Close Your Eyes

by Rachel Abbott

  ‘A bit of a bugger if you decide to pop in to see your lover on the way home, then,’ Becky mumbled.

  Tom laughed. He couldn’t help thinking it was a pity the AI hadn’t predicted that it was dangerous for Genevieve to leave the house in the middle of the night.

  ‘When he comes back, we need to ask if any of that tech equipment belonged to Genevieve,’ Becky said. ‘A laptop or iPad, for example – she might have message-forwarding set up. Might be easier to get into.’

  ‘I was about to ask that very question as he left the room.’

  Before Tom could say more, the door opened again and Niall made his way back to his seat, looking if anything even paler than when he had left. His shoulders were hunched, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his skin.

  ‘Can we organise a cup of coffee, or maybe a sandwich for you?’ Becky asked.

  ‘No thanks. The thought of food makes me feel ill. I did think of one thing, though – about her phone.’

  Tom and Becky both looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘It’s a company phone. All employees have them because from time to time we ask them to test the app as it’s being developed. We gave one to Genevieve. They’re all password-protected, but we set the codes and ask them not to change them, although they can set them up with facial recognition if they want to. A lot of the staff have their own personal phones too, but not Genevieve. She wasn’t prepared to weigh her handbag down with two phones.’

  One side of his mouth curled up in a half-smile as he spoke.

  ‘Did she have a laptop or an iPad? Anything else that might have her messages on?’

  ‘No. She didn’t need one. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen her use a computer.’

  ‘How can we get hold of Genevieve’s pass code?’ Tom asked.

  ‘You need to speak to Martha Porter. She’s my office manager. She keeps the records.’

  5

  As Becky pulled into XO-Tech’s car park to wait for Rob, she mulled over everything they had learned, which wasn’t much. A phone call had been enough to provide an initial confirmation that Niall Strachan had been at the lawyers’ office, as he had said, although statements from each attendee would need to be taken. It seemed he left between 12.30 and 12.45 a.m., which tied in with when he said he got home. At that time of the morning, it would have been a quick journey.

  The post-mortem had yet to be carried out, but given Jumbo’s assessment of the victim’s body when he reached the scene, it seemed probable that she had been there for at least three hours.

  Rob had gone to visit Genevieve’s sister in Leigh and was on his way to join Becky. All he’d said in their brief call as he left Sara Osborne’s house was that he would fill Becky in when he arrived at the XO-Tech offices, but he’d had an interesting chat.

  Becky looked at her watch. She was wasting time. If Rob didn’t arrive in two minutes, she was going in without him. Pushing open the car door, she got out and instantly regretted it. Yesterday’s heat combined with the rain made the air feel heavy, and there were more storm clouds building.

  With a final glance at her watch, she was about to head inside when Rob’s dark blue Audi came flying into the car park. He skidded to a halt and leaped out of the car.

  ‘Sorry, Becky!’ he shouted. ‘Bloody East Lancs Road was half blocked by a broken-down lorry.’ He jogged across the tarmac.

  ‘That was a hell of an entrance,’ she said.

  ‘From what I’ve heard, I’ve got nothing on you.’

  ‘Have you been talking to the boss?’ Becky asked, and Rob grinned.

  Becky’s driving was a bit of a talking point, but she could never understand why. She considered herself a good driver.

  ‘Do you want to know about the sister first, or shall we go and get the pass code for the mobile?’ Rob asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Pass code first, then we can get into Genevieve’s phone and see who she was in touch with. Keith Sims has been on to the network provider. No text messages or calls, which doesn’t surprise me, and nothing on the landline. As her husband said, everything would have gone via WiFi or mobile data.’ Bloody smartphones, she thought. She’d worked on no end of cases where they’d helped solve crimes, but the latest levels of security were a nightmare. ‘While we’re here, Rob, the boss also wants us to talk to the staff – see whether Genevieve was a regular visitor and try to get some sense of who she was. It’ll be good to know what they think of Niall Strachan too, because however good his alibi, we’ll have to look at him carefully.’

  As they approached the entrance, Becky glanced up at the building, which looked as if it had been constructed in the 1930s. A portico stood slightly proud, with huge windows reaching upwards, double glass doors providing access to the reception area. Rob pulled open a door and Becky walked through, disappointed to find that there was no real sense of the history of the building inside. It had been refurbished in a stunning if inappropriate industrial style with bare brick walls and floors of oiled boards, although the tall windows made up for it, flooding the space with light.

  The reception desk was deserted.

  Becky walked across to see if there was a bell or some other means of communicating with the staff. She could see nothing and turned to Rob with a shrug.

  ‘I guess we’d better show ourselves in, then,’ she said.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  They looked around at the doors off the reception area, most of which stood open. They appeared to lead to meeting rooms, all empty. Rob opened a closed door. ‘Kitchen,’ he said, ‘but I think I can hear voices from upstairs. Shall we check it out?’

  Becky nodded, and they made their way further into the building, their footsteps sounding on the bare boards. No one seemed interested. They climbed a metal staircase to the first floor and Becky pushed open the door that Rob indicated.

  Seven people were congregated around a man in his early forties, dressed in jeans and a bright red Glastonbury Festival T-shirt that, to Becky’s eyes, made him look as if he was trying too hard.

  He spun towards them. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, a nervous edge to his voice.

  ‘Detective Inspector Becky Robinson from Greater Manchester Police. My colleague is Detective Sergeant Rob Cumba. We’re looking for Martha Porter.’

  A young woman with thin lips said, ‘I told you they’d want to speak to Martha,’ in a whisper that was undoubtedly meant to carry to Becky’s ears. She ignored the remark but filed the thought for later.

  ‘Can you tell me where I can find her, please?’

  The man seemed to have pulled himself together a little. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I’m Spencer Johansson, Niall Strachan’s business partner. I’m afraid I was just giving the marketing team here the dreadful news. I’ve been trying to speak to Martha, but she won’t open her door.’

  Becky frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Spencer nodded his head towards a door at the far end of the room. ‘Martha’s office. It’s the anteroom to Niall’s office, but obviously he’s not here. And Martha seems to have locked herself in. I imagine she’s upset about Genevieve.’

  A scoffing sound came from the woman with the thin lips. ‘She won’t care what’s happened to Genevieve, Inspector. She didn’t like her. I can tell you that.’

  Spencer turned to the woman. ‘Elise, I know you’re not Martha’s greatest fan – you make that perfectly clear. But please, don’t start making trouble. Let the police do their job.’

  ‘Well, you tell them about the party, then! That might make them think.’

  Becky looked at Spencer Johansson and waited.

  ‘Stop it, Elise. I’m sorry, officers. I’m happy to tell you anything you want to know, but we don’t want to sidetrack you with gossip.’

  Gossip was good, as far as Becky was concerned, but she wouldn’t give this Elise the pleasure of knowing she might have scored a hit.

  ‘Let’s talk to Martha and then maybe we could have a chat with you
in private, Mr Johansson.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He walked over to the door and knocked. In a voice edged with stress, he mumbled, ‘The police are here, Martha. Can you open the door, please?’

  Silence.

  Becky glanced at Rob, who banged a little more forcefully. ‘Miss Porter, can you please open the door? This is Detective Sergeant Cumba, and I need to talk to you.’

  Still there was nothing.

  ‘Do you have a spare key to this room, Mr Johansson?’

  ‘I do. Give me a moment and I’ll get it.’

  He scurried off.

  ‘Can we help while you wait?’ Becky didn’t need to turn to know who was speaking. The woman had stood up, revealing a short skirt and pink knees that appeared to have caught too much sun over the weekend. Elise.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll have some very useful information,’ Becky said. ‘But we need to speak to your colleague first as a matter of priority.’

  ‘I bet you do,’ came the half-whisper.

  ‘Shut up, Elise,’ a young man said. ‘You’re not helping anyone.’

  Give that man a medal, thought Becky.

  Two minutes later Spencer was back, and he began fumbling with the key in the lock. He wasn’t making any progress, so Rob took over. ‘Key’s in on the inside,’ he said to Becky as he twiddled and pushed.

  Suddenly they heard a clatter as the key fell to the floor on the other side of the door, and Rob unlocked the office.

  It was empty.

  6

  MARTHA

  As I hurry along the street, away from the office, I glance at my watch. Will the police be there by now? When will they realise I’ve gone? I speed up, walking fast, not wanting to draw attention to myself by running, but if I could I’d sprint down the street. I can feel sweat trickling down my back as, paradoxically, goosebumps run up my arms.

  Elise had proved difficult to get rid of. I thought she’d never go. She stood leaning against the door jamb, arms folded tightly, her bare legs crossed at the ankles, waiting for me to say something.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about Genevieve,’ I said finally, knowing that some response was required.

  It wasn’t enough for Elise, and when she realised that I wasn’t going to speculate, she tutted, spun on her heel, calling over her shoulder, ‘You know you’re not supposed to turn your mobile off,’ and flounced off to where her colleagues were discussing theories about who could have killed the boss’s wife.

  I sagged with relief, but I had no time to think. I had things to do. But as I tried to focus on my plan – the one I had made the day I started work at XO-Tech more than two years ago – memories flashed into my mind of Genevieve’s visits to the office. She always pestered Niall to take her to lunch or go shopping with her, and while she waited for him she would throw her weight around, demanding that someone make her a drink or, better still, raid Niall’s booze cupboard for something stronger. Given that Niall always pleaded poverty – he could only pay the lowest wages to his staff until the company saw success – Genevieve didn’t seem to go short of much. She always found a way of flashing the red soles of her Louboutins and of making sure the exclusive label of whatever jacket or coat she was wearing was visible as she took it off to toss carelessly over a chair.

  I’ve always known how much Niall draws from the company. It’s my job to manage the finances, so I’m aware that the staff shouldn’t have had to wait so long for the much-vaunted success of the business before being paid a decent salary. He knows it’s information I would never consider sharing, because I need this job – or I did. Now it seems my time with XO-Tech is done and I feel a tinge of regret. Much as I find Elise evil, the others aren’t unpleasant – just meek and amenable, which is why Niall employs them. I think his game plan has always been to search out people who are competent, then from among the pool of hopefuls he selects the most gullible.

  There’s nothing in his behaviour that surprises me. I’ve seen it all before and I know that being easily led has nothing to do with a lack of intelligence. It’s to do with seeking something to have faith in, and Niall has gathered people around him who believe in him and the future of his company. Everyone from his second in command, Spencer – who Elise always calls Spence in an overly chummy way – to the receptionist; they are all primed to go the extra mile to win a smile from the boss.

  I’m the exception, of course, and he has never known how to deal with me, although he’s been particularly demonstrative in his antipathy towards me recently – especially when there are spectators. He seems to visibly recoil, and I don’t know who he’s trying to impress. It certainly has no impact on me.

  Difficult as it had been to dislodge Elise from my office, as I watched the door close behind her my only thought had been escape. Mentally I ran through the steps I’d practised so many times, pushing the voice in my head – the one telling me that I was bound to make a mistake – into a black hole where I could no longer hear it.

  The first step was to check there was nothing personal of mine in my desk. I doubted it, but had to be sure in case I’d become sloppy and made a mistake. I hadn’t. I logged on to my computer and followed the procedure I’d rehearsed to remove all traces of myself. I didn’t need to delete any personal searches from my browser history. I’ve never used my work computer or my work phone for anything that isn’t directly related to the job. I grabbed the special wipes I’d bought online and cleaned all the surfaces I’d touched, until I knew for sure that there was nothing of me left in the room.

  I moved across to my office door and silently locked it, certain that it would be a while before anyone tried to get in. My lack of response earlier would have made them wary of speaking to me. At least I hoped so. Eventually they would try the door but probably assume I was being difficult. As usual.

  I picked up my bag and opened the door from my office into Niall’s – empty, of course. I walked to the far end of the room and opened a door that everyone else in the company, with the possible exception of Spencer, believes leads to a store cupboard. It doesn’t. It gives access to a small corridor with a private bathroom and a staircase down to a side door. The building used to be the offices of an engineering company, and the boss used this route to access the now non-existent workshops. These days it just leads to a quiet alley. Niall uses it when he wants to sneak out without anyone knowing. Anyone except me, that is.

  Once out of the door, I had to force myself to walk, not run. I didn’t know how much time I had, but no one at work knows where I live, and it should take the police a while to find me. Elise will no doubt relay exaggerated stories about me – everything from her version of the events of the disastrous office party to Niall’s attitude to me. And she’ll tell them about my argument with Genevieve.

  Is any of that enough for them to suspect me of her murder? Maybe not – but they’ll want to know more about me than I’m prepared to divulge, and the thought of what they might discover and the inevitable consequences have spurred me into action. I have no way of finding out how much they might already know about me.

  Now, my body feels sticky – whether from the sultry weather or from fear, I can’t say – and I force myself to stop worrying about what they will think, what they might discover, and go over the steps in my plan once again.

  Mentally back on track, I reach into my bag for my personal mobile – the one XO-Tech doesn’t know about – and grab the spare SIM from my purse. I could change it blindfolded. The screen displays my list – the vital notes I wrote in case panic forced me to make mistakes – and I press a link to call a taxi company, one of the three alternatives I’d stored just for this moment. I have three options for everything, always erring on the side of caution should my first choice prove impossible – a busy taxi company, a fully booked hotel. I believe I’ve thought of everything.

  ‘Could I order a taxi to pick me up from outside Brooke’s chemist in thirty minutes, please?’

  ‘Where are you going,
love?’ asks the friendly man who answers.

  ‘Salford Royal.’

  ‘Can I have your name?’

  ‘Of course. It’s Cheryl.’

  7

  Becky thought Spencer Johansson was finding the day’s events a bit much. He looked like a goldfish, his mouth opening and closing as if he didn’t know what to say, and his skin looked waxy, although that could have been down to the clammy weather. He’d obviously had no idea that Martha wasn’t in her office, hiding behind a locked door so no one would bother her, although why her disappearance should cause such consternation, Becky had no idea.

  There was another door leading from Martha’s room, and Spencer rushed towards it, throwing it open.

  ‘Martha?’ he shouted, but there was no response.

  Through the opening, Becky saw a long board table and a smart, well organised desk. Niall’s office, she assumed. But there was no sign of Martha.

  ‘How could she have left without going through the main office?’ Rob asked.

  Spencer glanced over his shoulder at the staff, who were craning their necks to try to see into the room. He kicked the door closed with a thud.

  ‘There’s another staircase. The staff don’t know about it. It gives Niall the opportunity to bring investors in without the staff knowing what’s going on, and lets him pop out for meetings without having to say where he’s going. You know the sort of thing.’