Ross Armstrong - The Watcher - A dark addictive thriller with the ultimate psychological twist

ROSS ARMSTRONGis a British stage and screen actor who has performed in the West End of London, on Broadway and in theatres throughout the UK. Among others, he has acted opposite Jude Law ( Hamlet ), Joseph Fiennes ( Cyrano de Bergerac ), Kim Cattrall ( Antony and Cleopatra ) and Maxine Peake ( The Deep Blue Sea ). His TV appearances include Foyle’s War, Jonathan Creek, Mr Selfridge, DCI Banks and most recently, Ripper Street .

After gaining a BA in English Literature and Theatre at Warwick University, Ross joined the National Youth Theatre where his contemporaries included Matt Smith and Rafe Spall. A three year course at RADA followed and whilst there he won the RADA Poetry Writing Award. The idea for his debut novel The Watcher came to him when he moved into a new apartment block and discovered whilst looking at the moon through binoculars that he could see into his neighbours’ homes. Thankfully for them, he put down his binoculars and picked up his pen.

He is an avid cricket fan and hosts a regular podcast for All Out Cricket magazine. He also has a monthly column in You and Your Wedding magazine as he prepares for his own wedding in 2017.

For Catherine

Thanks to Catherine for her wonderful thoughts, general wisdom and a world of other things too.

To Al and Antonia, and particularly their children Evan and Darcy, for being the most consistent source of real life danger and violence I face on a regular basis.

To Jim for not going ahead with the long-mooted novel Lennon and Presley Detective Agency , leaving me as the sole author in the family to date.

To Juliet Mushens for being the best trinity of editor, agent and friend one could wish for.

To all at the Woodberry Wetlands for teaching me about the birds.

Everyone at HQ for their incredible support, dynamism and hard work from the very first moment we met.

My parents for everything, particularly for working for 50 years so their son could have the temerity of doing two Batchelor of Arts degrees when it was still economically possible to do so, which only qualified him to read books and act in detective-based TV shows. And for being my greatest champions and friends.

In ways big and small, there have been many people kind enough to read or listen to my words and not berate me for wasting their time. Every moment was immeasurably valuable to me. So, thanks to: Chris Farrar, John Hollingworth, Tom McHugh, Jules Stevens, David Hart, Fred Ridgeway, Jo Kloska, Richy Riddell, Natasha James, Jack McNamara, Jane Boston, Alex Odell, Dan Ings and Ben McLeish.

If there is anyone else who thinks themselves largely responsible for me getting to write this thing that has given me so much pleasure whom I have neglected to mention, I’m sure you’re right and I apologise unreservedly.

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

7 days till it comes.

Part One: The Look

42 days till it comes.

35 days till it comes.

33 days till it comes.

30 days till it comes.

Part Two: The night. And the day that followed.

20 days till it comes. Night. 10 p.m.

19 days till it comes. 11 a.m. Work.

20 days till it comes (Dr Lily Gullick). 11 p.m.

19 days till it comes. 2.30 p.m.

Back to Last Night

20 days till it comes. Night. 11.45 p.m.

Night. 12.30 a.m.

Night. 3 a.m.

19 days till it comes. 5.32 p.m.

Part Three: The Woman in Canada House

18 days till it comes. 10 a.m.

16 days till it comes. The Ivory-billed Woodpecker.

Part Four: The Twitch

15 days till it comes. 2.02 a.m.

15 days till it comes. 2.32 a.m.

15 days till it comes. Time: Unknown.

15 days till it comes. Far too late.

14 days till it comes. 7 p.m.

Part Five: Birding

13 days till it comes. 8.30 a.m.

12 days till it comes. 4 p.m.

9 days till it comes.

Part Six: The Big Stay

Day 1: In short, I got nothing.

Day 2: Flat 11. Blind open. Vincent.

Day 3: Flat 4. Alfred; Flat 7. Liz and Dicky.

Day 4: A complete shut-out.

Day 5: Jonny’s hands.

Today.

9 days till it comes. Evening.

8 days till it comes. Single white male.

7 days till it comes. And here we are.

7 days till it comes. Outside.

Part Seven: In My Sights

6 days till it comes. Morning.

6 days till it comes. Afternoon.

6 days till it comes. Evening.

5 days till it comes.

4 days till it comes.

2 days till it comes.

1 day till it comes.

1 day till it comes. 2 p.m.

The Day It Comes.

Part Eight: The Woman on the Fourth

The day it comes. Afternoon.

The day it comes. Evening.

The day it comes. One minute later.

The day it comes. Evening.

28 September. 9 a.m.

Part Nine: The Tick Hunter

28 September. 12 p.m. The Bad Kids.

28 September. 12.45 p.m. Nathan.

28 September. 1.10 p.m. Sandra.

28 September. 1.40 p.m. Thompson.

28 September. 3 p.m. My saviour.

28 September. 3.30 p.m.

28 September. Evening. 6.30 p.m.

Part Ten: The Hastings Rarities

28 September. 7.15 p.m.

28 September. 8.55 p.m.

29 September. The small hours.

29 September. 6.35 a.m.

29 September. 6.45 a.m.

29 September. 6.55 a.m.

29 September. 7.35 a.m. Sunrise.

Part Eleven: The Life List

1 December.

Copyright

I look in her direction. About fifty metres away behind a sheet of glass stands a woman. Looking out at the reservoir. She’s in the building opposite. I’ve spotted him in that building before, but not her. I’ve been watching him. She’s about my height, my build. She could be my reflection. Except she couldn’t because she’s a little darker, has an air about her. European. Her hand rests on the frame of the door, softly. She is lost in thought. No, she is concerned. She scratches her bottom lip with her teeth. She wears lipstick. She has a tousled fringe. She has a light blue dress on, for the summer. I adjust the dial on my binoculars, to sharpen the focus. Her eyebrows, perfectly plucked, knit in displeasure. Her face is half lit by the early evening sun streaming through her window. North facing. Or perhaps it’s not her window. I certainly haven’t spotted her before. In there. With him. Which is strange.

She takes a careful step backwards. Steady, feline. The sun recedes now, kissing her features goodbye. The dark of the room smooths over her face, like a sheet, enveloping her. She’s harder to read. But I can still see her. She’s so still. Careful. Intense. Pensive. Every muscle in her face firm and poised. Rich with intent.

She’s still lit by the gentle glow of the room. But only just. Softly, so softly. A single lamp perhaps. A femme fatale. Shadowed. Like from a 1954 movie. How quickly they all turn into models. Through my eyes. All the people behind the windows in the building across from where I am now. Like they’re posing for me. For a photo shoot. How well they perform. How beautiful. It’s almost like they know.