I Am Watching You(59)

Henry runs one hand through his hair, his other arm around his wife’s shoulders as she is sitting back down in the chair now, her head in her hands.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know. Let’s see what Cathy thinks. This is all happening so fast. I don’t know what they will advise. No, no. I don’t think I like the idea of Jenny not being with us.’

And then Cathy is standing in the doorway, her face pale. Henry realises there must be more news, but her expression is not good and for a moment he is too afraid to ask what exactly the new information might be.





WATCHING . . .

Friday

Now everyone is looking at her and I do not like it.

I do not like it at all.

It is my job. Supposed to be me. Because I really understand, you see. I am the only one who knows how to watch over her properly. To keep her safe. To understand her. The only one who sees who she really is. How very, very special she is.

When I see other people watching her, looking at her, smiling at her, I get this noise in my head. It is like a clicking at first. Quiet clicking. And then it gets louder and louder until it sounds like thunder all around my brain. And then it thunders around the room and the sky and right out into space.

It’s doing that right now. Getting louder and I don’t know what to do.

I just need space to think. I need the noise in my head to stop and I need all of these people to . . . stop looking at her.





CHAPTER 37


THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

Matthew feels a yawn break as he reaches for the wiper switch. Mild drizzle – the most annoying kind, especially as he keeps forgetting to change the wiper blades. The soft spray of mist is just too much for the intermittent setting, but not wet enough for the full setting. He tries the washer spray. Empty. Hears his own sigh at the squeak of protest from the screen as he switches between the two wiper speed options. Too dry. Too wet. Too dry . . .

The radio news presenter is on the sport. Matthew checks his watch. There will be a summary of the headlines soon. Good. Bound to include the latest from Spain. Melanie has said he can phone again in case she gets an update from the family liaison officer. She is still fuming over being officially reported by the DI, which is why she is going so off-piste now. Also, she trusts Matthew; she knows he won’t let her down.

He thinks of Anna, takes a long slow breath. He has a bad feeling.

He looks at the clouds. Drifting fast in the strong wind. And now he feels the paradox of a smile emerging on his face as he thinks next of his daughter in her silly pink hat in the hospital cot. Her temperature is apparently down a bit – nothing to worry about, the nurses say. Just a good idea to pop her under a lamp until she learns to regulate her body temperature a little better. As he left, Sally was settling down for a doze and little Amelie was snuggled up in her crazy pink headgear to keep her cosy under her lamp. Very sweet. Very funny.

Amelie. Amelie. Amelie.

Mine, he thinks. Both mine . . . It still feels so surreal. A family.

But – wait. The jingle for the headlines. Matthew turns up the volume so he can hear better over the annoying grind of the wipers. The presenter summarises what he already knows – come on, come on, we know all this – and at last links to a reporter on the scene who is interviewing a police spokesman. Some controversy over new pictures circulating on social media. The spokesman, with a strong Spanish accent, is saying that this is very unhelpful. That the police team are building a rapport with the hostage-taker and this is damaging. Dangerous. Irresponsible. The reporter is saying that it must surely be impossible these days to control things, what with social media. Next, the spokesman is agitated. Says he has to end the interview to take a phone call but is urging people to please be sensible. Not to share these pictures. Please.

The news moves on to another story. Matthew checks his watch again and looks at the bag of washing on the passenger seat. He has agreed to pop in to see Ella and meet her husband, but he does not want to stay long; he needs to get home and get these chores done for Sally. Amazing how many babygros and bibs and bits and bobs a tiny baby can work through in twenty-four hours. There is also a list of things his wife needs. Lip salve. Tissues. Some kind of body lotion – he’s forgotten the name already and is glad she wrote it down.

Matthew tries a few different radio channels. What pictures? What the hell is going on in Spain now? He finds himself imagining the team briefings behind the scenes. He feels the familiar pull. The sense of loss. Regret. Remembers sitting alone in his new office soon after leaving the force, so desperately missing the sense of being part of something. Something really important.

So how are you adjusting? Sally asked him back then, night after night. He always lied. Fine. I’m fine.

Matthew left the force because he messed up. He was responsible for the death of a boy of just twelve. His boss begged him to stay, to take time out to reconsider and to go through some counselling. There was an inquest and there was an independent police inquiry. Both exonerated him of all blame but that made no difference to Matthew. He was the one who had to look the mother in the eye at the inquest. He was the one who woke at night sweating.

It had been a Thursday. Raining that night, too. He was called out by a small, independent supermarket sick of shoplifters. A boy had snatched some cigarettes while the manager was serving another customer and then bolted. Matthew happened across the child running down an alleyway not far from the shop. He gave chase.