I Am Watching You(81)

It’s still not clear why he killed her. His diaries are rambling and incoherent – this obsession with other people looking at her.

I can’t bear the thought of it all, especially my poor Luke having to give evidence now. The truth? I wish Tim had died; that he never came out of that coma. That it was all truly over.

There is an incredibly long pause, during which Mrs Ballard says nothing at all, and so I fill it by babbling about the flowers for the wedding – my love of calla lilies, especially the rich, deep colours. Burgundy and purple.

‘I have something that I need to tell you. That’s why I’m here, Ella. Is it all right to call you Ella?’

‘Of course.’ I smooth the fabric of my skirt, worrying and wondering what it is now.

‘I was going through Jenny’s room tidying up, and I found some stuff.’

I can feel my frown.

‘Black postcards.’

A new stillness.

‘I have talked to her, and she eventually broke down. Owned up. It seems it was Jenny who sent you the first two postcards. She is very sorry. Very ashamed. She was just very angry and lashing out. Like I did. I’m not saying that is any kind of excuse. But she is very young and she is very sorry.’

So Jenny? Anna’s sister . . .

‘There’s more, I’m afraid.’ She sniffs a little. ‘When you sent Matthew down to see me, Jenny panicked. I told her that you suspected me, you see. I was cross about that. And so she decided to confide in someone. Someone close.’

Oh my God.

‘Tim?’

‘Yes. Unfortunately . . . Tim. It seems that’s when he became more interested in you. Decided to send some more postcards himself. Also to start watching your shop. Such a twisted mind. We had no idea, but the police say he is very disturbed. This obsession with watching people. Anyway. That’s how he came to recognise your son. From the Ten Tors. Started watching him too. Got himself all muddled. All wound up . . .’

I hear a long breath escape. Feel the shape of my lungs change. I have wondered. Why Tim became interested in us.

‘So the point is I will completely understand if you want to inform the police.’ Her lip is trembling properly now. ‘Because you may well feel it is Jenny’s fault that Tim ended up taking an interest in your son.’

And so finally I understand.

Matthew said they found hundreds of photographs on Tim’s computer. Pictures from parties and the Ten Tors and school, with graphic and violent comments alongside the headshots of any boy he felt had taken an interest in Anna. Even spoken to her, completely innocently. However briefly. Luke was just unlucky. He genuinely doesn’t remember meeting her or talking to her.

I look down at the floor for a moment. I think of Luke, so proud when he finally put the crutches aside two weeks ago and walked across the room unaided. He has this terrible limp, but we are all pretending it will go. Hoping it will go. Also a dreadful scar on his thigh.

‘Thank you for coming here to tell me, but there is no need to tell the police. Nothing to be gained.’ I am thinking of Jenny – so young still. What would be the point? What does it matter if the police believe all the postcards were from Tim?

Mrs Ballard closes her eyes, the relief coursing through the muscles in a wave – first her face, then her neck, her shoulders. ‘Thank you, Ella.’

I expect her to leave, but still she stands. I wonder what she is waiting for.

She glances around the counter. To the cooler with the displays.

‘They have released her body now. For the funeral.’

Dear God . . .

I am fighting again. It will not help if I break down. Not my grief.

‘The director from the funeral parlour came last night to talk it all through with us.’

She pauses and I say nothing. Can’t find any words. None. Mute.

I am thinking of Anna on the train, green eyes all bright and beautiful and excited. Sixteen years old . . .

‘The thing is, he showed me some catalogues for flowers for the coffin.’ Her voice is still quite steady but there are tears running down her cheeks. ‘And they were so terrible, Ella. The flowers. So awful.’

‘I’m sorry?’

Still she is staring at the flower cooler. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous. That it’s what people expect. A wreath. But I can’t have a wreath. I just can’t have something so sad and grown up and horrible. I don’t want a wreath for my daughter’s coffin.’

She turns back to me to check my response, which is at first pure puzzlement.

‘She’s so young, you see. Too young for a wreath, don’t you think?’ At last she wipes at her face with the palm of her hand.

Still I don’t know what to say to comfort her.

‘And the thing is, when I came here once before, I remember you had this extraordinary display in the window. For spring. Folds of greenery like hills. Like a meadow. With wild flowers. Primroses and wild garlic and hedgerow flowers.’

‘It was for a competition. I remember . . .’ I won a prize for it.

‘It was quite beautiful. And I was thinking on the drive here – that’s what I would like. For my Anna. A sort of blanket of greenery and meadow flowers. Nothing like a wreath. And I know it’s a lot to ask. Probably quite wrong of me to ask at all, given all that has gone on between—’