I've Been Watching You: a stunning crime thriller from The North East Police Series (12 page)

Because they’d run screaming from my scars.

The thought had been there since his return, festering in his mind and making him feel as though he was the most unattractive man ever. No matter how much TJ tried to tell him to open up, he’d never been able to.

Women deserve a man who can look after them. I can barely even look after myself any more.

Pushing the desolation and depression back, he plastered his false smile on his face and quietly told Ben to make herself a coffee. She was there to learn, there wouldn’t be anything more.

He could not let himself be attracted to her.

7
^th
June, 1140 hours – Tunstall, Sunderland City Centre

He sat back from the computer screens, waiting for her response. He had made contact with Clarice the day before and they’d been messaging constantly since. She thought she was getting to know someone on her course, someone who may well turn out to be attracted to her. He had started by asking her for lesson notes, indicating he had been ill and would be off class this week. After a little coaxing she had agreed, sending him the information last night and promising to send more this morning.

It had taken time to get her to start opening up, but now she was messaging him replies instantly. He hadn’t even needed to check her Facebook information today – she had already told him she had a night out planned for the 16
^th
. He had replied, telling her he was out with his friends and they should plan to meet up.

And that’s when she had sent her mobile number.

Stupid bitch – women were so fickle. Slightest bit of attention and they believed someone was genuinely interested in them.

It was so pathetic it bordered on the ridiculous. Laying the groundwork to teach his lessons was necessary, but he hated how they always presumed he gave a damn.

He would show her just how little he cared when he had her in the centre, begging him not to kill her, saying she would do anything if he would just let her live, promising she wouldn’t tell.

He smiled. They always said the same things.

Not that it mattered. No-one ever told. Because no-one ever lived.

Bringing up his internet explorer, he put the terms rape, 2008, Durham into the search engine, and hit enter.

The first hit was the right one. Clicking on it, he started to read. He shuffled in his seat, adjusting himself as the memories of
her
flooded through his mind. She had been the only one who hadn’t promised not to tell, accepting early on that she wouldn’t be alive to tell the tale.

As he read through the news report, his eyes widened.

‘The victim, as yet unnamed, was taken to the University Hospital of Durham where they treated her for extensive injuries and serious sexual assault. Her condition at this time is critical. Anyone with any information is asked to contact either the local police force or Crime Stoppers.’

Sitting back he had to fight the sudden surge of panic. Treatment for injuries? Meaning she had been alive when they took her to the hospital? How in the hell could he have left her alive? He had watched as her blood soaked into the soil around her, listened to her raspy breaths as she fought to delay the inevitable. His knife had needed cleaning after being plunged deep into her stomach. She’d barely even been breathing even as he left.

The surge of anger surprised him. He swiped his hand across the computer desk, sending two screens crashing to the floor along with a cold mug of stagnant coffee. It splashed up onto his bare foot, and he looked down in confusion.

How was it possible that she had survived and he hadn’t known? Maybe she had died later? What if she had woken up and told the police who had done it? He hadn’t worn any kind of disguise back in those days, not caring as his victims didn’t live to tell the tale. Hell, he only wore them now when he was prepping, never during the actual teachings.

Scanning through the rest of the article, he was disappointed to see there was no links to other articles relating to the attack. Going back to the search engine, he tried some of the other sites but the information was pretty much standard. As he passed over the progressing dates, it moved from being popular news to less popular and eventually petered off.

Focussed now, he took himself to the registrar’s website. Jumping up from the chair, he pulled his precious box down from the shelf to his right. It was still meticulous, fully ordered. Retrieving the fourth envelope in, he read the name and date on the front. He had never bothered learning their names at the time; instead he’d written them down in case he ever needed them for reference.

He entered the date into the search engine, and found a more recent article, dated a year after the assault.

‘
After surviving the horrific attack of a year ago, the victim, who wishes to remain anonymous has finally recovered from her injuries but no doubt the scars run deep. She refused to comment to this reporter when approached, but we are to assume she is still dealing with the traumatic after effects of such an awful event. It’s a year later and the police have not made any arrests – the attacker remains at large. We encourage women everywhere to remain vigilant in the face of such events, and recommend that if you have been the victim of a rape, you make sure you report it and get some support. A list of agencies is outlined below.’

He curled his fist into a ball, pulled back and punched the computer screen hard. An ink stain effect immediately spread across half of it, obscuring the offending article from view.

Intent now, he double checked the rest of the victims in his box. She was the only one, the only one who had lived.

How could I have been so stupid? How could I not have known? She knows me! She will have told the police all about me, gave them my description. And what if I left something behind?

Struggling to calm himself down, he felt his breath flare his nostrils as he inhaled and exhaled sharply. It had been years. If the police had anything on him, then he would have been approached by now. Slowly, his breathing calmed and he noticed the mess now surrounding him. It was time to get some new equipment. He would take care of Clarice first, she would definitely
not
survive. Then he would look into where Bree was now.

He would pay her another visit, and this time she also would definitely
not
live to tell the tale.

7
^th
June, 1725 hours – Sunderland Royal Hospital

Ben watched as Grace sat on the floor in front of her with a colouring book and crayons. She had gotten a lot better at staying inside the lines, and Ben felt a sudden wave of pride wash over her. Her daughter was truly the best thing in her life. Shuffling in her seat, she realised she was clenching and unclenching her hands.

Waiting was hell.

Surely it shouldn’t take this long to take something out. What if something’s gone wrong? What if it was bigger than they thought?

Ben argued with herself in her head, was still doing so in fact when the surgeon finally approached, his green scrubs stark against the cream walls of the corridor outside the recovery room.

Smiling at her, he put her at ease. ‘She’s come through fine.’ He glanced down at Grace who was looking up at him expectantly before continuing, ‘She’s going to be sore for a few weeks, but it looks like it hadn’t spread. I’m confident we got it all.’

Ben nodded, a little too choked up to speak straight away.

‘Can we see her?’

‘She’s still in recovery, but she’ll be taken back to her room in the next ten minutes. Why don’t you and Grace head upstairs and meet her there?’

He looked down again as Grace tugged at the leg of his trousers. Smiling, he bent down to her level.

‘Did you take the bad thing out of my Aunty Aoife?’

‘I sure did, sweetheart. Your aunty is going to be fine. But you might have to help her for a few weeks. She’s going to be a little bit sore.’

Grace nodded solemnly, ‘Like when I fall over and hurt my knee. Will the bad thing come back?’

He glanced up at Ben, ‘Bright kid isn’t she,’ he said softly, his eye brows raised. Turning his attention back to Grace, he added, ‘I don’t think so. My magic hands took it all away.’

At this Grace looked at him with a little disbelief. ‘You don’t have magic hands.’

‘Sure I do. Watch.’

He asked Ben for a coin which she duly handed over. Holding both hands out, he asked Grace which hand the coin was in. She picked one and looked astonished when it wasn’t there. He opened the other palm and grinned as her face looked confused. The coin wasn’t there either. He reached over to her ear, and appeared to pull the coin from there, handing it to her.

‘Mummy, did you see that? He really does have magic hands.’

‘He sure does. Come on, Gracey, let’s go upstairs and wait for Aoife. Thank you, Doctor,’ she took his hand for a moment, then released it, and bent to pack up the colouring things into the bag Grace had brought with her.

When Aoife was wheeled into her room a little later, Grace was sitting on one of the oversized chairs reading with her LeapPad. Ben had been pacing by the window, but seeing her aunt, she stopped, watching as the nurses put her back into her bed.

Aoife felt groggy; her chest was throbbing but the morphine they had given her in the recovery room kept actual pain at bay. All in all she didn’t feel too bad. But she was thirsty.

‘Could I trouble you for a cup of tea please?’ she asked one of the nurses, her voice sounding like she had sandpaper caught in her throat.

Nodding and smiling, the smaller of the two nurses left the room. The other nurse plumped up her pillows and showed her how to use the bed movement remote. In moments, Aoife was sitting up, a steaming brew on the table beside her.

‘How’re you feeling?’ asked Ben, finally getting to the bedside and taking her aunts hand. Aoife patted the back of her hand. Her niece had always been empathic, understanding other people’s pain and providing silent support. When she was a child, Aoife had often thought Ben would end up in nursing.

‘I’m fine, love, very thirsty and a little spacey off the drugs, but I’m OK. Dr Carmichael said he got it all out. He’s coming round later to go over the next stage of treatment.’

‘I loves you, you know,’ whispered Ben, raising her aunt’s hand to her lips and kissing it softly.

‘I loves you too, you know,’ replied her aunt, using her thumb to rub her niece’s thumb in response.

Deciding she wanted to be in on the love too, Grace carefully climbed up the side of the bed and said she loved them both. She was so careful not to touch her aunt, not wanting to cause her any pain.

‘If you come round the other side, I can give you a cuddle,’ said Aoife with a grin.

The smile on Grace’s face lit up the room, and she clambered down, then up the other side, and snuggled into the crook of Aoife’s arm.

7
^th
June, 1940 hours – Newstead Residential Home, Sunderland

John pulled up into the car park. He hadn’t stopped smiling for three days.

It had felt so good to kill that interfering busy-body. He wondered how it was that he hadn’t done something like that in the past. Every time he pictured her head hitting his windscreen he felt the buzz of adrenaline, the rush of knowing he had been responsible.

If that stupid bitch of a sister hadn’t come in at precisely the wrong time, I would have done it back then too. Then Eve would have been the first.

He felt a little like the release he had been chasing for years had finally arrived. He didn’t remember ever feeling so liberated. He wanted it to continue.

He only wished he’d done it from a closer, more personal standpoint. He wished he had watched her die.

He knew he would have to be careful though. The last thing Matthew needed was for him to get caught. He was at an impressionable age. It wouldn’t do for someone to undo all of his hard work with the boy. John would have to consider things very carefully. If he did it again, it would have to be someone with no links to him, nothing to point the finger of blame in his direction. It would take much more research than he done so far, and was something he would look into later.      

Pulling himself from the car, he made his way inside only to be faced with a picture of Ann Caffrey smiling out from the lobby, a vase of flowers at the side. Letting the wave of emotion flow over him, he smiled the first genuine smile he’d done in forever.

Pressing the buzzer, he composed himself, pushing the euphoria back a little.

After a few minutes, the door opened and he came face to face with Betty.

‘Mr Whitworth, come on through. It’s good you’re here. Your wife has been upset. We lost one of our members of staff the other day. Car accident. Eve loved Ann. It’s hit her hard.’

You mean I hit her hard!
He almost smirked at the thought.

Betty’s voice had sounded even more rough than normal, the choke of tears suddenly threatening her composure.

‘Sorry. We all loved Ann,’ she added by way of explanation.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ His words were smooth, and fell from his lips like leaves from a tree in autumn. ‘A car accident you say? That’s just awful.’

‘Whoever hit her just drove off. How could someone do that, Mr Whitworth, hit someone with their car and just drive away?’

‘I suppose it takes allsorts to make up the world, Betty. Who’s to say why a person would do such a thing?’ His words were laced with sarcastic undertones. He knew perfectly well why people would do such things.

‘Your wife is in her bed. She hasn’t stopped crying since she was informed.’

His stomach actually felt like it contained a swarm of agitated butterflies. She would know it was him. The second he walked in she would know. And she would also know it was all her fault.