I Am Watching You(37)

‘I am absolutely sure.’

He kisses her very tenderly on the mouth, brushing his lips on his daughter’s head.

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’

‘A miracle,’ she replies, her tone teasing but that glistening in her eyes once again.



Back at the house an hour later, Matthew finds himself pacing around. It’s so bizarre to think that very soon they are to be back here. A family. Not just him and Sal but the three of them. He glances around, wondering suddenly if the place is big enough. In the corner is a large wicker basket, containing a few new things, many of which seem entirely alien to him. Something called a baby gym, which requires some kind of construction. Changing mats and the like.

It feels all at once wonderful and, yes, miraculous and absolutely terrifying. Matthew wonders if he is ready – if anyone is ever really ready.

He presses the switch to fire up the espresso machine and flicks through the mail. Nothing significant. He puts it on the kitchen counter and takes out his mobile just as the green light signals the machine is ready.

Placing a porcelain espresso cup under the nozzle, he feels the disconnection that true exhaustion brings. That sense of not quite fitting into the space around him. He presses the button for a double, and with the other hand dials Melanie’s number. To his surprise she answers instantly.

‘I wondered how long before you’d be onto this. So how did you hear? Bongo drums, or are you psychic as I always suspected?’ Melanie’s voice is hushed.

Matthew feels the depth of his frown and pauses. He hasn’t the foggiest what she’s on about.

‘News travels fast.’

‘Does Ella know? Is that it?’

Matthew does not answer.

‘Well, don’t you share it with anyone because the proverbial is really hitting the fan now. As far as I know the media haven’t cottoned on and that’s how we want to keep it. For now, at least.’

Matthew stares at the promising crema on the top of his espresso, surprised that the bluff has worked. He takes a small sip, wondering what the hell could have happened. Until last night, the police teams in London and Cornwall wanted as much media coverage as possible. What is it that the police suddenly don’t want the press to know?

‘How about you tell me what you can, Melanie, and I share everything I’ve got. Also – I promise to keep an ear to the ground and tip you off if the media get wind.’ Matthew has some good contacts among local journalists, and Melanie knows this.

‘Strictly off the record.’

‘Oh, come on, Mel. You know me. I may have stuffed up my own career but I’m not going to mess up yours.’

‘OK, but not over the phone. How soon can you meet me in Saltash? Usual café.’

‘I’ll text you.’

‘Good. And not a word to anyone. OK?’

‘Deal.’

‘Oh, and by the way, how is Sally? She’s overdue now, isn’t she?’

A rush of guilt sweeps through Matthew. For a few minutes, he had actually forgotten. No. Not exactly forgotten . . . more switched off. It astonishes him that he could let that happen, and wonders if this is how it is going to be. Work. Home. Entirely split-thinking. Suddenly the image from the hospital is back in front of him, vivid and lovely.

‘I’m a dad, Mel. A little girl. I have a beautiful little girl.’





CHAPTER 23


THE FATHER

Henry stares around the police cell and finds himself thinking of Sammy. He hopes that Jenny will take him out for a good stretch of his legs, but then leans forward to put his head in his hands. Poor Jenny. To add this to all her misery.

He closes his eyes to the memory of the sheer, unmitigated mess he has made of this. Why, oh why, didn’t he just have the guts to pull the trigger?

He has tried lying down on the hard, raised platform that passes as some kind of bed, but it hurts his back. The thin blue plastic mattress does little to shield the severity of the concrete slab. He wonders how long he will be held here. He looks at the door and shudders at the memory of the sound it made as it closed. Like nothing you can quite imagine until you are on the wrong side of it. Henry is not normally claustrophobic, but has never been tested in this way before. He is used to the outdoors. To freedom. To fresh air. He tries to remember what the law says. How long can the police hold someone in this way without charge?

They have taken his shoes and belt, and Henry is conscious suddenly that he is probably more used than most to padding around in his socks. Wellies stored in the boot room. No stomach for slippers. He is conscious also that he must have lost weight these past few days, for his trousers feel loose as he stands and walks over to the door with its horrid little viewing grille.

He thinks of Barbara and her plum slices. Of Anna turning cartwheels on the lawn. Her little gang round, running in and out of the sprinkler. What he needs is a Tardis to go back. Yes. To a completely different version of it all.

Suddenly Henry is filled with both impatience and rage. He has had enough of this. All of this. This place. This bloody place.

‘Could I speak to someone please?’

No reply.

Henry kicks the door and shouts louder. ‘I need to speak to someone.’

A few minutes and there is the sound of the grille cover sliding to one side, and the uniformed officer peers in at him. ‘Could you keep it down, please.’