WATCHING YOU_The gripping edge-of-the-seat thriller with a stunning twist.

by Lynda Renham

  ‘It will still be fucking freezing though,’ retorted Ben.

  His body felt like a coiled spring. Ewan Galbreith got off lightly. If Edward fucking Owen hadn’t poked his nose in, Galbreith would be in intensive care. Now, he climbed the stairs to the flat slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Ben,’ Patti called. Her voice was anxious. She came to the kitchen door.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked nervously.

  She stopped at the expression on Ben’s face and took a step back. Her eyes took in his bruised knuckles.

  ‘I didn’t know if you’d be back for dinner, so I haven’t made anything. I can do cheese on toast though,’ she said.

  She was wearing a skimpy dress and the heating was on high. Ben’s jaw twitched.

  ‘Put something decent on,’ he snapped his voice hard and even.

  ‘I thought you would …’

  He rushed towards her. She tried to hurry past him, but he grabbed her by the arm. The skimpy dress had enraged him even more. He dragged her crying into the bedroom.

  ‘Put something decent on you disgusting little whore. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out what you’d been up to?’

  ‘Ben,’ she pleaded.

  Her whiney voice irritated him and he sprung towards her, slapping her hard across the face. The blow left a red swelling. Ben slapped her three more times, splitting her upper lip and bruising her eye. Patti’s body trembled with shock.

  ‘Ben …’ she begged, grabbing at his arm.

  He pulled his arm back and slapped her again. Her screams resounding in his ears. Patti sobbed and curled herself into a ball on the bed. He’d hit her harder than he’d thought for he could see her eyelid had ballooned out of proportion and her nose looked misshapen. He threw a tissue at her and walked from the room.

  ‘Fucking whore,’ he shouted.

  Chapter Eleven

  Present day

  Fran stood at the entrance to Greg’s Garage and wrinkled her nose at the smell of engine oil and diesel fumes. It was hot, too hot. Fran hated the hot weather. Give her below zero temperatures any time.

  ‘He’s there,’ Greg said in a gruff voice.

  She followed his finger to a pair of tatty trainers that poked out from under a Peugeot.

  ‘Ewan, someone to see you,’ he yelled over the noise of a radio. Brown Eyed Girl was playing. Fran bloody hated that song.

  ‘Can you turn that down?’ she said pointing to the radio.

  Greg sighed and switched it off.

  ‘He’s done his time. Why can’t you leave him in peace?’

  Fran ignored him and focused her attention on the tatty trainers. It was Ewan Galbreith she’d come to see. She’d never imagined she would ever come face to face with him again. Her mind strayed back to fifteen years earlier. She’d been young and eager in those days. Not like now. She felt tired and weary now. Weary of the crimes that never get solved. Weary of being alone. She never pictured this being her life fifteen years ago. Stupid, that’s what she’d been. Fantasising about Mike in that ridiculous fashion and living in hope that he would notice her when all he ever noticed was his whisky bottle. The Owen murders had been her first big case. She still thought about it. Still tried to find that missing piece of the jigsaw, but she knew she wouldn’t. Not now. Mike said it didn’t exist outside of her head and maybe he was right. Ewan Galbreith had threatened all of them. ‘I’ll make you all sorry,’ he’d screamed as he was taken down. Libby had never forgotten those words or the other threats he’d made. They would have haunted her every day for the past fifteen years, and now here he was, ready to carry out those threats. Fran couldn’t let that happen. Not on her watch. She remembered his twisted features the last time she had seen him, his eyes fierce with rage and his lips tight. Libby had clutched Fran’s arm. She’d had no one else.

  The clatter of tools brought Fran back to the present. The tatty trainers pushed forward, and a lean muscular body slid out from beneath the Peugeot. He’d jumped up before she had time to prepare herself. He wasn’t what she was expecting. Time had stupidly stood still in her head. He wasn’t the same Ewan Galbreith of fifteen years earlier, any more than she was the same Fran Marshall. Fifteen years inside had changed him. All the same, he still looked good at thirty-nine which was more than could be said for her. He looked stronger and heavier than when she last saw him. He’d been a young man then. His eyes met hers and didn’t leave them. She fought to hold his gaze. She let her eyes linger on the small scar over his left eye.

  ‘Well, look who it is,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Fran Marshall.’

  She remembered that deep and melodic accent. If it had belonged to anyone else, it might have been charming.

  ‘Inspector Fran Marshall,’ she corrected. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Fifteen years, that’s how long it’s been.’

  She was painfully aware of the spanner that hung from his hand. Don’t rile him, she told herself. People don’t change.

  ‘You got out early?’ she said coldly.

  ‘Good behaviour,’ he smiled but his eyes remained cold and hard.

  ‘Staying on the coast?’ she asked.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  He turned to wipe his hands on a rag and she took the opportunity to relax her tense body slightly.

  ‘Not thinking of leaving Padley any time soon are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I might and I might not,’ he said, meeting her gaze again. ‘Any reason I shouldn’t?’

  ‘Are you on Facebook Ewan?’

  ‘Why, do you want to be my friend?’

  ‘Don’t play smarmy with me Galbreith.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Sure I’m on Facebook. A guy like me who’s been banged up for fifteen years is going to have loads of friends. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’d better keep away from Libby Owen is what I think. You know the rules. You come within one hundred yards of her and I’ll have you thrown back into the nick quicker than you can say friend request.’

  ‘Why would I be interested in Libby Owen?’ he asked with a sneer.

  Fran smiles for the first time. She doesn’t need her notes. Ewan’s words are printed on her brain.

  “I’ll get you, all of you. Don’t think you’re safe because I’m going down. I’ll be out one day and then you’ll all be sorry.” ‘Remember those words Ewan?’

  ‘Can’t say I do. I was twenty-four. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘One hundred yards, Ewan. You understand?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, popping a strip of gum into his mouth.

  She turned and started to walk from the garage.

  ‘Inspector. It sounds good. Did you get your man too?’

  She felt herself blush.

  ‘Stay out of trouble Ewan,’ she said turning to face him.

  ‘Yes mam,’ he said with a mock salute.

  She left the garage and headed back to her car. She didn’t relish the thought of getting into its hot interior. She felt Ewan’s eyes on her back and shivered. Maybe she’d drive over to Mike’s place and see what he makes of this Facebook business. If only Libby had stayed in bloody Cornwall. It would have been so much easier to monitor things. She detested her contact with Scotland Yard. They’d assigned some young eager sergeant to the case.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ he’d said cockily. ‘If that murdering little bastard tries to get near her then he’ll have me to contend with.’

  Fran had just sighed wearily. He reminded her of the young Fran of fifteen years earlier. Would he be world weary fifteen years on, she wondered?

  ‘I’d prefer it if you liaise with me before doing anything,’ she’d said. But she doubted he’d even heard her.

  She started the engine and drove from the garage without looking back.

  Chapter Twelve

  Fifteen years earlier

  Ewan grimaced as pain shot through his arm.

  ‘I can get the stable lad to move it,’ Molly said, se
eing him wince.

  ‘I’ve got one good hand,’ said Ewan.

  ‘You’re stubborn, you are.’

  Molly stood the other side of the Christmas tree and helped Ewan pull it forward.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said.

  She began to place the stack of Christmas presents that sat on the dining room table around the tree. Ewan walked to an ornate sideboard and opened it, pulling a bottle of whisky from inside.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Molly, wide-eyed.

  ‘Getting something to kill this pain,’ he grimaced.

  ‘You can’t just help yourself.’

  Ewan ignored her and poured a large measure into a glass and downed it in one.

  ‘If Edward Owen saw you …’ she began.

  Ewan put the bottle back and exhaled. The bastard had fractured his arm. He’d like to think Patti was worth it, but he knew she wasn’t. He’d bloody deserved it. They’d never have done this much damage if he’d been ready for them. Faceless cowards, but he’d known who they were long before Edward had ripped off their balaclavas. His jaw throbbed and the stitches above his eye felt tight. He knew if Owen hadn’t come to the barn that night he would surely be dead now. He’d let it lie. No point stirring it up more. Besides, he was in no fit state to do anything. His ribs were bruised and his arm was in a plaster cast. He’d never let on just how much he hurt.

  He walked into the kitchen with the glass, topped it up with water and swallowed two painkillers from the bottle in his pocket.

  ‘You shouldn’t mix those with whisky. Don’t you ever learn?’

  He turned to see Edward Owen standing in the doorway. Molly hurried from the dining room.

  ‘Oh, he didn’t take any whisky,’ she said.

  ‘They work well together,’ said Ewan.

  Molly sighed. Ewan walked a tightrope. It was as though he enjoyed the excitement of getting caught.

  ‘Just be sober for the shoot this afternoon,’ said Edward, leaving the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t know how you keep this job. You want to watch yourself. There’s a lot of people would like that gamekeeper’s cottage of yours,’ said Molly.

  Ewan didn’t answer but went through the door that led to the gunroom. He’d clean and check the guns, that shouldn’t cause him too much pain and then he’d go to the pub for lunch. The shoot wasn’t until two. He’d got plenty of time. A few more glasses of whisky and he’d feel fine.

  *

  The pub was quiet when he walked in. He looked around and then made his way to the bar.

  ‘A whisky, Luke,’ he said to the landlord.

  The darts trophy stood proudly on the bar.

  ‘You alright Ewan?’ asked Luke.

  ‘Oh yeah, I’m just great.’

  ‘You’ve got a shoot at Manstead later, haven’t you?’

  The door opened and Dianne hurried to him.

  ‘I just heard. You stupid idiot, are you okay?’ she said tearfully. ‘Why didn’t you let us know you were at the hospital?’

  He lifted the arm that was in the sling.

  ‘It’s nothing. Three cowardly bastards who didn’t even have the balls to show their faces.’

  ‘I warned you,’ she hissed.

  He smiled but it was difficult, and she saw the strain on his face and tears sprang to her eyes.

  ‘Please promise me you won’t get involved with any of that lot. No revenge, Ewan, okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he smiled, throwing back the whisky.

  ‘You want lunch?’ asked Luke.

  Ewan nodded.

  ‘On the house,’ smiled Luke. ‘You’re Padley’s star don’t forget.’

  ‘Alright Ewan,’ shouted someone from across the room.

  Ewan lifted his hand.

  ‘Bastards,’ said someone else. ‘You get them Ewan.’

  Ewan didn’t respond. He wanted a quiet lunch, another whisky and then he’d be fortified enough for the shoot. He promised Dianne he’d go to hers for dinner the next night and after she’d left he paid for his drink and went outside. He hovered at the entrance to the little supermarket where Patti worked. He stood there for a while, shrugged and then began the walk back to Manstead. Patti saw him first. She was on her way to work to do the afternoon shift. She stopped, lowered her head and turned back. Ewan saw her. She began to run, and he had trouble catching her. He reached for her arm, spun her around and fought back a gasp. He put his knuckles to his mouth and bit hard on them. Her face was a mass of bruises. He couldn’t see her eye for the dark red swelling. Her beautiful sultry lips were puffy and huge. Tears ran down her cheeks. She hadn’t wanted Ewan to see her face like this.

  ‘Let me go Ewan,’ she begged.

  He couldn’t stop looking at her.

  ‘Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘He did this to you?’

  ‘I made a fool of him.’

  Ewan wanted to clench his fists but he couldn’t. He bit hard on his lip making his jaw ache and punched a nearby door with his good fist.

  ‘Ewan,’ Patti pleaded.

  ‘I’ll kill him,’ he vowed.

  ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘He took it out on me that was enough. A man doesn’t hit a woman.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said anxiously.

  He nodded.

  Ewan looked over at Ben’s boat as it bobbed in the bay. Ewan’s father was a fisherman. Ewan knew when they went out and what time they came back. He pulled the collar up on his jacket and began whistling.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Present day

  Libby

  The café in Chelsea was Fran’s choice. I would never have chosen it. It smelt of greasy fry-ups and cheap coffee. Students lounged on sofas and sipped cappuccinos. It’s the ‘in place’ if you’re young, but neither Fran nor I are young any more. There were other places we could have met. I’d suggested them, but she’d been firm about coming here. I look around at the faceless people sitting at the tables eating cholesterol laden all-day breakfasts. I search for Fran’s face and find it at a table by the window. She’d been watching the street, waiting for me to arrive. It’s been twelve years since we last saw each other. It was natural she would be curious. She looks tired. The years haven’t been kind to her. Her skin is sallow. She looks hot and uncomfortable and fans herself with a menu. Her pale grey eyes widen at the sight of me. I no doubt look very different from when she last saw me. She stands up revealing black cotton slacks and a long sleeved checked shirt,

  ‘It’s too damn hot,’ she grumbles wiping perspiration from her forehead.

  ‘Thirty degrees,’ I say.

  ‘You look well,’ she says pointing to the chair opposite her.

  I see she’s been nursing a mug of iced tea.

  ‘Am I late?’ I ask.

  ‘I got an earlier train. Don’t worry. The tea here is good.’

  ‘You should have phoned me. After all, you’ve come all this way. I could have come sooner.’

  ‘It’s not that far,’ she smiles and for a brief moment she looks younger.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asks.

  I try not to show my distaste, but she sees it.

  ‘I couldn’t have met you in the restaurants you suggested,’ she says. ‘You understand that.’

  I nod.

  ‘I’ll have a latte,’ I say.

  She gets up to order it and I quickly clean the table with a wet wipe from my bag. She returns with the latte and two slices of cake. She places one in front of me.

  ‘You don’t have to eat it,’ she says.

  ‘Did you see him?’ I ask. There seems little point in niceties. She’s travelled all the way from Cornwall to tell me. There’s no point wasting any more of her time.

  ‘Yes I did.’

  I realise I’m holding my breath.

  ‘Did you recognise him? Does he look very different?’

  She frowns.

  ‘I can’t discuss his appearance with you Libby. I did tell you that on the phone.’
>
  I clench my fists in irritation. The bastard has threatened me, and is still threatening me, and I’m supposed to understand that no one can tell me what he looks like?

  ‘Did you confront him with the Facebook friend request?’

  Fran looks me in the eye.

  ‘I didn’t accuse him Libby.’

  I sigh.

  ‘Whose side are you on Fran?’

  ‘It’s not a matter of sides Libby.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ I say, raising my voice. ‘You’re supposed to be protecting me, not him.’

  ‘So far he hasn’t done anything,’ she says, her voice even.

  I lean across the table.

  ‘But you know it was him,’ I persist.

  ‘We don’t know anything.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t Uncle Edward was it?’ I say fighting to keep the sarcasm from my voice and failing miserably.

  Fran sips her tea, her face impassive.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  Her expression softens.

  ‘I understand your anxiety Libby, but there’s a limit to what we can do. So far Ewan Galbreith hasn’t done anything. It could be anyone.’

  ‘He murdered my aunt and uncle,’ I say bitterly.

  ‘He’s done time for that. I can’t arrest him just because you had a friend request on Facebook.’

  ‘You know it’s him.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘He knows my new name.’

  I push the latte away from me. The smell of it is making me nauseous. Surely we could have gone somewhere decent to discuss this? The frustration is overpowering. I want to scream to release it.

  ‘Are you telling me that I’ve got to wait until he does something, and only then you’d take action? What about all that crap you feed me on the phone? I’m only a phone call away Libby.’

  The words seem to pain her and I look away. It’s not her fault. It’s the whole stupid fucking system. Wait until he kills you and then we can do something.

  ‘You need to get it into perspective Libby. He’s served fifteen years. He doesn’t want to go back. Why would he risk that?’

  ‘I’m not in his head,’ I say, standing up. ‘He’s a maniac. Who knows what he’s capable of?