When I Wasn't Watching (29 page)

Or maybe it was just because she was sleeping with the boss.

Lucy followed the two officers back in and took her place beside her son, squeezing his shoulder as she sat down.

‘You're doing great,' she whispered. Ricky's eyes were rimmed red, his lip quivering. Remaining angry with him at this point was impossible.

Matt took him through the day, wanting to know exactly where Ricky had been with Ben, and for how long. Ricky, obviously feeling as tired and drained as Lucy herself, answered in a low monotone, only occasionally making eye contact with Matt or his mother. He had taken Ben to the park, then to buy him some sweets, then they had gone back to the abandoned building. Ben had slept, then they had played hide and seek and read his comic, then finished the sweets, then played hide and seek again. Ben had begun to get grizzly, and had fallen asleep in Ricky's arms, and Ricky had fallen asleep too. He didn't know for how long, but it had been dark when he woke up. He knew he had to take Ben home. He would have done it earlier, but he was scared, finally realising the trouble his impulsive actions would have caused. Eventually, in the face of Matt's gentle but still relentless questioning, he crossed his arms on the table and placed his head in them.

‘He's had enough,' said the lawyer, speaking for the second time. Matt nodded, and the interview was finally terminated. Lucy slumped in her seat, feeling her last remaining energy leave her body. Her limbs physically ached.

‘Can we go?'

‘We need to book you out, and give you a date to answer bail, but we'll be as quick as we can,' the FLO answered. Even her persistent kindness seemed wearied.

Finally, they were in Matt's car, him having rather formally offered to run them home even though there was only the FLO to hear and Lucy doubted she was ignorant of the blossoming relationship between them. The ride home was uncomfortable, with Ricky slumping in the back and Matt tense in the driver's seat. Now they were out of the station, Lucy had no idea what to say to either of them.

Ricky spoke, a block away from home, startling them both.

‘I don't mind any more.'

‘What do you mean?' Lucy looked in the rear-view mirror at him.

‘You two. If you want to be together. I'm sorry I was weird about it.'

Matt coughed, shifting in his seat a little. Caught off guard, Lucy didn't know how to respond. Were they even together? After this débâcle she wouldn't be surprised if Matt washed his hands of them both. She took the easy way out.

‘Let's just get you home. We'll talk tomorrow.'

When they pulled up outside the house and Ricky darted for the front door Lucy turned to Matt, a question in her eyes.

‘Are you coming in?'

He shook her head.

‘Probably best if I don't, given the situation.'

She nodded, smiling to hide her feeling of deflation and reached for the handle, before recalling his earlier, unfinished comment and turning back to look at him.

‘You were going to tell me something that Ricky had said? About Jack?'

An expression she couldn't name passed across Matt's features, before he said, his voice light, ‘It was nothing really. Just that I thought Ben reminded him of his brother.'

He had already told her that. So he had either forgotten, or he was lying, but she didn't want to pursue it now. She turned away and got out of the car and stood for a moment on the path with her back to him. Was this it? She was about to walk off when she heard the car door and then felt him behind her. Turning, she slipped her arms around his neck and just for a brief moment buried her face in the dip between chin and shoulder, taking in the heat of his skin, then she stepped back.

‘I'll come and see you tomorrow, after work.' His eyes were questioning.

‘Yes, I'd like that. Ricky too, I think.'

They looked at each other for a long moment before Lucy turned and walked up the path to her door, breathing in with relief as she entered her home. The home that had felt like a prison lately, hemming her in, now felt like a place of safety. She went upstairs to find Ricky lying on his bed and without speaking she sat next to him and stroked his hair, smoothing the crease between his eyebrows.

‘It's going to be all right,' she told him, hoping she was speaking the truth. Ricky made no answer, but stretched a hand out, fingers reaching for her, and she took it and entwined them with her own. They sat like that until he was asleep, his face soft and relaxed, like a child's.

Chapter Fifteen
Thursday Morning

Matt looked at the newspaper he had been reading and smiled. His late-night call to Carla had ensured this morning's news focused on Murray, rather than the unable-to-be-named adolescent who had been found in the process of returning Benjamin home unharmed. Ricky's status as a minor protected him, for now, a fact for which Matt was grateful. He doubted Lucy could take much more heat from the press. Carla had done a good job.

A better job, in fact, than he would have given her credit for. She had written, rather than a sensational breaking news article, a scathing opinion piece that would give readers food for thought. Not that Carla's motives were likely to be completely altruistic, in spite of the partly confessional nature of the piece. Instead of the local
Telegraph
, it was in a national tabloid. She must have rung them with the copy first thing this morning, offering them an exclusive. He wondered how Jacob would feel about his beloved's defection.

How Do We Define Justice?

Yesterday afternoon, a man was attacked and burned. He died later in Loughborough Hospital of third degree burns to his face and body. His crime? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Giles Murray was what we would term an informer, who received early parole in return for naming and testifying against a major organised crime ring operating in the Midlands. As well as parole, he was given a new identity. A ‘secret' identity. A ‘safe' identity. Yet yesterday Giles was attacked in cold blood. Although no one is yet being questioned for this heinous crime, Local CID are working on the assumption that Murray was murdered because of a leaking of his new address and identity.

Except, someone made a lethal mistake. Because although it was Giles' address that was leaked, it was believed to be not his new location but rather the location of a more notorious criminal, one who has been hitting the headlines rather frequently of late. Terry Prince, the convicted murderer of three-year-old Jack Randall, was recently released after serving just eight years for the torture and murder of Jack when Terry himself was just fourteen years old. Police believe that whoever attacked Giles Murray thought that they were, in fact, attacking Terry Prince, after his address was posted on a Facebook page claiming to promote ‘Justice for Jack Randall'. The page was – anonymously – set up in protest at the early release of the convicted killer, but instead became a site for vigilantes to post death threats and eventually wrong information that may have led to fatal consequences. Quite how this constitutes any form of ‘justice' for the Randall family is anyone's guess.

What are we to make of this? Certainly it is damning for all concerned. For the Parole Board who failed to keep Giles safe, and for the assumed vigilante who may have carried out the attack. Certainly the – as yet unnamed – person responsible for both the leak and the mix-up should at the very least be struck off. The attacker themselves, one hopes, will be caught and punished accordingly. But what about the wider implications? What does it say about the British law system that this was allowed to happen? That an apparently ‘secret' identity, which cost the taxpayer upwards of a quarter of a million pounds, could so easily be revealed, and then shared with hundreds via a social media page? Inspiring a possible vigilante attack by a citizen who surely should have known better. As the civil rights activist Gandhi would have told us ‘an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind'. Vigilantism is not and should not be condoned, however it manifests itself, yet when the justice system itself lets down victims and their families by handing out ludicrously short sentences and then using taxpayers' money to foot the bill of their release, it's easy to see how an environment of hatred is created. A sense of injustice that can all too easily prompt one unstable person into taking the law into their hands, perhaps even believing they are doing the right thing. Meting out their own justice where none was perceivably given. Perhaps the question should really be, where does the buck stop?

As a journalist, I cannot ignore my own role and the role of my colleagues in the media. For nearly two weeks the release of Terry Prince has dominated the news. The faces of angry protesters have been regular fixtures in our living rooms. Journalists, including myself, have circled like vultures, waiting for that big story, that headline quote. Of course as part of the media I believe every citizen has a right to know what is happening under their noses, but perhaps we should all be held accountable for the possible effects of a story written to inflame rather than inform.

Matt finished reading, put the newspaper down and called Carla. She answered on the first ring.

‘Nice piece.'

‘Matt,' she sounded annoyed. ‘I'm waiting on a call.'

‘I just wanted to give you my congratulations. Although I'm guessing the
Telegraph
won't be very happy with you.'

‘Well, I'm on to better things,' a note of excitement crept into her voice, ‘thanks to you. I suppose,' she went on more grudgingly, ‘I should apologise for being a bitch. How are you?'

‘Better, now the boy has been found. Well, take care.'

There was a slight pause, before she replied with what sounded like genuine affection.

‘You too. And good luck.'

Matt felt lighter after the call, as if another weight had been lifted. He had never wanted to hurt Carla, and was relieved it could finally end on a friendly note. Maybe things would take a turn for the better now. He thought about Lucy and allowed himself a tentative smile.

Of course, he still had a murderer to catch.

Ricky pushed his cereal around his bowl, not meeting Lucy's eyes, and she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming at him, or crying, she didn't quite know which was more likely to come out. The relief at finding him in one piece remained, as did the hope that this would somehow bring them closer, but her unformed fears for Ricky had been replaced by the more concrete possibility that he could be in serious trouble. And although he had slept in her arms for the most part last night like a small child, he had reverted back to being a sulky teenager again this morning. One that she didn't know what to say to.

‘Do you want some toast?' She winced at the utter banality of her question. Ricky shook his head without looking up. Annoyed, Lucy snatched the bowl from his hand.

‘Well, you're not eating that are you? You're just playing with it.' She emptied the cereal into the bin and turned back to Ricky to see him hunched over himself, shoulders to his ears in a defensive posture and knew he wasn't so much sullen as scared. Sighing, she pulled a chair out and sat next to him. He looked at her sideways, then met her eyes. The look on his face was so raw her arms went round him at once.

‘I'm sorry, Mum,' he mumbled into her shoulder. In spite of his height he felt frail in her arms, still a child.

‘So am I.'

He wriggled out of her arms, his face red with embarrassment and she smiled to herself. Things would get back to normal, albeit slowly.

‘Will I go to jail?' he blurted. Lucy shook her head slowly.

‘I don't know, sweetheart. But both Matt and the lawyer said it's highly unlikely. What you are going to have to do is talk to someone, open up a little.' When Ricky's expression looked mutinous, she added, ‘It's going to be crucial if you want to convince people you didn't mean any harm.'

He just nodded. She wanted to say more, but didn't want to push him, not yet. This was going to be a long, slow road. The least she could do was be present for it, without pushing him. She owed him that much.

‘I'm going to go and tidy my room,' Ricky muttered. Lucy watched him go up the stairs with a mixture of both pride and anxiety and was deep in thought when the doorbell rang, startling her so that she physically flinched.

Using the spyhole – it had become second nature these days – she saw a small, thin woman with a determined set to her mouth. There was something familiar about her that Lucy couldn't quite recall, a memory that nagged at her and made her uneasy. Torn between curiosity and trepidation she opened the door just a few inches, peering through the gap.

‘Hello?'

‘Lucy Randall?' There was something about the way the woman had said her name that made Lucy flinch, so that she forgot to correct her with ‘Wyatt' as she usually did but instead said:

‘What do you want?'

She noticed the deep expression lines on the woman's face, that looked to be as much due to weariness as age.

‘Can I come in? I'm Mrs Prince.'

Lucy looked at her, nonplussed, then as she understood exactly who was standing on her doorstep she went to slam the door, only something in the woman's eyes stopped her. That and the way she almost whispered, ‘Please.'

Lucy held the door open stiffly, every muscle in her body rigid, even her expression frozen.

‘Five minutes,' she told the woman, recoiling from her as she stepped through the door. She made no offer for the woman to sit at either the table or to go through to the open-plan lounge, and indeed she didn't seem to expect it but stood just inside the doorway, looking at her, Lucy thought, as if she couldn't quite remember herself what she was doing there.

‘I wanted to come for a long time, you know,' she said in a flat voice. As if all emotion had been drained out of her a long time ago.