I Am Watching You(14)

‘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.’