Are You Watching Me?

by Sinéad Crowley

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Female Sleuths; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Rescued from her dark past by the owner of a drop-in centre for older men, Liz Cafferky soon finds herself as the charity's face - and the unwilling darling of the Dublin media. Amidst her claustrophobic fame, Liz barely notices the letter. But then one of the centre's clients is brutally murdered, and she receives another, more sinister note…

Release date: July 2, 2015

Publisher: Quercus

Print pages: 352

Sample

She had forgotten how to breathe. That simple skill, the one everyone took for granted, had deserted her. Again.

Opening her lips, she tried to inhale, but the movement felt forced, unnatural. What little air she did manage to squeeze into her lungs made her chest ache and left her feeling dizzy, unfocused. And all this, when it was too late to run away.

Looking straight ahead, she confronted the dark cylinder head on. The barrel tilted, glided slightly to one side and then settled in front of her. Her chest was aching now, and she exhaled shakily and tried to get a rhythm going. In and out. In and out . . .

For a moment, everything was silent. She reached out, swallowed water, and felt it chill the back of her throat as the blackness loomed closer.

The man beside her smiled, distractedly.

‘You alright, Elizabeth?’

Instinctively, she nodded her head, lying with a tight smile.

‘Thirty seconds.’

There was no time to concentrate on breathing now.

‘Twenty seconds.’

She picked up the glass of water again, put it down when she realised how much her hands were shaking.

‘Ten seconds.’

That familiar music. The man gave a brisk cough, then picked up some papers and practised a smile.

‘Five seconds. And four, and three and two . . .’

‘Hello and welcome to Dublin Today.’

*

It was wonderful, magical even, the way she had come into his life – just when he needed her most.

The doctor had told him to get himself a hobby, an interest.

‘We all need a reason to get out of bed in the morning, Stephen. We all need someone to talk to.’

Well, now he had Elizabeth.

He had realised straight away, when he saw her in the newspaper, that she was special. And then, when she appeared on his TV, it was as if the world had paused around him. He was enchanted by her. She was beautiful, yes, but there was more to it than that. Her smile was aimed at him; her words meant for him alone.

After that, it felt like she was everywhere: on his radio, on the television news, in the newspaper again – and what a wonderful day that had been! An interview, and a photograph, and a little box beside the main article telling him everything he needed to know about her. Her favourite food. The films she liked watching. The books she liked to read.

To think he almost hadn’t bought that paper that day. It had been one of his bad nights, the worst kind, and he had fallen into a jerky sleep sometime around dawn, waking again at ten with a foul taste in his mouth and the fear from the night before still fogging his brain. He had wanted to roll over, shut his eyes, abandon himself to the shame and not face anyone because, after all, why would anyone want to see him?

But Mr Mannion would be cross if he knew he was thinking that way. So Stephen forced himself to rise from the bed, splash water on his face and stumble the few steps to the shop down the road. Just to prove he could do it. Just to prove he was alive.

And there she was, waiting for him on the stand just inside the door. A small photograph on the front page, with the promise of so much more inside. He’d been so excited he’d almost forgotten to pay, just grabbed the paper, held it close and was halfway out the door before he’d realised what he was doing. The assistant, a young Chinese woman, didn’t see him leave. He could have taken the paper all the way home and no one would have noticed the theft. But Stephen wasn’t that sort of person. So he returned to the queue and waited impatiently behind the tall blond man in the yellow jacket, whose breakfast roll was sending sausage-scented heat out into the air.

Behind him, a young woman pushed the wheels of her buggy rhythmically into his heels. Jab, jab, jab. Maybe she was trying to quieten her child. She wasn’t very good at it. The baby’s wails made his ears buzz, but he didn’t care. A whole two pages.

Sausage man wanted a lotto ticket too and Stephen had to wait for nearly five minutes while the clerk fiddled with the machine, but he was so excited about what the newspaper contained that he forgot to get his own money ready and was left scrabbling around in his pocket for change when his time came.

As the wails increased in intensity, he could feel waves of exasperation coming from the woman behind him and his neck reddened as his hand dived into his pocket, searching for a euro coin but unearthing useless coppers instead. By the time he’d counted out the money on to the counter, he was sweating and had to wipe his hands on his slacks to make sure the newspaper was protected from smears.

But his embarrassment didn’t matter; none of it mattered. None of them mattered. He had Elizabeth now, and she was all he needed.

It shouldn’t have been this easy. It was a Garda station, for God’s sake. It should have been impossible to get something this volatile into a building where upwards of two hundred highly trained police officers were supposedly poised for action.

But Detective Sergeant Claire Boyle was a professional too and she had given this operation a lot of thought.

The first thing she had had to consider was clothing. Nothing too tight-fitting, obviously. Nothing colourful either. She needed to be invisible, to wear clothes and, most importantly, an attitude that would allow her to get to her desk, do what she needed to do and escape again without anyone asking questions. The dark navy rain jacket was ideal. Bought several months ago, it hung loose and baggy on her now, leaving just enough space to hide the bulky package that was securely strapped to her chest.

She had timed her movements well, arriving at Collins Street during a shift change, and managed to get past the front desk and through the doors leading to the main body of the Garda station without being spotted at all.

As she continued to walk, head down, along a windowless corridor, one colleague emerged through an office door, his face brightening when he saw her. But her glacial stare froze the smile on his face and he remained silent as she marched past him and up the stairs. She was moving quickly now, swaying gently from side to side as she walked. All good. It was all going to work out. Her desk was just inside the door, the document she needed lying on top of it. Brilliant. All she needed to do was walk in, grab it and she could be back downstairs without the explosion taking place. All she had to do was . . .

BOOM!

Across the room, Philip Flynn dropped his armful of hard-covered files on to the floor.

‘Ah, Jay—’

Claire felt, rather than heard the intake of breath.

Then . . .

‘WAAAAHHHH!’

Oh, Flynn, you muppet.

Claire’s body shook as the baby in the sling battered her head against her chest, and roared.

Flynn caught her eye and mouthed an apology, straining to keep a grin off his face. She wanted to gut him. But before she could move across the room the army had formed, and then descended. It was everything she had been dreading, and more.

‘Oh, you brought her in! Oh, give us a look at her! Ah, the dote. Oh, isn’t she GORGEOUS!’

‘Bastard.’

Reddening, she flung the word at Flynn, but the word never reached him as every female in the room, both members and civilians, fell on top of her. There was no way of avoiding it now. Unzipping her jacket, Claire shrugged her shoulders and unfurled a cross and red-faced Anna from her sling. The little girl scowled and her wails increased.

‘She has her mother’s temper, anyway!’

Sergeant Rita O’Farrell reached out and stroked the damp curls on top of the little girl’s head, which only resulted in an increase in decibels.

‘Ah, isn’t she gorgeous!’

Garda Máire Tierney, thought Claire, would have to sit her medical again – in particular, the eye-test bit. Mouth open, snot mixed with drool on her reddened cheeks, not even Anna’s mother considered her gorgeous right now.

‘Ah, she’s a dote. Congrats!’

Garda Siobhán O’Doheny came over and gave Claire a quick smile. From the corner of her eye, Claire could see Flynn redden and edge towards the door. She still wasn’t sure what had taken place between those two on the night of the verdict in the Miriam Twohy murder trial. But clearly no effort had been made in the intervening six months to clear the air. A pity. Still, they’d get over it, whatever it was. They wouldn’t be the first pair of colleagues to shit on their own doorsteps. Besides, she was finding it very hard to feel sympathetic towards Flynn right now. Claire had sworn she wouldn’t be one of Those Women, who paraded their new babies around the office as if no one had ever given birth before. And up until this afternoon she’d stuck to her resolve.

‘What in God’s name . . .? Oh, it’s you.’ Superintendent Quigley’s voice rose above the cacophony of tears and cooing.

Miraculously, Anna gulped twice and then stopped crying, her big blue eyes seeking out and focusing on the super’s face.

The sea of women parted as he approached.

‘Give her here to me. Are they upsetting you, are they?’

Picking the child up, he laid her expertly against his shoulder. In one smooth movement, Anna wiped her nose on his shirt and then looked up, surveying the office happily from her new-found place of safety.

I’m grand now. This guy knows what he’s doing, the big blue eyes seemed to say as her hand reached out to play with his collar.

‘Boyle, a word?’

‘Certainly, sir.’

She would kill Flynn later, Claire decided, and her husband too. And Matt’s client who had turned up late for his meeting, leading to the delayed handover of the child. But all of that would have to wait. Throwing a final thunderous look in Flynn’s direction, she elbowed her way through her colleagues and followed her boss across the room.

*

‘Jesus, sir, I’m so sorry. Matt’s on his way; he just texted to say he’d be late; he was supposed to pick up the kid at home but he’s going to meet me here instead and—’

Superintendent Quigley looked at her, momentarily confused. ‘Huh? Oh, the baby. God, no, she doesn’t bother me. Surprised you haven’t brought her in before, actually. Little pet.’ He smiled down at the child who was now drifting back to sleep in his arms. ‘No, I need you to go out on a job. Immediately. You’re free?’

‘Absolutely!’

Claire felt her pulse quicken. She’d been back from maternity leave for more than a fortnight and hadn’t done anything more strenuous than filing the paperwork that had built up in her absence. Her superiors had said that, given the successful outcome, no further action would be taken about the unorthodox role she’d played in the resolution of the Twohy case, but she had been starting to wonder if she was in fact in the doghouse after all.

Now, however, it looked like things were going to improve.

Rifling through sheets of paper on his desk, Quigley grabbed a notebook and read out a few details. Body of a man; house in the north inner city. Neighbour let herself in when he hadn’t been seen for a couple of days. Uniforms on the scene; assistant pathologist on his way. Would Claire take a look?

‘And take Flynn with you.’

‘Absolutely, sir. Thanks. I’m on my way.’

She was halfway out of the office before he spoke again. ‘Boyle!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You might want to . . .’ He nodded down at the child in his arms.

‘Oh, God, yeah! Absolutely, superintendent. Give her here . . .’

Too happy to be embarrassed, she raced back, grabbed the baby and headed once again for the door.

‘Will you look at you! You ride.’

‘Shut up, Dean.’

The woman at the television station had caked her in make-up but Liz reckoned that not even the thick beige pan stick could mask the blush that was flooding across her cheekbones. Turning away from her friend’s intense scrutiny, she feigned interest in a basket of scones.

Sensing victory, Dean pursed his lips. ‘Can I buy you a coffee? Or do I have to go through your agent?’

‘Shut UP!’

Liz’s voice squeaked at the end of the second word and a couple of people ahead of them in the coffee-shop queue turned around to see what was wrong. One woman narrowed her eyes, wondering why Liz looked so familiar. Good-looking girl, certainly, and she was sure she’d seen those green eyes somewhere before. Was she a friend of her daughter’s, maybe? Or did she used to live at the end of the road? Unsure, she raised her eyebrows and flashed a quick, noncommittal smile.

Liz gave an embarrassed grimace in return and then turned her face away. Dammit. That sort of thing was happening more and more these days and she’d have to come up with some way of dealing with it, a reaction that was more appropriate than turning purple and looking at the ground. Reaching for a scone, she picked up her tray again and looked out into the main body of the restaurant. She’d find a seat down the back somewhere and—

‘Holy crap! It’s you! And you’re HUGE!’

Dean’s yelp echoed around the restaurant and she looked past his outstretched arm to the oversized TV screen suspended over the cash register.

Balls, balls, balls. And she’d been so convinced she’d be able to avoid it. But there she was, resplendent in her charity-shop jacket, hair flopping over her eyes, glowering out from the massive screens.

Dean was still talking.

‘Look at you! You’re fab! I told you you’d be brilliant!’

There was a whisper spreading through the rest of the queue now, a ripple of gossipy enquiry.

‘Do you think it’s her? It is her. I knew I’d seen her somewhere before.’

‘Sweet Jesus.’

Liz shuddered, but not even the basket of scones could save her now.

Dean grinned. ‘Hey, you owe me, lady. I think I—’

But she didn’t hear the second half of his sentence. This was bad; this was worse than bad. There was a buzzing noise in her ear and she was afraid she was actually going to pass out, right there beside the wholegrain muffins, thus guaranteeing that even the people who hadn’t seen her on the big screen would have to notice her when forced to step over her body.

Dean gave one more guffaw and then realised her mortification was actually genuine.

‘Jesus – you really do hate this, don’t you? Here . . . there’s a seat down there, look, behind the potted plant. You go on, I’ll get your coffee.’

‘Thanks.’

Shoulders hunched over, eyes locked on the floor, Liz made her way quickly to the far side of the room.

*

‘So, what were you expecting?’

Dean plonked a decaff Americano down in front of her and took a slurp from his overflowing cappuccino.

‘Dunno. Not that, anyway.’

Liz burned her tongue on her own drink and took a furtive look around the room while she waited for the stinging to die down. In fairness to Dean, he’d gone some way towards redeeming himself by steering her towards this alcove. Not only was there a huge potted plant between her and the TV screen, the banquette-style seat came with a high back, so she was protected on two sides. It was the perfect place to get her head together. And, good Christ, did she need that.

Her friend placed his smartphone down on the table and grinned.

‘I don’t know why you looked so surprised. I mean, it was a telly interview. You did know you were going to be on telly, right? The big cameras must have given it away?’

Liz rolled her eyes.

‘Yes, Dean, I was well aware of that, thanks. But I was in there at nine o’clock this morning, and the piece went out live. I’d no idea they’d show it again.’

‘It’s a twenty-four-hour station, you eejit.’ Dean smiled at her patronisingly. ‘There’s no such thing as a one-off programme anymore. Especially not with that crowd. Sure, it’ll go out four more times between now and the evening news. Anyway, I don’t know what you’re worried about; you looked fantastic. Totally hot, but, you know, serious at the same time? Trust me, you’ve nothing to worry about.’

‘Right.’

Liz smoothed back her hair and then glanced down at her hands. They’d stopped shaking. At least that was a start. It had been pretty stupid of her, to think she could just sort of sneak on television and hope nobody would notice. But the whole situation was just so . . . bizarre. It wasn’t like she was one of those people who wanted to be famous. That had been the furthest thing from her mind.

‘You did well, anyway!’ Dean poked at his phone for a moment and then looked up at her triumphantly. ‘You’re trending on Twitter again!’

‘Don’t wanna know.’

Liz took another sip of coffee and settled back into her chair.

‘You know I don’t do Twitter – can’t be arsed. Or Facebook, or any of that crap. I’ve enough ways to waste my time, thanks.’

And there’s nobody out there I want to connect with, she thought to herself, but Dean didn’t need to know that level of detail.

But her friend was still poking.

‘Well, your boss doesn’t agree with you. We’ve set up a Facebook page, actually, for the charity. Nothing too elaborate, just a few pictures of the place, a few details about what you do. We’ve given bank account details where people can send donations—’

Liz shook her head. ‘I told you, I don’t want to know. You work away with Tom if you like – and since when did you two get so pally, anyway? But leave me out of it. I did you a favour, I did your bloody interviews, now—’

But she had lost her audience. Dean pulled his phone closer to his face, and grimaced. ‘Sorry, hon. I just have to answer this, OK? Give me a minute.’

And he was gone, thumb flying, muttering under his breath about feckin eejits as he emailed.

‘No problem.’

Liz knew that, as a freelance journalist, Dean couldn’t afford to be out of contact at any time for longer than five minutes and the constant checking of his phone was sparked more by necessity than rudeness. She needed a moment to herself anyway. She liked Dean, enjoyed his quick wit and was even starting to admire the unashamed aura of ambition that hung around him like expensive aftershave, but hanging out with him was like being on one of those teacup rides at the fairground – great fun while you were on, but leaving you dizzy and a bit unsure when your feet touched solid ground again.

The producer at the TV station that morning had asked her how they’d met. ‘In school’ had technically been the correct answer, but they hadn’t actually been friends back then. Dean had turned up in fifth year, trailing unconfirmed rumours about suspensions and expulsions, and hadn’t bothered to join any particular gang. In fact, her strongest memory of him from back then was of a restless, too-thin boy at the back of the classroom, always twitching, always on the move, darting between classes, rooting around in his bag for a pen that never seemed to be there and, towards the end, asking and answering far more questions than the rest of them put together.

After the Leaving Cert, Dean hadn’t brought his fake I.D. to the local pub with the rest of the lads; he’d just kind of evaporated out the front door. A rumour went around that he’d been accepted to Trinity College on a scholarship and, given everything else that happened to her subsequently, Liz hadn’t thought about him again until they’d literally bumped into each other on the street outside her office, just a couple of months previously.

Her first instinct had been to ignore him, or pretend she couldn’t remember his name – her default reaction when confronted with anyone from her teenage years. But he’d spotted her and marched straight up, arms outstretched as if they’d been best buds back in the day.

‘How’ve you been? You’re looking great. What’ve you been up to?’

Liz had felt the usual stomach clench at the question. But at least now, for the first time in ages, she had a proper answer to give him. Quickly, she’d filled him in on her new job, the grandly titled ‘Communications Executive’ at the building they were standing outside.

‘It’s called Tír na nÓg,’ she’d told him, unconsciously rolling into the bland summary she trotted out ten times a day on the phone when looking for grants or trying to get help for the clients. ‘We provide assistance and basically a place to go for men who are on their own. Some of them are homeless; we can’t put them up or anything but we help them find temporary accommodation if we can. And some of them are just lonely and they can hang around our place, read the paper, have a chat, whatever. A bloke called Tom Carthy founded it – he’s the boss. It was a one-man show, really, but he took me on a couple of years ago to help out.’

And don’t, for the love of God, ask me where I was before that, she prayed silently.

But Dean seemed far more interested in what she was doing right now.

‘Tír na nÓg – yeah, I think I’ve heard of it. That Greg fella – the guy who went missing in Dun Laoghaire a couple of months ago – he was one of your clients, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Liz had nodded, tried to mimic Dean’s flippant tone, but even though months had passed, her breath still caught in her throat at the thought of Greg Butler. He had been her favourite client. Tom’s, too, although Liz knew he’d never admit to having such a thing. But they had all loved him, the tall, sandy-haired man who had been at the heart of their little community. At fifty-four, Greg had been far younger than Tír na nÓg’s other clients, and that wasn’t the only way in which he was different. Greg hadn’t needed any of the practical help the centre provided – the hot dinners, the warm place to sit, the help with form-filling and other aspects of officialdom that Liz provided on a daily basis. In fact, on paper, Greg hadn’t needed any help at all. He lived with his elderly mother in a large, comfortable house on the south side of the city. He’d a large family, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews, and pulled out photos of them often, chatting about them to such a degree that, when Liz had seen them at the funeral, she had known all of their names. But, despite his seemingly comfortable life, there had been something a little off about Greg Butler, a little strange. He had never lived away from home, he told Liz, had never stuck at a job longer than a couple of months. An oddball is what Liz’s father would have called him, without meaning to be unkind – a man who was just that little bit out of step with the rest of the world.

Greg had turned up in Tír na nÓg one Sunday afternoon, saying his mother had heard a mention of the centre at Mass and wanted to make a donation. He accepted, after some persuasion, a cup of tea and stayed for an hour. Two hours, the following week. Soon after that, he began to visit every Sunday from two in the afternoon until the centre shut, shortly before seven. Sunday was family day at his house, he’d told Liz; his brothers and sisters would call to see his mother and bring their kids with them, letting them climb on the furniture and mess with the TV. He loved the children, but found the noise difficult to bear after a while, so he’d head off on his own – to the pictures, or into town – wander around a bookshop, or take a train to Howth and go for a walk on a fine day. But he was happier now he’d discovered Tír na nÓg.

That was until the day Tom admitted he’d have to close the centre at the weekends. It had been a tough decision and Liz had seen him agonise over it. But funds were tight, the heating bill high during a particularly gloomy spring. The clients understood, or so they told him. But Liz had seen the disappointment in Greg’s face when he’d heard the news, and something else. Fear, maybe? That first Sunday, Liz persuaded Tom to turn off his phone, head to the cinema, take the break he rarely afforded himself. When he turned it back on that evening, there were several missed calls from Greg, but no messages. The guards called round to the centre the following Tuesday. Greg’s family had reported him missing, they said, and couldn’t think of anywhere els. . .