I Am Watching You(70)

Henry puts his hand out to take his daughter’s. The gesture makes her start to cry, and next she is saying something he cannot understand.

‘I’ve just had this awful message from Sarah, too. She’s still with her sister in Devon. And she says . . .’ Jenny looks into her father’s face, tears dripping unchecked down her own.

‘Look – Sarah won’t say why. She won’t give me any details. But she says we have a right to know that the police in London might be questioning her father. Over Anna.’

‘Bob? Sarah’s dad – Bob?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why? I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t know either. I mean – they questioned you. Is it that they question all the dads? Is that all it is?’

‘I don’t know. Bob? But why now? Bob’s been gone for years. I got the impression he wasn’t even in touch with his family.’

Henry feels the confusion shaping his new expression. The muscles straining with puzzlement. He glances across the floor from spot to spot. His wellingtons. The dog back in his basket. The empty shopping bags. A memory of Sarah and her parents when she was little at the village fair. Sarah and Anna on a ride together, new friends, with the four parents making small talk. Bob – tall and aloof. Handsome. A bit cocky. From the off Henry didn’t like him.

And then he remembers something else: how Bob was always taking photographs. Endless photographs of all the children. The family didn’t seem to have a lot of money but Bob had this expensive camera with lots of lenses. Proper camera bag. Barbara said it was nice that he wanted the memories but Henry thought it was a bit odd. Was rather glad when Bob left the village.

No. Surely not?

There is a strange new sensation in Henry’s stomach.

‘I need to phone Melanie Sanders. That nice DS. She’s back at work now. She’ll tell me what’s going on.’ Henry is standing to take out his mobile with one hand and raking his fingers through his hair with the other.

‘And you need to phone Sarah again. Go on, Jenny. Please. Push her to tell you what’s going on. Ring her now.’

But Jenny doesn’t move. Just staring at him, tears still dripping from her chin. ‘There’s something else, Dad.’





WATCHING . . .

Thursday

This is not good. Not good at all.

I don’t like this heat. And she doesn’t like it, either . . .

I have to think very, very carefully now. Must not let myself get muddled. I’m not good when I get muddled.

Most important of all, I need to stop all these wretched people, thinking that this has something to do with them when it has absolutely nothing to do with them . . .

Is none of their business.

If they had just let us be, it would have been all right. But people are so stupid. So now I have to do something to make it all stop.

No choice.

Their fault, not mine.

No choice . . .





CHAPTER 43


THE WITNESS

So often this past year I have wondered what exactly makes us the way we are. I don’t just mean the nature/nurture thing, I mean the sum of our personality and the decisions we make. All the thoughts that fire around our brain, even when we don’t want them to. How we handle the issues of conscience and responsibility. Why I blame myself when others wouldn’t.

Tony says my biggest problem is that I overthink things, that I take the world on my shoulders, and I just need to relax more and stop going over everything. I sometimes wonder if I would be a different kind of person if I could just learn the trick to do this. To stop with the analysing and concentrate on one thing at a time. But my brain simply doesn’t work like that. Never has. I’m always thinking, thinking, thinking. A million things competing all at the same time. Constant and exhausting buzz.

Take today. Like everyone else, I am too hot, but I feel just a little bit embarrassed in short sleeves because my arms are not what they used to be. As I unpack the flowers, I keep getting a glimpse of myself in the mirror set up on the wall to check the bridal bouquets. How they look held at waist height. So that right now I am thinking not just of the flowers and the heat but of my fat arms – in fact, I have all of the following thoughts at the very same time. That I should put something up on the blog about how to keep flowers fresh in this weather. Yes. People like tips. That I need to sort out the flower presses with the stock that has ‘gone over’ in the heat, to make up some pretty labels and cards for the window. That I really don’t like the way my arms look in the mirror here at the back of the shop and I wish I had brought a shirt. That I am glad Luke reckons he has found a couple of people who could take over his job. He’s going to vet them first, then introduce them to me. Quite frankly, I would rather handle the whole thing myself, but there’s been no response yet to my sign in the window and I don’t like to burst his bubble. It seems to make him feel better to be helping with a replacement, so I am letting it be.

I am also thinking that I wish Tony didn’t have to be away again. That we need to get someone in to check the boiler at home. That I need to do a sign for the window, recommending flowers that do well in this weather.

That it is not my fault after all, about Anna. But it still feels it somehow. I just can’t let it go.

See what I mean? All these thoughts, all at the same time. Small wonder I get so many headaches.