I Am Watching You Page 3

  The truth is the story has been forgotten. Until the programme tonight, no one else will have given it a second thought. That’s how it works – why it’s so difficult for the police. It’s all people talk about one minute, and then the next, everyone forgets.

  Then today another card arrived. Black again, with a nastier message. BITCH . . . HOW DO YOU SLEEP?

  So that I see it even more clearly now. This is my fault. This is to pay me back, not just for what I didn’t do for Anna, but for going down there in the summer.

  I know exactly who the postcards are from now . . .

  CHAPTER 5

  THE FATHER

  Henry Ballard checks his watch and whistles for Sammy.

  In the distance, he can see smoke just emerging from one of the holiday lets – a former barn that was once his father’s destination at this same time of an evening. The final check of the livestock before supper.

  Henry still takes the same stroll each night himself, but with a quiet sorrow now.

  Anna’s voice haunting him as he walks.

  You disgust me, Dad . . .

  Henry closes his eyes and waits for the voice to quieten. By the time he opens his eyes there is a stronger curl of smoke from the chimney ahead.

  It all made economic sense, of course. The conversions. It became Barbara’s favourite phrase, and the bank’s, too. Makes good economic sense, Henry.

  The agricultural success story that was Ladbrook Farm had been four generations in the making. It survived the rise and fall of local mining. It survived the changing tastes of the consumer market. It won rosettes for rare breeds. It even branched out into daffodils at one point. But the segue from full working farm to what his colleagues now dismiss as Still playing at it, H? took but a blink.

  Tourism is the business he is in now, not farming. And yes – it makes absolute sense financially. One set of barns was converted and sold to pay off all the outstanding loans more than a decade back. A second set is now rental properties, and that is more than enough income on top of the teashop and campsite – and certainly more regular profit than his father or his grandfather had dared hope for.

  The truth? They put in the slog, his ancestors. They paid off the bulk of the debts to the banks with blood, sweat and tears, too. And him? What has he done?

  He has reaped the rewards. There isn’t an evening that Henry Ballard has not felt wretched about that.

  So yes – he is still playing at it. Messing about on the fringe with his sheep – barely worth the feed – and his tiny rare-breed beef herd.

  He has taken this same walk with a heavy heart for years. And now, since Anna?

  Henry winces again at the memory of his daughter beside him in the car.

  You disgust me . . .

  ‘So what’s left now?’ he says out loud as Sammy nuzzles his hand, amber eyes turned up to check his master’s. The dog still sits under Anna’s chair every night during supper. Unbearable.

  Henry pats Sammy’s head, then sets off for the farmhouse. He is dreading the evening ahead but has promised Barbara they will watch the anniversary appeal together, so he must not be late. They have talked at length about how to handle this, worrying about what is best for Jenny, who has perhaps coped the worst of all. The sister without a sister.

  Only eighteen months between the girls – so sweet and so close, especially when they were little. Oh sure, there were fights, too, the usual sibling rivalry, but they were always friends by bedtime, often choosing to share a room, even though there were bedrooms to spare. Henry thinks for a moment of how he used to peek through their door to check on them last thing at night, all arms and legs and pink pyjamas, curled up in a double bed.

  That punch to his gut again. Jenny is still not sleeping. Barbara is still not sleeping. He has no idea how they are all supposed to manage it, this TV appeal. The glare of the spotlight all over again.

  An invitation to the studios in London was declined as out of the question. Barbara would never have coped with a live interview. No. Henry put his foot down, not least because time around the police made him so very nervous. So all the filming had been done in advance at the house. They had dug out an old video, too, from when Anna was tiny.

  He pauses, clenching his fist at the memory of the camera in his hand; Barbara calling directions in the background. A gaggle of friends round for a birthday treat, all of them in fancy dress – cowboys and fairy costumes. A huge chocolate cake with candles. Get some shots of her blowing out the candles, Henry. Make sure you don’t miss a shot of the candles . . . He thinks of that other version of his wife – Barbara beaming and bustling, at her happiest when the house was full of children and noise and chaos.

  Henry clears his throat and leans down to stroke Sammy’s head again, feeling the familiar wave of connection. Man to dog. Man and dog to land.

  So – yes. They agreed to release some of the birthday video, as the police said moving pictures tended to bring in more calls, which was, of course, the whole point. This first anniversary was a key opportunity, they were told, to resurrect interest in the case. To bring in new leads. To try to find the men from the train. But he and Barbara worry very much about the strain on Jenny. She is also in the clip chosen by the TV producers, smiling alongside her sister, and Barbara and Henry had sat down and made it absolutely clear that if Jenny were even the tiniest bit uncomfortable, they could say no and come up with something else, or ask if her image could be blanked out in some way. But what had broken Henry was how their elder daughter reacted.

  It was as if she suddenly saw this light go on, a window of opportunity in the wretched grind of guilt and helplessness. Suddenly her eyes were shining and she was saying that of course she didn’t mind people seeing her in a fairy costume with wings. Dear God. If it might help them find Anna.

  And then she was off to her room, shouting that he was to follow her. There were loads of old pictures in boxes in one of the cupboards. She would dig them out. And could he call the police? Right now, Daddy. Loads of really great pictures. Do you remember? When we used to fool about in those automatic booths. The gang. Me, Sarah and Anna and Paul and Tim. She found an example – the five of them pulling faces – and held it out to him.

  Henry sucks in the cold air as he remembers Anna in the centre of her friends, and closes his eyes.

  You disgust me . . .

  He had guessed the police wouldn’t want the pictures. And they didn’t. They just wanted the film. And when he told poor Jenny that the police were very grateful – and he and Mummy were, too – for all the time she had put in, finding the other pictures, her eyes had changed right back to how they always looked now. Sort of only half there.

  ‘Come on then, Sammy. Time to do this.’

  Taking his wellies off in the boot room, Henry can hear his wife calling up the stairs.

  ‘Now are you sure you won’t watch it with us, Jen? Down here? Daddy and I really don’t like the idea – Oh. Hang on. I can hear – Daddy’s back.’

  He walks in his socks through to the kitchen.

  ‘Great. Good. Henry. I’ve set it ready on the right channel and it’s all set to record, too. The producer has been on from the studio and they’re going to ring us. To let us know about the number of calls.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’

  ‘Jennifer is still saying that she wants to watch it in her room. I don’t feel at all happy about that, Henry. Will you try talking to her again?’

  ‘If you like. But I spoke to her this morning, love, and—’

  ‘The thing is she doesn’t have to watch it at all, if she doesn’t want to. I’ve told her that. But if she does, I don’t want her to be on her own. I don’t see why she won’t be with us. We should be together for this. Don’t you think we should be together? As a family. Watch it together.’

  Henry wonders if he should say it. The obvious: that they are no longer a family. He examines his wife’s face very closely and lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘Jenny doesn’
t want to have to see our faces, darling.’ He means hers. Barbara’s.

  ‘Our faces?’ Barbara’s expression changes as she turns the words over for a moment. She looks away to the mirror in the hall and then quickly back at him. ‘Is that what she said?’

  ‘She didn’t have to, love.’

  Henry continues to watch his wife very, very closely as she processes this properly. He makes himself look at her, right in the eye. He knows exactly why it is so difficult for Jenny to do this because he finds it so very difficult these days himself. To witness the depth of it all, written there, dark and dreadful at the very back of Barbara’s eyes. All day. Every day. No matter how hard she tries to dress it all up for Jenny with hope and smiles. With her scrapbook cuttings of the lost and found. And her endless baking.

  ‘But you’ll still talk to her? Before the programme?’ She is looking down at the floor now.

  Henry steps forward and kisses his wife on the forehead. It is a kiss of duty and he does not touch her at the same time, for he knows the rules. Their limits. Their physical life on hold; or maybe gone forever.

  ‘I’ll just wash my hands and then – yes. I’ll talk to her.’

  Jenny is sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by bits of paper. Magazines also, and old photo albums, too.

  ‘Mummy wanted me to have another word.’ Henry scans the albums. Lots more photographs of the two sisters growing up. Matching bridesmaid dresses in one. Their first day at big school together. Most of the recent pictures are stored digitally, of course, but Jenny printed off a lot of favourites after her laptop crashed one year and she lost the pictures from a whole summer. They’d already been wiped from the camera. Irretrievable.

  ‘It’s all right. I’ve asked Paul and Sarah and Tim to come over. Is that OK? I mean – Mum’s right. It might feel too upsetting to watch it on my own. But I can’t sit with Mummy. I just can’t.’

  ‘Oh. Right. I’d better have a word. Goodness.’ He checks his watch. ‘It’s just that your mother might not feel comfortable with so many other people in the house this evening.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dad. These aren’t other people. They’re my friends.’

  Henry presses his lips together. There is still an hour and a half until the programme is due to start. He takes a deep breath, trying to weigh up his own response before dealing with his wife’s.

  Barbara will cater. Sandwiches and cakes and the like. Fussing.

  Absent-mindedly he looks at his watch again. Who knows – maybe it will actually help Barbara to have something to fuss over. A distraction.

  He is surprised that Sarah’s mother Margaret does not want her at home to protect her. It has been hard for Sarah. A lot of unanswered questions. Still no one quite understands the story of how the friends became separated in London, and some people have been pointing fingers.

  Privately, Henry is not entirely disapproving. Better for people to be focusing on Sarah. . .

  Downstairs, Barbara loads the last of the dishes into the dishwasher as he explains the new turn of events.

  ‘Oh right. I see . . .’

  ‘So – what do you think? Are you OK with this? With a houseful, I mean. I realise Jenny should have discussed this with us first but I didn’t like to criticise. Not today.’

  Barbara wipes her hands on her apron and undoes the bow at the back.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea, Henry. That’s my gut instinct. I mean, I know how close they all are – were.’ She draws herself up, sucking in a breath.

  Henry waits and they let the moment hang between them. No one knows what tense to use.

  ‘But everyone’s been so on edge lately.’ She is lifting the apron loop over her head. ‘Jenny included. I’m not sure it will be helpful. Not for Jenny. I don’t want anything kicking off. Not tonight.’

  ‘It seems to be what Jenny wants.’ Henry is still staring at his wife.

  ‘I’m not sure she knows what she wants, any more than we do.’ She sighs. ‘Oh, stuff it. Say yes.’ Barbara suddenly throws the apron onto the kitchen work surface. ‘It’s going to be horrible, whoever is in the house.’

  Their conversation is interrupted by a thud upstairs. Jenny’s footsteps stamping around her bedroom above the kitchen – all the time shouting into her mobile. Most of it incoherent until they hear, ‘God, no. Please . . . no.’

  Then a terrible noise of crashing and glass smashing as objects are apparently hurled around the room.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE WITNESS

  ‘You need to take this straight to the police.’

  ‘That’s out of the question.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  I’m thrown.

  I take the latest postcard back, all the while examining Matthew Hill very closely. I had not expected this reaction. I have wrapped this new card in a plastic wallet taken from Luke’s school folder. One of those very slippery plastic wallets with holes pre-punched. Dangerous things. I slipped on one left on the floor once and bashed my shoulder really badly.

  The latest message arrived like the others, in a plain dark envelope with a printed address label. But this one is even odder and just a little more threatening. Black background again, with the lettering stuck on. KARMA. YOU WILL PAY. To start with I thought it very strange – the link with Buddhism or yoga or whatever. Weren’t they about gentleness and kindness and forgiveness? But then I looked it up online and read about karma being interpreted by some people as a kind of natural justice or comeuppance – bad consequence for bad action – and I started to go a bit cold . . .

  I have to make this stop.

  ‘I thought you investigated this kind of thing? That’s what private investigators do?’ I regret the mild sarcasm but I am tense, still staring Matthew Hill right in the eyes, just a little disorientated, too. His advert made it sound straightforward. Exeter-based PI. Ex-police. Neat. Simple. I had imagined I would say what I wanted. And he would do it. That this is how he earns his living. Like someone coming into my shop. Birthday bouquet, please. Certainly.

  ‘Look. I’ve been following the coverage. This is new evidence. The girl’s still missing, and when there is a live inquiry I have this rule that I don’t—’

  ‘Trust me, Mr Hill, this is not evidence.’

  ‘And you know this because . . . ?’

  I pause for a moment, not at all sure how much I should share.

  ‘Look. I know who this is from. It’s from the girl’s mother, Barbara Ballard. She’s very upset with me. No. That’s an understatement. She is beyond upset, and who can blame her. I certainly don’t. I brought this entirely on myself. When the first postcard arrived I admit I considered telling the police. For a moment it really shook me, frightened me. We had quite a lot of hassle after my name was leaked and I thought it was more of the same. But I realise now what this is really about. There have been three, and so I just need you to gently warn her off, please. To stop this. Otherwise my husband will find out and then he will insist we go to the police, which I don’t want for her. She’s got enough to deal with.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I’m with your husband on this. You could well be wrong.’

  ‘Look – she comes to my shop. Twice so far. Just watches me through the window. She doesn’t know that I know. Obviously . . .’

  ‘Right. So when did this start?’ His expression has changed.

  ‘We’re talking in confidence? Yes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good – because I am not reporting this, either. It really is my own fault. And I don’t just mean about the train. I went down there, you see. To Cornwall, last summer. To see the mother. My husband warned me not to and it turns out he was right. It was completely stupid of me. I see that now. Just one in a long line of mistakes I’ve made over this whole terrible business. The worst, as you will be well aware, was not phoning . . . not warning that poor family in the first place.’

  ‘You didn’t hurt the girl, Mrs Longfield. Weren’t there a coupl
e of guys in the picture. Key suspects. Just out of Exeter?’

  ‘Yes. But that makes me feel worse rather than better, Mr Hill.’

  ‘Matthew. Please call me Matthew.’

  ‘Matthew. My husband says the same thing over and over. That this is not my fault. But I’m afraid it doesn’t make me feel any better. And I can’t bear that they haven’t found her.’

  There is a hissing noise suddenly from an adjoining room. I glance to the door across the office, which is ajar, and Matthew Hill stands suddenly, his expression softening.

  ‘I tell you what. Would you like a coffee, Mrs Longfield? I make a pretty good cappuccino.’

  ‘Ella. And yes, please. It smells as if you know what you’re doing.’ I feel a smile, relaxing a little, my shoulders changing shape. ‘I am rather fond of good coffee.’

  ‘Espresso machine. Imported beans – my own mix. It’s a weakness.’

  ‘Mine too.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Sorry to be so spiky before. I was quite nervous, coming here.’

  ‘Most people are.’ His voice trails off as he disappears into what I presume is a flat alongside the office. He is gone for quite some time, eventually reappearing with a tray bearing two coffees plus a jug of foaming milk. I nod to the offer of milk.

  ‘So, tell me some more about this mother. About your visit to Cornwall. All of it. No holding back on me.’

  ‘All right. I don’t know how closely you’ve followed the case but there was an awful kerfuffle with the press when they found out that I was the witness on the train. The nationals got terribly excited. Sent all their feature writers down. Big-moral-dilemma headlines. “What would you have done?” and all that.’

  ‘Yes. I saw the stories.’ He leans forward in his chair, sipping at the drink.

  ‘All very unpleasant. I have a flower shop. It was so awful we had to shut it for a month and close our social media accounts, too. I found I couldn’t face people. Friends were very understanding but some people were a bit odd. Even regular customers. You could tell from the way they looked at me.’