I've Been Watching You: a stunning crime thriller from The North East Police Series (8 page)

But it had.

Realising the time, Aoife moved position, placed the sleeping child into the bed and tucked her in. Leaving the room, she set the bath to fill, adding some bubbles for good measure.

She would speak to the consultant tomorrow; find out what the next steps were. And once she knew this, she would tell Ben.

Knowing her time of tears was over, at least for now, Aoife lowered herself into the hot, foam filled bath just as Ben came through the front door.

‘Aoife?’

Ben’s quietly raised voice echoed up the stairs.

‘Up here, sweetie. Am just in the bath.’

‘Cass’s baby is as cute as a button,’ sighed Ben, pushing open the door and sitting on the closed toilet seat.

Aoife smiled to herself, she’d brought Ben up to be comfortable and at ease at home. When she was a child she used to sit on the loo and chat to her aunt constantly, telling her all about school and what happened in her day. It got so it became normal for whoever wasn’t in the bath to sit and chat to the other. Aoife liked to think of it as family time. Yes some people would think it was weird, but she had always thought it important to be approachable all the time with Ben. Having had no children of her own she had nothing to compare it to of course, but chatting just felt right.

‘I bet she is, what have they called her?’

‘Isobel Rose. What a lovely name huh? Almost makes me broody.’

‘Glad it’s only almost. One Grace is enough for your old aunt.’

Ben snorted with laughter, ‘Old my arse. You act younger than me! Wasn’t it only last week you were begging me to go paintballing with you and some of the girls from your reading group?’

Aoife smiled. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’

They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, and Aoife found herself wanting to tell Ben about the cancer, but the right words wouldn’t come. How on earth did someone tell something like that?

Did they just sit down and say, ‘I have something to tell you,’ like they did in the movies? And proceed to blurt it out. Or should she be more subtle.

Aoife sighed. There really should be a manual out there, telling her how to deal with this. Explaining how to tell ‘the-girl-who-was-almost-her-daughter’ that she had breast cancer. And going on to explain how to tell a four year old. Imperceptibly, she shook her head.

She couldn’t do this. Not right now.

‘You wanna jump in after me? I’ll go knock us up some omelettes for supper if you like?’

You, Aoife O’Byrne, are nothing but a coward. She needs to know.

The thought rang round her head as she clambered out of the bath, dried off and headed downstairs in her pyjamas to make the promised supper.

3
^rd
June, 0910 hours – Digital Forensics Lab, Sunderland HQ

‘Tulley, I’ve had a request from Kevin Lang, one of the forensic supervisors, asking if we can allow one of his CSIs to come over for a two day attachment. I was thinking of arranging it for the end of the week? That OK with you?’

Edward Franklin’s voice boomed from the side of Jacob’s desk, almost making him hit enter on the current copy job before he was ready. As big as the man was, his boss had an awful habit of sneaking up without announcement or noise. Jacob firmly believed it had to do with the five teenage daughters the man had: he would need to be stealthy to keep track of all the women in his home.

Fixing his smile in place, he made eye contact with his boss.

‘Sure no problem, Ed, shall we say Wednesday and Thursday? That gives Lang a few days to let the CSI know and schedule in cover?’

‘Sounds good to me. Can you let him know, I’m about to head over to Newcastle to speak with the Superintendent over there about where we spend our money. Exciting stuff. How’s this one coming along?’

Jacob felt Ed lean in to stare over his shoulder.

‘Just in the process of creating the acquisition copy to work on. Was just double checking there were no traps or delete codes written in when you came over. I’ll crack on with it now.’

Jacob glanced up and saw Ed nod his head in satisfaction before he walked off. Ed was easy going; he let his team crack on with their work, which suited Jacob down to the ground.

This case wasn’t a pleasant one – Jacob knew that the files would contain some hard core material. The computer had been seized from a prolific paedophile. In his opinion these were the hardest computers to work on. The generic key word searches and investigations into the slack space provided information and very often images that he would prefer not to see. But the evidence would help Ali’s team build the full case to present to the CPS.

It took several hours, sometimes even longer, to create the acquisition or exact copy. His plan was to do that this morning before working on a couple of mobile phones relating to a completely separate incident this afternoon.

Before he forgot and got himself wrapped up in his world, he typed a short reply to Kevin accepting his CSI for attachment. For a brief moment, he wondered who it would be, then shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the job at hand.

3
^rd
June – 1110 hours – O’Byrne residence, Sunderland

Feeling like a coward, Aoife listened at the window as Ben started the car and left the driveway. Her niece had taken Grace to school, then returned home and started on some cleaning before deciding it was time to do a food shop. She’d asked Aoife, who normally went with her, but her aunt had declined, feigning a headache. She needed some time alone to think and decide how to tell Ben about the cancer. Once again, fear and doubt sent arguments spinning through her mind.

You have to tell her. She has a right to know.

Her conscience prickled at her. Why did this have to be so hard?

Aoife picked up the phone, and pulled the oncologist’s card from her purse, punching in the number.

It was time to find out what happened next, how she could fight this.

3
^rd
June, 1915 hours – Tunstall, Sunderland City Centre

He’d spent precious minutes sharpening his knife; grazing the edge up and down the section of stone from base to tip. He placed his finger against the blade, liking how smooth it felt as it cut through the top layer of his skin as if it were thin air.

It always made him horny, the touch of the blade on his skin, the cold metal causing tingles in places he never even knew existed. It was even more intense when the knife was against someone else’s skin.       

He let the shivers ripple down his spine as memories flooded his mind.

There had been quite a few now, the more recent blurring into one another, getting confused and making it so he couldn’t see their faces. But he remembered the earlier ones. Especially
her
.

She had been the one he compared all the others to. She had been perfect. He remembered the glow of her breasts in the moonlight, how they had called out for him to touch them, to mark them as his. She was the only one he had ever marked. The first three had been girlfriends, women he had been seeing, sleeping with even. None of them had suspected the monster that lurked beneath.

He smiled as he remembered how tentative he had been at the start; how with each kill his confidence had increased until he had decided it was time to take someone unfamiliar to him. Over the years, he’d evolved; the interaction with his chosen victims making the whole thing easier in the end.
She
had been the only one he hadn’t met first, and it had worked with her, but overall he preferred the personal touch. He smiled as he registered his thoughts.
Touch, I’ll be touching soon enough.

He half-wished now that he hadn’t killed her though, longed for the feeling he had with her that hadn’t been present during any of the others. If he’d let her live, he could have had that feeling again and again. He could have hidden away somewhere where no one would find her; she would have grown to love him, obey him.

This time would be different.

Clarice was younger, she was of a different race. It would make a difference.

It had to.

His smile faded as his thoughts strayed back to his father. The horrible man had made a point of giving him regular beatings, forcing him into submission like he’d done with the whores that passed through. He knew he was his father’s son, but he also knew he had more control than his father had ever had. He’d never drown himself in a bottle like his old man.

It hadn’t been easy for him as a child. He had been beaten into submission on more than one occasion, and though now he understood that kind of discipline was necessary, he hadn’t really got it as a child.

His eyes grew darker as he recalled why he preferred open spaces. His father had been drunk, the latest floozy crying in the corner after refusing to accommodate his father. It had been her fault, the useless bitch. If she hadn’t argued when his father had pushed her towards the stairs, then he wouldn’t have even been noticed. He had just gotten in from school and was in the process of taking his coat off, already knowing from the weeping that he needed to keep out of the way.

The woman had clawed at his father’s face as he pushed her up the stairs, enraging him.

He had watched from behind the safety of the coats hanging on the wall as his father had raised his fist and beaten her, dragging her by the hair back to the base of the stairs then hitting her again. In desperation, she had grabbed his leg, begged him to help get his father off her.

He hadn’t even seen his father’s fist until it had collided with his face, knocking his head into the wall. He’d watched, dazed, as she scrambled away from them, leaving him to his fate with a father who was now blinded by uncontrollable rage, kicking and punching his son as if everything wrong in life was his fault, before dragging him by one foot to the cupboard under the stairs.

Without hesitation, his old man had flung him inside, locked the door and left him there crying in the dark. His fingers still showed the small scars from scratching at the door as the day had turned to night. Thirst had caused his tongue to swell in his mouth and he had believed he would never be let out.

His father had released him the next morning, throwing a dirty rag at him and telling him to clean the crusted blood from his face, pretending that nothing had happened.

He’d gone through years of his father blaming him every time the latest bit of skirt had left him, hitting out at him when anything went wrong, or even when he was just majorly pissed off. And with each beating he had grown more resilient, tougher. Until one day he’d had enough. He’d just turned sixteen and the only thing he’d received in recognition of his coming of age had been a beating that broke two ribs and a collar bone.

Lacing his father’s whiskey bottle with the crushed up remnants of every pill he had found in the house had been easy. He’d hidden in the hallway, watching as his father drank the last of the bottle and eventually fallen asleep. He didn’t move as vomit appeared at the sides of his father’s mouth, a lengthy seizure caused him to bite his tongue, and blood dripped down his chin. He watched as his father’s eyes finally turned glass-like and his heart pumped for the last time.

Only once his dad was dead did he stir, gathering his meagre belongings together, taking the small amount of cash from his father’s wallet, and leaving the home he grew up in.

His father was a mean drunk who lost control of the things that should have been important to him. He’d deserved everything he’d got.

Not him though. He liked control.

And getting the feeling back when he killed Clarice, the feeling he had felt with
her
, would restore the balance and put him back in control. He just knew that when he found it again he would be able to stop, finally rest and start to live.

Chapter Seven

4
^th
June, 1200 hours – Newstead Residential Home, Sunderland

Something was wrong.

John had pulled up outside the care home, Matthew sitting in the back seat of the car playing on his PSP; there was an ambulance and a police car outside the home.
If she’s gone and fallen out of her chair again then she deserves whatever pain she’s going to be in. Damned stupid woman. Never did listen when I said sit up straight.

He jumped from the car and made his way to the door, fake concern evident on his face. He wished Eve was still at home.

Smirking to himself, John acknowledged if she was still at home she wouldn’t be alive. He would have killed her; the failed attempt six years ago would have become a reality. It was that attempt that had brought her to this home, and had been the cause of her illness.

Complications in her brain from a head injury meant she couldn’t walk unaided. It had caused irreparable damage to her front cortex, so he’d been told anyway, which had affected her capacity for speech, movement and memory.

If it hadn’t been for Eve’s sister, Carolyn, arriving at the address mere seconds after he had pushed her down the stairs, John would have finished the job.

Worthless piece of shit. Eve deserves everything that happens to her.

Still bitter about Carolyn, he purposely timed their visits to Eve so they never coincided. The interfering bitch had never liked him anyway, had always blamed him for Eve ‘falling’ down the stairs, yelling at him and saying it was his entire fault.

It damn well was not my fault. If she hadn’t run the bath too hot then I wouldn’t have lost my temper. It was
her
fault, everything is always
her
fault.

Carolyn was always surrounded by a melee of people though. He had initially thought he could teach her a lesson or two, but it was like she knew. In the days after Eve had been put in the home, Carolyn was never alone, and made a point of avoiding him. Whether she could prove it or not, he knew she thought he was responsible for hurting her sister.