Not enough time. Sarah glances about and sees a waste-paper bin by the side of the sofa. She grabs it just in time, retching. Once. Twice. Not real sickness, just fluid. Retching over and over.
‘I’ll get water.’ Lily is gone, presumably to the kitchen.
Sarah keeps the basket on her lap and holds her breath, wondering if they are going to say that Anna’s body has been found. That she really is dead . . .
But no. There is a witness who says she has seen a young blonde woman. It makes no sense. They do not confirm that it is Anna, just hint.
Sarah changes channels, and each one seems to have a slightly different version. One witness is sure he heard five gunshots. Another says two. The ticker tape of headlines says there are no confirmed casualties but a large area is still fully sealed off.
Sarah checks her phone again to read the messages, in case one of her friends has more information. Facebook is going mad. Twitter, too.
She searches for Jenny’s number in her phone – the Ballards will surely know the most – but as her finger hovers over the button to ring, she changes her mind and skims again through Facebook.
Lily is now back, with iced water. Drink this.
She sips the water but the taste in her mouth remains foul, and it is as if there is some kind of distance between her and the room around her. Difficult to explain. A disconnect. She feels a little bit dizzy, too. Maybe the retching. Her stomach.
‘Do I need to get a doctor, Sarah? You look terrible. What did the hospital say? I think I should phone Mum . . .’
‘No, Lily. They said I’m OK. My liver’s OK. I’m just a bit weak still, from too long in bed.’
‘When did you last eat?’
‘I don’t feel hungry.’
‘OK. No food. I’ll make another hot drink . . . with sugar this time.’ Lily is standing again.
‘Not yet. Please don’t leave me on my own again.’ Sarah is surprised at the pleading in her tone. The fear.
Lily must see this, too, because she tilts her head and sits down alongside Sarah, taking her hand in her own. It is meant to be reassuring, but Sarah can feel her sister’s hand trembling. ‘Oh, Sarah. Did you really mean to hurt yourself with those pills? Mum said it was an accident. That you took too many tablets for a migraine.’
‘I don’t know. You used to hurt yourself, didn’t you? Did you really mean to?’
Lily’s lip is trembling also now, and she grips Sarah’s hand as she turns to look at the TV.
‘So – what are they saying? Have they found her? It was nothing to do with Dad, then? It really was one of the men on the train?’
Sarah looks at the screen and does not know how to answer. There is a picture of Karl, and the presenter is saying he is the armed man believed to be in the flat. She does not know what to think. The shot switches back to the reporter standing in front of the police tape in Spain. Again she repeats the same stuff. Why do they do this on rolling news? Say the same stuff time and time again. Going round and round in circles.
The truth is this does not make it any better. She wants to believe Anna is alive, of course she does. But what has been happening this past year? And if they really did take her – Karl and Antony – if this has nothing whatsoever to do with her father, then it is still Sarah’s fault. She will have to tell the truth about London.
She thinks back to the four of them in that train carriage. The flirting. Catching Antony’s eye. She remembers the small tattoo at the nape of his neck. Wanting so much to touch it with her nail.
She remembers how very alive she felt. How when Karl and Antony went to fetch drinks from the buffet she said to Anna that she was glad that Tim and Paul bailed on the trip. She knew there was no way that Karl and Antony would have joined them if Tim and Paul were around, cramping their style. But most of all Sarah remembers desperately wanting Antony to like her and not Anna. She thinks again of how jealous she felt watching Anna in the spotlight in school. Everyone looking at how beautiful she was. How during that spell when Sarah quite fancied Paul, it was Anna he was always staring at, not her. Everyone seemed to have a crush on Anna back then.
And she can feel a tear on her cheek now, as she thinks again of what she did on the train that day. To make sure that Antony liked her the best.
‘I’m in big trouble, Lily.’ She does not bother to wipe the tears, watching the colour of her trousers darken with the little drips. ‘I’m not a good person.’
‘Don’t say that, Sarah. This is not your fault.’
‘Oh, but it is, Lily. Trust me, it is.’
CHAPTER 34
THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Matthew is staring at his daughter. ‘She’s smiling at me.’
‘No, she’s not. She’s doing a poo.’
‘Look.’ He twists his body so that Sal can see better. ‘That’s a smile.’
‘A poo. Trust me. Babies don’t smile for the first few weeks. So, do you want to try your first nappy change?’
‘Oh God. I don’t know.’ Matthew is shocked at the wave of fear. He has always promised to be hands-on. A modern dad. But he had no idea she would be this little.
‘Well, you’ve got to learn some time. Wait until she cries and I’ll supervise.’
‘How do you know she’s going to cry?’
His wife looks at him as if he has not been paying attention.
The intensity of the wail when it comes is still a shock. Matthew cannot understand how such small lungs can make such a loud noise.
He watches the strain on his wife’s face as she struggles out of bed to help him.
‘Still really sore?’
‘Yeah. They’ve cut back on the painkillers. Bummer.’
‘Ask for more.’
‘Nah. I’m OK. Gotta get on with it. OK, Daddy. So first you need to get absolutely everything ready.’ She points out the kit alongside the changing mat, which is on a trolley beside the cot. Clean nappy, wipes, cream, nappy sack for the debris. She chants this as if it is a military operation.
‘She tends to cry until it’s all over, so don’t worry that you’re hurting her. You’re not.’
Matthew lays his daughter on the plastic changing mat and has already forgotten the sequence, panicking as he undoes the poppers of her sleepsuit.
‘Pull it right up high or you’ll have to change that as well.’
Right. Tabs on the stinky nappy first.
‘Oh my God. Is that colour normal?’ The stench is incredible.
‘For now, yes. It was worse yesterday. The poo changes colour apparently, as she settles.’
Matthew is appalled. Green poo. That can’t be right, surely?
‘Quickly. The wipes. Hold her legs up and be careful not to sweep near her fold or you’ll give her an infection.’
Her fold. Dear Lord. There’s so much to worry about – Matthew is wishing that he had paid more attention in the classes they attended.
‘I don’t have enough hands.’
Sal, rolling her eyes, shows him how to lift both their daughter’s legs up with one hand while sweeping the new nappy in place and disposing of the debris. For some reason a chicken comes to mind. He pushes the thought away.
‘Talk to her.’
‘Doesn’t seem much point to me.’ Matthew can hardly hear his own voice over the crying.
His wife laughs. ‘OK. Bit of talc, and some of this cream just here so she doesn’t get sore.’
And then the miracle. At last their daughter stops wailing and is holding onto Sal’s ring finger, turning her eyes to the side as if looking for her mother. Matthew watches. Waits. The moment is suddenly so tender, watching their daughter’s face soft and settled, that Matthew is overwhelmed by a surge of disbelief and overwhelming love for them both. He looks from one to the other in this pause, and again cannot help thinking of his work. His past. That mother whose baby was snatched. Thinking of Ella. Of missing Anna. Her parents in Cornwall. The new lens on everything.
‘You OK, Matthew?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Sure.’
He helps Sal to pick up their daughter and move her back to the cot.
‘It gets easier, Matt.’
‘Does it?’
‘Yeah. When they leave home, apparently.’
He laughs. She laughs.
‘She’ll sleep for a bit now.’ And then Sal eases herself gingerly back into bed. ‘Go on then, put the telly on. Check your case.’
‘I’m fine. I’m getting updates by phone.’
He has told Sally about the drama in Spain, but has been trying desperately hard not to let it encroach on this space.
‘They’re all talking about it. The nurses.’
‘Are they?’
‘Yeah, of course. I haven’t told them. You know. What you do. That you’re sort of involved. Go on – put it on. I don’t mind. Really.’
Matthew picks up the control from the foot of her bed and tries the BBC and then Sky. A text from Melanie has confirmed the negotiating team is on site now. She’s heard through Cathy, embedded with the Ballards, that Karl’s identity has been confirmed, though this is not being released to the media. He claims to have a hostage. Says it’s Anna. Again this has not been released publicly – though witnesses are giving interviews left, right and centre, and the police communications team are in meltdown, unable to control the situation at all.
‘Sounds as if it has all gotten pretty out of hand.’
‘Yeah. Wouldn’t want to be in the post-mortem meeting on this one.’
‘Do you remember you considered doing a psych degree? To retrain as a negotiator?’
Matthew merely smiles. It was in the early days, when he so badly regretted leaving the force, wondering if there was another way back. Another role. He even did a short preliminary course – an introduction to negotiating. Fascinating. But then the financial reality kicked in. How could he possibly afford to study when he had this new business to build?
‘It’s all changed so much, with suicide attacks.’
‘How do you mean?’ Sal is glancing at the cot. All still quiet.
‘Well, the gold standard for hostage situations used to be to avoid intervention at all costs. Nearly always goes pear-shaped. Biggest risk for fatalities.’
‘And now?’
‘Well, with suicide attacks, there’s nothing to negotiate. So they’re learning you need to go in pretty fast. Whole different approach.’
‘But the team in Spain now. That will be old-school? I mean – he’s just a criminal, this guy Karl. Not a terrorist.’
‘Yeah, sure. They’ll try it by the book with him.’
‘So how does it work, then? What happens now?’ She is looking at the television screen.
Matthew shares what he learned. That they will probably try to use the landline. Assign one key negotiator initially. Work hard to build up a rapport.
‘The aim is to calm everything down, especially when he’s been trigger-happy. They won’t mention Anna too much.’
‘Why not?’
‘The advice is to keep it all about the hostage-taker, not the hostage. Establish trust. Mentioning the hostage or hostages too much tends to rank up the stress. Though in this case they might ask for evidence she’s safe. Given some shots were fired.’
‘I still don’t get it. How he could keep her hostage for a year without her doing a runner? Seems weird to me. Didn’t they say he works on a building site? Wouldn’t she make a break for it?’
This is no time or place to share what Matthew is really thinking. That maybe this guy Karl ties her up. Threatens her. God knows what; victims can get psychologically damaged quickly if the abuse is extreme.
‘Could be Stockholm Syndrome, where the victim develops a misplaced bond through the trauma.’ Matthew watches his wife as he says this.
‘I’ve read about that, Matt, but I still don’t understand. I’d definitely try to get away. I’m absolutely sure I would.’
‘Enough.’ Matthew switches off the telly, wanting the update but not wanting his wife and his daughter involved in this.
‘Want a coffee or something from the machines?’
‘Cappuccino. Oh, and chocolate. Nasty, sweet milk chocolate, please. Big bar.’ She is smiling as she says this, and Matthew feels guilty because what he really wants is an excuse to make a couple of phone calls to Ella and Mel.
‘And don’t stay on the phone too long while you’re away. I want that coffee hot when you bring it back.’
‘Busted.’
She blows him a kiss and he wonders how he ever got this lucky. Sal has always understood what his work means to him, especially after what happened – why he left the force. He pauses, realising only now why so many police officers struggle to balance work and home: both so important but both so full on, so emotionally intense. And he realises, too, that he was right – he will never get to do the psychology degree now. He thinks of the tiny bundle in the pink babygro, eyes drowsy but still searching for her mother.
Everything is so very different now. Life suddenly has different priorities. Yes – a different lens.
CHAPTER 35
THE WITNESS
I am glad that Tony is coming home. Luke was right. I need him.
The problem is I feel so churned up, my head racing with so many thoughts. I wonder what is real now and what is paranoia. It is as if this whole past year has overloaded my system and I can no longer think straight.
Am I so stressed now that I am imagining things? The noises at the shop. Being sure I am being watched. That someone actually came in and moved the secateurs. Dropped the map-viewer outside. Did I imagine it all? Am I conjuring these things?
I don’t want to believe Luke is capable of wanting to frighten me, however upset or neglected he might feel. It can’t be that. So – what?
I am in the comfort of the sitting room, watching it all on the big television. No. Comfort is the wrong word. Nothing feels comfortable anymore. Even in bed at night, I just can’t keep still, taking hours to drift off to sleep.
I have taken the maximum paracetamol dose today but they don’t seem to be working. My head is still pounding.
Luke is upstairs, and pops down once in a while to offer a drink, probably prompted by his father by text, in the same way he’s reminded of Mother’s Day and my birthday. Every time he appears again at the door, I examine his expression closely, wondering if I should just ask him outright. Challenge him and get this sorted. Tell him that I won’t be cross but that I need to know. Have you been more upset with me than you’re letting on? Over the sadness with Emily? Over my preoccupation with this Anna case? Did you come to the shop for some reason I can’t work out?
I look over at the bookcase alongside the media unit that holds the telly and the DVD player. On the top are favourite pictures. Luke as a baby. First day at school. Receiving his medal for his first Ten Tors. God, I was so proud that day. The schools make out it is a standard thing in Devon and Cornwall: to take on the ‘ten tors’, a walking challenge on Dartmoor, as if it is no big deal. A rite of passage for living in such a beautiful place. But the reality, to be frank, is a shock. I wouldn’t want to do it in a month of Sundays, and I was surprised that Luke was so keen.
He likes basketball but is otherwise not someone you would describe as especially sporty. Never did the Scouts or anything like that. More into his music, really.
For the Ten Tors challenge, they have to walk in teams of six – with no adult supervision – and they have to carry all their own kit to camp overnight on Dartmoor. The routes are a minimum of thirty-five miles, to be completed in two days, and the terrain is dangerous if the weather goes pear-shaped. Which it very often does.
The army supervises the whole thing, and there are checkpoints at each of the ten tors to prove they have completed the route. But in between that contact, the young teams are entirely on their own. And things can – and do – go wrong.
Once a girl drowned during a training exercise. It was so shocking and the
re was a big review. I thought, maybe even secretly hoped, they might scrap the whole thing, but no. They just have very strict guidelines.
Schools right across the south-west take part and it gets seriously competitive. Grammar schools versus comps. Private schools versus state. Good-humoured but serious nonetheless. Every team hopes to come in first. Fastest.
The training programme stretches months, as the teenagers have to build up their stamina and skill set. Map-reading. Fitness. Camping. They have to carry tents and cooking equipment and sterilise their own water, too. Loads of kids drop out. But not our Luke. He really surprised us – not only did he stick at it, but in the end he was made team leader. And that first expedition went so well that he went back for more. He did the thirty-five-mile trek that first year, and the tougher forty-five-mile challenge last year.
So – yes. I was prouder than I can ever explain when he stepped up for that photograph to get his first medal. Hundreds and hundreds of teenagers milling everywhere, but I remember hearing his name over the tannoy and taking in that beam of pride on his face as he caught my eye. Right there in the centre of it all. His moment.
And now? Emily has ended their relationship and Luke feels terrible. So up and down. He was so different – so carefree – in that photograph, out there on Dartmoor.
The news from Spain has been going round and round in circles for hours and it is doing my head in. All the major channels have pulled back on the coverage as it is getting repetitive.
I keep thinking of the Ballards in Cornwall. What must this be like for them?
And there it is again. That knot deep within my stomach. Because this really is it. The reckoning. No escaping the fact that I was right to feel guilty. That Karl or Antony or both of them took that girl and did God knows what, all because I made the wrong decision. Because I made a snap judgement. Because I got on my high horse over Sarah’s behaviour.
I can feel my lip trembling but I chastise myself. No, Ella. This is not about you; this is about Anna. This is about facing up to it all now.
The only mystery that remains: the postcards. The noises at the shop. Who has been rubbing my nose in it? The postcards cannot be from Karl or Antony if they’ve been abroad all this time. So if it’s not Mrs Ballard – who?
I Am Watching You Page 17
