Jane Renshaw - Watch Over Me

‘Yes.’

‘You and Ms Turnbull return to Number 17 at 6 p.m. precisely. Why? If you felt so unsafe in the house, why take that risk?’

‘Because Caroline – She thought I might have made a mistake about Alec being dead.’

‘Why didn’t you call 999 from Ms Turnbull’s house before returning to Number 17?’

‘I – No comment.’

He nodded, as if satisfied by this answer. ‘In her statement, Ms Turnbull has said that she assumed you had already called 999 when she returned with you to your house. Is there any reason for her to have assumed this?’

‘No. I don’t know.’

‘Ms Turnbull is shown on the CCTV leaving the house at 6:09 p.m.’ He sat back and looked at her. ‘Your call to the emergency services was registered at 6:21 p.m. What were you doing, Mrs Parry, between the time Ms Turnbull left the house and that call? The two of you have just established that your husband is dead – murdered – and Ms Turnbull has run back to her own house to be with your daughter Beckie. Why delay still further before calling 999?’

‘No comment.’

He turned the laptop sideways on the table so they could all see the screen.

‘I’m going to ask you to look at this footage, Mrs Parry.’

On the screen was a sharp image of the back garden. Alec had insisted on state-of-the-art cameras and had spent hours adjusting them to get the pictures as sharp as possible. She could see the individual lavender flowers, and the little weeds between the stone slabs of the patio. And then a figure appeared on the patio, a pale-faced, wild-haired woman with the kind of fixed expression you saw on people filmed during earthquakes, or gun massacres, or famines.

She watched herself run across the patio, along the gravel path to the shed. Fumble with the combination padlock. Dive inside, and reappear with a hammer swinging from her hand. Run back down the path to the patio, and disappear off the edge of the screen.

DI McLean reached across the keyboard and tapped at the keys. The scene on the screen changed to the side wall of the house. The kitchen window – Oh God, the kitchen window was visible! Right at the edge of the screen.

Caroline had been wrong.

The CCTV did cover that window!

She watched in dismay as she appeared behind the glass. She had stood on a chair to enable herself to reach far enough over the sink to get her hand out of the window with the hammer… And there was her arm, her hand, the hammer… There was the glass shattering, her grimace at the noise of it…

DI McLean leant across the table. ‘What happened, Flora? What happened in your house that day?’

She sighed. ‘Okay.’

‘Flora,’ said Charles.

‘No. It’s fine, I need to explain… When we got back, Caroline and I –’ But no. She couldn’t implicate Caroline in this. If Caroline was also arrested, as accessory after the fact or whatever, what would happen to Beckie? ‘When Caroline and I got back to the house, while she was upstairs… I checked the CCTV. I realised that it didn’t show anyone breaking in to the house, I realised the Johnsons must somehow have manipulated the footage or something to frame me… But the kitchen window wasn’t covered by the CCTV, at least that was what I thought, I didn’t realise that that camera included it… So after Caroline had gone, I got a hammer and broke the glass…’

‘Mrs Parry,’ sighed DI MacLean. ‘Even if the window itself had not been covered by your CCTV, in order to reach it, an intruder would have had to pass through the fields of view of at least two other cameras.’

‘I – I didn’t think of that.’

‘Evidently not. Just how do you explain why no one was caught on the CCTV that day, in the time interval between yourself, Ms Turnbull and your daughter leaving the house, and yourself and your daughter returning?’

‘Flora –’ Charles shook his head.

There were grey splotches in front of her eyes. A buzzing, high in her head. But she managed to get it out. She managed to say:

‘No comment.’

‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Fisher?’ I goes in a polite wee voice. ‘This is Jessica Stuart from Making Waves? The TV production company? You were kind enough to speak to myself and my colleague about your daughter Tricia a few weeks ago?’

‘Oh. Yes. Hello.’

‘It seems that Rachel Clark, or Flora Parry as she’s calling herself now, was arrested today for the murder of her husband. I’ve just had a tip-off from a journalist. And she’s also under suspicion of the murder of a social worker.’

Wifie’s gasping away.

I goes: ‘I’m sorry to be telling you this over the phone, but I didn’t want you to find out from the media. It should hit the news tomorrow morning… Mrs Fisher, are you all right?’

‘I – yes. Sorry.’

‘The police are unaware, however, of Flora’s real identity.’ So how come this journo fucker tipped me off, eh? How come the journo knew Flora Parry was the Rachel Clark I was making a documentary about? It’s no adding up, but I’m counting on Wifie no thinking straight. ‘Rachel covered her tracks extremely well, and… Anyway. The thing is, my professional code of conduct precludes me from going to the police and telling them who Flora is…’ And that’s a load of pish an’ all. ‘But you could do so.’

‘I’ll do it right now.’

‘Aye, if you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Fisher, holding off until her photo’s in the press? Then you can pretend you recognise her from the photo. I shouldn’t have told you who she was, you see. I just – I couldn’t in all conscience not tell you, but if anyone finds out I’ve done so, I’ll probably lose my job.’

‘Oh, of course. After all you’ve done for us…’

‘If you just call the police after her photo’s appeared in the press, and tell them she’s the bitch killed Tricia, that should do it.’

Aye, that should do it right enough.

I chuck the phone on the settee and do a fist pump like one of they tennis fuckers.

Out in the wee hall, there’s that up-herself bint coming at me in her wee cropped jeans and white linen shirt, pulling at the waistband of the jeans because aye, getting a bit tight there, eh doll? Fuck the fucking diet, eh?

‘Right then Caroline-hen,’ I goes. ‘Let’s us get outta here.’

Behind the bint, there’s wee Bekki. Thank God. She’s been locked in the lavvy for a fucking hour, poor wee bairn.

I turn and go, ‘Okay sweetheart?’

‘Who are you talking to?’

I chuckle. ‘Talking to myself like a mentalist.’ I wave at the mirror down the end of the hall and the bint waves back. Next her, Bekki’s standing there giving it rabbit in the headlights.

It’s fucking crazy but, like something out one of they halls of fucking mirrors – I’m rabbit in the headlights an’ all, I cannae believe it, eh, there’s me and there’s my wee darlin’ next me. Wee Bekki. I coorie her in to my chebs and in the mirror the bint Caroline’s coorying her, and I’m going and she’s going, ‘It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s gonnae be okay.’

I pull up in the drive outside the newbuild. It’s a barry day, not a fucking cloud in the sky, and I’m thinking picnic lunch in the garden with all the wee treats we’ve got in for Bekki, they wee samosas and that, and Marks and Sparks salads with weird beans and shite.

‘Here we are then, Bekki!’ I goes, all cheery. ‘That window up there’s your room!’

Bekki doesnae say nothing.

And aye it’s a lot for a bairn to take in, eh? When we stopped on the way for a wee poke of chips I went, ‘This house where we’ll be staying, it’s where my kids live. Carly and Connor.’