her phone, she realises how badly she needs to go to Tintley, to discuss all of this with the one person who just might understand.

  Lily.

  For a whole year, Sarah has convinced herself that Antony and Karl are to blame for whatever has happened to Anna. But new and confused thoughts are bubbling up within her and getting stronger every day.

  Because Sarah keeps thinking of her father turning up to watch the school’s production of Les Misérables out of the blue. How much he went on and on about how stunning Anna was in the show.

  And she cannot forget the truth about what happened in London. The truth about what happened in the club. And the text.

  The text she has been afraid to tell anyone about.

  WATCHING . . .

  8pm

  I pick those I watch very carefully.

  They need to be special. Sometimes I pick them because I love them and I know how much they need me, and sometimes I pick them because I hate them. I never pick anyone in-between. Why bother if you don’t feel strongly?

  Right now it is difficult because I have had to stop watching for a little while. It is frust
rating. Churns me up – like needing a cigarette.

  But somehow you have to stay calm. You have to be much cleverer than the people you watch. You have to keep your face looking just right. Speak in the right tone.

  This is also the bit I am very good at.

  The right face.

  The right tone.

  So that you don’t know who I’m watching. Or why.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE WITNESS

  Luke got the text late last night. Emily has lost the baby. We were up most of the night talking, going around and around in circles.

  Luke is so shaken – sadness and relief and terrible guilt all mixed up together. She won’t speak to him on the phone. He got through once but she just cried, and texted him asking to leave her alone. She doesn’t know how to feel. No one does.

  I have never seen Luke this low. This sad. I am still keeping him off school. He is getting worried about how much he has missed, but I take the view he can either catch up or sit the year again if necessary. I very much want to stay around to support him today, but I have a dilemma again. I have wedding flowers to finish for a delivery van arriving at 8 a.m. The bouquets need to be at the bride’s house by 10.30 a.m. latest, and the rest of the flowers at the reception venue soon after. I have tried phoning a couple of friends in the trade to see if they can take over the order as an emergency favour, but no one is free.

  So what can I do? Let a bride down?

  Tony is away for two nights meeting other area managers – one of those team-building specials. He couldn’t get out of it, as the MD might be there. So I have to make the call. Is it wise to leave Luke, and is it safe to be in the shop early on my own now that the new security is in place?

  We’ve had new locks and an alarm installed, but the blessed system has been malfunctioning and the families that live over the row of shops have been complaining. Something is accidentally tripping it. I’ve had three false call-outs so far, and quite frankly, I’m sick of it. The system cost us a lot of money and it isn’t good enough. The installer keeps making excuses on the phone, implying it is something to do with the way I set it. But I am not stupid, and I have followed the instructions absolutely to the letter.