I Am Watching You(50)
The presenter now links to a reporter on the telephone, who confirms that she is just beyond the police cordon at the scene.
‘Why don’t they link to live pictures of her? The reporter?’ I am glancing at Luke.
‘They probably don’t have a camera there yet.’ Luke is perched on the breakfast bar stool, the remote still in his hand.
Infuriatingly the reporter repeats everything the presenter has just said, but then finally there is more information from a neighbour, an eyewitness . . .
‘We heard gunshots about an hour ago and we thought it was a terrorist attack at first. We just lay on the floor, absolutely terrified.’
‘Where were the gunshots coming from and what exactly happened next?’ The television screen is now split in two, showing the presenter in London on one side, asking the questions, and a map on the other, showing the location of the apartment block a few miles outside of Marbella. I remain deeply frustrated, badly wanting to see pictures from the scene.
‘It sounded as if the gunshots were above us. Maybe the second floor, I don’t know. We lay on the floor for a long time – me and my friend – and then after what felt like hours but was probably ten, maybe fifteen minutes, there were police outside our window at the back. They beckoned us to the window and said they were getting some people out of the block. They sort of shielded us as we moved under a covered walkway behind the apartments to a safe area. That’s where I am now.’
‘So are there other people still inside the apartment block?’
‘Yes, lots. I think the police only moved a few out. I think it’s mostly too dangerous. I did see a couple of people running out the front, but I think they were mad. I mean – whoever is shooting could just see them from the upstairs window. They could just shoot right at them if they wanted to.’
‘And have the police said anything to you about what’s going on now?’
‘No, nothing. Just to stay behind the police tapes and that they will tell us when it is safe to go back to our flat.’
‘And what can you see now from where you are?’
‘A lot of police now – some with rifles, not just their handguns. There are vans everywhere and TV people arriving too, some of them in trucks. I think everyone thought it was terrorists to start with. I mean that’s what you think, isn’t it, these days?’
‘We have reports coming in, as yet unconfirmed by police, that this whole operation is about a man called Karl Preston, wanted in connection with the inquiry into missing Cornish teenager Anna Ballard. Have you heard anything about that?’
‘Yes, actually. It’s what everyone is talking about on the street now. Apparently one of the people in the block recognised him from some media stuff. But if it’s the guy I’m thinking of, we know him as Mark. And he’s got really different hair. Much lighter now.’
‘So have you seen the official police pictures of Karl Preston?’
‘I have now on my phone, from all the stuff on social media, and it certainly looks like him. The face, I mean. Like I say, we know him here as Mark. He’s a builder, I think, working on one of the new developments.’
‘Do you know him personally? What can you tell us about him?’
‘Not much. He sort of keeps himself to himself. I think he lives with a woman. Bit younger. A blonde woman . . . Yeah. I’ve seen her on the stairs a couple of times but never spoken to her.’
I listen to this last exchange and feel the muscles in my stomach clench. Luke turns to me instantly, his eyes wide and unblinking. ‘You don’t think that could be Anna?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘But why wouldn’t she run away? I mean if it’s Anna and he was holding her, she would run away, wouldn’t she? When he was at work.’
My heart is pumping in my chest, in my fingertips, in my neck, as if the blood is all of a sudden coursing too quickly around my body, and I realise in this moment that I have always assumed the worst, that Anna is dead. This new and unexpected possibility that she could still be alive is hard to process.
‘I need to sit down.’
‘I think we should phone Dad and get him to come home.’
‘But he’s so busy . . .’
Luke already has his phone out of his pocket and is scrolling through his contacts. ‘You need Dad here. He needs to come home.’
And then, as he holds the phone to his ear, apparently waiting for a reply, his expression is changing. ‘Jeez. Maybe she just ran off with this guy – Karl?’
‘What?’ This has not occurred to me and I feel myself frown, unable to make sense of all this. It is simply too much. The pieces of the puzzle won’t fit.
‘Well, maybe she isn’t missing at all. Maybe all this guilt this past year is a waste of time, Mum. Maybe the truth is she hated her life in Cornwall and just did a bunk.’
CHAPTER 32
THE FATHER
Henry is sitting in the back seat of the police car, staring at the familiar landmarks passing in a blur. The bus stop. The war memorial, which today has a posy of white flowers. Henry tries to think why. Is it some kind of commemoration? He can’t remember.
Next he watches a woman in a black mac pushing one of those ridiculous shopping trolleys. It is tartan, green and blue, and has a wobbly wheel that makes it veer to the right. Every now and again she has to swing the contraption to the left to correct this. Henry thinks she would be better off with bags.