I Am Watching You(56)

‘I’ve read about that, Matt, but I still don’t understand. I’d definitely try to get away. I’m absolutely sure I would.’

‘Enough.’ Matthew switches off the telly, wanting the update but not wanting his wife and his daughter involved in this.

‘Want a coffee or something from the machines?’

‘Cappuccino. Oh, and chocolate. Nasty, sweet milk chocolate, please. Big bar.’ She is smiling as she says this, and Matthew feels guilty because what he really wants is an excuse to make a couple of phone calls to Ella and Mel.

‘And don’t stay on the phone too long while you’re away. I want that coffee hot when you bring it back.’

‘Busted.’

She blows him a kiss and he wonders how he ever got this lucky. Sal has always understood what his work means to him, especially after what happened – why he left the force. He pauses, realising only now why so many police officers struggle to balance work and home: both so important but both so full on, so emotionally intense. And he realises, too, that he was right – he will never get to do the psychology degree now. He thinks of the tiny bundle in the pink babygro, eyes drowsy but still searching for her mother.

Everything is so very different now. Life suddenly has different priorities. Yes – a different lens.





CHAPTER 35


THE WITNESS

I am glad that Tony is coming home. Luke was right. I need him.

The problem is I feel so churned up, my head racing with so many thoughts. I wonder what is real now and what is paranoia. It is as if this whole past year has overloaded my system and I can no longer think straight.

Am I so stressed now that I am imagining things? The noises at the shop. Being sure I am being watched. That someone actually came in and moved the secateurs. Dropped the map-viewer outside. Did I imagine it all? Am I conjuring these things?

I don’t want to believe Luke is capable of wanting to frighten me, however upset or neglected he might feel. It can’t be that. So – what?

I am in the comfort of the sitting room, watching it all on the big television. No. Comfort is the wrong word. Nothing feels comfortable anymore. Even in bed at night, I just can’t keep still, taking hours to drift off to sleep.

I have taken the maximum paracetamol dose today but they don’t seem to be working. My head is still pounding.

Luke is upstairs, and pops down once in a while to offer a drink, probably prompted by his father by text, in the same way he’s reminded of Mother’s Day and my birthday. Every time he appears again at the door, I examine his expression closely, wondering if I should just ask him outright. Challenge him and get this sorted. Tell him that I won’t be cross but that I need to know. Have you been more upset with me than you’re letting on? Over the sadness with Emily? Over my preoccupation with this Anna case? Did you come to the shop for some reason I can’t work out?

I look over at the bookcase alongside the media unit that holds the telly and the DVD player. On the top are favourite pictures. Luke as a baby. First day at school. Receiving his medal for his first Ten Tors. God, I was so proud that day. The schools make out it is a standard thing in Devon and Cornwall: to take on the ‘ten tors’, a walking challenge on Dartmoor, as if it is no big deal. A rite of passage for living in such a beautiful place. But the reality, to be frank, is a shock. I wouldn’t want to do it in a month of Sundays, and I was surprised that Luke was so keen.

He likes basketball but is otherwise not someone you would describe as especially sporty. Never did the Scouts or anything like that. More into his music, really.

For the Ten Tors challenge, they have to walk in teams of six – with no adult supervision – and they have to carry all their own kit to camp overnight on Dartmoor. The routes are a minimum of thirty-five miles, to be completed in two days, and the terrain is dangerous if the weather goes pear-shaped. Which it very often does.

The army supervises the whole thing, and there are checkpoints at each of the ten tors to prove they have completed the route. But in between that contact, the young teams are entirely on their own. And things can – and do – go wrong.

Once a girl drowned during a training exercise. It was so shocking and there was a big review. I thought, maybe even secretly hoped, they might scrap the whole thing, but no. They just have very strict guidelines.

Schools right across the south-west take part and it gets seriously competitive. Grammar schools versus comps. Private schools versus state. Good-humoured but serious nonetheless. Every team hopes to come in first. Fastest.

The training programme stretches months, as the teenagers have to build up their stamina and skill set. Map-reading. Fitness. Camping. They have to carry tents and cooking equipment and sterilise their own water, too. Loads of kids drop out. But not our Luke. He really surprised us – not only did he stick at it, but in the end he was made team leader. And that first expedition went so well that he went back for more. He did the thirty-five-mile trek that first year, and the tougher forty-five-mile challenge last year.

So – yes. I was prouder than I can ever explain when he stepped up for that photograph to get his first medal. Hundreds and hundreds of teenagers milling everywhere, but I remember hearing his name over the tannoy and taking in that beam of pride on his face as he caught my eye. Right there in the centre of it all. His moment.

And now? Emily has ended their relationship and Luke feels terrible. So up and down. He was so different – so carefree – in that photograph, out there on Dartmoor.