I Am Watching You(13)

The trouble with not telling the whole truth to the police was, sometimes, a year on, she couldn’t remember exactly what she had said and what she hadn’t said. She was petrified that all this stirring it up would make her slip up . . . and say the wrong thing.

So she had taken the tablets into the bathroom and said she was having a bath. And it wasn’t as if she made this clear decision that she wanted to kill herself. Nothing that dramatic, nothing that black and white.

She just wanted the panic to stop, the waiting for the TV programme. The not knowing how much they would find out. She just wanted all of it to stop . . .

Now, as the nurse helps her to sit, plumping pillows up behind her, someone new appears alongside the bed. Another nurse in a different-coloured uniform. She is older, looks more senior and is talking to her mother. Ominous whispering. Something about the test . . .

‘I didn’t mean to make you jump. It’s just the doctor would like a word.’

‘What is it? What’s happened?’

‘It’s best you come this way, please, Mrs Headley.’





CHAPTER 8


THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

On the drive down to Cornwall, Matthew phones home twice.

‘It’s just Braxton Hicks, Matt. I will ring if it changes. It’s fine. Braxton Hicks.’

‘I can come back. Stay home if you’d prefer? If you’re at all worried?’

‘I’m fine.’

Sally is eight months gone and insists practice contractions are nothing to be alarmed about. Perfectly normal. But Matthew is no longer doing normal. He has found everything alarmingly abnormal since the surreal experience of the childbirth classes. Dear God. Why had his friends not warned him?

Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a caesarean, Sal? Some reckon they’re a lot safer, you know. And these days you can say. No shame in it.

Getting frightened, Matt? Sorry. But I’m not too posh to push. And it’s a bit late to chicken out now.

This whispered conversation had taken place with Sal sitting on a yoga mat in her grey sweatpants and a black T-shirt, with Matt following instructions on how to massage her back, thinking how very lovely but also slightly ridiculous she looked. From behind she looked her normal slim self . . . just this huge balloon stuffed up her top.

Sal was the envy of everyone in the class. How come you’ve not swollen up all over? The others displayed their puffed-up ankles and their puffed-up legs, pinched the fat padding around their backs and their arms.

God knows. I’m eating like a horse.

This was true. Matthew had never seen his wife pack away so much. Fish finger sandwiches late at night with mayonnaise and chopped gherkins. The stench of her farts these days was mind-boggling.

Piss off, Matt. I don’t fart. I am a pregnant goddess.

Matthew checks his phone one more time and smiles. Truth is, Sal even farts in her sleep now.

The phone confirms a strong signal. No text. He could ring just one more time?

No. Calm down, man. She was getting prickly, the second call. Everything is going to be just fine. Not long to go.

Matthew checks the satnav – less than a quarter of a mile to the Ballards’ farm – and pulls into a lay-by. Mel should be in the office by now. Good.

DS Melanie Sanders – hopefully soon to be DI Melanie Sanders – is Matthew’s dearest police pal from the old days. There was a time, a million years ago, when he had a bit of a crush on her; had hoped for something more. But that was history. He told Sal all about it. Came completely clean.

No. That wasn’t one hundred per cent true. He had not told her that he still got this slightly weird feeling in his stomach when he spoke to Mel. Not desire. Not that anymore. Just a feeling that reminded him of a whole different time, a different version of himself.

Three years out of the force, and Matthew hates to admit that he is still struggling to adjust.

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.