Watching You (26 page)

T
hey leave the motel late in the morning after Marnie has given Elijah a bath and combed his hair, putting on his clothes from yesterday.

“We’ll buy him some more later,” Owen tells her.

“He needs gluten-free food.”

“I’ll arrange that.”

Owen has an answer for everything. Nothing seems too much trouble—not kidnapping two people or holding them hostage.

At first Elijah had been shocked by Marnie’s new hairstyle. “You don’t look like a mummy,” he said, running his fingers through her ragged bob where the edge of her hair brushed against her neck.

“I’m still me,” she told him.

They’re driving on back roads, avoiding motorways and police patrols and CCTV cameras. Reaching the outskirts of Manchester, Marnie begins to recognize places, particular landmarks and buildings from her childhood. McAlister’s, the carpet warehouse, had terrible radio commercials with a man screaming about crazy prices going down, down, down. She remembers the Chinese restaurant in Princess Street and the Old Quay swinging bridge over the canal.

The car doesn’t have air conditioning and Owen won’t open the windows because he’s worried that Marnie will yell for help. The heat reminds her of her childhood trips to Blackpool in the summer with whatever foster kids were staying. They’d walk on the beach, eating ice-cream cones or taking donkey rides. Blackpool is where she first rode roller skates and let a boy kiss her. She went in a talent show and sang a Cyndi Lauper song about girls just wanting to have fun.

She looks at Owen and wonders if he knows about her kissing the boy. Was he watching her then?

“Why me?”

“Huh?”

“Why have you been watching me?”

“It’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You were so afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Just about everything.”

Marnie is sitting in the front passenger seat with her knees drawn up and her hands still taped together behind her back. The seatbelt holds her in place. Elijah has the rear seat, his head bowed over a cheap coloring book that Owen bought him when he filled up with petrol.

“Why couldn’t you just pant down the phone or flash me in the park?” Marnie asks.

Owen looks hurt. “I’m not a degenerate.”

“No, you just get your jollies spying on women.”

Elijah looks up. “I’m hungry, Mummy.”

She glances at Owen.

“Give him a biscuit.”

“He has a special diet. You can’t just feed him anything.”

“He’ll have to wait.”

Dust and broken plaster covers the floor of the living room and the shoulders of Ruiz’s jacket. His hair has also turned a shade grayer and dust sticks to his nose and forehead. Standing on a ladder, he launches a ball-headed hammer into the jagged hole, tearing off another chunk of ceiling.

“Are you sure you’re allowed to do that?” asks Zoe. “We only rent.”

Ruiz motions to the professor. “Ask him. He’s paying.”

He launches the hammer again. Another piece of plasterboard falls away, but something comes with it—a flashlight with a rubber grip. It bounces twice and rolls in a circle.

Joe picks it up. Presses the button. The batteries are flat. He glances at Ruiz, something unspoken passing between them. He has opened up a hole wide enough to pull himself up, using the crossbeams to take his weight.

“What can you see?”

“It’s too dark.”

“Hence the torch,” says Joe.

Ruiz reaches forward and feels a blanket and thin mattress. His eyes are still adjusting. The roof cavity stretches the width of the room and beyond.

“Somebody has been up here. I need more light.”

Zoe says her mum keeps a torch in the kitchen in case of power cuts. She fetches it and climbs the first two rungs of the ladder, handing it up to Ruiz. He pulls himself higher, bracing his forearms, slithering upwards until his legs disappear. A moment later his head appears in the ragged hole. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He’s gone again. Joe climbs the ladder and peers into the roof space. He can make out Ruiz’s torch about twenty feet away. It sweeps over the ceiling cavity and then drops from sight. Minutes pass. They hear a voice. It’s coming from Marnie’s bedroom. Zoe runs along the hallway, not waiting for Joe. Ruiz’s upper body emerges from her mother’s wardrobe. Zoe peers past him and sees a passage through the bricks. Her eyes go wide. “Where does it go?”

“Another flat.”

“Next door?”

Ruiz nods and looks at Joe. “We have to call Gennia.”

Joe takes out his mobile and punches the number. Zoe is still asking questions. “So someone lives there?”

“By the looks of it.”

“And they were in our ceiling?”

“There are spyholes. Somebody left a torch on. That’s the light you saw.”

“Spyholes. How many?”

“Six, maybe seven.”

“In the bathroom?”

“Everywhere.”

The knowledge sinks in.

“How could anyone do that? We would have heard?”

“They put insulation between the beams.”

A cat appears behind Ruiz. Zoe calls to it, sitting back on her haunches. The cat comes to her, sliding against her thighs as though trying to soak into her body.

“Gennia is on his way,” says Joe, peering into the wardrobe. “I need to see it.”

“Don’t touch anything,” says Ruiz. “We don’t have long.”

Joe crawls through the hole scraping his back on the jagged bricks. The first room is so dark it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust.

“The light doesn’t work,” says Ruiz, who has followed him through the hole. “He unscrewed the bulb so that it wouldn’t shine through the wardrobe. Come and see this.”

He guides Joe into the hallway that leads to a kitchen and two more bedrooms. Ruiz points to the wall. Joe’s gaze travels from the skirting board to the cornices above his head. From floor to ceiling, the surface is papered with photographs, newspaper clippings, and documents. Marnie Logan features in all of them. Some of the pictures are posed and formal, others are more candid and off-the-cuff. Stolen moments. Keepsakes. Souvenirs. Particular shots must have been taken with hidden cameras and telephoto lenses. There are also phone bills, bank statements, invoices, reminders, shopping lists, and credit card receipts.

Ruiz looks at his watch. “Five minutes.”

In the main bedroom Joe uses a handkerchief to open the wardrobe and finds four pairs of jeans, two black, two blue; a cashmere overcoat, a dozen business shirts, predominantly white. The occupant has a thing for shoes. There are six pairs arranged in neat rows. Oxford brogues. Polished. Brown. Black.

A second bedroom belongs to an old woman. Her clothes are still in the wardrobe. Powders and perfumes line the dresser, along with bottles of pills. Medications. Beneath the bedsprings, he notices a bedpan and an oxygen bottle with a mask. She’d been sick.

There are cracks in the linoleum floor and rust stains on the enamel in the bathtub. In the kitchen a frying pan is soaking in the sink. Egg yolks, hard and black, are stuck to the heavy base. A pine ladder is angled over the small table, providing access to the roof space. Using the tip of a pencil, Ruiz separates envelopes on the bench, looking for a name. He glances out the window. The police are out front.

“Time’s up.”

“Gennia?”

“On his way up.”

“How much trouble are we in?”

“On a scale of one to ten—I’d say fifteen.”

Zoe is waiting for Joe on the far side of the wardrobe, eyes wider than before. She’s holding her laptop across her chest.

“Who was living there?” she asks.

“I was hoping you might know.”

She shakes her head. Ruiz has gone down the other stairs, knocking on doors, hoping one of the neighbors will provide him with a name.

Joe and Zoe wait on the landing.

“Was your mother seeing anyone?” he asks. “An old boyfriend…a friend she knew from school…someone she used to work with?”

Zoe blinks at him, wanting to have an answer. “Elijah used to play in the wardrobe. He used to talk to his imaginary friend.” Her pupils dilate and she wraps her arms tighter around herself. “He called him Malcolm.”

O
n the drive through Manchester, Owen had been hunched over the wheel, glancing in the mirrors, worried about being pulled over by the police. Now in the countryside, he has relaxed and cheered up, looking for music on the radio.

“Not far to go now, little man,” he says, doing a drum roll on the steering wheel.

“I don’t want you talking to him,” says Marnie. Her arms are cramping. She can’t shift her weight to relieve the pain.

“I have been a very good friend to Elijah,” says Owen. “You neglect him. You’ve spent too long fretting about your husband.”

“Don’t talk about my husband!”

Marnie realizes in the same breath what question she should be asking. “Where is Daniel?”

Owen takes a hand off the steering wheel and waves it vaguely. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk.”

“What happened?”

“It was his own fault.”

Marnie’s eyes are fixed, anguish in them. “Is he alive?”

Owen sighs.

“Answer me, you son of a bitch!”

He hits her so suddenly that she doesn’t have time to duck her head. It’s a backhanded slap that strikes her across the cheek. Marnie turns her face away, sucking on her lip, tasting for blood.

Owen’s voice doesn’t change. “Show me some respect and I won’t have to hit you again.”

Elijah looks up, wondering what happened. “Mummy, why is your hands tied?”

“It’s a game,” says Owen.

“Can I play?”

“No!”

“But I want to play.”

“I said no.”

Elijah flinches.

“You don’t have to shout at him,” says Marnie. “He’s just a little boy.”

Owen relaxes. “You’re right. Sorry, sport. We used to have great fun in the wardrobe, didn’t we?”

“I saw you in the park,” says Elijah. “You were talking to Zoe.”

“Do you want to play now?” asks Owen. “Come sit on my lap. You can drive for a while.”

“No, please, leave him,” says Marnie.

“He wants to play. Come on, partner. You can do the steering.”

“Stay where you are, Elijah.”

Owen reaches back and grabs Elijah by the arm, pulling him between the seats onto his lap. “Hold it like this,” he says, taking the boy’s hands and putting them on the wheel. Elijah’s head barely reaches above the dashboard.

“Put him back!” yells Marnie.

“We’re coming up to a corner. Do you know right from left? We’re turning left. That’s it. Not so far.”

The car swerves to the right and crosses the center lines. Owen straightens the wheel. “Nice try.”

“I’s doing it, Mummy. I’s driving.”

It’s a winding road down a steep decline. The car drifts again, crossing onto the wrong side of the road. An oncoming car swerves.

“You idiot!” yells Marnie. “You’ll kill us all!”

Something alters in Owen’s eyes. He puts his left hand on the wheel and tells Elijah to let go. Then he opens the car door. The change in air pressure lifts rubbish from the floor. The next corner is a sharp left. Owen accelerates and steers hard. Elijah’s body sways toward the open door.

Marnie screams. Begs.

“What did you call me?” asks Owen.

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I’m sorry, please, please, don’t hurt him.”

A car is approaching. Owen pulls the door shut and pushes Elijah onto the back seat. He’s crying.

“Tell him to shut up.”

“He’s a little boy.”

“You’re his mother. Keep him quiet.”

“Let me hold him.”

“No.”

Marnie turns her head to look at Elijah. “Shhhh, sweetie, just be quiet…If you’re a good boy, you’ll get a treat. Next time we stop, I’ll get you a chocolate. You love chocolate.”

“I want Bunny.”

“Bunny is at home.”

“Can we go home now?”

“Soon.”

Gennia stands in the entrance hall, his chin jutting forward and teeth clenched so hard his molars might crack. The crime scene examiners seem to enjoy making him wait, smiling privately to each other as they set out evidence tags and take samples. His every conversation is tense—the calls to his superiors, the questioning of his team, and the issuing of orders. Twelve hours ago the detective was so certain of Marnie Logan’s guilt and her imminent arrest. Now he feels foolish. Stupid. Amateurish.

“You broke into one crime scene and contaminated another,” he says, unclenching his jaw. “If my investigation has been compromised I’m going to chew you up and shit you out—and I mean shit not spit.” He glares at Ruiz. “How did you know about this place?”

“We didn’t.”

“What made you come back?”

“Curiosity.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“No.”

Gennia stabs his finger at Joe. “You’re staying here. The rest of you—wait downstairs.”

Ruiz retreats with Zoe and Rhonda Firth. Gennia takes a stick of gum from his pocket and studies Joe while unwrapping the foil. He doesn’t like psychologists. In particular, he doesn’t like criminal investigations where psychology serves a purpose. Most crimes are straightforward and easy to understand. People steal and cheat because they’re greedy or lazy or both. They kill for money, power, or revenge—simple yet ancient motives that don’t require a psychological profile to unravel or comprehend.

Gennia glances through the door at the broken ceiling. “I’m not sure what level of reality I’m supposed to be operating on here, Professor. I work, I eat, I shower, I sleep; occasionally I take a dump, which is the best five minutes of my fucking day. Quality time.” He swaps the chewing gum from one cheek to the other. “Yesterday, you told me Marnie Logan had a second personality. Now you say she has a stalker. Why should I believe you?”

“The evidence.”

“How did you find the room in the ceiling?”

“Zoe saw a pinprick of light.”

“When?”

“Last night when she came home.”

“Why didn’t she say anything?”

“She didn’t think it was important.”

Gennia looks into Marnie’s flat again. “So this guy was in her ceiling.”

“Yes.”

“Is he a voyeur or a stalker?”

“You’ve seen the photographs in the hallway.”

“Is she in danger?”

“Yes.”

The atmosphere between them alters. It’s as though a tiny screw holding something vital in place has been given a small twist to ratchet up the tension.

“There were two 999 calls from this address last night,” says Gennia. “One came from downstairs. That was Zoe. The other was made from Marnie Logan’s mobile. The operator logged it as the same incident because police were already on their way to this address. Nobody listened to the tape until this morning. Marnie said some man had been watching her and that she was trapped in his ceiling. Then she hung up. It didn’t make any sense until I saw this.” Gennia glances at the jagged hole again. “OK, so this guy is obsessed with her. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“I need more than that, Professor.”

“This level of infatuation is usually a form of paranoid delusion. He thinks he’s in love with Marnie and they’re destined to be together. It can be triggered by the most prosaic of things. He could have passed Marnie on the street or sat next to her on a bus. Stalkers fall in love with people they see on TV or hear on the radio. I don’t know enough yet to say why he chose Marnie, but he
thinks
he has a special connection with her, either real or imagined.”

“What about her ex-husband or former boyfriends?”

“Possibly.”

“Who else?”

“You’re looking for someone who has watched Marnie for a long time—perhaps since her childhood. The photographs will give us clues.”

“What will he do now?”

Joe has been pondering the same question, trying to picture this man’s mind.

“He’ll have imagined this moment—meeting her, telling her how much he loves her, showing her how much he’s done for her. He thinks Marnie will fall in love with him.”

“And they’ll live happily ever after?”

“Or die trying.”