I've Been Watching You Read online

  I’ve Been Watching You

  By

  KA Richardson

  Previously published by Bloodhound Books 2016

  Copyright © KA Richardson, 2020

  The right of KA Richardson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is coincidental. Names, characters, places and occurrences are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Published by KA Richardson - 2020

  www.kerryannrichardson.co.uk

  Cover design by

  Emmy Ellis of StudioENP

  Cover design copyright ©StudioENP

  Other Books in the Forensic Files Series:

  Book 1 – With Deadly Intent

  Book 2 – I’ve Been Watching You

  Book 3 – Time to Play

  Book 4 – Watch You Burn

  Book 5 – Under the Woods

  Book 6 – From the Dark

  Book 7 – coming soon

  Other work by KA Richardson:

  Hidden

  ~ a short story included in Dark Minds charity anthology – 2016

  Inside Out

  ~ short story included in When

  Stars Will Shine charity anthology – 2019

  Dedication

  For my husband, Peter, and my mum, Jeannet, without their support writing wouldn’t be possible.

  Prologue

  A field outside Durham, UK – 4 November 2008

  He’d been watching her for weeks. It was finally time.

  The only sound cutting through the darkness was the occasional hoot of an owl.

  He strained, listening.

  The damp soil was cold against his cheek as he lay there, feigning injury. He knew how it looked; the white mountain bike on the ground beside him, stark in the moonlight.

  It looked as he had planned it would.

  Stiffening, he heard her trainers slapping softly against the tarmac as she approached. He heard her pace change from steady to faltering and eventually to a walk. He pictured her pulling the headphones from her ears and looking at the gate in surprise. Tensed and ready, he almost jumped as she said, ‘Oh my God. Sir, are you all right?’

  He waited, not moving a muscle, his eyes closed. A soft squelching sounded as she stepped into the mud at the edge of the field.

  ‘Crap,’ she muttered as she cautiously moved closer.

  His hand gripped the knife concealed underneath him as his erection strained painfully against the zip of his trousers. His stomach churned with butterflies – this was going to be good.

  He felt the touch of her hand on the arm of his jacket, and ready for action, he jumped to his feet with the agility of a gymnast. The faint moonlight glinted on the knife in his hand and he heard her gasp as she turned to run.

  But it was too late.

  He grabbed her, the knife to her throat in a movement that was controlled; more so than he thought it would be. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as the look of pained surprise on her face turned to fear.

  Swiftly, he brought his fist around and allowed it to connect with the side of her face, knocking her to the ground. Kneeling, he pushed the blade into her stomach – the motion slow and controlled, and he smiled in the moonlight as she groaned in pain.

  Calm now, he pulled the cable ties from his pocket and secured her hands. Then he used them to drag her deeper into the darkness of the field, took a moment to close the gate, and chuckled as she screamed and struggled against the bonds.

  ‘I’ve been watching you,’ he whispered, kneeling beside her, watching the fear on her face intensify as he unzipped his fly, pulled the condom free from its packaging, and slid it down his length.

  He hadn’t even touched her yet, but he felt shivers ripple down his spine at the thought of the things to come.

  Chapter One

  Sunderland, Present Day – 28 May

  Newstead Residential Home

  Pausing at the door, John Whitworth felt his mouth harden in anticipation. He hated this place. Always had.

  Ever since they’d brought his wife, Eve, here six years ago, he’d endured that smell only hospitals and care homes could produce. He’d had to cope with the anaemic walls and musty furniture. He’d wanted his wife to stay at home, but it just wasn’t practical. He couldn’t afford not to work, and she needed full-time care. Most of his wage went on paying for her single room and board in the place that had now become his own personal hell.

  He felt his teeth grit as he pressed his index finger onto the door buzzer. Ever careful, the home required that the front door be permanently locked, and all visitors were expected to sign in on entry: security measures to keep the sane out and the insane in.

  A half-smile flitted over his lips – anyone actually wanting to break in would have to be nuts. It was full of men and women of varying ages, in different stages of illnesses that weren’t likely to be cured. Many of them wore sodden or stained clothing with drool hanging in the corner of their mouths like an icicle ready to drop but never quite getting the momentum. A tad harsh? Maybe, but it was how he felt. If he ever got to the stage when someone wanted to put him in this home…That will never happen. I won’t let it. I’ll end it all myself before I get stuck in a shit-hole like this.

  As the door clicked open, he readied his sympathy face. He always made sure his façade never slipped in here. And sympathy was always the way forward when faced with a room full of blithering idiots.

  He signed his name in the visitor book. Same sad table, same cheap pen. Nothing ever changes.

  Resuming his false smile, he followed the carer down the corridor. The years had not been kind to Betty Sanders: her wide hips swung from side to side as she walked, less of a sashay and more of a waddle. Her thunderous thighs rubbed together with every step, causing her trousers to edge upwards on the inside seam and making the inner leg appear shorter than the outer. The tight-fitting, faded tunic screamed of too many biscuits eaten at the residents’ break times. He wondered if the residents actually got to eat any. Betty’s untidy hair was swept up in a grey bird’s nest, her wrinkled face well-tanned, presumably from holidays. It looked more like old leather than a healthy sun-kissed glow.

  The only thing Betty had going for her was her eyes: piercing, intelligent, blue. The kind of eyes a man could look at and know she would take no crap from anyone.

  For a moment John wondered whether there was a Mr Sanders at home, waiting for her with dinner on the table. Aye; dinner for three, just for her. He smirked to himself at the thought.

  But it was only for a moment.

  George Ashton’s bulky frame blocked the light in the corridor for a second as he paused in front of Betty. He was the only male member of staff at the care home. John had only seen him a few times as he normally worked the nightshift. Bigger the guy, the easier to pick up the women when they fell, he thought.

  George leaned down to whisper to Betty, and out of curiosity, John listened in.

  ‘Mrs Francis needs some personal care when you’ve finished accompanying him to Eve’s room.’

  ‘No bother, I’ll be two minutes,’ was Betty’s soft reply.

  As they neared the door to his wife’s room, he forgot all about Betty. His breath stuck in his throat as he waited for that look – the look Eve always gave him through her stupor as he entered the room. The look of fear mild
ly disguised with defiance. He couldn’t hurt her in here. Not physically, anyway. But still, he knew she was petrified. She knew everything of him, but she couldn’t say it. Her illness was now so far gone it was unlikely she even recollected a lot of the bad stuff. Her speech was down to the odd groan and grunt.

  But he knew she always remembered him; he could tell by her eyes.

  He felt his heart thud as he saw the fear fade to resignation. He was here again, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  CSI Department, Sunderland City Centre Depot

  Ben Cassidy had juggled her force folder, a bag of evidence, and her camera case up the stairs to the office. With a complete lack of grace, she dumped the lot onto her desk, pulled the fingerprint lifts from the pocket of her combats, and sat down with a sigh.

  Other than her, the office was empty. She was on day shift with Craig Simpson, who was still out fixing up all the jobs he could before the mid-shift came in at 11 a.m. Ben also knew he was more than aware she had to leave early; he’d already picked up her slack by radioing her and telling her to get back to the nick to put her jobs through Socard, the forensic database used internally by the police.

  She smiled to herself as she pulled out her scene notes to transfer over to the computer system. Today was her daughter’s first report day. At a few months off five years old, Grace was an absolute gem of a child, even at the worst of times. She’d started reception the previous September and had settled into it straight away.

  Ben already knew how adorable Grace was, had loved her with all her being since the moment she’d been put into her arms, but she was eager to hear what the teachers thought of her daughter. Both Ben and her aunt Aoife had taught Grace well from early on. She was advanced on her reading and writing, but also on her maths and science – well past the average levels for most children her age. It hadn’t taken the school long to pop Grace into some of the year one classes to help her advance.

  This meeting was to discuss what would happen at the start of the new term in September – and Ben was more excited than Grace was. Trying her best to focus on the job at hand, she cracked on with updating Socard with the information from the job.

  Hearing a huffing sound in the corridor, she turned, looking towards the door. Her eyes widened as Cass McKay entered the room with about as much elegance as a pet elephant. Which was not entirely her fault – her large, pregnant tummy protruded outwards, making her movements jerky and undignified.

  ‘Cass! I thought you were on maternity. What on earth are you doing here?’ asked Ben, jumping up and pulling her into a bear hug, but barely able to reach round her friend due to Cass’s baby belly.

  ‘Damn baby wants to hurry up and come out. I’ve been lugging this round for nine months now. She was due out yesterday but she’s holding her ground. I’m convinced she’s doing it on purpose too. She keeps giving me Braxton Hicks, getting me to the point I think it’s real and then stopping,’ grumbled Cass, pulling up a chair and lowering herself down slowly. ‘As to what I’m doing here, I couldn’t stay inside. Am sick to death of being at home, cooped up in the cottage with only Ollie to keep me company. There’re only so many times you can have a conversation with a dog before you think you’re going crazy. Alex is still working, which is fine. He’ll have less time with the baby after it’s born if he doesn’t start paternity when I’m actually in labour. But seriously, I can’t even get over the stile to take Ollie for a walk. I’m bored shitless. So today I figured I’d pop in and see how things are going with you. You’ve been flying solo for, like, two months now, right?’

  Ben smiled and nodded. Cass had been the reason she’d opted to transfer into the CSI Department. In the year and a half since Cass had been kidnapped so much had changed. Ben had been sick of working just to pay the bills, and with redundancies being offered, the CSI team had found themselves one person short. Cass had encouraged Ben to apply, giving her all the help she needed to fill in the application, and Ben had been offered the job six months ago. After a nine-week intensive training course, she’d been mentored at the Ryhope station with Cass as her supervisor, and then transferred into the busier station in the city centre.

  ‘It’s flown by. I can barely remember being on front office now. It’s funny how quickly we settle into something new. Can you believe I start my Introduction to Digital Forensics course tomorrow? How’s married life?’

  Cass rolled her eyes. ‘Alex is fussing over me like a mother hen, even more so now I’ve gone off on leave. He’s doing everything in the house, driving me if I need to go anywhere. It’s damned annoying.’ Her comments, however, were contradicted by the contented smile on her face. ‘Tomorrow? That’s come around quick. How’s Grace finding school?’

  ‘She loves it. I’ve got a meeting with her teacher today. I can’t wait to see what she has to say – Grace is growing up so fast!’

  ‘I hear they do that.’ Grinned Cass. ‘I’m gonna leave you to your Socard for a sec, need to pop up and see Alex and Ali. Feels weird having him down here too. The secondment came up just at the right time for him. What time are you leaving? I can give you a lift if you don’t have the car with you.’

  ‘Ali’s so much like Alex. He ran point on an assault I had last week in the town, handled himself the way Alex does. You sure about the lift?’

  At Cass’s nod, Ben added, ‘That’s great, thanks. I’ll cancel the taxi I’ve got booked. Aoife has the car today. She had some appointment or other after she’d taken Grace to school.’

  Cass grimaced as she used the back of the chair to pull herself up. ‘I’m the size of a bloody house,’ she grumbled as she made her way down the corridor.

  Ben grinned to herself; despite it being nearly five years ago, that was one feeling she remembered all too well. Grabbing the SD card from her camera, she headed next door to the photography room to write off her Write Once Read Many disc for the photos she’d taken earlier. The WORM was then retained by the Photography Department as the original and copies were made for use by the officer dealing, and the courts. Once the disc was written, Ben selected the ones she would print if later requested, glancing at each one in sequence and marking them on the order form that got sent off with the WORM disc.

  She really did enjoy forensic work, even if it made her sad at times. Like today…the job she was in the process of writing up was a break-in at an allotment – didn’t sound all that sad, but people could be so cruel and nasty at times.

  The victim was a man in his seventies, Arthur Phelps. He kept pigeons on his allotment and had gained quite the reputation for breeding excellent racers. The offender, obviously someone from the same racing circles, had broken into the allotment and killed Arthur’s twenty-four pigeons, bar one. The one left alive had two broken wings, and Arthur had had no choice but to kill his last pigeon himself. He had been devastated when Ben got there; it was heartbreaking to watch a man cry over the loss of something so dear to him. Ben wanted to tell him something that would make him feel a little better before she left. Luckily, Arthur was one of the few allotment keepers who had a pristine sanctuary – he’d recently glossed his keep doors, and Ben had managed to lift fingerprints from them and had cast footwear marks from the soil outside, and the offender had dropped a tool which could offer DNA for comparison. Rarely was evidence obtained from an allotment, but Ben had been pleased with the result. Maybe there was a chance to find out who would want to hurt Arthur, and get him a little peace of mind.

  The look on his face was one she wouldn’t forget in a hurry. He had been so pleased she’d found something that he shook her hand for about five minutes straight when she explained it all to him. So far, in her limited experience, it was days like these that made it all worthwhile.

  Ben finished prepping the evidence to send off and tidied her desk. She heard Cass’s huffing again in the corridor, grabbed her bag, and carefully locked the CSI office behind her.

  St Mary’s Catholic First School, Sunderland

/>   ‘Ah, Miss Cassidy. The teachers are all waiting in the main hall. I believe you’re seeing Mrs Muztachs?’

  Ben nodded and followed David Goodfellow, the head of the school, to the hall. She smiled to herself. It didn’t matter where in the world your school was, there was something about its main hall that reeked of assembly and prayer, especially in a Catholic school like this one. Mr Goodfellow broke off as they entered, sidetracked by an argument starting between two children.

  She was glad the meetings weren’t being held in the gym. Ben shivered as she remembered her last visit to that part of the school. It had only been a couple of months before Grace had started, when Ben had been called there for work. Some scrote had broken in and sliced his femoral artery climbing over the broken glass. He was obviously a junky looking for something to hock for his next fix and he’d passed out in the gymnasium before bleeding out. By the time the gym teacher had realised the next day, it was too late. The kids in the first class had seen the body. The man had been dead a while. There was blood spatter over the walls and a pool had been congealing beneath him. The teacher had ushered the kids out, but they were deeply distressed by the sight.

  Glancing around the room, Ben made eye contact with Mrs Muztachs and wove her way through the tables to her destination. Grace turned in her seat, rising to her knees. Her eyes were sparkling brightly, and she beamed quite possibly the biggest smile Ben had ever seen. It almost knocked her to her knees.

  God, I love this child, she thought.

  Bending, she planted a kiss on her daughter’s forehead.

  ‘Hi, Gracey, you having a good day?’

  Grace nodded and sat back down, turning her attention to her teacher with a solemn look.