Watching You (30 page)

D
I Gennia is losing his voice. His orders are raspy and thin, as he barks down the radio, gripping the handset like a grenade. “If he joined the military, they should have his prints on file,” he says, thinking out loud. “And do a vehicle search using his name. Also look for a mobile phone number.”

Joe is doing his own calculations. If Owen Cargill joined the army at sixteen, he’d be fifty now or thereabouts. As a child he had peered into neighbor’s windows, already well known to social services, caught in the ragged net, slipping through it. He joined the army, which can straighten out some teenagers and give them direction. For others it exacerbates their problems, furnishing them with the skills and discipline to stay under the radar without ever getting help.

The old woman was his mother—a former prostitute and heroin addict. Owen survived his childhood despite her not because of her. He nursed her through her final days. She was family. Blood. These aren’t the actions of a sociopath or a psychopath.

What is Owen looking for now? What does he crave more than anything else? Love. Affection. Respect. Understanding. It’s as though he’s been holding his breath for thirty years waiting for this moment. At the same time he’s remained proactive, intervening in Marnie’s life, punishing those who wronged her, but never introducing himself or trying to make contact.

Staring into the sky, Joe sees a flock of small black birds lift raggedly from a rooftop as though emerging from a chimney. They circle the tattered sky and return to wherever they came from.

He’s in a different part of Manchester now. The houses opposite are pastel-colored, painted in muted shades of mauve and blue because some corporate body or residents’ committee has decided to make the street look more upmarket.

This is where Owen Cargill lived. Flat 2, number 24. The Logans were in the house next door, No. 22. Forty years ago this was a poor area of Manchester full of cheap houses, bedsits, and council flats. Now it’s home to doctors, accountants, lawyers, and other professionals who can afford the inner-city prices.

Gennia’s mobile phone beeps. He slides his finger across the screen. The text message has a photograph attached. “That’s him,” he says, showing Joe the phone, “Owen Ruben Cargill. We don’t have anything more recent.”

The image shows a young soldier in dress uniform with a beret and short-cropped hair. He’s barely out of his teens but Joe recognizes him anyway.

“I’ve met him.”

“What?”

“I’m almost certain. About a week ago I was mugged near Chelsea Bridge. Three guys. Young. Drunk. Looking for trouble. They tried to throw me into the river. This is the guy who chased them off.”

“Owen Cargill?”

“I didn’t know his name.”

Joe studies the photograph, remembering that evening; the police cars on the opposite side of the river, the briny stink of low tide and his own ineptitude. Patrick Hennessy died that night. These events must be linked.

“Did you report it to the police?” asks Gennia.

“They told me to fill out an incident report.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

The detective grunts in disgust. Joe goes over the details of the confrontation again. There was a man watching him from the bridge just before the attack. Was it Owen Cargill? He came to Joe’s rescue, but wouldn’t give his name. Joe tried to give him his business card. Wanted him to call. Why would Owen Cargill risk such a meeting? To what end?

Another message arrives on Gennia’s phone. He reads from the screen.

“Cargill was discharged from the army in 1988. We’re asking the MOD for his military records. In the meantime, I want to get his photograph in front of Zoe Logan.”

Joe gets out of the car and stands beneath the stiff crown of a birch tree. He walks along the footpath and turns the corner, clambering onto a wall to look into the rear gardens. Martha Cargill worked as a prostitute. Later she sold drugs and operated other girls from various addresses, taking a percentage of their earnings. Social services took Owen away from her and put him in foster homes. He was a loner, hiding in basements, peering through windows, pressing his face to the glass. He lived in this street. He would have looked through these same windows, and climbed these trees.

Dogs are barking. Curtains move. Joe jumps down and retraces his steps. As he walks past number 22 the door opens and a middle-aged woman emerges carrying a plastic bag of rubbish. Opening her bin, she dumps the bag and squints at Gennia warily. “Can I help you?”

The detective holds up his badge. “Police.”

“Is something wrong?”

“We’re investigating two families who once lived in this street.”

“In my house?” She’s nosy rather than concerned. “When was that then?”

“Late seventies.”

“We’ve only been here since 1997,” she says. “Would you like to look inside?”

Joe accepts the offer. Gennia stays with the car.

“We’ve renovated,” the woman says, leading Joe through a reception room and open-plan kitchen, pointing out features as though she’s selling the place. He can smell toast and microwaved food. Descending the side steps, he walks into the garden and sees the laundry door.

“That leads to the basement,” she says. “It’s a good storage area. Place was full of junk when we moved in.”

Joe dips his head and steps into the laundry, which has a polished cement floor. The basement extends further beneath the house, but the light only allows him to see fifteen or so feet.

“We had to redo the floors,” the woman says. “You could see right through the gaps. Made it cold in winter.”

Barely listening, Joe tries to picture a teenage boy crouching in the darkness. Neglected as a child, perhaps abused, he learned how to immerse himself in imaginary games, in films and in books and fantasies. Instead of becoming gregarious with good inter-personal skills and sensitivity, he grew accustomed to being an onlooker rather than a participant.

According to Francis Moffatt, Owen was dropped at the cinema and told to hide between sessions. He would have soaked up the details of countless films, many of them highly inappropriate, but he wasn’t old enough or sophisticated enough to understand that most of these high-impact storylines weren’t real. He saw horror stories and sex shows and family dramas. He saw perfect families and happy endings and then looked at his own family and wondered what had happened to him. If he’d been an ordinary, robust, uncomplicated young boy, being trapped in this world between screen and audience might have made no difference, but Owen had a delicacy and sensitivity about him; and he had nobody to interpret or guide his understanding of these things.

Soon he began to create his own stories with extravagant plots full of secret agents and spies. He stole into houses or peeped through windows, watching people and collecting details of their lives. He was still trapped between worlds, watching without participating.

At sixteen he joined the army. Suddenly, this boy who craved solitude couldn’t escape from people. Surrounded by recruits and officers, he lived in noisy barracks and mess halls with rarely a quiet moment. Initially, nothing marked him out as being different. He did the training. He learned how to protect, defend, and kill. But he
felt
different. He had always been a voyeur, watching the world from the outside, but now people expected him to partake, to play a role. Owen didn’t know how.

At some point in this process, he began to fixate upon Marnie Logan. Of all the people in the world he brushed up against—why did he become obsessed with her?

Joe’s mobile vibrates against his heart, like a tiny bird is trapped in his pocket. Ruiz’s number is on the screen. He ducks out of the basement and takes the call in the garden.

“She’s gone,” says Ruiz.

“Zoe?”

“She left a note on the kitchen table. She says her stepdad is still alive and she’s going to meet him.” Joe’s fingers tighten around the phone. Ruiz is still talking. “I was only away for fifteen minutes. When I got back she wasn’t here.”

Joe is moving back through the house. “What did she take?”

“Her satchel and some cash I kept in a drawer.”

“How much?”

“Eighty quid.”

“Did she get a phone call?”

“I checked the call return number. Nothing.”

“What about her mobile?”

“The police took it from her.”

Joe’s mind is racing through the possibilities. Her laptop. Someone must have contacted Zoe via email or in a chatroom.

“How long has she been missing?”

“Twenty minutes at most.”

“What was she wearing?”

Ruiz has to think: Jeans, a Clash T-shirt, a hoodie, and white Converse trainers.

Joe is also running through the options. Somebody either picked Zoe up, or she’s on foot, probably heading for the nearest tube station or catching a bus. She took money, which means she could be heading for one of the mainline hubs or a long-distance coach terminal.

Joe has retraced his steps through the house, emerging from the front door. Gennia is sitting in the passenger seat, talking on the radio. He looks up. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re not going to like this.”

The patrol car weaves aggressively through heavy traffic, the siren sounding as if it’s coming from somewhere behind them. The detective sergeant behind the wheel is concentrating hard on the road while Gennia yells into a two-way radio, issuing a description of Zoe Logan, aged fifteen, five-five, slim build, short dark hair, blue-green eyes, last seen at 12:30 p.m. in the Fulham area in London.

“Pull a photograph from her police interview. Don’t make her look like a suspect.”

When he’s finished he turns to Joe. His eyes are cold, annoyed. “Why are you so sure it’s not Daniel Hyland?”

“He’s been missing thirteen months—why turn up now?”

“Zoe is a bright girl. She would have demanded proof.”

“Cargill has been watching them. He knows every detail about this family. That’s how he convinced her.”

“You said he was obsessed with Marnie, why take Zoe?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he’s doing it
for
Marnie.”

“She wouldn’t put Zoe at risk.”

Joe grips the handle above his head as the car takes another corner. Why can’t he see it? The logic. The motivation. Most human behavior is shaped by social norms—the cultural conventions, how to dress, what to eat, how to interact with others, the right and wrong way to do things. Psychologists are like mathematicians, searching for the patterns in nature so they can predict outcomes. But this case involves people who don’t lie in the middle of bell curves, but on the “tails.”

Joe tries to put himself in Marnie’s position. What will she do? Fight. Survive. Protect.

“Where else did she live?” he asks, hearing how ragged his voice has become.

Gennia looks over the seat. “What do you mean?”

“Owen Cargill has been following Marnie for decades, waiting for this moment. He’s likely to have prepared a place where they can be together—somewhere of special significance.”

“Such as?”

“A previous address.”

L
ook, Mummy, I made a picture.”

Elijah waves a page in front of Marnie’s face. Her eyes open.

Curled up beneath a blanket, she’s still dressed in her muddy clothes. She doesn’t know how much of the day has gone or how long she’s been lying on the bed. Each time she closes her eyes she can see a wrecked car sitting in the water, a splintered tree, her mother’s broken body, blood between her thighs, the brother she couldn’t save.

Marnie views the scene from above, as though floating, drifting away until the scene grows further and further away. She had the same feeling when she was hiding with Elijah, a sense of leaving her body and gazing down at herself. How pathetic she’d looked. How weak and useless. A better, stronger person would have managed to escape. A better, stronger version of her would be able to protect her family. Instead she ruined everything. That’s why Daniel slept with Penny. It’s why he gambled. It’s why her first marriage failed and her mother died and she lost her baby brother.

Elijah tugs at her sleeve. “Who is you talking to, Mummy?”

“Nobody.”

He pulls a plastic frog from his pocket and makes it jump across her pillow.

“Owen says there are frogs in the pond. He says we can catch tadpoles.”

“We’re not going to be staying here.”

“But he said…”

“This isn’t our home.”

Elijah flinches at her tone. Marnie looks at the door. “Where is he?”

“Outside.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Digging a hole.”

Marnie is silent for a few beats. She drags herself to sitting. Everything aches. Then she stands and goes to the bathroom, washing her face and hands before putting on fresh clothes. Her day begins again. She washes Elijah’s sheets and hangs them on the outside line under threatening skies. Owen has left her the breakfast dishes. After scrubbing crusted porridge from the pot, she sits on the sofa and listens as Elijah explains
SpongeBob SquarePants
to her. He seems to have seen every episode.

Marnie laces on her muddy boots and walks up the worn track to the barn. She can hear a shovel digging into the earth. Owen has cut the turf away and is turning the soil beneath.

“We’ll have a vegetable garden,” he says, leaning on the shovel.

“I remember you,” says Marnie. “You were there when my mother died.”

Owen doesn’t answer. He picks up a military-style canteen and unscrews the lid. The water runs over his chin onto the front of his shirt.

“Did you kill her?”

“No.”

“Could you have saved her?”

“I saved you.”

He goes back to digging, raising a hoe above his head and swinging it hard into the rich dark soil, breaking up clods and separating stones into a pile.

“You still haven’t told me why.”

“Why what?”

“Why me? There are millions of people out there, but you followed
me
;
you watched
me
. What was the point? So you’re a voyeur, you like looking in people’s windows. You watched me sleeping…showering. There’s nothing you haven’t seen. You’ve had your jollies, now leave us alone.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Explain it to me.”

“You’re not ready.”

Marnie’s frustration makes her want to scream.

Owen pauses from his work. “I have devoted my life to you.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“Let me finish. I want you to know how much I’ve sacrificed and then you’ll forgive me.”

“I’ll
never
forgive you,” she says, but her voice lacks the conviction of her heart. “What did you do to Daniel?”

Owen hesitates. He rests the hoe on his shoulder and stares at mud on the toe of his workboot. “He was a feckless spend-thrift. He gambled away your future. He didn’t love you.”

“What did you do?” Marnie’s voice croaks and a rash creeps up her neck, splotchy and hot.

“He was unfaithful.”

“What did you do?”

“He got too close to finding me.”

Owen looks past Marnie and the edge of the barn. Almost hidden in a grove of fruit trees planted too haphazardly to be called an orchard, he can see a small enclosure with a handful of grave markers.

Marnie follows his gaze.

“He would have left you anyway,” says Owen.

“You killed him?”

Owen doesn’t answer.

“How?”

“He didn’t suffer.”

“How?” Her voice sounds thick and clotted with phlegm.

Owen closes his eyes for a moment, as though making a decision. “He suspected I existed. He was asking questions, searching for people, but he didn’t know I was so close. Then he went looking for your old wedding photographs in the wardrobe and discovered the false panel.” He glances at Marnie. “I know what you’re thinking, but his death was inevitable from the moment he betrayed you. I had overlooked so many of his indiscretions, but not that one.”

Marnie opens her mouth to speak and in the end says nothing. Her loneliness is almost complete. She can whisper a hundred words, scream a thousand of them, she can beg, pray, cry, fight, or surrender but nothing will bring Daniel back. She has a final act.

Owen is wielding the hoe again. “I’m going to fence this off so the rabbits don’t steal our lettuces. It’s a bit late in the season to plant, but we’ll be ready for the spring.”

Owen doesn’t look at her but he’s aware that something has changed between them. He had expected insults, accusations, and hatred, but not acceptance.

“I have to go into town,” he says. “Is there anything you need?”

Marnie doesn’t answer.

“I’m going to lock you in the house while I’m gone. Elijah is coming with me.”

“No.”

“I won’t be long.”

“Please.”

“I can’t trust you yet, Marnie.”

He’s walking toward the house. She runs alongside him, tugging at his arm. “Leave him with me. He’s not been well. He’s not strong enough. Please don’t take him.”

“I’m not going to hurt him…unless you’re not here when I get back.”

Elijah is playing on the veranda. “You’re coming with me, sport.”

“Where?”

“Into town.”

Marnie wants to fight. She pulls at his shirt. He pushes her onto the porch swing, which rocks with her weight and bashes into the painted wall. “Don’t be foolish. Get in the house.”

Inside, she hears him locking the doors. Moving from window to window, she keeps them in sight as they walk to the barn and disappear inside. Then she watches the car emerge and Owen shutting the barn doors before getting back behind the wheel and driving down the track, disappearing into the trees. Her last glimpse of Elijah is when he turns to look out the rear window.

Even if she could get out, what would she do? Where would she run? How would Elijah cope without her? Instead, she moves through the house, looking for a phone or a computer. She searches his bedroom, opening drawers and the wardrobe, going through his pockets, sliding her hand beneath the mattress.

Two drawers are locked. She searches for a key; upending jars of pens and paperclips, rummaging through the contents. She looks under the desk, pressing her cheek to the floor. The key is a bump on a smooth plane of floorboards. Inside the drawers she finds papers relating to the farm: purchase orders, rate notices, electricity bills, oil deliveries.

Every time she hears a sound, she expects to turn and see Owen in the doorway. There’s nothing. No phone. No computer. She moves along the hallway to a part of the farmhouse that she hasn’t explored. Another room. Her childhood memories don’t extend this far.

The door handle is stiff. She turns it with both hands. The bedroom on the other side belongs to a teenager; it belongs to Zoe, with the same posters on the walls, the same duvet cover, clothes, shoes…

Fear and fury balloon inside her. She thought Zoe was safe.

Owen wants her too.