I Am Watching You(26)

No. Lying in bed at night, beaming, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

I managed to negotiate the lease on this place. A shop of my own. Complete madness, my parents said. Do you have any idea how many small businesses fail in their first year?

And yes – they were right, in a way. It took much longer to come good than I expected. In truth, it provided little more than the minimum wage after costs, in that first year, and let’s not talk about the hours I put in. But it didn’t fail – quite the opposite by the time I got into my stride, in the second and third years.

I learned how to make the bread-and-butter earnings from weddings and seasonal holidays. Mother’s Day. Valentine’s Day. But the devil was definitely in the detail, I was sure of that.

To compete with the supermarkets, I knew I had to offer something distinctive. My floral USP was an informal, shabby-chic style, with homemade touches that set us apart. My bouquets were hand-tied before this was common practice. I used unusual twine, and handmade labels decorated with pressed flowers from blooms that had gone over.

I learned to waste nothing. Discounted posies when I’d over-ordered. Spent extra hours with the flower presses to ensure no waste.

Soon I was selling little cards and labels, as well as using them on my bouquets. A very useful extra-income stream.

And so this is where I am happiest. My shop. My creation.

Here in the shop I do not worry so much what people think of me or what I say – whether I am old-fashioned or an old head on young shoulders, which is what everyone used to say when I set this place up.

Here – where it is just 6 a.m. and the rest of the world is barely stirring – I am in my own little world, with orders to make up before we meet with the police back at the house. Back in the real world, where Anna is still missing and the postcards have started to frighten Tony as well as me.

I work carefully. A birthday bouquet to be collected at noon. Six table decorations for a dinner at one of the local hotels. Two cups of coffee. Three.

I work carefully, using my favourite secateurs. Bright red handles with the sharpest blade on the market. Superb.

And then the strangest thing. At around six thirty, maybe six forty-five, I leave the last of the table decorations on the counter, nearly finished, to use the loo, which is a tiny extension at the back of the unit. When I return to the bench, the secateurs are gone.

There is the noise of a car right outside and, I admit it, I am spooked. Thrown by this. I am normally so very careful with the secateurs, you see, not just because they are dangerous but because they are extremely expensive. I don’t want them to drop on the floor. For the handles to crack. They are a bit like a chef’s favourite knife. A lucky charm. I have two spare sets in the drawers but I don’t feel comfortable using any others. They just don’t feel the same in my hand.

I walk to the front door and stare out to the parking area outside. A single car has its headlights on full beam so I can’t see who is inside. I check the shop door. Unlocked. But then I don’t normally worry about this. Whenever I am here, I consider myself open for business. If anyone spots the lights on and calls in early, I want to sell. Will always take an order. But today, just this once, I put the latch across the top. I stand very still and find that my heart is pumping. I wait a while. Two minutes. Maybe more.

Don’t be so silly, Ella. Don’t overthink this.

And then the car finally pulls away and I feel my shoulders move, reminding myself that the neighbouring shops have flats above them and this is not so surprising. This early movement. Probably just someone off to work?

So I return to the workbench area at the back of the shop and am totally confused. From this new angle through the archway to the serving area at the front, I can see the secateurs resting on the top of the till. I honestly don’t remember putting them there. Can’t ever remember putting them there before. There is a slight slope to the top of the till, and this doesn’t seem the kind of thing I would do at all. What if they were to slide off?

I look around me in the way you look around the kitchen when you can’t find the ingredient you thought you had removed already from the fridge.

I am tired. That’s it. You are tired and you are on edge. Overthinking and messing up, Ella. Tony was right . . . you should have stayed home and done this later.

Way too many thoughts pumping around my brain. I finish up the final decoration quickly and store everything in the cooler near the workbench – a sort of flower-fridge that keeps everything at the perfect temperature, all ready for my return.



Back at the house, Tony is in the kitchen in his dressing gown.

‘You OK? I’ve been worried. You should have let me come with you.’

‘It was fine. I wanted you here to speak to Luke. All done.’

His tone is just a little calmer now, but I can tell from the way he is standing, and also the dark shadows under his eyes, that he has not slept much either. He reacted just as I expected, more worried than cross. You should have told me, Ella. No more secrets . . .

Which makes me feel terrible. I showed him the most recent postcard. But I haven’t mentioned Matthew yet . . .

‘I don’t know how I feel about you working at the shop on your own now. Early like this, I mean. Until we know precisely what is going on. What the police say. I wish you had listened to me. Stayed home. Or let me come with you.’

‘I had to get the orders done, Tony. And anyway, it will just turn out to be some saddo. A spotty teenager with nothing better to do.’ I cannot make this sound entirely convincing, because I no longer know what I think. What I believe. How scared I really ought to be.