Watching You (9 page)

M
arnie is almost at the stairs when she hears a door open. Trevor is dressed in an apron that says,
Grill Sergeant—I don’t take orders, I give them.
He’s holding a set of barbecue tongs. A pocket of air is trapped in his cheek.

“Let me help you.”

“I can manage.”

But Trevor has already seized the box. He climbs ahead of her, turning back occasionally as though worried she might get lost. Why does he always smell of urinal soap, she wonders.

“Somebody left a package for you,” he says. “I put it outside the flat.”

“Thank you.”

“And Mr. Brummer came round earlier to collect the rent. He said he was going to come back.”

“OK.”

“That detective was also here. I saw him waiting in his car.”

They’ve reached her door. Trevor steps back. Marnie bends to pick up a padded brown envelope on the welcome mat. It has her name but no address or postmarks. The words are written in dark felt-tipped pen. Capitals. She tucks the envelope under her arm and fishes her keys from her shoulder bag.

The door swings inwards. She turns to take the box, but Trevor has already pushed past her into the flat. He walks to the kitchen and sets down the box on the counter, sneaking a glance inside. Elijah comes running to greet Marnie. He’s been playing in her wardrobe again.

Zoe pokes her head out of her bedroom, but retreats when she sees Trevor.

“I’m having a barbecue,” he explains. “You should come down. I have loads of food. Elijah can run around the garden.”

“Zoe has homework.”

“She doesn’t have to come.”

Elijah has picked up the padded envelope. “Is that a present for me?”

“No, it’s for Mummy.”

“Can I open it?”

Marnie ignores him and tells Trevor, “Perhaps another time. I have work to do.” She points to the box.

Trevor frowns and gives her a sidelong glance. Marnie doesn’t like the way his pale tongue flicks out and disappears again, wetting his bottom lip. Elijah has managed to peel back a corner of the envelope. He grits his teeth, pulling it harder. The envelope rips open and a bundle of cash drops onto the floor with a thud. Twenties. Fifties. Held together with a rubber band. It must be thousands of pounds.

Marnie stares at the money. Elijah looks disappointed. Trevor whistles under his breath.

“Somebody likes you.”

“Did you do this?”

“Me?”

Her mind flashes through the possibilities. Who would give her this? Penny, perhaps, but she said Keegan had put her on a budget. Who else? Not Daniel’s parents, they hate her.

Trevor has picked up the torn envelope, looking for a note. Marnie takes it from him but finds nothing. “Did you see who it was?”

Trevor shakes his head.

Elijah reaches for the money. “Don’t touch it, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t belong to us.”

“But your name is on the envelope,” says Trevor.

“Please, go.”

Trevor pouts at her. “I did the right thing. I could have taken that money.”

“It was addressed to me.”

“Even so.”

“Leave.”

Grudgingly, he obeys. Complaining. Nasal-voiced. “I made extra potato salad.”

Marnie takes the money and counts it, laying each note on the table. It’s exactly five thousand pounds. She puts the cash in a new envelope after taking two hundred pounds and pushing it deep into the pocket of her jeans where she can feel it beneath the denim. Somebody is helping her, but what do they want in return? She’s not going to worry about that now. She can pay rent and buy a TV. She can stock the pantry and fill the empty freezer.

She makes a list and then taps on Zoe’s door. “I’m going to the shops. Will you look after Elijah?”

“I looked after him all afternoon.”

“Just for a while longer.” Marnie rests her head against the smooth wood. “What would you like for dinner? Anything you want.”

“Do we have money?”

“We do.”

“Did you borrow it from Trevor?”

“No.”

“Can we get some Ben and Jerry’s Cookie Dough ice cream?”

“You got it.”

Marnie unchains her bicycle from the side path and slips a reflective vest over her blouse. Pushing off, she rises onto the pedals and straightens, finding her balance. The bike has a toddler seat behind the saddle and a basket that rattles above her front wheel.

Riding along Elgin Avenue, she passes Maida Vale station and the small strip of shops and restaurants, before turning left onto Kilburn Road. Following the bus lane, she passes three tower blocks and Zoe’s school and climbs the rise into Kilburn. She chains the bike to a fence outside an estate agent’s and crosses the parking area to the supermarket. There are cheaper places, but today she doesn’t have to worry about comparative pricing, home brands, or what time of day they discount their meat.

The doors open automatically and she uncouples a trolley, steering it between battlements of sanitary napkins, toilet rolls, disposable nappies, and dog biscuits. At the deli counter she takes a number and buys a whole rotisserie chicken. She gets Zoe’s ice cream and some gluten-free treats for Elijah, along with the staples.

Glancing at her list, she turns a corner and collides with another trolley.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, crouching to pick up a fallen box of cereal.

“You should be more careful.”

Marnie raises her eyes. Patrick Hennessy is smiling at her, without showing his teeth. His hair is pushed back in a greasy wave and his eyes are pale brown, the whites looking almost jaundiced.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Don’t be so harsh. It scratches your pretty face.”

Marnie ignores him. Her knuckles are white on the trolley’s handle. She walks straight to a checkout. Hennessy is behind her. Another cashier motions him to change aisles.

“I’m fine just here,” he says, standing so close to Marnie she can smell his cologne. She spins and confronts him. “Leave me alone or I’ll scream for help.”

“No you won’t,” he replies.

The composition of his face surprises her, the thin lips, pink cheeks, and strange hair. His eyes seem to sweep the entirety of her, noting the loops of sweat beneath her arms and the curve of her breasts.

She bags her groceries and walks quickly across the parking area, not looking behind her. After putting her shopping in the basket of the bike, she uncouples the security chain.

“We either talk here, or I follow you home,” says Hennessy, blocking her way. He’s wearing the fixed expression of a fairground clown. “What happened to Quinn?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know he’s dead.”

Marnie doesn’t answer. Hennessy pinches the bridge of his nose. “He took you on a job the other night. He didn’t call me afterwards. What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Hennessy wraps his fingers around her handlebars. He raises the front tire a few inches and drops it. The basket rattles.

“Concentrate on me, Marnie, no more lies.”

“Quinn gave me a beating. He almost broke my ribs.”

“And now he’s dead. See how it looks?”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“I think you know something.”

“He dropped me home. That’s the last time I saw him.”

Hennessy sighs. “I have a dilemma, Marnie. You see, Quinn was more than an employee. My youngest sister married him—not her finest moment, I’ll admit—but now she’s bending my ear about finding out who killed him.”

“I don’t know what happened.”

“What did you tell the police?”

“Nothing.”

“But they’ve talked to you?”

“I didn’t mention you.”

“I want to believe you.” Hennessy looks down at her groceries, opening one of the bags with his thumb and forefinger. “Found some money have we?”

Marnie doesn’t reply.

“Or maybe you’ve found your husband?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

Marnie recognizes something new in his eyes.

“Life is pretty simple when you think about it,” he says. “We both want the same things—to be happy, raise a family, pay our bills, set a little aside for a rainy day…” He lets go of the handlebars and strokes his chin. “In the great circle of life everything is interrelated. It’s like a daisy chain and I’m not talking about flowers. You owe me money. I owe people money.
They
owe people money. Understand? I bankrolled your husband. The O’Hara clan bankrolled me. They’re like the royal fucking family of criminals—each one madder than the next—and they don’t just leave bruises. Understand?”

Marnie doesn’t answer.

“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt over Quinn, but if I find out you killed him, I’m going to be surprised on the one hand—perhaps even a little impressed—then I’m going to kill you. Otherwise my sister will never shut up. Blood is thicker than water and it’s also a fuck of a lot harder to get out of a white shirt.”

Hennessy has moved around the bike. He cups Marnie’s chin with his right hand, letting his eyes drift downwards.

“One way or another, I’m going to get what’s owed to me. You pay in cash or you pay in kind.”

Marnie’s hand slips into the basket. Hennessy traces a line down her throat, letting the tips of his thumb and forefinger brush over her right nipple. Without a word, she raises a can of insecticide and sprays it directly into his eyes. He reels away, clutching his face. Two figures are running toward her across the parking area: Hennessy’s men.

Up on the bike, pushing hard on the pedals, she rides across the footpath and bounces over the gutter. A car swerves and blasts its horn. Pedaling furiously, she weaves between stationary traffic at a pedestrian crossing.

Stupid cow! Stupid cow! Stupid cow!

She’s angry with herself…angry with Daniel. Look at what he’s done to her.

Turning right, she takes the back streets, avoiding traffic lights. Terraced houses stretch in both directions. Occasionally, she risks looking over her shoulder. It’s getting dark.

Stupid cow! Stupid cow!

Reaching Elgin Avenue, she’s not far from home. A truck passes her and she gets a backwash of fumes from the exhaust. Another vehicle is behind her. Marnie slows, breathing hard, and looks for a gap between the parked cars. The footpath will be safer. She risks glancing over her shoulder and sees the headlights of a dark-colored Land Cruiser. She veers toward the gutter, giving it room to pass. It accelerates. At the last possible moment the passenger door opens, striking her handlebars. The bike is tossed sideways. Tumbling. Head. Heels. Head. Marnie lands on asphalt and slides before hitting something solid and sinking into a moaning place. Darkness.

J
oe O’Loughlin didn’t expect Ruiz to come to Maida Vale. He thought they’d meet somewhere halfway at a restaurant or a pub that served real ale and carbohydrates. But the big man wanted to see Joe’s new flat, which isn’t so new anymore. He’s been in London for over a year.

“Like what you’ve done with the place,” Ruiz says, facetiously. “It’s going to look even better when you finish unpacking.”

There are still boxes in the spare bedroom and lined up along the hallway. Apart from the high ceilings and a bay window, the flat doesn’t have anything else that you might call a “feature.” The living room has a mismatched sofa and armchairs, cluttered bookshelves, and wilting plants on either side of the fake gas fireplace. A large desk takes up the width of the bay window.

“It has a sort of bachelor-academic chic,” says Ruiz, winking at Charlie, who is sitting opposite. She likes Vincent. He’s like a pseudo-uncle who tells jokes and has loads of cool stories, most of them age-inappropriate.

“I’m not used to having visitors,” yells Joe, who is in the kitchen trying to chisel a tray of ice from the freezer using a knife.

“He’s a hermit,” whispers Charlie.

“I heard that,” says Joe. He hits the handle of the knife with his palm and a tray seems to explode out, scattering ice cubes across the floor. “Some people are very comfortable living on their own,” he says, looking at the mess.

“Lonely people,” says Charlie.

“Who are independent.”

“Or sad.”

He emerges from the kitchen and hands Ruiz a Scotch on the rocks. “J. D. Salinger lived on his own.”

“So did the Unabomber,” says Ruiz.

“You’re not helping.”

Ruiz raises the glass and takes a rattling sip.

“Can I have one?” asks Charlie.

“Sure,” says Ruiz.

“No,” answers Joe. “And don’t you go encouraging her.”

“I don’t see why not. Most girls her age are binge-drinking by now.”

“I don’t binge-drink,” protests Charlie.

“That’s because you’re like your father and have no friends.”

She knows he’s teasing her. Ruiz swirls the ice cubes in the glass. “Where are we going for dinner?”

“Can I come?” asks Charlie.

“I’ve made you something in the fridge,” says Joe.

“Macaroni bake?”

“You
like
my macaroni bake.”

“Slightly more than starvation.”

Ruiz is looking settled on the sofa. He suggests takeaway. He looks at Charlie. “Your choice, madam.”

“Don’t call me madam.”

“Princess.”

“That’s worse.”

“You want to eat or what?”

Charlie chooses Indian and orders by phone. The restaurant is only on the corner. Joe opens his wallet and gives her the cash. Ruiz issues the instructions. “Make sure I get my chutney and lime pickle and don’t break the poppadums.” Joe holds the money above her head, just out of Charlie’s reach. “And don’t you go talking to any strange boys.”

“As if.”

After she’s gone, Ruiz pours himself another drink and shakes his head.

“Two daughters—you poor bastard.”

Marnie opens her eyes. The darkness is different now. Softer. Quieter. There’s no crunching of metal or spinning wheels. She’s lying in a gutter that smells of vomit and dog shit. Above her head she can see rags of clouds in a darkening sky…and faces. People are scrambling from cars and craning to see what’s happened. A large man toils toward her at a bow-legged run, stopping abruptly.

“Are you all right, dear?” asks an elderly woman, who appears in Marnie’s field of vision.

The question seems funny in the circumstances, but Marnie tries not to laugh. Moving her head slowly, she takes an inventory, bending her fingers and toes. Nothing broken. A wave of nausea rises in her stomach and she shuts her eyes again. Someone is holding her hand. For a moment she thinks it might be Daniel and almost bursts into tears.

She turns her head. Her bike is lying on its side. Her shopping has spilled onto the road and rolled under nearby cars. The foil bag with the roast chicken has split and a dog nuzzles the brown bird. She remembers the Land Cruiser. Hennessy. The supermarket.

“Can you hear me, missy?” asks the woman, who is clutching a dog lead.

“You came off yer bike,” says a man, who has a mustache like a circus ringmaster.

The woman speaks again. “Harold called an ambulance. You should lie still, missy, you might have hurt your spine.”

“Or you could be concussed,” says Harold.

Ignoring the advice, Marnie hauls herself onto her hands and knees, the gravel sharp under her palms. Carefully, she inspects the grazes on her thigh and left shoulder.

“I’m fine. Really.”

The woman is collecting her groceries. A can of tomatoes has rolled out of reach beneath a car chassis. The chicken can’t be salvaged.

“Come inside and clean up,” says the woman. Her front door is open. Light shines from inside.

Marnie stands, gritting her teeth.

“I have to call my daughter.” The words catch in her throat. “She’ll be worried about me.”

Ruiz pours himself another drink and fishes ice from a tall glass that Joe has left on the counter. “You mentioned a file was taken from your office.”

Joe nods.

“What was in it?”

“Nothing that warranted the effort, but someone tried very hard to conceal their purpose.”

“A professional?”

“Above average intelligence, forensic awareness, nothing rushed, no sign of panic.”

“What was in the file?”

“Clinical notes on a female patient.”

“What’s her problem?”

Joe hesitates. “I can’t talk about her treatment, but she’s in trouble. Her husband disappeared a year ago. Vanished. Not a trace. She can’t touch his bank accounts or open his gym locker or cancel direct debits. She can’t mourn him or bury him or move on with her life. I thought maybe you could…”

“Help?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t prove the man is dead.”

“I know.”

Ruiz pauses. Closes his eyes. “How well do you know this woman? Maybe she killed her husband.”

“I don’t believe that.”

The two men sit in silence for a while. Ruiz stretches his legs, putting the heel of one shoe on the toe of the other. He studies the professor without making it obvious. “You still having the nightmare?”

Joe wets his lips and shifts in his chair. “Sometimes.”

“The same one?”

“Pretty much.”

Ruiz scratches the stubble on his top lip as though stroking a mustache. “You shot a madman. You saved a girl. End of story.”

“The rational side of me knows that.”

“You’re a rational man.”

Joe’s eyes are glistening. Ruiz can see the depths of his pain.

“You’re not a killer, Joe. Not in your heart. Not where it matters. You’re made differently from most men. Maybe it happened in the womb. You understand more than most people. You look harder. You care more. You let things bruise your soul and question what’s wrong with humanity, but don’t ever doubt yourself.”

Joe squeezes his eyes shut as though fighting with an emotion he doesn’t plan to discuss. “I’m all right, Vincent. You don’t have to worry.”

The two men share the silence for a while, enjoying the peace.

“So how are things with Julianne?” asks Ruiz.

“Fine.”

“They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“We’re not sleeping together.”

“Not even accidentally bumping into each other in the dark?”

“Afraid not.”

Marnie presses the intercom.

Joe answers. “Have you forgotten your key?”

“Professor?”

“Who is this?”

“Marnie.” Her voice is trembling. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t bother you at home…”

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

Moments later she’s sitting at the kitchen table, still apologizing. Joe is crouched at her feet, examining the grazes on her shoulder and the blood leaking through her torn jeans. He’s not alone. A big man is standing in the doorway, holding a glass of Scotch.

“Fill the kettle,” Joe says to him. “Top cupboard, beside the fridge, second shelf, you’ll find cotton swabs and disinfectant.”

Perched on the edge of the chair, Marnie squeezes her hands between her knees. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“What happened?”

“I was knocked off my bike.”

Joe makes her flex her fingers and bend her limbs. “Nothing seems to be broken. Where are your children?”

“Zoe is looking after Elijah. I’ve called her. They’re fine.”

“This is my friend, Vincent Ruiz,” says Joe. Marnie nods.

“Did you see the vehicle?” asks Ruiz.

“It was big and dark…a four-wheel drive.”

“Get a number?”

“No.”

Joe fills a bowl with warm water and adds a splash of disinfectant. After soaking balls of cotton wool, he dabs at the graze, cleaning away blood and dirt and small fragments of gravel from Marnie’s forearm and shoulder. His left hand has started shaking.

“You’re not hurting me,” she says. “If that’s worrying you.”

“I have Parkinson’s,” Joe replies, making it sound like a character trait rather than a disease.

“How long?”

“Eight years.”

“I didn’t know.”

Marnie has never seen Joe away from his consulting room except for when she worked at the café. She’s surprised at how different he seems, less aloof, more ordinary. She had always regarded him as a shaggy-headed academic type whose clothes never seemed to fit him properly. But he has a younger man’s face and strong hands.

Joe turns her leg a fraction. “You should take off your jeans. I’ll find you something else to wear.”

Marnie goes to the bathroom and changes, rolling her jeans into a tight bundle before putting on a dressing gown. She silently thanks her mother for always telling her to wear decent underwear in case of an accident. As she opens the bathroom door, she can hear Joe and Ruiz talking.

“Who is she?”

“That patient I mentioned.”

“Now there’s an interesting happenstance. Has she been here before?”

“No.”

“But she knows your address?”

“She helped me find this place.”

Marnie reappears and Ruiz holds off asking any more questions. She tries to sit demurely with one leg higher than the other as Joe cleans the grazes on her thigh and hip. She tells them about Quinn and Hennessy and the police. It comes as a relief to unburden herself. Halfway through the story, the door opens and Charlie appears carrying bags of takeaway. She takes in the scene: Marnie in underwear and a dressing gown, her leg exposed, her father kneeling on the floor.

“I go away for twenty minutes,” she says incredulously.

“This is Marnie,” says Joe. “She’s one of our neighbors…almost.”

“How can someone be
almost
a neighbor?”

“I live around the corner,” says Marnie. “I had an accident.”

Charlie leans closer. “Nasty.”

“I really should be leaving. Thanks for patching me up.”

“Stay for dinner,” says Ruiz. “We ordered plenty.”

Charlie screws up her face.

“I have my own kids to feed,” says Marnie, standing gingerly.

Joe empties the bowl of bloody water, watching it swirl in pink circles down the drain.

“You can’t wear that home. Charlie will lend you some clothes.”

Marnie notices another pout from the teenage girl. “You don’t really have to,” she says, trying to make amends.

“Nonsense. She has loads of clothes.”

Marnie gets changed in the spare room, spotting the suitcase beside the bed and the teenage mess. She had often wondered if the professor had a wife and family. He has never mentioned them, not even in passing.

The others are eating. Ruiz and Charlie are laughing.

Joe is waiting for her. “I’ll walk you home.”

“No, you stay and finish. I’ll manage.”

“I insist. Where’s your bike?”

“Downstairs. I don’t think it’s salvageable.”

They walk side by side with Marnie limping slightly. Joe carries her groceries. The ice cream has melted and the fruit will be bruised.

“Where is your wife?” she asks.

“She lives in the West Country.”

“You live apart.”

“We’re separated. Charlie is going back tomorrow. I see her every second weekend and during the holidays.”

“Your only child?”

“I have Emma. She’s almost seven.”

Marnie nods. Questions are chorusing in her head.

“About tonight,” says Joe. “You have to talk to the police.”

“I can’t be certain Hennessy was in the car.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Yes, but he’ll deny it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to try to prove my husband is dead and collect the insurance money. Then I can pay Hennessy and start again.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“People often say that, but it’s rarely true. Vincent used to be a detective. He knows people. He can help you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He’s a good man.”

Marnie turns. She’s standing beneath a streetlight, wearing one of Charlie’s over-sized sweaters. Is there such a thing as “a good man,” she wonders. So few people have stayed with her. Friends have stopped calling. Invitations have dried up. Bad luck is like a contagion.

“I went to Daniel’s office today,” she says. “I went through his things and found the proof that he still loved me.”

“Proof?”

“He was planning a surprise for my birthday: a big red album like on
This is Your Life.
He contacted all my old friends, getting them to record messages and send photographs.” Marnie wants Joe to be excited. “I have his diary. It shows what he was doing, who he was meeting…Maybe someone knows what happened to him.”

“Why haven’t they come forward by now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they don’t realize.” She touches his forearm. “He made me a DVD. I haven’t watched it yet. I don’t have a TV.”

“What about a computer?”

Marnie shakes her head.

“I could lend you my laptop.”

“Will you watch it with me?”