I Am Watching You(61)

‘Matthew?’

‘Sorry. Yes. It’s Matt. On my way home from hospital.’

‘I don’t have the picture yet. What’s going on? Remember – I’m persona non grata. Practically on gardening leave . . .’

‘I don’t think it’s Anna, Mel.’

‘What?’

‘The girl with Karl. The girl he’s taken hostage. I’m not convinced it’s Anna.’

‘But that’s crazy . . . Oh, wait. The picture’s through. OK, so what am I supposed to be seeing here?’

‘Shoulder width. Wrong body shape, Mel. A rectangle, not a pear.’

‘What?’

‘OK. Right.’ Matthew tries to calm his voice; realises this is going to sound as if he has finally lost his marbles. ‘Sal – she’s obsessed with the body shape stuff. What clothes to buy. Anna is a pear. Not fat, not at all . . . a very slim pear.’

‘Jesus Christ, Matt. Have you got baby brain or something?’

‘No, listen. This is important. I couldn’t give a stuff about this, but one night Sal made me look at all this nonsense in a magazine. So I would stop buying her the wrong clothes as presents. Body shape apparently doesn’t change much . . . even if you lose or put on weight. It’s about bones. Skeleton. Fixed. Anna, from all the photographs her family shared, is a classic pear. Same as my wife. A slim pear. Tiny waist, slim shoulders and tiny upper body – slightly broader hips. This girl, the girl in the flat with Karl, is a totally different body shape. Straight up, straight down. Zoom in and look. Shoulders same width as her hips. No proper waistline. It only shows up in this photograph from the higher angle.’

There is silence for a while.

‘Are you seeing it, Mel? Check back with the file photos of Anna. Please. Compare them. Compare the shoulders.’

Another pause.

‘Christ. I think you might be right . . . But there’s no way the team’s gonna listen to me, blabbering on about body shape. I’m technically off the case until I see the chief and try to talk my way out of my meltdown with DI Halfwit.’

‘So how about phoning your mate . . . Cathy? The family liaison officer. I take it she’s with them? We need to know fast.’

Matthew can hear Melanie take in a long breath.

‘Please, Mel. If I’m right and this isn’t Anna, they need to take a whole different approach. Also – if this isn’t Anna . . .’ A pause. ‘Where the hell is she and what’s Karl playing at?’

A huff. ‘OK. I’ll send this pic to Cathy. See if she will very gently sound out the family. But she may point-blank refuse.’

‘OK. Look, I’m about to make a house call myself on the case. The witness – Ella? I promise to share anything I have if you’ll keep me in the loop. Please.’

‘OK. Though I might be looking for a new job myself.’

‘Don’t say that, Mel. I was banking on you rising through the ranks so I could make a comeback.’ Matthew is surprised to hear himself say this out loud for the first time.

‘You kidding me?’

‘Course I’m kidding.’ He isn’t. ‘OK. Speak to you soon.’

It takes about fifteen minutes to Ella’s home, the rain getting heavier so that he wishes he had thought to put a coat in the car. Matthew checks his watch. He needs to crack on if he’s going to get home in time to get the chores done and a decent night’s kip. According to Ella and all around him, this is soon to be the stuff of dreams. Poor Sally is having trouble breastfeeding and is already talking about switching to formula. Matthew doesn’t mind either way, but is picking up hints that he may well be taking a share of the night feeds. He is starting to wonder how on earth people do it. Work when they have newborns . . .

Pulling up onto the drive of the house, behind a large black BMW, Matthew realises that Ella’s husband must be home. He checks his phone – no message yet from Melanie, damn – and braces himself for the rain between the car and the porch.

There is no light on in the hall, but after a few moments he can hear an interior door squeak, strained voices, the click of a light and then Ella is opening the door. She looks pale.

‘We’ve been watching it all on the news. Terrible. Have you seen?’

‘Yes.’

Matthew stamps his feet on the doormat. To the right there is a bamboo umbrella stand containing two large golfing umbrellas. A briefcase. The husband definitely home then. Matthew takes in that the briefcase is expensive, the leather well kept. A smart men’s raincoat on the nearest hook – silk lining.

Ella is babbling about the news coverage. How shocking it is for so many pictures to be circulating on social media. Matthew is just nodding, waiting to size up her husband’s attitude.

In the sitting room, the tension is immediate. Tony is introduced, his body language all conflict. Shoulders held tense. He shakes Matthew’s hand but is unblinking, then narrows his eyes, making no effort to conceal that he is weighing Matthew up.

‘I should have told Tony before. I realise that now. We normally tell each other everything, so I feel very bad indeed.’ Ella is looking first at Matthew and then her husband. Ping-pong paranoia. Ella is a very nice woman and Matthew does not like to see her distressed. ‘I was just so sure that the postcards were from Mrs Ballard, you see.’