I Am Watching You Read online

  He presses the button that links his dashboard to his phone and listens to it dial and ring.

  ‘DS Melanie Sanders.’

  ‘How many coffees have you had?’

  ‘Matt?’

  ‘I will ring off and ring back if you’ve not had your second caffeine hit.’

  She laughs. ‘You’d better not be after another of your favours.’

  ‘Of course I’m after a favour. But it’s two-way. I promise.’

  ‘Oh, it’s always two-way, Matt. I help you. And then I help you again.’

  Now he laughs. ‘Seriously. You up on the missing Ballard girl?’

  ‘Just the family liaison gig. One of our team, Cathy, is assigned to the family. We get updates from London – when they can be bothered. Which isn’t often. The DI on the case is a right little sir, between us. Why?’

  ‘So any of the family ever in the frame, as far as you know? Mum and dad in the clear?’

  ‘And why ever would you want to know that?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘You’d better not be meddling in a live case again, Matt. We all know where—’

  ‘Don’t worry. If I have anything for you, I promise, cross my heart and—’

  ‘Fingers crossed behind your back.’

  ‘You know me.’

  They are both quiet for a moment.

  Every time they liaise like this, Melanie tries to persuade him to reconsider. To go back into the force. She still reckons it’s an option despite all the water and the bridges, and swears that once she is sufficiently senior she will fix it, twist his arm. But Matt always turns it into a joke until they hit this silent little impasse. An understanding. She thinks he’s wasting his talent. And he’s frightened to think about that one too much.

  ‘OK. You didn’t hear this from me, Matt, but word is the parents’ marriage is not too hot. Hardly surprising. But no. Family all have alibis. Our brief is just to keep an eye on them. The DI on the case – did I mention he’s a patronising prat? – anyway, his focus is still finding the two guys on the train. Between us, there has been the usual cock-up liaising with our European friends.’

  ‘So – abroad then?’

  ‘Almost certainly. Not a squeak here. No leads at all. No forensics and nothing useful from CCTV, either. The Met are a bit touchy. Bit slow putting the brakes on border controls. But the anniversary appeal brought in some calls, apparently. We’re not being told much but I shall push. Hope to know more soon. Why?’

  ‘Nothing. Look, we must have coffee sometime soon. I’ll text you.’

  ‘So you really are meddling in a live case again?’

  ‘Moi?’

  She laughs. ‘OK. And how’s Sal, before you ring off?’

  ‘Farting gherkins. Trust me – pregnancy is a smelly business. Seriously, she’s great. Looks beautiful and serene as ever, but the gherkins are bad news. I’ll text you about that coffee very soon.’

  She is still laughing as he ends the call, checking the time on the satnav again.

  The Ballards’ farmhouse is at the end of a half-mile, single-lane track. It’s like following the yellow brick road: the strange, concrete surface in a sandy colour is raised above the dirt on either side, which puts Matthew on edge wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do if he meets another vehicle coming the other way. There are just two passing places along the whole stretch. Matthew is rather fond of his car, and is imagining the damage if a wheel slips off the side of the concrete platform. Could be very nasty.

  So this is what people mean by living off the beaten track.

  At the end of the drive, finally, he comes to the house. It’s impressive: double-fronted with a fabulous climber – no doubt magnificent in season, though he is no gardener and does not recognise the species. The inadequate approach widens into a full drive at the front of the house, with a large turning circle, an impressive lawn to the side and a second track leading off towards barns in the distance. Matthew pulls up under a tree opposite the front door and puts his keys in his pocket. No need to lock up out here.

  Mrs Ballard answers the door herself, which is a relief. A cliché in her floral apron. Matthew immediately feels guilty – forced now to look into those eyes.

  ‘If you’re a reporter, we have nothing more to say until the vigil.’

  ‘I’m not a reporter. Could we talk inside, Mrs Ballard?’

  Sometimes it works. Confidence and the official tone. As if he has the right.

  ‘And you are . . . ?’

  Not always.

  ‘I’m a private investigator, Mrs Ballard, and I’m looking into matters relating to your daughter’s disappearance.’

  Her face changes. From caution through surprise, to a new hope so misplaced that Matthew feels guilty again.

  ‘I don’t understand. A private detective . . . So why are you involved?’

  ‘It would be better if we could talk inside. Please?’

  In the hallway, they stand awkwardly as Matthew glances towards the vases of flowers – at least four crowding a narrow table below a large mirror.

  ‘I wish people wouldn’t send them. Flowers. But they mean well. We’re having a candlelit vigil to mark the anniversary . . .’ She clears her throat. Regroups. ‘So, I’m not quite understanding – Mr . . .’

  ‘Hill. Matthew Hill.’

  ‘You’re investigating my daughter’s disappearance privately? But why on earth would that happen? There’s a whole team in London working on this. Did my husband call you?’

  ‘No, Mrs Ballard. I was contacted by someone else touched by this inquiry, who is receiving unpleasant mail. And I am just trying to help put a stop to that, so that all resources can be directed where they need to be directed. To finding your daughter.’

  ‘Unpleasant mail?’

  ‘Would it be OK for us to sit down for a moment?’

  She stills herself, apparently considering this, and finally leads him into the kitchen. Another cliché, with its huge blue Aga covered in drying socks. Mrs Ballard appears a little more nervous now, her hands fidgeting in her lap. She does not offer a drink.

  ‘You haven’t had any unpleasant mail yourself, I take it?’

  ‘No. Not at all. Lots of nice letters actually, from complete strangers. A few weird ones, admittedly, but never a nuisance or a problem. We show them all to the family liaison officer – Cathy. She’s still regularly in touch. So who’s been getting unpleasant letters? Not Sarah, I hope. You know that she’s in hospital?’

  ‘Your daughter’s friend from the trip?’

  ‘Yes. I was there this morning. At the hospital. They’re waiting on tests. Terrible. Terrible. Her mother’s in bits. We all are. As if it wasn’t all bad enough already. So is that what this is? Nasty letters to Sarah?’

  ‘No. Not her.’ Matthew looks Barbara Ballard directly in the eye and checks for discomfort. But no. She does not look away. Her eyes just contain the ache of the haunted.

  ‘I know this will be difficult for you, Mrs Ballard. But this mail – it’s been sent to the witness on the train. Ella Longfield.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her demeanour changes immediately, along with her tone. ‘That woman.’

  ‘Yes. I am aware from Mrs Longfield how you feel about her, and there is no intention, I assure you, of adding to your distress by bringing this up. But Ella is keen to try to put a stop to the mail without involving the police. She doesn’t want them distracted. From the main focus. Finding Anna.’

  ‘Bit late for that now.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She shrugs. Staring at him now. More defiant.

  ‘Look. I understand it must be very, very tough, Mrs Ballard. But I was in the force myself. There are good people doing their very best, I am sure of that. And the anniversary appeal. TV coverage normally helps to—’

  She doesn’t take the bait. ‘Look. These letters – whatever they are. It’s probably better that you talk to my husband.’ She is standing up. ‘He doesn’t always hear his m
obile and the signal isn’t always great, but I can try giving him a ring if you like?’

  ‘There’s no need to disturb him. So you can’t think of anyone who might send unpleasant mail to Mrs Longfield? Anyone else in the circle who has been particularly upset about everything. Spoken up angrily. About her part—’

  ‘Everyone’s upset, Mr Hill. My daughter is still missing. The vigil is tomorrow. And now, if you will excuse me.’ She is belatedly pulling herself together, overriding her manners as she realises, apparently, that she does not have to speak to him at all.

  Matthew knows from experience that this realisation normally morphs swiftly into anger.

  He holds out his card, which she takes, hesitating for just a moment before placing it in the pocket of her apron.

  ‘Have you told the police team about this hate mail?’ Mrs Ballard is still looking him very directly in the eye.

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  She does not reply.

  ‘Well. If you hear of anything which you think might be relevant – you will call? Yes?’

  She nods.

  ‘The thing is, Mrs Longfield is going to have to take this to the police if the mail continues. And that’s not the way she wants to go. She thinks you all have enough to deal with.’

  ‘Does she?’

  Matthew tightens his lips and nods a farewell.

  Outside, he can feel Mrs Ballard watching him as he starts up the car and swings through a tight circle before pulling once more onto the impossibly narrow road.

  He checks the screen for his hands-free set-up. Nothing from Sal. He tells himself not to look back. To keep the upper hand.

  And then he continues, steering ever so carefully and trying very hard to erase the image of Barbara Ballard’s eyes.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE FATHER

  Henry sees the car approach the house as he is checking the sheep in the farm’s highest and most exposed field. The wind is vicious up here, and he zips his coat right up to his chin, all the while watching the farmhouse below.

  This part of the farm has always been a problem logistically. Tricky to access except by quad bike, and Henry has always had a difficult relationship with the quad bike on the hills. He has nearly turned it over more times than he will admit to Barbara. Once on the steepest gradient, he seriously thought the stupid thing was going to topple right over at high speed. Two wheels left the ground and he could feel the whole weight shift. It was just how they tell you. A flash of imagining: wondering how they would all cope when he left them behind.

  He hears the echo in his head again. Anna’s voice.

  You disgust me . . .

  That day with the quad bike had so frightened him that he went straight home and into the office alongside the boot room, and arranged online to increase his life insurance. Later, it caused the most terrible row with Barbara.

  We can’t afford more life insurance, Henry. What are you doing that for anyway? Don’t be so morbid.

  He promised he would cancel the extra premium while secretly wondering if he should reconsider the offer from a neighbouring farm to take on the awkward fields, which were a better match for their own livestock. But it was a question of pride. Still trying to pretend he was a proper farmer, not a tourist manager.

  He stands now watching the car leave, the driver clearly nervous of the access road. Taking it slowly. No, Henry has decided he will not lease out or sell off any more of the land that his father and grandfather worked so hard to acquire. So what if the tourist side makes more sense on paper? The holiday lets. The campsite. He is still a farmer in his heart. And so he is thinking of his few sheep and his cattle, and also the increased life-insurance premium still in place.

  He did not recognise the man who was just at the house. Tall and slim, but too far away to make out his face. For a moment Henry wonders if it was the police and experiences the familiar jolt of adrenaline.

  A year on and, unlike his wife, Henry is not waiting for their daughter to turn up alive.

  Henry watches Barbara emerge on the doorstep to make sure the visitor has gone.

  He is just thinking that he ought to head down there and find out what the hell is going on when there is a bleating behind him. He turns to see two of the ewes slipping on mud at the lower end of the field, sliding precariously close to the stream. Damn. He will have to go down there. Encourage them up to the higher and safer ground.

  This exercise, with the ground so sodden, takes longer than he would like.

  Stupid sheep. No brains.

  He calls Sammy, who has his tail between his legs. Even the dog hates this field, looking at him now as if he were mad. What are we doing up here? You normally bring the quad up here.

  Finally, with Sammy’s help he coaxes the two stray ewes and the rest of the flock back up onto the higher ground. From there he moves them further still, through the gate to the neighbouring field which, though poor on grass now, is a safer option for the night. He secures the gate, calls Sammy back to his side and finally heads along the adjoining lane, back towards the farmhouse.

  It is called Primrose Lane. Anna used to love it when she was little, because of the high hedges. Always keen to collect posies of wild flowers.

  Race you, Dad.

  Henry closes his eyes to this more welcome echo, and for a moment stands very still. He can picture her in her pink puffa jacket, with her pink bobble hat and her pink gloves. Come on, Dad. I’ll race you back. The posy of primroses in her hand.

  Only when he feels Sammy nuzzling at his leg does he open his eyes again.

  OK, boy. It’s OK.

  He strokes the dog’s head, takes a deep breath and marches back home. By the time he reaches the farmyard, Barbara has gone back inside.

  In the boot room he takes off his wellies, ordering the collie, covered in mud, to stay.

  ‘So, who was that earlier?’

  Barbara’s face is ashen as she comes through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘A private detective.’

  ‘What the hell is a private detective doing here?’

  ‘He says that Ella – that flower shop woman – has been getting hate mail.’

  ‘So what’s new?’

  ‘No. Not just stuff on social media. Actual letters or something. To her house. Nasty.’

  ‘And this is our concern because . . . ?’

  ‘I think this private detective thought I might have sent them.’

  ‘He accused you?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but that was the implication. As if he was doing me a favour. Warning me off.’

  Henry pauses, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘And before you ask – no, I didn’t send them. Though I can’t pretend I give a damn who did.’

  ‘Well, I hope you told him not to come back. Do you think we should ring Cathy? Or the London team? Tell them about this?’

  ‘No. No point. I’ve told him not to come back. He says he’s going to report it to the police himself.’

  ‘And you didn’t say anything else? Anything silly, Barbara. About me.’

  She looks at him very earnestly. Unblinkingly. Cold eyes.

  Henry can feel his pulse increasing.

  ‘No, Henry. I didn’t say anything silly . . . about you.’

  Henry sits on the old church pew which serves as their boot room bench.

  ‘Is Jenny home?’

  ‘Not yet. She’s gone into town. She wants a new coat for the vigil. Says she wants something warm and smart.’

  Henry has made his feelings about the vigil perfectly clear from the off. He is not a religious man. It was the local vicar’s idea. Prayers and candles to mark the one-year anniversary. It had originally been scheduled for Thursday . . . a year to the day. But once the TV reconstruction was confirmed, they decided to put it back to the Saturday. More convenient for people, too – the weekend.

  Barbara lifts up her chin. ‘Sarah’s mother is saying that she hopes we can put the
vigil back until Sarah is well enough to attend, but I said that wasn’t a good idea, that Sarah needs to concentrate on getting well. I think we should go ahead as planned.’

  ‘And you still think this is a good idea? This vigil.’

  ‘I have no idea, Henry. But people have been kind and they seem to want to do something. Also the press will take photographs, which helps to keep it in the public eye. Cathy says that’s good. To keep it in the public eye.’

  ‘And what about Sarah? Is she still claiming it was an accident? The pills . . .’

  No one takes an overdose by accident, Henry is thinking. He tries to feel more sympathy for Sarah but finds that he cannot.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE WITNESS

  ‘Why don’t you let me make the tea, love? Give yourself ten minutes for a change?’

  I hear my husband’s voice but do not turn. From the top of the stairs, I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the mail on the doormat. In the sweep of bills and white envelopes I can see it, screaming at me. The familiar dark envelope. Printed address on a cream label this time.

  ‘I’m fine. Really. You know me, prefer to get going.’ I hurry down to grab the letters from the floor and bundle them into a pile, feeling the firm postcard inside the envelope and tucking it into the centre as Tony begins his own descent of the stairs.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Ella?’

  ‘How about bacon butties? Tell Luke fifteen minutes, would you?’ I can feel my heart pounding in my chest and deliberately do not check my reflection in the hall mirror, not wanting to see the evidence. The flushed face.

  I really thought that by calling in Matthew, this would stop; I honestly thought that I could avoid worrying Tony, who has been through quite enough already over all this.

  In the kitchen, I rifle through the mail to hand Tony the circulars from the wine club and the bank. I know that I should tell him, and I have promised myself that I will soon. Very soon. Once I’ve spoken to Matthew. But he is going to be upset again and he’s snowed under right now, bidding for this promotion. I feel bad, because he expressly warned me not to go to Cornwall. Oh Lord. I had so hoped that Matthew would sort this.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Tony is looking at the mail in my hand.